Free Vulture's Gate by Kirsty Murray Page A

girl, he knew she understood what it meant to lose your home.
    The road through the desert ran like a long, black crack across the landscape. The Daisy-May flew over the weathered bitumen, as if barely making contact. The terrain began to change quickly, drifts of red sand blowing across the road. They travelled at such speed that every day yielded new terrain. Every evening they fossicked for succulents for the Daisy-May’s still before curling up on their catskin rugs to sleep.
    One evening, a week after they’d left the Refuge, they camped by a salt lake. It was covered by a thin sheen of water that shimmered orange and blood-red at sunset. Bo cooked up the last of the dried crocodile meat, salting it with lake water.
    After eating they lapsed into a companionable silence, but when the moon rose and the first nightbird of the evening wheeled overhead, Bo looked up from the campfire and frowned. Grabbing her string bag of weapons, she walked away from the camp and smoothed out a section of earth, clearing rocks and debris with the butt of her gun. Then she lay down on the ground and gazed up at the swirling, starry night sky.
    â€˜What’s wrong?’ called Callum.
    â€˜Shush, they’ll hear you,’ she said in a loud whisper. ‘They’re dangerous.’
    Callum tiptoed over and lay down beside her, mystified by her fear. Their shoulders touched and he felt that peculiar rush of blood that being close to Bo triggered in him. The desert earth beneath them was cool, but beside him Bo’s skin felt as though it was shimmering with heat.
    â€˜What are you thinking?’ he asked.
    Bo didn’t answer straight away. She kept staring up at the stars, as if she was searching for something.
    â€˜What are you thinking?’ she echoed.
    â€˜I’ve told you, you can’t answer questions with questions. I wasn’t thinking anything. I’m not always thinking. Sometimes I’m just being. You’re the one that’s lying there with a gun.’
    Bo shifted her shoulders, making a little space between her and Callum but he moved closer so they were touching again. He took hold of her hand and held it tightly.
    â€˜You must be easy to pick up with a heat sensor. Mr Pink–whistle’s internal screens must light up fierce when he sees you.’ As he spoke, Callum became even more aware of the patch of skin where their bodies met, the way their fingers enmeshed. He gazed up at the nightbird that hovered over their heads. Suddenly, Bo pulled her hand free of his grasp and raised her gun, staring hard into the night sky.
    â€˜What are you going to do? Shoot the stars?’
    â€˜No, the nightbirds,’ said Bo.
    â€˜Nightbirds! We can’t eat them, they’re too stringy.’
    â€˜They are not for eating. Only killing.’
    Callum sat up. ‘My dads used to take me outside to watch them fly over the Refuge. Rusty said they only flew at night, because people had gone on crazy killing sprees when the plague happened so the birds learned to stop flying during the day. But they can’t hurt us any more, Bo. And they’re beautiful. It’s wrong to kill beautiful things. See, they look like black angels.’
    â€˜They’re not angels. They’re evil.’ She lifted the gun, took aim and fired.
    Callum ran to where the wide-winged creature lay bleeding in the dust.
    â€˜Don’t touch it!’ shouted Bo. ‘Poppy said never to touch birds. They’re poisonous. You should never eat them, or their eggs. Never touch anything they’ve touched. I used to have the Wombator bury them for me. And I never touched him. Poppy said everything with wings is dangerous.’
    â€˜That’s old superstition. No one gets the plague now.’
    â€˜But you said there are no women. No girls. They were the ones that died.’
    â€˜Are you afraid of birds?’
    â€˜I’m not afraid. I shoot them because they’re evil.