“Dead Rage”
Nicholas Ryan
Copyright © 2014 Nicholas Ryan
The right of Nicholas Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Acknowledgements:
A fair amount of research went into writing this book.
I would like to thank Mike, Charlie and Al. These three men all have personal knowledge of the military, and have been with me, advising and guiding, since I wrote my first zombie novel, ‘Ground Zero: A Zombie Apocalypse’. They’re great guys and have been very generous with their time.
I’d also like to give a special mention to Samuel C. Garcia. Sam was a Black Hawk pilot in the US army, and his help with the intense combat sequences in this novel was invaluable.
So too was the help of Dale Simpson. Dale is retired Special Forces. His expert knowledge helped shape the combat and military facets involved in the story, giving them a wonderful sense of authenticity.
Finally I’d like to thank the skippers and crews of the long-line boats I boarded here in Australia as I was preparing the manuscript.
Part One.
Chapter 1.
Low rain clouds had turned the ocean grey as steel, so the sky and sea merged together at the horizon into a dull blur without definition.
Steve Bannon leaned against the spoked wooden wheel and peered hard through the wheelhouse windows.
‘Mandrake’ was heavy in the water, taking the rolling swells on her starboard shoulder. Bannon waited as the boat swooped down into a yawning trough between waves, and felt his knees buckle as the old timber boat clambered gamely up the rising face of the next crest.
The deck beneath his feet canted back, and he caught a sudden smudge of sky the color of old bruises through the thick glass.
Bannon opened the throttle on the big diesel engine, setting the long-liner for the next wave the way a rider gathers a horse before the jump. ‘Mandrake’ took the rise bravely, her timber frame shuddering as the snub of her bow cleaved through the swell like a blunt axe. A burst of white water detonated against the wheelhouse windows and went surging back along the open deck.
The boat was forty miles offshore. Here, unrestricted by land mass or the continental shelf, the waves sweeping in from the vast ocean were lined up before them like a procession of marching mountains.
Bannon tore his eyes away from the windows to glance down at the bank of monitors arranged on the counter in front of the wheel. He shook his head. The internet screens that showed water temperature and weather information were frozen.
They had been offline for several days.
He picked up the white phone and pressed it hard against his ear. The phone was a direct line to shore, given a range of over fifty miles through an antenna and booster box mounted high in the rigging above the boat’s flying bridge. Even in poor weather, there should have been a dial tone. The phone was used to contact fishmongers and local restaurants as the boat steamed back into harbor with its brine tanks filled with giant tuna, allowing the catch to be sold even before the tons of glittering silver fish were unloaded and packed in ice.
The line was dead.
Bannon dropped the phone back into its cradle, then spun the wheel hard so that ‘Mandrake’ met the next foaming, bursting wave, and the whole boat shook and groaned as though hit by a mortal blow. Bannon cursed bitterly under his breath.
They had been at sea for thirteen days, steaming well off the east coast, following the warm currents of water with every inch of the boat’s twenty miles of long-line dragging behind her. The catch had been spectacular; it was shaping up to be the best season in almost a decade, and Bannon was reluctant to turn for home when the holds were heavy with fish, and the days ahead promised even more.
But fear gnawed at his guts.
An instinct. A feeling: a sense that something was wrong, swirling in the air like smoke. It was a feeling that was impossible to catch and hold up to cold logic or reason.
But it wouldn’t go away, and Bannon could ignore it no longer.
He turned to the three men jammed into the worn vinyl seats around the saloon table.
“We’re heading home,” Bannon announced to the crew.
For a long moment no one spoke. The sea smashed against the old boat’s hull, and the wind howled through the rigging. Bannon watched the men’s faces. They were all younger than him, still filled with the energy of their youth and an enthusiasm that Bannon only remembered.
He was thirty eight, and after twenty years at sea – eight as a long-line deckhand and another dozen as the ‘Mandrake’s’ skipper – he no longer felt the thrill of the hunt, or the rush of adventure that had once tingled in his veins each time the boat had steamed out through the open arms of Grey Stone harbor’s rocky break walls.
Bannon stared hard at the men. His eyes were calm, and intelligent, set within a fine web of wrinkles, and his face was tanned the color of leather. He was broad across the shoulders, his frame lean and honed by the work of a fisherman’s life, and his curly hair had been gilded by endless days under the harsh sun.
“We’ve got eight tons of fish – it’s a hell of a catch,” Bannon said with finality. “It’s enough.”
John Sully cocked an eyebrow. He was a rugged, muscular man with dark malevolent eyes and a shaved head. “Enough? Man, we get a lousy eight percent of the take,” he said, and he turned to include the two other young crewmen on either side of him. “The more fish we haul up, the more money we make. If we turn for home now, you’re costing us thousands.” His tone was bitter and accusing.
Bannon rubbed his chin. He hadn’t shaved in days, and the bristled shadow on his jaw crackled under the press of his fingers.
“I know that,” Bannon said. “And it costs me money too, Sully. But we’ve been out of contact from the shore for two days. No phone, and no internet. We can’t fish the warm current if the charts don’t update. All we’re doing is burning fuel.”
‘Mandrake’ was an old boat, built back in the early 1980’s. She had unlovely lines and a squat wheelhouse forward so that she looked like a boxer with its head tucked low between hulking shoulders. Her working deck was a tangled maze of hatches and lines and rigging.
And she was heavy.
With so much weight under her hatches, she had a cruising speed of just nine knots. Battering her way through the cold front that had swept down on the boat overnight had reduced that to six. She was eight hours from shore, and her monster engine burned through over one hundred and fifty gallons of diesel a day.
Sully’s face wrinkled into a sneer. “So what?” he became belligerent. “We’re fishermen. We don’t need computer equipment to know where the fish are.”
“We need the phones,” Bannon said. His voice took on a hard edge. He turned his attention back to the wheel as ‘Mandrake’ swooped down into another deep trough between waves. For a moment there was eerie silence as the sound of the wind and hiss of the ocean were blocked out by the surrounding swells, and then the fishing boat began to claw her way up the face of the next swell. The boat creaked and shudd
ered beneath his feet.
“Well it’s wrong,” Sully spat. “Man, I got debts.”
“We all have debts,” Bannon said without interest.
Sully swallowed a mouthful of beer and belched. The bottle was empty. He put his elbow into the ribs of the man sitting beside him. “Get me another one, Claude,” he said.
The young man slid off the saloon bench and went obediently into the tiny galley.
“Not from the front of the fridge,” Sully ordered the man. “Get it from the back where the cold ones are this time.”
The crewman slid a bottle of beer across the table to Sully and he wrapped his big hand around it. He belched again and stared defiantly at Bannon.
“You’re starting early, Sully,” Bannon said mildly. “It’s not even eight in the morning and you’re on your second one.”
“Two beers per man, per day. Right, skipper?” Sully’s voice was insolent. “That’s your rule, right?” He twisted the top off the bottle and raised it high in mocking salute. “Here’s to a fucked up boat.”
Bannon set the fishing boat to the next swell and then looked more sharply at Sully. He was a big man and he carried his weight across his shoulders and chest. His forearms were laced with an intricate pattern of tattoos and scars.
“You can always find another job,” Bannon’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “If you don’t like the way things are done here, go and get work on one of the trawlers. There are plenty of deckhands looking for good pay. I’m sure I will be able to replace you. No trouble.”
“I might just do that,” Sully growled.
Bannon’s lips curled up into a wry smile. No you won’t, thought Bannon. You’re all talk. You’re like the big savage dog that barks and growls and bares its teeth… but cringes away the moment it’s challenged.
There was a long minute of silence as the ‘Mandrake’ swished her broad tail over the top of the next rolling swell and plunged down the other side. The empty beer bottle slid off the saloon table and fell to the floor, rolling along the wheelhouse deck. Bannon’s eyes felt raw and full of grit. He rubbed at them with his knuckles and yawned.
Sully sat pensive and brooding, and he glowered at the men on either side of him. He emptied the contents of the beer bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He slammed the bottle back down on the table.
“Why aren’t you drinking?” he growled at the fourth man in the wheelhouse. “What’s your fucking problem?”
Peter Coe glanced up at Sully and shook his head. “Later,” he said.
“Later? There is no later. We’re heading back to port. Didn’t you hear our fearless leader?” Sully sneered with icy sarcasm. Then he turned back to Claude and his breath was foul in the young man’s face. “Get him a beer, Claude. The man looks thirsty.”
Claude started to scramble off the vinyl seat, but Peter stopped him. “I said later,” he looked at Sully with his jaws clenched tight. “I’ll have a drink when we get back to Grey Stone and unload the catch.” He was younger than Sully and Claude, with a long drawn face and dark thoughtful eyes beneath a mop of sandy hair. He eased himself off the seat and went across to the wheel.
“Want me to take her for a while, skip?”
Bannon nodded. He picked up the white phone again and jammed the receiver against his ear. Nothing. His cell phone was clipped to his belt. They were still miles out of signal range but he glanced down at the phone’s small display window anyhow. He had no signal.
There had been a time, thirty years before when the fishing fleet that worked out of Grey Stone harbor had all been connected to an operational base on shore through radio networks. In the 80’s, there had been thirty trawlers and eight long-liners bustling in and out of the harbor. But the economy, and modern technology had rendered the base ineffective. Now simple cell phones to the boat’s owner connected each skipper, and the fishing co-op had dissolved as every boat struggled for its own survival.
Bannon sighed. He was weary, and worried. He stepped back from the wheel and Peter took his place. “I’m going to sack out,” Bannon said. “Keep her on course, and keep her speed down. Wake me in two hours.” Then he turned round to Claude and Sully. “I want you two on deck. Make sure everything is secure,” he said. “We’ve got $40,000 worth of equipment back there and I don’t want to lose any of it. So check it – then check it again. There won’t be time to do it when we reach harbor. We’ll need to get the catch straight onto ice until I can reach the restaurants and fishmongers.” Then as an afterthought he singled out Sully. “And check the antenna and the booster box.”
“I did. Yesterday,” Sully said.
“Then check it again.”
Bannon turned, swaying with the rolling pitch of the boat, and ducked into the skipper’s cabin. The room was narrow with space for just a couple of bunk beds and a small set of drawers. The top bunk was piled with clothes and his wet-weather gear. He stretched out on the bottom bunk and was asleep within moments.
Chapter 2.
“What do you think?” Sully dropped down heavily into the skipper’s seat and threw a big muscled arm over the padded backrest. The seat was old and grimy. The vinyl had been torn so that yellow foam stuffing poked through the tears and the edges were frayed like an old coat collar. He turned his head and glanced out the port side windows, and then studied the broad back of Peter Coe who was hunched over the boat’s wheel before him.
Peter didn’t turn around.
“About what?”
“What do you think about us turning for home when we’re on a winning streak, just because the fuckin’ phone doesn’t work?”
Peter shrugged, but said nothing. Sully’s eyes narrowed.
“Hey?” He poked the young man in the ribs with his thumb. “I’m talking to you.”
Peter’s head snapped round and there was a flash of anger in his eyes. “Fuck off, Sully,” he said, then paused as the fishing boat went nose-first through the crest of a swell and the windows blurred under a discharge of white seawater. “There’s no choice. If we can’t reach the fishmongers, and we can’t get in touch with old Gino to do it for us, then we’re stranded out here. It won’t matter how many more fish we hook. The whole catch will spoil, and it won’t be worth a dime.”
‘Mandrake’ went down into the next trough. “And where would you fish?” Peter’s voice was accusing. “We don’t have internet. That means we don’t know where the warm current is. Hell, we don’t even know what’s blowing up behind us. We could sail into the teeth of a storm and not know it.”
Sully shook his head, and his lip curled in an expression of disgust. “Faggot,” he said. He hawked a thick gob of slime into the palm of his hand and then smeared it across the back of the seat. “We’re supposed to be fishermen,” he said. “If you ask me, the skipper has gone soft. Fucking soft as cream. He ain’t got what it takes to run a boat like this anymore. He’s lost his edge,” Sully’s eyes were dark. “Ain’t no way we’re going to make good money on this boat with a skipper who wants to play it safe and won’t take a risk once in a while.”
Peter stared at Sully and raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Then quit,” he said. “Like the skipper told you. Find another boat – instead of moaning and groaning to everyone else all the time. Man, I’m fucking sick of hearing you complain.”
Sully’s eyebrows knitted together and he scowled darkly into Peter’s face. His features became red and swollen, and he lunged off the seat so they stood toe to toe. Sully jabbed his finger hard into Peter’s chest. “You watch your mouth, boy,” he growled with menace. “This is a big boat. Accidents can happen. Nasty accidents with hooks and knives and gaffs when you don’t expect it.” He pushed past the young man, and stormed across to the galley, then spun back.
“Maybe I will quit. And maybe I’ll take Claude with me. That would fuck Bannon up nicely,” Sully smiled, and his eyes were shifting and cunning. He seemed to calm then, the anger disappearing as quickly as it had boiled. He lit a cigare
tte and blew a long feather of blue smoke that swirled around the low ceiling.
Chapter 3.
Bannon slept like the dead, and it was only the altered motion of the boat that finally woke him. He sat up with a start and checked his wristwatch, then swung his legs off the narrow bunk. He had been in that black death-sleep of exhaustion, and it took him several seconds to push back the curtains of his fatigue and come fully alert.
He knew that he had not slept long enough, and he swayed on his feet as he slid open the cabin door and thrust his head out into the wheelhouse.
Bannon could feel the throbbing pulse of the ‘Mandrake’s’ big engines vibrating up through the deck. Out through the wheelhouse windows he could see gentle rounded swells – the ocean still the color of steel, but the rage and strength of her mighty power somehow subdued.
Bannon went to the wheel and Peter nodded at him.
“We’re about twelve miles out of Grey Stone,” Peter said as he stepped away from the console and yawned. “I’ve pushed the old girl up to eight knots.”
Now the boat was inside the continental shelf, the huge rolling swells of the open ocean had been suppressed so that the fishing boat’s motion became sedate. She was cleaving through the cold water with the bustling thrust of a workboat, and her heavily laden bilge tanks pushed her down deep in the water and gave her stability so that she ploughed through the sea with stately purpose, no longer tossed and heaved by the untamed wilds of the deep ocean.
“Good man,” Bannon said. He slapped Peter on the back and rested his hand on the wheel.
He had been asleep for almost four hours – much longer than he had planned. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the far horizon, and saw the dark mark low on the skyline, like an ugly black scar above the swells.
Grey Stone.
Bannon stared at the horizon for long seconds, as the fishing boat rocked and swayed beneath him, and then he glanced at Peter, his expression clouded.
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