Doomsday's Child (Book 2): Came Monsters

by Pete Aldin

  "I've thought this through a million—"

  "And I'll keep talking about it, because Claire asked me to and because drilling it into you might save someone's life besides yours, dumbass." Why was there always someone who wouldn't listen to him? "Worst thing is to get bogged down, pinned down, or flanked. Keep moving and if you have to abandon the vehicle, you do."

  Woodsy sat with his mug in his lap, lips pressed together, like a schoolboy getting a dressing down.

  Elliot stood. "And I'm goddamned tired and I'm going to bed. Just tell me tomorrow what you decide to do. But," he added with his hand on the door, "my best piece of advice is this. Don't. Take. Jimmy."

  4

  It felt like someone had turned up gravity. With bowed head and slumped shoulders, Elliot trudged across the Yard toward Main Street, forcing himself to take that route. He could have diverted through the orchards and across the paddocks, making a beeline for his tent. But he had one more person to visit before he could collapse into welcome unconsciousness.

  With the rain holding off, the Street now showed the signs of life he expected from it. Light spilled from behind curtains. Shaz and Tania—the women rescued from Waxer's van following the battle for The Downs—sat shoulder to shoulder on their step, sharing a cigarette. He dug a half empty packet of them from a pocket, considered it for a moment: it had gotten a little crushed in his escape from the field. Well, he wasn't going to smoke them. He tossed the pack to Shaz. "Found these in a car."

  She looked it over then flashed him the inside of the pack on the step beside her. It had one left. "Good timing. Appreciate it."

  "De nada," he responded and stopped at the last hut on the left. A candle flickered inside. He knocked gently and said, "It's Elliot."

  The voice from within was soft and all it said was: "Okay."

  He opened the door and left it open, leaning on the jamb—no point inviting idiot speculation about booty calls.

  Lewis's sister sat cross-legged on her single bed, surrounded by wool. Knitting another pullover from the looks. Her long hair hid the very edges of her face so that her dark and serious eyes had a narrow gap to peer at him. In a voice barely above a whisper, she asked, "Anything?"

  He made a sorry face. Then smiled and pulled a charm from his pocket. The tight silver spiral was actually an earring he'd found in the claymore property's homestead. But it would connect to her pandora bracelet fine, and he figured she'd like it. And she did; he was practiced enough in reading her body language. She didn't squeal, like a different nineteen-year-old girl might. She didn't clap her hands. Not even a smile in acknowledgment of his teasing. But there was a sudden and ever so slight widening of her eyes—a sign of pleasure and of innocence, there and gone again like a gust of breeze. Elliot leaned forward and placed the charm on the foot of her bed. She stretched for it, then lay it on top of her bracelet where it sat on her bedside drawers.

  "Doing okay?" he asked.

  She nodded, hands busy with knitting again.

  "Need anything?"

  Her hair rippled with the single shake of her head.

  "Well, you let Claire know if you do and I'll get it for you."

  A nod.

  This was their ritual, their dance. It never changed. She'd never given him much sign that she trusted him, but she'd told Claire that she did.

  He had one foot reaching for the step behind him when she spoke again.

  "Find anything for yourself?"

  He balked. She'd never asked anything like that before. She'd barely ever spoken. "Er, no. Oh, a half-bottle of Jim Beam hidden under a car seat. But I promise I'll share that."

  She made a face. "Not with me."

  "No. I'll find you some soda next time I'm out. Soft drink."

  Her needles started up their clacking again. She said, "Coke."

  He smiled at that.

  The silence lengthened until he was certain nothing else would be forthcoming. "Sure you don't need anything else?"

  "I'm good," she murmured.

  Yes, you are, sweetheart. These days, you're doing pretty damn good, all things considered.

  His eyes caught then on an object on the chair beside the door. A grey and red striped pullover, folded neat. His pullover. He disliked that pullover. Very much. It was one of the ugliest objects he'd ever seen. Jen had made it, the woman who'd taken a shine to him, who looked at him with wedding cake eyes every chance she got. The pullover didn't fit properly and was scratchy, but at Claire and Faye's insistence, he'd been wearing it recently during some fence wiring. And he'd been proud of how credibly he'd snagged it on the fence and torn it up.

  Damn shame, he'd told Faye as he'd handed it to her to repurpose.

  He tapped the chair beside the sweater. "You repaired this?"

  A nod.

  Shee-it.

  He picked it up and tied the arms round his waist. "Well. Thanks."

  I guess.

  A murmur. Something that might even have been de nada.

  He engaged the door lock before closing it, then stood outside on her step. He pulled his flashlight, ready for the trek across the unlit paddocks to his tent. The first few drops of the rain he'd been expecting spattered against his jacket, his face. Shaz and Tania had retreated indoors. Someone laughed in another cabin and complained about cheating: cards, no doubt.

  In the room behind him, there came a soft tinkling from the pandora bracelet as Alyssa fitted her new addition.

  De nada.

  She had never recovered from her ordeal with the Death Druids. But occasionally he caught glimpses of the girl—and woman—who might have been. It made him angry. What that girl had lost made him truly angry. And if Elliot found a million Death Druid bikers—a million Waxers—and if he killed each and everyone one, it was an anger he would never ever purge.

  ⁓

  He whistled once as he entered the paddock where this tent and the dog pens lay. Recognizing his tone, the dogs locked in their pens started up barking but he shouted once for them to quiet and they did. A few seconds later the two dogs he'd seen roaming found him again, coming in to nuzzle.

  "Hope you two can forgive me," he said, giving both a chest and belly rub. "Bess ain't coming—"

  He stood, clearing his throat.

  During his absence, Sturgis and his wife had been tasked with caring for the dogs, so Elliot felt comfortable leaving their upkeep until tomorrow. He wanted that belt of bourbon and a decent night's sleep. If his mind would let him.

  He said, "Follow" and the two animals fell in behind him. They could be his ears while he rested. Dogs, he'd found, were like soldiers: they did what they were trained to do, they followed orders. Even when it got them killed.

  The sight of his tent pitched in the flat between two tea trees never failed to bring him a sense of relief. His own space. A place to rest—rest and forget. It was huge, a deluxe model's deluxe model. Two large "rooms": a kitchen-and-storage area at the front, plus a large sleeping and living area behind it, separated by zips and flaps.

  The male dog growled. Something stirred inside, brushing and sliding against the rear wall. Elliot's hand was halfway to his SIG when he realized who it'd be.

  "Quiet," he told the dog. He reached for the front flap, already half unzipped. "Shit, Angie. You gotta stop just turning up. One of these days, I'll accidentally—"

  Inside, commotion exploded—claws scratching across plastic flooring, tins clattering to the floor from a shelf. The dogs barked. A small form shot through the opening, vaulting off one of Elliot's boots before disappearing into the grass nearby. His flashlight had only just caught it: the grey-brown fuzz of a goddamn possum. Both dogs took off after it across the paddock. Elliot let them go while his pulse hammered in his throat and he hurried inside, groaning, "Christ, no, no, no."

  The flashlight beam revealed disaster. His personal stash of jerky strips spread through the kitchen area, the dried plums container opened and fruit spread all over. Jar of bullet casings turned over. Po
ssum shit on his favorite hoody—he bundled that up and tossed it out the entrance. In the sleeping room, more mess, the worst of it possum piss on his bedding. Fortunately, he kept the suitcase he used for a wardrobe closed at all times. But his bed was history.

  "Christ on a crutch!"

  An animal had made the mess, but it hadn't opened the tent zippers. Who had?

  Did some lunatic scav-rat come over the fences? Nothing seemed to be taken.

  Was it Lewis? But why would he? Lewis hadn't given Elliot the time of day for three years, and he'd never do anything like this.

  Was it Woodsy, being a dick because Elliot had opposed his suggestions in community meetings a couple of times?

  Was it young Jimmy, being a freak?

  No. It was kids, probably. Kids being kids, being curious. Which means his home had been open to the elements since before the kids were quarantined, a couple days ago. He kicked the plums container out through the door and followed it to pace outside, fuming.

  The dogs weren't back yet, and wouldn't be unless he called them. They'd be after that possum for an hour if Elliot let them. And Elliot was going to let them.

  Exhausted, he gathered a spare blanket and pillow from his suitcase-cupboard—he couldn't sleep here tonight. Maybe not ever, the way it stank. He'd have to sleep in the homestead living room for a while. Heading back across the paddocks and leaving the dogs to run free for the night, he realized he was back to feeling the way he'd felt for most of his adult life.

  Displaced.

  5

  He came into a crowded Community Centre, air bitey with woodsmoke from the fireplace and thick with low conversation and the scrape of cutlery on crockery. The windows hissed with morning rain; the drainpipes sang. He shook his parka off and hung it on the racks with the others. No kids again, Lewis and Krystal out with them. A quick headcount: the four adults who'd be on watch duty were missing, as was Claire. He figured she'd be leaving supplies for Faye outside the infirmary.

  Without small children there to harass it, one of the farm cats had curled up on the floor before the wood-burning heater.

  As was often the case at breakfast, small groups with something in common had drawn together around different tables. Those with practical skills: the Daves, Wendy the plumber who'd come in with Dave Two, Mike, and Phil. The quiet people, the ones who got things done and bent their skills to whatever the task was that most needed doing right then: Sturgis, Kim, Tina, Heng, Angie. The farmers like late-sixties Nance, who worked with their hands in the soil and whose fingernails were lined with black. The ones who had once worked with words or numbers or ideas, and now lived in a more practical reality: Di and Neil and Dylan. But the cliques were not really cliques; there was no Them-and-Us here, only We. A group of people who'd got lucky—or made their own luck—by finding each other, creating a community without power plays, hubris, control freaks, divisiveness. Thirty-five damaged but decent adults—not counting messed-up Jimmy, who was nonetheless cared for and tolerated here—thirty-five cooperative people without one asshole among them ... until Woodsy came along.

  And there the man was, holding court at the words-and-numbers table in the exact center of the hall, where he'd been for some time from the look of his empty plate and glass. Woodsy seated with those polite middle-classers who'd tolerate his out-of-phase humor and know-it-all attitude.

  Elliot wiped recalcitrant night grit from his eyes as he stepped up to the kitchen servery window. The homestead couch had been badly sprung, sagging in the middle. He rubbed at his back, thinking that he'd clean the tent later. Or maybe burn it and pull a smaller tent out of storage.

  From the servery, Rit adjusted his Disney baseball cap and said, "Your normal cheerful self, I see." Chariya by the sink laughed at her husband's jibe and nodded hello. Alyssa drying dishes, just stared.

  "And you're still a smart ass," Elliot growled, but there was no sting in it. "Gimme some of everything."

  "Even the fish?"

  "Sure."

  "You hate fish."

  "Don't hate it, just tired of it. But I need the protein."

  "Protein, we have," Rit said, spooning a small portion of scrambled eggs on to the plate. As he followed it with a slim white fillet and five slices of apple, he lowered his voice. "We used up the last of the oats while you were gone."

  "I expected that."

  "And we're nearly out of rice."

  At that moment, Woodsy leaned past Elliot to slide his plate and mug onto the counter. With a friendly grin, he said, "Jeez, how will you Asians survive without rice?" and headed back to his table. Only Elliot and Rit heard it. Maybe Alyssa and Chariya, too.

  "Racist dickhead." Rit's head shake was sincere, but dismissive. "Running out of grain isn't great for any of us."

  Elliot glanced aside, but the next men in line—the Daves, with their mugs in hand for a refill—were busy arguing over old sports stats. He told Rit, "And so far we're not doing that well growing any. Not nearly enough to feed this many people. I did come across a big field of barley out there. I think it's barley anyway, but probably only good for animals."

  "Looks like it's gonna be lots more fish, rabbit and potatoes to tide us over for a few years while we sort this out."

  Elliot pushed food around his plate with his fork. "Don't forget apples. No shortage of goddamn apples in Tasmania." He was tired of those as well.

  Chariya slid a cup beside Elliot's plate. "Cocoa. Weak."

  "Cause the cocoa's nearly gone, too." Rit added. "Going to be a low-carb diet for a while."

  Elliot picked up the cup and plate while Rit leaned on the bench. "We've survived worse. Heng's generation in Cambodia survived much worse."

  "Sure." Rit sighed. "I'd still kill for a donut and a packet of corn flakes."

  The Daves moved up to take his place and Elliot surveyed the room for a suitable seat. Usually he liked to eat at the small foldout table facing the back wall to discourage conversation. Eating outside was even better. But as the patter on the tin roof testified, the rain would make outside dining unpleasant—steamed fish was bad enough without getting it waterlogged. His usual table was occupied. All of them were, though there were plenty of spare chairs. Two were spare at Woodsy's table.

  Screw it. He'd eat outside, rain or no rain. A little water wouldn't hurt him. But when he reached the door, he found it blocked by Claire.

  Above the filter-mask she wore, her face was drawn, her eyes black-rimmed and bloodshot. There were fresh gloves on her hands. She asked, "Where you headed?"

  "Thought I'd get some fresh air."

  She shook her head and took a step forward, forcing him back. "Not yet, please. Community meeting."

  "Now?"

  "Everyone's here that's gonna be."

  "How about I relieve someone on the gate?"

  He tried to step around. She reached back and tugged the door shut. "Already spoken to. I need you here."

  He grumped a little as he stepped to the side, then put his back against the wall. Bland food, weak cocoa, and a morning meeting. Just like the goddamn Middle East. He jammed a chunk of fish fillet in his mouth: getting the worst food down first was an old Army trick, same as learning to eat most anything when choices were slim.

  Claire rang the discussion bell that hung by the door. Conversation petered out. Plates clattered in the kitchen. All eyes turned her way, a few darting to Elliot near her. He dropped his head to dissuade attention.

  Her tone formal, Claire said loudly, "We belong to Settlers Downs."

  "A place where peaceful people settle down," most of the room responded in unison.

  "A lighthouse of hope," she continued, in reference to the lighthouse and small beach three hundred metres beyond their front gate.

  "In a dark world," the room responded.

  "May we increase the light and decrease the darkness."

  Murmurs of agreement. One Amen.

  It might have been a little cheesy, Elliot thought, but Claire's idea for this
introduction to meetings served an important cultural purpose. It was clever of her.

  The ritual over, her tone lost its formality without losing its gravity. Or weariness. "We have some things to discuss before we get on with the day's busyness."

  "The sick people?" farmer Nance asked.

  "Them, mainly, yes." As if requested, the rain abated a little outside, so that the main noise Claire had to contend with was the shifting of chairs and occasional coughs and sniffles. "I've been to check on Faye and the Infirmary this morning. And I've been round the sentries to tell them what I'll be telling you. And consult on what I'll be consulting about. We now have ten sick."

  "Ten?" Nance again.

  "As of last night, Faye is officially down with the same thing."

  A chorus of interruptions, cries of alarm and inquiries into Claire's own health status. When it didn't immediately drop off, Elliot adopted a parade ground voice and barked for quiet.

  "Thank you," Claire said as the hubbub choked off. "And I'm fine. Yes, I've been in there a bit lately, so I'll stay over this side of the room right now, then isolate myself in my cabin afterwards for a couple of days to see if it develops. Heng is in charge till then, I guess. But, no. No symptoms. We need to keep our distance from the Infirmary, leaving food and water ten metres from the hut. Faye, Jen, and Raj are still mobile enough to fetch and distribute it."

  That drew a teary "thank god" from Raj's wife.

  "Is anyone actually getting better?" Dave 1 asked. "Tony?" The first person to get sick.

  Claire pursed her lips ruefully and a collective sigh passed around the room. "But it's been seven days now since the first case, and everyone is still alive. I hate to be that blunt. But maybe it's not as bad as we feared, on that score. However, no improvement is not a good sign either. Dehydration is probably their biggest danger. Obviously we don't want this spreading further. We've got the kids in quarantine thanks to Lewis and Krystal and Huy."

  He'd gotten the fish down; now Elliot sipped cocoa, swishing it around his tongue and teeth to cleanse them before starting on the eggs. He wanted to be out of here as quick as he could. There were three small hamlets within their territory he should comb through again, check inside drywall and under floor boards, in case they'd missed something that could help the sick.