Finn looked ahead and thought he recognised where they were. ‘How far are we from the homestead, John?’
‘About three kilometres, I reckon.’
‘Okay, pull over here,’ said Finn, unbuckling his seatbelt.
Jess leaned forward, holding on to the back of Finn’s seat. ‘Why are we stopping here, Finn?’
‘I’m not stopping, but you two are,’ replied Finn, as John brought the Patrol to a standstill.
Finn opened the door, twisting his neck around to look at John, with Jess in the corner of his eye.
‘Guys, there is a remote chance that they’ve stuck around, or left a guard behind to alert them if we come back. It’s unlikely, but there’s still a chance. So I’m going to get up a bit closer, alone on foot. If there’s someone there I’ll come back and we’ll just have to stay away until they clear out.’
‘What will you do if they spot you?’ asked Jess.
‘If I’m alone, they shouldn’t see me. But if I am spotted I can lead them away from you guys, lose them and then I’ll come back. So whatever you do, stay here, don’t move.’
‘But Finn, you’re injured. How are you going to get away from them if they see you?’
‘Jess, seriously I’ll be fine. I’ll do a lot better if I’m alone, okay?’
‘Finn’s right,’ said John, ‘Let him go. We’d only slow him up if he had to make a run for it.’
Jess got out of the Patrol, slamming the door harder than necessary.
Finn turned to John and whispered. ‘If I get into any trouble, you’ll hear the gunfire. If you do, get away from here, as far as you can, for as long as you can.’
Not waiting for an answer from John, Finn set off toward the homestead with the .308 rifle across his good shoulder and spare ammunition bulging in his jeans pockets.
Around 30 minutes later, Finn came to a large rock. Clambering up awkwardly, he reached the top and crouched down to minimise his profile against the background. He checked that the safety switch was on and that the chamber of the .308 was empty. The last thing he wanted was to let off a round that would be heard for miles. Painfully, Finn wrapped the shoulder strap around his left hand and wrist then put the butt of the rifle to his good shoulder. Propping his elbow on his knee, Finn looked through the scope on the rifle, adjusting the zoom and focus. It gave him a good view of the homestead. Finn spent a long time in this position, scanning the homestead for movement. The sun was now high and the heat was getting stifling. He constantly had to wipe the sweat from his brow, which stung his eyes and prickled the skin on his face.
Remarkably, a large part of the house looked in reasonable condition, though the front was charred and ruined, with wisps of smoke still rising from it.
There was no sign of movement, at least nothing that Finn could see, which didn’t mean there was no one there. He decided to walk up and take a closer look. Finn now crept slowly forward, staying low, in case someone was watching him. Now 200 metres from the homestead, he lay down on his chest and looked through the scope on the rifle — still no sign of movement. Not satisfied, Finn moved around to the right, circling the homestead to be absolutely certain there was no one waiting. He moved quickly from one point of cover to another, staying low. At each point he scanned the homestead and listened until his ears strained. All he could hear was the sound of wind over the chorus of blood pumping loudly in his head. He had now come around 180 degrees and there was still no sign of movement. Finn felt tense, uneasy with the situation. He had visions again of Carver’s head, his mangled mouth, the dimly-lit shed and the Chinese officer who’d tortured Carver. The sweat was rolling off his forehead now and Finn felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them with his dirty hand.
‘Pull it together, dickhead,’ he said to himself. ‘Let’s go take a look,’ willing himself to move in towards the homestead.
Out in the open, Finn ran for the cover of the homestead. Reaching the corner at the back of the house, which was unscathed by the fire, he stood with his back flat against the wall and caught his breath, rifle across his chest. The sweat was trickling down his forehead and he wiped it away with the crook of his arm.
Looking around the corner, Finn could see where the back steps led up to the kitchen, and across to the shed and horse stables. He thought about where he would hide if he were ambushing someone. It wouldn’t be the house, it would be the strongest structure, with the least vulnerability and an easy exit route, if required — which made the shed the most likely place. There was no cover near the shed, nowhere to run if bullets started to fly. Finn looked around, but there was nothing, no way of getting to the shed other than a 50-metre dash across the open driveway. It was a suicide run, no question. Realising that it would be better to flush out anyone with a weapon, Finn decided to make a run for the kitchen, which was closer. Anyone watching would see him and very likely respond with fire. He would be running across the line of fire and had only 10 metres to reach the steps to the kitchen. Taking two deep breaths, Finn turned and ran for the kitchen. His legs felt heavy and slow, like they weren’t getting any traction in the dirt. It seemed to take an age to get even halfway to the steps. Finn felt panicked that he wasn’t going faster. He felt exposed and vulnerable, just waiting for the shot or the feeling of pain, or worse — blackness.
A flash of movement caught his eye.
Someone was coming down the steps from the kitchen. In a split second his mind reacted and his torso pulled back viciously — instinctively. His legs were slow to react. It was as if the instinctive stop command from the receptors in his brain sent a pulse travelling down his body and, as it went down, each fibre of his body obeyed accordingly. He fell backwards, fumbling with the .308.
Finn’s focus sharpened and the rifle went up. He held his breath, straining his neck to take aim. No soldier, not even a person. A blue heeler — a cattle dog! It stood on the steps panting cheerfully, turning its head to look at Finn lying on the ground. Then it walked down the remaining steps and wandered over to the stables, oblivious to any danger and ignorant of Finn’s rifle.
Finn relaxed his muscles, letting his head fall back in the dirt, breathing heavily. If there was anyone around, they would have heard him and sent a volley of bullets his way. After a minute, Finn composed himself and sat up, smirking now at what had happened. He was glad no one had seen his reaction to the dog. Shaking his head, Finn stood and walked over to the steps and went up to the kitchen. He walked through the wreck of the house. The fire had destroyed most of it, and what was left was badly damaged by the smoke. Before heading back to the others, Finn did a thorough search of the shed and stables — just to be sure there was no sentry or sniper.
Getting out of the Patrol back at the house, John was unsteady on his feet, clearly upset at the sight of his home in this state. He and Jess walked around the burnt remains while Finn unloaded the Patrol in the shed. Finn figured it was best to give them time alone.
After walking around the house, John and Jess stood at the front. The sun was low now and the air was getting cooler.
‘So many memories of this house,’ murmured John, staring blankly at the charred ruins, ‘so many beautiful memories.’