Free Blacky Blasts Back by Barry Jonsberg Page B

young. ‘It’s the middle of the night. Surely it can wait until morning?’
    â€˜No, mush. It’s an emergency.’
    â€˜What is?’
    There was silence for a couple of seconds.
    â€˜She’s sick,’ said Blacky. ‘Really sick.’
    â€˜Who is?’
    â€˜The last Tasmanian tiger. There’s no time to waste, boyo. Not if we want to have a chance of saving her.’

Dyl woke as soon as I put a hand on his shoulder. His eyes widened.
    â€˜Marc,’ he whispered. ‘You’re scaring me.’
    â€˜Sorry, mate,’ I whispered back. ‘But Blacky is here. We have to go. Now.’
    â€˜No. Not that,’ he said, swinging his legs out of bed and reaching for his clothes. ‘It’s you. You’re scaring me.’
    I realised why. I was wearing my thermal underwear. I’d snuck it on when I’d got under the covers last night. Now I was standing in the dorm looking like a pale grey sausage. Never mind , I thought. I’m going to be grateful I’ve got them .
    We got dressed in less than thirty seconds. I grabbed the backpack next to my bed. Jimmy and Phil had insisted we stow our gear ready for the morning hike. According to Jimmy, they didn’t want us faffin’ aboot for hours like a wee buncha galoots and boggin’ muppets. Wise words, I thought. Or was it meaningless words? Anyway, the backpack contained the tent, wet-weather gear and a survival pack, including emergency rations.
    Dyl and I crept out of the dorm. The floorboards creaked a couple of times and we stopped and listened. It was unlikely any of the other kids would wake up. If yesterday was anything to go by, they were so tired they’d sleep through a marching band recital with an accompanying fireworks display.
    It was a bitter night. There was a half-moon nestled in the branches of trees. The clearing around the cabins was bathed in pale, cold light.
    Blacky was by the barbecue. Dyl and I padded over to him, hoisting our backpacks onto our shoulders.
    â€˜Let’s go,’ he said.
    â€˜Wait a moment, Blacky,’ I said. ‘I have to leave a message.’
    He made snuffling, impatient noises in my head. I can’t even begin to tell you how weird that was.
    â€˜Why, mush? What’s the point?’
    â€˜They’ll worry, Blacky. I need to tell them we’re safe, that we haven’t been abducted. Say we’ll join up with them here in a few days.’
    â€˜Oh, okay, tosh. That’ll really work. Me and Dyl, twelve years old and city boys, have wandered off into hostile bush in a remote wilderness area for reasons best known to ourselves. Don’t wait up. That’ll put their minds at rest! They are going to search for you, mush. You know that, don’t you? Probably with police, mountain rescue and helicopters. And you are also going to have to avoid being discovered. Until the mission is completed.’
    I knew all that. But when he put it that way, I suddenly realised how much trouble I was going to be in. Mum and Dad would be informed. They’d go mental. And it wasn’t just them. There were so many people who’d be worried sick about our safety. Rose would be distraught at my disappearance. Who was she going to torture if I wasn’t around?
    And I’d never be able to explain. Not without the risk of being checked into the nearest lunatic asylum. Perhaps I should say nothing. Let them think we had been kidnapped. Claim amnesia and then pretend to forget I’d claimed it. That might be a way to avoid being deep in the brown, smelly stuff for the rest of my days.
    I couldn’t, though. I had to leave some message.
    Now, I don’t know about you, but if you’ve ever got up at three-thirty in the morning in the middle of nowhere to chase after an extinct animal, you might have had the foresight to pack a writing pad and pencil. Not me. I had nothing to write with.
    So I took a stick and scratched