by Gary McMahon
Then Daryl slipped. His feet got tangled up in a thick rope line, and he teetered backwards, grabbing the dead woman’s forearms. He dragged her down with him, trying to turn so that she did not fall on top of him and pin him down. Timbers creaked; water lapped; the woman hissed again.
He saw the anchor as he fell, and acting quickly he somehow managed to twist so that the woman fell towards it. He pushed out, forcing her to the side, and was relieved when he felt her body shudder as it made contact with the metal anchor.
The top of the anchor pushed out of the centre of her chest, forcing apart ribs and sending a rush of stagnant water gurgling out of the wound. The stink was horrendous: dead fish, decayed matter.
The woman was pinned like a butterfly in an exhibit. She struggled madly, arms and legs pounding against the wooden jetty, but was held fast by the anchor.
Daryl got to his feet and shambled over to her, keeping his distance. Her blind eyes turned upon him, and for a moment he was convinced that she could smell him – live meat.
He grabbed a boathook from a stand and held it poised above her. Then he brought the end of the hook down and drove it through her skull, just above the brow. The top of her head peeled back like an opened can, the skull cap splashing into the water below. Small crustaceans and silvery fish wriggled out of her head, the drowned remains of her brain following them down into the grubby waves lapping at the jetty supports.
He heard running footsteps, and when he glanced behind him he saw more dead people moving towards him. There were four of them, with a further group running up the beach to join the fun. Those closing in on him were in better condition that the woman he had despatched, but still they were repulsive. Missing limbs. Black, rotten flesh. Holes where faces should be.
Daryl turned away and jogged towards the nearest boat.
He moderated his breathing and controlled his heart rate; he felt like an athlete, in supreme control of his body and able to bend his physicality to his will. In the past a manoeuvre like the one he’d used on the dead woman – twisting and turning to slam her onto the anchor – would have been utterly beyond him, but now it was like second nature. A paradigm shift had occurred; Daryl had finally become. But what was it he had turned into? What exactly had hatched from the shell of his old life?
Finding out would be such fun...
THE OLD DARYL would never have dreamed of even attempting to sail a craft, but the new Daryl carried it off with ease. Granted, it was a basic vessel, with only a small outboard motor to power it, but his body adjusted to the demands of the boat with an alarming speed. Daryl had the feel of the craft, became attuned to its gait in the water, within the first few moments of it cutting through the waves.
The dead stood at the edge of the jetty, bellowing as he left them behind. One of them dived into the water but did not resurface. He remembered a probably spurious statement he’d once read that stated dead things would not immediately float when dropped into fluid; instead they sank, their trapped internal gases dragging them to the bottom until they rose only much later.
He headed for the islands, which he could just about see in the rising gloom. They stood proud against the sky – a large group of dark silhouettes, their angles and edges sharp and inhospitable. They seemed huge. Daryl knew that each was actually a small limestone crag jutting like broken teeth out of the grey North Sea.
Daylight was now shuffling onto the scene, and within thirty minutes he expected to be able to see the ring of islands in all their glory. He could already make out the slashes of dark birds as they flew around the rocks, and the sound of their cries was carried to him across the surface of the water. Watching them, he could almost believe that nothing external had changed, that the only transformation was his and the rest of the world carried on as usual.
He guided the craft towards the group of islands, being careful not to fall foul of hidden rocks beneath the choppy waters. Soon he could make out the white shit-coated outcroppings, the many tiny hides dotted along the humped backs of the islands, and the occasional stone ruin, wooden shack or simple dwelling. He knew from the school trip that scientists conducted studies of the indigenous flora and fauna, and kept records of the birds, but was unsure if they actually stayed overnight on the islands or lived on shore and travelled out on the morning tide.
The sign back at the jetty had said something about Inner Farne – the central island of the group – having a lighthouse, a historic ruined chapel and some kind of visitor centre. There had been no mention of proper accommodation, but he would have bet that there was some kind of National Trust presence based on at least one of the more hospitable islands – a couple of wardens who passed their time diving and fishing.
Some of the islets apparently hid underwater at high tide; others were simply inaccessible, or so it looked. A red and white candy striped lighthouse caught his eye; stone dwellings perched on precarious ledges; the islands seemed to shift as he approached them, as if moving away from his gaze.
Daryl was just beginning to worry which island Nutman might be headed for when he saw the sign. Splashed across a thrusting pinnacle of rock face in bright red paint was a single word:
SANCTUARY.
He knew that it meant more than the birds and the rare grey seals; this was an invitation, a message to inform all-comers that here was safety, and perhaps even answers to all the questions of the past few days. There were people here and they were trying to put things right, perhaps even seeking a cure to whatever had caused the mass reanimation of the dead. Maybe they had already found it.
Daryl would take great pleasure in destroying it all, burning it to the ground and pissing on the smouldering ashes.
He slowly turned the boat – amazed at his own rapidly developing skills – and brought the craft into a natural bay carved out of the bald rock face. The boat drifted in when he cut the engine, aiming straight for the area where the land fell to provide a low platform ideal for disembarking from a small craft.
A small flag fluttered in the breeze. It was attached to a pole wedged into the rock face.
The faded words printed on the tattered flag proclaimed: Staple Island, Outer Farne. Population Zero.
If it was some kind of joke, the humour was lost on Daryl.
Far above him, perched on the topmost edge of one of the frightening stacks of rock, he could see a ramshackle single-storey prefabricated hut. Its windows were boarded, but there were lights fixed under the eaves. Some of the lights – those which had not been shattered – were on; they bled sickly illumination down across the crap-stained crags to light his way to the heights.
The words on the flag must be lies.
It was almost as if he were expected.
“Somebody up there likes me,” said Daryl, staring up at the sky, at the struggling sun and the threatening clouds. He imaged that he saw faces up there: long, gaunt, undead faces; leering grins and laughing mouths. They spoke to him, those hungry mouths, but he was unable to hear what they were saying... or perhaps they were simply chewing, consuming the lost souls from the sky, the ones that never quite made it to Mother’s picture-book heaven.
The boat edged into shore and Daryl threw a line at the platform. He climbed from the boat and tied it up, making sure that it was unable to drift away, even if the wind got up and stormy weather tugged at it. He thought that he might stay here for a while, but he also wanted the option of escape. The new Daryl always had a back-up, a Plan B to utilise if everything else went wrong.
He trudged across the rocky ground, moving ever upwards, dodging wide slits and gullies as he climbed towards the bare, grassy plateau above.
Birds wheeled overhead but kept their distance. Even they knew not to annoy him. In his new incarnation, Daryl felt sure that if he wished he could simply pluck them from the sky and break them like so many miniature versions of Icarus having flown too close to his blazing radiance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
RICK WATCHED THE dead as they moved
through the town, brushing up against the quaint stone buildings and bumping into each other as they paraded along the narrow cobbled streets. Sea Houses was the type of place tourists loved, sitting in a pretty bay and packed with B&B establishments and bric-a-brac shops. The dead looked incongruous against its quaint backdrop, like a turd in a flower bed.
Rick stared along the sight of the M16, wondering how the hell he was going to get a shell-shocked young girl and his dead morphine-addled wife to the sea front and into a boat without being brought down and torn apart. It was a conundrum he didn’t really want to think about.
He let off a shot and a head exploded; another shot and a thin, pale face turned into a large red flower, blossoming quickly over a bone-white skull.
Picking off a number of walking corpses, he weighed up the odds.
The only plan that seemed like it might work was the most direct: he would simply drive through the bastards, mowing down however many stepped into his path. The jeep was long and low and compact, but it was a heavy vehicle with a big engine. As long as he kept his nerve, he could carve a path through the dead and make it to the bay ahead of them. They were like cows; not very bright, and one tended to blindly follow the other.
He was currently lying on the roof of the jeep, and when he stood he felt faint for a moment. The roof creaked beneath him, his boots dimpling the thin steel capsule. His head swam, the visions barely kept within it.
He leapt down and opened the passenger door. Sally was sitting in the seat, a seatbelt wrapped around her torso and her hands tied in front of her with a length of rope. The morphine had run out and he was afraid that she might get frisky, so had taken the extra precaution to ensure that if she broke free of the grip of the drug she couldn’t get to him without first warning him of her intentions.
I promise I’ll be good.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sally. I can’t take that chance. If it was just you and me, things would be different. But we have Tabby to think about now. We have responsibilities as adoptive parents.”
She said nothing more.
Rick glanced at Tabby, who was lying on her side across the back seat. Her face was blank, devoid of anything approaching a readable expression; her wide eyes stared at nothing. There was no way he could manhandle these two down to a boat; his initial plan would have to suffice.
He stowed the rifle on the back seat, next to Tabby, and grabbed the Glock from the glove compartment, where he’d stashed it earlier. It was fully loaded. He was expecting a lot of resistance.
“Here we go.” He climbed behind the wheel and gunned the engine. It sounded healthy, as if Rohmer had maintained it regularly. Every car Rick had ever owned had been falling to pieces, so it was nice to drive something someone had taken real care of – their pride and joy, something they appreciated. It was also a pity that he would have to wreck it by driving into dead people.
He pressed the accelerator, and then let out the clutch. The jeep darted forward, and Rick steered it along the picture-postcard streets of the small town, feeling not for the first time like this was all some weird dream, a surreal sleep episode from which he might soon awake.
He hit the first column sooner than he’d expected: a small group of them came stumbling around a corner and headed directly into the road.
The loose-limbed bodies made loud noises of impact; their dead weight slamming against the front bumper and bonnet caused shock waves to course along the length of the vehicle, which were then absorbed into the well-designed bodywork.
A woman stood and watched his rapid approach, her mouth hanging open in a perfect circle, eyes peering, hands grasping at empty air... her head left a red smudge as it slammed into the windscreen and her body skidded cleanly across the bonnet and into the gutter. He felt the bumpy motion of the rear wheels rolling over her flailing limbs.
Rick began to pretend that it was all an elaborate video game, a major new prototype he’d been asked to test. If he thought of it this way, he could almost have fun. The very fact that he did so reinforced his sense of losing his grip on reality. His mind had broken long ago, and the remnants of his sanity were now being blown away like dust in the wind.
“Fuckers.” He spoke harshly, through gritted teeth. Another body rolled beneath the jeep, causing him to tighten his grip on the steering wheel as the vehicle lurched sideways.
Calm down, honey. Nearly there.
He resisted the urge to turn and gaze at Sally. She did not look at her best: the bandages had come loose near the bottom of her face, exposing a part of her chin. He caught movement out of his peripheral vision, and swallowed hard. The drug was wearing off now; she was flexing her dead muscles and limbering up to execute a sequence of stiff, awkward movements which might just culminate in her attacking him as he steered the jeep.
He had to get her on a boat quickly, if only to ensure that he could properly restrain her.
Tabby stirred on the back seat, mumbling something under her breath. It sounded like she said the word “love,” but he couldn’t be sure.
The rear wheels slid away from him as he turned sharply, the jeep drifting round to face the dead. More of them had now emerged from shop doorways, the broken windows of terraced houses, overgrown gardens and upturned trash containers outside deserted fish and chip shops. Some of them ran, others shuffled, and yet more half-jogged-half-fell in a pathetic facsimile of movement as they chased the car towards the sea.
He felt like a sardine in a can.
Rick pressed his foot down on the brake and fought to control the skid. Finally the vehicle stopped, and he wasted no time in jumping out, opening all the doors, and grabbing his bag and the M16 from the back seat. He already had his eye on a boat, and prayed to the God he now curiously believed in that it was fuelled and ready to go. He ran towards the small vessel, bent down and untied it from its moorings. It was a white schooner – tiny but with plenty of room on deck and a small hold – and Rick believed that he knew enough to at least sail it out to sea. After that, he would simply put his trust in God... and in love, true love, which had already guided him here.
He ran back to the jeep and lifted Tabby from the back seat. She was limp and unresisting, almost like a corpse herself. He slung her over a shoulder, alarmed by how light she was, and then released the seatbelt from around Sally. He grabbed hold of her arm and dragged her unceremoniously from the seat, not caring when she fell to the ground. She was dead anyway; further injury mattered not one bit.
He made his way to the boat, a young girl over one shoulder and hauling his dead wife along the ground like a caveman with his mate.
He threw Sally onto the deck of the boat, wincing only slightly at the loud, loose sound she made as she fell. Tabby he lowered gently, taking care not to hurt her.
He took one final glance at the pursuing dead, and then leapt aboard, pushing the boat away from the side with his feet. He was a car’s length away from the concrete moorings before the first of the dead halted at the edge, roaring and waving their arms.
He turned away, no longer interested in them.
Sally was crumpled like an abused shop window mannequin. Tabby lay curled in a foetal position near his feet. His heart broke, just as his mind had, and he wished that there were tears left to shed. The poor girl... his surrogate daughter... she should not have to suffer this. It wasn’t fair; none of it was fair at all.
He looked around for God, and then looked within, finding the holy spirit cowering in a dark part of himself that he’d left on a distant battlefield. It was now time to let that part out of the darkness and force it into the grey light, where it could take over for a while and allow him to rest.
Rick sat at the bow and stared at the islands, frightened by their appearance. They resembled splinters of rock which had shattered and thrust out of the sea, grasping at the sky. Hundreds of sea birds circled these jagged pinnacles, soaring and landing, then taking flight again. The birds acted as if nothing was unusual. It was nature’s cycle co
ntinuing even as the earth’s dominant species surrendered to nightmare.
Rick sailed by instinct, feeling as if he were channelling Rohmer, and the old man’s restless ghost guided his hand. He threw a blanket over Tabby but let her rest. For the first time since the cottage, her eyes were closed and he thought that she might even be sleeping.
You’d have made a great dad. The best.
He closed his eyes and wished that Sally wouldn’t talk like that. It reminded him of all the things they would never do, never have. The empty years that now stretched ahead.
“I love you. But I also hate you.”
She went quiet, pondering that one. He felt bad for saying it, but he could no longer understand his emotions. It felt like his sense of humanity was dripping away, leaking from the wounds in his psyche, and the closer they got to Rohmer’s island the less human he felt.
Fingers of rock stretched upwards, piercing the grey gloom and striving toward something better. Rick guided the boat around the island, and when he saw the red-painted sign he knew instantly that it was the symbol Rohmer had intimated. “You’ll know it when you see it,” he’d said, not even certain himself how they would identify the island his ex-lover had summoned him to.
But here it was: the island. Sanctuary. The old man had been right; it wasn’t a lie or a myth. It was real, and they were here, at last.
A small wooden boat was already tied up at the makeshift landing station, a large rent in its hull; it looked like the vessel had either hit the rocks or someone had deliberately sabotaged it. Rick pulled up alongside the boat, fighting the currents so that he did not hit the rocks. Something told him he might still need the boat, and that the island might not represent the sanctuary Rohmer had claimed it to be. It was too quiet. There was no welcoming party or waiting committee. The whole place felt as dead as the cold, lifeless husks of people he’d left on the shore, raging for his flesh.
