The Southwind Saga (Book 2): Slack Water

by Jase Kovacs

  I step back and look around. I try to ignore the way the tattooed man's feet twitch sporadically, his hands drum in the dirt. Daisy's frenzied attack continues, little shrieks and gasps of rage coming from her every time she lands a blow.

  Weng has been making himself useful; he holds an empty paint can out to me. About a gallon, pinholed with rust but good enough. A gunshot stops me in my tracks, but it's Piper, firing up the road. She lowers her rifle, looking critically at her handiwork. "Damn it, thought so. They're scattering into the jungle."

  I get back to the boat. Roman and Enzo have abandoned their levers. Enzo is back to slopping muck out by hand, clearing the drain to let the water out. "Get the big shit out, eh? Enough so we can carry!"

  Roman goes over to Daisy, catching her upraised arm and pulling her off the tattooed man. She shrieks and screams as he holds her, her tiny knife hand in his big palm, her feet kicking at his belly.

  She screams, "Mi les, mi les!" I don't want to! I don't want to! Her frenzy regresses her to a toddler having a tantrum. He strokes her hair and whispers into her ear, and gradually she quietens.

  But he doesn't want her completely calm. He lowers her to the ground, picks up his own machete, and leads her over to the back door. He takes up position on one side, his back flat against the wall, and she stands next to him, waiting to ambush the next man who comes in.

  "Old man," calls Piper. "Get over here and keep an eye on the road."

  While Weng hobbles painfully to the warehouse front, Piper runs across to the back door. Staying well within the building, she glasses the tree line with her rifle scope. "Shit, they're hiding in the tree line. This is turning into a siege."

  I'm bailing water out of the bottom of the boat. It's as thick and unctuous as crude oil; it heaves with writhing larvae and terror-stricken frogs who thought they could wait out this storm hidden in the muck. "So, that's good, right?" I say. "They can't get across the grass without you shooting them."

  "Yeah, the problem is that there's at least a dozen of them, and I can only cover one avenue of approach at a time." She crouches, thumbing bullets into the rifle's tube magazine. "Plus, Deborah's bringing reinforcements."

  "Forget them," says Enzo as he hurls a double handful of rotten waste to the ground. His arms are black to the elbows, as if he is wearing heavy rubber gloves. "The zombi wake up soon!"

  Piper comes over and looks in the boat. "How long until we can move it?"

  "Couple of minutes," says Enzo. "But everyone must help carry — otherwise it is too heavy. Zac, give me the bucket. Find more big planks and lie them down, like railroad. We slide the boat down, yes?"

  The rain of stones had been slackening for some minutes. Now it falters and stops. The sudden absence of noise is as shocking as the first strikes on the tin walls had been. I run across to the pile of planks and begin dragging them across the building. I plough the muddy floor over and over. By the time I have four, I have forgotten about the people outside this building who want to kill us. My hands are ripped up by splinters, and my body aches with a deep, profound pain that promises a return with interest.

  Enzo drops the bucket, and together we lay the planks end to end. They get all the way to the front entrance of the building, where the main dirt road splits us off from the concrete wharf. There is a slipway on the north side of the road, only fifteen metres away. The tall grass runs right up to its far side; there could be a dozen cultists in there, and we'd never know.

  The sun has fallen behind the headland, and the tree's bases are dark pools of the coming night, as if the island is drowning in a slowly rising tide of pitch. Piper points to the jungle on the far side of the road. "There's some over in those trees. More probably worming their way into the grassland. Plus, there are other warehouses to our north and south; I expect they've managed to get into them without us seeing."

  "So we have to go quick, eh?" says Enzo. He speaks as calmly as if he is suggesting an option for dinner. "Everyone lifts, gets the boat onto wood. Then we push fast. So has speed, yes? She keep going when we hit the road, go across to the slip. Piper, you cover us."

  "Sure."

  "Why is it so quiet?" I ask.

  "They are waiting for night," says Piper. "Enzo's right. They are waiting for the masalai to come down on us."

  I shake my head. "Not Reuben. Deborah, for sure, but Reuben wants our blood for himself."

  "We waste time," says Enzo. "Come on!"

  Piper takes a fire position while we go back to the boat. "Roman, come on. You too, old man," orders Enzo. He places his shotgun in the boat, making sure to keep it out of the last few inches of black mud in the bottom. "Roman, you strong man. You lift the bow while we push, okay?"

  Roman whispers something to Daisy, who stays where she is by the back door. She has not touched the blood that stains her face, chest, and arms. She looks demonic. He trots quickly to the front of the dinghy and grips the bow. He tenses, his arms swelling like melons as he lifts. The boat must still weigh a good three hundred kilos, but he gets the front a few inches in the air and off the cradle. "Okay," he gasps.

  "Now!" shouts Enzo. He and I put our shoulders to the square stern of the boat and shove as hard as we can. My legs slip in the mud, and I slide back as the boat shoots forward. Roman stands back to let the boat come off the trailer and thud onto the ground. I pick myself up and get back into position as Roman steadies the bow, shifting it an inch at time until it is the centre of our wooden track.

  "Okay!" says Roman. "Strong legs now!"

  I throw everything I've got into driving myself forward. The boat is a cool white anvil on my shoulder. I grit my teeth so hard that their roots sing with pain. But the boat slides; Roman pulls and guides at once while Enzo, myself, and even old Weng get it moving.

  Daisy shrieks as men come through the back door, and the air is filled with gunshots that ring in my ears as Piper shoots across the warehouse, the bullets snapping past us with whipcracks that make me want to crawl into a dark hole.

  The cultists stumble back, the first one's thighs slick with blood welling from a dozen stab wounds. Then little Daisy is with us, her blood-slick hands pressing down on mine as she adds her thin frame to our efforts. I can't tell what else is happening, only that my head is down, the boat is moving, and Enzo is shouting, "Allez! Allez! Dépêchez-vous! Plus rapide!" In his excitement, he's forgotten that no one speaks French. But we all understand.

  Then, with a crunch of gravel, the boat slides off the rail, out of the warehouse and onto the road. Piper snaps shots to dissuade our attackers. I trip again and fall flat this time. The boat has momentum now, the keel crunching and sliding on the gravel as Enzo and Roman drive it across the road with powerful thrusts of their legs. There's a little check to their momentum as they hit the concrete slipway, and then they are over the edge and Enzo shouts, "Slow down, slow down!" as the boat slides down the concrete ramp to the water.

  A movement in the doorway over to our left catches Piper's attention. Her finger flickers against the side of her rifle; damn, her trigger discipline is good. She swears. The two thin children we saw that first day come out of the building holding wickedly curved knives. They run straight across the road at her. She hesitates, and I realise she can't shoot them. I also see what she hasn't — a volley of stones hurled from the tree line, coming like hail. I shout a warning, and she half turns just as a stone as big as my fist strikes her shoulder and drives her down.

  "Piper!" I yell as I get my feet under me. I run across the slipway. She's lifting herself up, using her rifle as a stock, but the children are only a few metres away. Their faces are yearning, as if begging for food. Beyond them, I see men and women breaking out of the grass, the jungle, and the buildings, appearing on all sides of us like an army of ants.

  I grab Piper by the shoulder, and she screams as something wet moves beneath my hands. I get her to her feet just as Daisy leaps in front of us, a snarling, spitting wildcat of rage that checks the children's advance.
They hiss back at her, the three of them facing off, ready to start slashing with their blades.

  The Lost Tribe comes openly now. Men and women with matted hair and haunted faces run down the road. They appear from out of warehouses and from the alleys. They wade through the grass, and they step from the jungle like actors walking on stage. They hold sticks, rocks, clubs, knives, bats studded with nails, machetes, and long spears. Several have bows, arrows nocked, pointing at the ground.

  Some of them, the ones who ran with Reuben, look excited, even aroused, as they advance. A couple laugh and joke. The big man with crosses tattooed on his forearms looks particularly pleased to see me, holding his spiked cricket bat as if offering a demonstration.

  But most of the crowd look confused, even drugged, as they straggle towards us, moving slowly and stiffly like prisoners being driven across a minefield. I want to scream at them, tell them they follow false prophets, that they are on a fool's crusade, but their resigned faces tell me I would be spitting in the wind.

  Piper shrugs me off. Her right arm hangs loosely, and she struggles to raise her rifle in her left hand.

  They hang back, watching us curiously, their faces grey in the coming twilight. The big man, the children, and a few others stand just outside of arm's reach, but most of them — perhaps thirty people in all — stay on the road. Reuben appears, the people parting to let him advance. His fine white clothing is ripped and stained from the forest, and he holds my pistol like a malevolent totem.

  "All the blood you have spilled is in vain," he says, his eyes glassy with excitement. "Did you really think you could escape us?"

  I don't look to him or his followers. I look past him, to the crowd — the congregation — gathering on the road. "You people are good Christians! But you've been swayed, led astray by the words of devils. They have filled your ears with lies and led you into the wilderness."

  Enzo and Roman have come up, flanking us. Enzo holds his shotgun at his hip, the one remaining shell ready to spend on the first who charges. Roman holds his machete down by his thigh. He is a calm centre in this storm.

  Reuben sounds bored as he says, "Kill them."

  "NO!" shrieks Deborah. Her breath comes in short gasps, and her face runs with sweat. Her clothing is as torn and stained by the jungle as Reuben's, but she still manages to summon a certain dignity, a stiffness of her back, a proud turn of her head as she gathers herself. As she talks, she limps painfully forward until her last words are delivered point blank into his face. "They are not yours, Reuben! You are not God here, nor are you his prophet! They are promised to the Green Lord and all his children. You will not steal from his table!"

  Reuben raises one finger, as if he is about to launch into a spiritual debate. Then he freezes as something inside him snaps, like a long-overloaded rope giving way. Whatever argument that gathered in his throat is dismissed as a waste of time. Instead, so fast that we aren't sure what happens until it is over, he whips up his other hand and shoots Deborah in the throat, the muzzle flash a nova that shocks us all with its brightness.

  As Deborah falls, a charge runs through us all, as if the ground itself is electrified. All of us stiffen and draw back: Enzo, Piper, the tattooed man, the ranks of the Lost Tribe. The jungle seems to pause in surprise as the gunshot silences the evening birds, echoing across the bay in a solemn thunderclap.

  Reuben's eyes are dull, even mournful, as he turns to us. His mouth works, but he can find no words. The electric charge has risen from us and fills the air, as if the clear sky is about to manifest a sudden thunderstorm. There is an incredible sense of something having been released; the air itself vibrates like a spent bowstring.

  "Reuben," I say. "What have you done?"

  CHAPTER TWELVE: MATAI

  It's cool down by the pool. We have fished Mrs. Aloysius's body from the water and laid her on a mossy boulder. While Mark and Alfred say their good-byes, I inspect the entrance of the cave. It looks pretty tight, a cleft between two large boulders under which the river runs. This sinkhole was formed when the roof of the cave collapsed; it is filled with boulders and rubble and years of fallen leaves and tumbled trees. I can see, when I shine my Surefire down inside, that the tunnel opens up into a regular passage, the product of relentless polishing by the river rather than sinkhole's collapse.

  Alfred, heaving with silent sobs, hugs Mrs. Aloysius. Mark comes up to me. His cheeks are shiny with tears that he wipes away. He holds the teenaged sniper's rifle, a semiautomatic Ruger chambered for .223. "Give us another minute."

  I look up to the sky, grey with the gathering afternoon thunderstorm. "We don't have another minute."

  "He needs it, man. She was his mom." He points into the cave, where my torch lights the smooth limestone walls. "See that, man? It's pretty regular at first. Like, for the first hundred yards. Then there's some big ol' chasms from earthquakes. Past that, she goes to like this big, gnarly underground harbour, where the sea comes in. Gonna be freezin' our nuts off in this river."

  "A harbour? Are there boats?"

  "Man, you think I come up here recreatin'? I ain't David, going to play with no lion, yeah? Haven't been here for five years!"

  "So you don't know."

  "There's gonna be whatever the vampires have put in there, man!"

  I remember the door on Black Harvest, leading down in to the dark labyrinth belowdecks, Blong at the bottom of the stairs, beckoning me in, saying, Come on, lady!

  Blong, I say silently to myself, I'm sick of chasing you into dark holes. Next time, I'm leashing you.

  Alfred rises, composing himself and drying his face on fistfuls of fern leaves. Then he solemnly smears his face with white mud to show he is in mourning.

  The river rushes into the cleft and under the boulders. I reflect on my earlier reluctance to make any loud noises; the water is loud down here. I almost have to shout when talking to the others.

  I take stock quickly. I have one full magazine and fifteen remaining rounds in my weapon now. I have my Surefire underbarrel torch on my rifle, Piper's hand torch, and a chemlight. Mark has the Ruger with a full magazine and a dozen loose rounds in his pocket. I'm not sure how wise it is giving Mark a weapon — but Alfred has no idea how to shoot, and at least Mark seems quieter and more composed with the gun in his hands. But he's still Mark. He's rocking back and forth, murmuring, "Green and gold, always find green with the gold, gotta, get it get it get it."

  "Mark!" I say sharply. "You ready?"

  He blinks at me, as if he's looking at a stranger, before his eyes clear. "Sure thing, man. Let's do something radical."

  I look into the cave. Part of me recognises that what I am doing is crazy. I have just over one and a half magazines of ammunition, two torches, a crazy guy with a gun, and a heartbroken son with a big knife, and we're about to go into a cave where hundreds of marys wait.

  But another, greater part of me is fine with this. Mark and Alfred will follow me into this cave because they feel this too. There is something right and good about what we are doing, as if our motives could mitigate our descent into the greatest den of vipers ever conceived.

  "You know the cave, Mark — I've got one spare torch. You want it?"

  "It's pretty easy at first," he says. "But gets tricky real fast. Maybe get Al to hold the torch so we can focus on guns."

  I twist Piper's torch to wide beam and hand it to Alfred. "You good, mate?"

  He nods. His face is clear, almost eager, the mud the only sign of the grief that just overwhelmed him. That's something I've always admired about the locals. They grieve publicly and with a passion that is almost theatrical — but then, once they've got it all out, they can go on with life as if they have been purged. Compare that with my reaction: sad that Mrs. Aloysius is gone and hey, let's not even mention that I shot a teenaged boy in his eye. I had a good long look at him when I went to recover his weapon and search his body. I know I'm going to be thinking about that a lot. Hell. I've got the rest of my life to think it over.
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br />   Just not now.

  I squeeze between the boulders and into the cave. The river runs knee deep and fast and so cold it takes my breath away. I push over to the side, just inside the entrance, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. Alfred and Mark come in behind me. "Keep the torch off. Let your eyes adjust."

  The noise of the river is muffled in here. It rushed when it was forced through the boulders of the sinkhole, but here it fills the cave, spreading out and slowing. The cave goes back in a long tunnel, like an alley, wider than I could touch with both hands. It heads back maybe twenty metres before flowing around to the right. The walls are limestone, thousands of layers of coral laid down over millions of years. I am literally walking in an Earth built of animals' skeletons.

  The breeze flows into the cave, over my shoulders and down the tunnel. There is an exit down there somewhere, drawing the air like a vacuum. Over the muffled rush of water, I can hear an excited, high-pitched chittering noise, like a barrel of rats all squealing as they crawl over each other. As if he's reading my mind, Alfred says, "Bats."

  Mark has a fixed smile on his face — more a grimace, to be honest. "Oh, man… oh, man," he murmurs over and over. He shifts and adjust his grip on his weapon nervously.

  "Mark, are you going to be okay?"

  "Yeah, don’t worry about me, lady, it's all green and gold, apples and stairs, oranges and pears."

  "Just go slowly, mate. I need you to guide me down here."

  "Ain't but one way to go, yeah? Down down down into the belly of the beast."

  "You're starting to stress me. You sure you want to come?"

  "I ain't goin' back up there alone if that's what you're askin'."

  I wade forward, the water swirling around my legs. The riverbed is covered in little pebbles, and I move slowly, placing my feet carefully so I don't trip over an unexpected rock or piece of submerged wood. "Okay, Alfred, come up behind me with the torch. Mark, come last. Watch our backs."

  "Yeah, I can't see in the dark, yeah?"