Mike Dixon

They scrambled along the creek.
Noelene did her best to keep the rifle out of the water
and scarcely noticed the big crocodile on the mud bank
ahead. Her mind was on the bullets skipping over the mudflat,
stripping leaves from the trees.
avid clambered over a pile of beehives. Many years
D earlier they had been stored away beneath the old
farmhouse. Now, like the pillars that supported the building,
the hives were alive with termites. They collapsed under his
weight and he lay in the debris, trying to ignore the tiny
creatures that were attacking him with mouths built for
chewing wood.
The noise of his fall rang in his ears and he wondered if
he had alerted the people overhead. Then the storm
drowned out his fears. Within seconds it built up to a horrifying
destructive power.
He crouched beside a pillar and shielded his head with his
arms as sheets of galvanized iron were torn loose and some-
thing heavy crashed against the side of the building. Then,
just as quickly as it had intensified, the storm died down.
‘Storms within storms.’
That was how his grandfather described hurricanes.
‘Swirling eddies of devastation in areas of relative calm.’
David decided he was in an area of relative calm and
should make the best of it. There was a hole in the floor-
boards outside his bedroom. In the past it was an annoyance.
Now it was an opportunity. He could squeeze through
it and get into the corridor outside Daryl‟s office without
mounting the stairs and running the risk of being seen.
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