“Ah, fuck,” I hissed.
I didn’t have many options so I drew the Glock from the back of my waistband, aiming the barrel at the approaching undead. I glanced across the basement to the ring of faint light surrounding the ladder at the far side of the room. I had to try and make it across the floor space.
I switched off the flashlight. The light beam was only attracting the undead to my position. My eyes had become accustomed to the gloom and I’d have to move at speed with free hands to clamber up the ladder and get out of harm’s way in time.
I slipped the flashlight into my pocket, took a deep breath and darted from behind the generator, heading for the ladder. The undead in the center of the basement roared and took swipes at me as I rushed to the circle of light. I felt the rush of air against my cheek as undead hands came close to tearing at my skin.
I almost reached the ladder when my foot rolled across a limb from a spread-eagled corpse that I’d speared to death earlier. I lost my balance and fell forward, hitting a soft, squishy surface. I rolled around onto my back and saw two zombies rapidly approach from the gloom. I aimed the Glock and fired, then moved target and fired again. The rounds echoed loudly around the basement. My first shot was good and dropped the zombie where it stood. The second shot only winged the other ghoul, hitting it in the shoulder but still managing to send it crashing against the side wall.
The undead surged from the darkness, moving forward towards the light at the foot of the ladder. I scrabbled backwards, tripping and stumbling across corpses and feeling with my free hand behind me for the ladder rungs. My fingers touched against something metallic and I realized it was the side frame of the ladder. The undead closed in, reaching out for me but stumbled, as I’d done over the feet and hands of the corpses around the base of the metal steps.
I gripped the frame and hauled myself closer towards the ladder. I took a gamble and turned away from the cluster of undead. Glancing back over my shoulder, I estimated I had around three seconds to crawl up the rungs and get away from the grasping hands.
Gritting my teeth, I gripped the ladder, pumped my legs against the rungs, knocking my knees against the horizontal metals bars. It was one of those moments when I expected to feel the intense pain of a bite somewhere at the back of my legs.
The pain didn’t come and I hauled myself through the hatchway and rolled onto the floor of the cleaning station above Maintenance Point B. I lay still, breathing heavily for at least one minute with the sounds of the wailing undead and the rumbling compressor ringing in my ears.
I forced myself to stand and dropped the hatch cover back over the entrance to the basement. I tucked the Glock handgun back into my waistband and headed back through the jail cells towards the reception area.
Ignoring the groans from the undead inside the cells, I realized I’d left both the compressor and the PA system operation manuals down in the basement. I couldn’t remember how the hurricane warning alarm was activated so I’d have to rely on good, old fashioned tinkering to start it. I wasn’t going back down into that basement. No way.
I slumped against the wall inside the reception kiosk, staring down at the microphone and control box. I pressed the ‘all call’ button and a red light blinked on. At least it showed the darn thing had some power pumping through it. I hit the button marked ‘talk’ and tried my heavy breathing act once again. This time I heard a rumbling echo from the speakers inside the kiosk and those hanging on the walls around the reception area. I performed a fist pump and silently congratulated myself. Now all I had to do was set off the goddamn hurricane alarm. How the hell did I do that?
I scanned every button on the control box and saw one was colored red, positioned on the far edge of the panel and covered with a little transparent plastic cover. I flipped up the cover with my thumb nail and pressed the button. A loud, high pitched sound, like guitar feedback screeched from the microphone and every other speaker within the vicinity. The sound lasted for around three seconds, almost deafening me in the process. I dived across the kiosk, holding my hands over my ears.
The sound changed to a two tone signal, repeating over and over again. A woman’s recorded voice started to recite something about a warning message but the words were so distorted through the speakers I couldn’t make out what she was saying.
I backed out of the kiosk, still with my hands covering my ears. I hoped I’d activated the hurricane alarm and the outside speakers were broadcasting the warning tone. Now it was time to see if my plan had worked and head back to the harbor.
Chapter Seventy-Three
With a renewed sense of purpose, I hurried back up to the higher level inside the public building. The hurricane alarm rang in my ears from every speaker on each level and the woman continued to spout her recorded message.
I moved to the edge of the building when I reached the roof space, peering over the low boundary wall into the town square. The alarm sounded from the outside public address speakers and the undead turned to stare at the woman’s perpetual instruction and the noisy two tone alarm. They began hustling their way across the square and pressing against the glass entranceway to the courthouse. More zombies flooded into the square, pushing their undead counterparts from behind. They were attracted to the loud noise like flies around cow shit. My plan, unbelievably appeared to be effective. It was a rare thing for a situation to work in my favor.
When I heard the sound of glass breaking below me, I knew it was time to leave the rooftop. The undead had pushed their way through the plate glass entrance and would be flooding the lobby below me. I closed up the reception kiosk before I’d vacated the building and hoped no eagle eyed zombie would spot the flashing red light on the control panel and break their way inside. I anticipated I’d have at least twenty or thirty minutes before the undead busted up the courthouse or stopped the compressor and accidently silenced the hurricane siren.
I rushed across the rooftops, doubling back on my original path and occasionally stopping to monitor the situation below. The undead seemed to be attracted to the hurricane alarm from all over town and headed into the square, crushing and jostling each other to reach their destination.
I returned to the loft space above the seafood restaurant and took a deep breath before I ducked back through the skylight. The dust and stench still remained and I hurried down the step ladder then descended the staircase, my feet thudding against the wooden floorboards as I moved. The air still stank of long dead fish in the backyard of the property and again I struggled to keep the contents of my stomach in place.
I moved into the alley at the side of the restaurant but kept to the shadows, wary of any undead stragglers I might encounter. I edged to the mouth of the alleyway and peered out into the street. A few undead with mangled legs, who had difficulty moving still made their way towards the town square. Some zombies without any legs at all crawled through the dirt behind their counterparts.
I scurried through the dark recesses of storefronts and porches, heading back to the harbor. I glanced across the street at the sky and saw the sun dipping away from the horizon. Maybe there was only around forty-five minutes of daylight left.
I retraced my steps and gazed out from the covered front of a closed up rum bar facing the bay. The harbor looked deserted, with only the odd prone and rotting corpse blotting the landscape. I stayed hidden for as long as possible until I was near the jetty. I glanced around and couldn’t see any undead or threatening militia. I decided to make a break for it. I didn’t want to hang around on these damn streets a second longer.
I broke cover, running at a jogging pace for the wooden jetty.
“Oi, Wilde Man,” called out a voice from behind me.
I stopped in my tracks, feeling around the back of my waistband for the grip of the Glock. I wasn’t taking any chances. I turned and saw a figure stumble from the entranceway to one of the shack like beach bars. It was Tony. He looked pale and sweaty and the front of his shirt was covered in blood. He staggered towar
ds me clutching a wound on his left forearm with his right hand and an expression of regret and sadness engulfed his face.
“What’s going on, Tony?” I asked warily, drawing the handgun behind my back.
“I’m sorry, Wilde Man,” he stammered, drawing closer. “I’m sorry I left you and I’m sorry I called you a bell end.” Tears welled in his eyes and his voice cracked as he spoke.
I nodded to the blood dripping from his arm. “What happened to you, man?”
Tony gritted his teeth and glanced out to sea. “I got fucking tagged, mate. Bitten by some ugly bastard not long after we split up. I should never have gone on my own.” He shook his head and blinked away tears.
I felt sorry for Tony but it was his choice to go his own way. “You know what that means?” I asked.
He nodded without opening his eyes. “I just wanted to make sure I saw you before…well, before, you know…I wanted to apologize and tell you how much I admire what you’re trying to do.”
I nodded. “Thanks,” I grunted.
Tony opened his eyes and stared at me. We looked at each other for a while, not sure how the conversation was going to conclude. The situation could only end in one way. Tony was infected and was going to turn.
“I want you to end it, Wilde Man,” Tony muttered. “I want you to finish it for me. I don’t want to come back as one of those rotting bastards.”
I took a deep breath, unsure I wanted to shoot Tony in the head at that precise moment. I just wanted to rest and get some sleep.
“Maybe we should wait awhile and just see…” I didn’t get the time to finish my sentence.
I heard the ‘crack-zip’ sound a fraction of a second before Tony’s head exploded in a cloud of red and he slammed onto the ground with blood pooling around what remained of his skull.
Speckles of blood splashed across my face and I recoiled a few paces, drawing the handgun around in front of me.
“Shit, shit,” I gasped, swiveling the firearm around and desperately searching for a target. “What the fuck, man?” My brain struggled to immediately compute what had just happened. The hurricane siren still blared away in the distance masking any sound of movement around me.
It slowly dawned on me that I was out in the open, halfway between the surrounding harbor buildings and the jetty. I was in no man’s land without any form of close cover. A dream target for a sniper.
Chapter Seventy-Four
I struggled to breathe as I spun around in aimless circles, searching for any signs of movement amongst the harbor buildings. Nobody popped up from the rooftops and I realized I was probably lined up in the sniper’s sights right now. The gun shook in my hands and my chest tightened with fear. I briefly wondered if I was going to have a heart attack before the sniper could shoot me. Bizarrely, I willed on a coronary rather than a sniper’s bullet causing my head to explode.
What were the bastards waiting for? Why didn’t they just get the deed over and done with and shoot me already?
“Hey, you,” yelled a deep voice.
I turned to the boats bobbing around the jetty, where I thought the voice had come from. I couldn’t see anyone and wondered if I had imagined somebody calling me.
“Hey, asshole,” came the voice again. “You better put that gun down on the ground right now.” The accent had a Spanish inflection so I knew it wasn’t my alternative self, unless he was kidding around.
My gaze fell on a thick set, heavily bearded man, dressed in the militia green uniform and leaning against the guard rails on the top deck of an expensive looking yacht moored at the jetty. The guy’s uniform was heavily sweat stained in the center of his chest and below his armpits. The man was above me and roughly thirty yards from where I stood. I recognized him from the castle’s interior building and realized he must have escaped in the truck with the sniper. I aimed my Glock at him and his dark eyes narrowed into a serious expression. His was skin was deeply tanned and his face looked as though it was made from old shoe leather.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, friend,” he said, with underlying menace in his tone. “You have to have good aim to make that shot with a handgun and I’ll wager my eagle-eye will drop you before you can even fire off a single round.”
He nodded slightly to his left and I followed his gesture. I saw the militia woman, the sniper who had shot so many of my party, lying on the deck with the barrel of her rifle trained on me. I didn’t doubt for one second that the guy was correct.
“Shall we try again, friend?” the guy sneered. “Toss the gun onto the ground.”
I realized I didn’t have much choice and reluctantly complied. I crouched and placed the Glock on the sandy ground in front of me. Tossing it away seemed excessive but I still didn’t understand why they hadn’t simply shot me on the spot. I stood up straight again, glancing between the guy and the sniper.
The guy smiled falsely. “My congratulations and gratitude for drawing the dead vultures away from the harbor so we could get on a boat,” he said. “We watched you hopping around the rooftops like a little bird.” He flapped two fingers backwards and forwards to indicate a running maneuver then croaked out a laugh. “We were stuck inside that building across the harbor and like you; we couldn’t get to the boats.” He nodded to the far side of the bay.
I realized they’d watched my movements all along. I’d fooled or gotten the better of nobody. I’d achieved nothing.
“So, what do you want with me?” I sighed, feeling dejected and like a condemned man approaching the gallows.
“You mean, why haven’t we shot you yet?” the guy sneered.
I said nothing. They weren’t keeping me alive because I’d led the zombies away from the harbor. They wanted something more.
“Your other pal had the right idea. The big guy. He got back into that truck you stole and just drove away.” The guy flapped his hand at the hillside above the bay. “We would have shot him too but he was too far out of range. We watched him through the scope and saw him go. He won’t be back.” The militia man disparagingly shook his head.
I presumed the guy was talking about Smith. At least, he’d got away and would be able to sort out the mess the militia guys had left behind on the island.
I shrugged. “So what?” I snapped, with false bravado. “The guy turned chicken shit, big deal.” I was playing for time, trying to act like a tough guy. What did I have to lose? Maybe they’d adopt a warrior’s code and respect me enough to let me go. Somehow, I doubted it.
“He is none of our concern, for now,” the militia guy said. “We will return with a force and take back this island in the future. You can be sure of that. Right now, we just need to know one thing before we part ways.”
Here came the punch line and I knew it wouldn’t be humorous.
“I need to know if that warship of yours out there on the reef is repairable. Give me an honest answer and the end will come quickly for you. Jerk me around with bullshit and you will die slowly and painfully. You will be amazed what a round from a sniper rifle can do to the human body at close range.”
“I’ve seen the damage,” I snapped, nodding at Tony’s corpse on the ground to my right.
The guy smiled. “That was a kill shot, friend. He was infected so we did him a favor. It will take a few rounds to leave you in pain and unable to move from where you stand but you will live long enough for the dead to come back and feast on your dying body.”
“Sounds like a blast,” I groaned.
The guy huffed a laugh and pulled a pained expression. “It will be dark soon and we need to get going. Also, and no offense to you personally but I am growing bored of our conversation. So, what state is the warship in?”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say. How could I come back with more time wasting quips or anecdotes? My time was up but I didn’t want to be left shot up and in agony for the undead to claim.
I had no choice but to tell the truth and hope for a quick, one shot death.
Chapter Seven
ty-Five
“Well…we dived down into the sea to take a look at the ship’s hull,” I started, deciding to prolong the diagnosis for as long as possible. The guy had already told me the militia planned on returning to the island in force and he obviously wanted to know if they’d have a fully operational warship hampering their arrival.
“Yes, I know all that,” the militia guy snapped impatiently. “Just tell me if it can be put back to sea.”
I opened my mouth to speak but heard and felt something hot shooting rapidly over my left shoulder. The yacht where the militia guy and the sniper were positioned erupted into a colossal inferno in front of me. The explosion rocked my senses and a huge fireball surrounded by thick black smoke plumed high into the air.
I hunkered down as red hot debris scattered the ground all around me. I scooped up the Glock and turned in every direction, wondering what the hell was going on.
The shower of fragments subsided but the flames still burned from the wreckage of the boat. My ears rung in a monotone sound and I felt totally dazed and confused. I spun around in a circle anticipating another attack from a different angle.
The ringing in my ears faded slightly and I heard the noise of the hurricane alarm still singing in the distance. Two guys emerged from a shaded recess between two beach bars facing the jetty. One was a thin, bearded man, dressed in dark green coveralls with his hands bound together with cable lock ties and the other guy was big and wore a pair of dark shades. He held some kind of large, smoking weapon at his shoulder and carried a green metal case at his side. I raised the Glock, aiming at the approaching figures.
“Don’t you hate it when assholes threaten you with torture? Anyhow, put the pop gun away, Wilde Man,” the big guy with the weapon said. “We got work to do.”
I lowered the handgun, with a combination of shock, disbelief and surprise. “Smith? How…I mean, what the fuck? You nearly shot me with that damn thing.” I pointed to the smoking weapon on his shoulder. “What the hell is that anyhow? And who is this guy trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey?”
The Left Series (Book 6): Left On An Island Page 31
