Smith brushed by me and shoved the man in the green coveralls towards the jetty.
“It’s a SMAW,” Smith snapped. “Look, I know you have a lot of questions right now but we really need to get our asses on that damn boat and get the hell out of here. I’ll tell you all about it and answer all your questions on the way around the island.”
I was too confused, too shocked and too damn tired to argue with him. I simply plodded along the jetty after Smith and the dude in the green coveralls. We bypassed the burning yacht, keeping a safe distance from the flames and made our way to the flat bottomed tourist boat Tony had pointed out earlier. I turned back and studied the blazing wreckage but couldn’t see any sign of either the militia guy or the female sniper. I guessed they’d been vaporized in the explosion.
We hopped onboard the tourist boat and Smith put down his rocket launcher or whatever the hell it was and the green box he carried.
“Take this asshole down below and shoot him if he tries to get away or break out from his restraints,” Smith said, shoving the guy in the green coveralls at me. “Oh, and take a look out for any zombies while you’re down there.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I said, waving him a mock salute.
The boat’s upper deck was constructed of varnished timber and black painted steel and was around thirty feet long. An engine room and small wheel house was situated near the bows that pointed out to sea. The vessel was moored to the jetty by a couple of thick ropes that creaked every time the tide lowered and rose.
Smith made his way over to the engine room while I hustled the guy down a wide wooden staircase descending from the center of the upper deck. We clumped down the stairs, with the guy leading in a hunched and defeated gait. I aimed the Glock at his back as I followed behind him but had the feeling there was no real need for the firearm. The guy’s dejected body language told me he was in no mood for a fight.
The lower deck smelled of mold ridden wood, seawater and an underlying hint of old diesel fumes. The wood paneled walls were varnished the same light brown as the upper deck and a few round port holes were positioned on each side of the large, square shaped room. A closed door marked W.C. in blue lettering stood at the far end of the area, beside a slightly raised wooden platform that looked like a stage of some kind. Wooden bench seats stood in rows at the edge of a grimy, green glass floor and I waved the handgun, motioning for the guy to sit down.
I wasn’t sure if the guy spoke English but he understood my gesture, dumping himself down on the bench seat at the front of the row. We didn’t speak and I heard Smith banging around on the upper deck for a while before the rumble of an engine started. He’d always been a dab hand where marine machinery was concerned.
I kept my eye on the seated guy but also took a glance out of one of the port holes. The light was fading fast and I didn’t want to still be hanging around the jetty at nightfall.
Descending footsteps caused me to retreat further into the room and aim the handgun at the staircase.
“Relax, Wilde Man, it’s only me,” Smith huffed, flapping a dismissive hand. Both his hands and the front of his shirt were covered in oil and he wiped sweat from his face with his forearm. “I got the engine fired up but it’s not in good shape. It should get us around the island and back to the ship but it’s going to need a major overhaul when we get there.”
“You sure we’ll make it?” I sighed, redirecting the firearm at the guy in the coveralls.
Smith shrugged. “Only one way to find out, kid.”
“When are we going to get going? It’s getting pretty dark outside.” I nodded at the port hole.
“Right now. I need you to come up on deck and slip the ropes for me while I steer us away from the jetty. You know the routine. Just like New Orleans.”
I nodded. “What are we going to do with Laughing Boy here?” I waved the Glock at our new crew mate.
“Don’t worry about him. Bring him up on deck with us and I’ll keep a watch on him,” Smith said. “Hand me the gun.”
I gave him the Glock and he checked the weapon before he motioned for the guy to get up and climb the staircase.
“Come on, Daddio. We’re getting out of here.”
“Does he speak English?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Smith replied, nodding his head. “He was caught up with those militia guys and I found him snooping around the airport.”
“The airport?” I asked, a little shocked. “Why the hell were you at the airport?”
“Let’s get on the upper deck first, kid and I’ll tell you the whole sorry assed story.”
Chapter Seventy-Six
The three of us clumped wearily back up the staircase. This time Smith covered the guy in the green overalls with the handgun. Smith’s lack of firearms got me thinking.
“What happened to your guns?” I asked.
Smith shook his head. “Lost them. That’s really bad drills on my part, kid.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant but I didn’t push the subject.
“By the way, you got a blood stain on your ass.” Smith pointed the Glock at my backside as I reached the top of the staircase.
“Oh, I had a little accident,” I muttered. “I stabbed myself in the ass.” I felt a little stupid as I tried to explain.
“You stabbed yourself in the ass?” Smith queried, with an incredulous expression on his face. “Jesus, kid. You really know how to give yourself a hard time.”
I felt my face redden slightly and shuffled my way to the boat’s stern. Smith maneuvered the guy in the coveralls to the wheelhouse and tied his arms around a bollard on the port side. I hopped back onto the jetty and glanced towards the town square. The buildings were nothing more than shadows against the dark sky and I heard the faint sound of the hurricane siren still blaring out. The yacht still burned, although the flames had died down slightly and the remains of the vessel had started to sink.
“Okay, kid,” Smith shouted. “Slip the ropes and jump back onboard. We’re out of here.”
I nodded and pulled the ropes up and off the large steel bollards bolted to the jetty. I tossed both ropes onboard the boat and leapt back onto the deck. Smith hit the throttle, causing the engine to rumble in a deeper tone and we slowly pulled away from the jetty.
I stood on the deck for a few moments, staring at the remains of the burning yacht and the dark port town. My mind began to process and replay some of the more daunting moments that had occurred over the last few hours. The moon shone over the rooftops and through the narrow streets, reflecting in the broken glass window fronts. I wondered if I’d ever return to the port of La Bahia Soleado. Who knew? Nobody could predict the future.
The wheelhouse was nothing more than a ten feet by ten shack-like structure with glass panel screens all the way around. The wheel sat in the center of the basic control panel at the front of the room and the guy in coveralls sat slumped in a chair in the corner to the right. Smith stood in front of the large wooden steering wheel, spinning it to the left. A lit cigarette drooped from his lips.
“Got one of those for me?” I asked, pointing to his smoke.
Smith tapped a pack of cigarettes beside a lighter on top of the control panel. He’d obviously found or stolen some smokes along the way. The Glock sat next to the cigarette packet. I took a smoke and lit it up. The burn felt good, although it made me cough slightly. I rested my one good ass cheek, perching on top of a waist high metal locker.
“You get these from the airport too?” I asked, raising the cigarette.
Smith turned on the navigation lights then flashed me a glance. “U-huh,” he muttered.
I knew I was going to have to coax Smith into an explanation as to his disappearance. “So what happened? Where did you go?”
“I told you. I went to the airport.”
“Why?”
Smith sighed. Look, after Dan got shot up on that rooftop we had to get down from there, right?”
I nodded. “Sure we did. Please, feel free to co
ntinue.”
“We got off the roof and made it into that house. I kind of figured you and Tony would wait in there. I guessed the two of you would hole up inside there until I got back.”
“Back from where?” I asked.
Smith flicked ash on the floor. “Tony was talking about Van Dalen smuggling shipments around from Columbia to Europe and pretty much anyplace in the world. He also said that the militia guys kept on going to the port town, even when they were safely tucked up inside that castle.” He glanced at me.
I shrugged. “So what?”
“I had a hunch those militia guys were searching for something on the island and they thought it was at the port but they were wrong,” Smith continued. “What they were looking for was still at the airport. They were looking in the wrong place for a long time.” He took a long puff on his cigarette. “Anyhow, after we got off that rooftop, I made it back to the outer limits of town, jumped in the truck and headed over to the airport to take a look-see. That weapons haul back in the big house by the village got me thinking. If Van Dalen had a plane and the ability to smuggle in batches of small arms and explosives, what else had he been smuggling onto the island, huh?”
The penny dropped and I understood what was going on. “He was smuggling in those rocket launcher things,” I groaned. “That thing you blew up the yacht with.”
“Correct,” Smith said. “He had a whole stash of them in a supply crate at the airport. And I found them sitting right there in plain sight. A shit load of Shoulder-launched Multipurpose Assault Weapons. SMAW for short. Pretty much the best rocket launcher you can get. The militia would have been virtually indestructible with a whole batch of those things.”
“So, where does this guy come into all this?” I asked, pointing to the man in the corner.
“Believe it or not, this guy is a pilot. I had a little shoot out with him and his buddies back at the airport,” Smith explained. “They were snooping around trying to find a small working aircraft to get off the island. I ran out of ammo but luckily found the batch of SMAWs. One shot wiped out all of them except Dante here. When he saw what was left of his buddies, he quickly raised the white flag.”
I frowned. “How come you kept him alive or even brought him back here with you? That doesn’t seem like you.”
Smith shrugged. “Hey, I’m not always a callous bastard. Besides, I figured he might come in handy, like a bargaining chip with the sniper. I still didn’t know where the hell she was.”
“Lucky you came back just in time to save me, huh?” I said.
Smith tossed his cigarette butt on the floor and trod on it. I didn’t like the shifty look on his face.
“You did get back to the port at that time, right?”
Smith nodded his head sideways and shuffled awkwardly on the spot. “I may have been waiting around a little while before you showed up.”
“Meaning what?” I pressed.
“Look, I couldn’t get back to that house I thought you’d stay at, Wilde Man. I figured you’d just wait it out. I heard the siren going off and realized you’d activated it to clear the zombies away from the port. I kind of guessed where you’d be heading.”
“Oh, so you waited in that alley for me to show?” I asked.
“That’s right, kid.”
“And you also stayed hidden because you knew the sniper would take a shot at either me or Tony? You used us to flush out the sniper.”
I turned and flicked my cigarette butt through the open door and over the side of the boat. I was struggling to stay calm. The outcome of the situation on the jetty would probably still have been the same but I felt as though Smith had used me unnecessarily as bait, yet again.
Smith shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. I had to find out where the sniper was or we’d all be dead right now.”
I huffed and turned away. Images of Smith callously executing Pete, Marlon and I in that shitty garage rolled through my mind. He’d used me as bait twice, once before the assault on the castle and at the harbor, he’d twice shot weapons close to my head, once in our escape from the first domed house and also at the harbor. I started to reconsider our so called friendship. Maybe he was still the same callous contract killer I’d first met all that time ago.
Smith and I barely spoke during the journey. I knew Smith had ultimately saved my life but he’d waited that little bit too long to do it. I wasn’t sure how long he’d lurked in that back alley with that rocket launcher, waiting to pounce but he’d obviously been there long enough to weigh up the situation. I dozed some of the way until the pain in my ass cheek stirred me from my dream filled slumber. The guy in the corner said nothing and I wondered what Smith had done to him to make him seem so traumatized.
It was completely dark and I had no clue what the time was when Smith nudged me from another snooze.
“We’re here,” he said. “We’re back alongside the warship.”
I blinked away the remains of sleep and glanced out of the side window. I saw red and white lights illuminating a wall of gray steel, towering beside the boat and heard voices yelling instructions in the distance.
“Go help them pull us alongside.” Smith smiled slightly and nodded to the open doorway. I stood and Smith touched my forearm. “I did what I had to, kid. I hope you understand that.”
I nonchalantly nodded and groggily stumbled through the open doorway.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Sarah Wingate patched up my wounds while Smith debriefed the gathering of Thomas McElroy, Connor Hannigen, Colonel Oleg Chernakov, Batfish and Sammy O’Neil, as we sat in the officer’s wardroom drinking hot coffee.
“So, you know exactly where these weapons are, Smith?” McElroy asked.
Smith took a sip of coffee and nodded. “It’s a whole air freight container full. Those militia guys were going nuts trying to find them.”
“We could certainly use those rocket launchers,” McElroy said. He thought for a moment. “And you say this militia outfit is practically wiped out?”
“All but a few stragglers, like that guy I brought back with us,” Smith said. “Where is he anyhow?”
“He’s down below with McDonnell and Duffy,” Hannigen said. “They are extracting information from the guy.”
I wondered if that meant they were torturing the poor bastard down in the locker room.
“In your opinion, Smith, how difficult would it be to clear the island of all the undead?” O’Neil asked.
Smith nodded. “It’s certainly possible. Especially if we can get some more SMAWs. We can lure them away from the port town and out into open ground and then zap them with the rockets.”
“Sounds like a plan,” McElroy said. “We’ll take the boat you acquired at first light tomorrow and go and reconnoiter the island. The guys are giving the engine a fix up as we speak. We’ll land on the beach nearest the reef and make our way inland. If we take a small but heavily armed squad of able men and get a lay of the land, we can start landing more people and equipment as we require it. That militia guy can come with us and act as a guide.”
Smith nodded. “Count me in for the expedition. I’m kind of familiar with the layout of the island and I know exactly where the rocket launchers are located at the airport.” He glanced over at me. “You up for it tomorrow, Wilde Man?”
I glanced up at the clock on the wall and saw it was approaching three a.m. Daylight would be approaching in a couple of hours. I shook my head. “Count me out of this one. I need to rest and I ache all over. Besides, my ass is killing me.”
Muted and stifled laughs went around the table. The news of my ass injury had already spread around the ship’s community, much to their amusement.
“All right, kid,” Smith said, smirking. “You take a day off.”
“Call me when you need a hand clearing the island,” I said, not wanting to totally isolate myself from the mission.
“Will do, Brett,” McElroy said, glancing between Smith and I. “Good work on that island. I know
it can’t have been easy for you guys out there on your own.”
“We did have a little help,” I said. “But unfortunately, those guys are all gone now.”
McElroy nodded. “Their efforts are appreciated and will be remembered once we start our community ashore on Saint Miep.”
“Thanks for that,” I muttered, thinking of all the guys who hadn’t made it out alive. I figured if it all worked out for us on the island, we could build a monument or something to remember those brave guys.
Smith and McElroy decided who they should take with them in their expedition party and Wingate immediately volunteered. She finished patching me up, applying a fresh bandage to my ankle, cleansing, stitching and sticking a field dressing to the stab wound on my ass.
The meeting seemed to have petered out and run its course. I was glad as I desperately needed to sleep. The others began drifting away from the room and I watched Batfish go by. She didn’t say a word and only flashed me the briefest of glances.
Wingate watched me watching Batfish.
“Have you talked to her yet, Brett?” she asked me.
Her voice shook me from my inner thoughts. “What?...Oh, er…no. I don’t think she wants to talk with me. She’ll probably be off on the expedition tomorrow and I won’t see her for a while. That’s how it seems to work nowadays.”
Wingate sighed and looked down to the floor. “No, she won’t be going on the mission tomorrow, Brett. She has something important to tell you but she doesn’t know how.”
I felt another embarrassing conversation was about to commence. “What? Let me guess. It goes something like, Batfish really likes you but she’s confused at the moment and just wants to stay friends, without actually ever talking to me again. Is that how it goes?”
“No, Brett,” Wingate snapped. “That is not how it goes.”
Her brusque tone not only shocked me but caused me to recoil in my chair. I shook my head and Wingate must have picked up on my confused expression.
The Left Series (Book 6): Left On An Island Page 32