Doomsday's Child (Book 1): Doomsday's Child

by Pete Aldin

  He flinched from the bars, kept out of reach as he studied the former-human, his heart thumping, tinnitus in his ears. “Long time dead, but ya still got rhythm.” The joke wasn't funny, but it went a ways toward helping him keep control, and toward dispelling the electric buzz of anxiety vibrating his head.

  Focus. Got a job to do. Get it done.

  It had once been a him and he had once been a local cop, now pantsless and shoeless, shirt buttoned tight against his turkey neck, socks brown with undefinable muck, bare legs scabrous and slippery with body fluids. The only question, Elliot thought, trying to get a look behind the corpse, was whether the fluids were from its own body or someone else's. He squinted. In the back corner against the john, a crumpled mass resolved itself as another body, unchewed legs encased in denim, feet encased in workboots. It wore a polo-shirt like Elliot's but where Elliot's was black by design, its shirt was blackened with old blood. It lay with back to him, face and hands hidden by the curl of its body. A peaked cap sat nearby, as did the dead cop's pants and shoes. The cop's sidearm was missing from the holster, maybe under the cot or the other body, but a set of keys were visible on the belt and it was the keys he wanted.

  Elliot fished out his pocket flashlight and focused the beam on the dead corpse's cap: the Shell logo matched the one on the truck outside. The tanker had taken out three parked cars and ended up in the middle of the Harrietville Council Chambers lawn. Elliot put it all together.

  They toss the tanker driver in here DUI, only he's not DUI, he's Sick. It's early in the breakdown. Soon after, a bunch of deaders appear in town, all hell breaks loose and this cop locks himself in here with the driver, thinking he'll be safe 'cause he can protect the poor bastard from the cadaver hordes, except the driver is one of them and bites him. Cop shoots him in the head, but it's not too long before he gets Sick himself.

  Elliot would never be able to ask the cop why he'd taken off his pants and shoes. Or why he didn't shoot himself when he realized his fate. Maybe he hadn't been as tough as he thought was.

  Yeah, look who's talking. Quit stalling. Get it done.

  “Well. The gun locker keys aren't anywhere in that office out there. Has to be them on your belt there. You hand 'em over and I'll let you live. Or whatever it is you're doing.” He pulled his piton hammer out. “Your choice: hard way or easy way?”

  The corpse snarled in response and tried to squeeze between the bars, dirty fingernails raking the air mere inches from Elliot's bandanna.

  “Hard way it is.” One swing of the hammer shattered the corpse's elbow so that it hung loose, dangling like ribbon. The next dented the skull, but not enough to kill it. The undead cop huffed and pulled away, broken arm snagging on the crossbar. Elliot drew his tanto knife. He pinned the trapped arm with his chest, grabbed the shirt sleeve up higher, raised the knife and jerked the dead man closer. The deader's left eye met six inches of pointed steel coming the other way with a squelching sound and a squirt of black blood and yellowy vitreous fluid. It shivered a moment then went slack, slumping against the bars as Elliot yanked the blade free. The broken arm slipped loose of its moorings and Elliot let the body complete a graceless slide to the floor.

  Beneath the bandanna, his nostrils flared at the fresh wave of stench. He held onto his breath and held onto his breakfast, carefully wiping the blade on the cop's shirt before going to find a broom handle to drag the man's pants over. The keyring remained unsoiled, a small mercy. He'd already gotten blood on his fingers once today.

  With the thought of the Ousefs' blood, images and sound-bites snapped at the fringes of his consciousness, an ever-present swarm of memory and recrimination. The tinnitus was back. The knuckles of both hands wrapped tight around the broom handle and he swung it hard at the door to the office. It struck the jamb, snapped in two, the other half skittering off into the office. The shock of the blow sliced up his arms to his elbows like electricity. And the pain brought him back before he could vanish into flashback, it centered him.

  He tossed the keys into the air, caught them, shoved them in his pocket. He saluted the dead cop with the jagged end of the stick, forcing a grin.

  “Of the fittest, asshole,” he said and turned back to the office with his arms buzzing and his head clear.

  *

  It took six keys before one fit the gunlocker. The steel cabinet stood by the rear door where the building had been extended past the cellblock.

  “Bingo,” Elliot said as the lock clicked open. He yanked on the door. The locker's emptiness mocked him. “Shit.”

  His head was pressed against the cool of the door when he heard engines. Two cars and a motorbike approaching at confident speed. He sidled up to a barred window. The vehicles came into view around the end of the tanker, brakes squealing as they slowed opposite the police station. A Harley. A red V8 with flame decals. A dirty white pickup. His hand went to his knife handle. His gut clenched. Three vehicles he'd seen leaving the health spa.

  One guy in the pickup. The Harley rider was alone. The muscle car was past and parking nose-in before he could see through the window tinting. So anywhere up to five people.

  The rider had dressed in leathers and denim, scalp wrapped in a black bandanna similar to Elliot's. His sleeveless jacket revealed thin and tattooed arms and sported a Celtic cross gang motif on the back. Elliot read Death Druids and would have laughed if the muscular guy getting out of the pickup hadn't been wearing the same clothes and carrying a Remington over/under shotgun. And if these guys hadn't committed multiple homicide the previous day.

  The biker dismounted and stretched before reaching for something hanging off his saddle—a diver's spear gun. He also had a wood-handled .38 or .357 in a hip-holster. The V8's driver door squeaked open and a fat guy in Levi's and white singlet levered himself out. He reached back inside to retrieve an automatic rifle, an M4 from the looks. No one got out the passenger side. All three men were heavily bearded, the pickup driver with his long greying hair tied back in a ponytail while the fat guy had shaved his scalp. All had neck-tatts, arm tatts and gold ear-rings.

  Perfect goddam timing.

  Elliot padded to the back of the station house, checked the window between back door and gun locker. An enclosed courtyard lay beyond it with plastic picnic table and umbrella, plastic chairs, a mountain bike and washing line with rumpled handtowels still pegged to it. The brick wall was fifteen feet high to discourage late night visitors to the station perhaps; with enough time to shove the picnic table against it, he might have made it over, but raised voices approaching fast from out front made him abandon that strategy. He struck the window softly with his fist: there was only one option, unless he wanted to hide under a desk and hope they didn't notice his body odor above the background stink of rodent piss and zombie policeman. He padded back into the cell annex, pushed the door against the jamb as footfalls and scraped heels approached the stairs, raised the bandanna over his nose again and slid the most likely key into the cell door. The lock clicked and the door rolled sideways an inch before snagging on the dead cop's arm.

  “Eyes open, bitches,” a harsh voice commanded, and the station door creaked.

  Elliot put his shoulder to the bars and shoved, snapping the arm off and sliding the body across the floor. He closed the door behind him and pocketed the keys. His backpack went beside the dead trucker—he wedged one end beneath the bunk, squashing it down. Then he took a deep breath he instantly regretted and lay on the floor, head toward the door, feet toward the trucker and cot. He reached for the cop and pulled him close. Even with his bandanna over the lower half of his face, it stunk to hell in here.

  “Waxer, check what's through there. Ah, bullshit!—gun locker's empty.”

  “Course it is,” replied a higher pitched male voice. “Told ya.”

  “Just check that back area,” the first voice ordered.

  “This is useless,” said a third voice. “I'm checking out the town hall or whatever that council building is.” The front door creak
ed again before boots pounded down the steps.

  Elliot nestled up against the twice-dead policeman, pulled the uninjured arm across his face and turned his head toward the floor. Slime or blood or both leaked cold and gross across his cheek and down his jaw, under his ear and along his neck. The cellblock door was opened by someone with the rattly breath of a lifelong smoker. The guy with the high pitched voice—Waxer?—swore in a whisper, then raised his voice. “Nothin' here, Jeff. Just cells and bodies.”

  “They dead?” Jeff's voice came closer without entering the cell annex. Rustling and banging from the offices indicated he was searching drawers.

  A scuff of feet on carpet as Waxer went back toward Jeff and announced, “One's arm's lying there on its own. None of 'em are moving. Should I pop 'em anyway?”

  Elliot's blood turned to ice. Why the hell hadn't he stood to the side of the door, taken the guy out when he peeked inside? He'd given away control.

  “You waste any more bullets, I'll gut ya,” Jeff replied.

  The slap of palm on scalp. Waxer grunted. He came back in, mumbling under his breath, feet shuffling right up to the cell. “This dead cop might have some ammo,” he called. The cell door opened and the belt Elliot had tossed back in rasped across the floor as the intruder snatched it away.

  The slime on Elliot's neck dripped, hit his collar. If he got out of this, he was definitely finding a new shirt. He couldn't see a thing, but imagined the sudden crack was the sound of Waxer kicking the door. The whiny prick swore loudly about the lack of gun or bullets in the belt. A moment later, Elliot was glad of the noise because the tanker driver's corpse twitched, its boots chucking against the steel frame of the cot.

  Holy…

  A bad day had just gone full nuclear fubar.

  One of the corpses in the cell with Elliot wasn't fully dead.

  3

  “Nothin' here,” Waxer said.

  Something smashed into a wall, Jeff chucking a chair. Maybe a desk.

  Another tremor shook the reanimated truck driver lying near Elliot's feet. The back straightened. The neck arched, the dead nose sniffing the air. Out in the office, Waxer and Jeff traded curses over where their next lot of ammo was coming from, though it sounded like they still had some—enough to put holes through both Elliot and the dead trucker if the trucker didn't stop squirming and smacking his gums. One dead hand spidered across the concrete floor, trying to gain enough purchase to push the driver up and over.

  Struggling to keep his breathing even and slow, Elliot was faced with several choices. Kick the dead guy's head in and hope his skull was weak enough for a quick job—a noisy option. Use his boot to clamp the deader's head to the cot leg—again, noisy: an uncooperative pusbag was going to struggle. Finally, repeat his last move and stab it in the eye—probably best. The tanto blade was a little broad for the job, but it was the least noisy to draw.

  The deader got his hand planted firmly enough to push up for just a moment. His head smacked dully against the floor when he lost purchase. Elliot had the tanto free. He drew his boots back toward his ass, bracing for the attack. If he moved too far out of position, he might be stranded when Waxer decided to come in again. A drawer squealed in the office as it was torn from the desk; it banged against something hard. The deader got his grip again, turned his milky eyes toward Elliot's knees.

  “So what now?” Waxer asked. Boots stomped.

  Elliot curled over, put the knife-handle to the side of his knee, angled the blade. The truck driver's mouth opened and closed, grey tongue flickering within the black maw. Elliot tensed, ready to spring.

  The front door slammed, the bikers' yabbering picking up again outside and fading as they passed along the street.

  Elliot shucked off his corpse-blanket and was on his feet with the blade sheathed in a second. He was closing the cell door by the time the trucker made it onto hands and knees. The deader swayed and sniffed, drooling bile onto the floor. His nose was a loose flap of putrefied skin, hanging loose, exposing bone.

  “You look sick, pal.” Elliot put the tanto away and ran sweaty palms down his pants legs. “Even for a dead guy.”

  He could have put the thing out of its misery—but why risk a bite? His backpack was under the bed, but he could fish that out with the broken broom, once the crisis passed. There was no need—he hoped—to ever go back inside that cell.

  He snuck a look in the office. Nobody there, thank Christ. Maybe he'd get out of this one alive after all. The air was buzzing now; the bikers had let in plenty of flies. Elliot hated flies, and Australia was full of them. Holding the collar away from his hair, he pulled off the t-shirt, used a cleanish part to wipe his neck and face, bundled it and tossed it, untied the bandanna and repeated the process.

  He crept out and sheltered behind the desks, close enough to retreat to the cells if necessary. He started searching drawers and office cupboards. Eventually he found a sealed fast food pack: paper napkin, plastic cutlery, alcohol wipe. He tore through plastic, wiped himself down with the wipe, repeated it with the napkin. When the Death Druids left, he'd find a shower or a water tank. He really needed a wash.

  Sinking onto his ass, Elliot put his back against the desk. Towns were a risk and today proved it. There was little reward for the risk he'd taken here. No firearms. No ammunition—even outlaw bikers had been complaining about how hard that was to come by. There might be seeds in one of the outlying houses, a veggie garden, a chicken coop. Eggs. If the Druids didn't find it all. Hopefully there'd be some clean clothes that fit him too. It might be hot now, but he knew Tasmania played host to months of nasty cold weather mid-year. He'd need warm clothing, more knives for skinning and gutting, fishing line, a small tent maybe, certainly a more robust first aid kit than the IFAK in his pack.

  An occasional shout traveled his way while he waited. No sounds of alarm or shots, no signs of undead combat or live resistance. That at least boded well for his later scavenging. After fifteen minutes, he was getting antsy. He crept to the front windows. Nothing was visible in the street except the bikers' vehicles, the truck and the three cars it had totaled, plus a rusty old Holden hatchback someone had parked through the front window of a convenience store. That was maybe where the muscle-head pickup-driver went after checking the town hall; maybe the asshole was scarfing down all the processed foods he'd found there.

  “Well, I ain't gonna fight ya for it.”

  After a meat dinner and breakfast, Elliot was a long way from needing to risk infection to eat. Beside, there was no way he was getting into a confrontation with three hostiles armed only with his climber's hammer and knife. Not over a little suspect packaged food. Not over anything.

  Movement drew his eye back to the left. At the far end of the small town's shopping strip, on the corner of a narrow side street, sat one of the universals of Australian small towns: the pub. An old-world two-story white and brown building with fancier colonnades than it warranted. Two of the Druids—the fat one and the thinner of the two bike-riders, their voices identifying them as Jeff and Waxer—appeared from a side-entry lugging a steel keg between them. On the street they lowered it and the skinny one started rolling it toward the vehicles. Elliot knew the reflection of the sun off this window would keep him hidden from their view, so he watched, forcing down his impatience. Near the pickup, the rider stopped, straightened, rolled his shoulders, kneaded his back with fists while the fat guy Jeff laughed. Jeff lit up a reefer. They started talking crap, leaning on the car facing the pub, sharing the smoke with weapons slung over their backs.

  Just move on, shitheads. Then I can restock and move on too.

  He remained set on that far west wilderness where he could wait out the apocalypse until the undead all decayed and disappeared into the soil. A man with his training and experience could survive up there. Plenty of fishing spots and game. He did want to learn about those edible native fruits and berries though. Maybe the Council Chambers would have a library inside, or a tourist book store.

&
nbsp; The gang duo flicked the butt away, left the keg where it was and wandered back towards the pub. Elliot thought about that pickup. Probably had a lot of supplies. Maybe they'd left the keys …

  “Stop it,” he muttered.

  Keep your goddam head down.

  There were other sources of food and resources. There'd be a farmhouse somewhere with weapons and ammo, seeds and books. Let these assholes have their beer and their cans of beans. When they'd gone, he'd scavenge Harrietville for leftovers, then start up that hatchback and take it as far across country as it would get him.

  That was absolutely what he was going to do. Absolutely. It was the smart thing.

  Then he noticed something swinging from Waxer's belt: the Ousef daughter's pandora bracelet. Even without field glasses, the various charms' colors and shapes were clear enough, clearest of all the gold Orthodox cross. It was the girl's all right, the one in all the photos of her. And this mouth-breathing sonofabitch was parading it as his trophy while elsewhere his buddies visited unthinkable abuses upon the girl .

  A cold and familiar anger settled over him. His inner Unconventional Warfare Instructor said, no, keep safe, keep low, stay out of it.

  But he wasn't going to do that. No, sir, he was not.

  As he lived and breathed, Elliot was gonna teach these fuckers a lesson.

  *

  The third Druid who'd gone it alone was right where Elliot thought he’d be. Lying across the bench seat in the tanker’s cab with his hands among the wires, trying to remember his elementary hot wiring. When Elliot whipped the driver’s door open, the look of mild surprise on the upturned face was almost comical—and became pathetic as he saw his own death coming. With his hands busy and lying in an awkward position, the Death Druid knew there was nothing he could do to prevent it and simply froze. Elliot’s right hand gripped the man's ear hard, wrenched his head around, plunged the knife into the base of the skull, twisted it. Brain stem severage. Lights out.