Toad Rage - Morris Gleitzman [14]
“Hello again,” said one. “Are you going to try for a better life down south too?”
“Yes,” panted Limpy. “You could say that.”
The worst part of the trip wasn't the sun, even though it blazed down onto the back of the truck all afternoon and Limpy was soon feeling like one of those oven-baked crinkle-cut chips, the burnt ones that humans were always tossing out of cars.
This is ridiculous, he thought weakly. They'll never let me be a Games mascot if I'm cooked.
Then he had an idea.
Slowly, painfully, he eased himself away from the brake light and down toward the rear bumper bar. All he had to hang on to were the rivets holding the truck together. He gripped them with both hands and his good foot to stop himself from being blown away by the slipstream or jolted onto the highway each time the truck hit a pothole. Finally, he slid in behind the bumper bar. He was blistered and bruised, and the metal bumper bar was hot, but at least he was in the shade.
The worst part of the trip wasn't the fruit flies either, even though they joined Limpy behind the bumper bar and wouldn't stop yakking about fruit.
“Plums,” said one. “You can't beat a good Queen Victoria.”
“How would you know?” said the other. “When have you had a plum?”
“Don't need to. I can tell from the look.”
“Bull. Apples are better than plums any day.”
“Get lost, you've never even seen an apple.”
“Have so. Beautiful orange color. Long and thin. Green foliage growing out the top.”
Limpy sighed.
He was very hungry, and even though two fruit flies wouldn't make much difference to the emptiness in his stomach, he was very tempted.
He resisted the temptation. They were all bouncing southward on the same truck, and it just didn't seem right to be eating folk you were sharing an adventure with.
The worst part of the trip came after the sun had set and the bumper bar had cooled down and the fruit flies had fallen asleep and there was a blissful silence except for the rumble of the tires on the highway and the bumping and squeaking of the rear suspension.
As they sped through the last of the subtropical flatlands, Limpy heard faint sounds in the distance that made his warts prickle.
Cane toads, calling to each other in the dusk.
Limpy listened to the far-off voices arguing about whether stink beetles were better-looking insects than meat maggots, and he felt a sudden pang of loneliness.
He thought about Mum and Dad and hoped they weren't worrying about him too much.
He thought about Charm and hoped she was staying away from the road.
He thought about Goliath, and even though he'd never had that much in common with Goliath, specially Goliath's favorite game of swallowing mud worms and placing bets on which one would crawl out of his bottom first, Limpy realized he missed him.
Limpy listened again to the voices of the distant cane toads and thought about his hundreds of brothers and sisters. He hadn't seen any of them since they were tadpoles and a rainstorm had swept them all away, leaving only him and Charm.
Some of them could be out there now, thought Limpy, arguing about whether a slimy lugworm tasted better than a shovel-nosed centipede.
He was doing this for them as well.
Even as he had the thought, another pang shot through him.
It was partly love, but mostly hunger.
Suddenly Limpy felt weak and dizzy from lack of food. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He stuck his head over the rim of the bumper bar. The air was rushing past much too quickly for even the lightning-fast tongue of a cane toad to pluck insects out of it.
His empty stomach sank as he realized what he must do.
Go to the front of the truck.
It took half the night.
Luckily there were rivets along the side of the truck for Limpy to cling to, but his progress was painfully slow. The air was ripping past so fast and the truck was bouncing so much that he could only go forward in tiny, sliding movements.
Several times he slipped and the black howling highway rushed up at him, but somehow he managed to hang on and drag himself back.
Several other times