started on a second, bigger hole, a little farther across. He found a stick to help dig, and it went easier. With two holes he could let one seep while he drank from the other.
The sky was beginning to pale for another blistering day in the desert by the time Tim had had enough to drink. His head was much clearer, and he started to work things out. This must be a watercourse. Not so much a river as where the floodwater ran when the desert saw rain or run-off from elsewhere. That was why thereâd been more vegetation to fall over.
And the holeâ¦well, someone must have dug it. His feet choosing their own pathâthe course of least resistanceâin his state last night had somehow put him on a trail of some kind, to this hole that someone must have dug to reach the water.
Tim had his wits about him enough by now to know that he needed to drink and get himself into as much shade as possible before the sun baked down on this hole. It would be cooler in here for a while yet, but the sky was already a relentless blue, very different from yesterdayâs wind-blown red.
He knew he had to stay out of the sun. He knew a few hours in it could easily kill him. He just didnât know quite what to do next. He couldnât stay here forever. And yetâ¦to leave the water was simply terrifying. He steeled himself for at least a clamber out of the pit. Now, in daylight, not in the state heâd been in last night, itwasnât that difficult. It still left him panting and tired, just that little bit of exertion. But in the morning light he could see that this was indeed a river bedâor had been once in wetter times. Walking, except along the trail heâd stumbled onto, would have been difficult. There were more plants here, even some scrubby coppice-like trees up to seven or eight feet tall, with waxy green leaves. In the distance he heard a bird calling. But there was no sign of which way the termite run was. Tim could tell east and west and north and south, but besides the path heâd followed, he had no idea where any humans might be. It was quite a well-trodden path, though. He wondered if he ought to follow it. Surely it couldnât be far to wherever the digger of the hole lived. Unlessâ¦unless of course it was an animal. Tim literally had no idea what kind of wild animal might live in Australia. It was too far from the tunnels under Drowned London. He needed some kind of weapon. Or fireâ¦
That would do. People would see the smoke. He should be able to see the smoke of the power stationâ¦
Only he had no means of making fire, and the sky showed no trails of smoke.
How had he come so far?
The opportunity to escape came for Jack and his fellow prisoners two days later, thanks to the rain the young aboriginal prisoner, Lampy, had predicted. They were carrying sleepers, and very grateful for that rain and the little bit of cool that came with it. Theyâd just got back to the pile that had been dumped off the rail car when one of the soldiers pointed to them and said, âRight. You lot. Onto that cattle truck with the gravel. Been a washout at Three-mile Creek.â
So they found themselves shunted down there, to off-load three tons of crushed rock in the rain while the two guards sat and smoked in the cab with the engine driver and fireman. There were five other gangs, each in a cattle truck half-full of gravel. It wasnât, to Jackâs eye, going to work. That was fine. He helped to make sure it wouldnât. He dumped his sack-load carefully into the culvert, and tipped a wink at the othersâbarring Quintâto do the same. Theyâd got good at working around the would-be trusty. The man was nervous, but still working toward ingratiating himself with the new military guards. And Jack bided his time. They carried load after load, while the rain sheeted down.
âBig rain,â said Jack.
One of the others laughed grimly. âNothing to whatâll be
The sky was beginning to pale for another blistering day in the desert by the time Tim had had enough to drink. His head was much clearer, and he started to work things out. This must be a watercourse. Not so much a river as where the floodwater ran when the desert saw rain or run-off from elsewhere. That was why thereâd been more vegetation to fall over.
And the holeâ¦well, someone must have dug it. His feet choosing their own pathâthe course of least resistanceâin his state last night had somehow put him on a trail of some kind, to this hole that someone must have dug to reach the water.
Tim had his wits about him enough by now to know that he needed to drink and get himself into as much shade as possible before the sun baked down on this hole. It would be cooler in here for a while yet, but the sky was already a relentless blue, very different from yesterdayâs wind-blown red.
He knew he had to stay out of the sun. He knew a few hours in it could easily kill him. He just didnât know quite what to do next. He couldnât stay here forever. And yetâ¦to leave the water was simply terrifying. He steeled himself for at least a clamber out of the pit. Now, in daylight, not in the state heâd been in last night, itwasnât that difficult. It still left him panting and tired, just that little bit of exertion. But in the morning light he could see that this was indeed a river bedâor had been once in wetter times. Walking, except along the trail heâd stumbled onto, would have been difficult. There were more plants here, even some scrubby coppice-like trees up to seven or eight feet tall, with waxy green leaves. In the distance he heard a bird calling. But there was no sign of which way the termite run was. Tim could tell east and west and north and south, but besides the path heâd followed, he had no idea where any humans might be. It was quite a well-trodden path, though. He wondered if he ought to follow it. Surely it couldnât be far to wherever the digger of the hole lived. Unlessâ¦unless of course it was an animal. Tim literally had no idea what kind of wild animal might live in Australia. It was too far from the tunnels under Drowned London. He needed some kind of weapon. Or fireâ¦
That would do. People would see the smoke. He should be able to see the smoke of the power stationâ¦
Only he had no means of making fire, and the sky showed no trails of smoke.
How had he come so far?
The opportunity to escape came for Jack and his fellow prisoners two days later, thanks to the rain the young aboriginal prisoner, Lampy, had predicted. They were carrying sleepers, and very grateful for that rain and the little bit of cool that came with it. Theyâd just got back to the pile that had been dumped off the rail car when one of the soldiers pointed to them and said, âRight. You lot. Onto that cattle truck with the gravel. Been a washout at Three-mile Creek.â
So they found themselves shunted down there, to off-load three tons of crushed rock in the rain while the two guards sat and smoked in the cab with the engine driver and fireman. There were five other gangs, each in a cattle truck half-full of gravel. It wasnât, to Jackâs eye, going to work. That was fine. He helped to make sure it wouldnât. He dumped his sack-load carefully into the culvert, and tipped a wink at the othersâbarring Quintâto do the same. Theyâd got good at working around the would-be trusty. The man was nervous, but still working toward ingratiating himself with the new military guards. And Jack bided his time. They carried load after load, while the rain sheeted down.
âBig rain,â said Jack.
One of the others laughed grimly. âNothing to whatâll be
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