by Drew Brown
The fast-mover jerked as the bullets penetrated his chest. He collapsed back against the kitchen cupboards, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. He tried to push himself up again.
Budd stared along the Glock’s short barrel, picking a spot between the fast-mover’s eyes.
He fired and the sound of splashing blood told him he’d found his mark, even before his eyes overcame the muzzle-flash’s glare to reveal the zombie slumped forwards like a man trying to touch his toes. There was a gaping hole where the back of his skull had been. Blood and brain-matter slushed around inside it like soap in a bowl.
Katrina let out a frightened yelp from the counter’s far side, obscured from Budd’s view. He started towards her but a wet, feeble groan behind him sent him spinning back to face the corridor.
The passageway was clear.
Budd lowered his gaze.
A bald-headed zombie crawled along the corridor, leaving a diminishing trail of blood in his wake. Dirty fingers found purchase on the threshold and he raised his head towards Budd, snarling through a blood-matted beard.
It was the trucker from the saloon, the one Bogey had shot through the neck. I had no idea how he’d got all the way around the boat, but the exercise certainly hadn’t improved his complexion...
“You again,” Budd said. He wasted no time in dispatching the injured zombie, putting a single gunshot through the top of his hairless head.
The ex-trucker slumped facedown onto the floor.
“Die, you fucker!” Kenneth shouted.
Budd turned back to the galley.
Kenneth was standing with a microwave oven held aloft. With a grunt of effort, the Englishman thrust it down at the blue-overall wearing zombie, whose head was visible a little above the worktop.
The zombie crumpled beneath the kitchen appliance.
Kenneth staggered backwards and then scooped to pull Katrina from the floor. There was no mistaking the bite-mark beneath her left eye. She pressed her hand to the wound, sobbing noisily.
Budd rushed around the counter.
The zombie twitched on the linoleum floor. Its skull had been crushed by the microwave, which lay beside it with one metal side dented in and the glass door broken.
Budd watched the overall-wearing zombie writhe on the waterproof floor covering. The man’s right eye—which somehow remained unharmed—a beady ball of white surrounded by swollen, pulpy flesh, looked back at him, unblinking.
It was still aware...
Budd took a deep breath. He attempted to aim at the zombie’s forehead, but his hand shook too much. His stomach felt queasy and his head was suddenly light.
That’ll be the adrenaline fading, which is where the credits role on most war films—just as the imperious hero becomes a jabbering wreck...
Budd mouthed counting to three, concentrating on steadying his hand. He squeezed the trigger and the zombie’s eye rolled up inside its lid.
Having fired the shot straight down, the thought struck me that it might have pierced the boat’s hull. I didn’t dwell on it for long; if we were wading around a couple of minutes later, I’d have my answer...
Budd ignored Katrina and Kenneth, who had sunk to their knees and were wrapped in an embrace. Instead, his eyes explored the galley’s darkest corners. At the back of the room, tucked in a small alcove between the waist-high cupboards and the wall, Juliette was sitting with her head resting upon her shoulder.
She was still sleeping.
Budd strode over to her and dropped to his knees, placing the Glock on the linoleum beside him. He clasped her hands and then stroked her cheek, her tanned skin warm against the backs of his fingers. When her eyes flickered, he brushed the hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ears.
He bent over and kissed her forehead.
I could barely believe she was alive...
When Budd pulled away he noticed that the Glock was gone from the floor. He looked over his shoulder to find Kenneth had shuffled to the far side the kitchen area to sit with his back against the cupboard. He had his left arm around Katrina’s head, his palm pressed over her mouth to prevent her from speaking.
Her eyes were wide, staring into Budd’s.
Kenneth had the Glock pushed to her temple.
“Kenny,” Budd said slowly. “What are you doin’?”
“We were bitten,” Kenneth said, momentarily flashing his wrist to reveal his torn flesh. The cuff of his white shirt was stained dark. “I’ve seen what happens.”
“It’ll be okay, pal,” Budd said, shifting his weight to stand up.
The two of them were seven feet apart.
“Stay there,” Kenneth snapped. He aimed the Glock at Budd for a second and then pushed it back against Katrina’s head. “No, no it won’t be fucking okay. I’m not becoming one of those fucking things. I’ve seen what happens.”
Budd raised his hands with open palms. “You don’t have to, brother. You see, Deacon, the guy with the briefcase and the bad haircut, he can help. He has a cure.”
“Yeah, right.”
And he’s from the future. And I’m gonna help him save the world. And, look, there goes a pig with wings. Maybe the less said the better....
“He has. He saved Juliette. She was bit, too.”
Kenneth laughed. “Saved her? She won’t even wake up. You’re a fucking fool. She’s dead. She’ll be just like the others soon. We’re all fucking dead!”
I’m not sure if my face twisted as much as my stomach did when he said that. Was I just puttin’ my faith in a lunatic’s scheme because it seemed better than the alternative?
Like when I voted in the last election...
“Maybe, Kenny, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m a fool. But you’re the one holding a gun to someone you love. Think it over; what can you lose?”
Kenneth was silent for a moment. “Nothing, now. I’ve nothing left. I’m not becoming one of those fucking things.”
Katrina tried to speak, but her mouth was held shut. In the dim light, Budd could make out the tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, blending with the blood at the top of her left cheek, spilling over Kenneth’s hand. Her blue eyes bore right into him.
Budd couldn’t escape her desperate gaze.
She couldn’t speak, but she didn’t need to. I knew exactly what she wanted to say.
Help me.
Please don’t let me die…
“You don’t have to, Kenny. You really don’t. Please, let Katrina go. She’s scared. Let her go.”
Kenneth shut his eyes and then kissed the top of Katrina’s head, his face pressed into her blond hair.
“C’mon, buddy. Let her go.”
“I’m sorry,” the Englishman whispered.
“No,” Budd shouted, scrambling to his feet.
He was too late.
Kenneth pulled the trigger and Katrina’s head exploded sideways, splattering crimson across the cupboards. Her limp body slumped to the side.
Her eyes remained impossibly wide, the whites turning red.
Budd sunk back to the floor.
Kenneth moved the Glock to his own mouth and clenched his teeth around the barrel.
Seconds ticked by.
Budd kept eye contact with the Englishman, their stare locked across the short distance.
He didn’t speak.
Go on. Pull it...
Kenneth shut his eyes.
And fired.
Budd watched the empty shell casing eject from the Glock and roll beneath one of the kitchen cupboards. The gunshot faded from his ears. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Katrina. Instead, he cradled Juliette to his chest, leaning his face against the top of her head. He breathed through his nose, using the fragrant scent of her hair to numb his senses.
Juliette…
He started to cry.
11
Budd was still sitting in the corner of the galley, holding Juliette to his side as she slept, when footsteps sounded on the stairs at the end of the corr
idor. He watched the doorway, waiting to see what would come through.
Patterson appeared, moving in a hunched pose, his MP-5 at the ready. The soldier stopped before he crossed the threshold, scanning the cabin.
Budd held up his left hand. “If you’re lookin’ for me, it’s your lucky day.”
Patterson touched the microphone on his collar. “I’ve found him. He’s alive.”
Yippee for me...
Patterson released his microphone and placed his hand back around his MP-5’s handle. “You shouldn’t have left us, Mister Ashby. Deacon’s not happy.”
“Screw him,” Budd said.
Patterson let his sub-machine gun swing onto its shoulder strap. He looked at the bodies strewn across the galley floor. “What happened?”
“A cook-off. Things got ugly.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’ll live,” Budd said. “How did you guys do?”
Patterson walked around the counter, pausing when he saw Kenneth and Katrina. His eyes centred on Glock in the dead man’s hand. “The boat’s clear,” the soldier said. “Is this what it looks like?”
Budd nodded. “They were bitten. I tried to talk him out of it. But he didn’t believe me ’bout Deacon’s cure.”
Patterson shrugged. “It’s probably for the best. I doubt Deacon would’ve spared any. He’s a cold bastard.”
“For the best?” Budd echoed. “He murdered her.”
“I’m sorry,” Patterson said.
“Heck, it wasn’t your fault.”
“Deacon wants you in the wheelhouse with him and Sanders. Ready?”
Budd shook his head.
“He was pretty insistent. You’re not to leave his sight.”
“When I want someone tellin’ me what to do, I’ll get married again. Got that? You tell Deacon I’m gonna find somewhere quiet for Juliette to recuperate and I’m not doin’ jack ‘til she’s well enough to be up an’ about. If science-boy doesn’t like that, he can swim to Hope Island for all I care.”
Patterson allowed a faint smile to show. “I’ll tell him you’re resting. Do you need a hand moving her?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Fair enough,” Patterson said, bending over and wrenching the Glock from Kenneth’s hand. He wiped some blood and saliva from the black barrel against his trousers and then ejected the magazine, replacing it with a full one from his belt. He gave the weapon back to Budd. “Before you go anywhere, I’ll sweep the rooms down here.”
“Suit yourself,” Budd said, tucking the Glock into his waistband. “I think there’s one in the cabin Deacon was using. Dead or dying, I ain’t sure.”
Dead or dying? Can the dead die? Again? Or can the dead get deader? While you ponder those, I’ll continue…
“Thanks,” the soldier said, readying his MP-5 again and walking back to the corridor.
Budd listened as the soldier’s footsteps faded. He ran his hand through Juliette’s hair, twiddling the dark strands between his fingers. A single gunshot rang out, followed by the sound of something being dragged over the floor. “All clear, Mister Ashby,” Patterson called.
Budd got to his feet and then lifted Juliette into his arms, carrying her limp body out of the galley. She mumbled a few words in her native tongue, words that were lost on Budd. Her eyes flickered beneath their lids.
Even so, she remained asleep.
Her breathing was shallow.
The four doors that lined the short corridor were all open. Two were small closets and one was a storeroom filled with cardboard boxes. Budd carried Juliette back into the room from which Katrina had saved her.
Patterson had straightened the desk and chair.
The door to the small bedroom was wide open, but whatever the soldier had found inside was gone. All that remained was a reddish, crusted puddle of blood on the carpet. Budd stepped inside and closed the door with his boot’s heel.
The latch clicked into place.
He laid Juliette upon the bed, curling her body on its side and resting her head upon the small pillow.
When Budd had her settled, he clambered onto the foot of the bed and sat with his knees up. He leaned back against the cabin wall and eased the Glock into the open, keeping his finger over the trigger.
He shut his eyes to stop the swelling tears from streaming down his face.
Was Juliette going to turn?
Despite what Deacon had said, I couldn’t escape the fact that Kenneth could have been right. And it made me feel sick just thinkin’ about it. Earlier, I’d have sworn she was getting better, but what did I know? Maybe I was stupid for even considering the scientist’s fantastic story as being even remotely credible.
Maybe I just wanted to believe him too much.
Whatever the case, I decided that I’d watch over Juliette ‘til she woke up—one way or the other. And, if the Glock was necessary, well, I guess I owed her that much...
THE THIRD DAY
12
“Monsieur Ashby. Monsieur Ashby, you need to wake up.”
Juliette’s voice brought Budd gently from his slumber, right up until the point where his consciousness kicked in and he remembered all that had happened. He shot bolt upright on the bed, almost jumping to his feet with a gasp for air.
There was the sound of hurried footsteps out in the corridor, rushing up or down the steps. He immediately feared the worst and reached for the Glock, but then he saw Juliette stood inside the door with a smile on her face.
Some prison guard I’d have made...
The sight of her at such ease, her short leather jacket back over her red T-shirt and her left hand freshly bandaged in a clean dressing, ended his panic. “Everything is okay, Monsieur Ashby. There is no danger,” she said.
Apart from the apocalypse happening outside…
Budd rubbed his eyes. The palms of his hands caught against the gray stubble that had sprouted from his face. “I guess I’m a bit jumpy.”
“I guess you are, but we have had plenty of rest. One of the soldiers came and told me that we are at our destination. We are about to disembark. He checked my wound and gave me this,” she said, holding out a half-empty plastic bottle of water. “Would you like some?”
“Thanks,” Budd said. He unscrewed the water and drank a couple of gulps. The liquid was warm, but more than welcome nonetheless. His mouth had been dry and uncomfortable.
Wondering how long had passed since he’d decided to watch over Juliette, he looked to the small porthole, but there was only darkness beyond the glass. It was pitch black, the kind of dark that develops in the countryside, away from the lights of city life. Without a working watch, he presumed they were somewhere in the middle of the night, sandwiched between a sunset and a sunrise. He reached down to the side of the bed and picked up his rucksack, which he strapped over his shoulders. He ran his hand through his hair, swishing it a little to the side, but took care to avoid his two lumps, both of which he could feel throbbing against his skull. The action reminded him of his missing hat.
“Do you know what happened to my Stetson, sweetheart?”
“I believe it dropped overboard when you fell.”
“Damn,” Budd said. “How you feeling?”
Juliette raised her bandaged hand. “You mean, do I think I will turn into a monster, Monsieur Ashby?”
Budd was unsure what to say and simply shrugged his shoulders.
Juliette leant over and kissed his cheek. “I feel fine,” she whispered. “Monsieur Ashby, the soldier who came in also told me the boat was attacked. He said you kept me safe.”
Budd took another gulp from the plastic bottle, finishing it off. The action had been as much about breaking eye contact with Juliette as it had about quenching his thirst.
The gaze of her brown eyes was intense.
“It was Katrina and her boyfriend, Kenny, really. The older couple from the apartment. I just pitched in at the end.”
“I am sure you did more than you admit, Monsieur Ashby. B
ut I will thank them as well.”
Budd gave a gentle shake of his head and dropped the empty water bottle to the floor.
Juliette blinked several times. “Oh,” she said.
I decided not to go into details...
There were two loud knocks on the door from the corridor. “Up on deck, right now,” came Patterson’s voice an instant later.
“Come on, peaches. We’d better do as we’re told,” Budd said, getting up from the bed. He took Juliette by the hand and led her into the corridor. A rabble of voices sounded from on the deck as they climbed the short staircase and emerged into the damp, dark night air.
Deacon was standing along the guardrail at the stern of the boat, flanked by Patterson and Bogey, who both had their MP-5s at the ready. The latter of the two soldiers wore a white bandage over his black jumper’s right sleeve.
Confronting the three was a loose semicircle of survivors and Budd wasn’t surprised to see Andy at its center. Father McGee turned and gave Budd and Juliette a welcoming smile as they settled in at the rear of the group. The whole scene was illuminated by several battery-powered lamps, which were scattered around the deck and hung from hooks on the guardrail, casting an uneven light across the gathered faces. Beyond the edge of the boat, above the flowing waters, there was nothing but impenetrable, foggy darkness that appeared thick and heavy like tar.
Andy was speaking. “I don’t see why we can’t wait until morning. It’s too dangerous to do as you say. How can we even be sure you really know where we are?” His questions earned several grumbles of agreement from the group.
A quick headcount revealed that Patterson and Bogey’s makeshift foxhole in the saloon had been a better plan than I’d given them credit for—Katrina and Kenny were the only people who hadn’t survived the attack…
