Tankbread: Deadland

By Paul Mannering

Centuries after the zombie apocalypse, a young hero travels to far off American to join the resistance in this sci-fi horror epic.

It’s been two hundred years since the age of Humankind ended in an apocalypse of blood and terror. Though zombies still roam the earth and the threat of extinction looms, humanity lives on thanks to the heroic deeds of the Lady.

In Australia, sixteen-year-old Gin is planning her wedding and awaiting the rumoured arrival of the living legend. But when her life is torn apart by tragedy, Gin must travel far from her village to the distant shores of old America, where intelligent zombies still rule.

Drawn into a centuries-old conspiracy, Gin’s odyssey will send her into a living hell of savagery and terror. If she survives, her world will be forever changed—and perhaps humanity will finally be saved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781618683427

Book preview

Dedication

For Danielle.

Chapter 1

Gin ducked under the dripping branches of the saltbush and felt the red mud squishing between her bare toes as she ran to the edge of the Long South Road.

She stopped there, chest heaving after the long run from Home, her left foot resting against her right knee, making a figure-four shape as she leaned on her stick. Like everyone who lived in Home, Gin never went outside the fence without her stick. Her grip had polished the eucalyptus pole smooth, and the curved, cast-iron blade at the top was sharp enough to split a pumpkin, or a dead skull.

The only zombies Gin could see were too far away to notice her and even if they did, she would just run, or use her stick. She kept her eyes open though. Stay Alert and Stay Alive—it was one of the rules all the kids learned in school.

As she faced the distant coast, the Long South Road ran left to right in a straight line to the horizon and somewhere, way down that line, she was coming. No one knew when she would arrive, or where she would come from. They just waited year after year for Her to appear among them.

Even though Gin had turned sixteen only a week before the wet season started and was now too old for children’s toys, she kept a wooden doll likeness of the Lady hidden in the box of absorbent woman’s cloths under her bed.

She couldn’t remember the last time the Lady had come this way. Old Si, the Chart Keeper, said it had been fourteen years. The last time she had come, Gin had been too young to remember.

The hum of toads filled the air. They got noisy during the wet, and their numbers multiplied until it seemed like every drop of rain made a new toad. One good thing about the season of rain was the fresh scent that Gin loved. It smelt like growing things, and the crops were already pushing up, green and vibrant from the red dirt on all the farms.

Gin stood unblinking, watching the southern horizon until her eyes burned. Then, with a sigh, she turned away from the road. Maybe She would never come. There were a lot of towns and villages and farms to visit. She might not have time to visit a place like Home, even though Warun reckoned that it was the biggest settlement in the old state.

Gin liked to listen to Warun tell her things; he had been sixteen for four months already and now worked with his father on the wind farm. Warun had the deep brown eyes and dark skin that spoke of his Aboriginal heritage. He proudly traced his family back to the Murrai tribe and when Gin was twelve years old, the Chart had declared that she would marry Warun when they were both sixteen. Their special day was scheduled for the first week of summer, now only a couple of months away.

Gin wandered through the scrub, picking flowers and tea tree leaves as she went. Her mother, Fray, always said no walkabout should be wasted. There were always things to gather and bring home.

The trees grew thicker here and dense bush could hide the dead, unseen and unheard until they sank their black teeth into your neck. So Gin followed the clear ground of an old streambed into a gully with clay walls that were soft with mud. Fat-bodied toads croaked and wallowed in the puddles. They moved out of her way only when she nudged them aside with the end of her stick, because stepping on their slimy bodies was disgusting.

The dry creek beds guided the streams of the wet season into shallow channels in the scrubland. Each drop of water dragged sand, grit, and clay until the stream would become a raging torrent. The floodwaters had gouged a narrow canyon that ran thirty feet deep and swept the earth away down to harder sandstone. Here the water had receded, at least for now, and the stone surface made the going easy for Gin. She stepped from sand-polished stone to jutting rock, her imagination reviewing her wedding day. In her mind’s eye, Gin wore a yellow dress with a garland of flowers. Her best friend, Magzin, and Magzin’s little sister, Elle, would be her bridesmaids. By the time she had named their first three children, two boys and a girl, Gin came up short. Ahead of her a boulder hung out from the end of the gully like a giant’s nose. The water had flowed around it, carving out the soft earth underneath and leaving the large rock overhanging the narrow canyon floor.

Over the years the floods had swirled around on the sandstone floor, carving a round hole, like the bottom of a gourd. Climbing past the boulder looked impossible; the walls of the gully were too soft and at least twenty feet high. Gin glanced back; the walk down the gully would take longer than finding a way up the wall.

Swinging her stick, she buried the curved blade deep in the packed mud at about waist height. Jerking it back dislodged a clod the size of her fist. Gin hacked another foothold lower down. Reaching up, she repeated the process, making a series of small steps in the wall. Blackie Smith, who made her stick, would be furious if he saw her hacking at the dirt with it.

Gin liked being away from adult supervision. Out here, in the bush, there was no one to tell her to do chores, or to stop daydreaming. Out here, she could do what she wanted.

Climbing up the wall with the stick in one hand proved challenging. Gin’s long legs tensed as she gripped with her bare toes and pushed herself up the tiny steps. Halfway past the boulder she stopped and, glancing down, she felt a strange dizziness wash over her. The ground seemed very far away. Gin took a deep breath and turned back to the wall.

A small lump of clay broke away in front of her face and some kind of grub writhed in the dirt. Gin blinked, curious more than disgusted. She wiggled her toes into the soft clay steps, making her footing more secure. Something scraped against her foot. For a moment, Gin was sure it was a stone. Then it moved. Curling around her toes and clamping down.

An icy chill rippled down her spine. She jerked her foot out of the hole and lost her grip on the wall. The dirt exploded and a yawning mouth of clay-toned flesh snapped with black teeth where her face had been a moment before.

Gin screamed, her hands and feet scrambling for grip on the greasy clay. The wall in front of her cracked in a growing line that got wider as the thing on the other side pushed its way out into the daylight. The girl slid down the wall, landing on her backside with a hard thud in the mud.

"Oww!" she whined. From down there, she could see hands with skin stained the red of the sandy clay. Exposed bones jutted out from some of them, and Gin knew she had stumbled into a grave.

The red clay birthed a squirming arm, then the head and shoulders of the dead man pushing out into the world.

He dropped out of the hole headfirst. Gin screamed again and scrambled backward . The mud-caked figure hit the ground with a splat, arms and legs twisted at impossible angles.

Whimpering in terror, the girl looked for her stick. It had fallen in the mud, just out of reach. The dead man unfolded, his dislocated joints popping as they crunched back into place. Gin slid backward in the mud, one hand reaching for the handle of her stick. The zombie rose up on his elbows, his milky eyes seeing nothing as he turned his head slowly left and then right.

Gin froze. The old ones, they couldn’t see because windblown grit and dirt scratched their eyes up. They could hear though, and if his nose wasn’t blocked with mud, he might smell her too.

The zombie snorted, his nostrils flaring, sprays of blackened snot spilling down his chin. Gin felt the handle of the stick under her reaching fingertips. A second body fell out of the grave and landed heavily on the first man. The two evols snarled and thrashed at each other. Gin used the distraction to roll onto her knees and grab the stick. She had never used it on an actual zombie before.

Like everyone else who lived in Home, Gin learned all about the risen dead, and like everyone else she drilled for hours with her stick to learn how to defend herself against them. The golden rule was always to run away when you saw one. Run and tell an adult. All the boys scoffed at that, telling each other stories about what they would do when they found a stinker.

Gin now had a whole mob of them crawling out of the wall of the gully. Buried for Else alone knew how long, trapped in a hole and covered up with mud. Stuck there until the passing of seasons had scraped the mud and silt away from them and Gin had come along and stuck the blade of her stick right in one of them.

Four corpses crawled blindly in the mud now. Gin rose to her feet. Running would be a good idea. Running was what you were meant to do. Home lay a long run away, and she might not get back before dark. The idea of these things finding their way down the gully, following her scent out of the narrow canyon, and killing someone in the dark terrified her.

Blackie’s advice came back to her: Set your feet shoulder-width apart. Make sure you’re well balanced. Swing early and swing hard. Your stick is longer than the dead bugger’s arms. Aim for the head, nothing else. Swing like yer hitting a sixer in rounders.

Gin worked her feet into the cold mud, feeling her slight weight settle as she lifted the stick and held it just below her shoulders. Her body twisted and she waited until the dead man was in range. Just like pumpkins on a pole, she reminded herself and swung the stick with all her coiled strength. The heavy blade cut through the dead man’s neck so easily she spun off balance. The zombie dropped to his knees and then fell face-first into the mud. The thud of his impact startled the others and they started groping their way toward her.

Okay, Gin told herself, now it is okay to run. Run all the way to Home, tell mum, tell Blackie, tell everyone.

The shuffling zombies, now six in number, with more tearing their way out of the tightly packed grave all the time, stumbled to block her escape path.

Gin backed up against the gully wall. Sliding along it, she held her breath when a dead woman’s hand brushed over her dress, nearly snagging the woolen fabric with broken fingernails.

The zombie hesitated and then turned away. Gin exhaled slowly and lifted the stick high, bringing the pointed tip of the curved blade down on the crown of the woman’s skull. It split her head down to the neck. The zombie grunted and sagged, dragging the mud-slick pole out of Gin’s grasp as she collapsed.

Shit, Gin whispered. The remaining dead milled like nervous sheep, bumping into each other in the close confines of the gully. Gin pressed back against the clay while the growing crowd churned up the mud and staggered on the unsure footing.

Hardly daring to breathe, she worked her way along the clay wall. When a zombie bumped against her, she stopped, forcing herself to relax and letting him push past her as he shuffled on.

With her face smearing against the mud, Gin edged along the wall. Eyes half closed, not daring to look, in case she made eye contact with one of them, even the ones blinded by decades of abrasive sand.

Gin’s fingers slid along the wall, feeling her way as blindly as the dead. Her probing fingers pressed against something, dry and smooth like gum tree bark. Her eyes snapped open. Her hand was touching a zombie’s shoulder. The clothing the dead wore had long since rotted to rags, and Gin’s hand lay against flesh cured to leather by the long encasement underground.

The zombie growled and his head jerked in her direction. The face on this one was almost bone; only thin strips of skin and tendons held his jaw in place. His bared teeth snapped against each other, mud and black drool spilling over his grey tongue. His hands rose, the withered muscles bunching and coiling like mechanical rods under his parchment skin.

Gin couldn’t help but recoil as the zombies pressed in on three sides. The stink of them made her nauseous. The reaction of the skull-faced man alerted the others and they stopped their aimless shuffling, turning in her direction. Ancient corpses closed in on her and Gin sank into a crouch, silently praying for a quick death.

She never heard the singing of steel leaving the scabbard as the sound was drowned out by the rising snarl of the hungry dead.

The zombies missed it too.

A shadow wrapped in a black, hooded cloak dropped from the top of the canyon wall. It fell like a dark winged hawk into the midst of the mob and then exploded in a whirlwind of flashing steel. Black ichor sprayed up the walls from the first three severed heads.

A dead hand yanked at Gin’s hair and then the zombie reaching for her flew backward, falling in two before his body hit the ground. The attack was over in seconds, and silence fell across the canyon. Even the birds were still.

Gin slowly opened her eyes. A silhouette stood out against the late afternoon light. The figure sank down until they were eye to eye.

Are you okay? A hand came up and pushed the hood back. The woman’s face under the dyed black wool was framed in long blonde hair, braided into a cable that hung down her back. With only a few lines marking her deep tan complexion, the face looked young— until Gin looked into her eyes. Then she saw ancient history reflected there.

Gin nodded. She knew everyone who lived in Home and the dozen farms that surrounded it. This woman had not come from around here.

You were not bitten? Or scratched? The woman ran calloused hands over Gin’s arms, lifting the hair away from the girl’s neck.

No. I’m fine. Just scared, Gin admitted.

You live around here? the woman asked, rising to her feet and extending a hand to Gin.

Yes, I’m from Home town. Gin put her hand in the smooth, hard grip of the woman and stood up.

What’s your name? the woman asked.

Gin blushed. Forgive me. My name is Gin and my mother’s name is Fray. In her panic, Gin had forgotten the Law of Strangers. Names are important. Like hospitality, they are to be given and received when meeting someone new.

The woman smiled, the lines in her face deepening when she did, her teeth shining whiter than any mouth Gin had ever seen.

Pleased to meet you, Gin, she said.My name is Else,.

Chapter 2

Else led Gin down the canyon. When they reached the end, instead of turning toward Home, she guided the girl northward.

Where are we going? Gin asked, turning to look toward the setting sun.

It will be dark soon. I’m taking you to my people. They will keep you safe until tomorrow, then see you get home.

Gin watched the woman stride through the mud, her stick stabbing at the soft ground with each step. Else’s pole was intricately carved with strange designs and had a rounded end, with no blade. Weapons jutted out around the flapping edges of her cloak; shorter sticks, with blades so worn they looked thin like the last night of a crescent moon, but still razor sharp.

Gin regarded her own stick, still smeared with clay mud, and wondered what she would have to do to earn the right to carve marks like those in Else’s.

Are you . . . are you really her? Gin asked.

Else turned her head and regarded the girl with one bright blue eye. Yes, she said and kept walking.

Gin’s heart skipped a beat. To meet Her, the legend, the Queen, the Lady, seemed like an impossible dream. I-I have a doll of you, Gin said and immediately winced. To her blushing relief, Else didn’t turn around or laugh.

I’m not who they think I am, Else said.

But you said . . . Gin trailed off, confusion adding to her embarrassment.

I am Else. But I’m not God, or anything else that I have heard. I don’t make the rains come, or the crops grow, or the dead wither under my gaze.

I know, Gin replied, sheepishly reminding herself that such things were only children’s stories.

Yours is the sacred name; none may be named for you, Gin said, proud to be able to demonstrate her knowledge of the Lessons.

Who decided that? Else asked.

It has always been, Gin said, wondering if she was being tested somehow.

Nothing has always been, Else declared. Ahead, through the trees, Gin could see bright flags of laundry drying and the glow of campfires.

Your people? she asked, suddenly nervous to be meeting such noble strangers.

They call themselves that. I call them an annoyance, a pain the arse, and the reason I like to take long walks alone! Else raised her voice for the last part and did not seem surprised when a man armed with a bow stepped out of the trees on the side of the trail ahead of them.

Grandmother, he said, lowering his bow. Did you fall in the mud?

Else snorted, Hardly. I saved this girl from being eaten.

My name is Gin, she said, eyeing the stranger with shy curiosity. His long hair and beard were shades darker than Else’s blonde braid, but he had her eyes and traces of her smile. His face had the wide, earth-toned features of tribal ancestry. Gin felt a pang about her own pale skin and fine-boned features. You’re ugly, her inner voice whispered.

I’m Harris, the man said.

Is she really Else? Gin asked and the man laughed.

I’m afraid so. Disappointing, isn’t it. The great Else is just a woman. She’s not ten feet tall and she doesn’t fly. At least, not that I have seen.

Harris is my grandson. As if I didn’t have enough to make me feel old already, Else said and walked past the guard.

Gin blushed and hurried after her, the good-natured laughter of the man sounding behind them.

Else’s extended family made up the rest of the traveling camp. Gin guessed at least sixty men, women, and children, many of them with the Aboriginal features of tribal blood. They all greeted Gin warmly, bathing her in a flood of names and welcoming smiles.

Everyone clamored for Else’s attention, requesting her advice, input, or ruling on everything from a child’s bedtime to a question over a mark on a faded map.

She left Gin in the care of a woman who introduced herself as Lora. Together they went to where food sizzled on river stones in a fire pit and Gin took the offered seat on a wooden stool.

Tea? Lora asked.

What? Gin looked at her, distracted by the noise and color of the camp.

We have tea, if you want something to drink. There’s coffee too, and cocoa.

What’s coffee? Gin asked.

Horrible stuff, Lora answered, grinning . Bitter, but you get used to it and then you wonder how you survived without it.

Tea, tea will be fine, thank you. Gin remembered her manners and stopped staring at everything and everyone that walked past.

Try not to wander too far. I’ll be back soon. Lora stood up and walked away.

Gin sat still, listening to the chatter of voices, the grizzling cries of babies, and the crackle of campfires.

It’s just like home, isn’t it, Else said, sitting down on a wooden chair next to her.

Yes. Gin smiled and glanced at her. It really is.

We’ll get you back in the morning. Can you ride?

Gin nodded. Like everyone in Home, she knew how to ride a horse, shoot a bow, and tend crops and livestock. She could scrounge and cook. Shear a sheep, and then card the wool and spin it. She could dye and knit it too. Everyone could do anything that needed doing. That was the way of Home. Everyone worked and everyone shared the rewards.

Else’s people served the evening meal and Gin ate with the careful manners her mother insisted on at her own table.

The food was familiar: root vegetables, stewed meat, and bread baked in the embers of the fire. It tasted like Home, and Gin wondered why she had always imagined that Else lived in a different way than the rest of them. It made her seem more real, and Gin felt a comforting glow in her belly that came from more than the hot food.

After the communal meal, Gin sat with the adults and listened while they talked.

Just like the adults from her village, they told stories. Tales of fools and heroes, lost loves, and misunderstandings. It was easy to laugh and gasp with the rest of the audience.

When her turn came, Gin cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and shared a story her mother had often told her at bedtime. The people around the fire listened in silence and when she was done, they nodded and murmured their approval. For Gin, it was the first time she felt like an actual adult.

Sleep came easily that night, lying in a tent made of weatherproofed hides, with four other women sharing the space. Guards stood watch out there in the darkness, Else too probably. Gin wasn’t sure that She ever slept.

With dawn came rain, a hurried breakfast, and the camp packing up. Else and Harris would take Gin home and join the rest of the band later to continue their trek.

Else stood up and slipped the holster of blades onto her shoulders. We’d best get you home, before your family starts to worry.

Gin nodded. Mum would already be worried, but no amount of scolding could take the shine off this adventure.

Three saddled horses waited for them at the edge of the camp, stamping and snorting in the drizzle.

Shit, Gin said, her hand touching her blade-stick . Piled up among the nearby trees was a pile of freshly decapitated corpses. I didn’t hear anything, she admitted.

The firelight attracts them, Else said. Nothing to be worried about.

This one’s name is Sally, Harris said, patting the horse on her brown neck.

Hello, Sally. I’m Gin, she said to the horse.

Else and Harris mounted the other two horses and with Else in the lead, they rode away from the camp.

The horses walked through the scrub until they came to the dirt track that was all that remained of the old-world highway. Gin grew up on stories of the old world, the way people spoke to each other around the world as if they were talking to someone in the next room and drove on roads like this faster than an arrow shot.

Do you go everywhere? Gin asked Else as the horses picked their way along the trail.

All over Australia, Else replied.

Are there lots of us? People, I mean. Like me.

Yes. They mostly live in small communities. All with their own ideas, different grasps on old technology, and in every one of them, there are young girls like you, filled with curiosity and questions.

I’m sorry, Gin blushed.

For being curious? Else turned in the saddle and stared at the girl in the early morning sunlight. Don’t apologize for wanting to know more. Questions are what make the world. Never stop asking them, or seeking answers.

Gin nodded, turning Else’s words over in her mind like one of Chippy’s wooden block puzzles.

The horse’s shoes clipped on the flat chunks of asphalt and stones washed over the old road by the wind and rain of many decades. Gin gripped Sally’s flanks with her bare knees and enjoyed the gentle rocking of the horse’s strength. She couldn’t wait for the other kids to see her. Not only would she come riding in through the Home gate on a horse, but Else, the living legend, would be by her side. The excited urge to nudge Sally into a trot and then a canter was almost overwhelming.

Hold up, Else said, her hand rising in a stop gesture.

Gin reined the horse in, as Harris turned his steed to cover the rear.

Engine noise, Else said. Gin strained to hear anything over the sound of toads croaking. She looked into the dense clouds of the grey sky. After a moment, she heard a strange sound, like a buzzing, come into focus. Gin had no idea what would make a sound like that. It reminded her of the windmills that generated electrickery to run the irrigation pumps for the fields and the lights of Home. If this noise came from a windmill, it was spinning faster than anything she had ever heard, and it had blown a bearing.

With a coughing roar, a massive shape swooped over their heads. The staccato noise of failing engines engulfed them and sent the horses rearing in panic. Gin clung to the neck of Sally and tried to hold on as the horse bolted.

Fuck me! Harris yelled, nearly sliding off his horse as the animal twisted and bucked.

Else ignored him and let her mount run while keeping an eye on the downward trajectory of the plane. She caught up with Gin easily, leaning over and grabbing Sally’s bridle before gently bringing both horses to a halt and calming them with a soothing tone.

I’m sorry! Gin gasped. What was that?

I think it was an airplane, Else replied. With the horses back under control, they turned to follow the plane’s path.

An airplane? Harris rode up. Who the hell could fly an airplane?

I have no idea, Else said, rising in the stirrups to scout the view ahead.

Old-world people? Gin wondered.

Yeah, they used to fly everywhere, right, Else? Harris asked.

I guess. Knew a fella who had a flying machine. Just like the pictures in books.

What happened to him? Gin asked, her mind reeling at the idea.

He crashed and got burned up. Not enough of him left to come back, Else replied.

They urged the horses on to where the scrub cleared, revealing a gouged rip in the landscape. Pieces of debris ranging from palm sized to twisted chunks the size of a horse littered the long strip that marked the final landing site of the doomed plane.

At the end of the field, most of the fuselage