As the first wave of dead fell, Else spun to her feet, striking out at the crew that goaded their shock troops into battle. The barrel of a rifle blocked her first strike. The crewmember swung the butt of the weapon, aiming for her head. She ducked under it and hit him with an uppercut, snapping the evol’s head back and cracking the neck with an audible pop.
Slashing with her blade, she cut through the exposed neck. Air bubbled through the black blood spilling out of the zombie’s gashed throat. Else snatched up the rifle and tossed it to a waiting rebel. Rache ran up brandishing a gun of her own.
“We are winning!” she yelled. Else just nodded; there was nothing to celebrate yet.
Chapter 11
In the last hours of the day, under the light of a gibbous moon, Rache called a council of war.
The crew had fallen back, leaving their dead, both walking and dismembered, to fend for themselves. Rache scratched lines in a pool of blood on the deck, marking possible entry points into the upper decks and indicating areas where a counterattack could come.
Else made little comment. This was Rache’s show now, and she needed to cement her control over the rebellion she had started. The men who huddled around the girl nodded and leaned on the hafts of their weapons. They had salvaged two guns, automatic rifles that had a full magazine of ammunition between them. Most of the rebels didn’t know how to use a gun, but they picked it up quickly after Else’s demonstration.
The council meeting broke up with Rache’s people moving off to give orders and organize the rebels into squads positioned at the identified points where they expected the crew to appear again.
“We should press the attack,” Else said. “I don’t know how long they will keep my son and Lowanna alive.”
Rache nodded, her face sorrowful. “The lights have gone out. We can’t attack in the dark, they will wipe us out. I’m sorry, Else, but we will need to wait until dawn and try then.”
Else stood up. “That is exactly what the crew will expect you to do. They will be ready. They will be waiting.”
The curved blade of Rache’s scythe whistled as she spun the weapon like a baton. “Ready or not, we will destroy them.”
“Yes you will, but I can’t wait that long.” Else snatched the spinning handle from Rache’s hand and swung it over her shoulder, sliding it into a holster on her back fashioned from scraps of cloth and blanket. She took a machete from the deck and holstered it too before walking away along the deck and vanishing into the darkness.
On the high deck the engineers were assaulting a sealed door. Their hand tools had only scraped the paint; now they were arguing among themselves on the best way to cut through the steel.
“I don’t suppose you have an oxyacetylene torch?” Else asked. They shrugged, their blank faces reminding Else that these people were more savages than old-world, educated technicians.
“Wait here,” she said, “I have an idea.” Finding her way down to the fore section of the lower deck took awhile. Edgy rebels nearly attacked her twice, and the hastily erected barricades turned the stairways into a maze.
Arriving inside the ship, Else paused to listen. She heard the usual creak and groan of the decaying steel infrastructure, the dull boom of the rising waves beating against the hull, but no other sounds.
The door to Eric’s sanctuary was locked. She tapped on it, whispering his name and telling him who was knocking. Her tension rose as the door remained closed. “Eric, open this fucking door right now,” she growled in a low whisper.
With a muffled click the bolts started to slide back, and then Eric’s eye glinted through the crack. “Fuck off,” he whispered.
“We need you, Eric. The engineers, the fishermen, the holders. They’re taking the ship. They’re rising up against the crew. We need your help.”
“Fuck. Off,” Eric said firmly.
“I will not.” Else felt her patience burning away like dry tinder touched by a flame of indignation.
Eric rolled his eyes and pushed the door shut. She jammed her foot in the way and shoved him backwards. Busting into the room Else looked around, a realization dawning on her face.
“You are leaving?” she said.
Eric swept his long hair back with one hand, “I . . . well you got me thinking, this place is fucked. So yeah, I’m leaving.”
“Fine,” Else snapped. “Could you give me your supply of explosives before you go?”
Eric hesitated. “That stuff is dangerous. You could get seriously hurt messing with it. Maybe even blow a hole in the hull.”
“I’m counting on it,” Else replied.
Eric was still shaking his head when he opened the pool supplies locker on the deck where he kept his chemistry set.
“This stuff is stable, until you upset it,” he warned.
“How do I set it off?” Else asked.
“Well you can use a detonator, or a fuse.” Eric warmed to his subject. “I’ve been experimenting with different caps. That’s primer, or shit that blows up and sets off the bigger bang.”
Eric lifted a plastic crate lined with salvaged seat cushions and stuffed with packages wrapped in oil-soaked paper.
“That’s the big boom; each one of those is enough to blow a hole in anything.” He ducked back into the locker and a moment later reemerged with a small glass jar of thin tubes that looked like home-rolled cigarettes and a roll of coarse, black cord.
“This is the dangerous shit,” he said, holding up the jar as if it contained live scorpions. “Stick one of these into one of the packages, twist the end of the fuse cord on to the paper at the other end of the detonator. Run yourself a decent length of fuse, light it, and then . . .”
“And then?” Else prompted.
“Fuckin’ pray,” Eric said solemnly.
“I need your help,” Else said. “You know how to work with this stuff; you can put the bombs where they will do the most damage.”
“Nuh,” Eric grunted. “I’m getting myself on a boat and buggerin’ off. You go and have a nice war, though.”
Else’s blade flashed in the moonlight, the tip stopping a few millimeters from his throat. “Please,” Else said.
“Well,” Eric swallowed hard. “Seein’ as you’re askin’ so nicely.”
Else watched as Eric unpacked a second plastic crate of homemade high explosive. The first crate was transferred into two sacks that Eric pulled from the locker.
“I could sure use a smoke right now,” Eric chuckled as he opened the jar and gently slipped the detonators out into his hand. “Don’t get these buggers wet,” he said, handing a cluster of the paper tubes to Else. “An’ if you catch fire, get rid of this shit, all of it.”
Else nodded, carefully sliding the caps into her shirt pocket and lifting one of the heavy sacks. Eric draped a coil of fuse around her neck. “Remember to make sure you’re a helluva way back before you light the fuse.”
“Got it.” Else picked up a second bag of dynamite. “You know what to do?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” Eric grumbled, not meeting her eye.
“If you fuck this up or run out on me, I will find you and I will hurt you in ways you cannot imagine.”
“Cross my heart,” Eric said, his face going pale under his deep tan.
Else headed down the deck, back to Rache and her rebels. It was time to bring the whole thing to an end.
Chapter 12
A storm was rising in the predawn darkness when the engineers reported the last of the explosives were in place. They had been loud and angry in their opposition, until Else explained that there were other ships, enough for all to be their own master and sail their own destiny. “To do that, we have to destroy this place. Let go of the past and start fresh,” she insisted. The engineers looked at Rache, who nodded her agreement. Else was pleased they were deferring to the girl; the last thing she wanted was to become the focus for their new hero worship.
“Tell them to blow the door,” Rache said. Else headed up the stairs to where
two engineers crouched in the lee of a steel wall. The wind was blowing hard now, spray and rain lashing her cheeks with salty tears.
“Light it!” Else shouted over the howl of the wind. The two engineers nodded. Huddling over the end of the cord, they uncovered the flickering oil lamp and touched its wavering flame to the fuse. For a moment nothing happened; then the fuse sparked and hissed, and a bright flare of white flame blossomed and raced up the line. Else hurried to follow it, to make sure it wasn’t quenched by the rain or a break in the fuse. The nearest engineer grabbed her and dragged her back down the stairs, his face etched with fear and excitement.
Else counted to ten, then eleven, twelve, thir—
A dull whumph sound echoed over them, a cloud of smoke swelled and collapsed under the rain, the clang of steel striking steel, then silence.
“Cool,” one of the engineers said. Else pulled away and ran up the stairs. The door that they said led into the highest decks lay open and twisted. The heavy steel frame had buckled, marked by black powder burns and the melted residue of Eric’s homemade nitro explosives.
Else drew her short-handled scythe and ducked inside. The corridor was filling with the dead. The explosion had overwhelmed their unfiltered senses and left them stunned and disorientated.
In the close confines of the steel hallway, Else started the killing. The engineers cheered and filled the doorway at her back. One of them aimed a semiautomatic rifle and squeezed the trigger; the round spanged off the wall and hit an evol in the throat. Else ducked at the sound of the gunshot and sliced a zombie through the hips, bringing its head low enough to be cut off.
“Hold your fucking fire!” she yelled.
With the engineers hacking and stabbing, the corridor quickly cleared. Else moved on, a growing sense of urgency filling her. If she did not find her son soon he would die. She couldn’t think beyond that. Her mind drew a blank.
The sudden sound of a baby crying snatched Else’s attention. At the end of the corridor a metal door swung shut with a squeal, the baby noise rising behind it. Else started running, the grinning face of Sarah visible in the closing gap as she pushed the door shut. Else thudded against the metal a moment after the latch on the other side slammed home. Peering through the small glass porthole, she shouted, “Sarah!? Sarah, open the door!”
She heard a high-pitched giggle and through the dust- and salt-encrusted porthole she could see the blurred shape of Sarah vanishing down a stairwell, a tiny bundled figure in her arms.
“Help me here!” Else yelled back down the corridor. The engineers, splashed with black gore, were finishing off the risen and responded to her shout.
“We need explosives. I need to get this door open.”
“There’s none left; they’re all wired up,” an engineer reported.
“Fuck!” Else screamed and beat on the steel door with her fists.
“Let’s have a look.” The engineers worked on opening the door while Else, unable to stand still, ran back up the corridor and started opening doors, looking for another way deeper into the ship.
In a decaying cleaner’s closet, years of leaking chemicals had corroded the floor. A glint of light came up through the lace-thin metal, Else crouched down and started punching through the rust with the butt of her scythe handle.
Opening a way through to the deck below took a few moments and then she dropped down, feet first, through the narrow gap, tearing her clothes on the jagged edges as she squirmed through. The sense of vulnerability that came from having her legs dangling down into the corridor threatened to bring on unfettered panic. A snarling, like a dog discovering an intruder, echoed through the space under Else’s feet. Instinctively she drew her knees up, the weakened metal resisting her attempt to wiggle her swollen bust through. The creaking of the metal clashed with the sound of claws scraping on the deck. Else couldn’t see what was happening below her, but nothing sounded reassuring.
The snarling echoed around her feet again. Else waited for the sharp pain of clawed evol fingers tearing at her flesh. Pressing back against the edge of the hole, she widened the gap and dropped, landing in a crouch ready to kill whatever horde waited for her. The corridor was empty. She turned, scythe at the ready. Else reacted to the sudden scratching of claws on the steel floor and a snarl of something coming at her from the shadows by charging at the darkness, snarling herself.
A large dog, with a brindle pattern to its fur and a mouth full of gleaming teeth, leapt out at her. Else parried the attack, knocking the animal into the wall. She spun the blade around, sending the beaten steel whistling towards the dog’s chest.
The first blow struck the wall, the dog twisting away and then charging in to slam Else to the floor, teeth snapping at her throat. Holding the handle of her blade in both hands, Else pressed back against the dog’s chest. The animal wasn’t starving; he’d been taken care of, probably trained to act as a guard for the crew. Else swung her legs up, wrapped them around the dog’s body, and with a heave she rolled the animal on to his back, sitting astride him and pressing down with the blade handle. She pushed until the snarls became wheezing gasps and only stopped once she heard the crunch of the animal’s throat being crushed under the pressure of her attack.
Gasping for breath, Else stumbled to her feet. The dog lay on the floor, convulsing with bulging eyes as it choked to death. With an overhand swing she slammed the blade into the top of its skull.
Jerking the weapon free, she started jogging down the hallway. If her sense of direction was right, this corridor should take her to the stairs. The door to the stairs on this level was open and it smelt strongly of the dog marking his territory.
Else crept down the stairs, drawing the machete and hefting it in her other hand. Somewhere below she could hear a door opening and closing, the thin cries of her son acting as a beacon. Above she could hear the pounding of the engineers working on opening the door. There was no time to wait for them—she had to keep going. Finishing this the way she started, alone.
Reaching the next level, Else lifted her blades and ducked down. The doors were wooden, with grime-encrusted panes of colored glass. Figures moved on the other side. Else tucked the machete under her arm and reached out and turned the handle. The door brushed over faded carpet; this part of the ship must have been where the passengers lived. She ducked back as two crew turned to look in her direction.
They moved silently on the carpeted floor. The first one, a woman with blonde braids that had coagulated into two thick, tentacle-like dreadlocks, opened the door.
“Hi,” Else said, and swung the scythe down into the woman’s shoulder. The zombie grunted, turning her head to stare at the curved sliver of steel impaled between her collarbone and shoulder. With a frown she tried to reach up and pull the blade out. Else jerked the weapon upwards; the wound welled black blood.
Else struck again, with the machete this time. The ceiling was too low to swing overhead at the woman’s skull, so she swung upwards, like the pictures of golfers she had seen. The blade burst through the woman’s jaw and punched out the top of her head. She collapsed, dragging the blade down. Else yanked it out, readying both weapons as she stepped through the door.
The second crewmember lunged at her. Else sidestepped and, with a truncated swing, buried the scythe in his back as he stumbled past. The evol collapsed; she pulled the blade out and split the zombie’s skull with a final blow.
Signs on the walls indicated various attractions available to on-board guests. A murmuring rose as Else headed down the wide hallway. Double doors opened into the balcony restaurant that overlooked the grand ballroom. She walked out into the deserted room. Tables, draped in white cloth, waited for diners who would never come. A brass rail ran along the edge of the balcony and Else peered over into the scene of carnage below.
Blood lay in thick swipes along the ballroom floor, splatter patterns ran up the walls, and an audience of hungry dead moaned and clawed at the doors at the other end of the room.
; Else leapt on the rail, caught in a moment of momentum, her arms flung wide, her head back, eyes closed. She dropped in a graceful dive that folded into a somersault before landing with a dull boom on the marble tiles of the dance floor. The seething crowd of dead, mindless and frenzied in their blood hunger, stopped clawing and hammering on the door opposite. In ones and twos they turned their limited senses towards a new sound—the sharp scrape of sharpened steel on ironwork.
Else crouched on one knee, twisting slowly, back and forth, the tips of her blades inscribing two gleaming crescent lines in the floor. The shriek of metal on stone took on a rhythmic pulse, like the dying heart of a metal giant beating its last.
Snarling, fresh blood and torn flesh spilling from their mouths and dripping from their hands, the evols advanced. The noise and the pulsing warmth of Else’s body drove them into fury. As one they surged forward, bearing down on the crouched figure that, in the last moment before they reached her, spun to her feet. The blades in her hands flashed bright and cold as the killing began.
Else saw only teeth and dead flesh. She struck, slicing through bone and virus-laden muscle. Everything within her was focused on destroying the walking dead. Skulls shattered and severed limbs flew across the hold to bounce off the rusting walls. The freshly risen dead oozed blood that was still darkening to the black ichor of the waste-laden slime of the older zombie.
Else ignored the pain of the teeth that sank into her body. She cut, slashed, and cut again. Stabbing one evol through the eye, striking another and splitting his head down to the jaw. She almost lost her grip on the machete as the blood sprayed and made the handle slick.
Trampled corpses crawled towards her through the rain of blood. Broken bones jerked like marionettes desperate to join the feast of her warm flesh.
Those unlucky enough to draw blood from Else convulsed and spewed dark blood as they staggered. They writhed in a frenzied tarantella dance, the antiviral cells in her plasma tearing through their infected flesh.
Tankbread 2: Immortal Page 11