George awoke to a red glow spilling through the grimy window.
It was mid-morning, he guessed. And it was quiet outside. He was sore from the hardness of the bathroom tiles. But he patted the worst of the dust off his brother and pushed himself to his feet.
Beeper followed him into the day room, rubbing his eyes. ‘Look, Torgie!’ he said.
The room was littered with sand, scraps of wood, plastic sheeting and shattered glass. A couple of chairs had been upturned. A metal pole stuck through the lower pane of the side window. It had smashed the clear plastic panel and the glass, letting the wind and dirt roar in. Only the steel bars remained.
‘We’re going to have to dig up the hammer from the bedroom, so we can fix some of this stuff,’ said George. ‘But first we need some water.’
The empty water jars had been blown off the kitchen bench. George threw the shards of glass into the cleaning bucket. He blew the dust off the lids of the full water jars and filled the two white mugs.
The boys drank, then Beeper twisted the tap. Not a single drop came out.
‘Can we eat, Torgie?’
‘We better wait, Beeps.’ The tin of Braised Steak with Farm Fresh Vegetables was the last bit of food in the house. George put it in his backpack for later.
Beeper disappeared with the broom into the front rooms. George walked out to the back yard to empty the bucket and noticed that the sky was darker than usual. The pink haze had an unusual bluish tinge to it. The day was just as hot, but the air felt heavier, almost moist.
George joined Beeper in their father’s room, which was coated in a thick layer of dust. ‘We are going to have to make that new hiding place in here,’ George said.
‘We can’t,’ said Beeper. ‘Dad won’t want his room wrecked. He’ll sleep in here when he’s finished his mission.’
‘Stop it!’
‘Stop what?’
‘Stop talking about that!’ George snapped. He lifted his dust mask and spat into the bucket. He was revolted by his stupid story. He wished he could make it just go away. He had to come clean.
‘Remember I said, Beeps,’ George’s voice was thin and shaky, ‘that Dad might possibly be a secret agent?’
‘And how he is going to catch the Drought Barons, Torgie.’
George held up his hand to stop Beeper talking, but Beeper took no notice.
‘Everyone will know who we are,’ Beeper went on. ‘The boys who took care of themselves while their dad …’
‘No, Beeper. What you need to understand is …’
A deep rumble outside shook everything.
‘What’s that, Torgie?’
‘Thunder?’
The boys pulled off their dust masks, scrambled out of the room and rushed into the back yard. Near the edge of the patio, George stepped on a tennis ball and almost slipped over. He quickly regained his balance and tilted his head backwards to stare up at the sky. It was filled with clouds. Low, dark, pillowy clouds that moved quickly, as if pushed along by a great hand. It was dizzying to gaze straight up at them.
‘Is it going to rain, Torgie? Is this what it feels like? And looks like?’
‘Yes … well, no.’ George’s skin was tingling. He could sense that a downpour was on the way, but he didn’t want to jinx it by saying so. ‘There have been clouds like this before,’ he finally told Beeper. ‘Black with dust, not rain. They just roll over the city and disappear.’
Another clap of thunder shook the ground. Despite himself, George imagined fat, cool drops splashing on his face. The rain was about to fall when they had least expected it, just like his mother said.
‘Dad must have won,’ yelled Beeper. ‘Beaten the Drought Barons! When it rains, he can come home!’
George could smell the water. Could sense it rushing down from high above, heading straight for his parched skin. The sky thundered again.
‘Please let this be the time,’ George chanted softly. He thought he felt a drop. He ran his hand across his cheek but there was nothing but dirt and sweat.
‘I’ll know what rain tastes like at last,’ said Beeper. ‘I’m going to drink it all up. Every drop of it.’
The boys stood in the centre of the yard and waited. And waited. George picked up the tennis ball. It hadn’t been there when he was emptying the dust bucket a short while ago.
It was their tennis ball. He recognised the brand name and the little rips along the seams. George looked up at Mr Carey’s house. There was no-one at the windows.
He squeezed the tennis ball hard. Beeper bounced around, punching his hands. ‘When will the rain start, Torgie?’
‘I don’t know, Beeper.’ The thunder was becoming fainter as the dark mass above raced westwards towards the mountains. ‘If there’s any rain at all, I have a horrible feeling it’s evaporating in the heat before it gets to us.’
The boys were still outside, watching the last of the clouds glide out of sight. The sky was back to its usual hazy pink. The boys slumped on the patio in sweaty silence. George half-expected to hear a mournful piano tune. But there was silence from Mr Carey’s. There had been since George’s late-night visit.
George hacked up the grit from the back of his throat, then tossed the tennis ball across the yard. They didn’t speak for an hour or more.
‘Torgie,’ Beeper said at last, ‘will the government still let Dad come home soon even if it doesn’t rain?’
George sighed. Then he turned, put his hands on his brother’s shoulders and said squarely to his face: ‘That’s what I was trying to tell you before, Beeps. Dad doesn’t work for the government. It was a story. A stupid story. There aren’t really any …’
George could see Beeper wasn’t paying any attention. He was listening to something in the distance.
There was a final, distant clap of thunder. It dissolved into the sound of a loudspeaker announcement.
‘A severe sandblaster warning for the next few days,’ the echoing voice said. A truck was hauling itself up the hill. Its back wheels churned on the soft surface of the road; the engine spat and growled. ‘More severe sandblasters. The curfew has been extended …’
George held his breath. Beeper too. They stared at each other as the truck neared the crest outside their house.
The gears crunched, the revving eased. The amplified voice stopped halfway through a word. The engine ground to a halt. George searched frantically around the back yard. The back fence was too high to jump over, and the big side gate was locked shut. They had nowhere to go.
The truck doors opened and slammed closed again. A few moments later, fists pounded on the front door of the house.