by Pete Aldin
Lewis chimed in, “That's how he knows guns.”
“Firearms, Cochise. Actually, I learned about them before that.”
Jock put his head back on the headrest and his feet on a different coffee table. “Sounds like Lewis needs to get to know you better too.”
“Well. It's a boring story, but I'll tell it if you like.” He adjusted his foot with a wince. “Guess it counts literally as history now.
“Probably no surprise to Lewis here that I was never heading for a career in psychology or customer service, let alone diplomacy . Where I came from, there wasn't much opportunity anyway. Unless you liked driving trucks. I didn't. So I enlisted right out of high school. Army. US, obviously. Did my first tour in the Infantry. That was four years, done and dusted. Was coming to the end of it, just coasting, you know, no plans. Then this in-service recruiter came knocking, offered me a shot at promotion and further schooling if I signed on for another four years.
“So. I applied to Ranger School. Made it through and got assigned to a Ranger BAT—Ranger Battalion. Did the rest of my second tour with them and then—guess what?—retention specialist comes knocking.”
He reached out for his drink, drew it back to his lap. “Never mind. I'm boring you fellas.”
“No,” Jock and Lewis said in unison.
“Like you said, it's history,” Jock added. “Still want to know how you finished up over here. Not too many wars in Tassie.”
“Is now,” Lewis said.
“True.”
“And there was the Black Wars.”
Jock waved his hand in a circle to acknowledge the point, though Elliot had no idea what the Black Wars had been. Something to do with the Aborigines, he guessed.
He considered his whiskey. Less than a finger left. Maybe he'd ask for more. Maybe not. He'd been thinking only hours ago how nice it would be to get wasted, to stop his mind and conscience from chattering away in the background. But getting wasted would drop defences he couldn't afford to drop.
“Okay,” he said, “so this time the recruiter offers a chance at another promotion if I apply to Special Forces. See I was already E-5. Basically that's a sergeant. To get to E-6, I was gonna have to leave the Rangers 'cause every second prick there's an E-5 or E-6.”
“Every second bloke's a sergeant?” Jock asked, surprised.
“Not literally. But there's a shitload of them, an overabundance. So this guy tells me, 'Let's try Special Forces; they’re always looking for young, experienced soldiers. You’ll get your promotion to E-6 and most likely get out of the army an E-7 with a college degree while you're young enough to start a new career.' I had nothing better to do, so I said yeah, let's do this.” When he told the story like this, it sounded clean, stripped of conflict with colleagues and superiors, stripped of all the crawling in dust, the long periods of mind-crushing boredom, the various kinds of pain, the blood, the horror, the mistakes. He sipped whisky.
“So I did my third tour. Was a six year commitment this time, but that was fine.”
Fine until Syria. Fine until Libya. Fine until you're trying to convince a psych that you are fine, that you're okay with being the last survivor of your unit, that you've been a lone survivor since you were a child.
He almost smelled the desert, almost heard the choppers coming in to find him. He kept talking to stow it all away.
“I got out then. Thought I'd see what else there was. Worked warehouses while I applied to the Private Contracting world. Almost a year it took, but one firm picked me up. And I've done the last four years with them, ended up leading a team carrying out Executive Protection. Which is what I was doing when the shit hit the fan in Hobart.”
Looking impressed, Jock asked, “Executive Protection?”
Elliot made a face. “Baby-sitting super-rich idiots. This one had come to the mainland for business. But wanted to try the oldest casino in Australia for kicks, even though it was way down here. 'Why,' we asked him. 'Because it's there,' he told us. Like I said, rich idiots. We saw our first deaders in that casino. And the rest of that story involves a lot of killing and running and hiding and scavenging. All the things we gotta be good at now. Luckily I was already practised at it.”
“I don't doubt it.”
“The others? The rest of your team?” Lewis asked.
Elliot expected judgment when he looked to the teenager, like Elliot had abandoned more people. All he saw was keen interest and maybe for the first time a little compassion. Elliot didn't want his compassion.
“Made dumb mistakes. Dumb mistakes. Got themselves killed. I been telling you, Cochise, no room for mistakes in this world.”
Outside, the storm surged, tossing rain against the side of the house like a barrage of schrapnel.
“You know,” Lewis said straightening in his seat, “we could plant a lot of little farms around here if we just had more seed. I think there's a lot of seed around that we could use for that.”
The two adults exchanged glances.
“Where do you think this seed is?” Jock asked.
“My mum showed me an article once. We were talking about it for a while afterwards. Mum and Dad were pretty impressed by the idea.”
“What idea?” Elliot asked, shortly. Enough preamble, Cochise.
“The article was about this survivalist guy who had a massive seedbank hidden underground on his property. Like, every vegetable and grain known to man. The guy denied it, which made the reporter more suspicious. The reporter reckoned there was a network of—crap, what was the word? what did he call them?—curators, that's it. A network of curators who were keeping seeds for the future.”
Elliot and Jock exchanged another glance. Elliot knew of the project somewhere in Scandinavia, but he was never going to travel anywhere near that one.
“I never heard of this,” Jock said.
“Was on a naturopathy website.”
“Okay. Well. I never read them very often. Don't think many people did.”
“Which means a lot of people may not know about this 'network',” Elliot said. “Where did the article say his seedbank was?”
Lewis screwed up his face remembering. “South maybe. Yeah, I think it was down south.”
Elliot felt his shoulders drop along with his hope.
“Long way from here,” Jock confirmed. “Maybe in a year or two people could go looking, but it's too dangerous right now.”
“Guess so,” Lewis said, losing interest in the idea. He tasted ginger ale and made a face like it wasn't that bad after all.
After Jock filled in some of the history of the town—in particular the bad times once the virus reached it—the conversation waned. Drinks were sipped until there weren't any. Elliot waved away the offer of a second. Lewis yawned, catlike. Jock caught it a moment later. And then Elliot.
Jock said, “Reckon it's bedtime. I'll re-wrap that ankle before I go.”
“Lewis can do it. He did a fine job the first time.” If this truly wasn't a world for mistakes, a man needed to know what he was doing, and competence meant practice.
Lewis blinked at him, blindsided by the compliment.
Jock shrugged. “Well. I'll take another look tomorrow.”
Typical pharmacist, Elliot thought. All frustrated doctors. But truth be told, in this new world, a man with Jock's knowledge was as good as a doctor.
“Sure,” said Elliot. He indicated the couches. “So I'll be sleeping down here. You too?” he asked Lewis.
The smile that had ghosted the teenager's face vanished. “No,” he scoffed. “There's a bed upstairs. Isn't there?” he asked Jock.
“There's three actually. Two in the spare room which you can take your pick of. Usually my fishing and golfing buddies slept in there and they found them comfy enough.”
“A real bed,” Lewis said.
“I'll bring you back a pillow and blankets,” Jock said, standing.
Elliot tugged his hoody from the backpack beside him and folded it. “Don't worry about the pillow.
This'll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“I've slept a helluva lot rougher than this.”
“I bet you have. No worries. The blanket will be down shortly. Once I get the lad settled in.”
Elliot watched them climb the stairs together, chatting about Tasmanian Devils. He shifted himself awkwardly over to the couch, with the speargun tucked under his arm. Once there he lay back with his hoody under his head and the Aimrite within reach on the floor.
Once I get the lad settled in? He's not a goddamed “lad”. And it was true. In a single week, the “lad” had lost his family, his home and only hours earlier a new friend. And he was dealing with it. He was getting on with it. He was bandaging ankles, and carrying packs, and chasing off attackers and helping make dinner …
And Elliot was so goddamed tired, so sleep-deprived and undernourished that he was making mistakes. He needed to sleep. He should sleep. But sleep was dangerous. Birdy had paid the price for him dropping his guard. No one else would. Flurries of wind and rain continued to assault the house and the temperature was dropping further. Being a little cold was good. Being a little cold would keep him on edge, prevent him lapsing into unconsciousness. That and the bitch-pain in his ankle. He could sleep tomorrow. Staying awake tonight would stop the dead crashing through the defences, prevent the Death Druids or someone worse crashing the party.
Later, Jock came down lugging a folded blanket, crutches and a glass of water. He bent awkwardly to place the glass on the coffee table by the remnants of the scotch, lay the crutches on top of the Aimrite on the floor between the table and couch, and handed over the blanket which Elliot just bunched on his lap for the moment. It was soft, fleecy and smelled like lavender. Jock's hand probed inside his shirt pocket and brought out a single white chalky pill the size of Elliot's pinky nail. “This will help you sleep. And you need sleep.”
Elliot screwed up his face the way Lewis might. “I'm not really a pill kinda guy. I sleep pretty well ... pretty well anywhere.”
“Humor an old fusspot.”
He pointed with his chin at his empty glass. “A little scotch, a warm blanket, a flat surface and …” He made a hand signal “… I'm out.”
Jock held out the pill. “You're sure?”
“I've been in more pain, trust me.” Elliot jerked his chin toward the front door this time. “And if the dead come calling, I don't want to be too deeply asleep for action.”
“Forgive me, mate, but with that leg, you're not exactly combat ready. Look, no one's getting through these doors or windows without waking the lot of us, trust me.”
“I'm good,” Elliot said with finality in his tone. A glass of booze he could handle. Pills—even a single valium—they were a slippery slope.
Jock folded his arms in resignation. “Fair enough. You know, you and the boy have been through hell and you need to recuperate, rejuvenate. You said over dinner you have your sights set on that island, but why not stay here a few weeks, relax, help me grow food. Help me eat the food.”
“Sounds good, Jock. It does. But tell the truth, I don't do too well around people. Better off on my own.”
Jock frowned. “Oh?”
“It's … Look, I'm not related to Lewis. He's a young man I met on the way who needed help. And I gave it. Anyone with half a conscience would. He's alive. But I'm heading into the wild until the pusbags all die off. That's no place for Lewis. I picked that island because his dad had thought of it and because I wanted him in a safe place. Maybe this is as far as he needs to come for the time being.” He eyed Jock. “If that works for you?”
“You'd trust me to keep him alive?”
“You're as safe a bet as anything.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“What I mean is, you've stayed alive. You have a rifle, ammunition, and I can leave Lewis the SIG, the pistol.” That would hurt, but Elliot could live with it. “You have food. You're smart enough to put barbed wire around your windows. Maybe sometime you want to think about moving to a less conspicuous house, but yeah, I'd say Lewis would be relatively safe here.”
Jock nodded, thinking and smiling. He moved into the kitchen and emptied the glass of water into the sink. “I'm honored you trust me, Elliot.”
Elliot put his hands beneath his head. “Didn't say that.”
Jock's smile frayed a little around the edges. He turned away, opened the fridge.
“Just promise me you'll teach him everything you know. Teach him to survive.”
Retrieving a carton of UHT milk, Jock unscrewed the lid and started filling the glass. “I can promise you that.”
“And that you'll learn what he knows about natural medicine. You won't talk him out of it.”
“Sure. Fair enough.” He replaced the lid, put the milk away and came over. “You know I have solar power.”
“So you said.”
“A solar powered hot water service.”
“…Oh?”
“Hot showers in the morning. For all of us. At separate times of course.” He arched his back and picked up the last live hurricane lantern, chuckling. “See you in the morning, Elliot.”
Lantern in one hand, milk in the other, he climbed the stairs, the light bobbing and wavering.
At separate times? Good thing the guy was going to sleep. Christ Almighty, his jokes got worse the later the night got.
The only light Jock had left burning down here were the candles. Elliot lay back, watching phantasms play across the high ceiling above. Something about Jock bugged him and now he thought about it, it wasn't the lame sense of humor. Or his neat freak personality. It was that Jock was a father figure Elliot had never had—one that Elliot could never be. He had never wanted to be a father and the reasons were all about him being way too selfish and way too much like Uncle John, truth be told. Jock on the other hand had useful expertise, he had some of Elliot's resourcefulness but combined it with a Mister Rogers type of warmth and a generosity men like Elliot and John could never match. Against this Aussie pharmacist, Uncle John looked like Satan himself. In Jock's house, hospitality was a gift, assistance was a human right. In John's, your food and the roof above your head had to be earned. Constantly.
Happy voices burbled upstairs for thirty minutes or so, then a bedroom door closed. A heavy tread creaked floorboards above and another door closed. Both of them ensconced in their rooms.
Leaving Lewis here was a good solution. Elliot had taught him enough—wariness, firearms, stealth. But if he was trying to recreate himself in Lewis, the way John had tried to mould Elliot in his image, that was a terrible mistake. Here with Jock, Lewis would be taught further real world survival skills, and maybe he could heal from much of his trauma. Without turning into a hard-hearted asshole who left friends in the bush to be a deader's dinner.
And Elliot? Well, Elliot could go live from Uncle John's #1 maxim: in the end, you're all you have.
“Thanks a bunch, John. Thanks a whole bunch, you sonofabitch.”
The candle on the drinks stand flickered in a draught. Another lantern sat cold and dark beside it, twelve feet from Elliot's position. His small flashlight was over in his pack. It was maybe nine p.m. The second candle was on a coffee table and both would gutter out about midnight leaving him in pitch darkness till dawn. The house might seem safe, but it made no sense to be without light in a strange place. If the river of undead changed direction, headed this way, smelled them…
He was exhausted and his foot throbbed. He could put it all out of his mind, let himself drift, worry about the darkness when the time came. Or when the deaders came calling.
With a groan, he tipped the folded blanket to the floor and sat up. He put on his hoody, got the speargun out from under the aluminum crutches and slung it over his back. He used a crutch to get up onto his good foot, got it under his armpit. He struggled over to his where his backpack still slumped like an exhausted soldier by the recliner, ferreted out the flashlight and shoved it in the side trouser pocket holding his lockblade, mov
ed to the drinks stand and blew out the candle, switched on the hurricane lamp to a low setting and made his way awkwardly to the front doors where he pressed an ear against them. The hiss of rain and shush of wind. The rattle of metal and wood. If a hundred or a hundred thousand undead were approaching, how in hell would he hear them over that? They'd be on the house with no warning. He sighed in resignation. Elliot was on sentry duty tonight.
He turned his shoulder against the doors and considered those of Jock's study. He had a light and he had hours to kill; Jock had a book in there on “bush tucker”, maybe some others that would prove helpful. He used the crutch to move across to the study and opened the door. It met slight resistance with a crinkling sound and he stuck his head around it to find a plastic tarp bunched behind it. He raised the lantern. The room was large, lined with more book shelves plus a huge darkwood desk in the centre and a tall leather boardroom chair behind it. In contrast to the rest of the downstairs, the room was a mess. Three coffee mugs, an empty beer can and a plate with crumbs littered the desk. He could smell the beer from the door, along with a faint whiff of bleach. A pair of boots had been tossed on top of the tarp. There was a toolkit on its side beyond that, its contents spilling out. A plastic cooler bag had been tossed against the desk. Beside it an open cardboard box with soda cans and candy made a lie of Jock's earlier statement that he had no drinks for someone of Lewis's age. Jock's hospitality it seemed, only stretched so far. Elliot remembered then the subtle way he'd steered Lewis from the cellar door. Probably full to the brim with hoarded Coke and energy drinks. Not so much Mr Rogers then.
“Asshole.”
He wouldn't be able to hide that lie from Lewis for long. Any teenager worth their acne was going to sniff out sugary snacks inside of a day.
A pile of books on the floor to his right appeared to have been swept from a shelf above. All the shelves were crammed with books, except for oneholding Jock's degrees and diplomas and another hosting an eclectic mix of objects. This shelf—or more accurately its debris—jarred, even against the other mess in the room, and especially because Jock had said he didn't have kids.
