by D. L. Snell
He would return to England immediately and inform the Admiralty. They would know how best to deal with the island and the threat it posed. They would also know how to deal with the originators of the plan, and Butler suspected that the signature on the orders, locked away safely in his cabin, would sign their author’s death warrant.
May he burn in hell, Butler cursed, and then he disappeared into his cabin.
* * *
The two men sat in silence as they stared into the flickering flames in the hearth before them. Outside, the wind snatched at trees, bending them almost double, and lashed rain at the window with such power that the drumming noise drowned out the wind’s own mournful howl. The air was thick with cigar smoke, and an aide moved to refill their glasses in the gloom. The heavyset man (some would say portly, though never to his face) motioned for him to leave the decanter and then dismissed him with an impatient flick of his wrist.
“You’ve read the report?” the man asked. He gulped his brandy and looked over at his companion as he refilled his glass.
“I have,” the second man replied, keeping his gaze firmly on the flames. His face was thin, almost gaunt in the pale firelight, and his eyes were hooded beneath full, dark eyebrows.
“And?” the other man shifted in his seat, impatient with his colleague’s non-committal response.
“We were lucky,” the thin man replied simply. “Such a plague would have taken far too strong a hold before we could have reacted.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it, Lewis.” The other man’s face grew red, either from anger or from too much brandy. “Would it work?”
Lewis continued to stare at the flames, and after what seemed an age, he turned his head to stare directly at the other man. “Yes,” he said in a whisper, “I believe it would. We would have to use a less scrupulous Captain, of course.”
“Don’t worry about that,” the other man snapped, spilling his drink on the arm of the chair and immediately refilling it. “I have arranged for our young hero to be sent to the West Indies; that should keep him out of mischief for a while. I have chosen a far more devious and evil bastard for this mission.”
Lewis nodded.
“We will have to make arrangements to ensure that there is no trail back to us. What about the ship you are sending to the island?”
“I have already planted a few men in the crew,” the portly man leaned towards his companion conspiratorially. “Once they have deposited their cargo, they will fan the flames of discontent among the crew. It shouldn’t be too hard; mutiny is a fact of life, I’m afraid, especially with the way our good Captain treats his crew.”
“As long as there are no survivors.”
“There won’t be.”
“Well then,” the thin man smiled and raised his glass. “Here’s to the successful execution of the French stratagem.”
The other man raised his glass in response. “Only this time we’ll see how those bastards like a taste of their own plan.
Dead World
Meghan Jurado
Day 1.
Well, it happened. The world came down and my teeth dropped in. The holocaust sure was a big bang, maybe bigger than creation. When I saw that big bright light and heard that bang, I just dropped down on my knees and commenced to melt. Some people were screaming prayers while they melted, but as their lips melted away they were quieter.
I was dead. Dead and damn gooey.
Despite my new flesh consistency, I was able to rise back up on one knee and survey the barren wasteland of blackened buildings and crumbling streets. There were others still moving, some quietly vomiting up coils of intestine into glistening piles. Apparently the screamed prayers had not been received. Maybe Jesus was dead too.
We lurched to our feet for the most part, staring at each other. Most had sustained quite a bit of damage and were reeling around oozing. Some had it better than others—the gentleman to my left was in possession of a dangling nose. It was really quite gruesome.
Under the circumstances.
I don’t think anyone quite knew what to do then. I’m sure most had expected to die and not come back, not die and stagger around stuffing their entrails back into their torso. One must make the best of everything, I suppose. I have decided to go east, away from the blast site. If there are survivors, that is where they would be.
I am also keeping this log to document my journey. It’s not every day I die.
Day 2.
The first day of my death went pretty well. I didn’t speak to anyone, as I am sure they would have been in a foul mood at best. I was not hungry or tired yet, and shuffled along east at a fairly steady pace. I was thirsty, however.
Walking in the sun is torture. My skin feels too warm all the time as it is, and the sun causes large blisters. Occasionally, one of the blisters will pop with an audible noise, and a yellow liquid will come seeping out. I am so thirsty I gaze at this discharge longingly.
Most of the clothes I had been wearing had burned away. I have been walking for a while, mostly nude. I came upon the remains of a small town and broke into a sporting goods store—if you can call walking into a big hole in the side of the building breaking in. There, I grabbed a roll of waterproof tape and set about wrapping my torso. I was unsure how many, if any, of my internal organs I needed, but the tape would at least keep them from trailing behind me, not to mention it would cover what was left of my breasts. I thought it best not to take any chances.
I also procured a backpack in which to carry supplies. I packed more tape and some other things that caught my eye—never know when you might need a screwdriver.
Found some hunting clothes that will do nicely. It’s good to be wearing pants again, and the coat will keep the sun from burning my arms any more.
I think I will sleep here tonight and set back out tomorrow.
Day 3.
I have met other walking dead today. Some of them are quite civil, a little confused maybe. No one seems to be after brains, not that mine would be palatable. I am finally getting hungry though. What to try? Many of the walkers ask me about living survivors, but so far I have not seen a living person.
One walker I ran into was quite unpleasant: a grotesque corpse, too decayed to tell the sex, poked me in the belly with a sharp stick. It punctured my tape and fluid rushed out. It was quite inconvenient to try to get the tape to stick after it had become moist. I moved quickly away and patched it later.
Some of the living dead are unable to speak at all. I think their vocal cords might have melted. That must be very frustrating.
Day 4.
I don’t know where I’m walking. I think I’m subconsciously seeking out the living. I don’t know how welcome I will be if I find them. I have seen no sign of survivors (do I count as a survivor, I wonder?) since the day I died. I just keep heading east. I am getting very tired of walking, and my leg feels as if it’s coming loose. Hoping to see a city soon. I have been wandering through wastelands for days.
Day 5.
I ate a dead crow today. I suppose I had to eat something sooner or later, and the crow was dead in the road, practically begging me to eat it. It was a compulsion I could not resist. After I had devoured all the meat and innards, I had pulled off its happy yellow feet and did a bit of the Charlie Chaplain with them. Found myself laughing for the first time in days. I think I will keep the feet in case I need a cheering up in the future.
I wonder where the crow ended up after I ate it. I don’t know if I have a stomach anymore; I might have dropped it. At any rate, it was not very filling. Oh well.
Day 6.
Found a small village today—lots of dead people up and about, walking the streets, some even driving. Haven’t seen a working car in days. Where I came from, vehicles either went wheels up or their vital components melted during the blast. The driving dead have poor coordination at best; between the deterioration of tendons, muscle, and eyesight (or the eyeball itself, I imagine), there are quite a few cras
hes, but hardly ever a fatality. Those who have working vehicles hoard them. I inquired about acquiring a car to ease the stress on my loose leg and got nothing but flat stares.
Everyone in town is talking about a “City of Living Men,” about a three-day journey from here. Only a few citizens had been reduced to goo during the big meltdown. They have a doctor who is sewing parts back on and binding torsos; he’s using cloth, which smells quite bad after a day or so, and it weeps almost constantly. Glad I used tape.
There has also been talk of the Doc finding a cure. I don’t think a cure for dead will be a quick find.
It was nice, meeting a whole town of functioning living dead. Most were quite alert and coherent. I got the feeling that they had weeded out the more damaged members of society; there was a constant bonfire on the edge of town. Over the stench of everyone rotting (more dead = more stench. Looking forward to being on my own sooner rather than later!), I can smell burning flesh. Makes me feel almost hungry again.
Day 7.
A few people offered to travel with me. Not one has a car, so I don’t think I want company just yet. I hear there are living people in or near the mountains. I feel a strange compulsion to seek them out.
I will leave tomorrow to find the living. If I succeed, I will return for the others.
Day 8.
Walked most of the day, but the mountains never seem to get any closer. Found a child’s skull—so cute I’m going to keep it. For what, I couldn’t tell you.
When in town, I had asked the Doc what we should be eating. He couldn’t tell me either, and he had been working on that problem on his own. He has a town full of hungry people back there. They were starting to snap at each other.
Had to seriously tape up my leg today. Wrapped it from ankle to hip. I’m not sure what to do to stabilize it, as it seems to be an internal problem. I’m thinking about jamming a large stick through my hip to kind of pin the leg against it. Haven’t found a big enough stick yet.
Tried to eat a rattlesnake today. I say “tried” because after I caught it, it bit me in the face a couple times and then slithered away. The venom seems to be rotting my face to soup where it struck. Stupid snake.
Saw a living dead fellow who was actually dead in the desert today. Someone seems to have shot him in the head. I wondered who had done it, or if the fellow had simply committed suicide. I didn’t know we could do that. Something to keep in mind.
Day 9.
I’m going to have to start traveling at night. The sun is horribly hot, and it’s giving me the feeling that I am cooking on my feet. It’s certainly what I smell like.
The mountains loom ever closer. I see reflecting lights moving around during the day, and they seem to have fires at night: I can see the lights from here.
I tried to eat a dead body today. Found a just plain corpse, dead for only hours, out in the desert sun. Before I could think clearly, I had bitten into it and had devoured most of an arm before I stopped myself. My meal came right back up, but those initial bites really seemed natural. Apparently eating humans is still unacceptable, but I can’t say I wouldn’t recommend trying it.
I have seen other living dead that are heading for the living city. Sometimes I pass them, most times they pass me since my leg has become unreliable. None stop to chat.
Night 10.
Came up on the city today, but did not approach. Saw something terrible: the poor undead bloke in front of me got a bullet to the head from one of the living. I hit the dirt and played dead (played? Was? Who can tell anymore . . .), which was easy enough—the ground in front of the living habitat is littered with the corpses of those who had died twice.
Spent some time lying on the ground and wondering what to do. I certainly did not want to be shot in the head; I value what meager existence I have. I didn’t walk all the way out here to do the living any harm. In fact, I had expected welcome. But the countless bodies of shot-down undead truly shocked and disturbed me. We as an undead people, I guess you would say, had risked life and limb (in my case, literally) to find others that had continued to exist after the blast only to be executed upon arrival, shot on sight.
My thoughts turned to those already on the way. They were walking to slaughter.
I decide to spend some time looking around before bugging out. I get up and move while the living are in other places.
The living wear radiation suits. I assume they are residing in or under the mountain. There are three of them to a jeep, all in yellow, all with guns. When I hear the tires, I flop to the ground, and they drive past, none the wiser. I do hate the stress all this duck and stand is putting on my leg; I have a noticeable sideways gait. I’m not sure how I’ll manage if the leg comes off.
I have not found the entrance to the home of the living, but I have found many corpses. Hundreds of headshot undead litter the area around these mountains. The carnage is terrible. The fires that I observed from farther out are bonfires of the massacred. Crews come out, drag a few into a pile and douse them with gasoline. I almost got snagged for a roasting, but the yellow suit stopped one corpse over.
I will set out for the undead town tomorrow. There is nothing that can help me here.
Night 11.
I have found what we are meant to eat.
I was doing a final search of the living town when I came upon a yellow-suit man all alone. His back was to me, and he was standing in front of a rock face.
I was as quiet as I could be, and as luck would have it, he was whistling. I crept behind him, meaning to perhaps yank off his hood and give him a scare. Instead, I yanked off his hood and bit out his throat, surprising us both.
I don’t know what came over me. One second I was fine, rational as could be, and the next I was tearing off the lips of someone I had never met. I didn’t regain my senses until I had ripped his suit open and fed on his innards.
When I came to, I was covered in gore and was a little wary. I had no idea how long I had been sitting in the dirt, eating. I decided to leave for town right away.
Before I left, I looked at the rock face the yellow suit had been examining.
There was a keypad. On the keypad were these numbers: 107618
The keypad was on a door.
Night 12.
Walked most of the day as well. My head is spinning. I don’t want to eat the living, but it seems I have no choice. And why shouldn’t we eat a group of people that hates us so?
Caught a rattlesnake. Broke it in half, then stepped on it.
Night 13.
Almost back to the city. I felt wonderful the first two days out, but now I’m feeling drained. I think of the meat I left behind with real regret.
I think I should warn all the undead to stay away from the living city. I would hate for them to get shot. I wish I knew how many of the living were under the mountains. I was thinking of sending in a spy since I know the door code, but I have yet to meet a living dead that smells or looks like a living person. I should be back in town tomorrow. What should I tell them?
Night 14.
Well received in the city. Everyone wants to know how the trip went, and I have so far managed to avoid difficult questions. They want to go and talk with living people! They think that the living have a cure. They talk of being alive again.
I have to think it over carefully. I could just let them go. Most wouldn’t make the trip, unless they all piled into a car. I’m sure a carload of the undead would be quite a surprise for the living! The others would be put out of their misery on arrival. But I myself am not entirely ready to lie down and die. Should I assume that they are?
I could take them there. Tell them to come in small groups, to fall when the jeeps go by and to avoid the yellow suits—to meet at a certain rock face. I have called a town meeting. To discuss options.
Night 15
Good turnout. Told them everything: about the living, the jeeps, the genocide of the undead. And what I found to eat, of course. Not used to public speaking. I had to repeat
myself a couple of times.
Some of them didn’t believe me. About the living, the slaughter—any of it. And when I mentioned the tasty gentleman in the yellow suit, I actually met with boos. Some left the meeting at that point.
Others were clearly intrigued—and hungry. When I described my impromptu meal, a few of them drooled. Several were appalled that the living were killing the undead, and at one point, I had to wait for shouts to subdue into a kind of angry murmuring. Some of the more hotheaded members of the audience were ready to storm the gates.
There were those who were ambivalent. They felt safe where they were, and while they did believe the threat of the living, they were not hungry enough to risk invading the mountain. This group wanted a more live and let live policy. Or a live and let die policy, things being as they were.
In the end, there was a vote. Nothing complicated, just a show of hands. Of those that had not stormed out, a comfortable margin were in favor of heading out to the mountains. In search of food.