Tankbread 2: Immortal

by Paul Mannering

  Eric fell into step beside him. “Well, it’s a long story. Ya see, she came to me and asked me to blow up the ship. So we did that, and she was fightin’ with the crew and the Captain on the bridge. I came in through the window. She told me to take the boy and get to the boats . . .” Eric trailed off as Hob finished processing what he was saying and turned to glare at him. “You blew up the fuckin’ ship?”

  Eric swallowed hard. “It was an accident?” he suggested.

  “Fuck me,” Hob muttered. “That bitch turns up and the entire place goes fuckin’ crazy. Where’s that cunt thinks she’s in charge?”

  “Rache?” Eric offered.

  “Yeah, her.” Hob had a direction for his anger now. It would be good to work out his fears on Rache’s whimpering flesh. He strode off along the sand, glaring at the knots of survivors as he passed.

  “Else had a point,” Eric said, hurrying after Hob. “We weren’t doing so well. I mean, okay I was doing fine, but you lot. You holders and engineers, your situation was pretty much shit.”

  “We were fucking safe there!” Hob snarled.

  “Yeah but there’s more to life than being safe,” Eric muttered, not willing to risk a physical confrontation with the enraged Hob.

  “Rache!” Hob roared.

  A figure stood up from a small campfire, handing a wrapped bundle to one of the women sitting cross-legged next to her. Rache’s skin was still stained with oil, but much of it had washed away, leaving her with a grey pallor, much like the dead.

  “Whaddya you want, Hob?” Rache asked, her body language set to fight.

  “Where’s that fuckin’ bitch and where’s my daughter?”

  Rache hesitated. “You mean Sarah?”

  “Yes, I fuckin’ mean Sarah and that crazy bitch that got us in this fuckin’ mess.”

  Rache looked up and down the shoreline. Bodies rose and fell on the long regular breath of the ocean. She yearned to be out there, riding that swell and fall. Sailing over the horizon until there were no more horizons. “I haven’t seen them,” she said finally.

  “Is that her kid?” Hob said, stabbing a finger in the direction of the campfire.

  “Yeah, and Lowanna, the abo girl Else had with her,” Rache replied. Hob made to push past her, but Rache stepped up in his face. “You go near that baby girl or Else’s boy and I fuckin’ swear, Hob, I will feed you to the first dead fucker I can find.”

  Hob’s knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists. Rache’s eyes never wavered from his. After a moment he snarled something and turned away.

  “Fuckin’ asshole,” Eric muttered when Hob had stalked out of earshot.

  “Rache,” Cassie, a survivor from the campfire, said as she approached. “What are we gonna do for food?”

  “We’ll just . . .” Rache looked from the sea to the tree line. “Get everyone together. Gather the salvage. We’ll make some weapons and then we’ll go find some food. All of us. Together.”

  First Cassie and then Eric walked away, stopping at each group of huddled people to pass on her instructions, to share the hope that Rache had given them.

  Chapter 2

  The sand melted into glass under the intense heat. It glowed from banana yellow through to cherry red. A cycling, vibrant palette of colors that made the swirling plasma seem almost alive. Then the water washed over the burning sand and it screamed.

  Else sat up, her eyes flaring wide and then snapping shut as the full glare of the morning sun hit her face. Her body was a crawling mass of burnt skin that hung in peeling strips. As a fresh wave beached itself, the water washed over her wounds with a searing agony that birthed a new shriek of pain.

  Moaning, she climbed to her feet and backed away from the hissing surf. The beach was littered with washed-up wreckage. In the distance the remains of a small fire smoldered on the sand.

  Else focused on that; walking in that direction gave her something to do. She had lost her son and Lowanna. Tears welled and stung on her raw cheeks. Through her blurred vision she saw the footprints and marks where salvage had been dragged up and piled above the high-water line. She wiped her face, hissing at the sting. Someone had been here, different feet. Else walked on down the beach, following the meandering trail of footprints. The trail widened as more people came together, joining the ragged procession. Else saw where they stopped, milled, and stood watching as some altercation took place in the sand. Then they moved off again; this time the footprints headed towards the tree line. Else knew the river lay beyond the narrow forest of mangroves. Whatever the survivors had in mind, they were heading towards an area overrun with feral dead and even more dangerous, feral crocodiles.

  Else stopped and listened. Birds, the breeze in the trees, but no sound of screaming yet. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other, climbing the gentle slope of the dunes, through the hard spines of grass and on into the wet mud of the mangroves.

  The tracks ended here. The tidal mudflats oozed and filled any holes made in seconds. On the roots of the mangrove trees that looked like many-fingered hands plunging into the rich earth, she could see the fresh splatter of mud splashed up by people passing by.

  The group had spread out, picking their way through the treacherous ground. She plunged in, the cold compress of salty mud both soothing and agonizing against her legs. Wading through the sucking mud, Else sank up to her knees with each step. She held on to the mangrove roots and pulled herself along, eyes alert for any sign of crocs or evols.

  She found the first body caught in the tangled roots of an old mangrove tree. Only an arm remained, the rounded nob of bone at the elbow gleaming white and pure in the morning sun. The water around it was still; either the croc had swum off, or the dead had moved on. Else slid down into the water until only her eyes and nose were above the surface. Moving slowly, she felt for changes in the currents, or surges of pressure.

  A croc, close to six feet long, surfaced silently ahead of her. It looked like a floating log; just its eyes and a few knobbly points of her long muzzle were visible. Else moved carefully; without weapons she would be entirely defenseless against an attack. The croc dropped beneath the surface with a slight bloop sound. Else followed, her eyes wide open against the brown water.

  The croc came at her like a great bolt fired from a bow. Else twisted her body as the beast snapped its open jaws at her exposed flesh. In the fraction of a second that the croc slammed her mouth shut, Else grabbed it by the jaw and held the mouth closed. The croc exploded in a thrashing frenzy; Else wrapped her legs around the armored body and hung on. The raw burns covering her skin made her pain a living thing that hurt so much she almost passed out. Every time her head broke the surface Else took a gulp of air and tried not to scream in agony.

  The crocodile could stay under for at least five minutes, even while fighting, so drowning it wasn’t an option. Else didn’t think anyone had ever successfully ridden a crocodile like a horse, so the next thing to do was dismount safely.

  Dropping her legs, she pushed her feet into the thick mud under the water. Getting some kind of stable footing, she wrenched the croc towards a mangrove tree. Moving and setting her feet again, she heaved a second time. The croc slammed into the wide trunk of the mangrove tree, thrashing and hissing as she battered Else with her tail. Else slammed the croc’s head against the trunk hard enough to dent the tree. Stunned, the croc went still. Else dropped the animal in the water and pushed away, swimming through the submerged roots until she found dry land. The croc didn’t follow.

  The small island in the tidal zone had a mat of fallen leaves and signs of crocodile nesting sites from past breeding seasons. Else scooped up a branch; it seemed firm enough and would do in a pinch. The only sign of recent life on the island were the scuffed leaves and hurried footmarks of the group from the beach.

  Else followed the trail, losing it among the trees but finding other marks of their passage: a torn snag of fabric, mud smeared fresh on a mangrove trunk. There were still no sounds, and that
worried Else more than screaming would.

  She started to run, taking long strides that carried her across the deep mud on stepping-stones of high mangrove roots. Else reached the edge of the trees and the long and gently sloping riverbank that lay beyond. The mud here was wiped slick and smooth by the bellies of crocodiles. They warmed in the sun on the bank and then slid into the water to hunt prey.

  Looking upstream Else saw the survivors some distance away, still on her side of the river. They were a huddled knot of women and children, surrounded by a ragged line of defenders. Assaulting them on all sides were a dozen feral undead in various stages of dismemberment and crocodile-induced damage.

  The drying mud caking Else’s skin was a soothing balm to her burnt flesh. She only had the stick, but she ran anyway, charging at the evols and swinging hard. The stick smashed to splinters against the first dead-head in range.

  The evol grunted and tried to reorientate herself to the new attack. Else stabbed her in the eye with the jagged tip of the wood and shoved it in hard enough to pierce the brain. The zombie dropped into the mud. The defenders cheered as they fought back, cutting the remaining dead down with renewed strength.

  When the last of them were dispatched, Else ran her eyes over the group. One woman held a baby, and the mewling cry of the tiny form hit Else like a hammer blow in the chest. Ignoring the people trying to thank her and pat her on the back, she shoved through the crowd, pushing people out of her way until she stood in front of the cowering woman.

  Sinking down to her knees, Else pulled back the edge of the faded blanket that wrapped the baby. The face was still new and soft, like a young butterfly whose wings had not yet fully expanded and dried.

  “Baby . . .” Else whispered.

  The woman nodded and lifted the tiny bundle up. “The girl too,” the woman said. “She’s safe an’ all.”

  Else nodded, sinking to her knees on the wet ground, fresh tears burning on her cheeks as she cradled the tiny boy against her breast.

  Chapter 3

  “We are going to die out here,” Cassie whined for the third time. Else resisted the urge to slap the woman across the face. The sun was still high overhead, beating down on the walkers. The pain of the deep burns had faded from Else’s skin. Her hair was completely gone, giving her a strange, alien appearance. The healing flesh itched maddeningly, which did little to improve her mood.

  Rache came jogging up the line of straggling people. Engineers and men with blades crafted from salvage walked on the outside of the line.

  “Much further?” Rache asked cheerfully.

  “Yes,” Else said and moved her son to the other hip. The deep drawing sensation that seemed to come from deep inside and flowed down her swollen breasts and out through her nipples when he suckled buzzed like a completed circuit in her mind. A sense of rightness had settled over Else during the day’s march and she didn’t appreciate the interruption.

  The baby slept now, eyes screwed shut against the bright light, his tiny limbs quivering against her body.

  “I’m not even sure where we are going,” Rache said and gave a slight giggle. Her eyes darted over the landscape, the size of it leaving her with a sense of vertigo. “I can’t believe we made it to onland.”

  “You’ll see stranger things than dirt and trees,” Else replied.

  The first herd of kangaroos they saw sent the survivors into an uproar of excited chatter. Those old enough to remember grinned and shouted as they watched them run, while those who had never seen such creatures before stared with open mouths.

  Rache organized the fishermen to do what they did best as night fell. Fires were set along the bank and they reeled in enough catch to feed everyone to satisfaction. There was only one casualty, an older fisherman, who hobbled into the river to unsnag a line from a floating log. The crocodile took him before he knew it was there. A splash, a truncated scream, and then nothing but ripples carried away on the light current.

  They fished from shore after that.

  Else tended her baby, sitting by the fire with a mother called Sheila who gave advice on the practical care of babies. Sheila, who said she had born seven children since the Great Panic, only to have all of them taken away by the crew, nursed Lowanna and wept silent tears when Else told her that the baby girl would need a mother who could take care of her until she was fully grown.

  Only one mob of evols came upon them in the night; a disfigured and desert-scarred group that numbered less than six. They were attracted to the firelight, and the sentries cut them down without injury or fuss.

  After dawn, when the survivors had breakfasted on leftover fish, Else started walking again. Heading upriver, following the bank and retracing her steps to where Jirra’s people had their camp. She carried her baby in the sling and two of the short-handled scythes across her back.

  Rache, Sheila, Hob, and the others fell into step behind her. Else ignored them. The sooner she could get back to her house in the bush, the sooner she could get back to rebuilding her life and raising her child.

  Rache asked questions constantly, and Else found that each answer she gave prompted more questions. She told the engineer about the cities she had seen, the abandoned boats and vehicles, the once shining towers of glass now dulled by a decade of dust and decay. All things that Rache was barely old enough to remember from the time before.

  “How did you find Lowanna?” Else asked.

  “Eric, he found her when he was putting his bombs everywhere. He killed a couple of crew and took her. Reckoned it was her, cuz she was the only Abo baby there.”

  “He left the others?”

  “Didn’t have much choice. Only having two arms and needing to run and fight and god knows what.”

  “He saved me too,” Else admitted.

  “You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but for a crazy guy, he’s got steel.”

  “He knows things, useful things. And he’s a leader, like you,” Else said.

  Rache blushed a little under the grime on her cheeks. “Nah, he’s too old for me.”

  “You want to have smart kids, you find a smart man to have them with,” Else said.

  Jirra’s people kept a simple camp, a few shelters made from foraged wood, bound and thatched with the paper bark stripped from gum trees. Else gestured for the ragged convoy to halt. Standing at the edge of the camp, she frowned at the cold remains of cooking fires and the silence broken only by the buzzing of flies.

  “What is this place?” Rache asked.

  “This is where Lowanna was born, her people live here.” Else went down on one knee, her gaze intent on the deserted campsite.

  “Where is everyone?” Rache whispered.

  Else didn’t respond. The baby grizzled against her and she hefted him gently. Hob came striding up the line, muttering and cursing the heat, the flies, and the delays.

  “What the fuck is going on?” he demanded.

  “I’m looking to see if it is safe for us to go in there,” Else said.

  “Fuckin’ place is deserted. Why wouldn’t it be safe?” Hob wiped the sweat from his dusty face and scowled with a look of thunder. “We stand around in this fuckin’ heat we’re gonna fuckin’ die.”

  “If you’re hot, go for a swim,” Rache said sweetly.

  Hob glanced at the slow-moving river, muddy grey and filled with unseen dangers. “Go fuck yourself.”

  Else stood up. Sliding a sheathed blade from where it hung on Rache’s hip, she walked out into the camp.

  “Billy? Sally? Anyone here?” Else walked around the camp. The drying fish were gone, stripped from the wooden racks. The shelters were empty and the group following her picked over the few scraps left behind.

  “You were expecting someone to be here?” Hob asked.

  “There were people here. They would have helped you,” Else said.

  “They would have helped us? You mean you won’t?” Hob stopped stirring the dust with his foot and turned on Else.

  “I can’t help
you. I’m lucky to keep myself alive. I have to take care of my son.”

  “You dragged us all off the ship! Because of you we’re stranded here in the middle of onland! You have no fuckin’ choice. You have to help us!”

  Else opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of it. The other survivors gathered around, eyes wide with fear, yet a shadow of hope lurking in their expressions. They were desperate now. On the ship they had been protected, at least in a way. Now they had nothing except themselves and the constant threat of death by evol, crocodile, or in the weeks ahead, a slow death by starvation.

  “Okay. Okay . . .” Else raised her voice to be heard by everyone. “I thought there would be people here. People who could give you food, shelter, and support. I don’t know where they have gone. I don’t think they are dead. They’ve just moved on for some reason.”

  “Can we find them?” Rache asked.

  “We can try,” Else replied.

  “So what are we standing around here for then?” Hob turned to address the group. “Pick yourselves up, you useless fuckers. If you want to live, then stand up and walk.” Hob strode amongst them, kicking those who moved too slowly for his liking.

  The holders started moving without complaint; they seemed used to the abuse from people like Hob. The fishermen scowled but didn’t say anything. The engineers looked to Rache, who nodded, before they stood up and started walking.

  Else walked on. Her skin itched, and the regular feeding demands made by her son left her feeling weak and drained. It wasn’t just the survivors who needed food. Her genetically engineered cells burned a lot of energy to fuel her rapid healing. She put aside her physical concerns, focusing on the steady striding rhythm of one foot following the other. They were beyond the saltwater mudflats now, the risk of crocodile attack lessened by the fresh water flowing in the nearby river. Within an hour of walking along the riverbank, following the dried remains of bare footprints, they found where the Aboriginal camp had crossed the water. A collection of carefully stored canoes and dinghies could be seen on the other side of the river, drawn up and lashed to trees to keep them in place during any further floods. Else summoned Rache, Hob, and Quint the fisherman. Eric lurked in the background, trying not to be noticed while listening in on the conversation.