Lockie leads the way, his big stick still in his hand, chopping through the vines like he’s done this before. Then again, we’ve been walking for ages now. At least it feels that way.
We reach a clearing halfway up the ridge. There’s an old metal mast, half-rusted, sticking out of the ground like some relic from a different era.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘It could be a relay tower,’ Lockie says. ‘I don’t know if they use it… Either way, it looks fried. Like it’s been hit by lightning.’
‘Can we fix it?’ I ask optimistically – I’m not usually an optimist, so I don’t know why I’m starting now.
‘Even if we have the skills, we don’t have the tools,’ he says. ‘But we could follow the cable, see where it goes? Maybe a control room or something.’
‘It’s worth a try, right?’ I reply, unsure of myself. That optimism didn’t last long.
We follow the line of cable down a narrow slope, ducking under branches and clambering over roots, until the ground levels out into a small clearing. And there, right in the middle, is a hatch. The metal hinges look corroded but intact.
Lockie crouches and brushes dirt away. ‘This could lead somewhere,’ he says.
‘This isn’tLost,’ I remind him. ‘There’s no one down there.’
‘I know,’ he says with a sigh. ‘I thought there might be power, but I can’t get it open. There’s power somewhere, we just need to find it. I suppose we can keep looking, but we should probably head back to camp. I think this might be a lost cause.’
‘I think that about almost everything, all of the time,’ I half-joke.
‘You’re an overthinker?’ he replies.
I nod. ‘Isn’t everyone these days?’
‘Sounds difficult,’ he says, silently confirming that he doesn’t have this issue. He can’t be that easy-breezy, can he?
‘Well, when you’re going about your day, what do you think about all day?’ I ask.
‘Nothing,’ he replies. ‘Just… whatever the task at hand is. What do you think about?’
‘Everything,’ I say, deadpan. ‘Anything. All day.’
He laughs a little at my delivery, rather than my – y’know – overwhelming anxiety.
We push through another patch of trees and find running water – a stream.
It’s maybe ten feet across, the water seeming like it’s rushing fast enough to take you with it, whether you want to go or not.
‘I’m not crossing that,’ I tell him.
‘Why not?’ he replies.
‘Eels,’ I tell him.
‘Do you even know what an eel looks like?’ he replies.
‘No, which is why I’m not chancing it,’ I insist.
It’s his turn to laugh at me.
‘It’s just water,’ he says.
‘It’s fast and it’s mysterious and I just can’t bring myself to do it,’ I reply. ‘You can go, if you like, I’ll head back…’
‘Yes, because I can just let you walk back alone, without worrying about you,’ he chuckles sarcastically. ‘Come on.’
