THE YACHT
by Iain Rob Wright
Copyright © Iain Rob Wright 2016
All rights reserved
The right of Iain Rob Wright to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters,
organisations and events portrayed in this novel are
either products of the authors’ imaginations
or are used fictitiously.
First published in 2016 by Infected Books
www.infectedbooks.co.uk
@infectedbks
Cover design by David Naughton-Shires
www.theimagedesigns.com
Iain Rob Wright’s website
www.facebook.com/authoriainrobwright
@iainrobwright
TABLE OF CONTENTS
YEAR OF THE ZOMBIE
THE YACHT
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY IAIN ROB WRIGHT
ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE ZOMBIE
ALSO FROM INFECTED BOOKS
MONTH THREE
THE YACHT
CHAPTER ONE~
The sun licked hungrily at the back of Emily’s neck, drawing beads of sweat like a thousand invisible syringes. When she rubbed her hand there she felt hot pinpricks and realized she’d sunburned. No surprise, really. Sailing the Costa de Morisco in July was a recipe for peeling skin and sweaty armpits – but stay in the oven long enough and you’d eventually be a crisp, golden bun. The real joy of tanning on the sundeck of your own private yacht was that you didn’t have to rub elbows with an obese family from Croydon like you would on a typical Spanish beach. The days of package holidays and all-inclusive booze were behind her. Only the finest plonk would do nowadays for Emily Tyler.
She’d struck fried gold when she’d met – and married – her husband, Ross Tyler. The nature of his business – farming equipment – was unsexy, certainly, but the profits were a massive turn on. During their first year of courting, Ross had taken her all over the world, driven her around in his Maserati, and allowed her to taste lobster for the very first time (she hadn’t cared for it, but had pretended otherwise). For a butcher’s daughter from Redcar, it was a massive step up in the world, and she had fallen into the role of middle-class girlfriend so comfortably that she hadn’t hesitated in accepting Ross’s marriage proposal when it had come. In the three years they’d been wed, she’d wanted for nothing, which was why the yacht she currently lazed on bore her name. The EMILY-DEVINE.
She glanced up at the sky, watching the clouds drift along gently like fluffy sheep in a line, and wondering how she had got there. More importantly: what did the future hold? Right now she had no clue.
Boredom had been a surprise to Emily. She’d spent so much of her youth – her student days right through to the moment she married Ross – dreaming of success and fortune, that when she finally got it, she was left feeling… unfulfilled. Her friends no longer held anything in common (most of them now hated her), and Ross worked often. It was lonely, and there was no longer anything to strive for. If she wanted a new necklace, she bought it. New car, bought it. New anything? Bought it.
Money removed the yearning from life.
Ross wasn’t all he’d cracked up to be either. Emily stared at him now while he crouched on the 100ft Sunseeker’s rear deck, next to the anchor recall and fishing perch. Emily was up top on the sun deck, struggling to relax – although what she was really doing was making a point. She and Ross had kept their space for the last twenty-four hours after what had occurred yesterday afternoon. He had tried to hurt her, but had been the one who ended up suffering.
Her throat still throbbed where his thumbs had dug in.
The man she’d married had always been forceful – able to intimidate others with the mere strength of his confidence. Whenever they dined out (always at the finest restaurants), the waiters would hurry around anxiously despite Ross never being anything other than polite. People instinctively feared upsetting her husband.
Emily had feared it too.
She had never antagonised him during their first year of marriage, and very rarely in the second, but during this last year she’d finally begun to dig her heels in regarding certain things. Working hours – for one. Ross would often leave as early as 6AM and not return until midnight, with barely a text message in between. An affair was possible – it always was with men – but even if it was just honest hard work, Emily had no intention of being wed to a ghost. She needed to see her husband. And she bloody well told him so. The argument last month ended with her threatening divorce and vowing to take half his money. If she saw nothing of him anyway, what would be the difference? She had access to his money already, so just hand it over and part ways. It had been a bluff, of course, and not something she was proud of – but it had worked.
Yet Ross had seemed resentful during their voyage to Portugal’s Silver Coast. He’d explained it away as a headache at first, but that had not kept him off his phone, trying to conduct business back home. When he’d lost signal sixty-miles off France’s West Coast, he’d become downright sulky. Didn’t he enjoy spending time with her? What was the point of having so much money if you couldn’t drag yourself away long enough to enjoy it?
She’d spent most of last night alone and in tears – then she had passed out. The shock of what had happened, mixed with too much booze, had left her comatose for several hours. If only she had dealt with the situation sooner.
It had all happened because she’d taken a stupid look at his phone.
God, she’d been angry.
So angry that, yesterday afternoon, she’d confronted him. ‘What did I say I would do if I ever caught you cheating on me?’ she demanded. ‘I said I’d cut your goddamn balls off!’
He didn’t bother trying to deny it. Instead, he shocked her by flying off the handle and attempting to strangle her right there on the sun deck. No words, no emotion, just rage. Like she was the one who had done something wrong! How dare she check his phone! How dare she be upset by his cheating! Arsehole.
If she hadn’t snooped, maybe he wouldn’t have snapped like a lunatic, but what else had she been supposed to do? Surviving her husband’s savage attack had been a mere stroke of luck. If things had gone even slightly differently…
Ross still crouched on the rear deck. Emily didn’t know what to do. How could she remedy the situation? How did you go about talking to your husband about the fact he attacked you? Or that you passed out and left him for dead?
With a sigh, Emily pulled her feet off the sun lounger, leant over the railing, and took a long look at the man she’d married. Ross’s sleek torso glistened with salt water. From her vantage point, he looked every part the millionaire dreamboat on the cover of a romance novel, just not quite as healthy as normal. His skin seemed just a little less sun kissed and a little more sallow. She should never have left him on the rear deck all night. He would never forgive her.
Their marriage was over.
He glared up at her with hungry eyes. Snarled.
Fuck him! Least he’s not dead. I would be if I hadn’t fought back. I don’t owe him anything.
Emily got up, taking the bottle of half-finished Prosecco with her. She took the ladder down to the rear deck and approached her husband cautiously.
The moment she was near, he hissed at her like an animal.
&nbs
p; ‘Oh, calm down, you arsehole,’ Emily told him ‘It’s me who should be pissed off. I’ve come to see if you’re okay. I didn’t mean to leave you all night. I… I drank a bit too much too quickly, but can you blame me? My nerves were shot.’
Ross was silent, but kept his eyes on her like a cat watching a mouse. His sclera had reddened, the spongy white flesh now criss-crossed with burst blood vessels, and his nose still dripped blood from where she’d struck him in the face with the granite lamp.
After having somehow slipped free of his attempt to strangle her last night, Emily grabbed the closest thing to hand, which had been the heavy lamp. The blow was hard enough to hear Ross’s face crack, and it had sent him staggering backwards out of the lounge cabin and right over the safety rail. He hit the boards of the rear deck below with a sickening clunk!
Foolishly, she had run down to help him.
Despite everything, Emily still loved Ross – would have likely married him with or without money. She liked the way he held her in his powerful arms at night, or could educate her on any given subject if she asked a question. He was a man of knowledge and action, and she felt safe and confident by his side. The selfish side of him had not been apparent at first, but it had never been enough to stop her loving him.
Now things were a mess.
Waking up this morning, with a skull-thudding hangover and a feeling of doom in her guts, she’d expected to find Ross dead. He’d been badly hurt by what had happened shortly after being hit with the lamp, and she should have helped him right away, but she had been so mad… and so drunk. So when she had peeked out of the lounge window down at the rear deck, she was relieved to see Ross alive – and still visibly pissed off. He had immediately reached out an arm to her and growled. His injuries weren’t all that bad if he could still think about hurting her. Bastard.
So she had left the son-of-a-bitch to suffer a little more.
As she looked at him now though, she regretted the decision.
Up close, she noticed blood crusting his groin, and other foul substances leaking down the inside of his thighs. He looked like a monster, and the hatred in his eyes made it clear he would act like one if released.
Why did he still want to hurt her?
I really shouldn’t have left him overnight, she thought to herself.
CHAPTER TWO
Midday was too hot to stay up on the sun deck, so Emily moved into the lounge while she tried to keep from panicking. There she continued to drink Prosecco and ruminate. It was crazy that she hadn’t already got Ross help, first passing out drunk after burying her head in the sand, then leaving him to fester even longer out of malice.
She had to make a plan.
Lifting her bum from the sofa, Emily again peeked down at the rear deck. Ross glared right back at her.
Oh god, this is such a mess.
The Prosecco bottle on the table was empty, but she didn’t want any more alcohol. She’d begun to feel sick, and the room was spinning. If she had any chance of figuring things out, she needed to clean up and face things rationally. Problem was, the thought of facing things sober was frightening. Her husband was possibly dying, and she was drifting somewhere off the Spanish Coast without a clue what to do. Alone and far from home.
Ross hunched over the spot where their fight had ended yesterday afternoon.
When she had hurried down the ladder to help Ross after his fall from the upper deck, he’d leapt straight back up and resumed trying to throttle her. In their struggle, they tumbled backwards and collided with the anchor return port. The back of Ross’s head thumped against the steel lever hard enough to knock most men out, but he didn’t so much as flinch.
The steel chain started ravelling, leaping up out of the water.
Ross grabbed Emily’s head with both hands. He was strong – much stronger than her – and she was completely powerless as his grinding teeth inched closer and closer to her cheek. He was trying to bite her. Blood spilled from his nose and splashed into his own mouth like a cave at the bottom of a waterfall. He was going to bite her nose right off her face – revenge for breaking his with the lamp.
He was insane.
Emily had closed her eyes and screamed, seeing stars as her husband’s thumbs pressed into her temples like tightening screws.
She begged.
The anchor’s chain continued leaping up out of the water. The noise the rotor made was loud enough to drown out her screams. Ross’s skull still pressed down on the lever.
Clunk clunk clunk, it had gone. Clunk clunk clunk.
Emily could still hear the sound now, as she headed out of the lounge, deciding that she would sober up quicker in the fresh air. Now, past six o’clock, the sun was gentler and easier to bear. Her sunburned neck and shoulders still stung as the salty spray settled on them, but the pain faded. She went to the railing and leant over. At first her eyes saw fields of blue all around, holding the ship in place, but then she spotted her husband.
‘Ross, honey, can you speak?’
He grunted.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe this has happened. I didn’t realise you were so badly hurt.’ A tear rolled down her cheek. She could barely look at the bloody, shit-stained mess that was now her husband. ‘Will you please just try to say something to me?’
He grunted again.
Wiping tears from her face, Emily climbed down to the rear deck and stood in front of Ross. He swiped out at her angrily, only narrowly missing her face. The stench from his fingertips wafted up her nose and turned her stomach.
Furious, she took a step back and pointed a finger. ‘You caused this, Ross. You cheated on me, and then tried to hurt me when I found out about it. I don’t understand why you’re acting this way. I haven’t done anything wrong. All I wanted was to spend some time with you. I love you, goddamnit.’
Ross tilted his head, ground his teeth. A bloody slit ran through his lower lip and his chin was caked with gore. He must be in agony.
What the hell was Emily doing? He needed her. Yes, he had cheated – a lot by the look of his text messaging history – but he didn’t deserve this. He must be in so much pain, probably delirious. He was only swiping out at her because he didn’t know what was happening. All he knew was pain. His guts hung out and now he was covered in his own shit, yet he was still trying to pull himself free and stand up. Maybe there was still time to help him. If only she had called the moment it had happened, or at least first thing in the morning when she awoke from her coma.
If only they hadn’t fought. If only things had gone differently.
When the anchor had leapt free of the water… Ross’s entire body had lurched sideways… His hands had let go of her head, and suddenly she was free.
Panting and wheezing, Emily had staggered backwards, crashing into the side rail and bruising her hip. She put out an arm, ready to fend off another attack, but Ross didn’t come after her this time. He twisted side-to-side, tugging on something like a dog with a bone.
Blood soaked his swim shorts.
The anchor had impaled Ross through the hip, tethering him in place against the recall machine A couple of inches to the left and it would have missed him completely but, as it had happened, it pierced through a sizeable chunk of flesh and hooked him like a fish. Emily went to help him, but he reached for her throat again. Even in shock, Ross still wanted her dead.
So she had left the fucker to suffer.
Well, that wasn’t strictly true. First, she had vomited over the side rail (blood always made her gag), then she had gone into the lounge cabin and swigged from a bottle of Remy Martin Ross kept in the sideboard. She had cried for a while, letting her emotions flow out of her, then the alcohol fuzzed her mind sufficiently that time passed by without her realizing it. She remembered trying to go back out and see her husband one last time, and he once again reached out to attack her, even as the anchor yanked his flesh and tore his wound wider.
What would Ross do if he managed to get free
? He was acting possessed – an enraged monster from her nightmares. She rushed into the pilothouse to call for help, but didn’t know what she was doing with the radio. She twiddled knobs and pressed buttons, but all she got was jumbled voices. Was there an emergency number she was supposed to tune to – a Coast Guard channel or the Navy? Then her mind turned to how suspicious things would look. Would the authorities believe her story? If Ross were still angry, would he say she was the cause of his injuries? Would he use all of his money and clout to bury her? He already knew his cheating was exposed. Maybe he would cut his losses and use the situation to skip the costly divorce by sending her to prison.
He could tell them she had lost control again. Like before.
Anxious and unsure of what to do, Emily had hit the bottle again, this time a little too hard. She didn’t even remember falling asleep.
Morning came, but she still didn’t know what to do. For the first few minutes it had all seemed like a dream. But it wasn’t.
Twelve hours later, the dream had become a nightmare.
‘Hold on, honey,’ Emily said now as she peered at the sickening wound slashing her husband’s middle. ‘I’m going to call help. I’m so sorry, Ross.’
Full of guilt at having delayed, Emily hurried up the ladder and went around the edge of the cabin to the pilothouse. The sleek black dashboard was dotted with soft blue lights. She sat down directly in front of the radio to the left of the steering column and thumbed buttons and twiddled the dials. This time she almost immediately found a voice. The disenchanted mumble sounded like a ghost coming out of the yacht’s innards, yet she yelled back at it urgently. When nothing happened, she realized she had forgotten to grab the extendable microphone. She pulled it to her mouth and shouted again. ‘Help me, help me. Mayday. SOS. Help!’
The other voice stopped mumbling and quieted for a moment. Then it spoke back in a confused tone. Emily knew the voice was talking to her, but she also realized, with dismay, that the speaker was Spanish.
Year of the Zombie (Book 3): The Yacht Page 1
