Zombie Island

by Gamboa, Allen

  “Ya, poor Sticky Pete, one night he stumbled out into the street drunk as fuck and got stomped to death by a horse.” Britten shoved a forkful of the runny chow into his mouth. He lowered his voice and asked. “So, when we leavin’?”

  “Tonight.” Ward said quietly.

  “Not soon enough.” Britten said, with the foul gravy dripping off his beard.

  “Yeah, well, wipe ya beard you got food in it.” Ward watched as Britten ran his hand through his bushy beard and then licked the terrible gravy off his fingers. “Nasty, nasty. You kiss your dear Mum with that mouth?”

  “I've done a lot more ‘n that to me Mum.” Britten grinned.

  “Just shut up and fill that gob of yours so I don’t have to listen ta anymore nonsense.”

  “Evenin’ blokes.” John Mort set his food tray down on the table, then slowly eased himself down on the bench next to Ward. “How ya feelin’ Britten? That was quite a spell you had on the beach.”

  “I’m fine.” Britten shovelled some more food into his mouth, gravy dripping everywhere.

  “Good. Thought ol’ Smiley was gonna pummel the shit outta ya.”

  “Glad he didn’t.” Britten said through a mouthful of food. Ward just looked down at his tray, not really wanting to engage the other man.

  “Me too seein’ we’re almost done with that bleedin’ seawall. Tired of lugging bricks around that damn beach. My old back is killing me. I guess it beats breaking big rocks into little ones though.” Mort chuckled to himself as he dug his fork into the slop on his tray. “Hopefully this damn cold, that’s runnin’ through the prison, will pass.”

  “You don’t think it’s a curse?” Britten asked the older man. Ward winced at his partners question that was now fully engaging the dull inmate in conversation.

  “Curse?” Mort chuckled as he chewed on the rubbery biscuit. “Boy if you believe in curses you’re as daft as I always thought you were.” He grabbed up his mug of lukewarm water and washed the horrible biscuit down. Wiping his mouth with his forearm he glanced back at Britten. “No. I do not believe in curses or a curse.” He said slowly. “Apparently you knocked your head when you had that fit. Just a cold boy. No curse. Place like this, someone gets sick we all get sick.”

  “Yeah,” Britten had stopped eating for a second. “Ain’t never seen a cold like this one.”

  “It’s just a cold.” Mort sopped up the gravy with his biscuit. “What say you, Ward?”

  “Leave me out of this cock up.” He said throwing Mort a menacing look. “And let us eat in peace for fuck sake.”

  “Okay, okay.” Mort said backing off. “It was your boy that asked.”

  “He’s not my boy and I wish ya both would shut yer gobs so I can finish eatin’ this garbage. Alright?”

  “Alright.” Mort raised an open hand. “Jeez Ward, jus’ makin’ conversation.”

  “Then make it with yer mouth shut.”

  Ward took a sip of the tepid well water that filled his tin cup ignoring the hurt looks on the other men’s faces. His worries were not of some curse but of getting across that damn bay at night. Well, if Mary could swim across without a hitch, so could he. Anything to escape having to share another meal with this human garbage can Britten and that idiot John Mort.

  BLOOD DRAW

  Doctor Stevenson dangled a raw piece of meat in front of Gimli’s open and twisted mouth. The possessed guard hungrily snapped his broken and yellowed teeth at the animal flesh that the other man held just inches above his face. Gimli’s white, bleeding and unfocused eyes seemed to seek out the meat that Doctor Stevenson nervously held out above him. Growling, black spittle flew from the guard’s dry, chapped lips. The thing that had once been the Gaoler Carson, lay on another table a few feet away from Gimli, gnashing its ragged teeth in the air and wildly pulling at its restraints. Sarah, on the other hand, still lay comatose on a third table. Pierre, one of Stevenson’s orderlies, anxiously watched all this from several yards away. In fact, the man stood as close to the infirmary door as he could. This whole thing scared the hell out of him.

  “Ah,” Stevenson dropped the mutton into a wooden bowl on the small work table next to him and wiped his hands on his dirty work coat. The Gimli thing let out a chilling, blood curdling scream and tried to reach for the Doctor and the bowl of mutton. Stevenson wagged a finger at him, then pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket. The Doctor quickly scribbled some notes into it with a tiny pencil.

  “Doctor?” The orderly swallowed and took a timid step forward. “What is wrong with them?”

  “Well,” Stevenson smiled and turned to his subordinate ignoring the two growling men on the tables. “Pierre, you have heard of rabies, yes?” The orderly quickly nodded in agreement. “Well, I believe these three have been infected by a bat, or dog, or maybe even a rat.”

  “Rabies?” Pierre stepped closer to the Doctor. “I knew a guy back in Marseilles that had rabies. He was crazy like they are but he didn’t have the blisters or the lesions like these do.”

  “Very odd.” Stevenson returned his attention to the struggling on the tables. “I need to draw some blood from them. Can you help me and hold their arms down?”

  “Y-yes.” Pierre said, moving in closer. The Frenchman could see Gimli savagely turning his head back and forth, teeth snapping, black spittle flying.

  “It’s fine, Pierre.” Stevenson said calmly, as he rested a hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder. The orderly jumped a little at the Doctor’s touch. The older Stevenson just smiled a genuine, warm smile and reassured the man. “Just hold his forearm, I will do the rest.”

  “Yes Doctor.” Pierre found himself nodding mechanically. The Frenchman had once been a promising medical student back at home. To supplement his meagre income and afford to attend the Royal academy in Paris, he had turned to grave robbing. Selling corpses to the attending surgeons. He was eventually caught by the gendarmes and locked up receiving the death penalty. A fortuitous jail break by another criminal had led to his escaping the executioner and starting a new life on Cockatoo Island. The hardest thing about fleeing France was leaving behind his fiancée, Lisette. He dreamt of her soft skin every night. Pierre wasn’t even his real name. Some crewman on the boat he’d stowed away in just called him ‘Pierre’ because of his French accent. His real name was Armand Duvernay. Lord how he wished to be called that again.

  “Are we good, Pierre?” Stevenson grabbed the big needle off the crowded work bench and stepped over to the right side of the table where Gimli was restrained. The orderly nodded at the disdain in Stevenson’s voice. If only the Englishman really knew who he was then he’d get the respect he deserved.

  The Doctor had once been a noted surgeon himself, Oxford educated with a healthy practice in Wales, but his penchant for experimenting and doing other things to his patients had not ended well. Stevenson had been forced to leave his practice and flee across the ocean to Australia where he reinvented himself as Cockatoo Island's chief medical officer. He even changed his name from James Wallace to Robert Stevenson. Here, no one complained about his odd techniques or practices. Stevenson had often wondered why he hadn’t thought about working in penal colonies in the first place. Both men had dark secrets and were running from their past and yet neither had a clue about the other.

  “Hold him still.” Stevenson told the orderly as he readied the old and well used syringe. As the Doctor jabbed the needle into Gimli’s flexed forearm, the crazed man screamed and, in a rage, ripped his arm free from the restraint. Stevenson jumped back but Pierre was not so lucky. The crazed Gimli grabbed the orderly by the jacket and jerked him down toward his face. Pierre screamed and futilely tried to pull himself free from the guard's grip. With the supernatural strength the infection had now given him, Gimli easily yanked the man well in reach of his yellowed, gnashing teeth. The ravenous guard quickly closed his jagged jaws around Pierre’s neck and ripped out a big chunk of flesh, strands of skin hung from his throat. Hot, arterial blood sprayed across Giml
i’s face as he hungrily went in for another piece of the orderlies devastated neck. Pierres’ screams were now just muffled blubbering whimpers.

  “No!” Stevenson shouted in disbelief as he staggered backwards from the nightmare that was playing out in front of him. Gimli, still chewing on the orderly’s flesh, dropped the bloody and dying man to the floor. Sitting up, the crimson soaked guard tore his other restraint free from the table mount then quickly jerked his head in the Doctor’s direction. Gimli’s dead, milky white eyes were now focused and craving his flesh. The former guards’ jaws hungrily snapped up and down, strings of Pierre’s flesh were stuck in his nasty teeth. With a thin squeak, Stevenson backed away hoping to make it to the door before he was noticed.

  “No!” Stevenson screamed again. This time it wasn’t purely from fright, this time it was because he’d backed into where Carson was restrained and the rage filled man had grabbed his leg. As the doctor tried to free himself from the man’s grip, Gimli leapt off his table and smashed into the Doctor, knocking him to the floor. The crazed guard had stumbled into the table knocking it over and catching himself up in the legs. This gave Stevenson a few needed seconds to try and crawl away from the slobbering and growling Gimli.

  “Help!” Stevenson shouted, almost out of breath as he quickly pulled himself across the dirty infirmary floor. “Help me!”

  As he tried to get to his knees, he could hear the feral Gimli behind him trying to free himself from the table legs. Stevenson, in sheer desperation, jumped to his feet. He wasn’t going to die on this shit filled Island. The panicked Doctor turned for the door and almost slammed into the orderly.

  “Pierre? Thank God!”

  That was when he noticed the man had the same milky white, dead eyes as the others, plus most of his neck was still missing and he was no longer bleeding. Pierre reached a shaky hand toward the Doctor causing him to back away. That was when Stevenson heard the familiar growl and felt the cold hands on his shoulder.

  “No!!” Stevenson screamed, as Gimli pulled him backwards to the floor. Crashing hard on the floor, Stevenson lost his breath for a second.

  Like the mad man he was, Gimli ripped and tore at the flailing Stevenson. The Doctor kicked and punched at his attacker as he tried to get to his feet and escape. Stevenson knew it was too late when he felt Carson’s cold, dead hands on his arm. The guard had been in a feeding frenzy that had been precipitated by Gimli’s actions and had also broken free of his restraints. As Gimli voraciously sunk his teeth into the back of Stevenson’s neck all he could think was; this had been payback for all the pain he’d so callously inflicted on others. The Doctor screamed as Carson bit through his lab jacket and crushed down hard on his forearm. The dead guard tore back and forth until he got a sizable chunk of skin. Stevenson let out a hopeless gurgle, then collapsed back to the floor taking Gimli with him.

  Carson stumbled off, content with the flesh he had savagely torn from the Doctors arm. The dead Pierre crawled over to where Stevenson lay clinging to life and buried his teeth into the man’s meaty thigh.

  “P-pierre!” Stevenson spat out some blood as he tried to weakly bat away Gimli, who was still chewing on the back of his neck. “P…” The French man glanced up at the dying Doctor. His mouth was covered in fresh blood and strips of fabric, and Stevenson’s flesh dangled from Pierre’s teeth. The Doctor thought for a quick moment that the orderly had understood him but he was just another of the hungry undead. As blood spurted down his neck and the horrendous pain that followed dragged him down into the finality of darkness all Stevenson could think of is that he had so much more to learn and life wasn’t fair.

  WASTE O’ HIS PAPPY’S JUICE

  ‘’Toothache.” Dobbs frowned as he looked from the Captain of the guards, to the convict that stood before him. The paunchy guard scratched his head, annoyed at being asked at this time of the evening to escort the inmate to the infirmary. “Captain.” Dobbs pleaded.

  “I know it’s late Dobbs.” Riggs said, as he crossed his thin forearms. “The Doc won’t pull it until the mornin’ if we don’t get this waste o’ his Pappy’s juice in before he leaves. You don’t want him pissin’ and moanin’ all night, do you?”

  “No. They whine enough without somethin’ hurtin’ them.”

  “Waste of me Pappy’s juice?” The convict McSmithee frowned.

  “Yeah.” The skinny Captain smirked. “You ever done anythin’ to make your Pappy proud?”

  “No.” McSmithee said quietly, as he realised the Captain had a point.

  “See,” Riggs nodded, “waste o’ juice.”

  “And why we gotta take him now?” Dobbs asked, picking his nose then studiously examining the treasure he’d found.

  “Like I said, you want to deal with his bawlin’ all night?”

  “No.”

  “Then wipe that fookin’ booger off ya fingah and get him to the infirmary ‘fore the Doc leaves.” Captain Riggs let out a great hacking cough as he turned back toward his office. “Check back in when yer done.”

  “You okay Cap’n?”

  “Catchin’ a cold that one of my kids brought home.” Riggs nodded. “Get his ass over to the infirmary right now so we ain’t payin’ any over time.”

  “Aye Cap’n.” Dobbs said with a hint of sarcasm. The acne scarred guard really wished he had called off sick like so many of the others. Last thing he wanted to do was pay a visit to where Gimli, Carson and that crazy woman were being kept. He wasn’t superstitious but the rumours had gotten pretty bad recently.

  “C’mon.” Dobbs said, as he wiped his finger on his trouser leg and grabbed the shackled inmate by the arm. “Walk fast ‘cause I don’t want to be out any longer than need be.”

  “Aye.” McSmithee said as he moved alongside the guard. Lanterns threw a dim light across the outer walkway as the two made their way toward the infirmary. The late evening was still warm and Dobbs thought it odd since he found himself shivering a little as they grew closer to the medical building.

  “Hold here.” Dobbs said as he approached the big wooden door. The clanking of McSmithee’s wrist shackles ceased as he stopped a few feet from the entrance way.

  “You think there is a curse?” the inmate asked the gruff gaoler. Dobbs just gave him a ‘piss off’ look and rapped loudly on the wooden door. The guard waited for an answer but there was none although he could hear movement inside the infirmary. “I don’t believe in curses, McSmithee. Except maybe the one that keeps bringing you back to Her Majesty’s system.”

  “That is really funny.” The inmate smirked, rubbing his chin with his shackled hands.

  “Shut it.” Dobbs grumbled as he gave the door another rap. Still no answer.

  “I guess no one is home?” McSmithee weakly smiled.

  “Anyone ever pop ya for runnin’ yer mouth?” Dobbs asked annoyed.

  “Just me Dad every bleedin’ chance he got.”

  “Well, I guess it didn’t take.”

  “Yeah.” McSmithee nodded solemnly. “I guess it didn’t. He sure tried though.”

  Dobbs pulled on the door handle and found it unlocked. Against his better judgement, and wanting to just get this over with, he yanked the big wooden door open and ushered the inmate inside. The guard noticed a stale, foul stench coming from inside the infirmary, like something had died. Shrugging it off he continued forward. Before Dobbs could shut the door behind them, McSmithee abruptly stopped in his tracks and almost immediately started to frantically backpedal.

  “Fuck it all?” Dobbs was about to turn when he was knocked back outside by McSmithee. The inmate was quickly followed by three growling, slobbering men that were covered in blood. The guard slammed face first into the hard-packed dirt as McSmithee crashed to the ground next to him. “Bloody ‘ell mate! What’s fuckin’ wrong with ya?” Dobbs shouted, confused, annoyed and ready to tear someone’s head off after what had just happened. Suddenly two men jumped on top of the downed convict, greedily tearing and ripping at his prison uniform. Dob
bs rolled onto his side, still in a fog, as another man grabbed him by the arm and bit deeply into his fat bicep. Screaming the guard tried to wriggle away from his attacker when to his horror he realised his was being chewed on by his old partner Gimli.

  The undead guard looked up at Dobbs through milky, unfocused eyes. His skin had a whitish, grey tint to it. Strands of Dobbs flesh dangled from Gimli's jagged teeth as he swallowed the piece of fatty meat he’d ripped from the guard’s arm.

  “Fucker!” Dobbs jerked his bleeding arm out of the dead man’s grip and rolled out of his reach. The pain was white hot and immense. Grabbing his wound with his other hand he struggled to get to his feet.

  “Help… me!” McSmithee yelped as he lay flat on his back trying to push Carson and the orderly Pierre off of him with his hands still shackled together. The convict was at a great disadvantage as both men wildly snapped their jaws back and forth trying to find any of the inmates exposed flesh. McSmithee used both his hands to shove Carson’s waxy, blood-spattered face away from his neck. The zombie guard quickly closed his jagged teeth down on four of the inmate’s fingers, easily chomping them all off.