The Dead of Night by John Marsden Page A

off the first chops, with some rough bush butchering, and onto the fire they went. It was midnight before our hungry mouths closed on the hot pink meat, but it had been worth the wait. We ate well, grinning at each other as our blackened greasy fingers tore at the food. The death of one thing can be the birth of something else. I felt new determination, new surety, new confidence.

Seven
    What happened after that was my idea, I admit it. The buck stops with Ellie. It came out of being so restless, feeling that we weren't doing enough, weren't making a difference. I'd always thought that there must be a route out the other side of Hell, using the creek as a path. After all, it had to run somewhere, and it couldn't go uphill. In the next valley was the Holloway River, and Risdon. I had no idea if the route would be passable for humans but I thought it was worth a try. I longed for new fields, new scenes, new people maybe. It was like wanting a holiday. Despite what the radio and our own
common sense told us, there was some vague feeling that things would be different there, that we'd walk out of the mountains into a new and green land, a peaceful land, leaving the ugliness and despair of Wirrawee behind. I didn't tell the others of my dream. I just said we needed to establish a line of retreat, and it might be important for us to find out what was happening in the Holloway. Knowledge is power, after all.

    They were quite keen. They didn't need much persuading. Homer had suggested a few times that we needed to find more people, to meet up with other groups, and there was a chance we could do that in Risdon. Besides, I suppose we all were ready to try something new. It helped us feel that we were being constructive. Only Chris wanted to stay behind. It was useful to have someone stay back, to look after the chooks and the remaining lamb, but I wasn't sure if leaving Chris alone was a good idea. He was becoming increasingly solitary, writing in his notebook and sitting on his own, gazing at the cliffs. He drank all the beer we got from the Kings' I think, because when I looked for it I couldn't find it, and Lee said he didn't know where it had gone. But there was no more grog then, as far as I knew, and I thought maybe that had put him in a bad mood. Occasionally he had bursts of activity—for instance, he built us a good big woodshed for keeping our firewood dry. That took him three days and he wouldn't let anyone help him, but once he'd finished it he didn't do much more.
    We knew we might be away for a few nights if we did get through to Risdon, so we packed proper backpacks, with sleeping bags and jumpers and japaras. Instead of
tents we took a few flies and groundsheets, which were lighter, and good enough for what we wanted.

    There was a big argument about how to walk the creek. Homer, who was gradually returning to his usual assertive self, said we should wear boots because we'd be less likely to slip on the rocks. I said we should use bare feet so our boots would be dry and warm when we finally got out of the creek. Walking through that cold water for a long distance, with autumn coming on fast, wasn't something that appealed to any of us.
    But that argument at last led into the one we should have had ages ago: the one about Homer taking guns on the Buttercup Lane ambush.
    It went like this. Homer said something typically domineering, like "Well I'm wearing my boots, I don't care what the rest of you do."
    I said, "Great. And when you get blisters we'll have to carry you I suppose. Homer, if we don't look after our feet we'll be good for nothing."
    "Yes mother," he said, flashing his brown eyes at me.
    I've always had this feeling with Homer that I must never back off or it'll be the end of me. He's so strong and he intimidates so many people, and then I think he despises them because they're too weak to stand up to him. So I always stand up to him, and I did it again this time.
    "How come when I tell people what I