Savage: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel (13 page)

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” she said.  “We
should trade, share information.  There’s too few of us left to be
enemies.  You killed your own man to protect us.”

“To protect a child.”

“Exactly.  You did what was right.”

“You talk to me about doing right, but are you willing
to hand over that man?  A man who admits he is a terrorist.”

Anna glanced at the cripple and then
back
at Damien.  “Do you believe what he says?”

Damien went to say ‘no’, but found
himself
stuttering.  “I-I…
don’t
know.  It’s crazy.”

Anna nodded.  “You need to talk to your friend,
Harry, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Damien.  He couldn’t deny that
speaking to Harry was the only thing on his mind right then.

“Well, until you do,” said Anna.  “Until you have
no doubt that this man is guilty of trying to commit cold-blooded murder for no
good reason, then I cannot in good conscience hand him over.  If your
captain is responsible for…well, everything, then-”

“Then I can’t help you,” said Damien, and he was
telling the truth.  Samuel would send more men to the pier as soon as he
found out the cripple was there.  The fact that Damien was coming back
empty handed would make Samuel furious. 
He’ll kill them all.  He’ll
send a dozen men ashore with guns from the armoury.

Damien had once witnessed Samuel
fire
the ship’s cannons at a petroleum tanker that would not share its fuel with the
fleet.  The hit had torn the ship almost in two.  The mere danger of
the fuel tanks going up in a huge fireball had been enough to make those still
living surrender.  They worked as kitchen staff on the
Kirkland
now.  Samuel had been willing to destroy the tanker rather than be denied
use of it.

Damien gave Anna one last piece of advice.  “You
should move on from here.”

“This is our home.”

“Then enjoy it while you can.”  Damien shimmied
back down to the yacht and waited while Fox came to join him.  The older
man was surprisingly limber and made it down the rope much quicker than Damien
had – although he did have use of both hands.

Damien unhitched the mooring rope and Fox started the
motor and shoved the boat into reverse.  They puttered away from the pier
and were heading back towards the frigate in less than a minute, passing by
various boats idling at the edge of the fleet.  On the horizon, a tinge of
orange had appeared, heralding the arrival of the morning sun. 
I need
sleep.  I can’t process any of this until my head is straight.

Fox banged his fist down on the centre of the steering
wheel.  “The captain is going to shit a brick when we return empty handed,
Roman.  We were told to recover the cripple at all costs and we’re just
walking away.”

“I know.”

“He won’t like that you killed Birch either.  He
was part of the
Kirkland
’s roster.  We didn’t even bring his body
with us.  He has friends aboard the ship.”

“I know.”

“And when Samuel hears about your friend, Harry, being
involved in everything he’s going to string the fella up by his ears.”

No! 
Damien
drove his spear through Fox’s back, slumping the old man over the steering
wheel.  Blood poured from his open mouth and splattered the
windshield. 
Fuck
fuck
fuck
. 
What did I just do?  That’s the second man I’ve killed in the last
hour.  I am so screwed.  I am so screwed. 

Damien froze.  He stared down at the blood
dripping from his spear.  Murder was taken very seriously in the fleet and
he’d just committed the act for the second time – and this time in cold
blood.  There would be no mercy for Damien if Samuel found out about
Fox.  His sentence would be harsh. 
All of Samuel’s sentences are
harsh.  That’s why I can’t let him find out about Harry.  Not until I
know the truth.
 

Glancing around for spectators, Damien carefully
folded the old man over his shoulder and carried him to the edge of the
yacht. 
I’m sorry,
Fox
.  You seemed like
an okay guy.
  He slid the body over the railing and let it sink into
the sea.  Fox’s body was light and floated on the surface of the
water.  Damien held his breath while he waited for it to descend beneath
the waves.  The boats and ships all around him were shrouded in the
darkness of early dawn.  Any of them could have been watching him.

There could be a dozen witnesses.  Or none. 
I just need to stay calm.

Eventually Fox’s limp body slipped beneath the sea and
Damien took control of the yacht’s motor.  He continued on towards the
frigate.  He had no idea what the hell he was going to do, but the first
thing was to talk to Harry. 
My dear old friend has a lot of explaining
to do, and if the answers are all wrong, I might just have to kill
him
,
too.

H
ugo crouched down behind the
railings of his yacht.  He held Houdini in his arms and prayed the little
dog did not bark. 
If he makes a sound, the man will see us.

Having once been a heavy smoker, Hugo had woken at
dawn craving nicotine.  With cigarettes all but non-existent – not
to mention his specific brand of
Gitanes
– the best he could do
was go outside to breathe some fresh air.  That was when he had seen the
other boat.

It was not uncommon to see other people out on their
boats so early in the morning – many of the fleet’s fishermen would rise
well before the sun to haul in their catches – but what Hugo had
witnessed was most definitely not a common occurrence. 
I think I just
witnessed a murder.  Bon sang!

Hugo had been rubbing the sleep from his eyes when
he’d noticed a small yacht puttering away from the shore.  He’d heard
rumours that there were many people living on the nearby pier, and that a
greeting party had sailed out from the
Kirkland
to meet with them. 
There was yet to be any word on whether or not the new people were friendly,
and every time Hugo asked one of the other boats what was happening, they would
tell him that the greeting party from the
Kirkland
had yet to
return.  Hugo had assumed that the yacht coming towards him was that team
finally coming home.

The yacht had stopped suddenly and sputtered to a
standstill.  Shadows moved within its small pilothouse.  Hugo had
stared intently, trying to make out the details.  Eventually, a grey silhouette
came into focus; a man, carrying something over his shoulder.  Hugo hadn’t
realised it was a body until the man dumped it over the side and let it sink
beneath the waves.  It was then that Hugo leapt down and hid. 
Houdini had been sleeping outside as usual and had come up to Hugo for a
friendly sniff.  Hugo fussed the dog and patted his belly in an attempt to
keep him quiet.  Praise the lord it had worked.  Before long the
other yacht revved its engine and resumed its journey, heading towards the
Kirkland
until it was out of sight.  Hugo stayed hidden for several more minutes
before finally straightening up with a click of his knees. 
I pray they
did not see me.  I have daughters to protect.

Houdini let out a shrill bark, almost as if he’d been
waiting for the chance to do so.  Hugo patted him on the head. 
“Clever boy.  You and me make a good team,
mon
ami
.
”

Hugo swallowed. 
What should I do?  Do I
even know what I just saw? 
He chewed the inside of his cheek and
tried to think things through.  If he had just witnessed a murder then he
needed to do something.  There were no policemen anymore, or even
newspapers to run a story, but there was still law and order in the
fleet. 
I should tell Mr Raymeady.  He is our centre of law and
order now. He will do what is right. 

But nobody got to see Mr Raymeady easily.  The
man never left the
Kirkland
and civilians were not allowed on the
frigate without good reason. 
But you have a good reason, Hugo. 
You need to report a murder.

Yet, what information do I have?  I saw a
silhouette of a man, nothing more.  I didn’t even see a murder take
place.  What I actually saw was a body being dumped.  No more, no
less.

Then it’ll do no harm bringing it to Mr Raymeady’s
attention.  He is the captain of the fleet.  He needs to know
everything that goes on.

Hugo walked across the short aft deck of his yacht and
entered the main cabin.  His daughters still slept beneath the covers of
the converted sofa bed.  The yacht was single berth and the one bedroom
belonged to Hugo. 
Being a father was hard even before the dead
walked.  Somehow, even in this new world, it’s still the actions of men
that scare me most. 

Hugo sat down on the floor with Houdini on his lap and
waited for the day to arrive.  Once it did, he would head for the
Kirkland
at once.

G
arfield blinked as the sunlight
filled his eyes.  The windows surrounding the drained swimming pool were
long and tall and let the morning through in full force.  It was January,
so the fact that the sun was well risen meant mid-morning was upon them.  

It was too dangerous to travel by night.  The
dead could creep up on you in the dark.  Garfield and the other foragers
had taken advantage of the lie-in – even now they were curled up beneath
their sleeping bags and blankets, snoring – but it was time to get
going. 
Can’t sleep forever.  A man sleeps long enough he gets to
not wanting to wake up at all.

Garfield gathered his things together and placed them
back inside the old Army Bergan he’d brought with him.  He’d found the
bulky satchel at a Salvation Army store several months ago and would always
wear it when heading out for more than a day.  Before he zipped the bag
up, he slid out a couple of knives and strapped them to each of his thighs. 
He was already armed with a hand axe and a screwdriver, but wanted to have a
few more weapons handy.  They were about to enter unknown territory. 
It was best to be prepared.

The dead were already beginning to grow in number as
the foragers trekked further from the pier.  The fringes of Torquay had
swarmed with them – especially a little place called Brixham. 

Brixham was a seaside town with a life-sized replica
of the
Golden Hind
sitting in its harbour
. 
Garfield had
only taken them there as a way of circumventing the larger towns, which started
with Torquay, but things turned out badly.  The foragers had gotten
cornered inside a little newsagent and had needed to hack their way clear of a
dozen dead men.  They almost hadn’t made it – Lemon tripped and
stumbled right into a dead boy’s arms at one point, and only just managed to
dodge its snapping jaws – but luckily they’d left a vehicle idling nearby
and were able to get the hell out of there before the dead closed in on them.

The Range Rover at the church had been a no go. 
Despite its fine condition, it just wouldn’t start.  Eventually the
foragers chanced upon a
Nissan
minibus built to hold seven.  It
started more or less
straight away
, once they
discovered the keys still inside.  It was surreal to hear an engine start
after so long, but once they were safely on the road, Garfield almost felt like
he was back in his old life – commuting to his job at a tyre fitter’s
garage with sleep in his eyes and whiskey on his breath. 
Not sure I
miss it all that much.  I certainly don’t miss the hangovers.

Garfield had led a lonely existence before the world
fell.  Besides his elderly mother, he’d had no one he cared about –
and no one who cared about him.  He visited the pub with his co-workers
from time to time, but never held any of them dear.  He’d been single for
nigh on two years, ever since a particularly bad break-up with a girl named
Jenny.  The feisty brunette had dumped him for his lack of ambition, but
the truth of it was that she wanted a man with more money.  When she later
took another lover, Garfield was not surprised to hear that the man was
rich.  Garfield’s self-worth had never been lower.

But once the world ended, his old failings ceased to
matter.  All around him people died, every second a new person torn to
shreds.  But Garfield survived.  The Army shattered and the police
were torn apart in the street.  But Garfield survived.  The Prime
Minister himself had died and the American President had gone missing. 
But Garfield survived.  He was stronger than them all.  He was a
survivor.  Suddenly he was worthy.  Pretty soon people were relying
on him, counting on him to protect them.  Garfield had become someone who
mattered.  He relished the feeling of being needed, and it had started
when he’d rescued Poppy; he felt heroic.  But that feeling soon changed
into something less welcome – responsibility.  The young girl’s
survival was his number one priority.  He’d assumed ownership of her when
he plucked her away from her undead parents.  Whether she lived or died
was on him, and that had been more power than he’d been looking for. 
Eventually his responsibility turned to affection and perhaps something even
more.  Providing Poppy with what she needed had become his all-consuming
focus, but it was difficult.  He had to keep leaving her, for one
thing.  The group needed food and supplies; Poppy needed food and
supplies.  And right now they needed guns, too.  If Poppy was going
to grow up safe and protected, Garfield needed to make sure that they were
never at the mercy of a bigger, badder group of survivors.

Kirk was heading towards him.  He was one of the
newest members of the foragers and one of the youngest also, yet he had been
voted in as second-in-command to Garfield.  The group had done that mainly
to make the guy feel included.  He was often insecure about the fact he
had not been at the pier as long as everybody else.  It made the kid eager
to prove himself, and a little reckless.  He was carrying a bottle of
water and offered some to Garfield.  “Breakfast?”

Garfield waved a hand.  “Keep it.  I have my
own.”

Kirk shrugged.  “So what’s the plan?  I say
we start making directly north.  Yesterday proved that we’re going to run
into trouble regardless of where we go.”

Garfield sighed.  “I agree.  We’ll stick to
the countryside, though.”

Kirk took a swig of water and then said, “Why not use
the motorways?”

“Because the motorways are full of zombies.” 
Most people had been in their cars fleeing when the infection began its
work.  Nobody had known where he or she was heading; they’d all just been
overtaken by the urge to run.  Eventually the traffic gridlocked and the
infection caught up with them.  The motorways choked up with slaughter for
hundreds and hundreds of miles.  Garfield had seen it with his own eyes. 
He never wanted to go back to the motorways.

“Everywhere is full of zombies,” said Kirk.  “At
least on the motorway we can just drive through ‘
em
.”

Garfield hoisted his Bergan up onto his shoulder and
sighed.  “You can’t just run through a crowd of bodies, not to mention all
of the wrecks on the road.  Best chance we got is to head through farmland
;
the fewer obstacles in our path the better.  Every
time we get held up our chance of not making it home increases.”

Kirk sniffed.  “Whatever you say, boss. 
I’ll get everyone ready to leave and set off in ten.”

“Five,” said Garfield.  “We need to get a move
on.”

Kirk nodded.  “Five minutes, then.”  He
walked away. 

Garfield didn’t have a great deal of affection for
Kirk.  Up until three months ago, he’d been surviving on the road, ever
since the dead first rose.  He understood the walking dead better than
anybody and for that reason, Kirk was perhaps better suited to lead than
Garfield was – a notion clearly not lost on Kirk – but Garfield had
been at the pier for almost a year and had always led the foraging
parties.  The group trusted him.  And while he exercised caution
wherever possible, Kirk seemed to prefer running into situations
headfirst.  That was all well and good when it had just been him alone on the
road, but when other people’s lives were at risk caution was the way to
go. 
Can’t deny the man is useful, though.  No man takes on the
dead like he does.

“Garf, everybody is ready,” Kirk shouted impatiently
from over by the changing room entrance.  Garfield did a quick spot check
of his weapons and then headed off to join them.  Everyone looked well
rested, which was good because Garfield planned on moving nonstop until
nightfall.  By the time they camped again, all of them would be
tired. 

Cat nodded to him as he approached.  “I just
stuck my head out the door.  It seems all clear.”

Garfield nodded.  “Good.  Let’s get going
then.”

Outside the leisure centre sat the
Nissan
minivan.  It was currently empty.  They’d taken their supplies inside
overnight in case of looters.  Encountering other survivors was rare, but
it happened from time to time.  They were more often hostile than
friendly. 
Not much different from the way the world used to be in that
sense.

One of the foragers, Lemon – so-called because
of an unexplained tattoo of the yellow fruit on his forearm – nudged
Garfield and pointed with his chin.  Garfield glanced across the road and
saw what he was referring to.  A dead man stumbled towards them. It wasn’t
moaning like most did, because of a carving knife sticking out the front of his
throat.  Someone had obviously tried to take the man’s head off, but gave
up when the knife got stuck.

Cat cursed.  “He wasn’t here a minute ago. 
Sneaky git!”

“He’s s-s-seen us,” Lemon said.  “We’ll have to
deal with him.”

Garfield cleared his throat and glanced at Kirk. 
“You want to do the honours?”

Kirk grinned.  “Nothing I’d enjoy more, boss.”
 He swaggered up to the zombie in the road and waited calmly in front of
him.  The dead man reached out with grasping hands, but Kirk threw himself
into a delicate cartwheel and ended up behind his attacker.  The other
foragers cheered.  Kirk kicked the zombie in the rump, sending him
flopping forward onto his belly.  The other foragers laughed.

Garfield sighed. 
Here we go.

Kirk waited for the dead man to get up off the ground,
before leaping up and kicking him in the side of the head.  He topped the
move off by spinning around and backheeling the zombie in the chest and
cracking some ribs with an audible
clack
.  None of blows were
effective – the only way to take down a zombie was to injure the brain
– but Kirk seemed to find a type of sport in battering down his enemies
before dispatching them skilfully.

“Just get on with it,” shouted Lemon, laughing
heartily.  “Or marry the guy and b-b-bugger off.”

Kirk looked back at his colleagues and chuckled.
 He gave them a quick bow as if to conclude his performance.  A claw
hammer appeared from his belt and he smashed it into the dead man’s
forehead.  It dropped the zombie immediately, but the body still twitched
on the floor.  Kirk gave the skull one last blow from his hammer and it
was done.  The dead man’s head crumbled like it was made of
papier
mache
.

“You done?” asked Garfield. 

Kirk came back over to them.  “No,
he
is,
though.”

Cat rolled her eyes.  “Men and their
testosterone.”

“Okay, let’s load up,” said Garfield.  “We’re
wasting light.”

  The foragers set about loading up the
minivan.  They opened up the hatchback and shoved their supplies into the
boot.  Then they squeezed themselves into the front and middle seats like
sardines.  Cat sat on David’s lap – the two of them had become
husband and wife of sorts – but everyone else made do with what little
space they could find, eleven people inside a vehicle designed for seven. 
It was lucky everyone was so skinny and malnourished, or else the vehicle’s
chassis might have fallen out beneath
them
. 
We
need a second vehicle.

Garfield sat up front with Kirk, who was the man at
the wheel.  Ideally there would have been a map between them, but the day
of the smartphone and satnav had made paper plotting redundant.  There
were no maps to be found.

“You sure you don’t want to try the motorway?” Kirk
asked him.  “I think it would be best.”

“No,” Garfield said again.  “Let’s just get on the
same page, shall we?  We’re taking the scenic route. ”

Kirk started the engine and put his hands on the
steering wheel.  “You’re the boss.”

“So they tell me.”

The minivan gave a whinnying grunt and crept
forward.  Kirk navigated down the main roads for a few miles, dodging
burnt-out wrecks and small assemblies of the dead.  Many of the houses
they passed were black and charred, some merely ruins and foundations. 
For the first few months of infection, fires had consumed most of the country.  At
least the destruction the inferno had wrought had taken as many dead men as it
had the living.  It was almost like Mother Nature had been trying to even
the odds. 
Not that it helped.  The dead outnumber us a thousand
to one.

Eventually the minivan came upon a cow gate bordering
a field.  There they stopped while Lemon hopped out and smashed the
padlock with one of his many tools.  Once the gate was open, Kirk put the
van into first gear and drove onto the grass.  Once he picked up a bit of
speed, he moved into second and kept it there.  The field was sodden and
uneven from recent rain, and everyone cried out in misery as Kirk’s driving
threw them about inside the confined space.

“Sorry, everyone,” said Kirk.  “Not much I can
do.  Garf wants us to take the farmland and this is the farmland.”

Garfield narrowed his eyes at Kirk, but the younger
man just smiled amiably.  “Just slow it down,” he said, “and we’ll be
fine.”

Kirk chuckled and dropped their speed by a few
miles.  The bumpiness was instantly less pronounced.  They were able
to drive on for almost ten minutes without complaint.  As they travelled
uphill, the ground became less sodden and Kirk was able to shift into third and
fourth. 
We’re making good time,
thought Garfield.