Tankbread 02 Immortal (30 page)

The survivors gathered around and waited while Eric climbed out. Doc and Hob slid out of the backseat. “Gizza hand,” Hob called. Volunteers came forward, lifting a blanket stretcher out of the back, a pale and lifeless-looking Sam cradled in it.

“He did it,” Doc said. “Sam is going to be sick for a while, but he’s strong and Hob saved him.” Sam was carried into a tent. Anna stood to one side, grim faced and slowly coiling the loops of Hob’s leash in her hand.

Hob stood next to the SUV, the smirk on his face lifting some of the cowed expression he had worn for the last few weeks. “I saved the kid,” Hob said, loud enough to be heard by those standing around watching. “She said if I saved the kid, I’d get my life back. None of you cunts can treat me like shit anymore. She said so,” Hob nodded at Else.

The crowd turned to look at Else. She went over to Anna and took the rope from her hands. Walking over to Hob, she handed him the noose end of the leash.

“Put this on,” she said.

Hob’s eyes flashed. “You’re fucking kidding me?”

Else widened the noose and flipped it over Hob’s head, dropping it onto his shoulders and jerking it tight.

“What the fuck’re you playing at?” Hob demanded.

Else roundhouse kicked him across the back of the knees, sending Hob crashing into the mud. She uncoiled the rope to where Anna stood, wide-eyed and trembling.

“Yours, I believe?” Else said putting the rope in Anna’s hands.

“Thank you . . .” Anna said, the fear fading from her eyes.

“You can’t do this!” Hob roared. “You said if I saved the kid it was finished!” Else ignored him and went back to her tent.

Anna coiled the slack in the rope and jerked on the taut line. “Hob!” she yelled. “Shut up!”

“You little fuckin’ cunt!” Hob’s eyes narrowed and he sprang up, charging towards Anna, his snarl promising murder.

The girl stood her ground, coiling the rope as he charged; then at the last minute, she stepped aside. Hob’s lunge went wide and he overbalanced, slipping in the wet grass. Anna yanked hard on the rope, the noose tightened around Hob’s neck, and he gagged, clawing at the rope that dug deep into his throat.

“You will not speak unless I say so. You will not swear or threaten anyone or Else will cut your tongue out. You will do what you are told, when you are told,” Anna said, letting a little slack into the rope. Hob loosened the choking noose and took a shuddering breath. “Now get up. You’re not a pig in the mud.”

Hob remained on the ground and then slowly stood up, his eyes downcast. The people turned and went back to their chores. The show was over, everything was back to normal.

* * *

Sam died two days later. Doc did her best to treat the infection that burned through his surgical wound. Without antibiotics and only rudimentary antiseptics, his fever spiked and his organs began to shut down. Else watched over him in the final hour, Michael curled up on a blanket next to his brother, finally asleep after watching him for so long. When Sam took his final shuddering breath Else stood up. Laying her baby down, she rolled the emaciated boy on to his side. Drawing a heavy-bladed knife, she felt for the gap at the base of his skull and punched the knife deep into his brain. She let Michael sleep until she was quite sure that Sam wasn’t coming back.

Else was curious to see the funeral arrangements. The people let Michael dictate the service. He said a few words, mumbled a prayer, and then they lowered the blanket-wrapped body into the hole dug to receive him.

“We should mark the grave with his name,” Else said. They heated a knife in a cooking fire and carved his name in a split log. Michael watched impassively as the wooden post was hammered into the ground at the head of his brother’s grave.

They left the campsite that afternoon, with less food than they had when they arrived and one less mouth to feed.

Ten days of slow travel followed. The vehicles ran out of fuel, and other than the occasional evol, which was quickly dispatched, they spent their days trudging. Children rode in the horse-drawn cars; everyone else walked. Hunters ranged ahead, the survivors stopping when they came across butchered meat, the exhausted hunters dozing in abandoned cars.

“We’re low on food, water, and patience,” Eric reported at the nightly council meeting. Else bit back her frustration; on her own, she could cover twice as many miles in a day as these people.

“We are close now.” Else stroked a finger over the map. “Mildura is on the other side of the river. And we should reach the river by tomorrow.”

“You sure that there’s no one living there now?” Rache asked.

“I don’t know. We pretty much killed every one last time I came this way.”

Eric sighed and poked a stick into the fire. “That story of yours gets stranger every time you tell it,” he said.

“It’s exactly what happened,” Else replied.

“I believe you, but it’s crazy just the same.”

Else shrugged. “It’s my life story, so it’s the only one I have to tell.”

“Sam died,” Rache said. “We could all die, get sick or something.”

“It’s no reason to quit,” Eric replied.

“I’m never going to quit,” Rache insisted. “I’m going to get my own ship, sail the world.”

“I reckon you will too,” Eric smiled.

* * *

Else called a halt when the bridge over the Murray River came into view. Standing on the running board of a wagon, she checked the land ahead with a pair of binoculars and frowned. The bridge was barricaded, but not like it had been the day she and the Courier came through, with roofing iron, a wooden frame, sandbags, and concrete blocks. Now the bridge was blockaded with a proper wall at least twelve feet high, constructed of cemented concrete blocks behind railway iron that had been cut and welded into giant caltrops, like the tank busters of the Normandy beaches in World War II.

The dead were gathered against the blockade, a seething sea of desiccated corpses, straining against the impenetrable wall. Else wondered why the dead didn’t ford the river. The barrier only extended across the bridge, and the water on each side was clear. She stared at the wall, scanning every inch of it, pausing and going back when she saw a glint of sunlight reflecting on glass. A pair of binoculars staring back at her.

“How do we cross?” Eric asked.

“We need to clear the dead, then we can pass over the bridge.”

“How? Is there a gate?” Eric shaded his eyes and stared into the distance.

“You don’t barricade a bridge without having a gate. Otherwise you just destroy the bridge,” Rache said.

“There is no gate,” Else said. “They have a second bridge. It is submerged under the water just upstream from the main bridge.”

“How can you tell?” Rache took the binoculars and peered at the distant scene.

“There are posts on each side of the river, and the water flow is different just up from the bridge.”

“How are we going to clear the dead?” Eric asked.

“We’ll draw them off. Arthur, get me a horse!” One of the wagon drivers climbed down and unhitched a horse. Leading it forward by the bridle, he stopped next to Else. She swung up onto the horse’s back. Taking the rope reins, she nudged the beast with her heels and rode down the highway.

Rache watched through the binoculars as Else rode down the road, yelling and waving her arms. The dead turned, confused by the noise. Else’s horse reared, alarmed by the smell and the moaning of the predators on the bridge. She held her steed in place until the first of the evols tore at its flanks. Only then did she turn and let the animal run. The mob of zombies poured after her. Else turned the horse downstream and led them away from the bridge.

“Is she okay?” Eric demanded.

“Yeah,” Rache replied, turning slowly to follow Else’s progress.

The horse plunged into the water, Else goading it on with her heels digging into its ribs. The dead followed, and Else slipped off its back and, trailing the reins behind her, she swam strongly across the wide, brown current. The evols surged into the stream, wading and then sinking underwater as they headed out over their heads. Else’s horse suddenly screamed, its head rearing up and jerking the reins from Else’s hand. She let go and swam for the far bank, where she climbed out and shook herself dry before vanishing into the trees up the riverbank.

In the center of the river the water seethed and rolled. Rache wondered if crocodiles were in the water, feasting on the dead and the horse whose screams could now be heard all the way back to the vehicles.

“The bridge is clear, let’s go!” Rache urged her people forward. The wagon drivers whipped the horses and those on foot broke into a shambling run. The armed guards ran along the edges of the road, weapons clanking as they jogged.

The convoy reached the road before the bridge and ground to a halt. “Where do we go now?” people called from all sides.

“Upstream!” Rache turned and headed towards the posts buried deep in the mud. The ground trembled and smoke rose from beyond the trees on the other side of the river. With a rhythmic clanking sound, two thick cables rose up from the mud and water. Hanging from the cables, chains supported a wide bridge of railway sleepers.

Rache stepped on the dripping bridge first. Water still streamed over it, the heavy wood barely breaking the surface. The people followed, looking around fearfully for crocodiles or evols.

On the other side, Rache urged her people on. They hurried across the bridge, the wagons emptying and mothers carrying children. Cassie had Lowanna and Else’s baby in her arms, both of them howling.

Within twenty minutes the last of the people were across and moving beyond the trees. Men on horseback rode along the bank. One of them gave a shrill whistle and an answering whistle came from a steam engine further back. The bridge began to descend underwater again.

The water downstream still surged and rolled. Rache turned her back on the river and walked up the trail through the trees, wondering just what lay underneath the surface that could take a horse and all those evols.

The traction engine that ran the winch raising and lowering the steel cables of the suspension bridge fascinated Rache. The heavy boiler and firebox devouring split lengths of gum tree made her weak at the knees. Else stood talking excitedly with two women, wearing jeans and dark blue work shirts.

“This is fantastic!” Rache said, grinning at the engine.

“Kylie, Lilly, this is Rache. She’s an engineer,” Else made introductions.

“Welcome to Mildura,” Lilly said.

“Is this a safe place?” Rache asked.

“Sure,” Kylie replied. “We work hard but we are building a community here.”

“We made it . . .” Rache felt an upwelling of grief and tears spilled down her face.

“I need to see Sister Mary and Donna,” Else said.

“Let’s get you all registered and checked over. You can see Donna soon enough,” Kylie replied.

“Registered?” Eric asked, walking up to the conversation.

“All new arrivals need to be registered. You’ll then be assigned a living space, job details, and have a medical.”

The former convent remained as a center of operations, but now the community of Mildura was being rebuilt. Else saw at least three hundred people working fields, building houses, and driving stock. Women and children watched the new arrivals pass through into a fenced-off area, while armed guards discreetly took up positions herding the survivors into the pen.

“What’s this for?” Rache stopped and stared at the high mesh fence and gate.

“Quarantine,” Kylie replied. “You can stay here until you are checked for any illness and cleared.”

“My people need food and water, not to be put in a cage,” Rache replied.

“They will get all that. Everyone goes through the same process.”

Rache looked around. Else would stop this and make the women listen. Except Else had vanished. Cassie cradled Lowanna and shrugged when Rache’s gaze fell on her.

“How long does this process take?” Rache asked.

“Two, maybe three days,” Lilly replied.

“It better not take any longer,” Rache warned and followed the survivors into the pen.

Else followed the road north towards the convent. The land around Mildura had once been farmed and now it was again. People looked up from their toil as she walked past, smiled, waved, and went back to weeding and tending the crops.

The white dome of the convent still glowed in the late afternoon sun. The fences were still up around the compound, but the gates were open, allowing a steady stream of riders to pass under the open doorway where once Else had practiced her archery on the advancing dead.

A guard with a rifle took aim from atop the wall. “Who are you!” he called down.

“I’m Else. I’m here to talk to Sister Mary and Donna Preston.”

“Wait there,” the sentry said, then vanished. Else stood in the sun, shading her baby from the light with the edge of a blanket and fanning him gently.