by Gary Weston
Tasker thought he needed another two years at least to continually tweak and evaluate, watching the affects on subsequent generations. He had convinced himself he was on the right track, but the fire in the barn had put an end to him and his work. All the captive possums had died in the fire, apart from one valuable female, one Tasker was sure was the one that would lead the experiment onto the final chapter of his work, prior to the animals being released into the bush.
P117Bx117C was her name. She was the offspring of a previously modified female who in turn had undergone further modification and was carrying her own offspring. To Tasker she was a star and had the potential to eradicate, in time, all the possums in New Zealand. All ninety five million.
She was so valuable to him, she was the one he had tried to rescue from the fire, risking his own life to do so. The smoke had been thick and choking and the wooden barn had been tinder dry after weeks without rain.
Tasker had grabbed his notebooks, hurried to the cage and opened it to save P117Bx117C, who had become terrified by the fire. His reward was to have her dive out at him with such force, he was knocked to the ground. He had tried to grab her, but she had bitten him and he saw her fly out of the door.
Tasker had struggled to his knees, but the smoke made it impossible to breathe. He'd cried out to Smith who had been in a drunken stupor. Tasker had crawled towards the door, but had passed out, and gradually the deafening noise from the trapped animals faded and the burning roof had collapsed onto him. In his hands, the work that was supposed to restore his reputation and credibility in the scientific community, burned as did his body.
Chapter 43
P117Bx117C had followed the sun deep into the bush, only survival for herself and protection for her babies on her mind. She had travelled for hours, putting distance between the fire and herself, until she was exhausted and hungry.
To provide the vital nutrients for the infants she was carrying, she instinctively started to eat the vegetation. She felt sick, and her digestive tract became inflamed. Expecting to die, she curled up in the branches, feeling the burning pains as her internal organs tried to cope with what she had eaten.
Gradually, the pain subsided, and the will to live and to protect her babies returned. Again she tried to eat, but almost instantly, the sickness and pain struck her again. The next time she recovered, she made the intelligent connection between the pain and the food she consumed.
Weak and confused, she crawled along the ground until she found a stream and drunk her fill. As she rested on the bank of the stream, a large beetle scurried along and she snatched it up and ate it. This didn't hurt as much. She scratched the dirt for more, and also ate worms.
As her strength returned, she learned to avoid the things that made her ill, her body adapting as she ate more meat. She found a dead bird, decomposing and full of maggots. These she found to be good.
She was having to use her brain more than possums simply living off a lush green land of plenty. When her babies were born, both males, once weened were taught the things to eat that would make them stronger. They used their brains, finding new things to eat, like hedgehogs, which they would attack and kill together.
When fully grown, her babies went off to make her own way in the world; modified by a man, but taught how to survive his tampering by their mother. They both soon mated, passing on their differences, but knowing how to compensate. Instead of taking off to leave the females to raise the young, they stayed to educate the growing youngsters what to eat and not to eat. As their numbers increased, they also learned that the usual solitary existence was inefficient, and to hunt larger prey required cunning and teamwork.
The years went by, the changes were spread over many miles, each generation becoming much larger and stronger and more formidable. Packs were formed, and bush animals like deer and even wild pigs could be hunted and killed.
The craving for meat produced deadly packs of efficient killing machines. Anything could be hunted down, killed and eaten. Occasional raids to nearby farms to feed on chickens and young lambs proved challenging and educational. With sufficient numbers, no animal was safe. But the sweetest meat of all walked on two legs.
Chapter 44
'The Prime Minister will see you now, Sir.'
Deputy Police Commissioner Tony Rawlings had waited an hour, his patience wearing thinner by the minute. He smiled pleasantly at the young attractive woman. 'Thank you.'
He walked into the Prime Minister's office, to be greeted warmly.
'Tony. Nice to meet you again. It must have been what, two years?'
'Nearly three. Sir. I don't wish to be rude, but...'
'Tea? Coffee?'
'I'm fine, thank you. Sir...'
'Monica. Tea for myself, please. Tony. How's that charming wife of yours? Kathryn?'
'Christine. She died of cancer, four years ago.' Rawlings was certain the Prime Minister had never met his wife. 'Sir, If I could cut to the chase...'
'Ah, Monica. Thank you. Oh. Has that meeting with the ambassador been cancelled?'
'Rescheduled for next Tuesday afternoon.'
'No getting out of it I suppose. Thank you, Monica. Now. Tony. Something about possums I believe?'
'Didn't you see the news?'
'Do you mean that young man who delivered his baby in his ute? I dismissed it as an overactive imagination and exaggeration. Are you telling me there's something in his story?'
'Perhaps you should take a look at these photographs, Sir. I took these myself about four hours ago.' Rawlings handed over his phone. 'That was in the hut the young couple were attacked in. See the nails those possums were killed with?'
The Prime Minister studied the images. 'My God. So much blood. This is most unusual behaviour for possums, isn't it?'
'Indeed it is, Sir. And to my certain knowledge, at least three people have been killed and eaten by packs of possums.'
'Good grief. That's terrible. When?'
'Over the last forty eight hours. A pair of British tourists in their camper van and a hunter in the bush, in the central north island.'
The Prime Minister stared at Rawlings in total disbelief. 'Are you sure that...' The phone rang and the P. M. Picked it up. 'Not now, Monica. Defer all calls, please. Tony?'
Rawlings said, 'I'm positive, Sir. I have seen the autopsies when I finally tracked them down. No doubt about it.'
'My God. Man eating possums. A pack of them, would you say?'
'There are several packs. Three at least. The three attacks I'm aware of are nearly a hundred miles apart. And for all I know, there could be more packs.'
'How on Earth has this happened?'
'Sir. With respect. The how is irrelevant at the moment. The animals are developing a taste for meat, particularly human meat.'
'God damn it, Tony. We have to do something about this.'
Rawlings sighed, wondering why he had ever voted for this man. 'My sentiments exactly, Sir. I suggest we mobilise the army and...'
'Monica. Get me the Commander of the Armed Forces, immediately. Sorry, Tony, but I think this is a job for the army, not the police.'
'Well, Sir. In that case, I'll be glad to step aside and leave this in your capable hands.'
'Tony. You'll simply have to let me handle this. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. For a start, we have to find the epicentre of this problem.'
'Possibly might be worth trying the central north island, Sir. Somewhere around Patch Creek.'
'From what you said before, it's possibly east of Whanganui.'
'Good idea, Sir. You might take a look at Patch Creek.'
'It's on the tip of my tongue. Got it. Patch Creek. Tony. You'll have to see me some other time. Got a bit of a flap on. Bloody possums.'
'Is that right, Sir. I'd better let you get on with it then. Thank you for seeing me, Sir.'
'Monica. Have you got hold of that army chap yet?'
Chapter 45
It was a lush valley, deep in the bush. Possums had ar
rived from every direction, covering trees until the branches sagged, or were lazily scratching on the ground, feeding on worms while they waited. None of them grazed on the vegetation. Those days had gone.
This was a super pack. Every flesh eating possum for miles around had answered the call, and now they patiently waited for their leader. There was an excitement in the cool evening air that was so palpable, they could taste it. It tasted like fresh blood.
That night belonged to the possum. It was their time. It grew darker, lit only by a half moon. The possums were becoming anxious. Was she coming? Had something happened to her?
Then, from a lone tree in the distance, she descended. There was a snorting of approval, especially from the males. She was every bit as magnificent as they hoped she'd be. She was huge and her eyes were so bright, they could watch her as she slowly walked towards them. They parted for her, and stared at her beauty. She bared her teeth at them, long, viciously sharp, capable of shredding the toughest hide.
She hissed, sending tremors of respect through them. Her black claws were long, ideal for taking out the eyes of whatever she hunted. Powerful muscles rippled under a coat so grey it was almost white. Her massive body was covered in the scars of battle, one along her side where a bullet had grazed her.
There was another mark; one no other possum carried. Part of her fur was burnt away never to grow back again, and on her bare flesh was the blue mark. P117Bx117C. She was back!
Chapter 46
The conference room on level two of the 'Beehive'* was chaired by the Prime Minister Duncan Prior himself.
* The Beehive, The New Zealand equivalent of the Houses of Parliament. Called the Beehive due to its resemblance to an actual beehive.
The ministers for civil defence, the armed forces, Tony Rawlings for the police, the Department of Conservation, agriculture, Maori affairs, the environment, and representatives from most local Maori Iwi were there, and several of the highest ranking army officers. Everyone it seemed had something to say and they all wanted to say it together. The Prime Minister banged his gavel sharply on the table.
'I'm calling this emergency meeting to order.' A hush descended in the huge room. 'Thank you. Everyone has a folder? Good. Ladies and gentlemen. It seems we have a serious situation. For reasons we don't yet understand, at least some possums appear to have mutated. Several people have been killed and eaten. We are reasonably sure there are at least three packs of these mutated creatures, possibly more. It was bad enough having the pests destroying our native bush. Nothing short of their total eradication will suffice now. Major Burns.'
Burns took the floor and went to the front of the stage.
'Dim the lights, please. Thank you.' A large screen lit up and Burns took them through the still photographs. 'This is how the police found the camper van. As you can see, there was very little left of the female victim. Her husband's remains were found roughly two hundred yards south of the camper van on Highway one, just north of Whanganui. We assume he was running for help when the possums attacked him. Their relatives in Britain have been notified.
This next incident involved an experienced hunter. His remains were found in bush, again north of Whanganui, inland to the east, north west of Patch Creek. The distance between those two attacks is approximately ninety miles. It is possible the same pack was responsible, but we have been advised that it is more likely to be two separated packs.
To the south of the Patch Creek area, by some sixty miles, was another incident. This time fortunately, the young couple although injured, are alive and recovering from their ordeal.
We have recently received word of an attack on a cow on a farm on the south side of Patch Creek.
If you look at this map...do you all have a hard copy in your folders? Good. If we join these attack sites, we can see Patch Creek and the other two villages in that area are roughly central to the attacks. We have two experienced police officers in Patch Creek, Senior Sergeant Mick Pritchard and Sergeant William Prickle.
They have been going door to door in the three villages, advising the residents of the situation and to be vigilant. All television and radio channels are warning everyone hourly, with updates of the situation.
Contingency plans are being drawn up to evacuate the region should it come to that. We are mobilising seven army battalions, one for each village, and the others to cover the known attack sites. They will be deployed this evening for the villages and at first light for the bush.
We also have three helicopters searching the bush around the attack sights hoping to find the location of the packs with thermal imaging equipment. We intend to eradicate as many of the animals as possible. Questions?'
'George Dickins, Minister for the Department of Conservation. Major Burns. My understanding is that the attacks are fairly localised. Would it be true to say there have been no reported incidents on the South Island, or indeed anything south of the Whanganui River?'
'That is correct, Minister. Have you taken steps to warn all D O C workers to be vigilant?'
'Yes,' said Dickins. 'I have ordered anyone working in the area within a three hundred mile radius of Patch Creek to leave and go home until the situation has been dealt with.'
'Good.'
The Prime Minister added,'I've advised the Minister for Civil Defence that a curfew will be in place in the Patch Creek area from six thirty this evening until six thirty in the morning until we deem it safe to lift it. Anyone breaking the curfew will receive a warning for their first offence and a one thousand dollar fine for the next offence.'
The meeting continued for a further ninety minutes, all concerns were addressed and the Prime Minister wrapped the proceedings up to prepare for another press conference and so that Major Burns could draw up battle plans with his officers and troops.
Chapter 47
South of the Whanganui River, just past a madly winding stretch of State Highway 4, known to all as the Parapara's, a few dwellings were dotted here and there with people living peacefully together. The Rice's had lived on their five acre plot for three generations, scratching a living and enjoying their tranquil existence. Dave Rice worked the area with his mobile welding service, mostly doing repair work for the local farming community.
Claire Rice grew enough vegetables to meet their needs, and the free range hens provided the eggs with enough left over to sell at the gate. Luxuries were few and far between, but they wouldn't have swapped their lifestyle with royalty.
But now their tranquility had ended suddenly with the news of the possum attacks, north of the river. Without saying a word, Dave Rice picked up his shotgun and marched stern faced across the paddock towards a small, rundown shed in one weed covered corner of the field. His six year old daughter Jenny was racing after him, crying her eyes out.
'No, Daddy. Please don't shoot Moppet. Pleeeease, Daddy.'
Like her father, she too had seen the news reports. She had also seen the look on his face and knew what his intentions were. Rice felt the tug on his heart, but he was resolute in what he had to do. Claire Rice was right behind them and she scooped her daughter up in her arms.
'No, Mummy. Please don't let him kill Moppet.'
Claire tried to calm her little girl. They could see Dave pull open the the rough wooden door almost off its rusty hinges, and go inside the shed. Jenny wriggled free from her mother and raced to her father. Inside the shed, lit up by sunlight through one cracked and dirty window, stood a cage. It was a well built cage of steel framework that Dave had welded together and covered with strong mesh. The cage had a small hinged door for access.
Inside the cage was a small wooden box and straw covered the floor. There was a small plastic container of fruit and vegetables and a water bottle.
Moppet wasn't to be seen, curled up until nighttime in his box. Dave Rice put on the thick ancient motorcycle gloves worn to handle the possum. It paid to be careful with these animals, even tame ones like Moppet. Dave started to open the door and Jenny was tugging at his
belt.
'Don't do it, Daddy. Don't shoot Moppet.'
Tears were flowing down the cheeks of both mother and daughter now. Even Dave, not overly emotional, was choking back the tears.
'I have to do it, Jenny. What if he attacked you?'
'Moppet would never attack me. He loves me.'
His daughter's sad blue eyes and her sobs brought a lump to his throat, but he had to be honest with her.
'Dave,' said Claire. 'Do you have to do this? Are you sure?'
Dave turned to face her. 'Do you want to take the chance of something happening to Jenny?'
'Moppet isn't a wild possum. Not like those that killed those people.' She pulled Jenny to her side, holding her tight. 'Jenny has looked after Moppet for a long time, now. It'll break her heart if you kill him.'
Moppet had been orphaned when his mother had been hit by a vehicle one night, on the road just outside their home. In the morning, waiting for the school bus with her mother at the end of the drive, Jenny had heard the cub and seen it lying by its dead mother's side. It was bleating, cold and terrified. It was also at risk of being killed by traffic.
The school bus was coming and Jenny could see the cub was in danger. She had dashed into the road and scooped the cub up in her arms, and had taken it to her mother.
'You shouldn't have run in the road like that, Jenny.'
'Can we keep it? Please, Mummy.'
'No. Look. The driver's waiting to go.'
'Mummy. Pleeease look after him. His mummy is dead.'
Claire had weakened and just to get her daughter off to school, had taken the possum from her. Claire watched the bus drive away, and returned to the house.
She could tell the cub was almost fully weened. She made a nest of straw in a cardboard box. A container of water was placed in one corner and the possum readily accepted a piece of apple from her. Claire thought how cute it looked. When Jenny got home from school, it was obvious all she had thought about all day was the possum. She was mesmerised when the cub took food from her fingers.
