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

by Pete Aldin

  Heng led them back through the gates, pointed. Bodies littered the compound, including those of the zombies who'd once protected The Downs. He felt a pang of something, maybe sadness, at the woman's body—the one he and Angie had killed—homely clothing, cheap and utilitarian, no style, her greying hair mussed in death.

  You picked the wrong side.

  Past the carnage, the Druid's black van door was open. Two young women in jogger gear—strangers—sat on the running board, Angie squatting before them, talking while they rubbed at their eyes and nodded. Elliot froze for a moment thinking one of them with black hair was Lewis's sister. She wasn't. Ten years too old. He wondered if Lewis had the same reaction; nothing showed on his face.

  “Goddam,” he said, thinking of the trajectory they'd been on and of stray bullets. “Lucky them.”

  “God on their side,” said Heng.

  Elliot frowned at him, unsure if it was a joke.

  They weaved through the mess of bodies, gathering Dylan in their wake. He looked lost, exhausted. The women fell silent at their approach, the newcomers' eyes kept diverting to Elliot's handgun. He was opening his mouth to suggest heading back to the boat-owner's house when Angie spoke first.

  “Better get the gate fixed again.”

  He squinted one eye at her and then Heng. “You want to stay.”

  “Good place,” Heng said.

  Elliot chewed his cheek, thinking it over. “Then we've got work to do,” he said.

  “Work?” Dylan said. He sounded like he wanted to lie down and nap.

  Elliot pointed the SIG at the other biker's body where it slumped near his side-lying Harley. “You want to stay? Then this place needs organizing. These animals will be back sometime. Question is when and in what strength. Last I saw them in Harrietville, a couple were complaining about running short of ammunition. That might mean their whole gang, or it might've meant those two individuals. We have to base our plans on the latter.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” said Dylan. “You had us ready to run out that hole in the fence twenty minutes ago. I don't know what's wrong with you,” he aimed at Angie. “I'm definitely happy to get the hell out of here. I'm not staying here.” One of the girls was nodding agreement. Lewis looked unsure.

  Elliot took a moment to think and realized the safety was off on the SIG. He castigated himself for the lapse, made a show of safing it and slipping it in a cargo pocket where it clacked against his lockblade. “You all have a choice now,” he told them. “You could scatter like cockroaches, find new rocks to hide under. Or you can band together, fortify this place, learn to defend it. You stay here, the first thing needs doing is fixing those gates. Heng here, he knows what he's doing. Lewis too. And Angie. I'd be making their opinion on these matters high priority.”

  “What about you?” Lewis asked, stepping in front of him. “You're not leaving?”

  “Not short term, Cochise. Tonight and tomorrow, I'll do whatever you folk decides needs doing.”

  “You wrong,” said Heng.

  Elliot eyed him hard. “How's that?”

  “First thing we do is get my family.”

  VI

  Choices and Chances

  22

  The dawn smeared the east with grey and orange and pink. Birds rioted along the orchard behind the barn and The Downs' makeshift parking lot, greeting the coming day. The washed out color of the farm environs emerged from the gloom in stages. Sipping black instant coffee the taste and consistency of battery acid, Elliot watched The Downs' new occupants emerge from a shaky night's rest to continue the work of the previous afternoon and evening. The gates were back up after a lot of whining from Dylan about his injured hand and after Heng had safely brought in his family. The various dead bodies no doubt still smoldered in the pyre they'd lit in one of the back paddocks; Elliot didn't think he'd ever clean that particular smell out of his nostrils as long as he lived. Angie and one of the van girls had kept busy walking the fenceline looking for weaknesses, and creating an inventory of the stores, while the third girl who looked like Lewis's sister had helped the men pick up bodies.

  Elliot had seen a shitload of communities in his years, in all shapes and sizes and variations of economic wellness. This one was going to be a first. Two office workers, two college students, seven Cambodians, and one thirteen year old Syrian-Australian. Not much to hold off a concerted assault from outlaw bikers. But with the fences and with their weapons, it was a start.

  Angie emerged from the house with shotgun gripped in one hand and coffee mug in the other, veered off toward the sheds to start whatever work she had in mind for the day. She was a concern. She reminded him of himself: she'd do what it took in the moment and worry about the guilt later. Or maybe she'd feel zero guilt; she didn't seem at all fazed by what she'd done. That could bode well for the new community or it could turn out to be very bad. She was either exactly what they needed or she was a loose cannon. He'd ask Heng to keep an eye on her.

  The remaining woman farmers had been locked in the black van for the night. Elliot was going to let someone else decide what to do with them. He knew what he'd do, but it wasn't up to him. Probably the others would drive them a fair distance and let them loose to fend for themselves. He shrugged as he thought of it, but the idea still niggled at him.

  He was regarding the spindly windmill that climbed above the garage and solar panels when Lewis came out, sipping a coffee of his own. Following Elliot's gaze, Lewis asked, “Sniper nest?”

  Elliot nodded in approval. “A lookout at least.”

  They sipped their lousy coffee shoulder-to-shoulder and let the dawn come. Silence stretched between them. Lewis had his sister's bracelet in his other hand, fingers tracing the various charms. He'd added a new one, a bird he must have made from fencing wire.

  This boy should be artist, Heng had said.

  And Elliot had replied, We give him choices and chances. Then Lewis will be in a position to make up his own mind about who he is and what he wants to do.

  Elliot might have a lot of regrets from the life he'd led, but preventing Lewis from blowing Waxer's head off would never be one of them.

  Lewis heaved a heavy breath, slipped the bracelet in a pocket and said simply, “I want my family back.”

  Elliot—who would have given anything to get Tommy Harrison back, and even assholes like Radler and Eames—reached up and squeezed the teenager's shoulder, then dropped his hand to his side. What the hell was there to say about it?

  He sipped coffee and heaved a breath of his own. “Need more people here.”

  “To defend it?”

  “And farm it.”

  “How about Jock? And the people he went out visiting?”

  Elliot's gut tightened. It wasn't time yet. But he'd have to tell him before he left. If he didn't, then any day now Lewis would grab a vehicle and find his way back there. He'd walk into the pedo's study and find a body. He might even investigate the cellar. Elliot shook his head to clear it of the images. He didn't want those stuck in Lewis's head. He'd have to tell him. Tomorrow.

  “Give it a day, Lewis,” he said. “Get settled first, then we'll think about who else. But, you know, those idiots on the island had one thing right: you have to be careful who you include, who you invite in. It might be as simple as if anyone's gut says no, you all say no.”

  “You keep saying 'you'. You're staying. Aren't you? You don't really want to go all the way out west and live in the bush on your own.”

  He'd walked out on Tommy for all the wrong reasons, for an ignorant kid's reasons. He had different reasons for walking out on Lewis—he didn't get along with people, he was a serial asshole—and maybe that made those reasons better.

  “Gimme a couple of days to decide on that, Lewis,” he hedged.

  “Just tell me now.”

  “Impatient little bastard, ain't ya?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ask me again tomorrow.” He sipped and grimaced. “Anyway, I have a co
uple more ideas about defense. One is we use the radios here to contact the island.”

  “Seriously? The people who sold us out!”

  “That red-haired guy didn't seem too happy with Meg and Bill doing that to us. Maybe there's others who feel the same. And I'd think Meg still has some conscience in there somewhere. She might have enough to consider a new deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “Instead of allying with the Death Druids, they ally with us against them. Druids will be here some time when their boys don't return. Probably in force. There's at least ten of them. We can ask to borrow the red-haired guy and a few more to help us defend the place for … pick a timeframe. Maybe a month.”

  “They won't do it.”

  “We pay them in sheep.”

  “They won't do it.”

  “They might. It's worth asking. But. We need to make sure we don't use too many of them so that they outnumber us. Four maybe. And I get to look Red Head in the eye when he arrives and make sure he's on the level.”

  “You're always thinking, aren't you?”

  “That's the nicest thing you ever said to me, Cochise.”

  “Didn't say you were thinking smart things.”

  “You're a helluva wiseass, know that?”

  “Takes one.”

  “Guess so.”

  They returned to silence until both their mugs were empty. Elliot handed his over.

  “Take this back to the kitchen for me?”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “One more body to take care of.” He indicated the top of the lighthouse visible above the road.

  “Want help?” Lewis asked but his heart wasn't in it.

  “You need to get your people together and plan your day. I'll take care of that prick.”

  “Be careful, eh?”

  “Sure will, Pops.”

  Lewis rolled his eyes and moved away. He stopped, turned to speak, seemed surprised Elliot was just standing there watching him, froze up.

  “What's up, pal?”

  “I, uh, I guess I wanted to thank you.”

  Shee-it. There's a first.

  “No need.”

  “Yes need. You …” He stared a while into an empty cup. “I could be dead by now, but I'm not. So, you know, thanks.”

  “So pay it forward, Cochise.”

  “I will. Believe me.”

  Elliot cleared his throat. “You know, I should thank you too.”

  “Huh? What for?”

  “For teaching me that a man should keep an open mind.”

  And there it is, folks. Another first.

  A wan smile emerged through the dirt on Lewis's face. “Wish my family could have met you. Dad, Mum, Alyssa. They'd like you.”

  He winced at the sister's name, covered it by running a hand over his stubble. “I doubt that, Lewis.”

  Lewis' smile grew cheeky. “Yeah, I doubt it too. Seemed like a nice thing to tell you, though.”

  Elliot chuckled. “Asshole.”

  “Asshat.”

  “Wash my cup.”

  Lewis straightened, snapped off a salute and strode away. The young man's shoulders seemed broader than even yesterday, his stride longer and more sure. He waved at Angie in the shed and she gave him a thumbs up.

  For some reason that escaped him, Elliot felt proud.

  23

  Fresh off the ocean, the sea breeze hit him in the face like aftershave as he navigated his way down the hill to the Lighthouse. Against all reason, he felt good, real good, as if in breathing that breeze he was imbibing optimism. An albatross hovered just off shore. Silver gulls pulled at the remains of sheep, but even that felt natural; far better than deaders doing it.

  His next task was clear to him, but unlike the gulls and despite what he'd told Elliot, it wasn't getting rid of a body. Not yet.

  He cracked open the lighthouse door, SIG ready. No danger. He relaxed a little.

  Waxer struggled to sit upright, shimmied his shoulders up the whitewashed bricks, mmm-ing against his gag, eyes wide beneath the bloody brow. The bonds Elliot had cut from the pile of towels still held. Waxer croaked something that was probably “Water”.

  Elliot shoved the door closed, stuck the SIG in his left hand cargo pocket and reached into the right one. He took out the lockblade. Waxer's eyes: a brief widening in fear before a narrowing of hateful resignation. Elliot nodded to confirm it. He crouched in front of the biker, right by the trussed-up man's feet. Waxer wouldn't lash out, not with that messed up knee.

  Elliot clicked open the blade, tapped it on Waxer's boot. He said, “And now you're gonna tell me exactly where to find his sister.”

  <<<<>>>>

  Acknowledgements & Notes

  I used to read novels and wonder why authors thanked so many people at the end. Surely they wrote it alone, I thought. I pictured them as tough lone wolves (like Elliot), working in their own strength, relying on no one, gettin' it done.

  Now I know better.

  You can't write anything half-decent without the generous support and advice of others. And I was blessed with the help of incredible advisors and professionals as I wrote and polished Doomsday's Child.

  I offer heartfelt thanks to...

  Janine: for supporting me through author-tantrums, for your awesome fact-checking and proofreading, for the colour scheme in my writing office, and for your love and optimism and partnership. We did this.

  Author JR Jackson: for advice on things military and nautical. Elliot was a mere character sketch until you stepped in, JR.

  Author and editor, Jason Nahrung: for his kind and thoughtful mentoring through the Australian Horror Writer's Association ... and for continuing to guide and sharpen me the writer once the mentoring program was over.

  Joy Killar: for helping me further Americanise (excuse me, Amercianize) my American protagonist. Apparently he came across as British in the first draft. Which might have been interesting too.

  Authors Peter Cooper, D Robert Digman, , Kevin Ikenberry, EJ McLaughlin, Ian Welke: good friends, writing buddies, gifted authors in their own genres. These magic five read (and sometimes reread) my late drafts, and hammered me hard on making improvements.

  Andrew Spong: for proofreading, especially for picking up the various ways I'd misspelled Elliot!

  The 20 people who voted on the title: sorry if you didn't get your number 1, but your voting certainly crystalised both the name and the theme of the story for me.

  Author Keith C. Blackmore: for kind advice and giving me courage to do the self-publishing thing, but do it well. And for introducing me to Captain Morgan.

  Some errors and untruths in this novel represent an author taking liberties, bending Truth to serve Story. Others, I'm sure, are simply errors.

  Read on for an excerpt from Pete Aldin's supernatural thriller...

  Black Marks

  Jake darted into a vacant lot as the roar of the car came up behind him. The vehicle missed him by inches. The wind of its passage nearly buffeted him from his feet. He careened off a corrugated iron fence, regained his balance and pelted across debris and gravel toward the rear fence. Pain lanced through his bare feet. Gaps in the fence were large enough that he didn't break stride to leap through into the high grass of someone's backyard. He knew the area – had checked it out the first day he'd come to Angelo's. Across the next street was a patch of wasteland and beyond that a disused railway track: lots of scrub there, ditches, culverts, places to hide. The sedan – it hadn't been Eddie's van as he'd expected – was growing fainter but that didn't mean he was safe. They'd be circling the block, and they would be in the street within seconds.

  Three teenage boys lounged on the back porch, passing a joint. “Hey!” one yelled at him as he passed. He hurdled the low brick fence onto the sidewalk. The motor noise leveled out then grew louder as he crossed the street. The Chevy appeared at the crossroads to his left, slewing around to face him with another screech of tires on asphalt. He plunged into the wasteland and
tried to dodge bricks and other detritus hidden like landmines beneath the sedge grass and thistles. Up ahead the silvery line of the railway's chain-link fence announced refuge. Thirty yards.

  The Chevy growled in protest as the driver mounted yet another curb. Gears crunched. Jake glanced over his shoulder. The car bounced and drifted, struggling to find traction on the fallow ground. Who the hell were they? More of Zee's crew?

  And what had happened to Eddie? That was definitely his van back there.

  His foot turned on a piece of wood and he stumbled. Almost fell. Numbness spread around his ankle, but there was no pain. Not yet. The Animal complained within him, surging. On four legs, a wolf could cover this ground twice as fast and more sure-footed.

  He tucked the bundle of clothes under one arm like a wide receiver and pushed on as hard as he could. Soil and stone crunched as the car slid to a halt twenty or thirty yards back. They couldn't crash through a fence, not if they had any brains; they weren't going to catch him.

  He leapt and landed high enough up the fence to avoid using his toes, grabbed the top and swung a leg over. The cold metal bar at the top of the fence pressed painfully against his inner thigh and he narrowly avoided tearing his scrotum on a wire-end. Something pinged off the bar below his gut. The next moment he was on his back, flattening a patch of thistle, with what felt like a heavy weight on his hip. He touched it; his fingers came away bloody.

  They hit me!

  He had to get up. Now, while the car's transmission complained as someone hurriedly put it in gear. Now, while their aim was off.

  Get up.

  Pain pinned him to the ground, a white-hot wire above his right hip.

  Get up!

  He turned over. Somehow. Got on hands and knees before the pain in his gut sucked him back onto the earth. So bad, so bad he sobbed.