When it comes to rifles, Bob and me are in complete agreement. For anyone who prides themselves on using only the best then the Safari 850 must be the rifle of choice. Power, reliability, beauty—the Safari 850 truly has it all. The only reason Bob doesn’t own one is because he can’t afford to. Mine belonged to my dad. I inherited it when he went missing in the Southern Reserve last July. He didn’t have his Safari 850 with him because it was in the workshop for repairs to its walnut stock.
By 9 a.m. the sun was already hot and we were well on our way to Robertson Island. Tommy and Jim were waiting for us on a shingle beach on the south side of the island. Both looked tired. Tommy especially seemed strung-out. He complained that they were being worked too hard.
Robertson Island was uninhabited until last February and its new residents are still struggling to assert their dominance over nature. Flash-flooding and infestations of caterpillars have decimated their crops. Their fresh-water well has been contaminated by saltwater. And a bush-fire burnt their biodiesel processor to the ground. Worst of all, though, a flesh-eater somehow managed to find its way onto the island and the first anyone knew about it was when it took a bite out of a kid walking his dog.
Jim is Tommy’s cousin and only living relative. Most people mistake them for brothers because they look so alike, but any similarities begin and end there. You see what a man’s really about when you’re in a tight spot with him, and you can take it from me that Tommy’s a crack-shot, but liable to panic if it comes to a fight at close-quarters. Jim, on the other hand, can’t shoot for shit, but doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty. In fact, I’m beginning to think he enjoys it a bit too much, if you know what I mean.
Personally, I get twitchy if there’s much less than half a mile between me and a flesh-eater. I’ve seen close up what one of those things can do if it gets its teeth into you. It can get real messy. If you’ve ever seen video footage of a lion chowing-down on a zebra, you’ll know what I’m talking about.
That’s why I always hunt with Bob, because he never rattles no matter how up close and personal things get. If I had to describe him in a word I’d say consistent. Bob would be the first to admit that I’m capable of making an occasional shot he couldn’t make in his dreams, but he’d also point out that if it came down to say five rounds of ten shots at under 300 metres he’d come out on top nine times out of ten. That’s partly because, as my dad always used to tell me, I’ve got the attention span of a flea and partly because in some ways I’m more like Tommy than I’d care to admit.
As the boat motored across the bay towards the mainland, I turned to Tommy. “What did you go for?” I asked, glancing enquiringly at his holstered rifle.
“The 550 Custom Deluxe.”
“Can I?”
“Go ahead.”
I took the rifle out and ran my finger down the cold hammer-forged barrel to the bolt. “Jesus, that’s nice.”
“The bolt’s machined from a single forging, there are no weldings.”
I examined the rifle’s handcrafted rosewood stock. “Beautiful.”
Tommy grinned, pleased by my approval. “I can knock a fly off a wall at a hundred paces with it.”
Jim scoffed. “We aren’t gonna be shooting any flies. Take a look at this.” He unzipped his kit-bag and took out an SMG (Sub Machine Gun) that looked very similar to an Uzi.
“What’s its rpm?” I asked.
“640 at full tilt. This little beauty’ll cut one of those fuckers in two.”
“Tell him what else you’ve got,” said Tommy.
Jim grinned. “Only the best automatic rifle in existence.”
“M-16,” I said.
“Did you hear that?” laughed Jim. “Mikey thinks the M-16 is better than the AK-47.”
“You’ve got a Kalashnikov,” I said, impressed.
Jim’s grin reached from ear to ear as he took out the weapon. “Say hola to the AK-47 Kalashnikov Assault Rifle,” he announced as proudly as if he was showing off his firstborn. “First developed in World War Two for the Soviet army, it subsequently became the most popular automatic weapon worldwide. Gas-operated, highly-reliable and—”
“It can’t hit shit beyond three hundred metres,” interrupted Tommy.
“Who cares? Where’s the fun in using one of those?” Jim jerked his chin at Tommy’s rifle. “I like to see the look in their eyes as the bullets go in.”
“I can see Cutshaw,” Bob called from the front of the boat. I eased up on the accelerator and guided us into the pier.
Bob threw out the mooring-rope and Cutshaw secured the boat while we gathered up our gear. Cutshaw nodded at me as I stepped onto the pier. We stood in silence as the others clambered out of the boat. I knew better than to try and get any conversation out of Cutshaw. Like anyone who spends a lot of time on the reserves, he’s a silent, morose man. He’s also the best guide in the business—cool, calm, and absolutely collected. I sometimes think if you sliced him open you’d find wires inside him. Dad introduced him to me on my first hunting trip with the words, “Be nice to this man, son. One day he might save your life.”
I disliked Cutshaw straight away. I don’t like him much better now, but I respect him. I haven’t got a clue what he thinks about me or, for that matter, anybody else. I can’t remember him ever expressing an opinion on anything other than hunting. And I’ve never known him to be wrong. I swear, if there was a single stone out of place on his patch he’d know about it.
We slung our packs into the back of the HMMWV (pronounced hum-vee). Cutshaw climbed the ladder beside the gate and scoped the landscape for flesh-eaters while we settled into our seats. His Labrador dog, Franz, jumped on me and licked my face. I ruffled his fur, laughing. They say dogs grow alike to their masters, but in Franz’s case the opposite seems to be true. Every time we meet he seems more affectionate while Cutshaw seems more aloof.
Jim wrinkled his nose in disgust. “How can you let that thing lick your face like that? He was probably licking his balls before we got here.”
“Franz is a good boy, aren’t you,” I said, scratching behind his ears.
“Aww man, he’s getting a hardon.”
“Mikey or the dog?” put in Bob.
“You’re just jealous,” I said, and I meant it. Franz was a relentless tracker and, if need be, a ferocious bodyguard. My dad once said, “I swear, that dog’s nose has eyes.” Whoever Franz favoured was likely to bag the best trophies of the trip.
We fell silent as the gate slid open. I knew there was no danger because the land had been cleared and flattened for half a mile, but even so my hand dropped to the grip of my Beretta 92FS. Bob fingered the hammer of his Magnum Revolver. We glanced at each other and a shudder of excitement passed between us. The mood heightened as Cutshaw got into the Humvee and drove through the gate. My mouth was dry, my stomach was fluttering and I felt light-headed. This may not sound like a particularly enjoyable mixture of sensations, but believe me you quickly grow to like, even crave it. Anyone who’s hunted dangerous game knows what I’m talking about. The surge of adrenaline coupled with the sense of normal duty being suspended is a heady mixture.
Suddenly I couldn’t help but grin. I knew without having to look at the others that all of them—except Cutshaw—were grinning like Cheshire cats too. As the Humvee rumbled along, Franz settled down at my side with his head on my lap. I felt the tension drain out of my body, secure in the knowledge that for the next three weeks I’d be doing what I liked best in the world with the people I liked best.
“Has there been any action today?” asked Bob.
“No,” replied Cutshaw, succinct as ever.
“I heard there was some trouble over in the Southern Reserve,” said Tommy. When Cutshaw nodded, he continued, “It’s true then, three hunters and their guide were eaten.”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“They went after a thinker.”
“Jesus,” Tommy said aga
in.
Now, as you know, most flesh-eaters are creatures of pure instinct, but a few of them, perhaps one in ten thousand, seem to possess a rudimentary intelligence of the sort that evolutionists are nowadays fond of comparing to tool-using chimps. The obvious absurdity of such comparisons notwithstanding, these ‘thinkers’ are an especially dangerous and highly prized quarry.
“Has anyone bagged it yet?” asked Jim. I guessed at once what he was thinking. So did Tommy.
“Forget it,” he said. “We haven’t got time to get down to the Southern Reserve.”
“Yes we have, if we only spend a few days up here.”
“But the hunting’s better here.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Is.”
“Isn’t.”
“Give it a rest,” I said. Franz barked as if in agreement and pressed his nose to the window, staring across a flat expanse of scrubland to the edge of a pine forest about 300 metres away. His ears were pricked and his fur stood on end, which could only mean one thing.
Cutshaw stopped the Humvee, slid back a reinforced-steel panel in the roof and stood through it.
“Do you see anything?” I asked as he scoped the densely-packed trees.
“No, but there’s something in there.”
Cutshaw has the eyes of a hawk. Often when we’re out hunting he’ll point to what appears to me as a smudge of colour and say,
“Target.” But even his eyes are no match for Franz’s nose.
“Let’s bag it,” Jim said eagerly.
Cutshaw shook his head. “I’ll radio it in. We don’t start until tomorrow.”
Jim didn’t argue—no one ever argues with Cutshaw—but I could tell he was disappointed. We all were. None of us had shot anything but tin cans and crows since the previous autumn. It’d been a long hard winter and we were ready to let off some steam. In another way, though, I was relieved. I used to know a pro-footballer who never pulled on his shirt until he was running onto the pitch. I’m a bit like that with hunting. There are certain rituals I like to perform before I go out. For instance, I always bring a bottle of single-malt whiskey with me to share round the campfire on the first night. Dad got me started on that one. I also get everyone in the party to kiss my rifle, which they’re usually happy to do because they’ve just drunk my whiskey.
“Possible activity nine miles out from Pier 12. No confirmed sighting,” Cutshaw mumbled into his radio as we pulled away. Franz settled back down on my lap. Forehead puckered, I stared at the dark band of woodland blanketing the hills to the south.
I glanced at Bob as the Humvee passed a dirt-track that branched off the sealed-road, skirted the woods and ended at a derelict farmhouse. Behind the house a sandy trail was faintly visible rising into the forest. You have to be a brave man with a steady nerve to hunt there. Apart from flesh-eaters, hungry packs of wolves and bears roam in ever increasing numbers. Bob and me went up there once, against my dad’s advice—he’d hunted there and knew how the wind moaning through the trees and bringing the shadows to life can play with your imagination. What he didn’t tell us was how the mist can roll down off the hilltops so that before you know it you’re groping along like a blind man.
I cringed inwardly at the memory of that day. From Bob’s face it was plain he felt the same. Neither of us was yet ready to admit how close we’d come to losing it in those woods. It was only through dumb luck we got out of them alive.
“Hey didn’t you guys hunt that trail a couple of seasons back?” said Tommy. A low grunt from Bob was the only response he received. “Man, you wouldn’t get me up there for any money.”
Sensing my unease, Franz lifted his head to look askance at me. I smiled at him, pushing my fingers through his fur.
It was late afternoon when we rolled into Camp 14. A gate made of platted iron slats slid back and a guard waved us through. We scanned the compound for a spot to pitch our tents. Luckily there were only a couple of other parties in.
As soon as the tents were pitched we got down to the serious business of sampling Bob’s homebrew—an evil-smelling moonshine he called Skull Cracker. “What do you think?” he asked as I took a slug.
I nodded approval, trying not to choke. “It’s smoother than the last batch.”
“It’s a new recipe.”
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and the stuff made my head buzz like a swarm of bees. Jim tutted and chuckled. “I always suspected you were a lightweight, Mikey.”
Bob nudged me, eyes wide with awe. “Over there,” he said quietly as if he was in church.
A stone’s throw to our left a skinny old guy with a straggly beard was crouched outside an old-fashioned Whelen lean-to tent struggling to open a tin of beans with a pocket-knife.
“Jesus,” I murmured.
“Exactly.”
“You think it’s really him?”
“It’s him alright.”
“Do you reckon I should ask him if he wants to borrow our can-opener?”
Bob looked horrified at my suggestion. “That’s Jesus Martinez. That guy’s wasted more flesh-eaters than you’ve seen weekends.”
Just in case you don’t know, Jesus Martinez is only the greatest living hunter. A whole lifetime spent on the reserves (most people don’t last more than a couple of years before their brain turns into jelly). More confirmed kills than every hunter I know put together. Always hunts alone. Just him and The Viola, his rifle—a weapon of near mythical status. A real living legend right there in front of us.
We reverently watched him labour at the tin. After a couple of minutes he threw it down. “Puta,” he spat, glaring at the tin as if trying to bore a hole in it with his eyes.
I dug out the tin-opener and, despite Bob’s protests, took it over to Jesus Martinez.
“Que chingados quieres?” muttered the old man without taking his eyes off the tin, which roughly translated means, What the fuck do you want? Whether this remark was aimed at the tin or me I wasn’t sure, but I held out the tin-opener.
Jesus Martinez looked at me. I was struck by the blackness of his eyes. They were like a shark’s eyes, absolutely unreadable. He accepted the tin-opener, levered the tin open and handed it back with a slight nod. I stood there awkwardly a moment, a starry-eyed idiot vainly trying to think of something to say, then turned and headed back across to the others.
“What did he say?” Bob asked eagerly.
“Nothing.”
“Not even thanks?”
“He said thanks.”
We sat down to a meal of bacon, eggs and beans, followed by tinned fruit in syrup—a real luxury in these times. Most of the talk concerned our plans for the following day. There was also much hushed speculation about what Jesus Martinez was doing here. As the sun went down, the midges started to bite and we retreated into our tents—Bob and me in one, Tommy and Jim in the other. Bob couldn’t get over having seen Martinez in the flesh. He’d spent half his youth listening to tales of The Mexican’s exploits. He said that for damn sure he was going to speak to him in the morning. He was as excited as a kid on Christmas Eve. I heard him tossing-and-turning in his bag for hours. My own sleep was fitful and disturbed by ugly dreams. I didn’t mind, though. I knew that tomorrow night with the first kill of the season under my belt I’d sleep like a baby.
Day Two.
Bob prodded me awake at first light. From the look of devastation on his face I knew Jesus Martinez was gone. “I can’t believe I didn’t speak to him,” he said.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get another chance.”
“No I won’t.” Bob got into his sleeping-bag and pulled it up over his head. After five minutes of silence I left the tent. I was surprised and a little concerned by Bob’s reaction. He was usually so steady. I was supposed to be the emotional one.
It was a damp morning with a high, blue sky. I headed for the toilet-block. A guy about my age was stood outside it. “I see Martinez is gone,” I said.
“Left an hour before daybreak.”
“South, I reckon.”
“That figures.”
After answering nature’s call, I busied myself with making breakfast. Tommy poked his head out of the other tent, sniffing. He looked like he hadn’t got much sleep either.
I handed him a mug of coffee. “Looks like it’s gonna be a hot one.”
“Hope so.”
From inside the tent came a groan. Jim crawled into sight. He grunted at me before shuffling off to the toilet-block. I called to Bob that breakfast was ready and got no reply.
“What’s up with him?” asked Tommy.
I shrugged. When Jim returned we ate a big breakfast. I didn’t have much of an appetite—I never do on the first morning of a hunt—but I forced myself to eat until I was full. I knew from past experience that Cutshaw would push us hard to see what sort of shape we were in.
Cutshaw was leant against the Humvee smoking a cigarette. I approached him and asked, “Have the spotters seen any activity?”
“Some.”
“Where?”
“Colt Creek.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“What type?”
“Stage three.”
This news got my adrenaline pumping. As you probably know, zombies go through five stages of decomposition characterised by progressive physical degeneration. A stage one zombie is at the height of its physical powers. By stage three, with the onset of black putrefaction, the zombie’s bloated body begins to deflate like a punctured tyre, fluids ooze out of its mouth and nostrils and its flesh takes on a creamy consistency. Also, the bones fuse giving the zombie its familiar stiff-limbed walk. A word of warning, though, stage three zombies may be slower on their feet than an arthritic old man, but they’re as powerful as a grizzly and can bite through bone like it was butter.
Jim rubbed his hands together excitedly when I gave him the news. Tommy looked apprehensive. I ducked into the tent. Bob was rummaging through his kitbag.
“Everything alright?” I asked.
He nodded. I told him about the sighting. “We’re heading out in ten.”
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