The Zombie Game (3 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

6:01 a.m.

DR. TOMAS DURAN’S HANDS
were wet and clammy on the steering wheel as he drove to his father’s office. Something was wrong. The previous evening, his father had gone to a business meeting at his office and not returned home. Between his surgical operations, Tomas had called the government offices, all his dad’s friends, even his dad’s poker buddies, but nobody had seen Julien Duran since yesterday. His father never went anywhere without telling his family. Maybe Tomas would find a note or message or something in his father’s office that would tell him where he was.

When Tomas walked into the office, he saw a man in a white suit sitting at the desk with his back to the door. His face brightened. “Dammit, Father. You scared the hell out of me. Where have you been?”

The man in the chair didn’t answer. Tomas walked slowly to the chair and swiveled it around to face him. The man toppled from the chair and into Tomas’ arms, knocking him to the floor. Tomas screamed, shoved the body, and crawled away.

He sat for a moment, stunned, his heart thumping in his chest. Finally, he touched the man. He was cold. Tomas scrambled to his feet and turned the dead man’s face so he could see it.

It was Hugon Cheval. Dried blood covered his right eye, and a gelatinous material dripped onto his cheek. Cheval was dressed in Julien Duran’s white Brooks Brother’s suit and tie. His attire was immaculate, save for the missing cuff link on the right sleeve.

A note was attached to Cheval’s body:

Your father is safe. He’ll return as soon as his work with Mr. Roche is complete. He’s here in my personal office in St. John and continues to function as Finance Minister, rebuilding the Haitian cities to their former state. Jakjak is at his side, assisting him in government matters.

Do not question Minister Duran’s actions, lest he suffer the same fate as Cheval. Don’t move the body. It will be gone when you next return
to this office. If you value the lives of your father and Jakjak, do not report this to the police or government officials.

Virgil Baccus, Esq.

Tomas trembled. Jakjak had been like family to him. His father often worked late at night and most weekends taking care of Haiti’s finances. His stepmother was reclusive, spending most of her time reading in her huge, lavishly furnished bedroom. Jakjak was left to watch over the family. Tomas had spent more time with Jakjak than with his father, and he had grown to love the man. Tears flooded his eyes.

Tomas went to his father’s bar and poured himself a glass of Scotch. He drank infrequently, but now he needed a stiff drink to calm his nerves. He cried as he drank in gulps.

After he’d collected himself, Tomas sat in his father’s desk chair with his back turned to Cheval’s corpse, trying to sort out the bizarre turn of events.

The questions foremost in his mind were what was his father working on while he was being detained and who was this Mr. Roche?

Tomas fired up the computer. He looked for any correspondence his father may have written or received, and found multiple references to Disaster Inc., an organization he’d never heard of but one that seemed suddenly very interested in the financial dealings of the ongoing earthquake relief.

Despite the reassuring note, Tomas was almost certain his father had been kidnapped. He needed to do something, anything. Calling the police was out. He’d never known exactly who to trust in the Ministry of Justice—no one had. That was the problem. He needed help from the outside, someone he could trust completely.

He thought of his friend, Dr. Scott James, on the
Ana Brigette
. Tomas had known he could trust the doctor within just a few days of being around him. One night, after they’d known each other for a couple of weeks, James had told Tomas about his fight to thwart a terrorist attack at his hospital in North Carolina. His first hand knowledge of gun battles, stand-offs, and dealing with terrorist elements had both fascinated Tomas and scared him. Deeply. Clearly, James had been through a lot. More importantly, Scott James had no ties to Haitian politics or international corruption. Roughly speaking, he was the only guy Tomas knew in Haiti who
wasn’t
connected.

Trust. He had to have someone he could trust.

Duran picked up the phone and dialed the ship’s number.

It rang and rang, and Tomas waited, uncomfortably.
Dr. James will know what to do.

After fourteen rings, Lars Paulissen finally answered.

“Hello, Captain Paulissen, could you please get Dr. James on the line for me? I have an important matter I want to discuss with him.”

Lars replied hesitantly. “Uh, Dr. James is doing emergency surgery now and will be tied up the rest of the day.” The terrorists nodded and kept the gun pointed at Lars’ head.

“Please ask him to call me immediately. It’s an emergency.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Aboard the
Ana Brigette

Léogâne, Haiti

7:00 p.m.

ALL DAY LONG, I
heard hammer knocks and thumping on deck as well as scores of people traipsing around the back half of the ship. The construction was on the section that Lars Paulissen had so carefully converted into a floating hospital. This was his father’s ship, which had been used for harvesting cod and mackerel on the Grand Banks until 1990, when fish became scarce.

Lars had turned to aquaculture in Denmark, raising rainbow trout, turbot, eels, and oysters. He’d made a fortune in the new industry. In 2009, he decided to retire and give something back to the world that had so generously provided his wealth. The converted vessel was operational by the time of the massive Haitian earthquake of 2010. The moment Lars heard about the disaster, he’d set course for Haiti. He’d been there to work with the early casualties, and later, to serve Haiti’s need for routine medical and surgical care.

I suspected the sounds of construction meant the
Ana Brigette
was being modified into some sort of warship, using Armbrister’s blueprints. I sat on my bunk, listening to the construction overhead, and smoked one of my cigarettes. I liked the harsh taste of the Russian blacks. I only wished I had a jigger of bourbon to clear my mind.

I began planning my escape. I knew my captors were about to bring me a little food. If they sent only one man with the evening meal, I’d kill him and then sneak through the darkened passageways and jump overboard.

I looked for weapons to use in my escape—a sharp piece of metal to use as a knife, a heavy object for a club, a rope for choking, or even a loose electrical wire for electrocuting someone. But I found nothing.

As I thought about how to escape, I picked up the duct tape I’d burned off my ankles and fiddled with it. They’d used an entire roll on my ankles alone. I separated the pieces, taped them together, and doubled them up. Soon, I had a length of tape two inches wide and two feet long.
Maybe I can I do something with this ... But what?

I began to roll the width of tape until it was an inch in diameter. Then I twisted it until it was hard as a rock. I jerked on the ends. It was strong.

This will be my weapon when they bring my meal tonight.

The guard opened my door about half an hour later. He was bringing dinner. And he was alone.

I stood with my hands clasped behind my back, holding the ends of the duct tape cord in each hand. The guard placed the food tray on the bed, and as he turned to leave, I jumped forward and wrapped the tape around his neck. I crossed my hands and jerked the tape around his windpipe like a vise.

The guard tried to shout, but I’d completely collapsed his trachea. His face turned blue and his eyes bulged. I continued my hold on the man’s neck well after he ceased to struggle.

By then, I was shaking so hard I had to sit down. I put my head in my hands. Two months before, I had killed five people, all ISIS. Even though those men’s intentions were to kill me and probably many other innocent people, it still had been difficult for me. I was a doctor and saving lives was my priority ... until now.

Gritting my teeth, I lifted the dead guard onto my bunk and took his key chain, gun, and knife, then pulled the covers over his head. I looked both ways down the hall before stepping out, and then quietly closed and locked the door to my room.

I began creeping down the hall to the captain’s room. My heart was beating so loudly I could hear it. I quietly unlocked the door with the dead guard’s keys and entered with my finger over my lips. Lars and Tobias were not bound, as I had been.

Lars shook my hand and whispered, “Good luck on your escape.”

“I’ll try to swim ashore and get help. You’re both welcome to join me.”

“I’ll pass. I don’t think I could survive it,” Lars said. “I’ll take my chances here.”

Tobias shook his head. “I’ve never been much of a swimmer, so I’ll stay, too.”

“Careful,” Lars whispered. “It’s at least a mile to shore and there are—”

“Sharks. I know. Thanks for reassuring me,” I said, grinning.

I handed Lars the keys and knife. Tucking the guard’s handgun under my belt, I slipped out the door and tiptoed down the dark passageway.

I crept along the deck until I spotted two soldiers with their rifles propped up against the railing. They were about twenty feet from me, just idly talking. I stayed in the shadows until they both looked toward the back of the ship. Then I quickly climbed over the railing. As I went over, the gun in my belt struck the metal and clanged loudly.

The guards turned and saw me as I fell into the sea. They grabbed their guns and began shooting wildly.

I sank ten feet before I began to swim.

The gunshots brought the entire terrorist unit to the deck. A guard who had been down below told Mobuto of my escape. The new commander immediately dispatched a twenty-three-foot vessel to search for me. The small fiberglass launch slowly circled the
Ana Brigette.
I waited until it approached, and then dove underwater and swam to the opposite side of the ship. They never saw me.

After watching the search for ten minutes, Mobuto ran to my room and found the dead guard. He went to the captain’s room, where Lars reported that he’d seen me hopping down the hall with my hands and feet wrapped together.

Tobias was quiet until Mobuto turned to leave. Then, he spoke quietly in French, a language Lars had not mastered and was unaware his first mate could speak.

Mobuto turned back and conversed briefly with Tobias before he walked away.

“What did you tell him?” Lars asked.

“Just that Dr. James’ hands and feet were still tied when he hit the water, and there is no way he could survive.”

Mobutu went to the deck and ordered the search intensified.

I stayed unseen in the shadows of the ship, dog paddling for an hour before the search boat returned to the hoist and was raised to the deck.

I had to wait an additional half hour before beginning my long swim ashore.

The ninety-minute wait had been hell. It had drained most of my energy. I was exhausted before I even began my swim. Things looked bleak. The tide was growing angry and strong, and I had no energy left.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Aboard the
Ana Brigette

Léogâne, Haiti

8:30 p.m.

MOBUTO ENTERED THE CAPTAIN’S
cabin with three guards. He grabbed Lars’ shirt collar and lifted him to his feet. Gritting his teeth, he demanded, “Give me everything Dr. James stole from my guard.”

Lars shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Where are the goddamn keys and the weapons James took from the guard?”

Paulissen shook his head. “When the emir finds out you allowed Dr. James to escape, he’ll kill you for it, just like he killed Alberte.”

Mobuto looked at Paulissen for a moment, then said, “I need you alive to answer the telephone for a few more days. After that ... ”

Mobuto’s men began ransacking the room. They found the keys. “Okay, where’s the gun and knife?” Mobuto demanded.

He looked at Tobias and then went to the shower. He never located the gun but found the knife Lars had placed behind the waterproof paneling.

After they’d finished, they filed out the door. Mobuto was the last. He turned and pointed at Paulissen and Jensen and said, loudly, so that everyone could hear it, “Three more days. You die.”

Lars sat on the side of his bunk for several hours with his face in his hands. For the first time in his life, he cried. He knew that Dr. James couldn’t swim all the way to the shore and return with a rescue team.

The reality of the situation was clear: He and his beloved hospital ship were doomed.

Off the Coast of Léogâne

10:01 p.m.

After swimming for two hours, I was not even halfway to the shoreline.

My whole body ached, and the currents were carrying me westward, down the coast, away from
Léogâne
. If I kept moving in that direction, I’d be lost in the vast waters between Haiti and Mexico. I flipped over onto my back and rested for a few minutes, gently paddling my arms and legs to stay afloat. I tried to get my mind off my fatigue. I thought of my two sons, of how I wanted to live for them. But I couldn’t concentrate. My arms and legs cramped.

My breathing was good, but my muscles were less and less my own. I kept willing myself to swim, but my arms were like lead. I kept telling myself,
I must keep swimming
. I knew that if I stopped, I’d die. With every stroke, I stretched my arms as far forward as I could, knowing I’d get there faster with longer strokes.

Then I heard the motor of a boat. My heart leaped in my chest.
A
rescue ship coming to save me?
I looked back to see the vessel. It was closer than the shoreline.

Damn.

It was the
Ana Brigette
, and it was moving.

I floated on my back and waited to see if the ship was coming after me. If they pulled me from the water, they’d beat me until I was dead. But it was moving away, paralleling the coast and going east.

I turned back to the shoreline. There were few lights, but I could see the coast well against the clear sky. I was getting closer.

I rhythmically moved my tired arms and legs, but I hurt all over. Each stroke was more difficult than the last. The Caribbean current was wearing me down. I turned onto my back to rest again for a few minutes and regain my strength. But all seemed lost. The current was just too strong. The more I struggled to get closer to the shore, the farther I seemed to be pulled out to sea.

Suddenly I saw a large fin protruding from the glistening surface, only ten yards away.

A shark.

Then it disappeared. I looked all around but didn’t see it.

Maybe it swam away.

I started to swim again. A large object scraped my hip. It was the shark. I kept swimming, but it stayed with me. I reached out, touched its hard, leathery skin, and then shoved it as hard as I could. I went backwards, away from the shark, and it darted off into darkness.

I started swimming as fast as I could, pulling my body through the water with breast strokes, looking behind me every few seconds to see if it was coming.

My arms were so tired. I remembered the pistol I’d taken from the guard. I reached for my belt. The gun was still tucked there. I took it in my hand and looked for the shark. He’d gone under.

I tried again to think of my kids, assuring myself that I’d get ashore and straighten myself out. I paddled with one hand and kept the gun up out of the water with the other.

The fin surfaced only ten feet away. I saw it. It was coming right at me. It’s nose rose slightly out of the water as it opened its mouth. I swung hard with my left hand and connected right at the tip of the shark’s snout. The animal went wild. The big shark flung its whole body in my direction, broadside, flapping and thrashing at the surface. The force of the shark’s explosive reaction lifted me up slightly, and as I came down I glanced off the animal’s side. I saw my chance. I threw my hand up to its head, stuck the gun barrel against the hard skin, and pulled the trigger.

The blast was deafening. It stunned me. I wasn’t fully expecting the pistol to fire after being in the water so long.

Did it work? Did I really shoot him?

A feeling of desperation swept over me. I looked everywhere but couldn’t see the shark. My vision was blurred, and I was still deafened by the loud report of the gun.

Then, I felt something against my side.

Is the shark back?

I turned to face the beast and fired three more times at where I thought it was. But it was still alive. Right next to me. At my side. I tried to push it away, but my hand touched something different. An object, wide and flat.

I fired again, and something peppered my face. I wiped my face with my hand. It was splinters of wood. I had mistaken some flotsam, a piece of heavy timber, for the shark.

I tried to place the gun back under my belt in case the shark came back, but my arms wouldn’t move. I was too fatigued.

With all the strength I had left, I removed my belt and wrapped it around the heavy piece of wood. I fashioned a loop and hooked my arm in it. I was floating with no effort on my part.

I tried to paddle toward shore using my legs, but after a few minutes, the whole world started closing down, going gray. My legs wouldn’t move. I felt myself sinking in the water. Then all went black.