A PERMUTED PRESS book
Published at Smashwords
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-1-805
ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-1-799
Tankbread II: Immortal copyright © 2013
by Paul Mannering
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Alex Kranzusch
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
P A R T I
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
P A R T I I
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
PART I
Chapter 1
It started raining a month ago, the first downpour sending tiny rivulets through the red dust of the Australian Outback. The trickles merged into streams, which ran to flooded creeks, which became thundering rivers. The growing torrent washed away everything in its path. Dead trees, trapped boulders, carefully built fences and barricades, all now lay strewn along creek beds still stained ocher with the desert silt.
When the rain stopped the heat of the desert sun sent the water soaking into the earth. Humid mists rose through the trees and scrub as a man, his clothes smeared dark with dirt and filth, staggered towards a groaning chorus of alarm. The trees that stood around the high-water mark now wore tutu-skirts of grass and branches torn from the ground-up soil. The man passed through the trees and blinked with near blind eyes at the long depression beyond.
The flood had torn the bottom out of the creek bed, gouging the hard clay until the low banks now stood ten feet high. A water-filled pit ran for nearly a hundred feet to where an ancient bedrock boulder lay as it had for a million years, making a natural barrier above the new stream. In the hole behind the rock a crowd had gathered. They had fallen, one by one, down the slick clay sides of the stream. Now they moved like sheep, bumping into each other, moving in a slow tide from one end of the hole to the other. Each walker was a desiccated and torn corpse walking in constant, mindless confusion.
The man hesitated at the edge. Moaning, he shuffled back and forth, the calls of the others luring him closer, the strange geometry of the hole keeping him back.
With the clumsy imprecision of the dead, the man worked his way through a turn that put his back to the pit. The maneuver took some time, and the angry moans of the trapped zombies behind him never ceased. The sun had moved in the sky by the time he returned to the road that was no more than a sunbaked strip overgrown with the shifting desert sands. It disappeared into the dust that led from the ruins of the coastal cities far to the south to peter out among the salt brush and ghost gum trees of the northern interior.
The dead man walked with no destination in mind. Hunger drove his feet, and the rustle of bushes, the stirring of dust, and the flight of small animals caught his attention. Where his gaze fell, his feet followed as surely as the rest of him. Over time, others walked with him, the shuffling movement of his walk reminding them of something they could no longer recall or understand. Hunger was the only constant now.
The house stood in the dappled shade of the Queensland rainforest. It had been built from rough, hand-sawed gum tree planks, the cracks and gaps between the lumber slabs packed with wattle and mud daub. A roof of freshly cut wooden shingles kept the recent rains at bay. Next to the house a cow stood in the shade of a bark-roofed stall, chewing her cud, her swollen udder twitching as she flicked flies away with her tail.
The feet of the walking dead didn’t bleed even though several of his toes were gone. They’d been torn off as the dead flesh of his feet broke down on the long walk along hundreds of miles of broken highways and rough ground. The cow lowed as the shambling zombie approached. The noise cut through the dead man’s senses and he moaned in pain. Turning towards the cow, he raised his hands and all confusion left him. He needed to kill the source of that sound.
Else stood naked, up to her hips in a natural spring-fed pool. Silt stirred up with every step she took, giving the water the color and consistency of chicken soup. She lifted her hands and let the liquid trickle down over her swollen belly, watching fascinated as the baby cradled in her womb writhed and kicked in response to the cool touch.
She felt confident that she could give birth unaided; women had been doing that for more years than she could imagine. Every book she read on the subject made it seem like a natural thing. Pregnancy took nine months, the medical texts said, and it had been 254 days since the Courier died. She counted from that day, having no other day to count from.
“Soon,” she murmured, stroking her distended stomach. “Soon we will meet and I will teach you everything.”
Mona Lisa screamed and Else’s head jerked up, every sense alert for danger. She moved to the edge of the small pool; gathering her clothes from the edge she dressed in moments, pulling a loose dress over her head and checking her rifle with practiced ease. Slipping a razor-sharp machete on a belt over her shoulder, she ducked into the trees that led to her small house in the bush.
The Courier had called the undead evols, an old acronym made of the words “Extremely Violent Lucid Organism.” They never travel alone. They follow each other with the same lack of purpose that has guided all their actions since the destruction of the source of the virus that created them, a genetically engineered organism called Adam. The dead man tearing at Mona Lisa was joined by others emerging from the tree line. They came forward, drawn by the cow’s painful bellows, the smell of freshly spilled blood, and the thrashing of the dying animal.
The dead swarmed over the carcass. Blackened teeth tore at the warm meat. Fingers clawed and gouged. Their mouths opened wide and they gulped down the succulent feast.
Else took a count of their numbers, twelve of them, seven males and five females, their dry, grey skin hanging in paper-thin strips. Bones, stained the color of lead, poked through the rips and holes. Cow’s blood oozed from torn throats, and chunks of chewed meat fell from the empty space below one woman’s rib cage. All but one of them appeared long dead. The fresh walker fought savagely for the best access to the feeding. Shoving the others aside, he burrowed inside the dripping carcass and gorged on the soft tissues inside.
Else raised her rifle, flicked the safety off, and took a bead down the sights. She squeezed the trigger and the first zombie’s head exploded. The corpse tottered and fell. Else moved as soon as the weapon fired. The weight of her pregnant belly barely slowed her down, and she ignored the sudden urge to urinate. The evols grunted in confusion at the sound of the shot, their senses still overwhelmed by their feeding frenzy. The second zombie fell to a bullet that tore through her eye and sprayed her blackened brain matter over the others, who slowly began to respond to this new threat.
Else worked the bolt on the rifle, firing in a steady rhythm until six corpses lay still on the ground. With the dead a
lmost upon her, she slung the gun over her shoulder before drawing her machete and stepping forward. She noticed the dead always moved aimlessly until they fed. Now their Adam virus–infected brains were energized with fresh nutrients and their pace and reflexes quickened to almost match her own.
The first zombie to reach her was a woman. Stained remnants of a business skirt and blouse hung from her in ragged strips. Something had ripped chunks of her hair out by the roots. It might have snagged on branches during her long journey from her George Street office building in Sydney to the wild rain forests of northern Queensland.
The machete flashed; the office woman’s throat oozed black fluid and her head slowly slid sideways off her neck. Else moved on. The next one sprang at her, teeth bared and fingers spread wide. She twisted away from his first attack, swinging the blade down to cut through the vertebrae and send the corpse quivering to the ground.
“Twenty-four articulated bones, not one long one,” she said aloud and spun to face the next evol. A woman who had been disemboweled long ago lunged into range. The virus took control of the brain, and as long as the central nervous system remained intact, the dead remained animated.
“Destroy the brain, and they stay down.” Else often spoke out loud to the unborn child in her womb. The books said it helped with development. She found it eased her loneliness.
With a wild swing the machete blade tore the top off another woman’s skull at the bridge of her nose.
The dead moved to surround her, responding to some predatory instinct, working together to bring down their prey. Else turned to face them. She hacked off a reaching arm and ducked under the other hand that swept at her face. The machete slashed. A head rocked back, attached only by a thin sliver of skin. It fell like a hood against a dead man’s back.
Else bared her teeth as clawed fingers grabbed at her dress and hair. She yanked herself free and stepped back, swinging the machete at the hungry dead. Raising the blade to her shoulder like a baseball bat she readied herself for the next attack.
A sudden spasm ripped through her belly and her knees buckled. Gasping in pain, the machete tip dropped and buried itself in the ground. “Not now,” Else whispered through the rippling spasm. “Just a Braxton Hicks, not a real con—unnngghhh.” Her stomach felt like it was tearing open. The remaining zombies snarled and crowded forward. Else sank to one knee and thrust the machete upwards. The evol’s skull, more bone than flesh, cracked against the blade. With a savage howl Else shoved harder; the bone burst and the machete jutted out through the top of his skull. The zombie’s eyes crossed and it slumped to the ground, dragging the blade out of Else’s hands. She staggered to her feet, the ungainly weight of her abdomen pulling her off balance. Unslinging the rifle, she loaded a single round from the ammo belt she wore into the chamber. Shoving the muzzle into the hole where the dead woman’s nose used to be, Else pulled the trigger. The head came apart and the zombie dropped, knocking the rifle barrel down.
“Fuckers!” Else hissed. With her hand flat like a knife, she punched a man in the throat. Using her fingers, she burrowed through the gel of his putrescence and grabbed the bones of his neck. With a snarl she ripped his head off. Gripping the heavy skull like a bowling ball, she clubbed the next evol into the ground, striking him again and again until both skulls shattered and the man on the ground twitched and lay still.
Her breath came in panting gasps as Else twisted, her feet sliding on the gore-slicked mud. Nothing moved now except the flies that crawled over Mona Lisa’s remains. Else wondered how she was going to get rid of the body. She might have to find a vehicle, or a horse, maybe two horses to drag it down to the river. The crocodiles would take it from there.
She returned to the house in the trees. She had repaired it, patched the walls and the roof. Strengthened the door and fixed the fences. There were only two rooms when she found it, now it had three, a library and storeroom making up the extension.
The door had started sticking since the rains came. She put her shoulder against it and shoved, almost overbalancing as it popped open and she half-fell inside. Another contraction rippled through her and she felt wetness flood down her thighs.
Fear gripped Else. Maybe something was wrong. The pain she was feeling seemed worse than the books suggested. Leaning back against the door she breathed through the spasm, clenching and unclenching her fists. Sliding the bolts home, she secured the door.
The interior walls of the house were covered in hanging tools. Handmade shelves held collected tins of food, and a sheaf of rifles were stacked together in one corner.
The bed had been here when Else arrived, a skeletonized body lying on it. She had wrapped the bones in a blanket and carried them to the river.
She focused her gaze on her books. They were stacked high in every available space of the three-room hut. Books on every subject, two nonfiction books for every novel. She had read them all and until recently her main scavenging trips had been to find new reading material. The baby would learn to read too.
Else slid the heavy wooden bar across the door and moved carefully across the room to set the rifle down with the other weapons. She would clean it just as soon—
Another contraction rippled through her and she panted with the force of it. Gripping the edge of the water-stained sink stand, she stood almost doubled over and tried to collect her thoughts. Breathe. Just breathe, the way the books taught you. Get the clean cloths ready, the ones to wrap the baby in. And the sharp knife. To cut the umbilical cord. Just keep breathing. Memories of the Courier came to her mind. She needed him now, more than ever. Everything else she had come through. She had found a way. Learned through trial and error and reading books. But not this. This she didn’t want to go through alone. She laid out the soft muslin and blanket for the baby. She found the sharp knife and put the pot of water on the fire to boil. Finally she pulled her loose dress up over her head and stood naked and shivering in the sudden chill of the late afternoon.
Distant thunder rolled and a stronger contraction tore through her. “Fuck,” Else moaned and staggered against the bed. The fire kept the interior of the house warm, and she lifted the pot of boiling water from its hook and poked the knife blade into the hot liquid. The contractions were coming steadily now, less than a minute apart.
Crawling, she reached the bed. Resting her face against the soft blankets that draped over it, she panted, riding out the contractions. She remained kneeling against the bed covers, her knees on the floor, as the sun went down and the air grew cold with an approaching storm. The wind came first, buffeting the trees and the small house. The monsoon rain hit a minute later, a wall of water that had terrified Else when it first poured out of the sky. She reminded herself that the hut was waterproof and strong. The wind went round it and the rain slid down the wooden shingles. There were no trees close enough to blow down on the house.
Else panted and breathed, relaxing when she could. Still kneeling beside the low bed, her head and shoulders supported by the bedding. It just felt right to be in that position. A great sense of pressure filled her lower abdomen; the pain was unlike anything she had experienced before. With each contraction she moaned and pushed downwards with her entire body. The sense of pressure and pain grew. The thunder crashed and lightning split the sky directly overhead. Else groaned and an answering groan sounded outside. She lifted her head and stared at the door.
Not now. Come back tomorrow. Tonight, I’m busy giving birth. Else bit down on the blanket, tears welling in her eyes as an evol shuffled against the door.
“Breathe,” she whispered. “The door is strong, you are strong, and the baby is strong.” The door shuddered under a heavy blow. “Fuck off,” Else muttered, closing her eyes and pushing hard. She had to do this, for the baby. Nothing else mattered right now. The dead would not have her child.
The storm drove the dead into a frenzy. Each roar of thunder and eye-searing flash of lightning overwhelmed their senses. Else knew they had no filters, no protection
from the stimulus of their sensitive ears and eyes. Being dead destroyed a lot of the brain. Being infected and dead meant what was left drove you to walk, feed, and infect others.
Sweat ran down Else’s face. Every muscle clenched and she bore down with a long, low moan. Something slipped deep inside her. With a wet slithering sound a wet lump emerged from between her legs. Reaching down, Else cupped a hand around the tiny head and shoulders. With a final push the baby sluiced out of her and into her hands.
Laughing through a sudden upwelling of tears, Else lifted the tiny form up to her chest. A quick scan satisfied her that everything was correct. The baby, a boy she realized with heart-clenching delight, wriggled in her hands and began to cry with a shrill mewling sound. The evols outside crashed against the door and the walls. Else ignored them and laid her son down on the bed. Taking the knife from the hot water, she cut the umbilical cord where it joined the baby’s abdomen and tied the oozing stump off with a piece of string. Smiling down at the tiny, yet perfect human, she wrapped him tightly in a muslin sheet and small blanket she had prepared.
The contractions continued, but the thrill of seeing her son for the first time left her immune to this lesser pain. “It’s just the placenta, the final stage of labor,” she spoke to him the way she always had, explaining everything as if he had asked a question. Gathering the baby up, she held him to her breast. Getting him into position for real was harder than she thought. He mewled and nuzzled but didn’t latch on.
“You have to suck, baby. It’s what makes the milk come.”
The scratching at the door continued. Fingers pressed under the door and around the slight gap where the bar held it closed. The sounds of a grunting argument came through the wood and then the fingers withdrew. A moment later a loud crash shook the hut. The door shuddered and cracked. Silence for a moment and then another impact. This one burst the door from its hinges and sent it flying against the far wall.
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