by Kovacs, Jase
"No, no dreams. Why do you ask? Did I make some noise?"
Blong whimpers, but I don't look away from Zac. He nods, thinking, then catches himself with a start. "No, no, nothing like that. I've just been having... well, bad dreams. I figure it's being on this island, you know."
"Maybe. You have been through a lot, Zac."
"We both have."
"Abigail say something?"
"No, nothing. She's still asleep."
I turn away. I don't believe him. I've seen Abigail whispering in his ear. He's such a typical guy. Those big doe eyes of hers don't fool me for a minute. I sling my belt kit, pick up my shotgun and nod to him. "Get her up. We're leaving in an hour."
The sun breaks over the treeline and the temperature and humidity immediately climbs. I wipe the sheen that breaks out of my forehead. "Going to be a hot one," I say.
Zac doesn't answer. He just nods. A random thought comes, one I had not consciously developed but now drops into my lap like a ripe fruit falling from a tree. "Zac, is there anything about this that makes a lick of sense?"
Zac gives me one of his wan smiles. "You mean how we're a bunch of sailors hunting zombies on a tropical island? Though these zombies explode in sunlight, so I guess that makes them vampires. And there's a super vampire zombie that worships an evil god at the centre of the galaxy? Why, no, Matty, I don't find anything nonsensical about this at all."
I can't help but laugh. "No, that's not what I mean. I'm talking about the Green Lord's plan. Bear with me for a minute. Let's go through it. Five years ago, he sails up to Woodlark island, leaps out, decimates the population. Turns most of them into masalai. Then, for four years... nothing."
"I thought we decided he was obsessed with the jade found in the gold mine?"
"Well, yeah. I did. But then, somehow, Deborah and the Lost Tribe come to Woodlark to help him escape. He comes here. Starts building an army to spread the contagion. Is this the creature, or the second stage working though the Green Lord?"
"The second stage?"
"Abella explained it. The first stage was the airborne pathogen that killed in a day and wiped most of humanity out. Then there was the second stage, the blood and saliva borne strain that created the masalai."
"The Green Lord is insane," says Zac firmly. "But understanding his motivations is key to all this. I've been trying to see his actions through a spiritual lens. But maybe that's the wrong thing to do. Maybe you're right – who cares if he really serves a dark god? Let's say it's the virus driving him. So what does he – or rather, the virus – want?"
"A virus doesn't want anything."
"But it does. It wants to spread. The first stage was too efficient. It killed its hosts faster than it could spread and caused its own ecosystem to collapse. But the second stage works slower. It creates the masalai."
"What does that make the alphas? The third stage?"
"Perhaps. I think all this talk of dark gods is simply human minds articulating the disease they can feel destroying them. What if the Green Lord's actions – come to Woodlark, consumed the populace, called the Lost Tribe, then came to Dalbarade. What if they're not the actions of some master plan – but simply further symptoms of the disease?"
"Is that your diagnosis, doctor Zac?"
"I don't know," he says. "I just don't know."
I clap him gruffly on the shoulder. "Don't feel badly about it, mate. None of us know what's going on. All we can do is try and survive. And, hey, we managed it yesterday."
***
You'd think it'd be cooler in the shade of the jungle, but you'd be wrong. If anything, the air is more cloying, more humid, so it clogs up your pores and forces your sweat into heavy, draining streams that soak your clothes in seconds.
I push my guys out into an extended line. Solomon walks outside the treeline, within sight of the resort, where Larry follows his movements. I'm next, walking one visual distance into the jungle. Rod pushes out another ten metres, about as far as you can see in the undergrowth and then one of his guys, another power station bloke named Jarrod, who was sailing on Shiloh. I partnered him with Alfred, who is probably my best scout, silent and hawkeyed, skills he learned the hard way living under the hunt for four years on Woodlark island.
The team moves through the jungle like a swinging gate. The thick undergrowth makes for slow going. The waist high ferns are no impediment, but there is a decade's worth of deadfall to consider. Rotten branches collapse under your weight. Roots break the surface as if reaching up to trip you up. It'd be a bit of a pity to come this far to break an ankle.
Rod signals me: halt. He stares out into the jungle, where he can see Alfred and Jarrod. They must have stopped, watching somewhere. I keep my eyes on Rod as I hold my hand up to Solomon, trusting he's watching, trusting he passes my signal down to Larry.
Halt can mean any manner of things. Halt, you're getting ahead of me. Halt, I've seen something but not sure what. Halt, you're about to walk into a trap. I scan the ground between us, but all I see are great trees rising up like the legs of giants, thick with vines and drooping orchids that spill elaborate bouquets of white and purple flowers. The vines are barbed with vicious thorns, so you can't clear them without risking serious injury.
Rod isn't just telling me halt though. He unconsciously mimics the body language of the man he watches. His shoulders are tight, and his weapon is half raised. The lads on the outside are worried about something.
It's very quiet beneath the trees. I can hear birds, hornbills yawking at each other in the distance, but nothing close by. And, stranger than that, not a single insect raises its voice. No screeching cicadas, no buzzing flies or the infuriating native bees, stingerless, but apt to swarm your face, driving you mad as they drink your sweat and crawl into your eyes and ears. Not even the whine of mosquitoes that should be eating us alive right now.
But this is not a dead place. Great trees fight for shards of sunlight. Plants adorn themselves with vicious thorns and pump poison through their leaves. Nature is cruel. There is nothing unique about the masalai. They just another predator in a world of predators. For a while we were at the top of the food chain and, in our hubris, we thought that's where we would remain. We forgot that evolution never sleeps.
Rod turns to me, the tension draining from his face and shoulders. He flashed me a grin and a thumbs up, before pointing forward. False alarm. I pass the signal to Solomon, who snaps a crisp nod to me. Dependable guy, that Solomon.
"What was that all about?" I ask Jarrod and Alfred when we come back in. We are in the shade near the pavilion, beneath the ragged red canvas awnings. Jarrod pours water into his open mouth from a chipped plastic mug, before passing it to Alfred.
"We smelt something, something dead. Real nasty stink. It was just a rotting tree kangaroo."
"Did you see it?"
"Yeah, just a ball of fur crawling with maggots. Poor lil guy."
"All right. Good drills. Drink some water, get the rest of the blokes together and gather by the shoreline. We're stepping off as soon as I can get the civvies out of bed."
The lads grin to each other. They like that I've been calling the others – Zac, the council members, the medics and support crew - civilians. Makes them feel like soldiers. I'm hoping it's one of the first steps in establishing what Dad would call unit spirit.
The civvies surprise us. They're punctually gathered at the treeline where I told Zac to wait. He's there with Abella, Auntie and Abigail, Larry, Blong and a few of Jacka's sailors carry bilums bulging with gear. I set my lip when I see Kev. I'm not looking forward to this. I don't think we've ever managed a civil discussion. But it needs to be done.
I beckon to him out of earshot of the group. He lumbers over. "Found your hat, I see," I say.
"Yeah, had a bit of time to go looking for it last night while waiting for the tide to float us off." He's giving me a look that tells me this conversation could go either way.
"Look, I understand why you told the lads not to wa
ke me last night. I'd be lying if I said I didn't appreciate the extra sleep. But I can't have you countermanding my orders. It'll confuse the blokes. Muddy the chain of command. Confusion will get people killed when things go to shit. I don't expect you like an uppity young bitch like me telling you what to do. But I'm sure you understand my point even if you don't like it. So do me a favour. Look annoyed, give me a curt nod and then stalk off? You shouldn't find that too hard."
I expect him to arc up even at this gentle rebuke, but his response catches me completely off guard. He gives an exasperated snort, then turns away so that no one watching us – because of course they're all watching us, even though they pretend they're not – can see the wry half smile that ghosts his face. "I've got no problem with you telling me what to do, kiddo. And I ain't ever called you a bitch. I remember once saying you were a kid whose mistaken dumb luck for skill. But I never called you a bitch."
I look for sarcasm and find none. His unexpected openness is such a surprise that I immediate intuit its catalyst. "Kev. What happened out on Shiloh yesterday?"
"Nothing I want to talk about." He gives a little half shake of his head. "It ain’t an easy thing for an old bastard like me to admit he's backed the wrong horse. So I won't."
"Where is Michael this morning?"
"In his bunk on his yacht. Where he's been since yesterday afternoon." He looks away from me for a moment, letting the significance of his curt answer land. The wind rustles through the jungle. The thin call of Jacka's sailors, back sounding the passage, float in from the bay, a quirk of the breeze bringing a voice, startlingly clear, to my ear: "Pasim spear hurriup! Big fish istap!"
Kev turns back to me, his face set in an annoyed snarl. "How's this? Looks like I've just been raked over the coals by a kid young enough to be my granddaughter?"
It's my turn to hide a smile. "Yeah. Yeah, you look well pissed."
He storms back to the guys, a portrait of injured male pride and bruised ego. The lads look away, lest they act as a lightning rod to his supposed wrath. "What are you idiots looking at?" he yells at no one in particular. "We've got a patrol to conduct and you're making me look shit in front of the boss."
Well. This morning is full of surprises.
***
Two hours later, I lie on an enormous rotting log and glass the village through a pair of ancient binoculars. The log is thick with lichens and moss. A million animals, from burrowing grubs to snakes and tree shrews call it home.
Zac and Abigail lie to one side of me, Rod and Larry on the other. To the right of us is a narrow strip of black beach and to the left is impenetrable jungle. The rest of our party crouch in the long grass on either side of the path stretching back behind us.
The village is spread out over a large square of dark earth stamped as hard as concrete by generations of feet. I can see ten or twelve houses, solid traditional constructions bamboo frames, woven sak-sak walls and thatch roofs. More buildings are glimpsed through the far jungle.
It is utterly deserted. Not even a hungry dog disturbs the stillness. Rotting cloth and disintegrating rice sacks droop in doorways and windows. Bundles of dried coconuts hang beneath the eaves and sit on windowsills. "Is this the whole village?" I ask Abigail, keeping my voice in a whisper despite the deafening screech of cicadas.
"Mostly. There's the chief's house near the back. Easily the largest building."
"How many people lived here?"
"A hundred and fifty-three."
"That's pretty precise."
"We weren't like you guys on Madau. We didn't keep separate. We came together in worship and in celebrating the love of our Lord the Heavenly Father."
"Yeah, I get it. You were a bunch of missionaries, out to convert the heathens."
If my jibe bothers Abigail, she doesn't let me know. "Technically, I was the daughter of missionaries. Before the Fall we ministered to their physical needs as well as spiritual. We raised funds and provided a health clinic and—"
"Wait a second," I lower the binoculars and look at her. "I thought you and the rest of the Lost Tribe came here after the Fall."
Abigail's eyes flare despite her light tone. "Most were refugees. Deborah included. But I was already here with my family. The resort was abandoned, the villagers were friendly, and we had supplies. Why wouldn't we provide safety to those in need?"
"Uh, guys, can we get back to the matter at hand?" says Larry. "The village?"
I hold Abigail's stare, letting her know I'm not buying her act, not for a second. Then I go back to glassing the village. There is a hairline crack in the bino's right prism which puts a horizontal fracture into everything I see, reminding me that nothing is what it seems.
I wave over our other two gunslingers, Jarrod with his lever-action and old man Ian with his semi-auto Ruger. I point out features in the village as I talk, pausing after each sentence to see that everyone is keeping up. "Okay. The jungle off the path is too thick to flank the village, not in the time we have available. So we'll come in straight off the path. All the gunslingers stay here and cover me as I clear the first row of buildings. I want this place checked out and checked properly. Solomon, Alfred, and Dolf come with me. We'll start with that one with the broken down roof on the right, then the one with the – what is that, a white bathtub? – under it on the left. Once I'm happy they're clear, Rod, you move up to me, then Jarrod and Ian come up. I'll position you to cover us as we do the next row of buildings and so on. Larry, you stay with the rest of the party back here until we're done. Zac, I'll call you forward if I have any theological issues I need resolved."
Grins at this from everyone except Abigail. "And where will I be?" she asks.
"You stay here with Larry."
"You know, I am a skilled medic. I know this village. I have plenty to offer."
"Abella is our medic, as is Auntie. I'm sure they’ll ask if they need help. Anything else I should know about this place?"
"No."
"All right then. Any questions?"
"Yeah," says Rod. "Shouldn't you wait here while me or Jarrod go check out the place? I mean, what if you get taken out?"
"Well then I won't have to worry about the shit way you carry your rifle, will I?"
"The kid's right," says Ian. He tugs at his long white beard, a nervous tic, but holds his rifle comfortably in the crook of his arms. "You're the boss here. You shouldn't be kicking in doors. Leave it to the lads."
"I've got you three covering me. I'm not worried. Any other suggestions?" I'm sick of talking so don't wait for any response. "Okay, let's go."
Dolf, Solomon, and Alfred are right behind me as I roll off the log and go in. I head straight at the first building, my shotgun on my shoulder, sweeping smoothly to clear any open doorway or hidden place. Solomon is at my shoulder, but Alfred and Dolf spread out, left and right.
The village smells of wet rot, like a mangrove swamp at low tide. The hard packed earth reflects the mid-morning sun, so I feel I'm walking across hot coals. The soles of my sneakers carry the heat right through to my skin, and I pick up my pace, drawn by the cool shade under the first house.
The woven sak-sak walls are white with mould and bowed in from when strong winds have battered the building. The far right post has snapped and that corner of a building droops like the lip of a stroke victim. Woven baskets full of tubers and taro roots, once stacked neatly for dry season storage, have collapsed in on themselves as the vegetables within rotted to rancid paste.
The stink increases as we close on the house until it stings my nostrils. My eyes water, and I slow my pace, letting Solomon catch up. I don't risk a glance back, trusting that my three gunmen cover me.
Dolf, hisses in disgust. He points to a coconut sitting on the top step of the stairs leading to the first building's door. "This place is cursed."
I approach slowly, my shotgun on the open space beyond. Flies buzz around the rotten coconut and swarm its surface. A dark stain soaks the earth beneath the coconut, which is strange�
�
No, what is strange is how the coconut is lumpy and pinched. It almost looks as if the two hollows near the top are eye sockets...
Then my stomach turns over like I just bit into a piece of rotten fruit. I look from the horror on the step to the corner of the building where a bulging sack hangs. I know that if I split that sack, more heads, each as shrunken and brown and horrific as the one sitting on the step, would spill to the ground, bursting like over-ripe melons.
"Ignore it," I say to Dolf. "Do what we came here to do."
Easier said than done, but he nods and pushes on. He creeps up the stairs to the doorway of the house, gingerly stepping over the head. I track him up the stairs, then shift my aim to the window as he pushes into the house. Alfred goes right in after him, a long thin machete probing before him.
It is only a second until they come out. Their dark skin is blotched and pale.
"Nobody home?" I ask, trying to lighten things a little, but Dolf takes me literally.
"No bodies. Just heads."
I remember the holds of the Black Harvest where I found the rotting bodies of the Pale King's victims. And before that, the vast necropolises that are the cities of the old world. The pews of corpses found in churches. The strewn bodies in evacuation centres and shopping malls. Each tableau of death was a story. The one that stays with me now is the police officer sitting at a table with his family. Not a wound on the long decomposed bodies of his family sitting at their half eaten meals, but he had a fractured star on the side of his skull and his service revolver laid on the ground under his chair.
I've seen this all before. But Solomon and Dolf haven't. They've seen death, of course, from disease and fighting and accident. But the systematic exploration of a holocaust is new to them. I've been doing it since I was a child so I must remember to pace my crew.
On the other hand, Alfred spent four years in Woodlark, hiding from the masalai and the Green Lord, watching his friends and family be picked off one by one. He doesn't falter as he surveys the next building in line, where I'm sure we'll find more rotting horrors.
