Domain of the Dead (16 page)

“I did—”

“You don’t even know when to shut up!” Warden screamed. “Patterson.”

“Yes, sir?” Patterson barked.

Captain Warden started pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate the headache that was spreading. “Put Bates in the brig until I decide what level of punishment his insubordination and stupidity deserves.”

“Yes, sir!” Patterson barked again. He grabbed Bates by the collar in a symbolic gesture of power. Although Bates could have easily overpowered Patterson, he decided not to make things worse and allowed himself to be dragged from the officers’ mess.

Professor Cutler still stood by his place at the table, his grand exit ruined by what had just happened.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Captain Warden said, throwing his napkin onto the table, “I appear to have lost my appetite.”

At that he pushed past Cutler and exited the room.

Cutler seemed lost for a moment. After all, there was no one left in the room to rile at. Without a word he turned and left.

“Um...” Dr. Robertson voiced as she considered what to do. Finally she decided Professor Cutler needed her attention more. “I should really...” She didn’t exactly know what she should do, but she did know Cutler needed her more than the dinner guests. The sentence, having fumbled to a petering end, she too left.

A perplexed ensign stood with the last of the crockery to be cleared away. He finally came out of his stupor and inquired, “Apple crumble with custard, anyone?”

* * *

“With people like him in charge, no wonder the world’s gone to shit,” Professor Cutler raged. “Short-sighted, moronic, unappreciative...”

Dr. Robertson opened the door to the lab where they had been working. The red wine during the meal had been a pleasant indulgence. The sailors on board regularly drank homemade hooch, but wine was an infrequent luxury. Dr. Robertson hadn’t drank for some time and the alcohol had taken the edge off the day.

The lab was dimly lit by a collection of standby lights on equipment and the warm red glow of the computer screen, still showing the Professor’s blood sample. It didn’t feel unnatural entering the gloomy lab; the pair of them had worked so many late nights here over the years.

Doctor Robertson pulled the still fuming Professor over the threshold, into the lab.

“Well,
someone
appreciates your work,” she said, dragging him deeper into the room. She grabbed a dustsheet from the unused gurney and threw it over the struggling zombie strapped to the second one.

“Thank you,” Professor Cutler started, oblivious to his colleague’s intentions. “At least you realise the importance of—”

Dr. Robertson flung her arms around his neck. “That wasn’t the work I had in mind,” she said.

With a tipsy stumble she pushed Professor Cutler onto the vacant gurney.

Dr. Robertson quickly unfastened her blouse and skirt, discarding them to the floor. Professor Cutler hurriedly unbuckled his belt and kicked off his shoes.

Under the hastily deposited sheet, the immobilized zombie tugged at its restraints. It tried to raise its head to see past the sheet hastily tossed there, but the strap around its neck held firm. The creature curled its lips back to moan, but the ball gag silenced all but the slightest noise. The sheet over its desiccated body did nothing to reduce the sounds from across the room—the soft moaning, the drip-like noise of moist lips kissing, the rhythmic groans and creaks of the adjacent gurney.

The zombie used what feeble strength it had to try to force itself loose, to free itself and gorge on the living flesh so tantalizingly close. But it was futile. Its bonds were too strong and its flesh was too weak.

The lovers, lost in their passion, were oblivious to the futile writhing of the tethered zombie.

None of the room’s occupants noticed as the light in the room slowly began to change. The warm red glow softly darkened. One by one, the corpulent cells on the computer monitor shriveled and blackened.

Captain Warden took a long first draw on his cigarette. The orange glow reflecting off the window could easily have been mistaken for the lights of a distant ship. With an exhale of smoke, he visibly relaxed, the tough muscles in his neck and shoulders sinking down as the tension was blown away in a puff of tobacco.

There were three places a sailor could smoke on board: your own cabin, on the poop deck, and the officers’ mess. Etiquette from an older generation had prevented Captain Warden smoking in the mess in the company of his guests. He appreciated that it could put others off their food, but now that he was back on his bridge the need for a post repast draw was overwhelming.

Taking a second long draw, Warden knew none of the bridge crew were paying the least attention to his smoking. The privilege of being the captain meant that he never broke the rules because he could just amend them. He had occasionally smoked on the bridge before, but only in times of stress. It struck him that now was one of those times.

He and his crew had weathered storms more ferocious than the approaching hurricane Emily. They would be at the edge of the storm’s force, and barring engine failure, Warden knew the Ishtar could handle it. As long as she wasn’t swamped by a freak wave, on its own the weather was no cause for concern.

A gust of wind hurled a sheet of rain against the bridge window as if summoned by his fear. He could sense the increase in the decks roll.

“Seas getting up,” he said calmly as he drew his second puff.

“That she is, Captain,” he heard Patterson say in his usual crisp, obedient tone. Warden realised he’d been so lost in thought that he’d forgotten Patterson was even on the bridge.

Patterson had always been a capable officer. He knew he wasn’t a well-liked man onboard, but as the second in command that was to be expected. He’d always been amiable and acceptable company in Wardens opinion, not charismatic or quick-witted, but trustworthy and decent. He was the Captain’s enforcer, the man who carried out orders and imposed order. Warden acknowledged to himself that the discipline Patterson imposed on the crew made his life easier and kept things running smoothly.

But even with Patterson’s indispensable service, things were not running smoothly today.

Warden drew the cigarette from his lips and with his free hand he stroked his brow. He looked down at the skinny rollup he held between his thumb and forefinger.

The smoke was more paper than tobacco; short and thin to eke out what he had left. It mirrored the way the ship ran. Everything rationed, nothing wasted.

The only thing that wasn’t rationed was the constant annoyance from the ship’s resident scientists. Warden had considered that maybe he was part of some perverted experiment to find his breaking point. All that Professor Cutler and Doctor Robertson were doing was inventing more ways to piss him off.

That thought led Warden to his second frustration.

Being at sea when the outbreak had happened meant Warden hadn’t been witness to the hysteria and chaos as society broke down. It also meant he’d only ever seen a zombie in the lab or when the chopper returned, capture net squirming with them.

It made Warden tense enough to encounter them in these relatively safe environments, but it chilled him to think what it must be like on the mainland.

Disturbing as it was that he had two men stranded on the mainland, the predicament was exacerbated by his pilot’s reckless rescue attempt. Warden felt qualms of unease at the thought of three men missing in action with no means of getting any of them back.

Warden turned to face his first mate. “Commander Patterson.”

“Captain,” Patterson acknowledged.

Warden held out the brown manila folder Professor Cutler had delivered to him over dinner. “Get this in the twenty four hundred hours report.”

“Will do, sir.”

“I’ll be in my cabin.” Warden looked down at his watch. “I’ve got just over three hours to summarise the events of the day.”

* * *

Nathan sat up in a flash. He threw the covers off and dived for the bathroom door.

It frightened Sarah, but she didn’t want to alarm Jennifer. She softly called out, “Nathan?”

Then Sarah heard it: A deep guttural bark followed by a tremendous splash. The gushing sound was still in full flow when she reached the bathroom door. As she swung the door open and flicked on the light, the spewing trickled to a stop.

Nathan knelt in front of the toilet, crying and gasping for air. He turned and looked up at Sarah, his mouth dripping with fresh bile. Sloshing around the toilet bowl were recognizable chunks of dinner churned up by the ship’s motion. The acrid smell of vomit had started to fill the cabin, making Sarah feel queasy too.

Nathan whipped back and convulsed from the floor up. His face twisted in pain as his stomach spasmed. A pitiful dry retch brought up a trickle of fluid.

Sarah knelt down next to him and gently rubbed his back.

After pulling his breath back, he sat spitting into the bowl, mucus dripping from his nose.

Sarah pulled free a wad of toilet paper and passed it to him.

“Is Nathan okay?” Jennifer asked, standing in the doorway.

“He’s just feeling sick,” Sarah answered. “Would you go pour him a glass of water, honey?”

Jennifer nodded and hurried off.

Nathan groaned. The harsh florescent light above made the green hue to his skin look even more deathly.

By the time Jennifer arrived with a glass of water, Nathan was leant against the tiled wall, looking exhausted.

“Thanks, Jen,” he said as the glass was passed down to him. He took a swig and rinsed out his mouth, spitting the yellow-tinged slew in to the toilet.

He breathed a heavy sigh. “That was shitty.”

“You okay?” Sarah asked.

Nathan lifted the glass to take a swig. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Just take sips,” Sarah advised. “You don’t want to set your stomach off again.”

Nathan nodded.

“What do you reckon made you sick?”

“Oh... don’t know.” he took another sip of water. “Sea sickness and over-eating, I guess.” He looked down at the contents of his stomach swimming around the bowl. “Ship’s rocking must be getting to me.”

Sarah looked back into the cabin at the rain-smeared porthole. “Yeah, the storm is getting up.”

“You did have a lot of beer,” Jennifer added helpfully.

“Thanks for that, Jennier. You think they’ll have sea sickness tablets on board?”

“They may. If not, ginger is good at stopping you feeling nauseous,” Sarah offered.

“Did you learn that in chemistry class?” Nathan asked.

“No, Elspeth told me when Sam had morning sickness.”

“Ah,” Nathan said. “That explains where the last of the ginger beer went.” He struggled to his feet using the sink for purchase. “I’m going to see if the doc can give me anything.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Sarah asked.

Nathan had squeezed a lump of toothpaste onto his finger. “Nah, I’ll be okay. You keep Jennifer company.” He sucked up the white lump off his finger and drew it through his teeth a few times before spitting.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The corridors felt quiet with the lights turned low. Nathan had checked the time out of curiosity before leaving the cabin; it was just before midnight but it felt later. Lying awake in bed for the past two hours gradually feeling worse and worse had distorted his sense of time. To Nathan it felt that he’d been awake all night.

He found walking awkward as his centre of gravity kept shifting. He put a hand against the wall to steady himself as he went.

Bracing himself and at his plodding pace, he eventually reached the door to the stairwell. Unlike the cabin doors, this was a heavy metal thing with latches and an intricate collection of levers to secure the door shut. He pulled on the handle and opened the heavy metal door. It screeched far too loudly for this time of night. As he stepped through, the ship caught a wave and the door was wrenched from his grasp. Nathan practically jumped back, pulling his trailing leg through the hatch. The door skiffed his foot and banged hard against the frame. The noise bounced off the steel walls of the stairwell, and before the echo had faded the door rocked open again. He grabbed the handle and using the next swell, he shut and secured the door. Lesson learnt, Nathan placed a hand on each of the guide rails and cautiously walked down the stairs. Two steps from the bottom he had to pause as the ship rocked violently again. The pendulous motion subsided, but Nathan remained on the stairs taking slow deep breaths, desperately trying to suppress a swell of his own. His stomach knotted and what little liquid there could be left felt like it was bubbling. His methodical breathing began to quell the churning. He was just coming off the steps when the steel door in front of him opened.

Commander Patterson looked at Nathan and then up at the top of the landing. “Was that you making all that racket?”