Doomware

  David circumvented a particularly jagged rock formation and fixed his attention on their immediate destination. He couldn’t wait for the relative comfort of driving on shingle and sand. It took a deliberate mental effort not to start relishing it too early, as he had the prospect of escape up on the seafront. On the dun sand up ahead he noticed there were far fewer zombies than usual. In fact, compared to every other day, the beach was practically deserted. It was clear that the zombies who would normally be beachcombing were the same ones who were currently involved in carrying out the offliners’ bidding.

  They were only yards from the start of the shingle when the Land Rover came shuddering to a halt. The engine was still running, and David thought they’d become stuck on something he’d missed. He revved the engine. It spluttered and roared but they failed to move forward.

  “I think the axle’s gone,” said Tarot.

  “Shit!” David shouted, slamming a fist against the steering wheel.

  He looked ahead towards the slipway. They were a long way from it, too far to make it on foot. The zombies wouldn’t tie up with tiredness and pain like they would; they were bound to catch them. And even if they did, by some miracle, make it off the beach, what would they do then? Where was there to go?

  The engine gave a jarring stutter and died. He pressed the ignition button, but the only response was a dull click. The vehicle had given up the ghost. It had probably done well to get them this far. There was nothing else for it. He unclipped his and the boy’s seat belts. He wasn’t about to give in to those bastards no matter how hopeless the situation looked.

  “I’ll carry him,” he said to Tarot. “Cover us.”

  “I’m right with you.”

  Before they could get out of the vehicle, a sudden surge of sound and a shadow falling over them stopped them in their tracks. It didn’t take long to discover the source of the sound; David’s heart leapt when he saw it. Beyond the cracked glass of the windscreen a huge black object had appeared in the sky above them. For a moment he couldn’t take it in. It was so unexpected, so long since he’d seen its like, that at first fear clouded his mind, and all he could do was gape at the thing as if it was a visitor from another world.

  It was a helicopter – of an old, obsolete design, with a bubble-like cockpit and two large skids. It was small by contemporary standards, but right now it seemed to be filling the entire sky.

  “My God! Is it them?” David gasped, referring to the offliners.

  “I don’t know,” Tarot replied. “Why would they expose themselves now? They’re fucking cowards.”

  They watched as the helicopter turned in mid-air and settled onto the sand ahead of them broadside on. A door slid open and two men emerged from the helicopter’s passenger compartment. Both were dressed in urban military attire and were armed with sub-machine guns.

  “Shit!” David said through gritted teeth, and he started groping around for his own weapon.

  “Wait a minute,” Tarot said.

  Ducking under the main rotor, the men sprinted towards them. One of them gave a hand signal clearing indicating that they should get on board the aircraft. Then they both opened fire, shooting past the Rover, aiming for the pursuing zombies army.

  “I’ll be damned!” David said. “What d’you think?”

  “I think we don’t have much of a choice.”

  CHAPTER 47

  D + 521

  As they lifted off, David watched the scene from the helicopter’s window with the same kind of immobile detachment he might have watched a television screen. The beaten-up Land Rover stood facing them, the doors on one side thrown open – the driver’s-side door was so buckled it had refused to open – and its windscreen wipers still sweeping jerkily. A river of zombies swarmed around it, getting pummelled by the helicopter’s downdraught, suddenly looking impotent and unthreatening as their earthbound hands stretched hopelessly towards them. It felt incredible to be above the danger so suddenly, to be so effortlessly defying the surly bonds of earth, plucked from danger as if by the hand of God. He didn’t think about where they were going; it was enough to be going anywhere, though the exhilaration of it was tainted by an odd kind of grief over the Rover’s demise – the antiquated machine had sacrificed itself saving them from the most modern of terrors.

  As they moved higher his attention shifted to the point where they’d fallen from the seafront. At this distance the drop looked anything but formidable, the slope of the pebble ridge almost gentle, so much so that it was difficult to reconcile the memory of what had happened with the sight of where it had taken place. What had happened there? he wondered. Before the fall. What had caused the Land Rover to swerve so badly? He had no way of knowing, and he ceased thinking about it seconds later when the shore disappeared from view entirely and they were flying over open ocean.

  In the cramped passenger compartment they were knee to knee with the two military-clad men, who were stony-faced and businesslike, their eyes hidden behind tactical glasses and their ears covered by headphones. The men talked to each other and the pilots via microphones suspended close to their mouths, but their words were lost to the sound of the rotors. The boy was on David’s lap, still unconscious. One of the men pointed to him and gave a questioning look. David flashed him an okay sign. Seconds later the boy’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around at the passenger compartment and its occupants with a blank expression on his face.

  “Are you okay?” David mouthed at him, eliciting a dazed nod in response.

  One of the rescuers grinned at the boy, giving him a thumbs up. Shawn smiled uncertainly and pressed himself closer to David. Then a sad expression clouded his face and it looked as if he was about to start crying. David smoothed his hair, realising he was probably thinking about the cat. The poor thing was trapped and would slowly starve to death, doomed by a cage that was meant to protect it – if it had survived the zombie onslaught. How on earth would he console the boy over something like that? He cursed himself for not freeing the cat when he had the chance, although he knew he hadn’t even had time to think of such a thing let alone carry it out.

  The helicopter banked slightly, and all thoughts of the cat went out of his head when he spotted their destination: a ship. At first it was just a hazy outline on the horizon, difficult to scale in the featureless expanse of ocean, but as they approached details began to emerge. It was a sizeable vessel, dark-grey in colour, verging on black, giving it a vaguely ominous appearance. It appeared to be motionless, and the absence of a bow wave and a wake confirmed it was at anchor. The central part of the ship was dominated by a main structure housing the bridge and assorted communications equipment. The foredeck was crowded with smaller deployable boats, while the deck astern was completely taken up by a helicopter landing pad and what looked to be some kind of movable structure, in all likelihood a hangar for shielding the aircraft in bad weather. He found he couldn’t define the ship’s type exactly, but, like the helicopter, it was in excellent condition given its advanced age. As they grew near the vessel’s name became visible, painted in white letters on the hull: MV Cankered Host. This was undoubtedly the mystery ship Shawn had spotted two days ago.

  The helicopter took a long time settling onto its landing pad. While it hovered David could see members of the ship’s crew running to and fro, or stood watching from behind portholes and railings. The windows of the bridge were dotted with faces peering out.

  As soon as they touched down the pitch of the aircraft’s rotors changed as the engine started powering down. Somebody slid the door open and they disembarked, David keeping one hand on the boy at all times. They stood on the deck a short distance from the helicopter, and David felt as if he’d been transported into another world or another time. Very quickly they were surrounded by people. The crew was a mixture of races and sexes, but was predominately white and male. All were dressed in either camouflage, naval or nondescript utilitarian uniform. Some were armed. It felt strange – strangely unnerving – to
see so many people who weren’t zombified.

  For a while the whine of the helicopter’s decelerating rotors prevented conversation, and during this time David and Tarot exchanged nervous looks. David was acutely aware of the many eyes upon them, and he felt embarrassed by the dreadful physical condition they were in. He also couldn’t help noting that, if it hadn’t been for his cut, bruised and bloodied state, Tarot would have blended right in with the rest of the crew. The two men who’d been with them in the passenger compartment of the helicopter remained close by at all times. They’d removed their headsets; one was fair-haired and pale-skinned, while the other was darker and shaven-headed.

  “Who are you people?” Tarot said once the rotors’ whine had reduced to a low enough level.

  The fair-haired man turned to face him. “You’re required to relinquish your weapons at once,” he said, his bearing stiff and his tone of voice official. “Captain’s orders.”

  David and Tarot looked at each other. It wasn’t exactly what they’d hoped for as the first words from their rescuers.

  David repeated Tarot’s question in a dry monotone: “Who are you people?”

  “Survivors,” the man replied, raising his eyebrows slightly. “Your weapons, please.”

  The man was directing his attention towards Tarot, who was the only one conspicuously armed; in his haste, David had left his machine gun in the Land Rover.

  “Give it to them,” David said. It was obvious they had no choice in the matter.

  Tarot unslung his gun and held it rigidly in front of him, as if daring them to touch it, a gesture of defiance that made David smile to himself inside. A crew member stepped forward and took it.

  “We have to pat you down,” the fair-haired man said – then, over his shoulder, he snapped: “Search them.”

  Two more crew members stepped forward and commenced body searches. In short order, their handguns, their remaining ammunition and Tarot’s grenades were all confiscated. David felt deflated by this exchange, even more so when one of the crew moved to search the boy.

  “You don’t have to search him!” he said, surprised and indignant, placing his arms around the boy protectively. “He’s just a boy; it’s not necessary.”

  The crew member looked to the fair-haired man, whose eyes remained inscrutable behind his glasses.

  After a pause, he flicked a hand and said, “Leave it.”

  “Do you have a medic?” asked Tarot. “We’ve been in… an accident.”

  “You’re to see the Captain first.”

  “Why’s that? One of us might have concussion.”

  “Captain’s orders. You’re to meet with him at once. Then the ship’s doctor will be at your disposal.”

  This was fine with David. He’d rather get some answers from the Captain than sit around being prodded by some doctor. He and Tarot were only walking wounded, while the boy’s brainware would have flagged up any major injuries. Not that the Captain knew that, of course. It was unorthodox for him to delay medical attention; the guy was obviously eager to get some answers of his own.

  “This way,” said the fair-haired man.

  * * *

  As they trooped into the bowels of the ship, Tarot posed questions to the crew members escorting them, but each time the question was deflected with a brusque reference to the Captain. David had only ever seen a ship this old in movies, or read about one in books. As they walked, he tried to take in the sights and sounds, the maritime museum-like feel of the place, but other things kept demanding his attention. Only now, with the recession of adrenaline, was he starting to feel pain. His legs hurt where they’d struck the underside of the steering wheel and the dashboard. His left cheekbone throbbed where something – probably his gun or an errant magazine – had struck him during the fall. His right elbow was afire with pain. He began to rethink his keenness to see the Captain before the doctor.

  The boy was excited by the ship, and kept looking around and asking questions. Suddenly, he tugged hard on David’s hand, bringing him to a halt.

  “Dad, look!” he cried. “A boy! I just saw a boy on those steps!”

  Shawn was looking back the way they’d come, along a dimly lit corridor. David could see a set of steps on the right, but no boy.

  “Really?” he said. “I don’t see him.”

  “He’s gone now, but he was there.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He looked like me. I mean, he was my age – I think.”

  “Let’s keep moving, people,” said the fair-haired man, who was in the lead.

  They continued on. David was surprised by the number of rooms and corridors in the ship’s interior. He’d expected they would go up, towards the bridge, but instead they went down, below decks. He noticed that Tarot was nervous in his usual kind of way: calm, watchful, the nervousness betrayed only to someone who knew him. He continued to ask questions of the crew, and was continually rebuffed. Ask the Captain. The Captain will tell you. Captain’s orders. David had heard the man’s name spoken in tones of deference so many times that an audience with him started to become an intimidating prospect. He felt like Marlow in Heart of Darkness, heading for a confrontation with the Captain’s Kurtz.

  They walked down a long, stark corridor, at the end of which was a metal hatch adorned with a sign that read Captain’s Quarters. As soon as he saw the hatch David had a terrible feeling of foreboding. He felt very strongly that the hatch should not be opened, that they should not face whatever was waiting beyond it. He didn’t voice his fears, and watched as the fair-haired man tapped on the hatch three times with the barrel of his gun.

  At that moment the boy squeezed his hand and whispered, “Hey Dad, I think it’s an anagram.”

  “What is?”

  A muffled “enter” came from beyond the hatch.

  “The name of this ship.”

  Before David could respond the fair-haired man spun the handle on the hatch, opened it and ushered them all inside. The first thing David noticed was the opulent appearance of the room compared to the austere drabness of the rest of the ship. There were Chesterfield sofas on either side of the room, gilt-framed oil paintings on the walls, and plush carpet a deep shade of vermillion covering the floor. In the centre of the room was a mahogany desk, behind which sat the Captain. He was busy writing in a large leather-bound log, and didn’t so much as glance up as they came in.

  “It’s good to see you again, Tarot,” the Captain said, still failing to look up from his log.

  The colour had drained from Tarot’s face. He looked at David and said, “Lorch.”

  CHAPTER 48

  D + 521

  David had expected someone more fearsome- or repugnant-looking, someone pinched-looking and hunched over, their physical appearance deformed by the weight of their extreme beliefs. Instead, Lorch looked ordinary. Attractive, even. He had bright-green eyes, dark hair that curled in waves down to his collar, and a neatly trimmed goatee. He was wearing a pair of half-moon glasses, the likes of which David had never seen in real life, that were surely only being worn for effect.

  “Welcome to the Cankered Host,” he said, continuing to write as he spoke. “Please, take a seat. I prefer my guests to be comfortable. Tarot on this side” – he pointed to the Chesterfield on the left with his pen – “companions on the other.”

  The orders were given with the air of a man accustomed to having them obeyed. David and Tarot looked from each other to the two men from the helicopter, who had sub-machine guns slung over their shoulders and pistols in holsters on their hips. They clearly weren’t in a position to argue. They took seats where Lorch had indicated, Tarot on one sofa, David and the boy on the other. The fair-haired man closed the hatch, and he and his counterpart stood flanking it.

  “Imagine my surprise,” Lorch said, “when I was informed that one of those found fleeing from a mob baying for his blood was none other than my old sparring partner, Tarot Dugas.”

  With a little flourish of his
pen, he finished whatever he was writing, leaned back in his chair, and finally looked up. There was a pause while he took in Tarot’s appearance.

  “Would it be” – he paused, searching for the right word – “disingenuous of me to enquire as to how you’ve been keeping?”

  Tarot stared at him, his face a pale mask, expressionless. “How did you do it?” he said tonelessly.

  A trace of a smile twitched at the corners of Lorch’s mouth. “Note how you didn’t ask why I did it. You already know the why, don’t you Tarot? Deep down, I think you’re a believer, are you not?”

  “So you don’t deny it?”

  “Who would deny such a magnificent achievement?”

  “Achievement?” Tarot uttered in disbelief. “Haven’t you seen what’s out there? Haven’t you seen the death and the destruction and the hordes of zombies?”

  Lorch tutted with disdain. “Zombies. I do so detest that word. Zombies are supposedly cadavers reanimated by witchcraft – a ludicrous notion if ever there was one. The creatures out there are not zombies.”

  “Then what are they?”