Dead Island

by Mark Morris

  Seizing her chance, Purna slammed the end of the chair leg into the side of the zombie’s head again, and then again. After the fourth blow there was a gristly tearing sound, and like a hinged lid, the zombie’s head toppled over to one side, twisting Sam’s weapon from his hand with such force that it drew a strip of skin from his palm. The head swung down grotesquely in front of the zombie’s chest like a bowling ball in a stocking, held in place by nothing more than a few stubborn ropes of stretched skin and tendon. It swung, in fact, into Sam’s face, the prickly buzz cut scraping across his cheek, causing him to cry out in revulsion. Convulsively the zombie’s hands began to open and close, enabling Sam to free his left arm, and then, with Purna’s help, to scramble out from under the creature’s dead weight. Battered and bruised, and drenched stickily in the zombie’s foul blood, he watched numbly until the creature’s almost decapitated body ceased twitching and became motionless.

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered finally, glancing at Purna.

  She gave a brisk, brief nod. ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘Did it bite you?’ asked Logan, sitting on the stairs a little above them, like a spectator watching a football game from the bleachers.

  ‘No,’ said Sam. ‘Just bled on me a little.’

  ‘Zombie blood is probably contagious,’ Logan said.

  Sam scowled. ‘In that case, I’ll try to resist the temptation to lick myself clean.’

  ‘Just saying,’ Logan said.

  With more than a little distaste, Sam placed his foot on the zombie’s almost-severed head and yanked his now bloody and mangled weapon from its throat. He held the weapon up ruefully. ‘Soon as I get the chance, I’m gonna trade this motherfucker for an Uzi.’

  ‘You want me to take point again?’ asked Purna.

  Sam glanced up at Logan, narrowing his eyes. ‘Ain’t it his turn?’

  ‘He’s only got one arm. Plus he got bit. Which means he’s not exactly in the best of health.’

  Logan did his best to look contrite and apologetic. Sam grunted. They continued on down the stairs, trying not to slip in the zombie’s blood, which was fanning out from beneath its body, overspilling the edges of the stairs and dripping on to the steps below. They reached the ground floor without further incident, halting at a door marked RECEPTION. Already they looked a pretty battle-weary bunch, wounded and spattered with blood.

  ‘OK,’ said Purna. ‘We need to be ready for this. We don’t know what’s out there.’

  ‘What if there’s hundreds of them?’ said Logan.

  ‘There won’t be. Lucky for us, the outbreak only reached this part of the island when most people were already in bed.’

  ‘You reckon that guy who called us up was telling the truth? That there will be someone waiting to help us?’ said Sam.

  Purna shrugged. ‘Who knows? Let’s just take it one step at a time.’

  ‘Who was that guy anyway?’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘You really want to discuss this now?’

  ‘Guess not,’ he said.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Logan.

  Unhesitatingly Purna said, ‘We’ll take it nice and slow. No point drawing attention to ourselves. You guys ready?’

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ muttered Sam.

  ‘I’m always ready,’ said Logan laconically, swinging his chair leg.

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  She pushed open the door just wide enough to ensure there were no zombies in the vicinity, then stepped forward, gesturing to the others that it was safe to emerge. The door to the stairs was situated at the end of a short corridor to the right of the main reception area. From here they could see most of the lobby, including the main doors about fifteen metres away to their left, and the long reception desk just beyond that, occupying the wall directly opposite them. In the centre of the wide expanse of carpet was a fully grown palm tree, encircled by a number of curved, interconnecting leather seats, which gave the impression the tree was at the centre of a giant black wheel.

  Although the area was quiet and currently deserted, there were several indications this had been anything but a normal night. There were streaks of blood across the surface of the blond-wood desk and the light-coloured carpet – streaks long enough and dark enough to suggest that this had been heart-blood jetting from a severed major artery. There was more blood on the inside of the hotel’s glass frontage, including a smeary handprint. Most distressing of all, there was the body of what they could just about make out had been a young Chinese woman, dressed in the hotel’s staff uniform of white shirt, red tie and red skirt, lying on her back close to the central seating area in an ungainly sprawl of limbs.

  The young woman had been attacked so savagely that she was almost unrecognizable as human. She had been almost ripped apart, as if by a mob. Her left leg was attached to the rest of her body by nothing more than a shred of skin, her right arm was missing completely from the elbow down, and her intestines had spilled from a jagged rent in her stomach and were now lying on and around her in glistening purple-grey loops.

  Seeing her, Logan said, ‘Excuse me,’ and promptly threw up into one of two small potted palms flanking the doors of the lift a few metres away. Purna patted him on the back and glanced up at the lift indicator. It was frozen at floor 5, and she wondered for a moment what terrible dramas had unfolded up there.

  ‘You OK?’ she whispered as Logan straightened up.

  He looked more ghastly than ever, his complexion deathly pale, but he nodded.

  ‘Thought the girl might be … well, the one who checked me in, and was with me when the woman attacked us … but I’m not sure.’

  Sam joined them beside the lift. Although they could see most of the lobby from here, they couldn’t see all of it. They couldn’t, for example, see the area at the back where the lobby divided into corridors leading to other rooms on the ground floor, such as the restaurant, the main bar and the ballroom where Sam had had his gig.

  Thinking of the gig, Sam couldn’t believe that five hours ago he had been up on stage, playing to a large and enthusiastic crowd. The event seemed like a lifetime ago now. Strange to think that back then he had been worried about nothing more than how his new songs would go down with an audience, and whether this was his last shot at a new record contract, the only chance to resurrect his career.

  ‘We good to go?’ he muttered.

  ‘Logan?’ asked Purna.

  Logan ran his tongue over his teeth and spat the last of the vomit from his mouth. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Like thieves they crept to the end of the short corridor and peered around the corner. The area at the back of the lobby showed corridors angled in all directions, many of them curving out of sight. Purna nodded and they broke cover, hurrying across the carpet to the main doors. Standing in the well-lit lobby, they were uncomfortably aware of how visible they were from outside. However, the forecourt of the hotel seemed deserted and was fringed with tall palms and thick bushes.

  ‘Guess those fuckers have gone where the food is,’ Sam muttered, indicating with a jerk of his head that he meant the infected had probably gone deeper into the hotel in search of the still-living guests holed up in their rooms.

  ‘Luckily for us,’ said Purna, glancing outside and swiping her plastic keycard through a reader to the right of the doors.

  With an obliging hum the automatic doors parted and the trio stepped outside. Cool, scented air washed over them, taking away, temporarily at least, the stench of raw meat and zombie blood. Logan swayed slightly, as if the air was a little too rich for him.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Sam, turning, as two dark, silhouetted figures detached themselves from a black screen of bushes on their left.

  Purna raised her weapon, but the taller of the two figures slowed its advance, raising a hand.

  ‘Is OK,’ it announced. ‘We not sick.’

  Though she lowered her weapon, Purna still looked wary, watching as the two figures moved out of the shadows and into the
light from the hotel. The one that had spoken was a tall, slim, dark-skinned man of about twenty-five, wearing an orange surfing T-shirt, blue knee-length shorts and canvas beach shoes. He was holding a machete in one hand and had a stubby silver pistol with a wide nozzle stuffed into his waistband.

  His companion was a slim, pretty Chinese girl with a bandaged hand, who was wearing the now-familiar hotel receptionist’s uniform. Seeing her, Logan exclaimed, ‘Hey! You’re OK!’

  The Chinese girl nodded, her face expressionless.

  Indicating the bandage, Purna said, ‘You’re Miss Mei, right? The girl on the phone?’

  Again she nodded. ‘My name is Xian Mei.’

  ‘And you were bitten? Like him?’ Purna jerked her head towards Logan.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’re OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right,’ said Purna thoughtfully.

  The young man stepped forward. ‘Come. I take you to safe place.’

  ‘What’s your name, man?’ Sam asked.

  The young man smiled. ‘Sinamoi,’ he said.

  Chapter 6

  THE SAFE PLACE

  ‘WE ARE HERE.’

  Sinamoi, with Xian Mei in tow, had led them through the potentially treacherous resort on a circuitous route, avoiding the main thoroughfares where the tourists hung out and sticking to hidden paths and back alleys. Although Purna, Sam and Logan had followed him without question, Purna in particular had remained wary, constantly alert to the fact that, for whatever reason, their guide might be deceiving them or leading them into a trap. They had seen one or two zombies wandering about, but had managed to remain out of sight and undetected.

  ‘Very quiet now, but tomorrow this will not be good place,’ Sinamoi hissed at one point, after they had lain low for a couple of minutes while a clearly infected black man – scrawny, old and white-bearded – had shambled past, snarling and twitching.

  They finally emerged from a winding, tree-shrouded path to find themselves on the main route down to the shore, though it was evident from the way the soughing of the waves had been growing steadily louder over the past ten minutes that this was where they had been heading. Purna half expected to see the lights of a boat twinkling out on the black water, ready to whisk them away, but instead Sinamoi led them to a grey one-storey building with barred windows, squatting on the dunes that overlooked the powder-white beach.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘Lifeguard station,’ Sinamoi replied. ‘Very strong building. Very safe.’

  ‘How do we get in?’ Sam wanted to know.

  Sinamoi grinned, reached into his pocket and produced a key. ‘I am lifeguard,’ he said.

  He unlocked the door and they went inside. The station was well equipped with tables and chairs, a two-way radio and even a small camping stove. There was all-weather gear hanging on hooks on the wall, a metal first-aid box the size of a small suitcase and a camp bed in one corner.

  Sam nodded at the camp bed. ‘You live here?’

  Sinamoi laughed, as if Sam had made a joke. In his broken English he explained that one of the duties of the lifeguards was to stay in constant touch with the fleet of offshore fishing boats, which operated out of Moresby harbour. If a boat got into difficulties, it was the responsibility of whoever was on night-duty to alert the other lifeguards so that a rescue boat could be launched.

  ‘And it’s your turn now, huh?’ said Logan tiredly, looking drawn and exhausted.

  Sinamoi nodded and grinned.

  ‘So who told you to come looking for us?’ asked Purna.

  Sinamoi pointed at the radio, which was scratched and battered with chunky, old-fashioned knobs and dials, and headphones that looked as though they were held together with heavy-duty parcel tape. Happily crackling and buzzing away to itself, it looked like the sort of lash-up you only ever saw these days in old war movies.

  ‘Man on radio,’ he said. ‘He try to …’ He imitated holding a cell phone up to his ear.

  ‘To call us?’ said Sam.

  ‘Yes. But signal gone. So he call me. Much stronger signal. Promise me much money if I bring you here.’

  ‘Did he now?’ said Purna. ‘And did he say why he wanted you to bring us here?’

  ‘To keep you safe. Also he have message.’

  ‘What message?’

  Sinamoi frowned. ‘He say go inland. Past jungle to other side of island. Go to prison island. Top of tower will be helicopter. It fly you away.’

  ‘Is that all he said?’ asked Sam.

  Sinamoi nodded. ‘Yes. Except he try to call if he can.’ He mimed holding up a cell phone again.

  Sam sighed. ‘You ever spoken to this guy before, Sinamoi?’

  The lifeguard shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘So you’ve no idea who he is?’

  ‘No. But he want to save you. So is friend, yes?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Sam. He propped his weapon against the wall, pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down with a grunt. ‘Wish we knew who he was, though.’

  Following his example, Purna and Logan also laid their weapons aside. Purna sat down too.

  ‘I’ve got a few ideas,’ she said.

  ‘Care to share them with the group?’

  ‘Sure. I could do with cleaning up a bit first, though, and we could all do with a drink. Need to keep our fluids up. Sinamoi, you got any water?’

  The lifeguard nodded eagerly. Crossing the room, he pushed aside the all-weather gear to reveal a door, behind which was a tiny cubicle containing a primitive toilet and wash basin.

  ‘Much water. But this no drink.’ He put a hand on his stomach and stuck out his tongue, miming sickness. Then he crossed to the workbench on which the radio sat, knelt down, reached underneath it and dragged out a plastic, almost full five-litre water container. ‘This drink,’ he said.

  As he poured water into a variety of chipped and grubby-looking mugs, Purna went into the toilet cubicle to clean up as best she could. Accepting a mug of water, Sam looked at Logan who was slumped against the wall. ‘You look wasted, man.’

  ‘I feel it,’ said Logan. Turning to Sinamoi, he flipped a thumb towards the camp bed and said, ‘Hey, mind if I crash a while?’

  Sinamoi nodded vigorously. ‘Rest. Sleep.’ Then his brows beetled in concern. ‘You sick?’

  ‘Just tired,’ said Logan. ‘Lost some blood.’ He glanced at Sam, who was staring at him intently, and raised his right hand. ‘On my honour, man. It’s not the fucking virus. I’ve got no designs on your black hide.’

  Unexpectedly Sam grinned. ‘Think you’d find my meat a little too refined for your palate anyway, white boy.’

  Logan chuckled, trudged across to the camp bed and all but crumpled on to it with a groan.

  ‘You need medicine?’ said Sinamoi.

  ‘Sure,’ said Logan wearily. ‘I’ll take anything you got.’

  Five minutes later, dosed up on painkillers, he was snoring quietly in the corner, mouth open. Sam, Purna, Xian Mei and Sinamoi were sitting around the table, hands curled not round mugs of water this time, but hot black coffee. Sam blew on his coffee before sipping it, then sat back with a sigh. Although he normally took his coffee with cream and sugar, he murmured, ‘Man, that’s the best cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted.’

  Purna turned to Xian Mei, who so far had barely said a word. ‘So what’s your story?’ she asked.

  Xian Mei looked defensive. ‘What makes you think I have one?’

  Purna nodded at Sam, then over at Logan asleep in the corner. ‘I can see the connection between the three of us, but you’re the odd one out; the unknown quantity.’

  ‘You mean the blood drive?’ said Sam.

  ‘Yes. We’re all here because we gave blood and won ourselves holidays in Banoi. It therefore figures that our mysterious caller is something to do with the NBDC.’ She stared at Xian Mei, narrowing her eyes. ‘But who are you? His spy?’

  Xian Mei tried not to react, even thoug
h the Australian girl had come startlingly close to guessing the reason she was here. Matching the girl’s intense stare with one of her own, she said firmly, ‘I’m nobody’s spy. Maybe I was included because I gave blood too.’

  ‘You did?’ said Sam, surprised.

  ‘In which part of the US?’ asked Purna.

  Xian Mei shook her head. ‘Not in the US. In China.’

  ‘China?’ said Sam. ‘I thought this blood drive campaign was an American thing?’

  Xian Mei shrugged. ‘There was one in China too. But it was organized by the Chinese government.’

  ‘Or at least, that’s what you were told,’ said Purna.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Think about it. Logan got bit. Xian Mei got bit. We’ve both been sprayed with zombie blood, which means we’ve almost certainly ingested some – but none of us are infected.’

  Sam frowned, assessing the implications of her words. ‘You mean we’re immune?’

  ‘Not only that, but the NBDC, or whoever’s behind this thing, knew we were immune before we came here. That’s the reason we are here. It’s not random chance. Our names weren’t drawn out of a hat. It’s because of our immunity.’

  Sam’s eyes widened as the terrible truth dawned on him. ‘But that means …’

  Purna nodded grimly. ‘It means that whoever sent us here knew about the virus before we arrived. It means they knew this was going to happen.’

  Xian Mei shook her head. ‘No.’

  Purna looked at her sharply. ‘What do you mean, no?’

  ‘I mean that whoever is responsible for us being here didn’t simply know that this was going to happen. That’s too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘Fuck, you’re right,’ said Purna.

  ‘You mean they did it deliberately?’ muttered Sam. ‘They created it?’

  Both girls nodded in unison.