Story [Issue 78] Tankiverse Fanfic - The Promised Land

[Hippin_in_Hawaii 639]

The Promised Land

Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii

 
The plane touched down with a jolt, startling Fred from his slumber.
 
“Relajarte, jefe,” came Frank’s voice from the adjacent pod. “Casi estamos en casa.”
 
Dammit. Fred’s sleep-addled brain struggled to process. ‘Relax, cow. Almost we are in house.’ No, that couldn’t be it. ‘Jefe,’ not ‘hembra.’ Silly Spanish J. Ok, twist it around…’Relax, boss. We’re almost home.’
 
In the nine plus weeks (he’d lost count) since his escape, Fred hadn’t slept in the same spot twice. He had slept on top of cargo pallets under moving blankets; buried in a haystack; in a feather bed on 1,000 count silk sheets (hadn’t that been nice?); in the backseat of a ‘52 Chevy; even in a sleeping bag hanging from a meat hook in a refrigerated rail car. Now, he was in a first-class pod on a commercial airline.
 
They’d shaved his head the first night, but forbade him from shaving his face, half of which had disappeared beneath a bushy tangle of salt-and-pepper beard. He’d been given henna tattoos down both forearms which were only now beginning to fade. Looking in the mirror, he scarcely recognized the man staring back at him, aside from the eyes.
 
And always, every waking moment, the lessons in Spanish. Rarely the same teacher two days in a row. Sometimes no English at all. “Bien,” he responded. “Estoy cansar de viajar.” I’m tired of traveling.
 
“Estoy cansado,” corrected Frank gently, rising to get his carry-on luggage and join the queue creeping towards the exit. “Adjective, not verb.”
 
The heat and humidity hit Fred like a steaming hot towel wrapped around his body. Instantly, he was covered in a sheen of perspiration; his clothing stuck to his skin, and his underwear began creeping uncomfortably upwards. He followed the crowd down the staircase and through the shimmering heat mirage across the tarmac towards the promise of air-conditioning in the terminal.
 
With no checked baggage to claim, the transition through the cool-air comfort was brief, and Fred found himself again standing in the sweltering air, struggling to breathe as they waited for a car. The aging Pontiac which approached offered no signs of relief; the windows were all down, and the driver sported a tank-top shirt and a deep tan which spoke of a native’s comfort.
 
“Bienvenidos, señores,” came a familiar voice from the tawny mustachioed face.
 
Fred held his tongue until he and Frank were inside and the car was rattling up the road. “Al?”
 
“Yep!” chirped the indefatigable voice. “Good to see you, sir!”
 
“Good to be here!” responded Fred. “So, where are we going?” The railroad which had so meticulously smuggled him thus far had been professionally tight-lipped, and Fred had never pushed. If he knew nothing, he couldn’t compromise anything should he be recaptured. Despite the overall inconvenience he’d endured, he wholeheartedly approved of the detail and commitment shown by his rescuers. But if someone as high-profile as Al were willing to appear at a commercial airport, the need for secrecy must be nearly done.
 
“We’ll be driving for a few hours. Don’t worry sir, we’re heading up there,” Al responded, with a gesture out the window at a looming mountain range. “It’ll be much cooler in an hour or so.”
 
“Gods, I hope so,” Fred sighed.
 
“Personally, I’m enjoying a little sunshine!” Al smiled over his shoulder at Fred. “Brings out my Mediterranean ancestry!”
 
The multi-lane highway slowly narrowed as the grade increased; an hour later the urban artery had become a pleasant scenic route. An hour after that, it had become a worrisome winding lane; and an hour later, a tenuous, torturous track. The Pontiac labored on. Fred could tell that Frank shared his apprehension, but since Al seemed completely at ease, Fred forced himself to relax and appreciate the view rather than contemplating a mangled death at the bottom of a cliff.
 
The view was stunning; of that there was no doubt. To one side, the city glittered below them. Beyond that, the sunlight danced on the waves of the ocean. To the other side, the mountains stretched off in the distance, snow-capped peaks disappearing into the clouds.
 
Al turned off the track onto what could generously be called a path. The wheel ruts were filled with crushed gravel; branches and brushes rubbed the sides of the car. More than once, Al braked to allow wildlife to skitter out of the way.
 
“There are seven species of deer here,” said Frank, interrupting the companionable silence in which they had ridden for the last few hours. “At least three different kinds of ram, a couple of goat, and critters I’ve never heard of before. Plus year-round dove and over a dozen types of duck. Good hunting.”
 
“Our lake has the biggest trout you’ve ever seen,” added Al.
 
“We have a lake?”
 
The car pulled up to an old steel gate. “Refugio Nacional. No Entre Sin Permisos De Conservación,” read the sign. Al handed a key to Frank, who got out and opened the rusty padlock, allowing the gate to swing open. He waited for the Pontiac to pull through before closing the gate and locking it behind them.
 
“Georgie set up a conservancy foundation, and used that title to lease this protected land from the government. Ostensibly, we’re here as stewards of the park, and protectors of the endangered species known to live here.” Al smiled. “As if we’re any less endangered ourselves!”
 
“How large is our protectorate?” asked Fred.
 
“One hundred thousand hectares,” answered Al. “Excluding the lake.”
 
“And the lake?”
 
“Another thirty-five thousand.”
 
Fred’s head swam. He could easily list ten countries smaller than that, a couple of which he had been responsible for invading. “How many of us are here?”
 
“Several hundred so far. You probably know most of their names. We’re the people who were too well-known to disappear back home, too involved in the war to escape being branded as war criminals. Pretty much anyone who could stay home, did, with a couple of exceptions.”
 
“And Nienna?”
 
“Still at home, running the country. She did send Nester on a worldwide goodwill tour. As he passed through, he left her bottle with us as her promise. It’ll be a while, though. I expect they’ll keep re-electing her until the end of time.” Al pulled up to a large log-cabin styled building. “This is the lodge.”
 
Fred savored the fresh, crisp mountain air. November was a spring month, heading into summer in this hemisphere. The weather this high up was far preferable to the humid mess far below. “I bet it gets chilly up here in winter,” he observed.
 
Al nodded, holding the door open. “You could say that. We drove trucks out on the lake. It was made by glaciers, and to glacier it returns!”
 
Inside, the lodge was expansive, far larger than Fred would have guessed from its rustic exterior. The engineering was modern and solid. He guessed that it could hold a thousand people, although the chairs and tables distributed around the spacious hall were more suited to a hundred or so. On one end, a huge hearth dominated the wall, with a comically small fire burning in its depths. The second wall was largely glass, facing out to the lake and the beautiful vista surrounding it. Opposite that, the other long wall was decorated with photographs, except in the center where a modest-sized trophy case stood. Curious, Fred walked up to it.
 
Inside were numerous bottles of Hederson’s Special Reserve, perhaps twenty in all. “We gathered every bottle we could,” said Al. “For special decision making only.” In the middle of the case was a five-tiered shelf. Fred and Georgina’s nearly-empty bottles occupied the lowest two shelves; Nienna’s half-full bottle sat on the third. Phil’s bottle was on the fourth, although at best it held only a few drops; and the top shelf was empty except for a small portrait of Chip.
 
Fred took a moment to swallow the lump in his throat before turning around. “This is really impressive. But where is everybody?”
 
Al shrugged. “Georgie made it quite clear that you were hers and hers alone for the first twenty-four hours. Everyone else is either hiding in their cabins or out being productive. We’ve got quite the hootenanny planned for tomorrow!” He frowned as he looked around. “Although I rather expected her to be here by now. Well, I guess we’ll continue the tour.”
 
The three of them walked out the side door into the forest. Down a short path stood an old barn. “This was an original structure from, well, someone else. It seemed appropriate for what we put in there, though.” Al and Frank dramatically pulled open the giant double doors. Inside, spread out on a blanket, lay Georgie, completely nude.
 
Fred didn’t notice Al and Frank leaving; he didn’t hear the doors close behind him. He didn’t process much at all aside from the feel of his love in his arms, the smell of her body in his nostrils, the sound of her voice in his ears. There was holding, there were tears; eventually, there was lovemaking. It was a couple of hours before Fred even noticed the tank in the barn.
 
“Isn’t it beautiful?” asked Georgina. “A relic from the second world war. We found it in a scrapyard outside of town. Gods only know how it got down here.”
 
It was a rust bucket. Only in overall shape did it still look like a tank. The treads were fused solid; half the barrel was missing. Clearly animals had been nesting inside the turret; straw poked out of the openings where bulletproof glass had once fit. To Fred, it was the second most beautiful thing in the barn.
 
“You got me a tank!” he gasped as he held Georgie tight. “It’ll take us ten years to get her running.”
 
“We’ve got time,” she whispered in his ear. “We’ve got time.” Then she pulled herself away from him, started putting on her clothes. “Speaking of which, I set up a little campground down by the lake. I thought we’d go out tonight and see if the Leonids have started.”
 
Fred frowned. “I’m not sure they’re visible from the southern hemisphere.”
 
“Does it really matter?” she asked.
 
No. No it didn’t.

Mahalo (thank you) for reading; I hope you enjoyed! This story is part of a series. Information on the series, and links to the other stories, can be found here.

 

Edited October 17, 2018 by Hippin_in_Hawaii

[thethiefofvictory 339]

So Fred's story ends, and pretty well at that. Great job, keep it up!

[PeregrinTook 25]

I guess the Tanki Newspaper isn't designed for kids, huh? Thank God I didn't read it when my 6-year-old self started playing. Honestly, sex? It's called the Tanki Newspaper for Pete's sake, not the cover-the-kids'-eyes newspaper.

[thethiefofvictory 339]

I guess the Tanki Newspaper isn't designed for kids, huh?

Fairly sure this isn't even the first of its kind. The Newspaper and AWC have had many stories not for kids, although most lean to the horrific.