Zombie Dawn Apocalypse (18 page)

The multi-lane road though devoid of substantial debris was littered with tiny groups of the undead, and as the convoy raced passed them they stopped what they were doing and started to head in the same direction as the smoke bellowing trucks.

“How far to the marina?” asked Nick as he reduced speed, always conscious of the excessive fuel consumption and risk or damage when moving too quickly on these roads.

“Uh, about twelve miles I think, assuming we can take the flyover, otherwise we’ll need to add on about another three miles,” replied Zack.

“Fifteen miles, we’ve got enough fuel for that right?” Nick asked.

“Yeah, we calculated about thirty miles left so we should do it with spare in the tanks.”

         
“Great, let’s just hope there’s something useful at the marina, we’re
gonna
need something pretty big for all these people,” snapped Nick.

“Don’t worry, last time we were there I’m sure there were still plenty of old boats lying about. There is one possible problem though?”

“Which is?”

Before Zack could answer a large dark object came rushing out from the side of the road and slammed in hard against the Land Rover. The shock of the impact threw the Land Rover over onto its side. The passengers were thrown about as the vehicle slid along the road several hundred yards before coming to a stop. Nick pulled on the door handle and it swung open to reveal several fires outside and lots of shapes moving. A volley of gunshots and shouting were the last thing he heard before passing out.

Resolution Island, Five Fingers Peninsula, New Zealand, 6am.

Bruce lay back in his chair and propped his feet up on the outer wall of the tower he was sitting in. The wooden structure formed the tallest structure of their wall. He didn’t have to be on guard or even awake, and the very idea of seeing the sun rise was completely alien to him just a few years previously. Long having involuntarily given up alcohol, due to its rarity, and having bigger responsibilities, being awake to see the fresh new morning was an experience he had grown to enjoy.

Looking out across the causeway, which joined their guarded community to the mainland, the sun began to light the small open plain divided by their man-made river. The causeway was the only land joining them to Resolution Island, and they had been quick to dig a trench to split the two, effectively making them their own island, only ever joined by a simple swing bridge that had not been in use for two years. They had lights running the length of their walls, powered by batteries that were charged by wind and solar power, but they only kept the lights for emergencies, knowing that they attracted the hordes.

The Island of Resolution before the Zompoc was only inhabited by wildlife, but had quickly become a site of refuge during the crisis. The government had evacuated many women and children there, but within months the main island had fallen. The remaining survivors fled to the Five Fingers Peninsula, being eight kilometres long by a kilometre wide, on the south west coast of the country. This bottleneck had kept the community safe for many years, but with the ever threat of the main island’s inhabitants. No one knew how many creatures were there, but all were quite sure that the zombie population was likely spanning the tens of thousands. The single town they had established on the Island had a perimeter wall, but everyone knew that if the creatures ever reached it in large numbers it would be their end.

The crew of Bruce and the Road Train had travelled to this isolated community three years after the zombie outbreak, shortly after making radio contact in New South Wales, Australia. The Five Fingers Peninsula had since been renamed Resolution Island, the community doing their utmost to forget the horrors that had overcome the rest of the land mass. The population was just over four hundred, many being women and children under twelve. Of the entire population, only eighty were competent fighters, a mix of the original colonisers and Bruce’s group. Among the population were people with a wide variety of skills, from farmers to scientists, a broad enough section to continue with human civilisation.

Taking a sip of his lukewarm water, Bruce looked out as the daylight uncovered a single creature milling around by the causeway. He casually took another sip and then placed his glass down on the floor of the tower, picking up the crossbow that was propped against the wall. Firearms had long since become useless, the last handful of their ammunition being stored for a rainy day. Bows and crossbows had become commonplace with the survivors, who practiced on a weekly basis. Still sitting in his chair, Bruce wound the crank on the crossbow until it was full cocked loading on a bolt as he looked at his target.

For Bruce, seeing a zombie now was no real cause for concern, not like it used to be. The causeway separating them from the main island was just two hundred feet wide, and protected by three layers of defences.
 
There were thirty-foot gaps between each ring wall, and only a single entrance to each barrier. Every Islander knew how absolutely vital the nature of their defences were and their relation to their survival.

Taking aim down the open sight of his crossbow, it lay solidly on the wall in front of him, Bruce took a deep breath as he took aim. Reaching the capacity of his lungs, he held the breath, finally happily with his position slowly breathed out and squeezed the trigger. The bolt struck the creature through the side of the skull, the bloody bolt exiting on the opposing side as the creature tumbled to the ground.

“Another fine start to the morning.”

The sound of a galloping horse was getting ever louder from behind the multiple tiered defences. Bruce laid the crossbow down beside him and turned to look out across the quiet barricades, just two other men on duty across the defences, which they referred to simply as ‘the walls’. A horse and rider shot through the open gate to the opening between the outer and middle defence walls. It was Dylan.

“Dylan! What’s up, mate?”

Dylan stopped and looked up to the twenty-foot tower, clearly relieved to find who he was looking for.

“There’s been a boat spotted off the coast!”

“Any signs of life?” asked Bruce.

“Na, mate, it’s just floating out there,
what’ya
think?”

“Hang about, I’ll be right down!”

He picked up the quiver of bolts and slung it around his waist, before throwing the crossbow over his shoulder with the leather sling. Picking up the glass of water he had been enjoying, he threw the last mouthful down his neck and climbed down the ladder to where his horse was tethered.

“We going out to it?” asked Dylan.

“We’ll have to, can’t leave it floating out there not knowing, last thing we need is something like that washing ashore and we have no idea what’s on board.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

“Why?” asked Bruce.

“
Kinda
hoping we could let it pass.”

“Yeah, well, when have we ever got what we wanted?”

“True,” said Dylan.

Bruce leapt onto his horse and the two rode out across the island. It was a fifteen-minute ride to the shore where the boat had been seen. By the time Bruce arrived thirty of the Islanders had assembled at the beach, as much concerned as curious, they hadn’t seen any more evidence of humans since Bruce’s group had arrived seven years before. The leader of the Island, Bill Hackett was awaiting their arrival, he was a police sergeant in their previous lives. The capable ex-officer was now in his early sixties and had been a natural leader for the group, who had left Bruce primarily in charge of defences over the years.

Riding calmly up to Hackett who was intently watching the vessel through his binoculars, Bruce dismounted, but the old officer spoke before Bruce had a chance, or had even turned to see him.

“Morning, Bruce.”

“
G’day
, mate.”

“I take it Dylan has brought you up to speed?”

“It’s just what we see there, a boat with no sign of life?” asked Bruce.

“Yes, got any ideas?”

“Just one. We don’t know what is onboard that boat, and it’s entirely possible it could end up on our shore line sometime soon, so we need to check it out,” said Bruce.

“Is that you volunteering?”

“Well no other bugger will, will they?” asked Bruce.

“Good, then get a team together and head out, just be careful.”

Bruce shook his head without saying anything, not at all surprised to get the shit job of the day. However, for all of Bruce’s mumblings about his work, he was glad to have the role of security. It meant plenty of rest, no building, fishing or farming, preparing meals or any of the things that he despised so much.

“Dylan! Grab Connor, Wilson, Bart and Christian, and a boat!”

Bruce let the others go to work whilst he pulled out his binoculars and peered out at their target. It was a small sailing yacht, probably two or four berth. The sails were still up but sagging, no one had touched the rigging anytime soon, and the small amount of wind meant it wasn’t likely to go anywhere quickly. The yacht clearly kept a rib or small sailing boat on board as the mounts and ropes were there for it, but the boat itself was missing, not a good sign.

Fifteen minutes later the six men were aboard a small wooden rowing boat, one of several that the Islanders used for fishing. Dylan was on the rudder whilst Bruce stood at the bow of the boat, keeping a keen eye on their target. As they slowly made their way many of their community watched on in intrigue.

The rowing boat clashed against the side of the sailing yacht as Bruce quickly tied the bow rope onto one of the vessel’s side rails and Dylan did the same aft, lashing them to the side of the boat. Bruce hoisted himself aboard followed by Dylan and Connor. The second his foot touched the deck he drew the machete from his side, his two friends quickly following suit. The boat was eerily quiet, with no signs of life, and several ropes tossed loosely about. Bruce reached the aft of the yacht and looked down at the doors to the cabin. They were shut.
 

“I don’t like this at all,” whispered Connor.

“Tell me about it,” said Bruce.

Bruce knelt beside the doors and knocked them twice with the handle of his machete.

“Anyone in there?”

After a few seconds there was no response, so Bruce again hammered on the door.

“Hello! Anyone in there?” he shouted.

As his last word sounded out the doors burst open, throwing him backwards onto the deck and a creature tumbled out in front of him.

“Fuck! Kill it!”

Dylan took a quick step forward and kicked the creature hard to the head while it was still down. The zombie tumbled over, but before he could follow up with his machete a second zombie appeared through the doorway. He swung quickly with a strong horizontal cut that hacked the creature’s head from its shoulders and embedded the blade in the rim of the doorway. The body slumped to the floor just as a third beast staggered through. With his weapon stuck, Dylan kicked the creature quickly in the stomach, sending it reeling backwards into the cabin.

Bruce sat up just as the first creature was crawling on hands and knees to reach him, he swung his machete forwards and it smashed into the skull, sending the creature face first into a bloody mess on the deck. Connor ran forward with his club hammer as the third and final creature staggered out from the cabin, with hard vertical strikes the heavy tool crashed down onto its skull, the neck compressing slightly from the heavy trauma. Not waiting to see if it was still alive, he pulled the hammer back and smashed it down onto the head again, fracturing the skull.

The three men looked around, first for any other creatures and then at each other. It had been a long time since any of them had to face off in hand-to-hand combat against the horrors of the undead, and the pulse pounding adrenaline felt new to them now. Bruce looked back inland, and could see Hackett watching intensely as the action unfolded, still not fully knowing the situation. Bruce simply lifted his arm with an upright thumb, and within seconds could hear cheering from the shoreline. He turned around to his friends onboard.

“Well that was a piece of piss.”

The two men chuckled, still breathing heavily from the shock and adrenaline.

“What do we do with this?” asked Connor.

“Well we can’t just leave it as is, got any ideas?” asked Bruce.

“Burn it,” said Dylan.