Blacky Blasts Back by Barry Jonsberg

some of the smaller twigs into kindling and placed them in the centre. The matches in the survival pack worked, which was a relief.
    When the fire caught properly, we fed it bigger branches. Soon there was a roaring blaze. The four of us sat around it. Gradually, warmth returned. Nobody said much, but you couldn’t call our camp exactly quiet. For one thing, there was the sound of night-time critters stirring in the bush. For another there was the loud crackle of burning branches. But drowning all that was the sound of three stomachs rumbling. Blacky was okay. Maybe he’d brought along his stash of dried beef. But the rest of us were starving. Just as well the last Tasmanian tiger didn’t happen to stroll into our clearing. We’d have had it skinned and roasting in two shakes of a lamb’s willie, which wouldn’t exactly have helped our mission.
    After an hour of gazing moodily into the fire, we put up the tent. We were exhausted. Dyl, John and I stared at the space inside. It was the size of a welcome mat, but not as inviting.
    â€˜If anyone farts,’ I said, ‘we are in real trouble.’
    Getting inside the tent was a problem. Dyl went first and scrunched himself up against the side. I went next and took up the other wall of the tent. This left a space of about six centimetres between us for John. He was thin, true, but not that thin. By the time he’d winkled himself in we were like sardines in a can.
    We smelt like them, too.
    No shower and a full day of walking through the forest. Not to mention sweaty brushes with death on a cliff’s edge.
    Maybe a fart would improve things.
    John’s legs stretched outside the tent flaps. We’d pitched it close to the fire, thinking we’d need the warmth. But three bodies generated enough heat to do without it. As I tried to sleep, I wondered if John’s legs would fall across the dying embers and barbecue themselves overnight.
    At least it would take care of breakfast.
    It was a restless night. I’d wake up and wonder where I was. Then it would all come flooding back and I’d try to get my nose out of John’s armpit. If anyone moved, everyone woke. This did nothing for our mood.
    Once, I woke and thought I saw something moving just outside the tent. I blinked groggily.
    â€˜Blacky?’ I said in my head. ‘Is that you?’
    No reply.
    And then I saw it. Correction. I think I saw it. Between the flaps of the tent. A head. Thin, long jaws stretched in a grim smile. Rows of sharp teeth. I jolted upright and the violence of my action snapped Dyl and John to attention. John nearly put a hole in the tent’s roof with his head.
    â€˜What the . . .’ said Dyl.
    There was nothing there. I stared at the opening in the tent. Blank. No sudden shifting of an animal alarmed at our movement. I must have imagined it. A nightmare.
    â€˜Sorry, guys,’ I said. ‘I thought I saw something.’
    We settled down and I closed my eyes. When I opened them a moment later, John’s face was a centimetre from mine. His eyes bored into me. I nearly jolted upright again.
    â€˜You will, Mucus,’ he croaked.
    â€˜What?’ I whispered.
    â€˜See something. My fist. In your eye.’
    On that cheerful note, I drifted off. The day had been a disaster. We were starving, wet and alternately freezing cold and suffocatingly warm. Surely things would improve tomorrow?
    If I’d known what the next day held, I probably wouldn’t have slept at all.

I was woken by the sound of helicopter blades.
    At first I didn’t pay much attention, tried to brush the noise away as if it was an irritating fly. Then my eyes snapped open. At the same time, I heard Blacky’s voice in my head.
    â€˜Hurry, tosh. They’re coming for you.’
    Jimmy and Phil! It had been a day since we left. They would have searched for an hour or so by themselves. The note I’d left wouldn’t have stopped them. Now the