Watcher's Web Read Online Free PDF Page B

would
have been impossible to get through the tangle of branches without
seeing where she was putting her feet.
    By the time
she arrived at the wreckage, sweat ran from every pore of her body.
The mist might have lifted, but it was as humid as Darwin in the
wet season. The air smelled of compost, mingled with the
ever-present stink of fuel.
    In all of
this, Jessica picked up the scent of burning wood. Had Brian been
able to get the fire going after all? She was annoyed that she
wanted to see him. Yes, he was weird, but right now it would be
good to see his face, to know that he was all right; to discuss
what to do and where to go. Maybe he had even found something to
eat—she was starving. Breakfast. She should have been at school
now, getting her breakfast from the kitchen and sitting down in the
dining hall. Eggs, toast and marmalade, tea.
    She pushed
aside the broken branches.
    In the leaf
litter lay a body clad in a blue uniform, the Westways logo
embroidered on the chest. Empty eyes gazed heavenward from a face
with translucent white skin, spotted with adhering bits of
bark.
    No!
Martin!
    The bark
pieces on his face—they moved. Fluid
oozed from red trails on his arms and a deep hole in his cheek,
where bits of white shone through—his teeth. The skin on his legs
crawled with black slithery bodies. Not pieces of bark, but
carnivorous slugs eating the skin.
    She stumbled
several steps backwards, crashed into a tree trunk.
    The
others—Brian and the businessman—where were they?
    A bit further
up the slope, another body sprawled on the forest floor, on his
stomach, legs splayed. The jacket of the grey suit had ripped and
his back was a mess of raw, exposed flesh and crawling slugs.
Threads of his shirt, black and singed, clung to his shoulders. She
didn’t need to come closer to see there was no hope. His ribs and
the bumps of his spine already protruded through the skin.
    She barely
dared look, but found a third bloodied lump a bit further up the
slope, half-hidden by tree roots.
    “No.” Her lips
formed the word but no sound came out.
    A glance at
her feet showed slugs crawling out of the leaf litter, swarming up
her legs, on her shoes, on her jeans. She stamped her feet, hit her
jeans, and kicked, again and again.
    No, no,
get off me, get off!
    She stumbled
through the shrubs, jumping, kicking and swiping at her legs.
    GET OFF, GET
OFF, GET OFF!
    She hurled
herself down the hillside, sliding, tripping over boulders. Down,
down, into the creek, down on her knees. The slugs came off more
easily in the water and the current carried them away.
    Safe.
    Safe from
what? A few slugs?
    She sat in the
creek, taking deep, calming breaths. Water again seeped up the legs
of her jeans—they had only just dried from falling in the same
creek last night.
    Come on,
Jess, you can handle this. You’re not some ninny from the
city.
    What was the
best plan? Wait here to be rescued, until the poachers or whatever
they were came back? Face them—by herself?
    No,
stupid idea, Jess. She’d better find a road or something leading to
civilisation. It couldn’t be that far away.
    Which
direction should she go? Instinct told her to follow the creek—at
least she’d have water, but the poachers would probably think the
same.
    Then
where?
    Her gaze went
up the creek bank, up the hill on the other side. Maybe she could
see something from up there.
    Move
your bony arse, Jess. Let’s get out of this shit.
    That’s what
she did if something troubled her: work hard, go riding, clean out
her mother’s chook pen, fix the fence, or shoot some rabbits.
    She ran to the
plane, and threw all the luggage out the door. The businessman’s
laptop computer landed in the leaf litter, followed by Brian’s
weekend bag, which contained only a pair of riding boots, a shirt
and a bag with a horse’s reins. The pilot’s bag contained running
shoes and damp and dirty clothes. Did no one bring anything useful?
Ah, a tool box. That was at least something.