This wasn’t what I had in mind when Chernakov was talking about a new world order. Their vision of the future was to rule the planet with an iron fist and fuck anybody else who wasn’t one of them. Chernakov was deluded if he thought he was striving to make the world a better place.
Most of the guards turned away and let the zombies carry on with their feast. I thought they might enjoy the target practice, firing at the undead but they simply left them to it. I supposed if we were moving out, thirty or so zombies weren’t going to pose much of a problem on the opposite side of the double fence. I imagined we’d be long gone before the undead attempted to break through the defenses.
The crowd of refugees began to disperse and go back to packing up their tents. I wrapped my arm around Batfish’s shoulder and led her away from the scene of carnage.
“Come on, let’s go,” I said.
“That was so horrible, Brett,” Batfish whined. “They just left that guy to be torn to shreds out there.”
“I know,” I huffed. “It doesn’t bode well for our future if we have to endure situations like that.”
“What are we going to do, Brett?” Batfish sighed.
I shrugged, unsure what to say. “Maybe we should have gone over the fence with Smith. If we’d been shot and killed in the process, it may well have been a better way out.”
We slowly walked back to our rolled up tents and bedding. I felt deeply concerned about our current predicament and wondered how we were going to get out of this latest scrape.
Chapter Forty-Three
We struggled with the damp canvas tents, hauling them down to the shoreline where several rigid inflatable boats waited to carry us and the equipment to the big ships moored at anchor. We loaded the tents and they were taken across the water first. It seemed ironic that the Russians gave priority to the tents rather than human beings.
I took a rough head count of all my fellow survivors standing on the shoreline waiting to be transported to the ships. I don’t know why, I was always obsessed with numbers of people. Probably, because I was used to head counting masses of zombies and weighing up our chances against the numbers. Roughly, we numbered around one hundred. We stood like lost souls waiting to cross the River Styx.
The Russian guards stood at each side of us and shoved us into several vertical lines so they could load us into the small boats more effectively. A quick head count told me we were marshaled by around fifty Russian Army soldiers on the shore, plus numerous navy personnel conducting the ferrying operation.
We had to wait for around twenty minutes before our party was manhandled into one of the sea boats.
“Hey,” Batfish wailed when one of the guards shoved her towards the boat. Her protest was in vain as the hard faced guy hollered something in Russian at her and pointed to the deck of the boat. She checked Spot was still safely tucked into the harness around her shoulders before she clambered onboard.
“So much for liberation, huh?” I spat, but my protest also fell on deaf ears as I was directed to the boat.
Eight of us refugees huddled on the boat deck, accompanied by two Russian soldiers and the boat driver, who sat in the seat at the center of the craft. The sea boat ride only took a few minutes, the bow of the small craft sending up spray in our faces, which actually felt quite invigorating.
The boat driver headed towards the dull gray battle ship, anchored to our left. The vessel was huge with a sloping, pointed bow and a tall structure towering above the decks. Several sailors stood along the upper deck watching our approach. The anchor chain was slightly rusty and clumps of sea weed and moss clung to the large shackles. I noticed an array of large guns, missile launchers and mounted machine guns spread around the ship’s decks. The name of the ship was emblazoned at the rear of the upper deck super structure but I couldn’t decipher the Cyrillic lettering. I read the numbers ‘067’ painted in white on the side of the ship’s hull.
The boat driver slowed the engine and brought the smaller vessel sideways on, alongside the bigger ship. We bobbed around on the swell, edging closer to a brown colored rope ladder dangling at the side of the warship. An overpowering stench of seaweed and algae radiated from the larger vessel.
“Move up ladder,” the Russian soldier in our sea boat commanded, pointing above our heads.
The sea boat rocked from side to side when we stood up and one of our fellow refugees lost his balance and tumbled into the river. He rose to the surface, gurgling for help and thrashing around in the water. Me and the guy beside me crouched down and reached overboard. We clasped hold of the distressed man’s wrists and hauled him back inside the sea boat.
“One person move only,” the soldier shrieked.
“You didn’t tell us that,” Batfish yelled back.
The soaking man lay on his back, gasping for breath. His short, blond hair flopped back from his face and he spat out a mouthful of river water, which dribbled over the stumble on his chin.
“Go up ladder. One at a time,” the soldier barked.
Batfish flashed the soldier a scowl and staggered toward the rope ladder first. I knew she was eager to get out of the sea boat.
“Another, go,” the Russian ordered, when Batfish started climbing the rope ladder.
Wingate went up next, nervously glancing back at me as she ascended the ropes. She was obviously worried about the soaking wet guy on the boat deck. He’d need to get inside somewhere warm to dry off before the coldness kicked in and hypothermia took hold of his body. I nodded in acknowledgment and hunched over the gasping guy.
“You better go up next,” I said quietly. “You need to get out of the cold.”
“Okay, I’ll try,” he panted. “My arms and legs feel numb.” Although his accent was Scottish, he spoke a little less gutturally than the Glaswegian drawl. He was around the same age as me and his blue eyes were wide in shock.
The guy tried to haul himself to his feet and I pulled him up. The boat rocked with the motion and we both nearly plunged over the side. I regained my balance and held the guy steady.
“One at a time,” the Russian soldier hollered.
“Get to the ladder and I’ll help you up,” I said.
The guy nodded and stumbled across the boat deck. I noticed he was already shivering like crazy and his teeth chattered together.
“Just take it steady, man,” I called.
The guy either didn’t hear or didn’t acknowledge my advice. He leaned forward out of the boat and reached for the rope ladder. His hand scuffed at the rungs but didn’t connect with any great purchase. His fingers curled around the sides of the rope with his left hand but he totally missed grasping hold with his right. He toppled forward, holding onto the ladder with only one hand.
“Ah, shit,” he squealed.
I went to move forward so I could help the guy onto the ladder. He dangled one handed at an angle, with his legs dipping into the river up to his knees.
“Hold on there,” I shouted, stepping carefully across the sea boat deck.
“Be careful, Brett,” Chandra muttered, grabbing my arm as I moved towards the rope ladder.
I shrugged him off, more intent on helping the struggling guy half dangling in the river.
“Move up ladder, hurry,” the Russian soldier yelled.
I heard a hubbub of voices from above and took an upwards glance. Batfish and Wingate had successfully climbed the ladder but were surrounded by sailors standing on the ship’s deck. They pointed down the ladder with smirks on their faces, obviously amused by the goings on below.
“Hold on,” I repeated, ignoring the jibes from above me.
I was either too slow or too cautious in reaching him in time. The guy wailed something I didn’t catch. I reached out and tried to grasp the back of his gray overcoat. His fingers slipped off the rope and he dropped from the ladder, feet first into the river. I frantically gazed down into the small section of water between the sea boat and the side of the ship. There was no sign of the guy and I assumed the current had taken him
under the sea boat.
“Shit, where did he go?” I yelled.
“There he is,” Chandra cried out from behind me.
I turned and saw the guy floundering on the river’s surface, some twenty feet from our position.
“Take the boat out over there,” I shouted at the stern faced driver. “He’ll drown if we don’t get out to him right now.” I pointed out across the river but the driver didn’t even look at me, let alone take any notice of my pleas.
“Get up ladder now,” the Russian soldier barked.
I swiveled my gaze at the army guy and saw he was pointing the barrel of his rifle at me.
“Up, go,” he ordered, waving his firearm at me then at the ladder.
I shook my head in disbelief and took a glance back out to the expanse of the river. I saw the guy gurgling and thrashing around before he was gone. The poor bastard sunk below the surface with only a brief ripple and a bubble of air to mark that he ever existed.
Chapter Forty-Four
We were rounded up like cattle and herded onto the flight deck at the rear of the warship once the allocated number of refugees was all onboard. Some of the army soldiers headed back inland in the small sea boats and I presumed they were heading back to Glasgow for more supplies. A few guards still remained onboard with us and stood menacingly at our flanks and at our rear.
The poor wretch drifting down the river and the British Navy guy entangled in the wire fence still irked me and their grisly deaths continued to play in a loop in my mind.
We turned to face the front of the ship when Chernakov stepped up onto a podium, in front of the metallic roller shutter door, covering the flight deck hanger. Chernakov held up his hand, calling for silence and the chatter amongst the refugees immediately ceased.
Chernakov glanced over the crowd with an arrogant smirk on his face. I knew he genuinely believed he thought we should all be grateful and he was doing us an immense favor by shipping us all to Russia.
“Let me start by first congratulating you all on surviving through these harsh times,” Chernakov began.
“Not for the two unfortunate bastards that croaked before we came onboard,” I whispered to Batfish, standing next to me.
She pulled a frown and slapped my thigh, telling me to keep quiet.
“You are now about to embark on your first phase of integration into the new world, under the umbrella of the Russian Federation. Your new lives await you in the Motherland. These are exciting times, my friends and I’m sure you will be eager to be playing your part to guarantee a better future for the generations who come after our own. It will not be an easy ride but I am certain, with hard work and determination, we will achieve our goal. Your passage will begin on this fine warship, aptly named ‘The Warrior.’ Of course, you will be provided with a bed, food and bathroom facilities throughout your voyage. Thank you all and have a pleasant journey.” Chernakov stepped down from the podium with the same smug grin on his face, flanked by his mean looking body guards. He strolled through a hatch and disappeared into the bowels of the ship.
“What a crock of bullshit,” I said to Batfish. “That guy is so full of his own self importance. He almost disappeared up his own ass when he stood up there.”
The soldiers grunted and began herding us towards a hatch in the deck at the rear of the flight deck.
“Make sure we all stick together,” Wingate said, grabbing hold of Chandra and Batfish’s coat sleeves. “We don’t want to get separated once we’re down below.”
I huddled in with them as we moved slowly with the crowd towards the ship’s stern. It seemed to take forever waiting for everybody to climb down the ladders to the lower decks. I heard a clanking of metal and peeked over the side and back towards the bows. The anchor chain slowly rolled inboard and the whole ship shuddered under the motion.
At last, it was our turn to climb down the ladder and I heard the loud hum of the propellers turning as we descended down into the gloom. We were shown into one of three large mess decks, where a maze of bunk beds covered most of the entire floor space. Each bunk consisted of three beds in a vertical stack, with only around two feet between the next set. A low ceiling hung over the room and an overwhelming stench of sweaty socks and body odor hung thickly in the air. I doubted whether the other two mess decks were of any better quality.
“Looks kind of cozy,” Batfish muttered, staring at the bunks.
“I remember now why I joined the army,” Wingate sighed.
“Anybody mind if I take the bottom bunk?” Batfish asked. “I’m just thinking if I have to get up for the dog.”
“Knock yourself out,” I said. “What about you Wingate?”
“I’m happy with the middle if you want to go up top,” she replied.
“Sure,” I said.
Chandra took the bottom bunk amongst the set of beds opposite ours. A thin blonde woman and a balding, middle aged man took the other two vacant beds.
A stocky Russian sailor, with weathered skin on his face that resembled leather, begrudgingly showed us where the bathroom come toilet block and the dining hall was. He grunted towards each room as he took us in groups of ten to view the facilities. I felt the ship rocking and swaying beneath my feet as we engaged in our inadequate guided tour.
“We’re moving,” I whispered. “I guess we’re on our way to Stavanger.”
“How long will the trip take?” Batfish asked as we made our way through the ship’s narrow corridors.
I shook my head. “Sorry, I’ve no clue.”
“Me and my late husband took a cruise to the Norwegian Fjords a few years ago.”
I turned and saw a small, blonde haired woman, who looked as though she may have been somewhere in her late fifties. Her accent was Scottish and sounded as though she’d had a decent education.
“It took us three days to reach Norway and that was heading to Alesund, which is north of Stavanger. And like I said, that was on a cruise ship. This thing we’re on will probably be a lot faster than that,” the woman explained.
“Oh, okay, thanks,” I muttered. “Maybe two days, best guess?”
“Possibly, who knows?” the woman said with a shrug.
I sighed in frustration with the thought of two days and possibly longer, stuck on the ship with nothing to do and nowhere to go. The leather faced Russian sailor had warned us not to go on the upper deck and not to stray from the areas he’d shown us. This wasn’t exactly my idea of a brave, exciting new world.
Hauling myself onto my top bunk, I decided to sleep most of the time away and hope it went incredibly quickly. I'd go for meals and showers but there really wasn’t much point searching for anything else to do. I heard Batfish, Wingate and Chandra chatting to the other refugees but I didn’t feel much like swapping stories with people I didn’t know. As I closed my eyes, I thought of Smith and wondered what the hell he was up to right then. I wondered if he was even still alive.
The gentle rumble of the propellers and the ship’s slight rocking motion helped me to drift off into a deep and pleasantly dreamless sleep.
It seemed like I’d been out for only a few moments when Batfish shook me awake. In reality, I’d probably been sleeping for a couple of hours.
“What is it now?” I groaned, pissed off that I’d been crudely woken.
“Something is going on, Brett,” Batfish said in a hushed voice.
“No shit?” I sighed. “Something is always going on. You woke me up just to tell me that?”
“No, I mean something is happening. One of those guys was speaking in Russian out of that bull horn in the corner.” She pointed to a dark space behind a cluster of bunk beds. “Then we heard a lot of people rushing around on the decks above us and it feels as though the ship has turned around.”
“Heading where exactly?” I croaked, trying to clear my sleepy, fuzzy head.
“That’s just it, we don’t know,” Batfish sighed. “That Scottish lady we met in the corridor also thought we were turning around and sh
e’s been on plenty of cruise ship trips in her time. She told me that.”
“We’re turning around, so what?” I spat. “They aren’t going to tell us shit about what’s going down. We’re just livestock to them, Batfish. We ‘aint nothing but cattle to these guys. You heard the big guy’s speech out there, didn’t you? We’re all going to end up as slaves, working our asses to death in some miserable, cold place, building railways or airports or some other shit we’re never going to get to benefit from.”
“Oh, my god, will you calm down, Brett?” Wingate shouted, stopping me in mid rant.
I took a few deep breaths and tried to regain my cool. I shouldn’t have been raging at Batfish. It wasn’t her fault we were in this bad situation.
“Ah, sorry,” I muttered. “Didn’t mean to fly off the handle like that.”
I slid down off my bunk and stood beside the concerned looking huddle of people.
“I don’t suppose anybody knows of anybody who speaks Russian, do they?” I asked.
I received shakes of heads or no response at all from the refugees surrounding us.
“Okay, I’ll go and see if I can find out what’s going on,” I said, heading for the mess deck door.
“Brett, wait,” Batfish squawked. “What are you going to say? You know we’re not supposed to be wandering around the decks unsupervised.”
“What are they going to do, shoot me?” I scoffed. It was unlikely they’d do anything except chew my ass off and escort me back to the mess room. I doubted whether they’d take me out onto the flight deck and execute me, although there was always a slim possibility.
I opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. I looked left and right but there were no military personnel in the near vicinity, which I found slightly strange. At least one armed guard had usually been positioned outside the mess deck doors.
I stood for a few moments pondering my next move. I considered what Smith would have done if he was in my position. He’d have brazenly plodded on and tried to figure out what was happening.
The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run Page 20
