“I’m a terrorist, remember? I have no honour. My word counts for shit.”
Damien snorted. “There’s your answer, Fox. I’m not about to start a fight that’s ten to two against us. If you want to stay behind and scrap, then go for it, but I’m going back to the Kirkland. Samuel can deal with this shit later.” The rope down to the yacht was still attached and Damien started to descend it, but the woman, Anna, stopped him. For a moment he expected to be attacked.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” she said. “We should trade, share information. There’s too few of us left to be enemies. You killed your own man to protect us.”
“To protect a child.”
“Exactly. You did what was right.”
“You talk to me about doing right, but are you willing to hand over that man? A man who admits he is a terrorist.”
Anna glanced at the cripple and then back at Damien. “Do you believe what he says?”
Damien went to say ‘no’, but found himself stuttering. “I-I…don’t know. It’s crazy.”
Anna nodded. “You need to talk to your friend, Harry, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Damien. He couldn’t deny that speaking to Harry was the only thing on his mind right then.
“Well, until you do,” said Anna. “Until you have no doubt that this man is guilty of trying to commit cold-blooded murder for no good reason, then I cannot in good conscience hand him over. If your captain is responsible for…well, everything, then-”
“Then I can’t help you,” said Damien, and he was telling the truth. Samuel would send more men to the pier as soon as he found out the cripple was there. The fact that Damien was coming back empty handed would make Samuel furious. He’ll kill them all. He’ll send a dozen men ashore with guns from the armoury.
Damien had once witnessed Samuel fire the ship’s cannons at a petroleum tanker that would not share its fuel with the fleet. The hit had torn the ship almost in two. The mere danger of the fuel tanks going up in a huge fireball had been enough to make those still living surrender. They worked as kitchen staff on the Kirkland now. Samuel had been willing to destroy the tanker rather than be denied use of it.
Damien gave Anna one last piece of advice. “You should move on from here.”
“This is our home.”
“Then enjoy it while you can.” Damien shimmied back down to the yacht and waited while Fox came to join him. The older man was surprisingly limber and made it down the rope much quicker than Damien had – although he did have use of both hands.
Damien unhitched the mooring rope and Fox started the motor and shoved the boat into reverse. They puttered away from the pier and were heading back towards the frigate in less than a minute, passing by various boats idling at the edge of the fleet. On the horizon, a tinge of orange had appeared, heralding the arrival of the morning sun. I need sleep. I can’t process any of this until my head is straight.
Fox banged his fist down on the centre of the steering wheel. “The captain is going to shit a brick when we return empty handed, Roman. We were told to recover the cripple at all costs and we’re just walking away.”
“I know.”
“He won’t like that you killed Birch either. He was part of the Kirkland’s roster. We didn’t even bring his body with us. He has friends aboard the ship.”
“I know.”
“And when Samuel hears about your friend, Harry, being involved in everything he’s going to string the fella up by his ears.”
No! Damien drove his spear through Fox’s back, slumping the old man over the steering wheel. Blood poured from his open mouth and splattered the windshield. Fuck fuck fuck. What did I just do? That’s the second man I’ve killed in the last hour. I am so screwed. I am so screwed.
Damien froze. He stared down at the blood dripping from his spear. Murder was taken very seriously in the fleet and he’d just committed the act for the second time – and this time in cold blood. There would be no mercy for Damien if Samuel found out about Fox. His sentence would be harsh. All of Samuel’s sentences are harsh. That’s why I can’t let him find out about Harry. Not until I know the truth.
Glancing around for spectators, Damien carefully folded the old man over his shoulder and carried him to the edge of the yacht. I’m sorry, Fox. You seemed like an okay guy. He slid the body over the railing and let it sink into the sea. Fox’s body was light and floated on the surface of the water. Damien held his breath while he waited for it to descend beneath the wave. The boats and ships all around him were shrouded in the darkness of early dawn. Any of them could have been watching him.
There could be a dozen witnesses. Or none. I just need to stay calm.
Eventually Fox’s limp body slipped beneath the sea and Damien took control of the yacht’s motor. He continued on towards the frigate. He had no idea what the hell he was going to do, but the first thing was to talk to Harry. My dear old friend has a lot of explaining to do, and if the answers are all wrong, I might just have to kill him, too.
HUGO
Hugo crouched down behind the railings of his yacht. He held Houdini in his arms and prayed the little dog did not bark. If he makes a sound, the man will see us.
Having once been a heavy smoker, Hugo had woken at dawn craving nicotine. With cigarettes all but non-existent – not to mention his specific brand of Gitanes – the best he could do was go outside to breathe some fresh air. That was when he had seen the other boat.
It was not uncommon to see other people out on their boats so early in the morning – many of the fleet’s fishermen would rise well before the sun to haul in their catches – but what Hugo had witnessed was most definitely not a common occurrence. I think I just witnessed a murder. Bon sang!
Hugo had been rubbing the sleep from his eyes when he’d noticed a small yacht puttering away from the shore. He’d heard rumours that there were many people living on the nearby pier, and that a greeting party had sailed out from the Kirkland to meet with them. There was yet to be any word on whether or not the new people were friendly, and every time Hugo asked one of the other boats what was happening, they would tell him that the greeting party from the Kirkland had yet to return. Hugo had assumed that the yacht coming towards him was that team finally coming home.
The yacht had stopped suddenly and sputtered to a standstill. Shadows moved within its small pilothouse. Hugo had stared intently, trying to make out the details. Eventually, a grey silhouette came into focus; a man, carrying something over his shoulder. Hugo hadn’t realised it was a body until the man dumped it over the side and let it sink beneath the waves. It was then that Hugo leapt down and hid. Houdini had been sleeping outside as usual and had come up to Hugo for a friendly sniff. Hugo fussed the dog and patted his belly in an attempt to keep him quiet. Praise the lord it had worked. Before long the other yacht revved its engine and resumed its journey, heading towards the Kirkland until it was out of sight. Hugo stayed hidden for several more minutes before finally straightening up with a click of his knees. I pray they did not see me. I have daughters to protect.
Houdini let out a shrill bark, almost as if he’d been waiting for the chance to do so. Hugo patted him on the head. “Clever boy. You and me make a good team, mon ami.”
Hugo swallowed. What should I do? Do I even know what I just saw? He chewed the inside of his cheek and tried to think things through. If he had just witnessed a murder then he needed to do something. There were no policemen anymore, or even newspapers to run a story, but there was still law and order in the fleet. I should tell Mr Raymeady. He is our centre of law and order now. He will do what is right.
But nobody got to see Mr Raymeady easily. The man never left the Kirkland and civilians were not allowed on the frigate without good reason. But you have a good reason, Hugo. You need to report a murder.
Yet, what information do I have? I saw a silhouette of a man, nothing more. I didn’t even see a murder take place. What I actually saw was a body being dumped. No more, no less.
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Then it’ll do no harm bringing it to Mr Raymeady’s attention. He is the captain of the fleet. He needs to know everything that goes on.
Hugo walked across the short aft deck of his yacht and entered the main cabin. His daughters still slept beneath the covers of the converted sofa bed. The yacht was single berth and the one bedroom belonged to Hugo. Being a father was hard even before the dead walked. Somehow, even in this new world, it’s still the actions of men that scare me most.
Hugo sat down on the floor with Houdini on his lap and waited for the day to arrive. Once it did, he would head for the Kirkland at once.
GARFIELD
Garfield blinked as the sunlight filled his eyes. The windows surrounding the drained swimming pool were long and tall and let the morning through in full force. It was January, so the fact that the sun was well risen meant mid-morning was upon them.
It was too dangerous to travel by night. The dead could creep up on you in the dark. Garfield and the other foragers had taken advantage of the lie-in – even now they were curled up beneath their sleeping bags and blankets, snoring – but it was time to get going. Can’t sleep forever. A man sleeps long enough he gets to not wanting to wake up at all.
Garfield gathered his things together and placed them back inside the old Army Bergan he’d brought with him. He’d found the bulky satchel at a Salvation Army store several months ago and would always wear it when heading out for more than a day. Before he zipped the bag up, he slid out a couple of knives and strapped them to each of his thighs. He was already armed with a hand axe and a screwdriver, but wanted to have a few more weapons handy. They were about to enter unknown territory. It was best to be prepared.
The dead were already beginning to grow in number as the foragers trekked further from the pier. The fringes of Torquay had swarmed with them – especially a little place called Brixham.
Brixham was a seaside town with a life-sized replica of the Golden Hind sitting in its harbour. Garfield had only taken them there as a way of circumventing the larger towns, which started with Torquay, but things turned out badly. The foragers had gotten cornered inside a little newsagent and had needed to hack their way clear of a dozen dead men. They almost hadn’t made it – Lemon tripped and stumbled right into a dead boy’s arms at one point, and only just managed to dodge its snapping jaws – but luckily they’d left a vehicle idling nearby and were able to get the hell out of there before the dead closed in on them.
The Range Rover at the church had been a no go. Despite its fine condition, it just wouldn’t start. Eventually the foragers chanced upon a Nissan minibus built to hold seven. It started more or less straight away, once they discovered the keys still inside. It was surreal to hear an engine start after so long, but once they were safely on the road, Garfield almost felt like he was back in his old life – commuting to his job at a tyre fitter’s garage with sleep in his eyes and whiskey on his breath. Not sure I miss it all that much. I certainly don’t miss the hangovers.
Garfield had led a lonely existence before the world fell. Besides his elderly mother, he’d had no one he cared about – and no one who cared about him. He visited the pub with his co-workers from time to time, but never held any of them dear. He’d been single for nigh on two years, ever since a particularly bad break-up with a girl named Jenny. The feisty brunette had dumped him for his lack of ambition, but the truth of it was that she wanted a man with more money. When she later took another lover, Garfield was not surprised to hear that the man was rich. Garfield’s self-worth had never been lower.
But once the world ended, his old failings ceased to matter. All around him people died, every second a new person torn to shreds. But Garfield survived. The Army shattered and the police were torn apart in the street. But Garfield survived. The Prime Minister himself had died and the American President had gone missing. But Garfield survived. He was stronger than them all. He was a survivor. Suddenly he was worthy. Pretty soon people were relying on him, counting on him to protect them. Garfield had become someone who mattered. He relished the feeling of being needed, and when he’d rescued Poppy, he even felt heroic. But that feeling soon changed into something less welcome – responsibility. The young girl’s survival was his number one priority. He’d assumed ownership of her when he plucked her away from her undead parents. Whether she lived or died was on him, and that had been more power than he’d been looking for. Eventually his responsibility turned to affection and perhaps something even more. Providing Poppy with what she needed had become his all-consuming focus, but it was difficult. He had to keep leaving her, for one thing. The group needed food and supplies; Poppy needed food and supplies. And right now they needed guns, too. If Poppy was going to grow up safe and protected, Garfield needed to make sure that they were never at the mercy of a bigger, badder group of survivors.
Kirk was heading towards him. He was one of the newest members of the foragers and one of the youngest also, yet he had been voted in as second-in-command to Garfield. The group had done that mainly to make the guy feel included. He was often insecure about the fact he had not been at the pier as long as everybody else. It made the kid eager to prove himself, and a little reckless. He was carrying a bottle of water and offered some to Garfield. “Breakfast?”
Garfield waved a hand. “Keep it. I have my own.”
Kirk shrugged. “So what’s the plan? I say we start making directly north. Yesterday proved that we’re going to run into trouble regardless of where we go.”
Garfield sighed. “I agree. We’ll stick to the countryside, though.”
Kirk took a swig of water and then said, “Why not use the motorways?”
“Because the motorways are full of zombies.” Most people had been in their cars fleeing when the infection began its work. Nobody had known where he or she was heading; they’d all just been overtaken by the urge to run. Eventually the traffic gridlocked and the infection caught up with them. The motorways choked up with slaughter for hundreds and hundreds of miles. Garfield had seen it with his own eyes. He never wanted to go back to the motorways.
“Everywhere is full of zombies,” said Kirk. “At least on the motorway we can just drive through ‘em.”
Garfield hoisted his Bergan up onto his shoulder and sighed. “You can’t just run through a crowd of bodies, not to mention all of the wrecks on the road. Best chance we got is to head through farmland; the fewer obstacles in our path the better. Every time we get held up our chance of not making it home increases.”
Kirk sniffed. “Whatever you say, boss. I’ll get everyone ready to leave and set off in ten.”
“Five,” said Garfield. “We need to get a move on.”
Kirk nodded. “Five minutes, then.” He walked away.
Garfield didn’t have a great deal of affection for Kirk. Up until three months ago, he’d been surviving on the road, ever since the dead first rose. He understood the walking dead better than anybody and for that reason, Kirk was perhaps better suited to lead than Garfield was – a notion clearly not lost on Kirk – but Garfield had been at the pier for almost a year and had always led the foraging parties. The group trusted him. And while he exercised caution wherever possible, Kirk seemed to prefer running into situations headfirst. That was all well and good when it had just been him alone on the road, but when other people’s lives were at risk caution was the way to go. Can’t deny the man is useful, though. No man takes on the dead like he does.
“Garf, everybody is ready,” Kirk shouted impatiently from over by the changing room entrance. Garfield did a quick spot check of his weapons and then headed off to join them. Everyone looked well rested, which was good because Garfield planned on moving nonstop until nightfall. By the time they camped again, all of them would be tired.
Cat nodded to him as he approached. “I just stuck my head out the door. It seems all clear.”
Garfield nodded. “Good. Let’s get going then.”
Outside the leisure centre sat the Nissan minivan.
It was currently empty. They’d taken their supplies inside overnight in case of looters. Encountering other survivors was rare, but it happened from time to time. They were more often hostile than friendly. Not much different from the way the world used to be in that sense.
One of the foragers, Lemon – so-called because of an unexplained tattoo of the yellow fruit on his forearm – nudged Garfield and pointed with his chin. Garfield glanced across the road and saw what he was referring to. A dead man stumbled towards them. It wasn’t moaning like most did, because of a carving knife sticking out the front of his throat. Someone had obviously tried to take the man’s head off, but gave up when the knife got stuck.
Cat cursed. “He wasn’t here a minute ago. Sneaky git!”
“He’s s-s-seen us,” Lemon said. “We’ll have to deal with him.”
Garfield cleared his throat and glanced at Kirk. “You want to do the honours?”
Kirk grinned. “Nothing I’d enjoy more, boss.” He swaggered up to the zombie in the road and waited calmly in front of him. The dead man reached out with grasping hands, but Kirk threw himself into a delicate cartwheel and ended up behind his attacker. The other foragers cheered. Kirk kicked the zombie in the rump, sending him flopping forward onto his belly. The other foragers laughed.
Garfield sighed. Here we go.
Kirk waited for the dead man to get up off the ground, before leaping up and kicking him in the side of the head. He topped the move off by spinning around and backheeling the zombie in the chest and cracking some ribs with an audible clack. None of blows were effective – the only way to take down a zombie was to injure the brain – but Kirk seemed to find a type of sport in battering down his enemies before dispatching them skilfully.
“Just get on with it,” shouted Lemon, laughing heartily. “Or marry the guy and b-b-bugger off.”
Kirk looked back at his colleagues and chuckled. He gave them a quick bow as if to conclude his performance. A claw hammer appeared from his belt and he smashed it into the dead man’s forehead. It dropped the zombie immediately, but the body still twitched on the floor. Kirk gave the skull one last blow from his hammer and it was done. The dead man’s head crumbled like it was made of papier mache.
The BIG Horror Pack 2 Page 43
