Dead Sea

by Aline Riva

  “Do you think these corpses will just fall apart like, turn to bones and that will be the end of this? Because I've seen what they turn into and I can't see them doing that... The virus changes them but brings them back...so they're dead, but not dead. I'm scared it's going to be this way forever.”

  Fear shone in the young woman's eyes. Hayley had listened and although she had also wondered on these things, she felt the very least she owed her was an honest reply, even if it wasn't what she needed to hear.

  “I think you could be right,” she replied, “Some day they might rot away and turn to bones and dust, but maybe not. It could be this way forever. But even if it is, we're here so there must be others out there somewhere. No matter what happens to this world, we always find a way. Humans are tough like that.”

  Vicki stood up and smoothed down her hair to hide the wound.

  “I don't think I'll ever be that tough.”

  “You'll learn,” Hayley promised her, “We all will, we have to. Now, why don't you come with me and maybe we can get some food together?”

  That suggestion made her smile.

  “I'm starving!”

  “Not for much longer,” Hayley replied, “Let's go over to the kitchen.”

  Then they left the medical room, with Hayley leading the way as Vicki followed, her mood suddenly brighter at last.

  Left alone, Greg had a great deal of time to think. Now he was thinking too far back, starting with the lie about not having blood on his hands. It was crazy to think that after all these years every wrong he had ever done suddenly weighed him down with so much guilt. He thought about the deals, the drugs, the money, the night he had done the only thing left to do when the one person closest to him was threatened by a dangerous rival:

  In his minds eye he was back there, he was younger, his face in shadow as he lurked on the corner of the driveway in a thick hoodie on a night when the fog was like ice. He had walked up as the guy was walking out, jabbed him again and again in the guts and then stuffed the bloody screwdriver in his pocket and ran.

  He had got away with murder that night, but at least he had protected the one closest to him. He had gone home, washed off the blood, took a walk later and tossed the screwdriver in the canal. But he had slept soundly that night knowing no one close to him was about to be murdered in their sleep. No one would be throwing a petrol bomb tonight, because the one who had threatened to do it was in a body bag now...

  Greg took in a deep breath, pulling himself back to the present. That world was gone. The dead roamed the earth now and his house was gone his money meant nothing and there were no authorities left to care about his crimes. He was now out at sea, in a cramped room on an oil rig, and his best friend knew almost everything and hated him for it...

  There was nothing left.

  He had nothing left to live for.

  He reached for the gun and pulled it from its holster. It vaguely registered that his hand didn't shake, he felt no fear at all. He had killed once. He had probably killed many times than he realised thanks to his drug deals, he didn't want to think about how many lives he had ruined. Killing himself ought to be simple. Marc was right, he was absolutely right to look at him like he was nothing...

  He held the gun in his hands, feeling the weight of it. He thought about the undead infesting the earth. There was truly nothing left to fight for or to live for. He raised the gun and its coldness brushed his temple. He guessed if he made a clean shot it would be painless.

  Then the door opened and Marc walked in. He looked horrified at the sight of Greg sitting there with his face streaked with tears and the gun pointed to the ceiling but the barrel resting against his temple as he contemplated pressing it to his head and pulling the trigger.

  “Oh shit, no!”

  Marc was suddenly in front of him, the gun was out of his hand and placed on the bedside table, then Marc was sat beside him, his hands on his shoulders as he looked at him intently.

  “Stop this!” he said firmly, “Killing yourself isn't the answer!”

  Greg gave a sob.

  “I lost the money, the house, my best mate...all for what? So those rotting bastards can wreck my life...I bet they're in my house right now, smashing it up... It's not fair! Why did this happen to me?”

  Marc kept his hands on his shoulders, he took a deep breath and then as his anger gave way to compassion, he couldn't help but laugh.

  “Oh Christ, Greg! It's not all about you! The whole world is taken over! Everyone's life is wrecked!” his smile faded as more tears ran down Greg's face, “You had it all and you lost it but so has the rest of the world. Life doesn't revolve around you! We're all in the same shit position here. And by the way, you haven't lost your best friend, but you will if you ever put a gun to your head again!”

  He took in breath to say a tearful sorry but then Marc grabbed him and hugged him tightly, holding on as Greg wept, to be sure he stood no chance of reaching for that loaded gun again.

  A short while later Greg had stopped weeping. Then he insisted on keeping his gun and as Marc looked at him doubtfully Greg had suddenly seemed stronger, all his previous vulnerability now gone.

  “It was a moment of weakness,“ he said as he stood up and grabbed the holster and put it back on, “And you stopped me. I'm glad you stopped me. But I'm not being without my gun, I need it... we don't know if we're safe here. This rig is a big place. Maybe some of those creatures might turn up, a ship full of them maybe, a ship full of infected that died, can you imagine that? It could happen. Think how many boats are out here and how many infected fled the mainland! I'm not dying like that. I'd rather take my chances and shoot my way through.”

  “That's what I like to hear,” Marc replied, then he turned from the table where the spout of a kettle was trailing steam and handed Greg a mug of tea.

  “Thanks,” Greg said, then he sat down again, sipped the tea and set it down. He suddenly seemed so much more together and it came as a huge relief to Marc to see that at last.

  “But all the same,” Marc added as he sat beside him, “I'm staying with you for a while – just to be sure you're okay.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “I'd still like to be sure.”

  Greg sipped his tea again.

  “I'd do the same thing for you, Bro.”

  “I know you would,” Marc replied, then he drank some of his own tea and carried on talking to his best friend, needing this time to take in every word he said, just to be sure his thoughts of suicide had been as fleeting as he claimed.

  The tide had roughened up as the sun had started to sink. The waves had become choppy and the wind had gathered strength as in the distance, a roll of dark cloud was looming heavy with summer rain. The skies were glowing with the amber gold of a late and mellowing sun about to yield to dusk, as the wind grew chill and gathered more speed, sending dark clouds chasing across skies that had been perfect but now looked troubled. The waters below continued to roughen, the waves rolled, carrying with it the floating corpse. As it rolled again on the crest of another rough wave, the undead creature looked up to see the structure above and around as the water pushed the body onward beneath the oil platform. The third roll of the waves rushed the body upward and its rotting hands closed about the rung of a ladder.

  Then the downpour fell, marring the previously smooth surface of the water as beneath the rig, the oil covered corpse slipped, climbed, slipped again, but gripped rung after rung, hauling itself over the edge and landing heavily on the platform's lower level. Then it stood there, bathed in the last gasp of light, slowly turning, its head tilted as it left an oily patch where it stood and fixed its sights on a walkway that led to a door. Its movements were slow and deliberate, but it made its way unseen, now and then stopping to sniff the air... There was a trace of warm blood somewhere deep within this building, it could smell it as sure as it hungered for it...

  The creature reached for the door, giving a push, but it was shut. Sound was carryi
ng from somewhere close, the sound of the living, there were several voices... it turned its head, its entire body oil covered as the sunset bounced off its sheen and dead white eyes fixed on the route to the residential area... Then it lumbered up the walkway, coming to a stop in the shadow of a mass of pipe work as it waited. The living were inside. Their blood smelled good. Here it would wait until it found a way in, or they came outside first ...

  The voices continued to float from the residential area, as Hayley and the others had a meal together as the sun set and rain danced on the sea, all the while they remained unaware there was a living corpse covered in oil now loose on the platform and waiting to attack.

  Chapter 3

  Dinner that evening had not been luxurious, but it felt that way to the weary travellers - soup followed by some microwaved ready meals and then tea and coffee had followed. Conversation was awkward to begin with, as they sat around a table in the canteen and Vicki faltered on recalling how her parents had drowned, then Amy had taken up the rest of the tale, looking gratefully to Marc as she recalled how shots had been fired from the air to take out the two undead attackers.

  By the time they had finished their meal and were on to hot drinks, Emma set down her coffee and looked across the table at Greg and asked an awkward question.

  “So, now might be a good time to ask... considering the dead are usually the biggest threat these days, why were those men firing guns at us as we took off from your helipad?”

  Greg sipped his tea and set it down, his gaze still focussed on the mug and the liquid within as he felt as if all eyes were on him as the room fell silent.

  “It was...”

  “That's the thing about this insane world. It's gone to hell and so have half the living. They were looters, they were after the helicopter.”

  Greg breathed out and appreciated the fact that he could finally breathe easily, knowing Marc had just spoken up for him had come as a surprise. He glanced at him. Marc was still looking across the table, fixing Emma with an open, honest gaze that was utterly convincing.

  “But you said it was something bad...”

  He laughed.

  “There's nothing good about being shot at, Emma!”

  She laughed too.

  “I won't dispute that!”

  Greg was still feeling silently relieved to know that Marc had stood up for him, lied for him, covered up the truth... He wanted to openly thank him, but instead remained silent and eternally grateful.

  Then Hayley offered out some beers. Greg thanked her and reached for one, keen for some booze to help him sleep soundly after such a day from hell. Marc politely refused, deciding to stay sharp and keep an eye on how much his best friend put away considering the low mood he had found him in earlier. But the group remained in good spirits, after more talking and tea and coffee and three beer cans emptied by Greg, they departed for the night hoping for a sound and much needed sleep.

  It was growing dark when they made their way back to the residential area and off to their rooms. The fact that they were all on the same level and close to one another seemed to send an air of calm over the group, not one felt uneasy about sleeping here on this first night. The thought of the sea and what it might be like if that rain had turned to a raging storm wouldn't have made a difference either – it was better to be out here surrounded by deep water than back there on land with the living dead infesting what was left of the old world.

  Before he turned in for the night Marc checked on his best friend, but it was clear Greg was exhausted and those beers had done enough to hurry on a heavy sleep that was already closing in. He was on his bed and his eyes were half closed as Marc said goodnight.

  “Thanks for what you said at dinner,” murmured Greg.

  “No problem,” Marc replied, then he closed the door and went into his own room, keen to rest properly after the meal and enjoy this sense of near normality.

  Emma had gone into her room, closed the door and headed straight for the shower, feeling certain that freshening up would lead to the first decent sleep she had enjoyed since the day before they had run under gunfire for the safety of the helicopter – the dead were everywhere, it had been hell making that flight out without the looters firing off shots...

  Amy and Vicki had shared one room, Vicki wanting the bottom bunk, so Amy had climbed up to the top and laid back as Vicki turned out the light and then slipped under the covers in the bunk below.

  “I feel safe here. You were right,” she said quietly, “We can get through this. I reckon Mum and Dad are watching over us.”

  “I hope so,” Amy agreed, then she turned on her side, closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  Vicki stayed awake, looking into the darkness. Even though the door was locked, she was still thinking about those undead corpses on the fishing boat and how close they had come to not making it here at all. Then she thought on what Hayley had said – that humans got through because they learned to be strong. She was sure she could never be that strong. Those creatures were everywhere.

  Before they had sailed, she had seen people taken apart, ripped apart like pieces of meat in the streets and those corpses had sunk to their knees and fed, tearing off flesh and slithering out shiny guts and gnawing away like their hunger could never be satisfied. She had seen them shot before the incident with the boat – a bullet to the head seemed to work, so did burning them. There had been staggering burning corpses, still standing, still moving as their shrieks filled the air and the flame thrower blasted them again, but they remained as living human torches until the last of the flesh had melted and the eyes had burst and nothing remained but blackened bone. She was sure she had seen too much horror.

  Vicki closed her eyes and saw the burning corpses again, then turned on her side, looking to the closed door, trying to think about anything that would distract her from the horrors she had seen back on land that haunted her night time thinking.

  Then as she heard a distant thump that echoed down the corridor beyond her room, she sat up. Until now she had not noticed the night's chill, but she shivered as she listened, hearing another thump. She thought about the safety of the rig and how they were isolated out here – they were high up above the waves, this place was safe – it was even called Haven, that had to be a sure sign that no corpses could find them here...That noise must have come from the living...

  She got up, slipped on her shoes then shivered in her thin top and cropped shorts and opened up the wardrobe, found a large, oversized sweater and quickly pulled it on. The sweater came down to her thighs and was thick and warm enough to persuade her to leave her room and investigate.

  Vicki made her way quietly out of the room and closed the door. She looked left and right and saw no one, then heard a thump - it was coming from beyond the second door, the one that led outside... Vicki fixed her sights on the closed door, then heard from beyond it another dull thump. She recalled that Greg had sunk three beers very fast after dinner and had swayed as he rose from his seat. Marc had even asked if he was okay... she thought about the platform in the dark and all her fears of the unknown were dashed away as she considered how easy it would be for someone unsteady to fall from the rig. She made her way to the door and opened it, then stepped into the second corridor. It was cooler out here, and she didn't doubt the cold air would hit her when she opened the door to the platform, but she couldn't leave him out there, the poor guy could drown...

  As she opened the second door, the chilly air bit at her exposed legs making her shiver. She looked about the darkened platform but saw no one. Vicki made her way down a walkway and towards the heavy machinery where so much of the platform was cast in shadow as she silently hoped he had not passed out or fallen and injured himself. This rig was a big place and although she felt safe from the threat of the undead, she still didn't want to go too far in the dark alone...

  “Greg?” she called out, “Can you hear me?”

  Slow, heavy footsteps sounded and she looked to the ce
ntre of the platform, where machinery and pipes and the metal intricacy of the rig offered much shadow and little sight of much else as the moon shone down on the place, making it look cold and metallic and stark by its silver light. She looked about but saw no one, then heard heavy, slow footsteps again.

  “Are you okay?” she called, but no reply came and she heard no more footfalls, so she hurried down the walkway, then down a short flight of steps where she slipped and grabbed the rail to stop herself from landing heavily.

  “What the hell?” she whispered, looming down at the dark patch of liquid. By moonlight it looked black but had an odd sheen to it. She reached down, dipped a finger into it and then sniffed... Oil?

  She wiped her hand on the sweater and then took a couple of careful steps forward, aware that she could see more of the oil puddles now, some were small, others were droplets...

  “Did you have an accident?” she said, looking about the platform nervously as she wondered how anyone could have run into oil – the platform had been clearly in good order when they had arrived, there was not a trace of a leakage anywhere on the rig and she was sure if it had been there earlier they all would have noticed, oil shone in all colours in daylight, they couldn't have missed it...

  She walked cautiously to the middle of the platform. The window was blowing hard, lifting her hair as it trailed on the strength of the breeze.

  “Greg? Are you out here?”

  As she stood there looking to the shady place where vast pipes and other machinery threw shadow, she saw nothing. Behind her, the oil covered corpse stood at a distance, watching the girl as her blonde hair looked white by the glow of the moon. Something at the back of the corpse's mind recalled a distant, misty recollection of a small child who called him Daddy, she had grown up to have long fair hair and very much looked like the daughter who lingered still in his altered mind, somewhere at the back in a place where the lust for blood did not belong. Perhaps this was her... The urge to kill faded out as the undead creature fixed a watery, pale gaze on her and parted oil covered lips and made a vague wheeze.