The Last Goodbye

By Chris Blake

Our band of intrepid ratbags has escaped the winjas with help from an unexpected catastrophe. To save humanity they have committed to leaving Earth and colonising the Moon. The Australasian Spaceport is on Cape York in Far North Queensland. However, Surfers Paradise is on the way, and Rowan the rat wants to check something out before they head off. It might be his last chance to catch up on his past if their plans succeed. But those interfering humans have done it again, and the Gold Coast is overrun by yet another man-made disaster. Now the rats have a secret weapon though, and circumstances conspire for them to use it in all-out war. It’s a fight to stave off extinction. Can they turn the tide, or this time have those thoughtless humans gone too far?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Blake
• Release date: May 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463536339

Chris Blake

Chris Blake grew up in the United Kingdom, and was lucky enough to experience the tale end of the fading glory of one of the old rural oral traditions, the social life of the west country pubs of North Devon. “My formative years were spent in Woolacombe, North Devon, one of the great surf beaches of the world, framed by spectacular scenery and seascapes, including the notorious Morte Stone, the tidal rock in the rip that the wreckers used in olden days to trap ships and sweep their crews onto Rockham Beach, where the women of the village waited on the tideline to pitchfork the sailors back into the undertow. Folk memories of that time still exist in some of the local place names: Beaconsfield where they hobbled the donkey to set the false light, Slaughtersfield at the back of the cliffs where the women used to wait, and Mortehoe of course, death ahoy in the old French. Our farmhouse itself was steeped in history, its beams and rafters were oak from ships’ timbers. Outside repairs often breached old middens to reveal clay pipes and broken brandy bottles from the days of smugglers. There was a story in the village that the steading was haunted, and no one would cross the fields to visit after dark. The tale went all the way back to the Armada, and a Catalan galleon that cleared the tip of Scotland to run south down the Irish Sea, and blow into the Bristol Channel to fetch up on the Morte Stone on the incoming tide. A Spanish lady was swept overboard and washed in at a small cove known as Bennet’s Mouth, where she scrambled up the contours of the valley drawn to the candles in the farmhouse windows. No one was home, everybody was either on Morte Point or the beach chasing wreck, but the door was open and she entered in to climb the winding stairs of the turret. She crawled into the first bedroom at the top, and climbed onto the bed. When they returned in the early hours the occupants found her there, dead from hypothermia and exhaustion. To this day certain visitors can sense her, more often than not the very young or the very old, those closest to the threshold of life and death. It’s a darkening of the deepest shadows in the furthest corner, and a sense of bitter chill. Or sometimes the guest wakes up imagining a cold clammy body sharing the bed, damp with salt and sea spray, and raddled with the smell of wrack. The villagers called her ‘The White Lady.’ They say they stripped her of her gown and jewels but left her shift. As I got older my parents made me sleep in there in the high tourist season so that they could rent out my room, but I never saw her. There was a wonderful tradition of storytelling in the local pubs. Another legend in the village was about one of the knights who slew Thomas a Beckett. Mortehoe was his manor and after the killing he was exiled there by the king. The story goes that he was never allowed back to court and lived out the rest of his days in the parish of Lee. When he died, he was laid to rest in the churchyard of the old Norman church. During the war the locals drinking in the pub, awash with cider, whisky and dreams of plunder, decided to dig him up to share out his treasure. But the grave was empty except for a lead lining in the shape of the coffin. There were no jewels, no grave goods, not even the remnants of a sword, and no bones. It had been centuries. Apparently, the ringleader claimed the lead, and used it as a trough to feed his pigs. Which probably would have poisoned them, and eventually him. I went onto to read Medieval and Anglo-Saxon Literature at the University of East Anglia. I’d be lying if I claimed my choice to be inspired by the legends from home, but it makes a good story. In any case I fell in love with the Dark Ages, that time of history where civilisation was fading into shadow, the imperial order breaking down and technology going backwards. The Anglo-Saxons themselves could only envisage the architecture of the Romans as ‘the work of giants.’ There’s this pervasive sense of loss and mystery, underwritten by the unyielding courage needed to face both the unknown past and the fickle future. A chance encounter with a friend from Melbourne led me and my family on an adventure to Australia. Our travels inspired me to write ‘Ratpackers’, a children’s story about a bunch of rodents crossing the Nullarbor. Eventually I found a home in Tasmania, another place of extraordinary landscapes but also tainted by a dark history. While working as a teacher in the old Bridgewater High School, its first incarnation before the kids burnt it down, a class debate about ethics morphed into the idea for a story about genetic engineering. We talked about civilisation and what makes a safe society, and we got onto Law, and we agreed that the most important law in the Judeo-Christian tradition is not to kill each other. Then someone pointed out that although legally we didn’t agree with murder, we seemed to manage it on a regular basis. Then someone else in the class proposed that with all the recent research into the Human Genome we could edit our genes to eradicate the urge to kill, in much the same way as we could programme safety into a robot? (Asimov has written on this with his proposed ‘Laws of Robotics’). However, then I thought, why would conservatives ever agree to a compulsory edit of their children’s genes? They would see it as an interference into natural evolution (a divine right). But if in the future this ever happened, how would the progressives, those who’ve risked becoming engineered, ever be able to defend themselves? Then one of the girls said they’d find a way, but it would require intelligence not testosterone, and that’s how ‘Erin’s Sword’ was born.”

Book preview

Ratpackers III

The Last Goodbye

WARNING: Not to be read by adults. It might give them nasty ideas.

Published by Chris Blake at Smashwords

Text Copyright 2019 Chris Blake

All rights reserved.

Illustrated by Malcolm Liddell

Coloured in by Angelica Blake

* * * * *

Table of Contents

PART FOUR: The Last Goodbye – The Gold Coast

Chapter 1. The Gold Coast

Chapter 2. Speak No Evil

Chapter 3. The Hacker

Chapter 4. Playing Pirates

Chapter 5. The Pantomime Patrol

Chapter 6. Hot Wheels, Cool Rides

Chapter 7. War Games

Chapter 8. The Warpath

Chapter 9. Backs to the Wall

Chapter 10. Mutant Mayhem

Chapter 11. Drained Away

Chapter 12. The Sacrifice

Chapter 13. The Way of the Butterfly

Chapter 14. The Best Laid Plans

Chapter 15. A Blaze of Glory

Chapter 16. The Last Goodbye

Chapter 17. Waterlogged

EPILOGUE

* * * * *

PART FOUR.: The Last Goodbye

The drums have called me

to air your sorrows

Heal your pain

I am the guardian of Liberty

Equality my only claim

I uphold the oppressed and needy

Hear your sighs and bear your woes

My tears never fall for bravery

My soul allows no chains

Life in slavery

Is life in vain.

Epigram on a Folk Warrior, from ‘The Water Margin’, translated from the Mandarin by Hokido the samurat.

*

Chapter 45. The Gold Coast

The sky groans, moaned the Pomrat. Its bald hide ran with rivulets of sweat and perspiration. The humidity and the weight of the air lay over them like a great heavy wet soggy blanket. The others’ fur was matted with moisture.

I’m beginning to wish I was hairless like you, Beth said to Pomrat,

It’s got its advantages at a time like this.

The Pomrat smirked smugly and began an exaggerated preening of its naked skin, and swaggered casually ahead of the band of travelers. They’d been wandering the thoroughfares and canal sides of the Gold Coast for ages, keeping to the gutters, drains and. shadows, out of eyesight of the humans. This wasn’t easy for the humans seemed to surge about in great babbling masses like the oncoming waves of a king tide; a vast sea of pink and yellow and brown bodies clad scantily in shorts, singlets and thongs overflowing from the beaches into the streets. The little group of travelers was looking for company, local rodents that they could chat to and hear all the latest gossip. It had begun as a casual ramble, for they expected to bump into fellow rats or mice at any moment. But after a long series of empty likely haunts and holes they began to get puzzled, so they started to search in earnest. They began to quarter and thoroughly cross-check one area at a time. Rowan began to feel desperate for news in the strange town. He'd been convinced that a few choice comments about his Uncle Horace would have instantly jogged memories and led him straight to the whereabouts of the eccentric old rat. The old sandgroper must surely be a notorious personality locally?

There seemed to be a strange sense of emptiness in the underworld of the place. Throngs of humans happily crowded everywhere in a cheerful relaxed atmosphere with none of their usual rush, aggression and stridence, but there was no visible sign of any other animal life.

Has the P.C.O. Man up here finally perfected his techniques, and cleared us out? Rowan questioned his sister incredulously.

No chance, stated Beth emphatically, humans will never be that bright; there must be some logical explanation for this absence, some natural flu or virus perhaps.

Night seemed to come early and swiftly and still they’d found no rodent to help them in their quest. They were getting foot-sore, weary and depressed, and the Pomrat dangerously bored, but as darkness fell a soft warbling song began to hum from the canals, lakes and ponds of the town. The melodious harmony seemed to grow and charm them, uplifting their disheartened spirits and soothing their worries away. They began to relax and unwind, apart from Erminia, who was still filled with a sense of unease and foreboding. She was somehow reminded of the old stories of sirens luring sailors and ship-rats onto treacherous reefs and rocks.

Don’t be silly, Beth had remarked when she’d mentioned her fears, nothing that sounds as beautiful as this could be dangerous. Just you think on the sort of noises that predators make - cats, dogs, dingoes, foxes – their voices are as ugly as their souls. And have you ever heard a Tasmanian Devil; total mega mess - burst eardrums, pounding headache, and nightmares for decades.

Where did you ever hear a Tasmanian Devil? asked Erminia in surprise.

On the TV of course, replied Beth, on one of those dumb nature shows - it put me off the small screen for days, and I’ve never watched an animal documentary since, they’re too realistic.

It reminds me of the Land after the rains, said the Pomrat wistfully, trying to think of the desert they’d left behind, all the frogs and toads who have waited years come out and sing for joy all night long.

I think it's lovely too, agreed Quirkal, let's go down to the water and see what’s doing it, it seems to be coming from the canal.

Almost mesmerized in a floating dream they glided on light dancing feet down to the bank of the nearest canal, and there they stopped, and swayed to the lilt of the melody and gazed out across the water. The Pomrat closed its eyes in ecstasy, slipped, tripped and fell in. The great splash seemed to abruptly silence the song in the vicinity, and a series of startled croaks faded into stillness. The mood was broken, and they hauled the Pomrat out, which was difficult because it couldn’t swim, and struggled violently. They decided to hole up somewhere for a few hours rest and sleep before venturing off again. By then it would be the very depths of night, and surely they'd find some rat or something to interrogate in the small hours of stealth and darkness. They wandered away from the canal back towards the road, and Rowan found a suitable hideout, in the wide garage of a human dwelling. They sneaked in under the door, and settled down to sleep. Pomrat stretched out on the outside as usual, like a final line of defense, or a dormant minefield if any intruder or predator should happen to stumble upon them. Except for Erminia they all slept soundly, tired out by all the fruitless explorations of the day. Erminia dozed uneasily, slithering slimy sounds mingling with a persistent slap like wet feet on damp concrete sliding in and out of her dreams. She slipped into the grip of an insidious nightmare where a giant worm with a great gaping toothless mouth chased her through long slimy tunnels that climbed inevitably and inexorably uphill towards a tiny circle of moonlight in the far, far distance. Her feet were scrabbling in the slime and she was slipping backwards ever closer to the sucking maw when mercifully Rowan shook her out of her slumber. It was time to go out once more, for a nocturnal assault on the strange emptiness of the town. Most of the humans were thankfully abed, apart from a few lively