Free The Amazing Spencer Gray by Deb Fitzpatrick

being in and out of consciousness, or having a football for a knee joint. Or bleeding from the head.
    It wasn’t a decision; there was no choice. If no one had come for them by the morning, Spencer was going to have to go and get help himself.
    There was a road running across the bottom of the ranges, they’d seen it from the air. It was like the cut-mark of a carving knife, smooth and long. As the afternoon inched on, he thought it through: in the morning he’d find the highest spot he could, a place where he could see far around. He had no idea if they were near any trails, but if there happened to be one nearby it wouldmake getting down a million times easier. If not, he already had his mantra: Do not freak out! It didn’t matter how he got down—he’d just walk in a straight line downhill. As long as he was going downwards, he was going in the right direction, he reckoned. Now, Spencer climbed up onto the slippery wet wing of the Drifter, and then onto her white belly. He stood tall, but couldn’t see much from there, especially not through the rain. Now he knew—really knew—what people meant when they talked about poor visibility. The scrub was thick and steady in every direction. There were no paths he could see from here and certainly no road—but he knew the road was there.
    The caravan park was along that road. People—in cars—used that road. It wasn’t rocket science. He needed to get down there.

29
    Reg looked at his watch. It was 3.30, and still no sign of the Doc and his boy. His hands rested gently on the counter. He peered out the window at the now-dark cloudbank to the north. It just couldn’t be that they’d got into strife. It just couldn’t be. That boy was only, what? Twelve, thirteen?
    He snatched up the two-way. ‘Skippers Cove to Drifter. Come in, Drifter.’
    Nothing.
    He enunciated his words, spoke slightly louder, in case the line was poor. ‘This is Skippers Cove to Drifter. Drifter, do you read me?’
    Reg let out a hard breath of frustration. He had no other guys in the air, so couldn’t get anyone else to fill him in on the conditions up there. His take on the sky was simply that it didn’t look good.
    â€˜Rory, this is Reg at Skippers. Do you read?’
    The empty buzz on the other end was so loud it seemed to fill the office.
    He looked out the window. The windsock swung about wildly. Filled then deflated. Filled hard.
    3.40pm. Reg shook his head. Nah, something wasn’t right. He reached over to the landline. In twenty-five years he’d only had to do this once before. He hoped this time they were more successful.
    The number was preset into the phone.
    â€˜Southern Districts Police Station, this is Constable Fitch,’ said a young voice.
    â€˜It’s Reg Calder, Duty Pilot at Skippers Cove airstrip. We’ve got a problem over here. I think we’re gunna need a ... a search-and-rescue.’
    It didn’t take long before the emergency plan was activated. The rescue chopper pilot was called in, and a hastily arranged search-and-rescue team, made up of local police and State Emergency Service volunteers. Reg was kept on communications detail, in case Rory or Spencer made contact. Reg also had to let Suzie know. He looked at his watch, which he’d taken off his wrist and laid out in front of him on the counter. It was now 4.37. The weather was making itself increasingly felt, and, with every passing minute of roaring silenceon the two-way, Reg knew: something had definitely gone wrong up there.
    â€˜Hello?’
    â€˜Suzie?’ Reg asked, knowing full well it was her.
    â€˜Yes, speaking!’
    â€˜Ah, Suzie, it’s Reg here from the airstrip.’
    There was a long pause. ‘Oh, hi, Reg, is everything ... Oh_____’
    â€˜They’re just a bit late coming in, Suzie.’
    â€˜Oh no.’
    â€˜Now, don’t get ahead of yourself, we’re just