Finn just stared groggily, his eyes straining to focus, his mind trying to make sense of the compassionate tone of his captor’s stilted English.
The officer leaned in closer to Finn’s ear. He could smell the officer’s rancid warm breath. ‘You’re next,’ was all he said. With that the officer stood and walked out, followed by the two soldiers.
Finn’s mind was reeling. He looked over at the lump of human flesh beside him. It was Carver. What the hell had they done to him?
‘Carver,’ whispered Finn, as loudly as he could. ‘Mate, wake up.’
There was no movement. Finn watched carefully. He was still breathing.
There was nothing Finn could do for him from where he was, with his hands and feet bound. All he knew was that they had to get out of there. Suddenly the prospect of an excruciatingly painful death sharpened his mind.
Looking around, Finn noticed a piece of the corrugated iron wall had bent back slightly, revealing an edge that just might cut through the rope that bound his hands. He shuffled over to the spot and went to work, slowly at first, making sure it did not create noise, then getting faster when he realised it was working. What noise he did create was drowned out by the sound of a nearby Fusor neutron generator that was powering the camp.
Furiously he rubbed the rope up and down the tin, not even noticing the pain each time the rope slipped and he ran his arm down the tin instead.
After about 20 minutes of rubbing, the rope finally gave way. Arms bleeding and sore from the effort, Finn wriggled out of the binds, then undid his feet.
Crawling silently over to Carver, he rolled him over onto his back. ‘Jesus, what did they do to you?’ he muttered to himself.
Carver’s shoulder was bloodied from the gunshot wound, but his face was covered in blood, too. Finn shook him gently, trying to revive him. There was no way, even if they could get out of this shed, that he could carry the unconscious Carver too far.
‘C’mon. Wake up, mate,’ he whispered, shaking his body roughly.
Carver gradually came around, blood-crusted eyelids flickering up. Finn took his shirt off and rubbed Carver’s face clean, starting with his eyes, then moving down to his mouth. When he rubbed Carver’s chin, Carver’s eyes suddenly widened in pain and he let out a high-pitched grunt of agony.
He opened his mouth slightly to reveal a gaping hole where his lower front teeth had been. They had ripped his front teeth out.
‘Didn’t ask nuthin,’ spluttered Carver, his eyes wet from the tears of pain.
‘I’m sorry, mate. Don’t talk. Just keep your mouth shut, okay? I’m going to try and find a way out of here, so you have to stay conscious and be ready to move at any time,’ whispered Finn, trying desperately to keep his mind focussed.
Carver nodded, looking like he may pass out at any time.
Finn went to the door to see if he could get a visual on the camp and the guard situation. From what he could see, there were no guards on the shed.
Satisfied that there was nobody immediately outside the shed, he set about inspecting the walls of their cell.
The walls of the old shed were flimsy, kept together by rotten wood and rust. Finding the spot where he had cut his bindings, he pulled the sheet of tin back even more, revealing the darkness of the outside world. As quietly as he could he bent it back even more, creating a hole that he could just squeeze through. Clawing at the dirt floor, he made the hole big enough for them both to slide through.
Finn’s heart was racing. Panic and fear were starting to take over. If the Chinese came in now, it would be over and he could look forward to a visit from Carver’s dentist.
He shuffled back over to Carver. ‘C’mon, we’re getting out of here. You gonna be able to run?’ asked Finn.
Carver grabbed Finn’s shirt with his right hand, hoisting his head and torso off the ground. With a wild look in his eyes, Carver grunted, spitting blood over Finn.
Finn interpreted this correctly. Carver would run. ‘All right, let’s go. Don’t know where we are, but let’s just get the fuck away from here.’
Sliding out the hole, it was a relief to feel the cool air of the night. The horizon was brightening to the east. It would be light soon. They needed to get moving — and fast.
Once they were both outside Finn looked around, lifted Carver by his right arm, then crouched and started slowly creeping away from the shed. He desperately wanted to sprint straight for the bush, but he knew that the noise would alert the Chinese.
With every step the anticipation grew. The need to reach the bushline was all-consuming, the sound of Finn’s quickening pulse pounding through his ears.
Forty metres to the bushline — hold your nerve.
Thirty metres — nearly there. Stay calm.
Twenty metres — you’re going to make it.
Ten metres from the safety of the bush, the silence was broken by yells in Chinese, followed quickly by automatic fire. Rounds were whistling past Finn and Carver, tearing apart the dirt and foliage around them. Finn gripped Carver by the sleeve, willing him to run faster.
In an instant, Finn heard a strange thump — something warm and wet was on his face. Carver’s sleeve was ripped from his fist. Stunned, he stopped to see why Carver had fallen. Crouching low and turning around to reach for him, he realised in horror that his friend’s head was split in half. The remaining half was splattered all over Finn — tiny bits of bone and brain, and a lot of blood. Finn reeled from the realisation, frantically wiping what he could off his face. A bullet whistling by his head snapped him out of it. No time to do anything about it now. Finn was up and running as fast as he could, the bullets landing all around him.
A powerful force wrenched his left shoulder forward, followed quickly by a searing pain in his arm. Finn looked down to see his shirtsleeve had been torn and darkened by blood. He kept running, the adrenalin keeping the pain manageable.
Into the scrub, bullets still flying all around him, Finn didn’t slow down. He was on autopilot now, his legs moving, but he was no longer in control — his body was now in charge and doing its job to execute a flight response.
He was going downhill now, gathering pace. The gradient was steepening. At the same time, Finn’s limbs were tiring, his legs were struggling to keep up with the momentum of his body. The shooting had stopped but Finn could still hear yelling — they were coming for him. The light was brightening now, enough to make out shapes and clear silhouettes, though not enough to distinguish colours.
Resting against the trunk of a tree Finn gasped for breath, chest rising and falling deeply and rapidly. His heart felt as though it would burst through his ribs at any moment. A mixture of his sweat and Carver’s blood dripped down his face to his lips, connecting with his tongue — the metallic taste horrified him. Finn rubbed feverishly at his face using his shirtfront.
Ahead, the gradient dipped steeply and beyond that Finn thought he heard the sound of the river. Setting off again, he tried desperately to slow himself as he descended to the river. The last thing he could risk now was an injury that would really slow him down. The pain in his arm was beginning to intensify but he blocked it from his mind, focussing entirely on getting to the river safely.
The shouts and yells of the Chinese were fainter now — perhaps they had given up on him, thought Finn. Unlikely. They were probably just regrouping to conduct an organised search.
Crashing through the bush to the river’s edge, Finn threw himself into the freezing water and scrubbed at his face, neck and shirt. Washing off the remains of his friend, he noticed the white bits float away and sink into the now bloodstained water. He knew he had to keep moving and get as far away from here as possible. Tearing off his shirtsleeve, he revealed an ugly, open wound where a bullet had ripped through the flesh of his left arm. Tying the sleeve around his arm, he pulled it tight to try and stem the flow of blood.