Page 61 of The Island

“Yes. We have to look after the kids.”

But Hans was big and very strong and surprisingly fast. Before Heather had time to react, he grabbed her right wrist and dragged it away from his face. He twisted her arm behind her back and rolled her off him. “Drop it,” he said as he tugged her hand backward. She thought her elbow was going to pop out of its socket. “Drop the knife!” Hans said.

The pain was unbearable. She dropped the knife.

Hans dragged her away from the blade and flopped her onto her back. “I have been very patient with you,” he said. “I thought you were different from the other Americans I have come across, but you are exactly the same. Come, Petra. Let us end this foolishness.”

“No, wait, please,” Heather said. “If you go down there now, they’ll take us too. At least give us fifteen minutes to get away from here.”

Hans shook his head. “You must do what you want. Petra and I have had enough of this.”

“Dat is een vergissing, Hans. Er is niets veranderd sinds gisteravond,” Petra said.

“Everything has changed! We have no water, there is no ferry, there is nothing more we can do,” he insisted.

“They will kill us. You know they will,” Petra said.

“This is a civilized country. We are living in the twenty-first century. This silliness is over,” Hans said.

“Please just let us get away. Five minutes—what difference will it make?” Heather said.

“I have listened to your madness for long enough,” he said and got to his feet.

He walked to the brow of the hill and waved at the O’Neills. “Up here!” he cried.

Heather picked up her penknife, grabbed Owen and Olivia by the hands, and pulled them to their feet, and, not knowing where they were going, they began to run again.

15

The blowfly grass. The bladygrass. The kangaroo grass. The spinifex.

Thistles, divots, clay.

A hawk.

Sun.

Heat.

A rifle shot.

Owen: “I can’t…”

Olivia: “You can.”

Eyes front. That’s the entire world. The one hundred yards in front. Don’t look back.

A little valley sloping down. Another hill going up.

A wail behind them. Yelling. Another rifle shot.

Running through the bladygrass.

Running through your own breath.

Through your own fear.

Thistle spines tearing at their legs. Divots in the red dirt tripping them.

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