Domain of the Dead

by Iain McKinnon

  “The ammo!” Bates twigged. “You’re planning on landing and sitting out the storm!”

  Idris nodded. “It might never make landfall, and even if it does, with just me and the ammo on the way out we’ve got enough fuel to fly inland if we have to.”

  “So you weren’t planning on inviting me along?” Bates said, pushing the trolley out of the armoury. The cart was heavy with munitions and it took a heave to get it rolling.

  “No way, man,” Idris said, laughing. “How else you gonna stay alive?”

  Bates took a glance over his shoulder at Idris as he followed behind. “Look, you sure you want to do this? I mean, you’ve not been in country more than thirty minutes since the world died and even then you’ve never left the chopper.” The trolley veered to the right and Bates had to push hard to compensate for his oversteering. “Hell, you even piss in a bottle rather than setting down.”

  “I’m not leaving my friends out there,” Idris said. His voice held a weight of conviction Bates seldom heard.

  “This isn’t just a rescue op for you, is it?” Bates said.

  “I learnt to piss in a bottle when we were evacuating Richmond.” Idris squinted in the bright sunshine as the pair of them emerged onto the deck. “I logged a hundred and sixteen hours flight time that week; only slept when they were refuelling the bird. I was one of the last choppers out, and yes I saw the compound being overrun.”

  Bates grunted as he shoved the trolley up the shallow incline to the landing pad. “Where do you want these?” he asked as he wheeled the crates level with the chopper.

  “Best put them in the back seats in case things are hot when I arrive,” Idris replied.

  They started loading the ammunition.

  “Richmond was a cluster fuck,” Bates said as he loaded the first crate.

  “Navy air had it down tight,” Idris replied. “We ran like clockwork. We even got the abort over the radio a couple of miles out. Ops centre had an eye in the sky. Whole thing was on fifty-eight inch plasma screens on the command deck of the Defender.”

  Idris paused for a moment. Bates wasn’t sure if it was the memory or the weight of the crate that caused him to stop.

  “I kept going anyway,” Idris continued. “I guessed there must be somewhere to land, a clear rooftop or something, but there wasn’t. They were everywhere. You could hear the screams over the sound of the rotors. There were people reaching out for me, begging for me to land but the place was crawling with W.D.’s. Even then I might have tried a landing if it hadn’t been for the comm chatter. The chopper ahead had landed despite receiving the abort. Something must have jammed his comms open, ‘cause after the screams had stopped you could hear him being eaten. Don’t know why, but I shone my lights where he’d landed. The blades were still spinning but that was all.”

  Bates placed the last ammunition box in the back of the chopper. He turned back and shook his head. “Those sort of things can haunt you.”

  “I don’t think that part of the op ever bothered me,” Idris said, shrugging. “Guess it was too much. That much carnage kind of overwhelms you to the point of being numb. No, what stays with me was the route out. That’s what stops me from sleeping at night.” Idris paused and shuffled uncomfortably, looking around as if he were nervous about who might overhear. When settled down, he locked eye contact with Bates. “We flew over a lot of fucked-up country. Same route every time to make search and rescue easier if a pilot went down.” Idris felt he needed to explain. He knew Bates wasn’t as dumb as he led people to believe, but he didn’t assume he knew the intricacies of air traffic control. “It keeps stuff moving in air corridors, too. You also knew you weren’t going to fly headlong into another chopper. The route took us past an electricity pylon; one of the big metal ones carrying power into the city. On the second day of the op, I spotted a group of W.D.’s at the base of one of them. It was their outstretched arms that drew my attention. They had spotted something they wanted to get to.”

  A deck hand walked passed and nodded at Bates and Idris as they stood by the chopper. Once he had passed, Idris continued, “Sitting among the struts, out of reach, was a family. Grandpa, Dad, couple of kids and a baby held in mommy’s arms. They saw me fly out and waved like hell, but I was heading back to the carrier with a full load of brass. Few hours later I was on my way back out and flew past them again. They waved like hell again but by now the base of the pylon was heaving with corpses. Even if I could have landed there was no way they could have got to me.”

  “Couldn’t you have winched them up?” Bates asked.

  Idris shook his head. “Not a chance. The power was still on at that point. Would have fried us all if I’d have tried. I lost count how many times I flew past them that week but every time I flew past there were hundreds more of those things gathered round the base of the pylon. Every time I flew past, the family waved furiously and every time I felt worse that I was abandoning them.” Idris’ eyes glistened as they started to fill up with tears. “God, it wrenches me to think of what they were going through, the hope that this time they’d be rescued, then the dismay as I would fly off. Then the weather took a turn. Nothing severe. We kept flying, but it rained so hard that on my next trip that I couldn’t see them.”

  Idris looked out across the ocean. Bates followed his gaze to see that the clouds rolling in from the horizon were a dark grey.

  Idris swallowed and went on, “The next day it had cleared enough for me to see that Granddad and mom hadn’t made it through the storm. The dad was sitting there with the baby and the two kids huddled around him.”

  Bates whispered, “Jeez...”

  “On my last flight out, there was only one of the boys left. I flew close enough to see he was crying—not sobbing—but howling, red faced, eyes screwed shut.”

  A tear escaped Idris’ eye and trickled down his cheek.

  Bates placed his hand on Idris’ shoulder, “Wasn’t your fault, man.”

  Idris sniffed back the emotion. “It doesn’t help when you sit in the dark sick with guilt. You can try and tell me I did all I could, that the people I was ferrying out were worth saving, but none of that counts for shit. I did everything by the book. I filed a report my first flight back. When I pushed for a rescue op I was told civilians weren’t mission critical. They threatened me with a psych evaluation if I didn’t drop it. But I should have done something. But I didn’t. That’s my memory from the Exodus and that’s why I have to go back and get Cahz now. The longer they’re on the mainland the less chance I have of rescuing them. And that’s why I’m ignoring Patterson’s orders.”

  Bates slapped Idris hard on the shoulder. He said, “God speed.”

  * * *

  Nathan’s mind was still back in the cabin with Sarah as he wandered through the ship. He walked aimlessly with his head down, feeling dejected. Each step he took sent an ache of fatigue through the muscles in his thighs and calves.

  It wasn’t the pain that was weighing on his mood. It seemed to him that every time he tried to show compassion to Sarah she shot him down. Nothing he could do was right.

  He trudged down the corridor, head hung low. As he turned a corner a figure loomed in front of him.

  Nathan gasped and jumped back.

  “Watch where you are going,” Angel ordered. She stood shoulder on to Nathan, her good arm protecting her injured one.

  “Sorry,” Nathan said.

  Angel’s sour expression lifted. “You need be more careful,” she said, moving her good arm from its guard position. She studied Nathan from head to toe. He was standing in a pair of threadbare jeans and nothing else. His chest bare, he clutched a damp rag in his left hand. Her eyes focused on his naked toes. “Could be anything round corner. You run into ammo trolley it break your foot.”

  His eyes drawn to the fresh white plaster cast, Nathan asked, “How’s the arm?”

  As he finished he looked at Angel’s face. She was quite pretty, he thought, despite the swollen red welt down her te
mple. Her soft alabaster skin was framed by auburn hair that had natural hues of red running through it. She was also tall, he realised now that he stood eye to eye with her. She had appeared shorter when he’d seen her next to the other soldiers.

  “...and the face,” Nathan stuttered, realising she’d caught him staring at her.

  “Elbow is broken.” Angel shook her head. “Will be unable to use it for months, Doctor says. No more trips in country for me for a while. The face…” She paused. “I get by on charm alone for now.” A mischievous smile materialised over her normally stoic features. “Still will give me time to make bullets.”

  “Are things that bad you have to make your own?” Nathan asked.

  Angel laughed. “No, I measure out the powder more accurately than that mass produced factory govno.”

  “Is that important?”

  “The bullet travel different trajectory with different amounts of cordite. I measure out each bullet’s powder so I know they all fly the same. Means I need to calculate one less thing when I take shot.”

  “Well it obviously works,” Nathan complimented. “I don’t know what we would have done if it hadn’t been for you and the others.”

  “You would have been eaten,” Angel said in way of an acknowledgment. “You walk around ship almost naked… Is there a reason for this?”

  “Oh...” Nathan held the damp T-shirt in front of him and looked at it like he’d been caught red-handed with the cookie jar. “I was looking for an iron.”

  “I not have one,” Angel said sternly.

  Nathan stared at her awkwardly. He’d never suspected she would carry one, but her answer threw him. Finally he put her answer to one side, convinced it must have been down to some misinterpretation of translation.

  “Do you know where I could find one?” he asked.

  “Laundry room,” Angel replied. “Is three decks down towards the prow of the ship.” When Nathan looked back blankly at her, she nodded in the direction. “Towards pointy end of boat.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Nathan said as he walked off in the direction Angel had indicated.

  Nathan now felt strangely exposed. Walking through the confined corridors was much like the warehouse, but back there he’d never have worried about wandering about half dressed. He suddenly felt self-conscious about his semi-nudity.

  He sniggered out loud. It had been a while since he’d felt like he’d had anything to conform with.

  He reached the laundry room door with a wide smile on his face, knocked and stepped in.

  The room was hot and noisy. Two short skinny men with jet-black hair laboured away with piles of laundry.

  “Excuse me,” Nathan said.

  “Hi!” One of the men replied in an overly aggressive manner.

  Nathan nervously held out the wet T-shirt. “Um, I’m trying to get this dried?”

  The man simply nodded towards an open drier and got back to his work.

  Nathan stepped over to the appliance and tossed his shirt inside. Squatting on his haunches, he peered at the settings on the dial.

  “Excuse!” a voice said from behind in an accent that said that English wasn’t their first language.

  “Sure,” Nathan said, moving out of the way.

  The man bundled in an armful of wet clothing before shutting the door and setting the machine.

  The two men chattered away in what Nathan guessed was some Asian dialect. Excluded from their conversation, he watched as his T-shirt made periodic appearances in the drier’s window.

  He eventually found a corner of the cramped laundry room where he could avoid being shooed on from and stood counting the times his top came into view.

  Finally the drier stopped and one of the men opened the door, handing Nathan the warm and crumbled item of clothing.

  “Thanks,” Nathan said, pulling it over his head. He slipped his arms through the sleeves and pulled the cloth flat at his sides. He started walking to the door. “Thanks again.”

  Behind him the two men exchanged a few words.

  “You Nathan?” one of the men called after him.

  “Yeah.”

  The man who’d called him stood holding an old pair of jeans in one hand and a creased envelope in the other.

  He passed the letter over. On the front of it was Nathan’s name.

  * * *

  With the meticulous precision he always worked to, Professor Cutler scrutinised the implements on the tray before him. The items were laid out from left to right in the order they were to be used: antiseptic wipe, syringe and needle still in their protective packaging, and one last but vital item. On the side of the small glass container on a white sticky label, written in a neat hand was ‘S117a’.

  Professor Cutler started the computer recording. As he spoke he rolled up his lab coat sleeve.

  “Because the contagion does not affect other life forms, my research has been understandably stymied. The use of human cell cultures has obvious limitations to the speed and accuracy of my research.”

  He took the antiseptic cloth and wiped his forearm liberally.

  “The sample tested by myself earlier today has proven resistant to the contagion. I have therefore succeeded through my sheer genius to create a vaccine.”

  Careful not to rest his forearm on the table, Cutler opened and assembled the syringe.

  “It is proven to prevent the spread of the contagion in the cultures and so the next stage before a field test is to innoculate a test subject.”

  Like a tattoo artist at work, he dipped the needle point into the serum. He pulled back the plunger and sucked up a few millilitres of clear fluid.

  “To facilitate the cooperation of the military personnel…”

  Pointing the needle skyward, Professor Cutler squeezed the plunger back a fraction, causing a stream of serum to be discharged.

  “I have decided to innoculate myself with the first batch of the modified contagion.”

  Chapter 4: Lysed

  Sarah placed her fork down on the gold-rimmed china plate. The metal and china gave a sharp tinkle as they met. The plate in front of her was empty save for a few crumbs of bread and a smattering of white sauce which formed an arch where she had mopped it up with her roll. The full stomach forced her to take in shallow breaths as her digestive system worked to make room. She sat back to ease the pressure on her stomach and hoped there would be a long pause before dessert.

  “This is delicious,” Nathan proclaimed as he saluted the Captain with his half empty beer bottle.

  Even in the modest surroundings of the captain’s dining room Nathan’s lack of refinement shone out. Although he was freshly shaven, his scraggy hair, the napkin tucked into his hastily laundered Nirvana T-shirt, and his abandoned gusto marked him out as uncouth.

  Sarah wondered if there was still room for etiquette. In a world of the dead it didn’t seem to matter much.

  Wiping his mouth clean of escaped sauce, Nathan declared, “I’d forgotten just how good being clean and being full felt.”

  Sarah had to agree. “Yes, this is amazing. I don’t remember when I last had fresh fish.”

  Captain Warden lent back in his chair. “You have Commander Patterson to thank for the menu suggestion.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin. “I have to confess, the rest of the crew are sick of fish, but I see it as one of the perks of this posting.”

  “It’s not fine French cuisine, but it’s palatable,” Doctor Robertson said.

  “Huh!” Captain Warden snorted. “I’m glad it’s not French, otherwise it would be glowing bright green!”

  He gave out a loud snigger at his own joke, but the rest of the diners remained quiet.

  “I don’t get it, old man,” Jennifer said cheerily.

  “Jennifer!” Sarah chastised.

  “But I don’t,” she replied.

  Captain Warden laughed, “From the mouths of babes.” He looked Jennifer in the eye and smiled. “Have you been listening to sea dogs?”

  “Yes, ol
d man,” she said.

  “Jennifer, that’s rude,” Sarah said.

  “It’s a touch disrespectful, but I won’t make you walk the plank this time, young lady,” Captain Warden said. He smiled and turned to Sarah. “You see, the Captain of a ship is referred to as the Old Man. It’s a term of endearment really, but you shouldn’t address me as such.” He turned back to Jennifer. “It is a bit rude, I suppose. No, you should call me Captain.”

  “But I still don’t get the joke, Captain,” Jennifer said, keen to use the proper title.

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. You see, there were a lot of nuclear power stations in France but with no one to look after them…” Captain Warden made a whooshing noise and then a loud rumbling sound from his throat, all accompanied with the raising and parting of his hands. “They blew up.”

  “Oh,” Jennifer said, still none the wiser.

  Sarah simplified the concept for Jennifer: “You see, nuclear power stations use radioactive material and that glows green.”

  “It feels like we’re being treated like royalty, Captain!” Nathan exclaimed, then stifled a burp. “This is the first beer I’ve had in years that wasn’t stale.”

  “Nathan, don’t you think you should go easy on those?” Sarah said.

  Nathan ignored her and continued speaking to the Captain. “Not that it isn’t bad, I mean it’s great.”

  Captain Warden held up his hand to halt Nathan’s embarrassed rambling. “That’s okay, son. Compliment accepted.”

  “It’s obvious that the world is still run by men,” Sarah quipped shaking her head. “Everything has fallen apart, but one priority for getting civilisation going again is beer.”

  “On the contrary, beer may not be a priority but it is a byproduct of bread making,” Warden said. “I have a contact who gets me a case now and again. It isn’t contraband as such, just that its manufacture isn’t encouraged by the government.” The Captain looked back over to Nathan. “God knows where they get the hops or even where it’s brewed. Some warlord on a private island somewhere I’ll wager.”