Life Goes On | Book 4 | If Not Us [Surviving The Evacuation]

by Tayell, Frank

  “But there are smaller refineries which aren’t on our charts,” Adams said. “If this group of survivors were protecting a fuel supply in a small harbour town, why didn’t they barter passage aboard any of the ships travelling through there?”

  “If it were me, I’d have taken the first ship,” Tusitala said. “Unless I had something to protect.”

  “Like a family too large to fit in something like that yacht,” Tess said.

  “I was thinking of something far bigger than that,” Tusitala said. “Why trade fuel for gold with ships that will never return? If they had so much food and ammunition they didn’t require more, why trade fuel at all? If this is such a large group, so confident in their position, they can effectively give diesel away, why didn’t that yacht stay with them? If they controlled an airport, too, wouldn’t we have seen more than one plane, and wouldn’t that plane have radioed us, selling us a pitch to come bring our gold to Mexico?”

  “I bet you have an answer,” Tess said.

  “We both do,” Adams said. “Different answers.”

  “I think they’ve got an oil platform, and a refinery,” Tusitala said.

  “There’s a refinery in Puerto Morelos?” Tess asked.

  “Not one listed on our charts,” Adams said. “One point we both agree on is that Puerto Morelos might not be precisely where that yacht bought the fuel, but a guess by that young diarist as to where they were nearest when they met these traders. I believe they had a diesel-transport vessel, and the plane we saw is looking for them. The commander believes that plane is looking for land.”

  “Farmland,” Tusitala said. “That’s what they’ll want now. Farmland within sailing distance of the refinery.”

  “Oil platforms in the Indian Ocean were targets for pirates even before the first bomb fell,” Adams said. “It’s less likely they will have survived here. It is unbelievable that the roughnecks, on reaching the mainland, would not have gone looking for their families.”

  “They came back,” Tusitala said. “Or the traders are the workers from the refinery whose families live nearby.”

  “A ship, or a refinery?” Tess asked. “Why not both? Diesel is valuable. Too valuable to swap for shiny yellow rocks. But you don’t want people coming to your refinery, so you use a tanker-ship as a decoy. The traders would want information, wouldn’t they? I would, if I were there with my family. Information on where to look for farmland, and where had been bombed or overrun. That’s what they were really trading diesel for. Information on where the yacht, and other ships, had been, what they’d seen. Where not to go. Where does this leave us? Are we looking for the plane, or the refinery, or the ship?”

  “All three,” Adams said. “Though first we need aviation fuel. However, we only have three days to search. Taking into account the speed differential between our ship and his yacht, if we don’t turn south in seventy-two hours, Captain Kane will depart Dégrad des Cannes before we arrive. In which case, his orders are to sail for Robben Island. But if we arrive before he departs, and if we can provision him, he can sail south down to the Cape. As much as we need a fuel transport vessel, or a refinery and oilrig, we’re more likely to find survivors deeper into the Southern Hemisphere. From home, we’ll find it easier to mount a rescue of any groups in Argentina. It is even possible, if they’ve survived this long, we could find a sustainable enclave we can resupply. First, we’ll need aviation fuel for the helicopter, and provisions for us and Captain Kane. We’ll look on Corn Island.”

  “Is it a large island?” Tess asked.

  “Barely bigger than the runway,” Adams said. She tapped at the screen, and brought up the digital chart. “The largest of the two islands is about ten square kilometres, and has one runway. It’s another tourist hub, and about seventy kilometres from the Nicaraguan mainland, well within sailing range.”

  “Well within fly-and-crash range for an infected pilot,” Tusitala said.

  “True,” Adams said. “The nearest alternative candidate is San Andres, an island a hundred and fifty kilometres west, but if we change course now, we’ll never reach Puerto Morelos. I’ll set aside two hours to confirm whether there is fuel on the island, or whether it has been overrun.”

  “I’ll get my team together,” Tess said.

  Barely had she gathered her crew on deck when she was summoned back to the bridge along with Colonel Hawker.

  “Take a look at the screen,” Adams said.

  “That’s a lot of ships,” Tess said. “Is that Corn Island?”

  “We’re now within visual range of Big Corn, and under two kilometres from shore. There is one large ship docked at that pier, but around thirty boats. An even mix of working craft and pleasure yachts.”

  “No fuel tankers, though,” Tess said.

  “What kind of vessel is that larger ship?” Hawker asked. About a hundred metres in length, it had a raised bridge and large deck-crane, with a red hull and white super-structure.

  “An icebreaker,” Adams said. “They have very large fuel tanks, and the capability to refuel other vessels at sea.”

  “She’s a bit lost for us to find her here,” Hawker said.

  “Now take a look at this,” Adams said. She brought up a different image.

  “That bloke’s fishing,” Hawker said.

  A man sat at the end of a long pier, amid the shadow of the sailing ships, next to three fishing rods braced in a stand. He wore a green long-sleeved shirt, a brown, very wide-brimmed hat, and off-white slacks. Next to him were a trio of coolers. He opened one, extracted a bottle, and raised it as if towards the camera.

  “He can see us, can’t he?” Tess said.

  “Easily,” Adams said. “There are no other craft at sea. Only one person ashore. Lieutenant Renton?”

  “Nothing on any radio frequency, Captain,” Renton said.

  “Any smoke?” Tess asked.

  “None, but they could have syphoned fuel from those boats for a generator,” Adams said. “Or he could be sleeping aboard his boat.”

  “Let’s go say hello,” Tess said.

  “No, hang on,” Hawker said.

  “What is it?” Tess asked.

  “This is the most normal thing I’ve seen in two months,” Hawker said. “I don’t like it. Take a small team. Not the scientists. Nicko and I’ll be in the helicopter. If there’s trouble, we can rope down. Do we have enough fuel?”

  “For a rescue, certainly,” Adams said.

  “What’s the signal?” Tess asked.

  “You’ll draw a gun,” Hawker said.

  “Mr Mackay, take the commissioner ashore,” Adams said. “Commander Tusitala, prep the helicopter.”

  Chapter 42 - Catching a Shark

  Corn Island, Nicaragua

  “Where are the crew for those boats?” Clyde asked as their own small boat skimmed the waves, approaching the fisher, who was still enjoying his beer at the end of the pier.

  “Want to place a bet on where they all went?” Zach asked.

  “Not here, not now,” Clyde said. “Keep focused.”

  “Back at Robben Island, the boats’ crews got themselves infected,” Glenn Mackay called out as he slowed the boat’s speed to half. “Here, one person survived. A lone angler with a sea to himself. Looks like paradise.”

  Tess looked for signs of other survivors, but there were too many places for them to hide. Over thirty boats, and the giant ship, were tied up at the single long concrete pier. To east and west, a few wrecks dotted the orange-sand beach, but again, they were small yachts. Behind those, nestled amid a forest of palm trees, were waterfront buildings that could be houses, or bars, but they all had sea-facing decks. Those decks were as empty as the boats. Other than at the end of the pier, the only life was among the trees. From a cluster of palms at the pier’s end, an iridescent blue flock took wing, merging with the near cloudless sky as they flew north.

  “Oh, yes, paradise,” Mackay said. “If only it were closer to home.”

  “There could
be zoms inland,” Tess said.

  “Paradise lost,” Clyde said. “If it were me, I’d camp out in the icebreaker. A ship designed for long missions in the Antarctic would have the most comfort.”

  “But maybe not air conditioning,” Zach said. “So I’d go for that two-master with the mermaid painted on the bow.”

  “It was a warning, not a guess,” Clyde said. “Watch that icebreaker for snipers.”

  Tess watched the trees, looking for more birds taking flight, until she caught movement, far closer. Ten metres from the pier, the angler put down his bottle and raised his hand, but only briefly, before returning it to his reel.

  Mackay had brought them in obliquely, away from the man’s fishing line, and to an empty mooring space on the western end of the long pier. Their boat bumped against the rubber tyres slung against the pier’s side. Zach grabbed a rope, while Clyde grabbed the ladder, throwing himself up to the quayside before the boat was secured.

  “We’re police, we’re friendly,” Tess said, as she followed Clyde ashore.

  The angler, some ten metres away, still hadn’t taken his attention from his rods.

  “G’day,” Tess said. “Kia ora.”

  And one of those, or both together, seemed to do the trick. The man stood, turned, removed his hat, raising it in front of his face, blocking out more of the sun.

  “Hola,” he said. “You’re police?”

  The word was stencilled on their body-armour, though they wore naval fatigues beneath, and were each carrying a rifle as well as the usual armoury of weapons at their belts.

  “Commissioner Tess Qwong,” she said. “Australian Federal Police. We’re here under a mandate from the United Nations, the African Union, and the Pacific Alliance, looking for survivors.”

  “The United Nations. Ha! A zombie organisation in a zombie world.” He laughed. “Call me Mikael,” he said.

  Hearing his name, she pinned down his accent. It wasn’t South American or Spanish, but something Slavic. What she could see of his chest beneath his half-open shirt was tanned to a crisp. But the top of his bald head was pale, his eyes were sapphire-blue, and the tattoo on his left forearm consisted of nine characters written in Cyrillic. About sixty, a facelift had tried to subtract a few decades, but the equatorial sun had only added them back on. Except for a long knife strapped to his lower leg, he wasn’t visibly armed, nor were there any obvious firearms next to the chair or coolers.

  “Good to meet you, Mikael,” Tess said. “Are there many survivors here?”

  “There are few anywhere,” he replied. A frantic ringing erupted from a bell attached to the middle of his fishing rod. “Ah, lunch!” he said, grabbing the rod. “You, boy, you can help.”

  “M’name’s Zach.”

  “You have two hands? Make them useful,” Mikael said. “Here. Here. Hold!” As Zach held on, Mikael began working the reel.

  With the year they’d been having, Tess was ninety percent certain a zom was on the other end of the line, but until it was hauled up, or the line broke, there’d be no more conversation from the angler. She looked north, instead, up the pier, and towards land. Palm trees dominated the view, but only partially obscured a cluster of buildings at the pier’s end. A blue pick-up truck had been driven onto the jetty, and must belong to Mikael. There was no one else by the vehicle, nor were there any gates or barricades at the end of the pier. That the vehicle had been driven onto the pier suggested the angler didn’t call any of the shore-side buildings his home. To the east of the pier were a cluster of concrete service buildings for the small cruise ships, tourist boats, and fishing hires that generated the islanders’ income. The large timber-and-plank one-storey on the western side of the pier was a bar-restaurant with a wrap-around sundeck jutting out and above the beach.

  “Ah-ha!” Mikael yelled. “Hold! Pull! Lunch!”

  Tess turned around to see a metre-long shark flapping at the end of the wire-line.

  “Over the pier! Over the pier!” Mikael said, grabbing the rod and turning it so the giant fish was over the jetty. Droplets of seawater splattered as the aquatic monster flapped and thrashed. Mikael dropped, his knee slamming onto the shark’s belly as he dragged the knife from his ankle-sheath. One stab, and one last thrash of the tail, and the shark was still.

  “A reef shark,” Mikael said. “But it is young, like you, boy. Have you eaten shark? You shall, and then you shall be a man! You came here to arrest the zombies?”

  “To look for survivors,” Tess said, watching the blood pulse from the shark, pool in the gutter, and drip over the side of the quay.

  “How many have you found?” Mikael asked as he crossed to his two iceboxes. He picked up a towel, wiping his knife clean, and then his hands.

  “You’re the first in South America,” Tess said.

  “I did wonder,” he said. “We all did.”

  “There are more of you here?” Tess asked.

  “I wouldn’t need three rods if it was only me,” he said, waving a hand at the boats.

  “Are there zombies on the island?” Tess asked.

  “Not anymore,” Mikael said. “But there aren’t many of us, either.”

  “Do you know what happened in the north? To the mainland?” Tess asked,

  “Nothing good,” Mikael said. “But it will take time to tell you what we know, so we will talk over lunch. We will share food and learn we are all friends. Do you want to radio your ship? Hmm.” He looked down at his two coolers. “Boy, help,” he said, wheeling the larger of the two coolers over to the still-bleeding shark.

  Balancing the shark on the cooler, and with Zach pushing on one side, he began wheeling his catch towards the shore, leaving a blood trail behind.

  “Glenn, use the radio on the boat. Call the captain,” Tess said.

  “Aye-aye, ma’am,” Glenn said.

  Clyde took his hand from the radio on his vest, and placed it on his gun.

  “How many are you?” Tess asked.

  “Fifty of us, now,” Mikael said. “Some died. Some left. So it goes. You came from the south? You say there is no one there?”

  “Not that we found,” Tess said. “But we found nuclear craters in Brazil.”

  “Ah. I thought of going south, but my travelling days are done.”

  “You retired here?” Tess asked. Her ears pricked. An engine approached, and from inland.

  “I retired to Miami,” Mikael said. “Years ago, for my health.”

  “What was Florida like?” Tess asked.

  “Beautiful. Once. But everywhere changes,” he said. “Ah. Hernando is here! Good. Leave the shark, boy. Hernando will carry it.”

  It was obvious he was talking about the truck that had appeared from among the trees. It had approached from the north and parked at the end of the pier on a square of weather-beaten asphalt that was as much a car park for the bar-restaurant as for the pier.

  Three people jumped out of the truck. Two men, one woman. All mid-twenties, athletic and lean, wearing bright shirts and pastel slacks, but carrying submachine guns as well as holstered pistols and sheathed knives. But it wasn’t the weapons which rang a warning bell.

  “Hernando! Come. Get our lunch!” Mikael called, raising a hand, waving to the trio.

  “Who are you?” one of the men replied, and he wasn’t addressing Mikael. His accent was Spanish-American. A cream-coloured straw hat shadowed most of his face, but beneath was a fussily neat goatee trimmed so as to accentuate his cheekbones. Seeing his companion’s crumpled trousers and shirt better emphasised that Hernando’s were pressed as, indeed, were Mikael’s. Pressed, but not a good fit. Hernando’s short sleeves were a centimetre too long, and an inch too baggy. His beard was so precise it hadn’t just been shaved but plucked. His reptile-skin belt, holster, and long belt-sheath matched his boots.

  “Telstra Tower,” Clyde said, his voice low.

  “The Canberra bunker,” Tess replied, and then raised her voice. “We’re from Canberra.”

  “They
are Australian police,” Mikael said. He’d stopped now, halfway along the pier, level with the anchored icebreaker.

  Tess looked up. She could see no one up on the icebreaker’s deck. She looked back at Hernando, and knew exactly where she’d seen him before. The clothes were pressed, but that just required electricity. Laundry required water as well. No, these clothes had been looted. Salvaged. But not the reptile-skin boots. Not the belt and holster. No, those were his pride and joy. He’d wear them everywhere. He’d worn them in Colombia in front of that video camera. Weeks ago, when he’d wielded that knife. Yes, she recognised him, but so did Zach.

  “You’re the torturer!” Zach said.

  Tess’s hand dropped to her holster. Mikael raised his knee, drawing his knife. The gun’s grip was oddly warm in her hand as Tess dragged her weapon up. Mikael grabbed Zach’s wrist with his left hand, twisting his arm up behind his back while his right hand brought his knife to the young man’s throat before Tess had a bead on his forehead. It took less than a second. Clyde had his carbine raised, and each of the two goons had their own weapons levelled. Not Hernando, though. He’d not moved at all.

  “No!” Mikael called. “This is not polite. You police are disinvited to lunch. Leave your weapons. Get on your boat. Go. Or I throw the boy into the water. Lots of sharks there now.”

  “It’s okay, Zach,” Tess said, keeping her weapon aimed just above Zach’s ear. She almost had a line on Mikael’s forehead. “Let Zach go and we’ll leave, too,” she said.

  “No dispares,” Hernando said. His two guards lowered their weapons. “No shooting. Let him go, Mikael. Let them leave.”

  And that was most worrying of all.

  She let her gun drop a fraction. “Clyde, we’re leaving.”

  “I’ve a question,” Zach said.

  “Later, Zach,” Tess said.

  “Nah, it’s important,” Zach said. “What do sharks and police have in common?” he asked, and slammed his head back and into Mikael’s face while stamping his heel down on the old man’s foot. From her left came a triple rat-a-tat-tat as Clyde opened fire. Zach’s free hand grabbed for Mikael’s knife hand as the young man attempted one of the break-and-throw moves Nicko had taught him during the voyage. But Zach didn’t have the timing that only came with experience. Tess did. Even as Mikael leaned back, she fired, once, her bullet clipping the man’s skull, spraying blood against the icebreaker’s hull.