The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 4) (19 page)

“What’s that?”

“I need go tell Tommy about Lucy. He’ll be pretty cut up about it, I reckon, but it’ll be better if it comes from me.

10

The old trawler started up without any hint of a fuss. It was always a concern that one day, when the men came to use it to ferry them back and forth to the mainland, the engines would refuse to cooperate. It was ancient even before Stan and his team had commandeered it for themselves. Bull even claimed that when the vessel was first built, it had originally been used as a lifeboat on Noah’s Ark.

The decrepit fishing boat had been the only one left in the small harbour of the coastal village, still tied to its pier and rejected by other survivors as it sat rocking against the tide and looking like little more than a pile of driftwood that had been nailed together. At the time even Stan had commented on the fact that despite the desperation of the situation and the need to evacuate the mainland, no one had been willing to climb aboard the dishevelled looking boat and risk taking it out to sea.

With no other choice the team took it and ever since it had proven to be very reliable. Never once had it broken down on them, and no matter how many years passed, or how battered she was by the cruel sea,
‘Nadia Neptune’
stubbornly sailed on.

“It’s as flat as a Jap’s face out here,” Bull commented as Taff began to steer them away from the ferry.

Bull was right. There was not a hint of wind, and the sea was as still as an undisturbed duck-pond. The sky was dark, with heavy clouds threatening to unleash a torrent of rain, but seemingly unwilling to upset the surreal calm of the night. The only noise came from the chug of the fishing boat’s engines as Taff gradually increased the speed, not wanting to put too much strain on the trawler too quickly.

“Yeah, but it’s bloody cold,” Mark grunted back, rubbing his hands together and blowing into his palms.

“Behave yourself. You’ve just spent too much time sitting on that pretty ship, mate. It’s made you soft.”

Mark laughed. The ferry was far from pretty.

“Poor bastard,” Kyle said from the stern as he stood looking back at the ferry. “Look at him. He looks like a kid being dumped at nursery for the first time.”

The veteran was referring to Steve. He had been nominated by Stan to remain with the ship and maintain control. It was not that he did not trust any of the other survivors, but none of them had really proven themselves as being capable of thinking on their feet in a crisis. They all had their jobs to do, and in general they performed well. But regardless, they were civilians and still behaved and thought as such. The majority of them had never truly adapted to life in the new world. Most of them had survived through the efforts of others, living in large groups and protected by other men and women who were willing and capable of carrying out the dirty and dangerous work.

Steve, however, was one of their own. He had been with the team since the sinking of Werner’s U-boat. Stan knew that with him in charge there was a good possibility that there would still be a ship to return to.

Standing by the rail attached to the superstructure of the bridge and framed by the lights from the interior, Steve watched them as they departed for the mainland without him. Indeed, judging by his sluggish movements and posture, he appeared to be saddened by the fact that he was not going with them. He was leaning over the rails, smoking a cigarette and looking dejected while staring longingly at the fishing boat.

“Yeah, poor Steve,” Mark agreed, and then grinned. “At least he has Walt to help him out if there’s any drama.”

“Walt? That man is as much use as tits on a fish,” Kyle scoffed. “We should’ve thrown him overboard years ago.”

“Now, now,” Bull grunted with false disapproval. He disliked Walt as much as any of the others. “They can’t all be super-troopers like you.”

“That bloke is a super-fuck-up, though. He’s incapable of pulling his finger out of his arse. How the hell did he manage to survive for so long?”

“You know how he managed to survive,” Bull grunted, turning away and taking a seat on the wooden bench attached to the stern wall of the trawler. He pulled up his collar and rested his heavy legs on the steel tackle box that was fixed to the deck planks. “He managed it just like the rest of them did.”

“Charlie,” Mark confirmed.

Short and fat, with a red, plump face, Walt was clearly not cut out for the job that he had finally managed to get himself assigned to. Although every member of the team was well aware of the old saying,
‘never judge a book by its cover’
, they were certain that in this particular case their opinions of the man were correct.

Walt looked more like someone who belonged sitting behind a desk with a job that did not put too much pressure upon his delicate shoulders. His thick glasses, lank mousy hair, and soft podgy body had clearly never experienced any hardship that was more than having to walk up a flight of stairs to use the bathroom. He had a habit of perpetually and nervously clearing his throat, and when asked a question he could never give a simple answer. Instead, he would attempt to baffle people and justify his mistakes by slowly building up to the point of his long-winded reports and explanations.

Everyone on the ship had duties to perform, and some were considered to be more glamorous than others. For years Walt had been a part of the kitchen staff. He had no skill or experience in the hospitality industry, and he was not there due to his managerial capabilities. His primary job was cleaning and maintenance, and for years the other survivors had been subjected to his endless lamenting about the fact that his talents were being wasted.

His real name was Ray, and in the early days he had attempted to befriend Stan and the other soldiers while doing his best to fit in and be accepted by them. He even went as far as adopting their way of speaking as his own, learning the jargon and using it himself in general conversation with the other survivors aboard the ship. Much to the amusement of the others, and Bull in particular, was that he claimed to have once joined the army; the Parachute Regiment to be exact, but had been medically discharged before completing basic training. His excuse for not having passed the rigorous selection course was the same sad and pathetic excuse that they had all heard a thousand times before;

‘I was going to do P-Company, but I’ve got bad knees.’

He would sit as close to the troops as possible in the meetings and the dining hall during mealtimes, trying to join in on the banter and hoping that the other civilians would look upon him as one of the tough fighting men. Before long Ray began to strut about the ship, developing a swagger that was supposed to make him appear more masculine and influential, spinning all kinds of stories about his exploits during his extremely short time in the army and his brave and daring actions in the months that followed the outbreak. The fact that Charlie and many of the others actually knew him and had witnessed his lack of bravery first-hand seemed to be completely forgotten by Ray.

Eventually, when stories of him bullying some of the weaker survivors while claiming to now be a part of the security team due to his tactical expertise, it was decided that Ray needed to be put back into his place. At first, to save embarrassment, Stan had ordered Barry, the civilian leader, to deal with him. When this approach had an adverse effect, making Ray want to prove himself as a hard man all the more, tempers began to flare.

In the end it was Bull who snapped, and a public de-cloaking and ridicule during one meal time in the mess hall followed. From then on, Ray became ‘Walt’, after Bull compared him to the famous daydreamer story of ‘Walter Mitty’. He hated the title, but in time many people actually forgot his real name.

However, and although he knew that he would never be trained or accepted as one of the soldiers, his grumblings never ceased. For years he insisted that he could help run internal security for the ship while Stan and the others conducted missions to the mainland and covered the overall tactical considerations. In the end, Barry appointed him to a position within the ‘Shipboard Security Detachment’, an organisation and name that the councillor made up there and then on the spot. Walt seemed satisfied, and it never occurred to him that he was the only member of the force, and that he was basically a caretaker, spending most of his time reporting faults and deficiencies. Nevertheless, it kept him quiet and out of trouble.

“Yeah,” Kyle nodded, watching the ferry as it began to fade into the distance. “I doubt that any of them would’ve made it beyond the first week if it wasn’t for Charlie.”

By now the large ship was little more than a pale, faint outline that was growing dimmer by the second. Kyle turned away and joined Bull, hunkering down and doing his best to keep warm. He felt bad for Steve, leaving him behind, and he could empathise with the man, but someone needed to stay.

Communications would be non-existent between the team and the ship until they made the rendezvous with Charlie and his group who were carrying one of the two HF radios. They could not leave Steve completely blind and deaf to what was happening, so it was decided that the other high-frequency radio would remain on the ferry. Until then the team would be on their own, working their way through the infested countryside and towns to the meeting point with Charlie. It had been agreed that if Stan and the others did not arrive within forty-eight hours of the deadline, then they would never be arriving at all.

On the mainland they would be vulnerable and far from heavily armed. With just a few magazines per man and a couple of grenades between the team, stealth was going to be their primary tactic. Their rifles did not have suppressors fitted and would be used only as a last resort due to the noise they created when fired. Instead, each of them carried their preferred style of stabbing and bludgeoning weapons close to hand and easily accessible. They were experts at silent kills.

Taff preferred his Kukri—a curved and heavy blade that was carried by the tough Gurkha soldiers from Nepal. It was easy to wield, and due to the weight and shape of the blade, most of the striking power was provided by the momentum of the weapon itself.

Everyone carried something that was of personal preference to them. In fact, Bull carried two close quarter weapons—a commando knife and a hammer. Once they were unleashed in a close quarter fight, there was nothing that was capable of stopping him or preventing the carnage that would ensue.

However, everyone looked upon Stan’s choice of weapon with envious eyes. No one knew where he had got it from, and it was rumoured that it had been passed down to him by a family member who had once owned it and wore it as part of his ceremonial uniform. It was a Waffen SS dagger with a broad blade and a decorative handle, finished off with an ivory hilt and sporting a silver swastika. It was in immaculate condition and with Stan’s reluctance to speak about it, or allow anyone to even touch it, it was assumed that his grandfather had been a member of one of those elite fighting divisions of Hitler’s army.

Kyle had a personal radio, as well as Stan, for communications between the team, but other than that they were going to be relying on their skills as soldiers to anticipate what was needed to be done and their ability at close quarter killing when dealing with the dead. They were experienced, tough, and confident, having lived through the outbreak and fought against raiders and rogue army units, but they also knew that anything could happen during a trip to the mainland, and it could easily turn out to be their last.

Less than an hour later the men aboard were able to make out the darker line of land above the sea. Taff reduced the throttle while Stan attempted to find the marker. They had set their heading, travelling in a straight line for a specific point on the coast, but in darkness it was always difficult to find the small yellow buoy that gave them their exact approach to the wooden pier.

“Come left fifteen degrees, Taff. Dead slow,” Stan finally called back into the bridge from the raised bow.

Taff complied, and a few minutes later he was able to see the marker with his own eyes. Beyond that, just thirty metres away, he knew that they would find the pier. As per their drill which they had carried out a hundred times over the years, Taff cut the engines, slowing the boat to a drift. The others—Bull, Kyle, and Mark—moved forward in silence and took up their positions on the bow.

Now there was no sound at all as they all watched and listened, their attention focussed on the shore to their front. The night was so devoid of life, and the sea so calm, that the men would have been able to detect even a rat scurrying through the sand on the beach. It was eerie, and the silent darkness seemed to carry its own dense cold that crept out from the shore towards the men in the boat. 

“Well?” Stan asked a few minutes later. “Anything?”

They had conducted their ‘stop-short’ as usual, listening and watching for a few minutes for any indication that things were amiss on shore. The dead were always a concern, but the team had learned over the years that they rarely wandered too close to the sea. Whether it was an instinctive fear of the water, or if it was due to accessibility, it was never clear. But it was never considered as an immediate threat during the first few minutes when the team were arriving on the mainland.

The main concern of the men was the living. Even now, twelve years since the outbreak and with most of the human population dead, other survivors were always considered as potential threats. Food was scarce, and safe places to live were even scarcer. If the team had been seen in the past moving to and from the ferry, it was always a possibility that someone would be watching them with envious eyes. Now, with force being a much easier and profitable approach than negotiation and cooperation, Stan and his men needed to remain alert at this particularly vulnerable point.