sharply, hoping to send him off balance. He went backwards, letting go of me, his arms flailing like a player in netball trying to stop you passing. I moved in fast and pushed him again, deliberately aiming him at a stand of cans of something, I don’t know what they were. Tomatoes maybe? He went into them with his back and his bum and the whole thing kind of exploded around him. I picked up a can as it rolled towards me, threw it at him, missed, grabbed another one and threw it hard into his head. I saw red stuff fly. It was like it was a can of tomatoes and it had burst open and the tomatoes were splattering everywhere. But the can hadn’t burst open. It was the other red stuff I was looking at. He put his hands to his face and turned sideways. I didn’t know if he was still conscious but I had to assume he wouldn’t be a threat for the next few minutes at least.
I raced towards the back door, the one into the storage area. Glancing behind me I saw a few people putting their heads up from their hiding places. They looked undecided. Will we chase her or what? She’s only a girl. And there’s only one of her. But she’s got a gun.
It was a double door, a heavy thing made of rubber and/or plastic or something. It was partly transparent. As soon as I burst through it I entered another world. No more fancy displays or canned music or ladies handing out little samples of tofu, like we get in Wirrawee. This was even darker than the dim supermarket; the floor was concrete, hundreds of boxes were in big stacks everywhere. It smelt different too, but nice, like biscuits at the very first moment when you open the pack.
I saw one guy, a young employee who looked about my age. He was paralysed by fear, I think, backed up against a big refrigeration unit, staring at me. Nothing but his eyes moved. I thought it was probably safe to ignore him, so I kept running.
Further out the back were the loading docks. There were no deliveries happening — too late in the day, I guess — so it was all closed up and very dark indeed. I jumped off the dock and ran to the big roller door. There had to be a way to open this mongrel thing. I glanced around frantically. A whole length of new chain lay on the ground, along with tools and a big tin of grease. Looked like they were about to fix or replace the doors. I hoped they were still working. On the side was a big red button with a dirty old notice in English, on a bit of cardboard, saying Press twice to open. I pressed twice. The door started to clank up, slow and heavy and noisy. Jesus, it would take half an hour. Panting, I looked behind me. Had they organised themselves yet? As the door ratcheted up I heard rifle shots, close. Seemed like I was opening the door onto a shooting gallery. The door was up to my waist. I ducked under and stayed low, looking around madly. Where was the danger? Which direction? Quick quick, find it before it finds you. Then, thank God, I saw Homer and Jeremy. They were behind the dump bins, like I suspected, both turned slightly away from me and lying low, like me. As I saw them they both fired, almost simultaneously. I couldn’t see the others but I saw flashes of flame which made me think they were further to the right. I hoped it was them anyway.
Also to my right, but down on the road were four vehicles, three of them utes and the other a small truck with an open back. There seemed to be people on the road, using them and the rocks and trees as cover. I hissed to myself as I realised how bad it was. Although these guys had the disadvantage of being downhill, there were more of them and they looked pretty well-protected.
To the left, around the perimeter of the car park, the news seemed better. I started to pick out soldiers again, maybe the guys I’d seen before, but now they had swung their point of attack to the front of the mall, like I’d meant them to. I thought that it probably gave us half a minute or so of relatively clear ground, both ahead and to the left.
In the darkness the weapons were like little flamethrowers, with the constant leaps of hot orange-yellow- white from the barrels. It made it easy to see where people were, but the problem was to work out who those people were. I realised for example that at least two people were shooting from inside the fruit shop, which was now in total darkness. I assumed these were not people who were there to pick up avocadoes.
Crouched low, I started running to Homer and Jeremy. As I closed in on them I couldn’t resist calling, ‘Hi guys.’
It was the second nearest I’d come to being shot. The nearest was when I was shot. You can’t get much nearer than that. Jeremy swung around and lifted the rifle to his shoulder. His expression was that of a guy who is so hypnotised you could ask him to be a chook and he’d immediately lay an egg or stick his head through the wire. I realised he wasn’t going to see me in time but even so I screamed out, ‘Jeremy!’ and raised my hand to cover my face from the shot, not that my hand would have done much good. I owed my life to Homer. He didn’t have time to say anything, just took one look, lunged and pushed the rifle away as the shot went off. The bullet howled past me like a banshee, except that I don’t know what a banshee is, let alone what sound it would make. But something about the word ‘banshee’ makes me think that a screaming bullet wouldn’t be far wrong.
Jeremy went white when he realised it was me. He looked like he’d seen a ghost and he looked like he’d become a ghost. He just stood there staring. Homer, on the other hand, was as calm as ever. His natural brown skin didn’t lose any colour. He shook his head and said, ‘Seen any shops you like?’
‘It’s clear to the left, for a couple of minutes maybe,’ I said. ‘I think it’s your only chance.’
Homer didn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll get the others. You two cover me. Wake up, Jeremy.’
He slid away to the right. I was panting like a horse with wind. I peered anxiously, trying to see Homer, trying to tell what was happening. The firing down there seemed to have increased by about ten times. It was nearly continuous now. That meant they were either attacking or getting ready to attack. Whoever was down there, Lee and Jessica perhaps, and maybe even Gavin, might be overwhelmed before Homer reached them. The constant banging of the guns was getting to me. They seemed louder and louder, but I wasn’t sure if they were getting any closer. The shots drove out every other noise and every other sensation. I wished they would stop. It was like operating a jackhammer and having a migraine at the same time.
In among all that I tried to think. At least the four of them had achieved part of what they wanted: whatever raid the soldiers were planning, it wouldn’t go ahead now. Not tonight anyway. A smart retreat was the only way for us to go, but the odds were heavily against it. Would Homer and the others have planned for a retreat? Maybe Jess, say, was back at the bikes, ready to take off in a hurry? Gavin even? Gavin would have been good for a job like that. Getaway driver.
Did they know Gavin was around? Was Gavin around?
I got a glimpse of Homer and fired a couple of rounds into the darkness above him. He was almost at the other bins. That was a pretty good effort, but I felt we could only have seconds left before the soldiers who’d run into the mall came spilling out again.
I was in a tug of war, and it was all happening inside me. They say a watched kettle never boils. Knowing that, I didn’t want to keep staring at the other dump bins, using all the power in my mind and body, willing Homer and the others to reappear. Nor did I want to stare to the left, willing that area to stay clear of the enemy. Superstitiously, I thought I would make more soldiers appear if I did. The stresses on my mind and body were terrible. Jeremy still looked white-faced and had not said a word. I think we were both in posttraumatic shock, but the trauma wasn’t post yet. Then I suddenly remembered and yelled at Jeremy, ‘Have you got Gavin?’ He took a long second to work out who Gavin was — I think he was still working out who I was — and then he suddenly said, ‘No. Why should we?’
I groaned. Things couldn’t have got any worse, and now suddenly they had. At least Jeremy’s voice sounded stronger than I’d expected. He asked me again, ‘Why should we?’ But there was no time to answer. The shots from all around the perimeter, on our right-hand side, had eased up a bit and were now just random pops. I didn’t know whether that was good news or not, but I figured it probably was, as it meant that they couldn’t have caught everyone yet, and they probably weren’t getting good targets. But suddenly the shots took off again, like an extremely rewed-up car accelerating down the main road of Stratton. I could see two soldiers coming out of the entrance to the mall. I jerked my head around to the right. What was all the excitement? Then I saw Jess do a neat zigzag from one dump bin to the next. ‘If only these dump bins had wheels,’ I thought. Actually, engines as well would be nice. I wondered how safe we’d be inside a dump bin, whether the bullets would penetrate it or bounce off. Maybe they’d ricochet and kill the people attacking us. But it would be nice to drive along in a dump bin, like a tank, feeling secure.
A + B + C = D. That’s algebra. Algebra imitates life. Algebra is life. Or maybe life imitates algebra. A was the dump bin. B was the Toyota Landcruiser about fifteen metres to my left, with the driver’s door opened, where somebody had abandoned it in the early heat of the battle. Presumably. It was crammed with stuff. Big cardboard boxes that filled the rear section, as well as the back seat and even the front passenger seat.
D represented a possibility, a hope, a faint chance.
