The sun had begun its slow descent and I guessed it was late afternoon sometime. I hoped nobody in the search party was missing me and talk of my absence had commenced back on the warship.
I’d have to try and forget this day ever happened and never return to the river again. Blocking out the events of the day was the only way I was ever going to get over it. I’d toss the boat hook and the snub nosed revolver when I got closer to the beach.
My boots, t-shirt, gun belt, spare magazines and Glock handgun were thankfully still in place where I’d left them. I washed the blood off my hands at the river’s edge then hurriedly dressed up, strapped the gun belt and holster back around my waist, checked the Glock and holstered the weapon. My alternative self had disappeared back into the world of hallucinations. I took in a few deep breaths and lit a smoke with shaky hands before heading away from the river.
“Jesus,” I muttered, shaking my head. Life had the wretched habit of throwing up some shitty days but this one was right up there with the worst of them.
The image of that poor kid lying in the long grass by the river, choking on his own blood and gurgling his last words played over and over in my mind as I walked towards the beach. I chain smoked as I moved, with my head drooping and staring blankly at the grassy fields underfoot. I lit one cigarette after another with the boat hook resting on my left shoulder. The setting sun glowed red across the sky, casting an orange glow through the dry, brown pasture. My feet made a swooshing sound as I trudged through the long grass and dry seeds caught in the eyelets of my boots.
“Shit just happens,” I repeated, in attempt to justify my rash actions.
My thoughts turned again to Michael Epson and felt a little guilty I’d forgotten all about him for a number of years. I smiled, remembering his nickname for me. He used to call me ‘Oscar’ as in homage to the great poet and writer, Oscar Wilde. I laughed out loud. Imagine that, me Brett Wilde being likened to an incredibly intelligent man like Oscar. What had I ever achieved? Surviving a number of years through sheer luck throughout the awful infection which had engulfed the planet was all I could count. I pondered on how the great Oscar Wilde would account for the whole undead situation.
All remembrances of Michael Epson and thoughts of Oscar Wilde quickly evaporated when a voice spoke from somewhere in front of me.
“I scored fifty runs and took five wickets in a match for my local team once. It was the highlight of my life. That was my ambition, to be a professional cricket player.”
I stopped moving, dropped my cigarette and glanced upwards away from the grass to the source of the voice.
The young kid who’d died from the gunshot wound on the riverbank stood twenty feet in front of me in the field. Blood dripped from the wound in the side of his neck and smeared the left side of his face. He smiled, showing bright white teeth, partially coated with congealed blood.
“Do you like cricket, sir?” he asked.
I slowly nodded. I didn’t know much about cricket but only knew it was an English game played in the British Empire’s former colonies. I remembered from my brief upbringing in London, England that when the Caribbean players were in town it was boom boom time with both bat and ball. They excelled at the sport.
“I was going to play cricket at the West Indies Academy in Antigua before all this badness started,” the young guy said. “That was my dream. But it’s all finished now.” The smile fell from his face and his head bowed forward towards the ground.
I couldn’t tell if a thick, dark cloud crossed the sun but the light seemed to shimmer. I blinked in the weird light and the young guy was gone. In his place stood a snarling, half rotten corpse with broken and blackened teeth. Parched brown skin stretched across the skull and the creature was clad in nothing more than sun bleached gray rags, partially covering the emaciated body.
I shook my head. What the hell was going on? Another hallucination?
The undead figure traipsed towards me, emitting a throaty growl. I sighed, disappointed and bored with their existence. These dead human things used to terrify the shit out of me and still did in large numbers but now if I came across a loner, I’d simply come to loath crossing the same path.
I rolled the boat hook from my shoulders and slammed the double hook end into the creature’s forehead. The blow only stunned the male zombie and sent it reeling backwards. It staggered forward again and I repeated the process, only aiming the double hooks slightly lower and pushing harder this time. The curve of each hook smashed into each of the ghoul’s eye sockets and I heard an audible crack as the skull bone separated and sliced through the diseased brain. Brown liquid dripped from a big slice above the eyes in the creature’s head and the thing slumped over backwards into the long grass.
I blew out a disgusted sigh and dropped the boat hook on the ground. Fuck knew how many of these damn bastard things I’d killed over the last few years. Who knew who this latest guy was? Some poor bastard who never thought he was going to die and rise again with the intent to eat another living person.
Stepping around the felled corpse, I wished I’d paid more attention in history periods during High School. We’d touched on the bubonic plague phrased as the ‘Black Death,’ which had wiped out an extreme amount of Europe’s population in the 14th century but I couldn’t remember too much more about the subject. I figured the world was gripped by a similar pathogen evolving with the times. Evolution always moved in mysterious ways and wasn’t only limited to human progress. Disease and bacteria were cunning little bastards, always finding a way to advance.
Maybe the Black Death had never really been contained and simply hibernated, lying dormant but growing stronger then returning with renewed strength, armed with an even deadlier pathogen. It seemed this new virus strain would never stop until the whole of mankind was wiped off the face of the planet forever.
A deep shudder jolted through my body. Perhaps we were the last of the human race and these times were indeed the end of days. Were the remaining living people destined to succumb to the undead disease or wipe each other out in the confusion and chaos while trying to survive?
It didn’t feel as though our carefree and idyllic life on the island was ever going to materialize.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hunched figures, all dressed in black combat fatigues crossed the sand as I navigated my way through thick woodland and onto the beach. A glowing red, setting sun cast long shadows between the jutting rocks dotted around on the beach and from the tall cliffs overlooking the golden sands. I recognized the bulky figures of Smith and Thomas McElroy, leading the pack of armed zombie hunters towards the now repaired ribbed inflatable boat at the water’s edge. A lone figure, I recognized as Connor Hannigen, the big set and bad tempered Northern Irishman from Belfast sat behind the wheel of the boat.
My movement through the waist high, spiky shrubs at the edge of the woods caught Smith’s attention. He stopped in his tracks and turned, shielding the glare from the sun with his hand above his eyes.
I enthusiastically waved above my head, not wanting to be mistaken for a shuffling corpse. Smith waved back with rather less eagerness. He waited for me as I morosely trudged across the beach.
“Shit, kid,” Smith croaked in his Brooklyn drawl. “You look like something that escaped from a zoo.”
“You don’t look so hot yourself,” I snapped and carried on walking towards the shore.
Smith turned and trudged alongside me. His face was pale and his eyes were slightly bloodshot. He looked as exhausted as I felt.
“Where did you get to today, kid?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Here and there,” I muttered.
“Look, I ‘aint one for trying to bust your balls, but you think it’s a good idea to keep going off on your own like you do?”
The image of the felled, dying guy at the side of the river flashed through my mind. “Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “I’m done screwing around. I just needed a bit of headspace for a while.”
�
�I know,” Smith said. “It’s a hard time when you’re going to become a father.”
I nodded. As far as I knew, Smith didn’t have any kids of his own. At least, he’d never talked to me about fathering any children.
“We went all the way back to the airport today to try and figure out a way to get the rest of those SMAWs back to the ship,” Smith said.
“Those crazy assed rocket launcher things?” I asked.
Smith nodded. “There’s just no fucking way we’re going to get the time or the opportunity to load them up. Most of the vehicles around this place are shot to shit and even if we can get one going, the terrain’s a total fucking nightmare. Added to all that, the fucking undead are swarming all over us before we get the chance to get close to the airport hangar where those crates of SMAWs are stacked.” He let out a long, groaning sigh. “It’s a total cluster fuck, kid but we’re stuck with it.”
We remained silent while we walked to the sea boat bobbing up and down on the shallow waves at the water’s edge. Smith’s problems seemed straightforward compared to mine. He was simply trying to figure out a solution to a problem. On the other side of the coin, I felt like some kind of dirty, low life murderer.
Thomas McElroy leaned across and clamped a huge hand around the back of my head as I took my place sitting on the inside edge of the inflatable boat. The gray rubber side squeaked against my backside as I slid into place.
“How about you, Wilde Man,” he said. “You okay, feller? You look like an owl poking out of an ivy bush, so you do.”
I nodded. “Fine, Mac, never better.”
I noticed McElroy flashing a concerned glance at Smith who sat beside me. That fleeting look told me a lot of things. They were worried about me or nervous in my presence or apprehensive or they thought I was going to go completely crazy and do something totally stupid.
“Yeah, honestly, Mac, I’m good now,” I reiterated. “Like I said to Smith, I just need some downtime to think a little.”
“Sure,” McElroy said and flashed me what I perceived to be a false smile.
Hannigen revved the throttle and turned the boat around in a tight arc before heading out to sea. The Russian warship was stranded around a half mile beyond the beach with a huge coral reef slightly below the surface between. The sea boat skimmed along the surface, a few inches above the jagged, underwater ridge.
I half listened to the good humored banter between Smith, McElroy and the other half dozen big guys in the boat as we chugged across the sea. For the most part, the guys baited the grumpy Hannigen at the boat’s wheel. In turn, Hannigen scowled, ignoring the jibes flying his way. I smiled occasionally but their words weren’t really connecting. All I could think of was that poor kid lying dead on the riverbank.
The sea boat brushed alongside the Russian warship and the maneuver of hoisting the craft on deck using the huge onboard winch began. We clambered out of the boat onto the gray, steel deck and checked our weapons. We’d made a rule that loaded firearms weren’t permitted below decks. I unloaded my Glock handgun and felt a sense of relief to get rid of the damn thing. Two Scottish guys acting as upper deck sentries took all our weapons and ammunition and stowed them in a recessed locker beside the boat winch. We made the declaration that we carried no live rounds or concealed loaded weapons and I was glad I’d ditched that wretched snub nosed revolver in the scrubland beyond the beach.
I gazed across the deck at the horizon. The setting sun cast a blood red glow over the sea. I was sick of the sight of crimson. Blood and death and bad luck seemed to follow me around like a sickly dog.
We trudged across the boat deck towards the big gray screen door leading to the lower decks. I felt dirty, sweaty and exhausted. I needed a shower and I was going to shave for the first time in a long while and get rid of this damn itchy beard engulfing the lower part of my face.
Thomas McElroy spun the wheel latch to open the door. He pulled the heavy steel panel open and I immediately felt the waft of cool air generated by the air conditioning from inside the ship. McElroy turned to the gaggle of us guys behind him. All expressions of mirth and joviality had evaporated from his face.
“Listen up, guys,” McElroy said in a formal tone, leaning with his shoulder against the door jamb. “We need to sit down and discuss this situation tonight. We need to get hold of those rocket launchers before somebody else does. And if we can’t do that then we’ll have to consider nullifying the threat.” He glanced back towards the shore. “We can’t allow those weapons to fall into the wrong hands. There might still be some of those South American militia guys running around on the island. If they get their hands on those SMAWs, we’re literally dead in the water. We’ll meet up after dinner tonight in the wardroom. Okay with you, Smith?”
Smith duly nodded. “I agree. We have to figure something out or we’re in deep shit. That seems to be the way the world works out these days. You have to get yourself out of the shit before shit happens.”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself, Smith,” McElroy said. “We’ll wash up and continue this discussion later, boys.”
A murmur of concurrence sounded around me. McElroy nodded and turned, leading the way to the accommodation areas below decks. The gang of zombie hunters dispersed, heading their separate ways.
“I’ll see you later in the wardroom, right, kid?” Smith said.
“Yeah, I’ll see you there,” I muttered and trudged towards my own cabin to the rear of the ship.
Smith’s words he’d spoken on the upper deck rattled around my head. ‘You have to get yourself out of the shit before shit happens.’ If only I’d thought that statement through at the riverbank earlier in the day.
CHAPTER FIVE
The hot water heated by the ship’s nuclear reactor felt good spraying over me from the shower. I tried to put the day’s horrors out of my mind but they kept replaying over and over in my head. I sobbed, the shower water washing away the tears. The sobs turned into howls I struggled to stifle.
The air conditioning whirred and the lights buzzed around the small, beige colored Formica walled cabin. A dead looking face stared back at me in the mirror’s reflection as I shaved off the bushy growth around my chin. The parched skin on my face looked cracked and unhealthy. Not suntanned but malnourished. My lips were cracked and huge dark rings surrounded my bloodshot eyes. An alarming number of gray strands intermingled with my too long black hair hanging either side of my jaw.
“Jesus, what a mess,” I muttered at my reflection.
I took alternating slugs from a bottle of liberated Caribbean rum between razor strokes. I decided to go the whole hog and scrub the razor all over my scalp. Long, dark and grey clumps of hair filled the white washbasin beneath my head. I rubbed the spiky remains of my hair once I was done. I looked totally different. Shaved and sheared of both beard and long hair, I felt slightly less dirty but still the pang of self guilt remained.
I dressed in the blue combat fatigues provided by the Russian Navy and looked at myself in the mirror. I simply looked like a douche bag pretending to be something I wasn’t. I didn’t deserve to dress in any type of military uniform. I was some scumbag who’d survived this far through the apocalypse more by association and luck rather than personal skill. I tore off the uniform and redressed myself in a pair of black and white sneakers, more informal flowery patterned, yellow beach shorts and a blue t-shirt with a white printed insignia of the actor Johnny Depp, crossing musket pistols beneath his chin when in his role as Captain Jack Sparrow in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies. It seemed a more appropriate dress somehow. A less talented actor projecting a hugely successful and brilliantly cool movie star.
I pulled the creased t-shirt straight across my skinny torso, breathed deeply and took another couple of swigs of rum. I felt edgy but ready for the meeting. I’d do my best not to act crazy during the formal get together.
I purposefully missed dinner in the canteen, instead opting for a cigarette and a slug of vodka with the guys and g
irls celebrating another day of life on the upper deck. The air was arid and humid and we watched a lightning storm illuminating the darkening sky in zigzags across the Caribbean Sea. It was only light relief. I tossed my cigarette over the side and headed down below decks to the wardroom.
My mood lifted slightly when I saw Spot, the little Jack Russell dog we’d found abandoned in a massive car wreck outside Brynston back in the States. Spot sat outside the wardroom door and he wagged his tail and jumped up against my legs. I bent down and let him lick my face as I ruffled his white fur. He’d been a puppy when we found him and he hadn’t grown a great deal but it felt as though he was one of the few success stories on our long, troublesome travels.
The door to the wardroom stood ajar and I heard the hubbub of chat and smelled the aroma of strong coffee from inside. I swallowed away a mouthful of alcohol tasting saliva, gritted my teeth and entered the wardroom. The uncomfortable feeling when faced with a lot of people threatened to surface.
“Wow! Look at what the cat dragged in,” Smith said, a cigarette drooping from his lips and a glass of bourbon on the table in front of him. “A sharp looking dude.”
I glanced across the room and saw Batfish sitting next to Sarah Wingate. Thomas McElroy, the Russian commander Colonel Oleg Chernakov, Connor Hannigen, the former Northern Irish politician, Sammy O’Neil and the three stone faced, expressionless paramilitary guys from Belfast, Duffy, Dunne and McDonnell sitting around the table.
“You look different with your haircut, Brett,” Sarah Wingate said. She smiled but her eyes told me she was horrified.
Again, I noticed those apprehensive glances across the table. I’d shaved my head and cut off my beard so what the fuck? What was the big fucking deal?
I rubbed my fuzzy scalp. “Just sick of getting a sweaty face and hair is all,” I muttered, moving to the coffee machine to the left of the long table. I poured myself a big cup of black Joe and took a long sip, hoping the brew would mask the smell of rum and vodka on my breath.
The Left Series (Book 7): Left Amongst The Corpses Page 2