Tankbread 02 Immortal (19 page)

“We need some people to swim across the river, get the boats, and bring them back,” Else said.

Rache and Hob looked at her as if she had gone mad. Quint nodded, “Yeah, I’ll send some of the guys over.”

“What about crocodiles?” Rache asked.

Else looked her in the eye. “You don’t get the dangerous ones this far from the sea.”

Hob opened his mouth and closed it again. Quint called three of the fishermen forward and ordered them to swim across the wide river and collect the boats. They didn’t seem convinced that they would be safe from crocodile attack, but they obeyed his orders. With a minimum of splashing they struck out for the far bank. Else watched with an almost detached curiosity while the other survivors lined up along the bank and gave whispered encouragement. The swimmers arrived on the other side without incident. They climbed out of the water, turning to wave to the people on the opposite shore.

The evols came out of the trees, looming up behind the fishermen in a ragged line of a dozen walking dead. The three of them reacted to the shouts of warning from the other survivors.

“Fuckin’ stupid idea,” Hob said, spitting into the mud.

“They might make it,” Else suggested, her gaze fixed on the desperate battle taking place beyond the river.

The fishermen slashed out with the salvage-forged blades they carried. Dead flesh parted and the mud soaked up the dark blood. One of the fishermen slipped in the mud; a dead woman bore him down, snapping her teeth at his throat as he screamed and struggled.

“We have to help!” Rache cried. Else slipped the blanket sling from around her shoulders. Turning to Cassie, she let her take the squirming bundle that was Else’s son.

Else ran into the water. She swam hard, vanishing underwater and reappearing less than a minute later with a splash on the opposite bank. Her steel blades flashed; the dead fisherman hadn’t resurrected yet, so Else decapitated the woman that was tearing strips of skin away from his bones. One of the other fishermen had climbed a tree and two evols were scrabbling at the bark, peeling away the dry sheets and reaching up to pull him down. The third fisherman had vanished, running into the trees in panic.

Else sidestepped a swinging clawed hand and, countering with her blade, she cut the reaching limb off at the elbow. A follow-up blow split the zombie’s skull. For each one that fell, two others came shuffling forward to feed on her.

The woman flicked the brains and matted hair from her blades. Crossing her arms, she took a deep breath and waited until the remaining zombies were close enough. She unfolded like a bird of prey. Instead of talons or wings, her arms ended in sharpened steel. This was her dance, the only one she had ever known. No matter where she went, the dead would be there. Killing them would be all she could ever do. There was no pleasure in it, no delight, just a grim satisfaction. For Else, their destruction was a need as basic as breathing.

She turned, scanning the ground and the trees. The dead lay in butchered chunks at her feet. The bush whispered and she caught her breath. After examining the woven bark that lashed the boats to the trees, Else sliced through it and tied the other boats to the first one. With a single oar as a paddle she floated the convoy across the river. In less than an hour everyone was across the water. The fisherman up the tree came down to the good-natured laughter and teasing of his friends. The man who ran into the bush did not return when they called his name.

“We need to keep moving,” Else warned. The baby had nursed and now slept again, a warm and comforting shape against her chest.

No one argued. The stink of the dead lay like a fog over everything under the afternoon sun. They walked on, passing into the thin forest and starting at every sudden flap of a bird or bolt of a creature foraging in the dry scrub.

Else pushed ahead, leaving Rache to shepherd the survivors. Armed with her blades, Else moved quietly through the trees. A short time later she killed the first feral pig she came across with a well-aimed knife throw. The pig proved too heavy to lift or drag, so Else went back and directed the survivors to where they would make camp.

Once the pork was barbequing on spits over three open fires, the rumbling of empty bellies became almost audible.

Else slapped hands away like they were petulant children. “If you eat pig before it is well cooked, you can get sick,” she warned again.

They ate after sunset, gorging on the juicy meat until they lay down, clutching their swollen stomachs and groaning. Else waited until the survivors were asleep, then she left the camp. Slipping past the sentries, who were engaged in some kind of belching contest, she orientated herself to the stars and moon. She felt certain that her house was within walking distance, but just how far that was she couldn’t be sure. The baby grizzled, moving against her. Else absently lifted him out of the carry-sling and let his bowels and bladder empty without breaking her stride. The bush looked as familiar as every other stretch of salt-brush and gum.

Else kept walking, a ground-eating stride that was almost a jogging pace. She slowed as her son lost his grip on her breast. Walking, she cradled him in her arms, one eye on her surroundings and the rest of her attention caught by the way his tiny limbs moved and his jaw worked to suckle. He had the same hair color as his father. The long lashes that fanned over the baby’s cheek came from him too. Else felt a deep sense of contentment spreading through her. A warmth that pulsed from the baby, through her breast, and into her body. She marveled at how perfect he was, while being so completely vulnerable and dependent on her for survival.

Not like the survivors, she reminded herself. They were on their own. She had brought them to the shore, to this mysterious place they called “onland.” Now they would have to find their own food, make their own shelter, and live or die like everyone else.

The image of tiny Lowanna came unbidden to her mind. She was also newborn and entirely helpless. Cassie would look after her. Cassie was nothing but a holder, a breeding machine trapped in the rusting hulk of a ship for over a decade.

The idea of Hob leering at Lowanna as she grew up, counting the days until she was old enough in his mind to take to his bed, flashed through Else’s mind. If not Hob, then some other man. Would Lowanna ever have the chance to fall in love and trust the person she lay with? Else told herself there was nothing she could do about that. Her survival and the survival of her son were all that mattered. Lowanna would be dead if Else hadn’t saved her. If Rache and Eric and holders like Cassie hadn’t saved her too. So, a voice in Else’s head said, if you let them all die, then all that struggle was for nothing? What did you save the holders and the engineers and the fishermen for?

Else stopped suddenly and shook the thought from her mind. Not my problem, she told herself. The baby settled again, his stomach full. She started running, cradling the baby so he wasn’t bounced. She ran, feeling the energy of her last meal flowing into her muscles and bones. Running fast enough to leave the unfamiliar feeling of guilt behind among the dark trees of the Queensland rainforest.

* * *

The familiar pool that she swam and bathed in shone like broken glass in the moonlight. No crocs lurked in this water; it came from a deep mineral spring, clear and cool even in the height of the dry season. The wallabies, kangaroos, and feral livestock all came there to drink. Mona Lisa had been a young heifer when Else found her at the water’s edge. She kept that cow; the ones before her had been roped and led home before being butchered to make enough dried meat and leather to last months. Mona Lisa was more of a pet than a supply of provisions.

Else stopped, sinking into a crouch and letting her breathing slow after her long run. The shore of the pool looked clear; no evols had wandered into the crystal green water. She skirted around the water, hearing the snarling and yipping of wild dogs. They travelled in packs, attacking wild sheep and breeding. The remains of the cow, would have been a feast for them.

Else counted eight of them, snarling and squabbling over the few scraps and bones that remained. The evol corpses remained untouched; no animals would ever eat zombie flesh. Else wondered why the carcass of a cow killed by the undead would be palatable to dogs.

She picked up a rock and threw it, sending a black and white dog yelping. More stones flew; the cunning dogs snatched up bones and soon the whole pack had run off barking and yelping into the darkness.

Their noise woke the baby. Else soothed him and carefully explored her home. The inside of her small house remained much as she had left it. Evols had crashed about inside, knocking her supplies onto the floor. Ants had been feasting on the fruit and vegetables she had stored. The meat locker was still intact, and the salt-cured meat hanging in it was okay.

Else lay the baby on the floor. Stripping the bed, she dropped the bloodstained sheets outside. She would burn them in the morning. The mattress was stained too, but she could scavenge for a new one some other time. With fresh sheets on the bed and the door barricaded shut, Else lay down on the bed, her son cuddled against her chest, and for the first time in a week she slept.

The baby woke in the night, and Else washed him clean, fed him, and cradled him until he settled again. His face was a constant source of wonder to her, and she fell asleep again smiling at the way his tiny nostrils flared with each inhalation.

Else lit her woodstove for breakfast and fed the baby. Wrapping him lightly in a sheet, she left him in the bed while she fetched a bucket of fresh water and filled the old oil drum she used for heating water. The fire underneath it devoured the filthy sheets, and Else used some of her precious supply of scavenged soap to wash the salt and mud from her hair and skin. Dressing in clean clothes felt luxurious after the long days in the same rags.

After checking on the baby and satisfying herself that he was fine, she went into her library. It was the third room of the house that Else built. Shelves and racks of books filled every available space. She would have put them on the floor but a fear of flooding and insects had kept her building more shelves. There was barely room to squeeze inside. She selected a chemical engineering textbook and walked out into the sunlight, scanning the index until she found the reference to explosives. She sat on a sawn-up tree trunk next to the laundry tub, reading until she heard her son crying. Putting the book down, she went and checked on him. He was warm, the air in the small house heated up with the morning sun and his hair now matted against his head. She took him outside, washing him with warm water and a soft cloth. She lay him on a blanket, his naked limbs kicking in the shade. With the baby taken care of, Else used sticks to lift the bedding out of the boiling water and draped it over the drying line.

The baby let out a gurgle. Else turned, a grin breaking across her face, telling him it was okay, momma was right here. The words died on her lips—a large, golden-colored dog with floppy ears was sniffing at the baby. The animal was bone thin, his fur matted with mud and burrs. He looked old and probably couldn’t hunt as well as the others anymore, and out here that was a death sentence.

Time stopped for Else. She started moving slowly, soft words spilling from her lips in a breathless tumble. “Good dog, nice dog. Please don’t hurt my baby. Please just walk away. Good dog . . .” The dog glanced at her, his lips curling back in a snarl.

“There’s no rabies in Australia. You’re just hungry,” she told the dog. “I can give you food, give you meat. Just please don’t hurt my baby . . .”

The dog’s muzzle dropped back to the baby, who flailed his arms and legs. Else nearly screamed; instead she sank into a crouch, her eyes never leaving the dog. Her hand curled around the stick she used for stirring the laundry boiler. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but if she threw it, maybe she could drive the animal off.

In the few moments it took her to reach for the stick and start to rise again, the dog made up his mind. His mouth closed around the baby’s tiny body and then he bolted. Else screamed, throwing the stick, sending it whirring end over end. It bounced off a tree and the dog, with the baby in his jaws, careened off into the undergrowth.

Else sprinted after them, a howling cry tearing from her throat. Branches lashed at her face. She sidestepped around trees and dug her toes into the leaf mulch, her leg muscles bunching and exploding with each running step. The dog was a splash of tawny yellow in the dusty green and brown of the forest. Else ducked her head under a branch and ran harder. She would never leave her baby alone. Never again. Never for an instant would she take her eyes off him. Not for as long as he lived.
Please let it be longer than today, please
.

Ahead of her she heard a sudden yelping. The cry of a dog in great pain. Else ran harder—if the dog had stumbled into a mob of evols, then her baby was in even great danger. She sprinted, arms pumping as she ran.

Bursting out of the trees, Else skidded to a halt. A man stood in the grass less than a hundred feet away. Wearing nothing but a leather thong around his waist with a flap that covered his groin, his hair and skin had the dark coloring of an Aborigine. He pulled his spear out of something lying in the grass. Else could smell the fresh blood. With a snarl she charged, knocking the startled hunter flat on his back, the baby howling as he landed in the grass.

“Stay the fuck away from him!” Else screamed.