Free Raw by Scott Monk Page A

wasn’t going to stop! He leapt out of the way, crashed onto the ground and rolled into a ditch as the freighter thundered past in a blast of pig sweat and manure.
    His water bottles broken and his clothes wet, Brett coughed and coughed until the overpowering stink was cleared from his nose and lungs. It took him a full minute to do so. When he was finished, hecursed long and hotly. The word echoed in the quiet, leaving him feeling even more alone. He thumped the grass then clambered back onto the road to keep moving. None of this was part of his plan.
    Scabbing a lift had been harder than he’d thought. He’d stuck his thumb out to three cars and two trucks now without success. He reckoned it was because of the way he looked. He was dressed like a fugitive, walked like one, and never smiled — just like a fugitive. Plus Josh gave him this busted jaw with that lucky punch in the bathroom. That couldn’t be helping. Every driver that passed him probably thought he was trouble. Brett didn’t blame them. He’d think the same thing too.
    Buttoning his shirt, he tucked it in and straightened his back to drop the mean look. Clean and neat wasn’t his style, but he was willing to look like a dork to get away from Mungindi.
    The cops would never find him out here. The country was big and wide and they’d give up chasing him after a while. He was away from the world he hated so much. He was free and happy and wanted to start a new life on his own terms. Not the court’s. Not his family’s. Not Sam’s. But on his terms.
    Another car zipped past and Brett dropped his thumb. There were fewer cars the further he walked.Yawning, he checked his watch. 2.21am. No wonder he was so tired. The only sleep he’d had since Sydney was half an hour in the back of a paddy wagon. His stomach roared and he winced in pain. It had been a long time since he’d eaten too. He stopped next to a white road marker and slumped down against it, opening his bag to look for food. The rations he’d stolen ought to last him two or three days. He was worried about getting caught and had just thrown anything he could find in the cupboards into his bag.
    Water wasn’t a problem, even though he’d just lost his bottles. He could always find a river and camp beside it. Food, however, was. He couldn’t go walking into a town for the next couple of days in fear of some local or nosy cop pulling up beside him and asking, ‘Aren’t you that missing kid from Mungindi?’ And he wasn’t going to rely on any primitive instincts to hunt kangaroos or wallabies or whatever types of hamburgers on legs lived up this way.
    He pulled out a can of vegetable soup. Great, he snorted, putting it down next to him. At least he’d be eating healthy. Spaghetti? No. Canned tomatoes? No. Baked beans? Definitely not! Ah. That was better. Canned frankfurts. There was some bread in his bag too. He could light a fire, heat them up in the can then —
    Then —
    Brett chucked his bag away. It clunk clunk clunk ed into a ditch beside the road as he hit the ground and cursed. Not only had he left the bread behind; he’d forgotten to grab a can opener! He just shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. How could he have been so —
    â€˜STUPID!’
    When the echo couldn’t be heard any more and his temper had cooled down, he went after his bag. It had his wallet and his clothes in it. He scooped the cans back inside and slung it on his shoulder again. Who knew? He might come across a discarded can opener at a camping ground or at least a shop that sold them.
    As if.
    With cramped legs, he stretched to his full height again and readjusted his bag’s shoulder strap. There was a grove about two hundred metres away that didn’t seem that spooky. He could camp there overnight and hopefully find a river nearby.
    White light swept over him and he stopped. He stuck out his thumb and