by Matt Drabble
SURVIVAL ISLAND
MATT DRABBLE
Copyright © 2018 Matt Drabble
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
Chapter
1
Chapter
2
Chapter
3
Chapter
4
Chapter
5
Chapter
6
Chapter
7
Chapter
8
Chapter
9
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
EPILOGUE
OTHER BOOKS
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
BOOKS BY MATT DRABBLE
(see end of this novel for details)
GATED
GATED II: RAVENHILL ACADEMY
GATED III: ELECTION DAY
ASYLUM – 13 TALES OF TERROR
ASYLUM II – 13 MORE TALES OF TERROR
ASYLUM III: CROWTREE MANOR
ABRA-CADAVER
AFTER DARKNESS FALLS VOLUME ONE
AFTER DARKNESS FALLS VOLUME TWO
THE TRAVELLING MAN
THE MONTAGUE PORTRAIT
DOUBLE VISIONS
THE LAST RESORT
GRAVE ROBBERS
SURVIVAL ISLAND
PROLOGUE
The night air was cold enough to bite at any exposed skin. Taylor Cole pulled his jacket up to his ears and tried to bury his face in his scarf to fight against the seeping chill that was working its way into his bones.
He was a small squat man making his way along the empty street, his sunken eyes constantly scanning for witnesses. He clutched a small paper bag tightly to his chest, a bag containing of bottle of his treasure and it was taking every ounce of self-control not to fall to his knees and devour the contents right here on Main Street.
The only thing stopping him right now was the fear of repercussions. The local constable, Caleb Bowman, was a big guy who had thrown his ass into the one holding cell in Clayton on more than one occasion. Bowman had banned him from drinking in town, and even Casey had turned him away earlier in the evening and that big bitch served everyone.
Unable to buy his booze, he had taken to seeking out his own plan, which had included smashing a window at Tommy O’Brien’s store and taking a bottle. He had only taken the one and at this point considered it medicinal.
There was practically no crime on the island of Clayton, and he knew full well that come sunup, Bowman would be looking for him, but right now the sunrise seemed a lifetime away.
He made his way along the makeshift street, sticking as much as he could to the shadows. It was after hours now, and Casey’s Bar had long since turned out its last drunken customer. Island life meant most were early to bed and early to rise, so he didn’t expect to see anyone at this hour, but still he was cautious.
With the bag clutched tightly to his chest, its contents calling out to him, he doubled his pace and was soon clear of the buildings. There was a fire in his belly, one that needed to be doused before he could sleep.
His father had been a drunk and his grandfather and his great-grandfather and so on and so on; it was undoubtedly the family business. He knew that other islanders shunned him on the street and avoided his gaze, especially if he was asking for money.
He lived in a rundown shack away from prying eyes, but in truth, he didn’t spend much time there, preferring the outdoor air and the sanctity of the island’s woodland for comfort. He slept outdoors most nights, but perhaps passed out would be a more accurate description.
There had been a time when he’d craved a normal life, a partner, children, a family to share his time and affection with, but it had been a futile hope, he knew that now. He was a born a drunk. It was his destiny.
He shuffled his way out of town and headed along the track towards the mill. It was the only place in Clayton that held anything approaching a good memory for him.
The logging plant had given him a job and respect at a time when he’d kept his drinking under control. Sure, he’d had a couple with lunch during his shift as supervisor, but he’d never let it interfere with his work, and besides, it was only beer - that wasn’t real drinking. But then the gaps between shots had grown narrower and narrower until there were no gaps at all and he was drinking before, after and during.
Mercifully, no one had died under his watch but Steve Butler had lost two fingers due to a faulty safety rail that Taylor had forgotten to replace and that was all she wrote. Dale Clayton himself had him frogmarched out of the mill and he’d soon found out that Steve Butler had far more friends than Taylor Cole.
He shook his head to cast aside the downbeat thoughts threatening to ruin what was left of his night and hugged his bottle closer to his chest, the one friend who would never leave him or gaze upon him with scorn and contempt.
The mill was on its last legs, no matter what that prick Dale Clayton tried to tell everyone. The town mayor’s family had built the island up into a town, and descendant Dale never missed an opportunity to claim the credit. The whole town knew that the plant was done - and with it, the town. Taylor felt a stab of satisfaction that soon all of Clayton would fall and all those under the watch of the sanctimonious Dale.
The gates were padlocked, but the fence was slack and Taylor lifted a section, squeezing himself through the gap, making sure that his bottle was secure. He sliced his hand open on a rusty piece of metal but his prize was safe, and that was all that mattered.
He made his way up to the mill entrance. The front door was locked, but he quickly found a large enough rock and smashed a window. There was no alarm. He figured that even if crime was an issue on the island, Dale Clayton would have been too cheap to install any sort of security system.
It was strange being back in the building, especially during the darkness hours. He made his way up to Dale Clayton’s office. While the rest of the logging plant was falling apart, the owner’s office was still pristine and no expense had been spared for the prick’s comfort.
There was thick, expensive-looking carpet underfoot, and on a whim, Taylor stopped long enough to piss on it. He had intended to sit in Clayton’s comfy leather recliner and drink himself to sleep, but now, of course, the office stank of his own piss.
Instead, he took the bottle out onto the metal walkway outside of Clayton’s office. The balcony overlooked the mill floor and the big boss man would often stand on his perch, surveying his minions below.
Taylor was leaning over the railing when something clanged against metal somewhere down below in the shadows. He jerked his head up in shock and stood motionless, holding his breath. There shouldn’t have been anyone here at this time of night. Maybe some of the local kids had broken in; it wouldn’t be unheard of.
Eventually, he let his breath out with a long sigh. Maybe it was a rat or other small creature coming for a last look around at the old place. A rat visiting the ship just before it sank seemed appropri
ate.
On a whim, he decided to leave his mark on the mill tonight. He took a bunch of framed certificates, awards and photographs from Clayton’s office. He headed down to the plant floor to take his own goodbye tour.
He drank as he walked, filling his system with burning liquid courage and becoming more emboldened with every step.
Clutching the armful of Clayton’s prized mementos, he dumped them onto the long conveyor belt in the centre of the mill floor. He prayed that the power was still on in the building and his prayers were answered when the truck-stripping machine sparked into life.
The sound was deafening but he was past caring now as he took another long swig from the bottle, fuelling his anger and excitement further.
Clayton’s frames made their way jerkily along the conveyor belt before being smashed to pieces under the heavy metal teeth. Taylor laughed, and his voice was lost in the clanging noise.
As he merrily drank, he was wondering what else of Clayton’s he could drag down here and throw through the chomping jaws, in lieu of the man himself, of course.
He was pondering such thoughts when suddenly, the bottle fell from his hand and smashed to pieces on the concrete floor. He stared down at the spilled precious dark liquid, wondering how he’d dropped it when he noticed that he was actually still holding it.
His pickled brain took some time to process what his eyes were seeing. The broken bottle was still gripped around the neck by his hand, but both were now lying on the ground. He turned his gaze to his arm to find a bloody spurting stump and then he finally felt the pain.
His scream roared momentarily louder than the machinery but didn’t last long.
Just beyond his hand and the remains of the bottle, a circular saw blade with razor sharp teeth was now embedded in the side of the conveyor belt. Clutching his arm with his one remaining hand, he turned around, and as he moved, he felt a rush of wind pass by him, missing his torso by millimetres. A second saw blade had flown by him and smashed into a wooden strut, driving deep into the surface.
Taylor started to stagger away. He’d intended to run, but the shock and blood loss were quickly starting to take their toll.
He stumbled alongside the long conveyor, desperate to get away, his addled mind working off sheer instinct now.
A third blade struck him in the back of his left knee and drove him down to the ground, making any escape now moot. He sank against the side of the conveyor, blood pouring from the two devastating wounds. The third saw blade was still deeply implanted in the back of his leg, its metal teeth sank into bone.
Taylor’s mouth popped open and shut like a starving goldfish. His eyes were bulging wide in pain and terror as he dimly felt a powerful hand grab hold of his collar from behind.
His small squat frame was lifted effortlessly, and then he landed down hard on the conveyor belt rollers. He desperately tried to squirm free as he headed towards the clamping mechanics, fighting to drag himself off the rollers, but a strong hand held him in place.
The man standing over him was muttering something under his breath, but Taylor couldn’t see him clearly. The strong hand pinning him down now started to propel him forward. He was dimly aware that he was heading feet first into the whirling machinery, and as his boots disappeared into the gnashing teeth, the pain was monstrous.
He screamed and screamed, but there was no one to help him. At If he’d gone in head first, at least it could have been over quickly; instead, he was torn to pieces and it took what seemed like an eternity to die.
CHAPTER 1
Homecoming
The ferry swayed slowly across the water through the misty sea air as it approached Clayton. The island lay around four miles off the eastern coast of the UK and as such spent much of its existence under blue skies.
The island was home to around 150 occupants, but figures varied due to the fact that despite being under UK ownership, the island had been left primarily to its own devices. It offered no real monetary or strategic value and had kicked up very little fuss during its 700-year history that most on a governmental level had forgotten its very existence.
Ashley Quinn leaned over the guardrail as she watched the island loom into view. She hadn’t known what to expect upon her return, but her senses felt numbed by the sight.
She’d left Clayton almost 20 years ago and at 43 had not expected to ever return home, but here she was.
She was a tall woman, a little heavier than she’d like to be, but then she figured most people were. She had a short blonde bob which she kept dyed to the roots in a never-ending battle that she was determined not to lose.
She had been a fun happy woman up until her marriage when it had been harder to keep that smile on her face and damn near impossible after a bitter divorce. Life had never blessed her with children and now all she had was her job at Merlin Inc.
“So tell me, Quinn, are they all a bunch of inbred hillbillies?” Jeremy Haynes asked her as he stood to her side and stamped his feet to keep warm. “I mean, am I going to be asked to squeal like a pig?” He laughed.
Quinn smiled along with her boss’s joke; it was nothing that she hadn’t heard before. Most on the mainland viewed the island with suspicion, and rumours ran rife about life on the island of Clayton.
“Truth is, the islanders live their lives much the same as mainlanders, Mr Haynes.” Quinn shrugged as she leaned over the railing.
“Yeah, but what about those religious nuts? The Divines Order or whatever they’re called?” Haynes asked pointedly.
“The Chosen Order of the Nine Divines,” she responded without looking up.
They lived on the far side of the island and had done so for as long as anyone could remember. They were a religious order that largely kept to themselves, save for selling fruit and vegetables to the town on an occasional basis.
Growing up, she’d heard every old wives’ tale going about the Order, from human sacrifice to cannibalism. Of course, it was all nonsense, but the fact that the two sets of occupants rarely mixed only fuelled the fires of the young’s imagination.
“Everyone calls them Niners,” she added.
“Well, are you sure that this is going to go smoothly?”
“Hey now, Mr Haynes, I never told you that it would,” she said, quickly turning to face him. “In fact, if you remember, I told you specifically that I thought this was a bad idea.”
“Lot of money to be made here,” Haynes said, waving her concerns away with the flip of a well-manicured hand.
Jeremy Haynes was the executive in charge of new development at Merlin, and Clayton was his baby.
Quinn had worked at Merlin for the past 9 years or so, and when Haynes had found out that she’d been born on the island, he had come at her hard. The divorce had left her starting again as they had largely split debts fifty-fifty rather than assets. Haynes had promised to take her with him when he ascended to the upper echelons of the company. She had silenced the small warning voice in her head instead of listening to it and was now stood on a cold ferry heading home for the first time in nearly 30 years.
Haynes saw the untapped potential of an island getaway for the wealthy mainlanders looking to own holiday homes. Clayton was rich with natural beauty and largely unspoiled by development; as such, Haynes saw money when he looked at the island.
He was a suave older man in his fifties with the slim build and healthy tan of an outdoor sportsman. He had been stuck at his position in the company too long for his liking. This project was his ticket to Merlin’s top floor; the only thing standing in his way was the Niners.
“So tell me a little more about the guy who runs the place, this Dale Clayton?” Haynes asked, his voice serious and all business as the ferry drew closer.
“The Clayton family are the first family. Dale’s ancestors built the place and a Clayton has run it ever since with Dale being the current boss."
“Officially?”
“Well, I think his official title is mayor, but more importantly than
that, it’s the logging business that keeps the island alive. Clayton Logging is the only game in town and everyone either works for, or earns from, the mill.”
“Until now,” Haynes added pertinently.
“So you say.
“You haven’t kept track of your home town?”
“I hear things from time to time.” She shrugged. “But I haven’t been back in a long time.”
“Bad memories?”
“No, just nothing for me there.”
“No family?”
“My mother passed away when I was young.”
“And your father?”
“Is this important?” she snapped suddenly.
“Hey, just trying to get a lay of the land.”
“Well, stick to island business and stay out of mine. Sorry,” she apologised, remembering she was talking to her boss.
“Fair enough. So tell me a little more about these... Niners,” he said, searching for the name she’d used.
“They live on the far side of the island, up in a huge building. I think it used to be a monastery before they moved in.”
“I’ve seen the aerial photos. It’s going to make a fantastic development site.”
“If they sell.”
“Hey, that Clayton guy seems pretty sure they will.”
“Well, the Claytons promise a lot; they don’t always deliver.”
“That’s what you’re here for, Quinn, my girl: to smooth the waves and make this thing happen. Don’t you forget it. Not if you want a key to the top floor.”
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Dale Clayton watched the ferry from the dock as it drew ever closer. He was standing upright without the usual use of his cane, and right now, he was regretting his vanity as his left leg ached monstrously. On damp days like this, he felt every year and then some of the 56 he’d been on the planet, but he was determined not to show it.
