Read Five Parts Dead for Free Online Page A

like that.
    But what does it change? Should I act differently, live cautiously? Treat every moment as though my luck is so depleted I could be killed by a paper cut? Or should I just stay away from cars, planes, fire, water…even electricity?
    I got up-close and personal with the power supply early last summer when Barney and I were trying to save up for some online gaming gear. He nagged his older brother Davo to find us work for cash. Davo’s nineteen and a labourer and we ended up on a home renovation site where they were running behind schedule with a house extension. The task sounded simple enough, though I joked that the heavy work would kill me. It nearly bloody did…
    Two long, parallel trenches. The excavator can’t get close enough to the building so the final footings have to be dug by hand, deep and square enough to satisfy a notoriously fussy building inspector.
    Three guys: Davo, Barney and me. Two trenches, the length of a living room. Too bad they didn’t mention the ground was solid clay.
    We finish the first trench by eleven. Barney inhales his lunch and half-heartedly swings a pick along the length of the next trench, barely loosening the soil. ‘Gotta dash, lads. You’ll be right to finish off, won’cha?’ He scurries away and straddles his bike. Vanishes before I can finish my mouthful.
    â€˜Weak prick,’ Davo spits, and keeps digging.
    Two-thirds done. Shoulders, wrists, back aching. Palms blistered. The pick feels heavier each time I lift it. Davo stops for a smoke and I’m left alone, daunted by the unexcavated distance.
    Heave. Swing. Klunk.
    Heave. Swing. Klunk.
    Heave. Swing. Thwunk.
    Jammed. It’s as if the clay swallowed the pick-head. I can’t budge it.
    I kick the wooden handle in frustration. No joy. Stuck solid. I try to wobble it, again without effect. For a second I identify with the knights trying to remove the sword from the stone. Man, they must have been pissed off when Arthur slid it out one-handed.
    I bend and grab the iron pick-head with both hands. THWWUMP! Simultaneous blows to my armpits and the rear of my skull. It’s like being drop-punted by a bull elephant…or Boris. I’m flying, falling, arcing backwards across three trenches and landing in a fourth.
    I lie there, vision pixellated, white noise surging in my ears. Footsteps approach and then a voice blasts through the fuzz, the site manager or Davo, maybe.
    â€˜What the hell were you thinking? You’ve cut the mains power! Stuck a pick in the underground wiring. We’re going to lose a day at least. Lucky you’re alive, ya dickhead!’

G: WANT A PILOT
    Morning bulldozes its way under my blind. I trudge to the kitchen and find two notes on the bench. The first is in Mel’s writing. Mum and Dad have driven her and Pip to the national park office to meet Hiroshi and his tour group. The message is the equivalent of a withering glare; there’s no ‘Have a great day’ or ‘Catch you later.’ Can’t say I blame her. I’ve hardly been Mr Good-Times since we got here.
    The second note is from Mum and Dad. After dropping the girls off they’re going camping and will be gone two nights. At least they sign off with an X.
    I take stock. It’s sunny outside, which is a plus. My head seems less foggy, like I’ve had an overnight defrag. My foot…I lumber across the room testing whether I can leave the crutches behind. Nope, still too sore…five out of ten at best. Which means, Ladeeeees and Gentle-mennnnn, for today’s entertainment we will…read more of the logbook. It’s better than reading bounty hunter rubbish. At least the action in the logbook is real.
    Inside the lighthouse everything is as I left it, although a streamer of cobwebs, strung with desiccated bug carcasses, has fallen across the desk. I swipe it aside and retrieve the log.
    With Captain Wilton dead, the underkeepers aren’t