Deadweight | Book 2 | The Last Bite

by Forster, Paul

  “It’s a load of bollocks, isn’t it?” Mike asked, he had his doubts too. “Just more PR bullshit for the unwashed on the boats.”

  “If they sent us out here looking for Father Christmas, we’d do it with a smile and ask if they want the reindeer too,” Spencer said as he checked his rifle and kit.

  The other soldiers were loading the helicopter, Spencer and his men weren’t sent to babysit a science lab. They had a mission to recover an asset who may hold the key to this damn plague, that’s all they told Peter. It filled him with hope. Those in charge hadn’t given up.

  “Pete, fall in,” Spencer bellowed his order at the confused figure. Peter jogged forward, ready to be given another order. “We will be back in six hours, you’re in charge,” he continued. Spencer handed Peter a pistol. Peter recognised it as the one he’d worn for so long on his hip, the one he’d cleaned the blood from when he found it. “Stay out of trouble, and for fuck’s sake don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”

  Peter took the handgun. The helicopter blades had already reached full speed as Spencer hopped onboard, joining his men. The door gunners cocked their machine guns and Sebastian smiled, offering a single-digit salute as he made the Lynx climb above Wellworth. At a height of around fifty-metres, it tilted forward and moved off. Peter stared at it until it was well out of sight. Some of the dead gave a slow pursuit of the chopper, they’d give up and return. They always came back with a few friends.

  Peter looked around, alone again. He noticed it nearly immediately. The groan of the creatures. It had never gone away, but with the others at Wellworth he had zoned it out. Looking at the fences, a thousand angry, hungry faces stared back. He gripped the Glock a little tighter, for all the good it would do.

  Chapter 30

  The sea was rougher than it had been for a few days. The two minders were both well versed with operating in rough seas. Mason hadn’t ever been one to get seasick, and since he changed, his body was even more resilient. The other five civilians transferring with them weren’t so lucky, covering much of the exposed deck with vomit before the sea water washed it away. The small boat chugged along slowly, riding the waves that seemed to knock the vessel back at a faster rate than it could crawl forward.

  The Hope 2 was stationary, the engine only used to maintain position if it strayed too far from its allotted space. It was expecting the new arrivals, a fair trade for ten of their own. A structural engineer and his family, along with a plumber and a carpenter with their families. Useful skills, but not best utilised on the small cargo ship. The captain was only sorry to see the plumber leave; the ship was never meant to service the waste needs of so many people. The toilets were a constant problem despite most of the inhabitants being forced to use buckets; the contents flung from the side into the sea after every bowel movement or emptied bladder. But the chance to reduce his headcount by two was just too good to turn down. He didn’t care who was coming aboard, all he cared about was fewer mouths to feed and a modicum more space onboard.

  The small vessel pulled alongside the Hope 2, and the unpleasant and clumsy act of transferring the passengers began. Both vessels bobbed up and down at different intervals, the smaller boat far more affected by the sea. Suddenly a six-foot drop became nothing, and the reverse was true. A broken ankle wasn’t a rare occurrence when such transfers took place in anything other than calm seas. The two plain clothed soldiers took control, the first ascended the cargo netting with ease. Mason was prompted to climb next. He surprised himself with just how quickly he made it to the top. He’d forgotten how strong and agile he was with a full belly. The men were held on the deck by two armed crew members. They wouldn’t be allowed to simply merge with the rest of the civilians without a few basic checks. No soldiers had been stationed to the Hope 2. Instead, a few civilian shotguns along with a small supply of cartridges had been supplied for the ship’s crew to police itself.

  The ten passengers waiting to climb down were dirty and apprehensive. Mason stared at them. They didn’t know how lucky they were. This ship was marked for death and they had been saved to make his arrival possible. He hadn’t turned anyone in a while, but he knew the time it took had become less and less. They had called him a super-spreader. From his briefing, they seemed to believe someone he infected could turn into a mindless feeder within 48 hours. He thought they were probably being optimistic, but it didn’t matter. It would take as long as it would take.

  After 40 minutes on the deck, the last of the departing passengers had boarded the small boat with only one sprained ankle suffered. The boat made its way back to the Reckoning.

  Each of those who boarded, handed over their papers and test results to the crew of the ship. A quick glance and check of ID was enough. Anyone coming from the Reckoning would have been tested regularly. They were clean, their clothes fresh. They had come from paradise compared to the Hope 2. Here people lived on top of each other, fresh water was a commodity and food was in short supply. They led the group through the ship to a long, but wide, corridor. A row of triple height bunk beds flanked one side. As they followed down the corridor, the faces looking back at them from each bunk were tired and worn. The rigours of life were nearly too much for them. They had spent too long-surviving on too little, and despite the name of their home, they were devoid of any hope.

  “Jesus, they’re already dead,” Mason whispered to one of his minders.

  “What do you care?” the soldier asked. He resented having to talk with the monster.

  “There’s not much meat on the bones. It’s not the feast I had in mind,” Mason replied and realised his expectations of a plump child to devour were unrealistic.

  “Just do your job and be grateful you weren’t fucking slotted,” he snapped. He was willing to cut the creature’s head off there and then, he just wanted an excuse.

  Mason had been taking everything in since they had boarded. Escaping his friends was possible, but to what end? They would find him on the ship, but even if they didn’t, it had been condemned. Any freedom would be short-lived. He made his way to the crewman leading them. “Is there anywhere a guy can get, some company?”

  The sailor looked him up and down with suspicion. “Nothing is free on this ship. Whether it’s a girl, boy, or information. Everything costs.”

  Mason reached into his pocket and pulled out a bundle of three cigarettes wrapped in clingfilm and handed them to the sailor. “Where?”

  “Next level down, starboard. It will cost you more than three fags when you get there though,” the sailor replied. He pocketed them quickly, keen to keep them to himself.

  Mason nodded and smiled. If he wasn’t allowed to go nuts and eat everyone, he’d at least satisfy his carnal needs to get the job done. They had supplied him with cigarettes, chocolate, and a few small bottles of vodka. It had been deemed this would be enough to buy him access to whatever he needed on the ship.

  They reached their bunks. Some hastily assembled frames with sheets of strong blue tarpaulin forming the bed. Not at all comfortable, but better than the damp, cold metal floor. Mason was given the middle bunk, sandwiched between his two personal soldiers.

  “You can leave your shit here, but it won’t be there when you come back. Don’t report it to us, we don’t care. Meals are served in the main cargo bay at 8 am and 8 pm. Bring your ID. If you don’t bring your ID or are late, that’s your problem,” he said. The sailor left the new arrivals to get settled.

  “I’m going for a look around,” Mason stated and started walking off before a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  “I’ll come too,” the soldier said and gave him a shit-eating grin.

  The men made their way down to the next level. It was like a medieval bazaar. Stalls trading whatever people had left of value. Food and drink, books, home-made blades, and clean clothes. The knives caught Mason’s attention. He didn’t trust any of these living fuckers. Knowing his two friends had enjoyed the comfort of carrying a 9mm handgun, each would make him an ea
sy target once he’d outlived his usefulness. Maybe he paused a little too long, staring at the weapons, but he was soon moved on.

  “Come on cunt, are you working or what?”

  Mason nodded and headed to starboard. The small partitions were given the privacy of a dirty sheet to hide the depravity that could take place within. A dirty man in an ill-fitting designer suit stood in front, waiting for someone like Mason.

  “What are you after?” he asked. Business had been increasingly slow, fresh blood on the ship was always worth exploiting.

  “What have you got?” Mason enquired as he tried to peer behind the man, but the women were all hidden away.

  “Sixteen years old, tight girl, a bit of a crier if you like that. If you want experience, I’ve got a 37-year-old with massive tits and a big arse. And two skinny girls in their twenties.”

  “Who’s the most popular?” he asked. He thought he’d start at the top and work his way down over the next day or so.

  “That’d be Cassie, the one with the big tits,” the pimp proudly proclaimed.

  “How much?” Mason asked and felt his currency in his pockets, uncertain how far it would get him.

  “You’re new? We have a special welcome offer, half a litre of spirits gets you half an hour of whatever you want. A pack of cigarettes for a blowjob, a hand job will cost you half a pack of fags or any good confectionery. Of course, we’re open to offers if you have anything interesting?” The welcome offer, just like the repeat customer offer, the end of week offer, and any other offer the man could think of.

  Mason produced a sealed pack of cigarettes.

  “Cassie gives great head, you’re in for a treat,” the man bragged as he grabbed the cigarettes and shoved them into his suit’s inside pocket as he led Mason to a partition. He opened his jacket to flash a large Bowie knife in its sheath suspended by a cord from his shoulder. “Don’t do anything silly, we police ourselves here and no one will help you.”

  Maybe someone would help me, Mason thought to himself. “Don’t wait up,” he smirked at his shadow, who had no interest in getting any closer to the makeshift brothel.

  The curtain opened, and Mason entered. Cassie wasn’t any younger than 45 years old. Her much vaunted breasts were saggy and mediocre. She looked okay for her age, but hardly appealing. Mason thought maybe he should have opted for the 16-year-old. She would probably be in her twenties if the same math was applied.

  “A blowie Cassie, okay?” the grubby man said. He waited until she nodded in acceptance, then he closed the curtain and left.

  If Mason had been capable of it anymore, he’d have felt bad for her. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t. He pulled down his trousers and sat on the edge of the bed. She produced a condom and went to remove it from its wrapper.

  “No condoms, please,” he said. This was more business than pleasure, he’d hardly be doing his job if he allowed her to put a condom on him.

  “Are you joking?” Cassie asked and looked at him as if he was crazy.

  “Look, I understand, but look at me. I’m healthy, I’ve just come from the Reckoning, the big ship. I’m the cleanest thing on this tub and I’ve been tested regularly, I’m the safest thing you’ll put in your mouth all week,” Mason replied. The poor lighting below deck helped shield his pale complexion. She wasn’t impressed. “Here, will this help?” he said then produced a 200g bar of chocolate and handed it to her. She looked around and pocketed the bar before getting to work on Mason. “Good girl, make it quick, I have things to do,” he said. Mason sat back and relaxed. It wasn’t the worst job in the world.

  Chapter 31

  They had been aboard the Hope 2 for less than two days, but Mason had undertaken his work with aplomb. Cassie had been the first, but not the last prostitute he’d visited. When he’d run out of luxury items to trade for unprotected sex, he began tainting the water supply. A surreptitious sneeze into a vat of drinking water, a lick of a door handle or an over enthusiastic greeting. He took amusement from each of them and everywhere he looked; he saw the fruits of his labour.

  The unsatisfied look of hunger, the short tempers and outbreaks of violence. It brought back so many memories of the outbreak. The chaos had been a good time for Mason. With the panic and confusion, he ate well on the island. He knew the window this time around would be short. He had to shake his shadows, but they had only ever let him out of sight when he was with one of the ship’s whores. He doubted that he’d make it back to the Reckoning once his mission was complete. Even if they didn’t shoot him in the back of the head at the earliest opportunity, he’d be a prisoner who knew too much and was a risk. Fuck that.

  Mason was lying in his bunk, looking up at the bulge above as the soldier rolled over. “Going to do my rounds lads, don’t worry, I won’t be long,” he announced and hopped off his bed, triggering the legs from the bunk below to swing out.

  “I need to stretch my legs too,” the soldier said then rolled out of the lower bunk and stood next to Mason, checking his pistol under his jacket.

  “I’m okay thanks, I won’t be long,” Mason let out. It was worth a try, however unlikely.

  “We’ve got the food, you stay close to us,” the menace in the soldier’s voice was clear.

  You are the food.

  Mason led his keeper to the market. It was even more of a panic than usual. Those on board knew what was going on, they had seen it before on the mainland. History was repeating itself, but this time they would have nowhere to run. Those showing signs of infection either hid or were thrown overboard. It might have worked if the microbe hadn’t spread so quickly. The prostitutes Mason infected passed it on to their many punters, who passed it on to their partners and families. The tainted water was used to wash with and drink. He found it amusing that they were killing each other, even though by now they were nearly all infected.

  Most of the traders had shut up shop. No one was interested in buying chocolate or books, so only those with food or basic weapons to sell remained. The futility of it all. They just didn’t understand how none of it mattered. A blade wouldn’t do them any good, they were already dead. But to him it could be his key to freedom. If only that arsehole would give him some space. A crowd jostled for position in front of the only merchant with any halfway useful weapons left to sell. Pieces of the ship’s pipes had been removed and repurposed. They wouldn’t do. An array of shivs were still available, but were now being auctioned off, their value increasing with every sale. Most looked small, he wasn’t sure how he could take two armed soldiers with little more than a sharpened potato peeler. Options and time were against him. Looking around, he saw his answer.

  The pimp was still selling his girls, but business was understandably slow. A quick glance at the soldier and Mason approached the familiar face.

  “If it’s not my best customer! What can I do for you today?” he asked. The pimp was pale and agitated, he’d definitely been indulging in his own infected product.

  “What are you doing?” asked the soldier who wasn’t impressed. “You’ve done your job stop fucking around.”

  “Until we’re off this tub, I’m still on the job. Be good and wait here, unless you want a fuck, my treat?”

  “Hurry. We’re expecting the call,” he ordered. The soldier stood back, allowing Mason to carry on.

  “Sorry about that. I was thinking maybe I’d try that young one out. Is she available?”

  “Of course,” the pimp piped up. The man led Mason to the partition through the curtain. The girl was young, too young. The minor cuts and bruises on her face and arms suggested her choices had been forced upon her. She sat still on the bed facing the wall. She was drugged or just too traumatised by the life they had forced her into to care anymore. Mason took off his jacket and t-shirt. His skin was pale and scarred, but the pimp either didn’t notice or just didn’t care. “The usual service, usual payment?” he smiled, this might be his last customer.

  “I was thinking of something else,” Mason motioned the
man to come closer so he could whisper to him. Cupping his hand, he gently spoke into his ear. “I was thinking I would kill you and do whatever the fuck I want.“

  The pimp’s eyes widened and Mason grabbed his face, forcing his mouth shut as he bit down on his neck. Mason’s face contorted as he swallowed. The man was maybe only a day away from turning, and the meat was only just about edible. The girl didn’t so much as flinch as the pimp’s body went limp and Mason set him down on the bed beside her. Opening up the suit jacket, there it was, the large Bowie knife. It was nearly ridiculously big. Better than the sharpened toothbrushes being fought over in the market. He quickly removed the jacket off the dead man and slid the cord holding the sheath in place down the limp arm before he removed the blade. He gently touched the blade’s edge with his fingertip, careful to not cut himself whilst still judging the sharpness. Perfect.

  He looked at the girl. She was harmless, probably as riddled with the infection as the rest of the ship. Feasting on the bloody corpse didn’t interest him in. It wasn’t good meat, the soldiers would be better. A large bowl of discoloured water and some dirty towels were afforded to the girls to clean themselves up after a client. It would get most of the blood off him.

  Dressed, and the knife now hanging under his own jacket, he was done. He’d worked quickly and only been a few minutes. Exiting the partition, he closed the curtain behind him and shouted back. “I wanted a woman, not a fucking man in drag, you swindling prick!”