Tankbread 02 Immortal

by Paul Mannering

  Evols crowded through the space, snarling and snapping at each other as they pushed their way inside. The first two dropped to their knees and smeared their fingers and faces in the fresh blood and fluids pooled on the wooden floor, slurping and sucking the nutrient-rich goo off the boards. The others stumbled around, confused by the empty room.

  Chapter 2

  Else clutched the crying baby to her naked chest and hurried through the trees. A hatch in the back wall of the hut meant she always had a second exit, as the place had no windows. There had been no time to dress, and the wind-driven rain had her shivering as she splashed through puddles with numb feet. The thunder crashed and the lightning came close on its heels. Every flash blinded her night vision, and the branches and deadfall slashed at her bare skin. She could hear the river over the approaching storm. The rushing chatter of the rising flood was loud enough to keep her bearing in the right direction. Else broke through the trees, the ground underfoot turned to sucking mud. She struggled through it, balancing the baby in one arm and trying to keep him out of the rain and wind.

  A hand lashed out of the darkness and she fell back, twisting the baby away from the evol and dragging herself away through the mud. In the next flash she saw the wide space of river mud was littered with struggling corpses.

  Grabbing a branch from the muck, she leaned on it and probed the ground ahead. The wind tore at her hair and the mud scraped up to her knees. Leaning forward, she pulled her feet one at a time out of the mire. The evols trapped in the mud reached out to her, groaning in desperate need. Else ignored them.

  The boat was tied up out there, on the other side of the mudflats. She’d gotten turned around somewhere along the way and come out too far downstream. Her usual route took her through the trees to the edge of the river. There was no going back now—the moans of zombies had brought others to the edge of the trees. In the brief flash of the lightning’s glow she could see the dark shapes of others coming up behind her.

  Using the stick and moving carefully between the thrashing zombies, Else made her way across the mud. The baby, cradled in one arm, had managed to latch onto her breast and she felt the strong tugging sensation of his first suckling.

  “I’m glad you can think about food at a time like this,” she murmured to him.

  An evol reared up out of the mud. Else jerked the stick back and stabbed it through the throat with the broken end. Twisting it, she forced the stake deep into the dead man’s neck and bore down on the branch until the zombie shuddered and lay still. Pulling her stick free she waded on. The packed mud near the river was firmer, and in the lightning flashes she could see the wide, slick smears where crocodiles had slid into the water.

  Turning up stream, Else could see the trees where the boat would be tied. She had checked it that morning and even the recent flooding hadn’t torn it free from its moorings. They made good time along the mud bank. The baby had gone quiet, cradled against Else’s chest; he seemed to be sleeping. Adrenaline kept her going. Adrenaline and an instinctive need to protect the tiny person she carried.

  She strode on using the stick to help keep her moving when the ground underfoot jerked. Expecting another evol, Else reared back with the stick raised ready to strike.

  A deep, hissing gurgle came from the ground. A large croc twisted and snapped at the end of the stick, biting through it like a breadstick.

  Else crouched slightly, legs bent, ready to spring away. The croc turned, its massive head splitting open to reveal a long, pale, triangular mouth rimmed with sharp teeth. With the baby tucked in her arm and the remains of the stick clutched in her other hand like a club, Else hissed and bared her teeth at the croc. Mouth wide, it rushed at her.

  Else jumped, landing lightly on the beast’s back and sprinting three steps towards its tail. The croc spun and twisted, his heavy tail thrashing with enough force to crush bone. Else jumped again, her feet splashing in the water and she almost fell. The baby mewled and began to wail. The woman turned and faced the croc again as it charged. She threw herself sideways and stabbed down with the short stick. The tip pierced his eye and Else was thrown clear. She went under the water and immediately surfaced again, pushing the shrieking baby up to keep his head above the surface.

  The croc went berserk on the mud bank. Writhing and turning, he slapped the mud with his tail. As Else scrambled out, the twelve-foot-long monster slid into the dark water. Leaping to her feet, Else ran along the bank towards the shelter of the trees. The baby cried louder, the water soaking through the blanket now chilling him.

  “Shhh baby, it’s going to be okay,” Else said through chattering teeth. The rain eased a little as they reached the trees. She found the path that led to the boat and hurried along it, both arms cradling the tiny baby to her shoulder.

  The boat was little more than a skiff, a flat-bottomed aluminum dinghy that Else had packed with emergency supplies. A shotgun, ammunition, a first aid kit, tinned food, bottled water, a spare machete, and blankets. All tied together under a canvas tarpaulin. She untied the tarp and pulled out the blanket. Stripping the baby, she swaddled him in a fresh, dry cotton blanket and gently set him down in the middle of the skiff. Covering him with the tarp quieted him and the movement of the boat on the high water rocked him to silence. Drawing the machete, she took hold of the mooring rope and hacked it from the tree.

  The water next to the skiff erupted as the crocodile, with the stick still buried in his eye, ambushed Else from the water. She swung at it with the machete, burying the heavy blade between the beast’s nostrils. The croc flailed and the skiff danced sideways in the wake of his heaving tail.

  “No!” Else screamed and leapt to right the boat before it was swamped.

  The croc pressed the attack, head slamming from side to side as his jaws snapped at the woman. The stink of blood and the pain in his muzzle sent the croc into a biting frenzy. Desperate to save the baby, Else shoved the skiff out into the river current as the croc lunged at her again. She threw her legs wide to avoid the slamming jaws and scrambled backwards as the massive head slapped down between her thighs.

  Something pulled her up short as she struggled to her feet. A sudden tearing pain flaring between her legs. The croc jerked his head back and Else screamed as the placenta came gushing out of her. The croc snapped its jaws, tossing the umbilical cord he had seized and the attached afterbirth down his throat. Dizzy with pain and loss of blood, Else lifted the machete high over her head with both hands and slammed it down, point first, into the croc’s skull. It died without a sound.

  The skiff spun in the water and was immediately carried out of reach. Else dived, cutting through the water in a fast and desperate stroke, the machete clutched in one hand. She’d taught herself to swim in gentle creeks and still water holes. The flooded river didn’t care how well she swam in still water. It threw her down the riverbed, keeping the skiff and her baby in sight, but too far to reach. The flood rapids buffeted Else and trees swept past her in the darkness. She grabbed hold of a floating log as the last of her strength drained away. “Baby...” she croaked into the black sky.

  Chapter 3

  Something wet pressed against Else’s face. Her hand punched out and grabbed soft flesh as she jerked awake. She opened her eyes and blinked in the dim light. The Aboriginal man she’d grabbed by the throat made a choking noise and dragged at her hand.

  She sat up, tossing the blanket that covered her aside and realizing she couldn’t see her baby. Her grip remained vise-like on the guy’s trachea. “Where is my baby?” she hissed.

  “Hurgh,” the man said, his hand desperately waving towards the open door of the tent they were in. The tent flap pulled back and a woman, as dark skinned as the man, ducked inside. A baby was cradled in her arms, waving its tiny naked arms and legs. Else sprang to her feet, letting the man go. He fell to his side coughing and gasping. Else threw herself at the woman and snatched the tiny child from her. She examined every inch of the child and then thrust her back at the w
oman.

  “Found you by the river,” the woman said, her voice and expression calm in the face of Else’s anger. “Her momma died last night and she’s hungry now. Best you feed her, aye? I dried up a long time ago.” The woman chuckled, a deep, warm belly sound. “Get up you lazy fella,” she scolded the man in the tent. The old woman turned and walked outside again. Else snarled and followed her.

  “Where is my baby?” She shouted in the woman’s face.

  “No baby, just you, missus,” the woman said, jigging the little one on her shoulder gently.

  “Where is my baby?!”

  “This can be your baby now.” The old man had come out of the tent and now stood emaciated and hunched behind Else’s shoulder. “Gotta look after the living.”

  “My baby is still alive,” Else snarled, her glare shifting from one to the other. “He’s out there somewhere. If you don’t know where he is, then get the fuck out of my way.”

  The woman shrugged, “How far you think you’re gonna get?” she called as Else strode out across the small encampment.

  “I’ll keep going until I find him!” Else shouted back. The camp consisted of a cluster of ragged tents, some small fires, and a couple of bone-thin dogs that panted in the shade of a mangrove tree. Dark faces watched her from the tents, all young children and grandparents.

  The old woman shook her head. “She’s crazy. Them dead fellas will get her,” she said to the old man.

  “Crocs’ll get her first I reckon,” he replied, squinting in the bright light of the early afternoon.

  “They didn’t get her last night, and they were around plenty.” The old woman sighed and cuffed him on the shoulder. “Go on then, go help her.”

  He caught up with Else as she picked her way along the riverbank, through the strewn rubble of tree branches and mud thrown up by the storm of the previous night.

  “Hey girl,” he wheezed. “You come back with me. We’ll get you some water, some food, and some shoes, aye?”

  Else hesitated. He was alive out there, she could feel it. Like a deep tugging in her breast and womb. She would know when her baby died. She felt certain of that.

  “I gotta find my baby,” she said to the dark flowing river.

  “We’ll find your baby, missy. But you can’t go running off like this. You’ll die, and we know what that means.”

  “Yeah,” Else said, turning to follow the man back to the camp. “It means others have to die first.”

  The residents of the camp, from the old man Billy and his wife Sally to the young children with big white smiles and laughing eyes, all wore carefully mended castoffs.

  With some help, Else slipped on pants and a shirt that buttoned up the front. “Nothing new anymore,” she murmured, pressing her feet into some battered old boots and tying the laces. She took the tiny, squalling girl from Sally and fed her till the baby fell asleep. Afterwards Sally lifted the tiny thing to her shoulder and burped her gently.

  “River goes down to the sea.” Billy crouched in the dirt and sketched with a gnarled finger. “We be here.” He traced a thick snake on the ground. “The sea is here. If your baby’s in a boat, then he’s gonna keep on going. All the way out to the beach. If he’s lucky he’s gonna catch up on a log, or run aground. Otherwise, he’s gonna go out to sea. No coming back from out to sea.”

  “He’s not out to sea,” Else said. “I feel him still. In here,” she pressed a hand to her stomach, still swollen and soft.

  “Takes a long time for a child to leave you,” Sally said softly.

  Else scanned the horizon, always watching for the approach of evols. She saw a solitary man, hair plastered grey and skin painted white, with long bloody marks across his chest and arms, standing on the edge of the distant trees. He had one foot pulled up and resting against the side of his knee, making a 4 shape.

  “Who’s that?” Else asked.

  “Jirra. He lost his woman yesterday. She bled out when the baby came. If you gonna feed his baby, mebbe he’ll show you the way to the end of the river,” Billy said.

  “Tell him we need to go. Right now,” Else said, glancing around the scattered faces.

  “When he’s done burying Bindi, then you go.”

  “The dead can wait,” Else said and walked off towards the trees.

  Jirra watched her come, this white woman with the long blonde hair. Her breasts and belly heavy, her skin as pale as the ghost of his Bindi. He had sung to his woman as he covered her body on the high platform. Sung to her and told her he would be back when the birds and the sky had taken her flesh. He would be back to lay her bones to rest and remember her spirit.

  He had given no thought to their daughter. The grief of losing Bindi blinded him to everything else. He watched the white woman come, seeing the strength in her legs and the determination in her eyes.

  Else took a good look at the man standing on one leg as she approached. He had the tightly curled black hair of the other people. His skin under the ash-white paint was dark brown and his eyes shone almost black. He stood, calm and relaxed, one hand curled around a long spear. He wore a ragged pair of shorts and his feet were bare.

  “I’m Else and you need to come with me, right now,” she said by way of greeting.

  “Jirra,” he replied. “Where do you think we need to go?”

  “My baby boy is alive. But he’s out there, down the river somewhere. You need to help me find him.”

  “Babies die quick without their mothers. Yours is dead,” Jirra said. Else’s fists clenched. It would not happen. She had already lost someone. Never again.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Only your woman is dead. Your baby girl is still alive. I’ll keep her alive. You help me find my baby and we both have someone to raise and to love us.”

  Jirra considered her offer for a moment. “If your boy is dead, then my baby girl is gonna die too. You won’t wanna take care of her anymore.”

  Else stepped forward, her face twisting in anger. “If you don’t come with me, I will kill you myself. Right now.”

  Jirra’s calm face regarded Else for a moment, then he walked past her and headed over to the camp.

  * * *

  The sun beat down, evaporating the receding floodwaters into a thick, choking humidity that blocked a body’s sweating mechanism and left Else feeling like she was suffocating. She carried the tiny girl-child in a cloth sling against her chest. The baby’s father, Jirra, walked ahead, his long legs picking the way through the flood-strewn jetsam like a mudflat feeding bird.

  Else carried a full water bag and some food in a wrapped parcel slung over her shoulder. She carried a machete in her hand, ready and watchful for evols, crocodiles, and snakes.

  “How long till dark?” Else said to Jirra’s back.

  “Three hours, maybe four,” Jirra said without pausing to look at the sky. He carried a bundle of spears and a woomera spear thrower.

  “Where’d you come from, lady?” Jirra asked.

  “Sydney.”

  “Long way from here, aye?” he said.

  “Long way. I took a long time to come here. I’ve been traveling my whole life.”

  “That’s what life is,” Jirra said. “A whole lot of traveling.”

  Else didn’t try to explain. She knew she was different from other people. Even Jirra with his near-black skin and his wide face had been born and grown up through the years. He wasn’t Tankbread, a vat-grown human clone destined to feed the dead. Else followed Jirra because she needed to find her baby. That small and helpless creature was her legacy. The thing that made her normal, gave her a chance to live a proper life. To be human.

  Jirra gathered sticks and speared a couple of fish in the shallows of the river without breaking stride. In the last moments of daylight he crouched at the edge of the riverside trees and made a small fire. Else washed the baby and her damp wrap in river water and then fed her again while the swaddling cloth dried. Jirra sat in a silhouette on the other side of the fire, sharpening the heads on h
is spears and then scraping a whetstone along the machete’s gleaming edge. The fish he had speared now hissed and spat over the small fire.

  “You kill many?” Jirra said without lifting his eyes or hand from the blade.

  “I kill the ones I have to,” Else replied. She wanted to tell him that she almost killed them all. That a man carried her across the world and back again. A man who then gave his life to save them all. But he would ask her what was his name? What name should we whisper when we remember this hero? And she wouldn’t know what to say.

  “We move around,” Jirra said. “Like the old people did. Since the end our people are better off. No more alcohol. No more reason to try and be like the white man. Now we remember the old ways again. We sing the old songs. We go on walkabout and we live like the old people did.”

  “How long did the old people live this way?” Else asked.

  “Since the Dreamtime. Since the first people. We have always been here. This is our land.” Jirra turned the fish over the fire.

  “Now it’s the land of the dead,” Else said and scanned the darkness again.

  “Fish is cooked,” Jirra replied.

  They ate quickly, sucking the white meat from the fine bones and licking the juice from their fingers.

  Jirra buried the remains and covered the fire with sand. Else stood up and led the way into the darkness. The little girl grizzled in the cloth sling around Else’s torso.

  Jirra started to sing, a soft dirge-like lullaby. The baby stilled and they walked on in the darkness. Only the moonlight and the smear of stars overhead lit their way.

  “What do you call her?” Else said.

  “Lowanna.”

  “Does it mean anything?”

  “It means girl,” Jirra’s voice came from behind her. “We just call her girl.”

  “Lowanna,” Else whispered and carried the bundle cradled in her arms a little higher. “Your name is Lowanna.”