Life Goes On | Book 4 | If Not Us [Surviving The Evacuation]

by Tayell, Frank

  I spoke to the captain yesterday over a mug of tea, which I dreamed was lunch. She confirmed we’re keeping our eyes open for a derelict ship we can search for food and fuel. It’s unlikely we’ll find one. The same is true of a useable runway and working plane. But again, we’ll need food, and we’ll need aviation fuel to keep the helicopter in the air, so why not look around a coastal airport?

  But we’ve not found a ship yet and we’re days away from land. Nothing on the radio. Not as of last night. Nothing on radar. No signs of the sub.

  I’d like to spend my time on the bridge, but when there’s something we need to know, we all find out immediately. Making a nuisance of myself won’t make a ship, or land, appear any sooner. Though the gym is now cleared of boxes, because of the reduced rations, it’s off limits. As I was close to learning all of the words to the songs on the Dan Blaze DVD, I went looking for Flo, to borrow the third book in Leo’s trilogy.

  I found the author himself, in his cabin, watching a tablet.

  “On a break?” I asked.

  “Working,” he said, reaching forward and pressing pause.

  “Hang about, is that a movie?”

  “Technically, it’s a German documentary,” he said. “Die Ursprünge de Landwirtschaft.”

  “They look like actors. And that looks like a very, very long time ago.”

  “We’ll split the difference and call it a reconstruction,” he said. “The title translates to The Origins of Agriculture. It’s a best guess at how hunter-gatherers became farmers about ten thousand years ago.”

  “You think that’s how bad things could get?”

  “No, I just needed some different stimulus,” he said. “The walls, the deck, the sea, the never-changing monotony isn’t conducive to planning a new world. How can I help you?”

  “How’s Zach doing as an assistant?” I asked.

  “He seems okay. Adjusting. He’s a good kid. Eager. Bright enough. Focused when he wants to be, but what he knows is mostly self-taught, and that’s pretty selective. He likes books but hasn’t learned how to learn.”

  “He doesn’t like the homework,” I said. “Why are you setting it?”

  “It’s Flo’s method of distracting people from grief,” Leo said. “Keep them distracted while time does the healing.”

  “I suppose it’s as good a strategy as any, and pretty much the same thing Captain Adams is doing with her crew. Are you stuck, then?”

  “Stuck?”

  “With your work on the weapon.”

  “The latest model is compiling,” he said, tapping his closed laptop.

  “Are you making much progress?” I asked.

  “Honestly, that’s difficult to quantify,” he said.

  “Are you getting close to when you’ll need a lab?” I asked, attempting to pin him down.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “Either way, we need to plan for what comes next.” He tapped the tablet. “Hence the stimulus.”

  “After the weapon’s been deployed?” I asked.

  “After the zoms are dead,” he said. “The Pacific needs a plan.”

  “I’m sure the politicians have a dozen each,” I said.

  “Their plans will centre around re-creating the old world,” he said. “In all our disaster-planning, and I mean all, we focused on mitigating the damage and rebuilding what we had before. But the last chance to rebuild went up in a mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke. No one bothers to plan for life after mutually assured destruction because the plan was to ensure there wouldn’t be any life left.”

  “But we are still alive,” I said.

  “For now. We were saved by the location of those blasts, some in the ocean, most of the rest in the Northern Hemisphere. Radiation levels have yet to reach an equilibrium. Assuming a non-lethal level of atmospheric and oceanic toxicity, we might survive. What then? We don’t know what’s happened to central Africa, but the southeast African coast has been obliterated. The only ships we’ve been close enough to contact have been hostile. We can call ourselves the United Nations, or the African Union, or Earth Almighty, but those are just words, and they belong to the old world and force us into old ways of thinking.”

  “So does watching re-enactments of life a century of centuries ago,” I said.

  “Fair point,” he said. “But take the African Union. The general and the ambassador flew to Mozambique to maintain a foothold in Africa. Do you know why?”

  “To assist in the relief and rescue effort,” I said. “And to ensure when we did start rebuilding, we put some resources there.”

  “Exactly. Old thinking. Australia has shipyards and raw materials, and a surplus of labour. We don’t need more land. We do need more ships because we now live on islands. We need ships to move food and fuel to Papua and Tasmania, but we can’t move the supplies to Africa. To transport fuel, you need storage capability in the destination-harbour. Pre-existing fuel tanks are in port-cities and harbour-towns. But cities are living things; without constant maintenance, they die, and become deserts. You saw Cape Town, Inhambane, and as much of Durban as the rest of us. Every city will become like that. Some will be worse. Have I shown you the plot of the radiation levels?”

  “I took a glance, and that was enough,” I said. “The fuel tanks are still there in the city. We can still use them.”

  “Purely as a gas station, yes,” he said. “But not as the basis of a settlement. Surely the whole point of building these supply ships is to service a community, not simply to service themselves. Within a few years, and for a few decades, there will be no agriculture, no aquaculture, around those old megacities. But if we adopt a policy of rebuilding, of re-adopting the plans of a year ago, we’ll try. We’ll fail. Everything we build in these early years will have to be retrofitted and redesigned. We’ll lose time, and we’ve little to waste.”

  “Better we build what we know, and figure out how to best use it later, than to do nothing at all. Unless you’ve an alternative.”

  “I do,” he said. “For once, we can act without influence from vested interests and lobbyists.” He picked up a tablet, and held up a computer-assisted sketch of a four-funnel ship.

  “A steam ship?”

  “A sailing ship,” he said. “Originally designed in 1920. Inside those chimneys are Flettner Rotors. Think of an auger. The pressure differential above and below the edge causes the auger to rotate. Convert that vertical spin to horizontal below decks, and you’ve got power. In 1925, it was used to sail the Buckau across the Atlantic. It took a century for material science to catch up with the concept, but they were finally using this design for short-range ferries and cargo ships.”

  “That’s really a sailing ship?” I asked.

  “Yes. With a sailing ship we don’t need to send fuel ahead of us. We don’t need to build fuel tanks or attempt to sanitise cities. We don’t need to drill, refine, and transport the fuel. Think of the labour saved by one ship like this. Just one could take people and goods back and forth between our coastal communities in Indonesia, Malaysia, Chile, anywhere that isn’t radioactive. Anywhere that doesn’t have a toxic water supply. Anywhere we can build a new city, a new beginning.”

  “But can we build those ships?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure. Easily. Most hulls can be converted.”

  “But you’re still seeking inspiration?”

  “Because this ship is barely the start,” he said.

  “I’ll leave you to your thinking,” I said, and returned to my cabin.

  I’m a pragmatic realist. Or I like to think I am. When we’re back in Australia, I’ll air my uniform around the outback mines and farming stations. I’ll have a hand in rebuilding the justice system from the ground up, but there will be plenty of crime to keep me busy. If Anna wants a sounding board, I’ll listen, and offer whatever wisdom I can find, but rebuilding the future? No, that won’t be my work; I’ll be too busy trying to keep the peace.

  Honestly, right now, after being a spectator to war in Africa and on the h
igh seas, I’m glad of that. I’m not looking forward to it. But I’m glad that I don’t have Leo’s problems.

  All of that said, and written, he’s hiding something. The copper in me wants to know what.

  29th March

  Chapter 30 - Simmer and Fizz

  A new item appeared on our rationed breakfast menu: a carbonated orange drink crammed with sugar and fizz, originally salvaged in Mozambique, and misplaced among crates of toothpaste and soap. Zero caffeine, sadly. But the coffee found on Robben Island was a brief luxury, now exhausted. Real tea is only available on prescription. We’re left with a choice of powdered tea or cold orange. Since Captain Adams has iced-tea running through her veins, and likes to share, I opted for the freezer-cold orange.

  “Do you think we can take this onto the deck?” Zach asked, holding up his bottle of fizz.

  “Along with a deck chair?” Clyde said. “That’s what’s missing on this cruise.”

  “I can think of a few more things to add to that list,” Nicko said.

  “Trade you an oat-bar for your bottle, Zach,” I said.

  “No way,” he said. “This has got to be worth at least ten.”

  “I don’t have ten,” I said.

  “Okay, five,” he said.

  “I don’t have five, either,” I said. “I was testing the value of food versus a soft drink now our daily cals have been cut.”

  “I’ll swap you one-to-one,” Nicko said.

  “I don’t even have one,” I said. “I handed my stash of emergency oat-bars into the purser. But it sounds like the value of food hasn’t inflated to contraband-pricing yet.”

  “Give it a few hours,” Nicko said, optimistically scraping his spoon across the empty bowl. “I’m starting to be envious of Elaina, trapped on that island with five thousand kids.”

  “We’ve still got catered meals, laundries, and showers,” I said. “I could get used to this.”

  “In my experience, days like this are climbing up to a fall,” Clyde said.

  “Nah, I’m with Nicko,” Zach said. “If I was on the island, I’d be setting homework, not having to do it!”

  “You’d still have to mark it,” Clyde said.

  “What have the Canadians got you on now, mate?” Nicko asked.

  “I’m guessing population boom and decline,” Zach said. “It’s supposed to be a prediction, but how is that not the same as a guess?”

  “So you’re just guessing the answer?” I asked.

  Zach shrugged. “Kinda.”

  “Doc Flo thinks people are going to have a population boom?” Nicko asked.

  “Not people,” Zach said. “Animals. Especially fish. They’ll boom because no one is fishing them, and then decline because of the radiation.”

  “So you’re counting how many you can see in the water?” Nicko said.

  “Reading,” he said. “I’m just reading.”

  “I thought you liked reading,” I said.

  “I like reading books, but these papers have more numbers than words. That doesn’t count as reading.”

  A tray clattered to the floor on the other side of the mess. Even as I turned to look, one sailor swung at another, missed, and hit Lieutenant Kane in the face. Even as I stood, Mr Mackay jumped in. My heart sank, but the petty officer pushed the sailors apart.

  “It’s fine,” Clyde said, sitting down. “Sit down, Zach. It’s all over.”

  “Has there been much fighting?” I asked.

  “Tensions are rising,” Clyde said.

  “Because of the food?”

  “Because we’re so far from home,” Clyde said.

  30th March

  Chapter 31 - A Joke of a Ship

  Holidays never last forever. Today, mine came to an end. I was losing at cards to Clyde when I was summoned to the bridge. Judging by the sun, it was about an hour shy of midday. The ship had begun to slow.

  “A vessel is ahead,” Captain Adams said. “Adrift. Travelling across our path. We believe it’s the Southern Star, or it was before they renamed her.”

  “The ship that was too long?” I asked.

  “You know of her?” Adams asked.

  “She’s a crime,” I said. “And she’s the punch-line of a lot of jokes in the outback. Canberra passed a law stating no factory-fishing ships longer than a hundred and thirty metres would be allowed in our waters. So that one was built to be a hundred and twenty-nine. But when our people went aboard, they recorded a length of one hundred and thirty point one, and so they sent her packing. The debate in my branch of the bush comes down to which bunch of fisher-folk were lying about the length.”

  “I crossed paths with her in my previous command,” the captain said. “We escorted her out of Micronesian waters. Twice. Diesel engines, single propeller, capable of fourteen knots. About four thousand cubic metres of storage, if I recall correctly. Built to turn fish into fillets, freeze those, and turn the rest of the animal into fishmeal.”

  “How many people can four thousand cubic metres feed?” I asked.

  “You said there are eight million in Perth? I hope they like fish,” Adams said.

  “We’re going to salvage the ship?” I asked.

  “We’ll investigate,” the captain said. “That vessel is afloat, and adrift, with no obvious sign of damage from weapon or storm. It would absolutely be a boon to our people. There could be fuel aboard. If not, if the engines are operable, we could transfer fuel and a crew and sail her to shore. We’re about five hundred kilometres due west of Brazil. That ship could be left at anchor while we search for a diesel-depot. The fuel we transfer does represent a majority of our own reserve, but we would still have our helicopter for a north-south coastal survey. Four thousand cubic metres? On balance, yes, it’s worth investigating.”

  “Movement!” Lieutenant Kane said, pointing at the footage being relayed from the mast-cam. “Captain, it’s a person.”

  “It’s a zombie,” I said, while on the screen, a figure staggered along the ship’s stern-rail.

  This was a job for my team. Not the scientists, and not for Zach. Just Bruce, Clyde, Nicko, and me, with Commander Tusitala and Mr Dickenson to inspect the engine room, and Glenn Mackay to crew our boat.

  No vests this time. They offer limited protection against zoms, while adding weight. We had the MARS-L assault rifles, with their short barrels and just as short stocks, and the assortment of personal weapons we’d picked up along the way. Clyde offered me one of his new boarding axes, but I’d want to practice before I start impersonating a samurai.

  The second warning came as we approached the ship.

  “Two more zoms spotted on deck,” Mackay said.

  “I’m lead,” Hawker said. “Nicko, on me. Keep the ladder clear.”

  He climbed, and I held on to our boat’s rail. We had a line attached to the factory ship, but that only added a counter-directional tug to our wave-topping back and forth surge. The fishing ship was nearly twenty metres longer than the frigate, and about the same beam. Looking up, the climb appeared as steep as a mountain. A moving mountain since the ocean was far from calm. Annoyingly, none of the sailors, or the soldiers, were fazed by the roller-coaster lurching, so I kept my face blank, and my thoughts to myself.

  Colonel Hawker reached the top, vaulted onto the deck, Sergeant Oakes a second behind.

  “Clear!” Oakes called. “Two down. Come on up.”

  Eight bodies lay on the deck. Only two killed by us, and those were the only two killed recently. The other six had been baked by the tropical sun, but they were each lacking most of their skull. More numerous were the tools, abandoned near the bodies. Wrenches, levers, and long hooks. But no firearms.

  “No birds. No insects,” I said.

  “We’re too far from land,” Tusitala said.

  “Hostile!” Nicko said, firing as he spoke. “Clear. Zom. Definitely a zom because no one else walks around with a cleaver stuck in his chest.”

  “Nicko, with the commander and Mr Dickenson,” H
awker said. “You’ve got the fuel, we’ve got the bridge.”

  The deck of this working ship was full of cover and concealment. Zombies don’t hide, of course, and I’d ordinarily stop to listen for their approach, except the entire ship creaked. The frigate has a background noise all of its own. A clatter, clank, whir that goes on day and night. But that’s a living ship, ploughing through the waves, and so is a comforting confirmation that all is still well. Here, every squeak and clank sang a clarion warning. So did the stench.

  I know the smell of death. The bittersweet rot of a lonely death in the desiccated outback is different to a week-old trip-and-fall in a retirement apartment. A brutal murder, an accidental crash, a longed-for merciful release, they’re all similar, but just as similarly different. This was something else. Almost solid. Definitely not human.

  The hold was full of the ship’s last catch. Possibly post-outbreak, hauled to feed a hastily fortified port. But the zoms had got aboard. From the cluster of corpses close to the ladder, those had been killed while a group had fled to a boat.

  An external staircase led to the bridge, adjacent to a water-lock door against which someone, or something, was beating its fists.

  “Got to be a zom,” Clyde said.

  “Tess,” the colonel called from the top of the stairs. “Come take a look.”

  “Watch that door, Clyde. Don’t open it yet,” I said.

  The bridge was a ruin. The windows had been broken from the inside, while shrapnel, some metal, some bone, had shredded the consoles.

  “Last stand,” Hawker said. “Last grenade, after the last bullet was gone.”

  “After the boats had gone, too,” I said. I took a few photographs as proof, and to give me a little more time to look for a log, a map, anything that would add detail to the hypothesis. “We can’t repair this, can we?”