Garfield smiled, visibly relieved by her agreeing to look after his girl. “I’ll see what else I can find along the way,” he said. “Doritos will be first on my list.”
“Just get going sooner rather than later,” she said. “Sooner you’re back the sooner life can go back to normal.” What is normal anymore? I don’t even know.
“I’ll go first thing in the morning,” Garfield said. “I just need to eat and get some sleep first. I’ll take some of the fuel we have stored up and try to get a couple of vehicles working. There’s a Range Rover parked at the old church on the edge of the village that I think I can get started. I’ll be taking the full team to make the most of whatever we find. Cat and the other foragers should be back this evening, so I’ll brief them all then.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Alistair. “You’ll leave us short-handed.”
“For what? There’s not much to be done around here other than fish.”
“Garfield is right,” said Anna. “If he’s going further afield, it makes sense to maximise how much he can bring back. It’s not like he can make such a trip every day. Besides, he’s likely to be in more danger than we are. He might need the backup.”
Alistair shrugged irritably. “Fine. Just don’t get everyone killed out there, Garfield.” He turned and walked away. “I’m going to get something to eat.”
“There’s a surprise,” said Garfield.
Anna looked at him. “Alistair has a point, you know? You best come back in one piece, along with everybody else.”
“I’ll do my best, that’s all I ever do. I never asked for this.”
“None of us did. You just take care out there.”
“I shall. Thanks, Anna.” With that, Garfield left the diner, his overly-dramatic coat flapping as he walked. I swear he thinks he’s Batman in that thing.
Anna turned back to her patient, and to Rene. Her friend was wide-eyed and wanting her attention. “What is it?” she asked him.
Rene nodded towards the patient.
Anna approached the table and heard a sound: a soft mumbling. She knelt down and placed her head close to the injured man’s lips, listened.
“Roman,” he was mumbling deliriously. “Roman, Roman, Roman.”
FRANK
“Roman has returned,” Frank informed his adopted son.
Samuel Raymeady laced his slender fingers together across his long metal desk. Everything aboard the HMS Kirkland was made of metal, and the only colour was grey. Sometimes Frank longed for a bit of wood or plastic. The den he used to keep at his home in Worcester was full of warm oak and supple leather. He missed it.
“Did he do what I asked of him?”
Frank sighed, straightened up at the shoulders, and gave an answer his adopted son never liked to hear. “No.”
Samuel lent forward, sharp elbows propped on the aluminium surface of his desk. His dark eyes seemed to swirl for a moment before he spoke. “No?”
“He was unable to get a confirmed kill. He wounded the target, but…”
“Wounded the target? How?”
“Roman shot him with the pistol you gave him.” The Kirkland’s armoury was meagrely equipped with a dozen handguns and a small cache of ammunition. Whilst Samuel’s company, Black Remedy, had possessed a contract to build and maintain several new British Naval frigates, along with it’s onboard weapons systems, it did not have permission to provide small arms. The modest collection of handguns had been provided by Black Remedy’s security arm, so that the ship could at least be minimally protected whilst it was being built. Samuel kept a tight lock on all of the handguns, but two of them currently hung on the wall behind his desk, and Frank knew his son also kept one in a drawer in his desk. “The target took a 9mm round in the guts,” Frank explained. “He was badly wounded.”
“Then he may well be dead.”
“More than likely.”
“So why couldn’t Roman verify it for certain? The man he was chasing is a cripple, after all.”
Frank sighed. “There were a lot of dead in the area. Roman claims to have become separated from the target and was only able to fire off a single shot before retreating. The target got away, but was badly injured.”
Samuel smashed his fist down on the table, shaking the paper and pens on its surface. “I ordered that cripple dead. He tried to murder us all, father, or need I remind you?”
Frank stood in silence for a moment. His adopted son’s rage was a closely guarded secret that only a few people ever became aware of – usually to their detriment. It was best to give Samuel a second or two to calm down before answering him. “You do not need to remind me, Samuel. It was me who told you about the engine room bomb in the first place.”
“A bomb which would have taken down this entire ship, along with hundreds of innocent lives that I have personally saved. I won’t have my good work undermined, father. Do you understand me? Those who work against me must be dealt with else I appear weak. The respect the members of this fleet have for my authority is the only thing keeping order. It isn’t enough that I have the biggest ship. I must also have the biggest shadow.”
“I am sure Roman did his best, Samuel. He has never failed you before.”
“Nor have I ever given him a task worthwhile before. Fetch Roman. I would have words.”
Frank nodded. He left the captain’s chambers and sent a runner to go and collect Roman. The man could usually be found out on deck, brooding alone, but he had a tendency to make himself elusive when it suited him. It was close to forty minutes later when Roman finally appeared and the irritation of having been summoned was clearly etched on his muddy face. Does the man ever crack a smile?
Roman told no one his real name and had instead earned the notorious moniker for the fact that he wielded an antique short sword in his right hand and a makeshift metal spear from the fleshy stump where his left should be. The man had shoulder-length, dirty-blonde hair and kept no friends. He had his uses, though, which Samuel never failed to utilise when needed. Roman did not fear the dead as most men did. He was willing to go ashore for the most frivolous of tasks and battled the dead head-on. Frank had seen the same kind of suicidal behaviour in the Gulf War. They called it a deathwish, and it was the domain of men with nothing to lose. Facing mortal danger was the only thing that made some people feel alive. This time, though, Roman had been given a gravely important task and failed.
Frank nodded to the man. “Roman.”
“Frank.”
“The captain would like to see you.”
“Does he, now?” Roman shoved past Frank and went through into the captain’s chambers. Frank followed him closely, and anxiously. This may get heated.
Samuel’s chambers were custom built. The Kirkland was based on the British Navy’s Type 23 Duke Class frigates, but was a third longer and six times as modern. It was the first of several that were to be built to replace the Type 23, but the end of the world had ensured that the Kirkland was one of a kind.
The captain’s chambers consisted of a utilitarian, red-carpeted office intended to impose itself upon underlings, and a plush suite and bathroom in an adjoining room designed to give the ship’s CO maximum comfort. Samuel very rarely made use of the room’s king-size bed, though. Some of the ship’s officers also had private berths, but most of the ship’s personnel slept in a series of bunkrooms.
Samuel remained seated as Roman strode into the room like a tribal warrior; all covered in mud and blood and armed with sharp steel. Frank narrowed his eyes. Long as he keeps that sword at his belt and his spear pointed at the floor, there won’t be a problem.
Roman concerned Frank greatly. There was something dangerous about the man, an air of wild fury that bubbled beneath his surface constantly – not unlike Samuel in that respect. Frank found the younger man difficult to read. Roman never gave anything away.
Samuel nodded. “Hello, Roman.”
“Hello, Samuel.”
Most of the men aboard the Kirkl
and referred to Samuel as sir or captain; but not Roman. He never called any man by their rank. It was an unsafe attitude to maintain aboard another man’s ship. Samuel bristled at the slight, but acted as if he hadn’t noticed. “Roman, I have been informed you failed your task. Disappointing.”
“If you mean I didn’t kill a man you wanted dead, I can’t say for sure. He might be dead; he might not be.”
“And if he lives, then you have failed me.”
Roman said nothing. He stood unflinchingly and made no movement other than blinking. The spear attached to his arm was completely still. His sword remained at his belt. Samuel stared right back, equally as implacable.
Frank studied Samuel’s face and remembered the unassuming little boy he’d once been so long ago; a world apart from the powerful magnate he became as a young man and the fearless leader he was today. Thousands of men owed their lives to Samuel and his actions during the early days of the outbreak. His megalithic corporation, Black Remedy, had been building frigates for the Royal Navy at the time of the infection. Samuel had commandeered the vessel nearest completion and used it take people away from the land. The HMS Kirkland had been used to rescue a great many lives. Including Roman’s. Samuel could have left him to die at sea in that old dinghy we found him floating in. What was the name of the man who was with him...was it Henry? No, it was something else.
Samuel blinked and swatted away a lock of jet-black hair, which had fallen across his brow. “Do you enjoy being here, Roman?”
Roman said nothing.
“Let me rephrase that. Do you prefer being here to not being here?”
Roman cleared his throat. “Life is easier aboard a ship than on land among the dead.”
“I’ll take that answer to mean you prefer being here. I do wish you wouldn’t talk in riddles. Now, as you’ve said, being aboard my ship is much better than being on land – nobody would dispute that – but, as such, being on my ship comes at a premium. Your premium is that I expect you to get things done. When you fail, your place aboard my ship falls into question.”
“So eject me.”
Samuel laughed at that. “Does anything ruffle your feathers, Roman? Did losing that hand bother you? Or did you strap a spear in its place before the bleeding even stopped?”
“The spear came later, after the dead made having one so useful.”
Samuel laughed again. From the corner of the room, Frank relaxed a little. Samuel seemed to admire Roman’s dry wit and unflinching manner. Perhaps it was because Roman was the only man aboard the Kirkland who didn’t treat Samuel like the Messiah. Frank imagined that people could become pretty tiresome when their only interest was pleasing you. Samuel had suffered sycophancy his entire life – from being the coddled child in his needful mother’s arms to the CEO of the world’s most powerful commercial entity. For Samuel Raymeady’s entire life, people had bent over backwards to please him. But not Roman. I remember a time when I was so bold. When did I get so old?
“Maybe your use is not at an end just yet,” Samuel said. “I’m just making a friendly statement of the facts, that is all. All men aboard my ship must have value. You only have one hand, so you cannot do much aboard the Kirkland, but one thing you do very well is going ashore to face the dead. That is what your use is to me, as other men have uses in other areas. That is the way of things. Those without value must leave to be a burden elsewhere. I would prefer that you remain here, Roman. I would prefer that you remain useful.”
Roman blinked. “If I could have killed the cripple, I would have, but I am one man, not an army. I could not fight all the dead even if I wanted to.”
“Perhaps one day you will lead an army,” said Samuel. “That would be my hope.”
“An army needs an enemy. I see none.”
“What do you call the dead?”
“Dead.”
Samuel laughed again. He rubbed at his eyes and stood up. “Perhaps we should agree to disagree about that. I thank you for listening to my concerns. Might I ask where you last saw the cripple? Where were you when you shot the man?”
“I was near the coast. I saw signs for Dartmouth and Paignton. He was holed up inside a petrol station. I tracked him from the smoke coming from a fire he started. When he saw me coming, he smashed out the windows and attracted the dead with the noise. It was the only thing that saved him.”
Frank muttered. “It appears the man feared you more than he feared the dead, Roman.”
“Don’t blame him. I was there to kill him.”
“But you failed,” said Frank. “Perhaps next time he will fear you less.”
“Not if he’s smart.”
Samuel clasped his long hands in front of him. “Frank, tell the Bridge to make for the coast. We’ll look for any signs of the cripple and send a landing party to search the area where he was last seen. I know it may seem unnecessary, but I hate uncertainty. I would rather know one way or the other if the man lives.”
“And if he is still alive?” asked Frank.
Samuel grinned. “Then Roman will be given a chance to redeem himself.”
Roman said nothing. Frank sighed.
ROMAN
Roman marched through the Kirkland’s narrow passageways with a face of thunder. Various crewmen and civilians stepped aside to let him pass, but he made no acknowledgment of them. He just kept his eyes forward and walked wherever he wanted – God help any man who got in his way while he was in such a mood.
Up ahead, the bulkhead hatch was open, allowing access to the aft deck. The aft deck’s intended purpose was as a helicopter-landing pad, but without a Lynx helicopter it had been designated as the ship’s main common area. Even now, exposed to the cold biting winds of January, a third of the ship’s personnel mingled outside on the deck beneath the drizzling rain. Most men liked to play cards of an evening while the few women aboard sat on their knees. Not as many women had survived the plague as men, so their company was a luxury.
Roman glanced around, searching for someone, but was hailed by one of the ship’s officers before he could locate them. The man who approached him was a weasely petty officer named Dunn. No one aboard the ship was true military, but Samuel had instigated Navy rank and given out uniforms in order to help him command the fleet – it gave some men an inflated view of themselves. Petty officer Dunn was tall and blonde, but had the facial features of a rat. Roman found the man irritating – as he found all men irritating.
“Roman, good to see you returned to us,” he said. Roman said nothing. He eyeballed the man scornfully. Dunn shifted awkwardly, cleared his throat and continued. “The captain has instructed us to dispense justice. One of the civilians has been found stealing liquor. We found a supply of contraband beneath his bunk after somebody informed on him. Your input would be welcome.”
“Who informed on him?”
Dunn frowned. “Does it matter?”
“Wise to know which men like to tell tales, so that I can better hide my own misdeeds.”
Dunn laughed nervously. “Yes, erm, very witty. We have been instructed to put the man to death. We were just discussing the method. If you were to take part it would-”
“You’re going to put a man to death for stealing?”
“Well…yes. The captain told us that a thief has less honour than a murderer, for at least a murderer has the courage to face the victim of his crimes, instead of slinking around behind their backs.”
“Not always,” said Roman. “Samuel does like his speeches, doesn’t he? Perhaps he expects to be quoted someday.”
“The captain instructed that the man be shown no leniency.”
Roman looked across at the baying mob at the rear of the ship and narrowed his eyes. “I agree. But lack of leniency does not mean that the sentence should be harsh to begin with. Let me see this man. I’ll deal with the bloody matter myself.”
Dunn shrugged. “It is not your place. Your input would be most welcome, but only an officer of the fleet may-”
Roman s
hoved the man aside. “Tell someone who gives a shit.” He approached two crewmen at the rear of the ship. The barrel-chested pair were holding the guilty man down on his knees. The prisoner was dirty and unshaven. His bloodshot eyes betrayed his fondness for alcohol.
Roman pointed his spear arm at the two crewmen. “Stand him up.” The crewmen allowed the civilian to stand. “What’s your name, civilian?”
The man sighed and shook his head, beaten and defeated. “Wade Cannon, sir.”
“That’s quite a name.”
“American, sir. I was a tourist when…”
“When the dead started walking around like the world was a horror movie?”
The man nodded, his droopy eyes solemn.
Roman asked another question, an important question. “Why do you drink?”
The thief shrugged.
“I’ll ask you again and I suggest you answer.” Roman slid his antique sword from the scabbard at his belt. The sword had belonged with a suit of armour at an old castle he had come upon during the first days of infection. It was as sharp as any modern blade and ten times as threatening. “And don’t bullshit me.”
“I miss my family,” the man spluttered. “My wife was with me at the start…but she didn’t make it. My two sons were still back in Skokie staying with their uncle during the holidays.”
Roman lowered his sword so that it pointed at the ground. “You don’t know what became of them?”
The thief shook his head. There were tears on his cheeks.
Roman sighed. “So you drink? Even when the alcohol is not yours to swallow?”
The American shrugged. The man was beyond caring. There was no joy or hope left inside him to drive him onwards – no reason for living. Roman understood.
Savage: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel Page 4