Survival Story - A Girl and Her Dog's Tale: Emma Hanson Crime-Thriller Series, #2

By Marita Balto

When Emma's family life falls apart, she decides to take her dog, Cozzie, and run away. She has everything planned out, from sneaking onto her father's boat, to getting a place once they land. But life has a way of spiraling out of control, and a series of unfortunate events leaves Emma stranded on a deserted island with a dead father and child traffickers on her tail. Will she and Cozzie be able to survive? Or will the jungle swallow them whole? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marita Balto
• Release date: Oct 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393153917

Book preview

SURVIVAL STORY:

A GIRL AND HER DOG’S TALE

BOOK 2

All rights reserved. Copyright © 2019 by Mr. F. McLeod (CSN# V76627792). No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

One

As Peter Hanson worked at the bottom of his hand dug ten-meter deep mine shaft on Kangaroo Island, he could hear the cacophony made from the hundreds of Australian Cockatoos that had converged in the gum trees of the nearby forest on the site of his gold claim. Green landscape would soon be coated with blobs of white as they landed in the branches of their choice. It sounded like a massive garden party filled with endlessly chattering guests, all attempting to speak over the others.

Noisy bastards, muttered Peter, squinting as he looked up towards the sky. Despite the clangor, it was a lovely winter day, and he had to appreciate it; white clouds spread out over a brilliant blue. He couldn’t have asked for better conditions for his long hours of digging. If only there weren’t so many winged guests disturbing the peace. There must have been dozens of cockatoos up there to be making so much racket. A flash of white crossed his vision as one of the birds swept by. He’d told his daughter not to feed the parrots and the lorikeets because these bullies would follow for certain. And he’d been right!

Cockatoos were a loud bunch, with a shrill call that was impossible to miss. Very quickly, the sound got on Peter’s nerves, drawing his attention from the work at hand. He was supposed to be building a bunk room beneath the ground, to give his daughter more space. Presently, she was living in the trailer up on the surface of his gold claim. It wouldn’t be too much of an effort to create his own sleeping quarters beneath the surface of the earth.

The temperature was more constant down below the surface too. Still, Peter was coated in a thick layer of sweat. He’d just finished filling up another round of five gallon buckets – twenty four buckets full of pay dirt that would be hauled up to the surface as soon as Emma got back with their food. They’d be using the winch that was mounted on the front end of his truck to haul up the buckets.

Peter tore his gaze away from the birds. He couldn’t stand around doing nothing, just because Emma wasn’t here. The bunker would never get finished, if that were how he handled things. Instead, he busied himself by measuring out and cutting the boards he needed to actually make a bunk space with. He had the posts in place already. The two-by-fours still had to be attached, and so did a few of the one-by-ten planks. It was looking good though. He didn’t take pride in much, but he knew he’d done a good job so far.

Peter wasn’t looking to build anything fancy, but that didn’t mean he was willing to do sloppy work, either. He bustled about, measuring and marking out the twenty-four boards in question, before turning to check the battery power on the saw. Even after sitting out the better part of the morning, it still had four red bars showing out of the five. That meant he could cut up a lot more lumber still. And maybe the explosive whir of the saw would frighten away a few of his noisey friends in the trees.

He moved the sawhorses into position, placing one piece of board on it at a time. With the marks already made, he was able to make quick work of cutting along the pencil line. The skill saw hummed. There was a loud thwack as part of the board hit the ground.

Unfortunately, as the saw’s roar faded, the screeching birdsong persisted. Above him, the cockatoos continued to scream. They were loud enough he could even hear them over the whirring of the saw. It was hot. He was impatient.

No doubt the cockatoos were making a mess of his wooden outhouse. They’d done that twice this week already. When the birds didn’t get what they wanted, they’d take out their rage on any wooden structure in the area. Their beaks were powerful enough to do a number on it, too.

Peter would have to repair it.

Again.

Damned birds, he snapped, throwing the next board down on the sawhorses. He lined the blade up with the pencil line. In the canopy of trees, the birds screaming reached a new crescendo. Peter’s nerves were frayed. It had been a long day. It had been a long few months. He looked up, shouting, get out of here you damned – fuck!

The saw sliced clean through three of his fingers.

Two fingers fell to the floor. Another dangled from his injured hand by a piece of skin. Peter screamed, stumbling backwards and clutching his hand to his chest. The pain was so great, it made him nauseous. He could barely think, his mind a white, blank canvas outside of the pain.

He managed to grab a towel, which he’d been using to blot sweat from his eyes earlier. Pressing it to the wounds on his hand made his stomach lurch. The white terry cloth fabric quickly grew damp with blood.

Mind hazy, he stumbled over to the ladder. Emma? Emma! Fucking – Em!

But there was no answer. His daughter hadn’t gotten back yet. Peter tried to hook his good hand around one of the ladder rungs, but he couldn’t get his body to cooperate. The edges of his vision were going hazy. It felt like his head was full of cotton. Pins and needles surged down his spine. Peter shook his head, trying to clear away the foggy thoughts.

Think, he hissed. "Think."

Peter managed to get his phone out of his back pocket. He tried to call his daughter. A dull beep-beep of the call failing caused him to grit his teeth. He could see his phone had bars. There’s no reason the call shouldn’t go through. He tried again to the same results, beep-beep.

He fumbled with the phone and managed to text the words cut, help to Emma’s number. Then, he dropped clumsily to the ground, hooking his heels over the lower rung of the sawhorses. Above him, the clouds drifted peacefully through the sky.

A cockatoo passed overhead. Peter turned to the side and vomited.

Emma pulled into the trailer grounds, hiking into their little home away from home. Before she went to make sandwiches, she called out, Cozzie! C’mere, boy!

The dog came limping out from the living area, tail wagging.

Emma scratched Cozzie behind the ears, before getting him a clean bowl of water, which he accepted gratefully. It was a hot and humid day out. He slurped up half the bowl in moments.

Emma smiled and pet him lovingly.  Do you know where I left my phone, boy?

She’d meant to bring it with her, but had left in too big of a rush. Cozzie offered no answers. It took a bit of searching to locate the phone; a message had come through, seven minutes ago, from her father. The text made her blood run cold.

Cursing, Emma turned and sprinted out the door. She rushed to the main shaft of the dig site, bending over the opening to call out, Dad? There was no answer.

Carefully, Emma climbed down the ladder and as her eyes adjusted to the dim shaft, she found her father was strewn on the floor of the tunnel, out cold. Blood and vomit pooled at his side. She didn’t panic. She landed on the dirt floor with firm feet, crouched, and checked her father’s pulse. It was steady. This was not the first time she had found him in a state. Memories of the island flashed before her eyes. She focused on the here and now and moved with purpose.

Emma and Peter had been out here for a few months already. Peter was very careful and clear in discussing mine safety with his daughter. It didn’t take long for her to locate the first aid box, though she wasn’t sure it would be very helpful this time around. She saw the bloody hand he was cradling against his chest. He’d cut his hand, badly. She could see the two stumps amid the slick crimson.

Crouching down next to Peter, she gently rolled him into his back and adjusted his head so he could breath more easily. She removed her outer shirt and placed it under his head. He was breathing. He had a pulse. His skin was clammy, though, with sweat and blood loss.

It’s okay, Dad. You’re going to be okay, promised Emma. You’re not going to let a couple of busted fingers take you out, are you? After everything you’ve been through? She remained resolute as she evaluated this predicament.

The problem with their mineshaft, of course, was that nothing was near it. If there was a problem, Emma and Peter had to deal with it themselves. This, of course, was a problem. Peter’s hand was bleeding freely. There was no way that just bandages would fix the issue, especially with only a first aid kit. She had to think fast. Her eyes swept the site.

There was a portable blow torch near the toolbox and a metal file among the collection of tools. That would have to do, she thought. I’ll fix this, reassured Emma. Don’t worry. I’ve got you.

She doubted her father could hear her. Emma was mostly talking to ease her own frayed nerves. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest that it ached. For a moment, she wondered if everyone who had survived one tragedy was cursed to face more in their lives. 

Emma used the blowtorch to heat one side of the metal file and then crouched down next to her father. Above them, the cockatoo’s were screaming. They were about to be joined by another shriek. 

On three, said Emma, steeling herself. She held her father’s wrist in one hand and the metal file in the other.

One…Two…Three! Her dad roared loudly as she burnt his finger stumps on his hand with the red-hot file. He jerked, but didn’t wake up. His long, drawn-out shout of pain ended, and he slumped, falling unconscious again.  The reek of burnt flesh filled the air, impossible to ignore in the tight quarters of the mineshaft.

Emma’s stomach rolled.

Her hands were shaking.

The bleeding had stopped, though. That was a good thing. Now all Emma had to do was get her father out of the mineshaft.

There was a harness in the first aid box. Emma pulled it out and unraveled it. She struggled, slipping it onto her father. On a whim, she grabbed his cut-off fingers, wrapped them in a towel, and shoved them into the front pocket of his jeans, not giving much thought to the fact that they were her father’s fingers or fingers at all.

Moments later, her father secured, she used the winch on the truck to haul him out of the mineshaft. Once he was on solid ground, she was able to get him into the front seat. With steady hands, she strapped in Peter’s seat belt, to keep him in place.

Cozzie bounced around her with great interest. The pup whined at the sight of Peter, sensing the concern in Emma. Cozzie licked Darrne’s limp hand, and tilted his furry head to Em.

He’ll be alright, Emm  assured. Not the first time he’s been laid out, right? She pat her dog on the head and slammed her father’s door.

The truck was an old 1982 Toyota troopy HJ47. It took two tries to get the engine rolled over. Emma swung into the trailer just long enough to get Cozzie into the backseat before pulling out of the mine site.

Peter moaned. He still wasn’t conscious. Cozzie whined again and looked to Emma.

Just stay with me, she said. The words felt like they were lodged in her throat. I’ll get you to a hospital, and then we’ll be okay. They’ll fix you up, and everything’ll be right as rain.

Her father’s eyes flickered open for a moment, and the tow of them looked at one another. Emma’s face was firm and resolute, despite her obvious trembling in fear. The corner of Peter mouth twitched for an instant. It was the hint of a smile – of pride in his daughter. He slipped away again and drifted in and out of consciousness as the truck raced away from the mine.

Emma kept talking, hoping that he could hear her. Just keep breathing, Dad. You’ll be fine. You’re tougher than nails, right? Something like this? It’s nothing. A saw blade can’t take you down. Not when a deserted island or the ocean or goddamn pirates couldn’t!

Fear was a cold thing, gripping onto her heart. She knew in that moment she was the only one in the position to get Peter proper treatment, and that was what she was doing, taking the initiative to get him medical attention. Eyes forward on the road, her thoughts raced. A phrase crossed her mind. What is it the American post office says? Neither rain nor sleet or snow? Yeah, well, the Hansons could have a slogan of their own: neither rain, nor snow, nor commonsense!

As Emma drove, it started getting darker.

There were less hours of daylight this time of year. The gold claim was far away from anything else. The long, dirt roads weren’t nearly as safe to drive on at night as they were during the day. But Emma sped along, nonetheless. She’d driven this path enough. She knew all the twists and turns. Not that she wanted to challenge herself to drive in the dark. Emma had only recently started learning how to drive with a stick shift.

It was only early May right now, but by the end of June, there would be precious few hours of daylight available. It was a dry winter season compared to previous years; the risk of flooding was down, but flash fires were more and more prominent. Getting trapped by fire and smoke was a real risk. The gold claim only had one way in, and one way out.

Eyes on the road, muttered Emma, to herself. It was hard to not keep looking over at her father. The truck shook and jerked as it caught on bumps in the uneven dirt road. After a substantial divot in the dirt path, the old H4N engine stalled out on her. She rolled to a stop and pumped the gas attempting to get it going again. Come on, you bastard, she growled at the hunk of junk.

While stalled, her father came too, just long enough to weakly ask, Emma?

She snapped around to look at him. I’m right here, Dad, don’t worry. I’ve got you, okay? Just like you had me before. Emma touched his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, and the truck roared to life once more. She fumbled with the gears.

Peter rasped, Okay, before sagging back into his seat once more.

Between the pain and the blood loss, he was mostly out of it. Around them, there was nothing but the vast wilderness. The headlights of the vehicle could only cover the radius of what it was close to. The wind blew through the open car window and whipped their hair around. Cozzie hung his head outside the truck and enjoyed the ride. At least someone was having a good time, Emma thought.

Kangaroo Island was a beautiful place, with amazing white sandy beaches and with a purity of nature at its finest. Kangaroos were often seen hopping through the trees and bushes – even near people’s homes. The wallaby, which were usually small in size, and the big reds, which were usually six to seven feet tall, could both be found here. They were most active at dusk and dawn, adding one more hazard to evening driving. Australians knew that hitting an animal on the road was just one more risk to be taken. If you were unlucky enough to hit a wombat, your vehicle would be wrecked.

Emma knew this. She was trying to keep this in mind. But the tires of the truck caught a particularly deep gully, rocking the vehicle violently, and her father groaned in pain. Emma looked to him, asking, Are you okay?

And that split second was all it took.

A big red tried to cross the road. She didn’t see it. Her only split moment of warning was Cozzie barking at the sight of the thing the very instant before impact. The collision of the creature against the front of the truck was massive and loud as the thing smashed into the driver’s side of the truck. The kangaroo skidded under their tires. Emma slammed on the brakes, the engine stalling out.

Cozzie barked loudly. Emma shook her head, dazed. It had all happened in a loud, jerking heartbeat. It was enough to pull her father into some amount of clarity. He slurred, What happened?

I don’t know, wheezed Emma. Her hands were shaking. The seat belt had no doubt cut bruises into her chest and side. I don’t know. I’ve got – I’ve got too–

Slowly, she slid out of the driver’s seat. Her legs were shaking so badly, they didn’t want to hold her. It took a few tries before she was able to move around to check the damage. Cozzie tried to get out of the truck through the window, but she pushed him back, saying, No, boy, stay.

The front bumper was smashed in, half pushed under the cab of the truck. The body of the kangaroo was twisted into the wheel well. Emma barely held herself together when she realized that it wasn’t dead. The ‘roo gave a few ragged whines. Blood spilled out onto the dirt road. It was horrible.

Emma had never hit an animal before. She had killed them for food, but it had always been a quick, painless death for the creature. And now, here she was, faced with a kangaroo dying for no reason, in pain and scared.

Emma couldn’t bite back her sobs. She could barely breathe. I didn’t mean too, sobbed the girl, as if that would somehow mean anything to the pathetic animal as it took its last breath and went limp, dead.

Weakly, through the rolled down window, her father called out, Are you okay?

Emma didn’t feel okay. She felt horrible. Her grief for the poor animal was strong enough that she could nearly taste it. But she knew there wasn’t anything she could do about