‘Yeah, well it’s different when you’ve got solid ground under your feet. Out here it’s just wind, water and pitch black. When I can barely see my hand in front of my face, I keep feeling like we’re about to smash into something.’
‘Fair enough I suppose, I found it pretty unnerving the first time I did it as well. But give me the water any day rather than being stuck with a bunch of Carriers around us.’
‘No argument there, babe.’
Georgie started to bring the boat into the wind to head away from shore again. ‘Ready to tack, Mark?’
* * *
Georgie brought the bow into the wind to stall the yacht’s progress, causing the sail to flap ineffectively. After leaving Wollongong, the wind had dropped to barely a whisper, making the passage to Shellharbour much longer than expected. The night sky had cleared, leaving behind a crescent moon and a smattering of stars to light the bay. Georgie expertly furled the mainsail back into the mast, securing the lines tightly. With a coughing rumble, the boat’s engine stuttered to life for the last few hundred metres.
A small headland sheltered the marina, assisted by two rock walls that sprouted from either shoreline, leaving only a fifty-metre gap between them for access to open water. The interior was tiny, little more than a hundred metres from side to side. Two boats lay partially submerged at their moorings, the only occupants of the marina. Both craft were abandoned and silent, water gently lapping over canted decking.
Georgie guided their yacht within a few metres of one wreck. In the half-light, Mark noted a series of bullet holes down the hull, and dark smears against the pale woodwork of the cabin. He felt certain that the morning light would reveal those same dark smears as dried blood. On the northern shore lay an occupied boat ramp. The roof of a sunken Toyota Hilux ute poked above the water line with the driver’s door open, the likely victim of a rushed boat launch. Streetlights spaced at regular intervals around the deserted shoreline were dead, standing like overgrown black toothpicks against the sky.
Georgie cut the motor, letting the boat glide the next twenty metres towards the centre of the marina before dropping the anchor. As it gripped, the boat slowly came around to face into the light breeze, leaving the chain extending from the bow at an angle as it plunged into the water. They had clear space for at least forty metres to each side.
Mark stretched his arms overhead, easing stiff muscles at each shoulder as his legs naturally braced against the light movement of the deck. Georgie disappeared into the cabin for a few minutes. Mark listened to her light movements while studying the shoreline until he heard her approach behind him. He turned to find her with an old bottle of scotch in one hand, two bashed up metal cups in the other.
‘I need a drink. You want to join me?’
Mark nodded with a half-smile on his face, ‘You’re a life saver. Where’d you find that?’
‘My dad’s a scotch drinker, I figured there’d be one stashed on board somewhere, and sure enough, he didn’t disappoint.’
Georgie passed one of the metal cups to Mark before pouring a sizeable dram into each.
Mark touched the edge of his cup against hers. ‘To the end of the world, eh?’
‘Not funny.’
‘Yeah well, I’m sure it’ll only be a temporary state of anarchy. Is Penny still sleeping?’
‘She was lying on the bunk facing the wall, if she’s not asleep – she obviously wasn’t in the mood to talk, so I left her to it,’ Georgie said.
‘Fair enough, it’s pretty fucked up what happened to her family. She’s got a right to be a basket case for a day or two I reckon.’
Georgie took a sip from her cup, grimacing at the taste. She hooked her head to the side, indicating for Mark to follow her, then climbed up to sit against the mast on the cabin roof. Mark joined her, their shoulders touching as they sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Aside from the water lapping at the boats side, it was quiet. The power was off in the small town, and the streets were empty of movement.
Mark studied her from the corner of his eye. It had only been a couple of days since she dumped him, a few days that had seen their shared world implode. It had allowed him to push aside his questions and hurt to deal with the greater dangers at hand, but he still needed to know why. He took a steadying breath,
‘Hey Georgie, the other night when I got back to Sydney, you broke things off between us.’ He felt her stiffen next to him at the change in topic. Mark silently cursed himself, but he’d started now. ‘What happened to change the way you felt about me?’
Georgie didn’t say anything for a moment, taking a slow sip from her cup instead. ‘Come on, Mark. Do you really want to do this now?’ her voice was tense. Mark didn’t answer, waiting for her to continue.
‘Fine. Have it your way,’ she sighed. ‘It’s the bloody army, Mark. I never wanted to be a soldier’s girlfriend. If I’d known you were a sapper – you wouldn’t have got my number that first night.’
‘Is it just an issue with me getting deployed, or something more?’
‘That’s a big part of it, but it’s more than that. I know you don’t tell me everything that happens to you while you’re away. You have hideous nightmares, and then pretend nothing’s wrong when I wake you up, even though you lie awake for hours after each one. That’s not normal. I wanted to be your girlfriend, not a bloody counsellor.’
‘There’s not much that happens over there that you don’t know about...’
‘But?’
‘There’s some things that I just don’t want occupying my mind when I’m home. I can’t control what I dream, but I do have a say over what I talk about. Also, it’s stuff that once said I can’t unsay. Mental pictures that I don’t want you associating with me.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, it’s not all roses for me when I’m away. How do you think it is when I’m stuck on a base in the middle of nowhere, unable to contact you, and you’re going out to the pub with mates, hanging out with a bunch of blokes that have a lot more to offer than I do?’
Georgie’s eyes narrowed in anger. ‘Nice one, Mark. Play the self-pity and jealousy cards, why don’t you. You think I’m out fucking every bloke on campus while you’re away, is that it?’ She was pissed off. ‘Fuck you, Mark. It just shows what you really think of me.’
‘It’s not what I meant,’ stammered Mark.
‘Yes it is, and you bloody know it! With everything else that’s going on now, thanks for making it just that much worse.’
She drained the last of her cup, flicking the remaining drops overboard. ‘I’m going to bed. I’ll take the one in the bow, there’s another bunk opposite Penny – you can have that one. Just don’t climb in behind me.’ Without waiting for an answer, she left, letting the door to the cabin bang behind her.
Mark cursed himself. What a fuck up. He considered following her inside to try and fix it, but found that he didn’t have the energy. Nor the right words to say. He feared that things had slipped past the point of correction for them.
Mark glanced around the shoreline once more; it was still reassuringly devoid of movement. For all he knew, they were the only people alive in the area. He swallowed the last of his whiskey from the tin cup. They had forty metres of clear water around them as a barrier – they were as safe here as anywhere. He was exhausted, but the thought of going below deck after that argument didn’t appeal.
Mark picked up the bottle that Georgie had left behind in her haste to escape him, unscrewed the cap and poured a second larger measure of scotch into his cup. He pulled the thick outer coat zipper up high to his chin, and settled back against the mast. He’d let the grog keep him warm, and watch the sun rise from the deck. It wasn’t like they’d be in any danger on the water away from shore. The second cup disappeared quickly, followed by a third before the alcohol deadened his thoughts sufficiently to let him slip from consciousness, the cup dropping free of his fingers to roll slowly over the edge and into the water.
Mark’s eyes jolted open. It took a
few moments for him to work out where he was again while his vision adjusted to the dark. His mind was immediately awake, all remnants of sleep banished in the instantaneous shift from deep sleep to alertness with a burst of adrenaline. The beginnings of a hangover ached in his temples and sat like a sour weight in his gut. He strained his ears for whatever had awoken him, but there was nothing aside from the rhythmic lap of the water against the hull.
He took a deep breath, held it for a count of five then let it go. The following ten breaths he counted slowly, forcing himself to let go of the tension he’d awakened to with a relaxation strategy he used to dissipate anxiety on an all too regular basis. Breath puffed in a white cloud as his exposed skin puckered into goose bumps at the bitter cold of the air.
The anchor chain at the bow gave a metallic creak as the boat moved slightly underfoot. Mark froze for a second, had that been the same sound that had pulled him from sleep? The anchor must be pulling through the sand, trying to find a more solid purchase point to hook onto as the wind picked up. Mark eased himself to standing, his back and neck protesting against his choice of sleeping arrangements. He grabbed hold of the mast next to him as his balance swayed, affected by the excess of scotch he consumed earlier. He mustn’t have been asleep for as long as he thought.
Standing on the deck, Mark didn’t find the change in weather he’d expected to account for the anchor movement. The water was calm, with only the barest movement of air against his cheek. The tide had receded sharply, and the newly exposed rocks on the shoreline added a tang of salt and seaweed to the air. It was still dark, although dawn wasn’t far away. The chain creaked once more, shifting the bow to port by a hand’s width. Mark made his way back to a small cupboard next to the cabin door, found the torch he sought, a heavy duty 6V Dolphin lantern and turned it on. A wide arc of harsh light shone from the torch, cutting through the gloom to the shore’s edge. Mark swung the beam slowly along the edge to find the marina still empty. The chain drew his attention again. The creaking of the metal links attached to the anchor was now repetitive. Mark climbed onto the cabin roof, and carefully padded along the edge until he came to the bow.
The chain extended from the hull, jutting into the water at a shallow angle. The taught links shuddered every few seconds, sending circular ripples away in the water. Mark brought the harsh beam of the torch to bear on the anchor chain, following it down until it was lost in the hazy green depths.
Breath caught in his throat, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose in alarm. Something was climbing the chain. A hand came into view at the limit of the water’s visibility, grasping the chain, followed quickly by a second that was missing the middle and ring finger – each bitten off at the first joint. The chain jerked as the creature hauled its body upwards, bringing a face and shoulders into the beam of light through the swirling water.
Two metres beneath the surface, an Infected was climbing the chain. With body supported on the shallow angle of the anchor chain at low tide, hand over hand, the ghoul pulled toward the surface. Its face was white and bloated from extended submersion, the lips and one cheek gnawed back by hungry fish. Slate grey hair moved about its head in a plume at the whim of the current, except over the right temple, where a fist sized clump had been ripped out, taking the scalp with it. His chest was bare of clothes, an iron coloured mesh of hair stretching from neck to navel, below which a leather belt held up a pair of baggy trousers. A ragged bullet hole was punched front to back through his left shoulder. At a guess, the man had been in his fifties before dying.
Mark eased the sword blade free of the scabbard at his waist, then let it hang loose in his right hand while he waited. He kept the beam of the torch fixed on the Carrier as he consciously slowed his breathing and firmed his stance in preparation for the coming fight. As it drew closer, its eyes fixed on Mark above. Immediately its movements became more frenzied, the arms wrenching forward at greater pace, cracked teeth bared in anticipation. The Carrier’s hand punched through the surface of the water to grip the edge of the boat, scrabbling for purchase. Two nails ripped free of their bases, standing obscenely at right angles to the fingertip. Mark chopped his heavy blade down onto the back of one wrist, biting clean through both long bones of the forearm. Still affected by the scotch, he misjudged the amount of force required for the blow, and the sword continued on through the tissue to lodge deep in the timber below. The hand dropped free onto the deck, limp once again while Mark tried in vain to lever his sword free of the wood. The head of the Carrier breached the surface less than an arm’s length away from his own. A gout of water poured from of its mouth, emptying a stomach full of brine and flesh from a prior meal. A horrid bubbling noise escaped its throat as the water cleared from its airways. It lunged for him.
Mark flinched backwards, the teeth missing his leg by less than an inch. His left foot stepped onto the dismembered hand causing his ankle to twist and give way. He let the torch drop free in an unsuccessful attempt to keep his balance, the lantern bouncing twice before falling over the edge into the water, light tumbling in a slow arc as it fell to the sand deep below. Mark tried to scramble backwards even as he hit the deck. The Carrier now had its torso over the edge of the boat, and with a lightning grab, clamped an iron bracelet of fingers about his right ankle. Mark was on his back and kicked outwards with his left foot, stamping the heel into the pallid, swollen face. Skin and tissue tore free with every strike, but the creature was oblivious to pain. A low cry of terror escaped Mark’s lips as his ankle was drawn towards the broken teeth.
A viciously pointed steak knife lunged over his shoulder to bury deep into the eye-socket of the ghoul. Georgie released her grip of the handle as the creature wrenched its head backwards out of reach. Mark thrust his foot forward once more, his heel stamping onto the base of the knife handle, punching the blade deep into the brain until the point burst free of the skull’s rear. The corpse flopped onto the deck like a deboned fish, before the greater weight of its legs pulled the limp body back into the water.
Mark drew his feet underneath, then pushed himself to standing. He turned and found Georgie behind him, her face white in the half-light, hands shaking. He enclosed her in his arms, drawing her into a tight hug.
‘I thought I was a dead man. If you hadn’t… shit, I don’t even want to think about it. How long were you there for?’
‘I woke up to the noise of it coming up the chain, then I realised you weren’t in the cabin, so came out.’ Georgie stopped, and pushed back out of his arms until she could look Mark in the eye. Now that the initial surge of adrenaline was ebbing, she was beginning to look angry. ‘Don’t try to do it alone again, Mark. If you die trying to be a bloody hero, I’m fucked as well,’ she said.
‘Give me a break, Georgie. I wasn’t trying to be a hero,’ Mark said. ‘I fell asleep up here, so happened to be in the right spot to stop it coming on board. It should have been straight forward, chop the hands off, and it would have fallen back in. How was I to know the blade would get stuck in the wood.’ Mark glanced down at the dead hand, still lying like a macabre joke on the deck. ‘And that fucking hand…’ Mark stabbed a foot at it, kicking it overboard to skip twice on the water’s surface before sinking out of sight.
‘That’s what I’m trying to get at, Mark. You couldn’t have planned for that shit, so even more reason that we back each other up when it hits the fan.’
Mark sighed and leant down to remove the sword blade from the edge of the boat. With both hands, he worked it free, wrenching the handle up and down until the wood released the blade with an angry squeal.
‘All right,’ he said, suddenly sounding very tired.
Georgie let the topic drop with his agreement and now stood with her arms crossed tightly about her, looking across at the two partially submerged yachts that shared the marina with a concerned expression. She was wearing only the t-shirt she’d gone to bed in above a pair of jeans and bare feet. The skin on her arms was puckered, each hair raised in protest
at the bitter cold.
‘Do you reckon there’s any more of those bastards moving around down there?’ she asked through lightly chattering teeth.
‘Maybe,’ Mark replied. ‘You should go inside and warm up again though, you look bloody freezing. I’ll hang out up here and keep watch.’
Georgie glanced towards him, her eyebrows furrowed with concern.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll call if anything happens. I swear.’
Georgie accepted, and climbed across the frigid roof of the boat and back into the cabin.
Mark was alone once again, and he found his own gaze now drawn back to the anchor line, waiting for it to start creaking under the weight of a second ascending corpse. He suppressed an involuntary shiver at the thought, pulled his coat more tightly about his shoulders and forced himself to watch the eastern horizon for dawn’s coming instead.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Harry and Steph were sitting on the edge of the verandah, legs dangling above a new six-foot drop they’d created by removing the steps. Steph cradled a mug of steaming tea between her hands, blowing gently at the surface to cool it. Harry was slowly looking about the perimeter of the paddock in front of them, surveying their efforts of the last two days. They’d worked through every hour of daylight, an intensity of labour driven by witnessing the SCG slaughter on television. And yet, Harry still felt deflated at their slow progress.
He’d sought to prioritise their efforts, targeting easy wins that immediately made the house safer. The first item he ticked off his list was removing the steps to the verandah circling the old farmhouse. The building was perched on high footings, creating a sheltered area for storage that was now just empty space. By ripping out the steps, he created an instant obstacle that any brain-dead Carrier would find difficult to mount. Steph tore out any bushes and items against the side of the house, removing any handhold or structure that could be used to climb up to the verandah. She then attached a ladder to where the stairs had been with thick cable ties. In the event of an emergency, they could sever the ties and pull up the ladder, preventing easy access to the house by anything on the ground.
Plague War: Outbreak Page 15