Dead Island (21 page)

The man pursed his lips, as if partly amused, partly insulted. ‘I a civilized man. I know better.’ He flicked his head at Purna, as though throwing out a question. ‘You want speak to me?’

Purna nodded. ‘A man called Ryder White sent us to find you. He told us you have a boat, and that you would take us off the island and over to the prison.’

Mowen may not have thought them cursed, but he regarded them with the same candour as the rest of the villagers. Though they couldn’t see his eyes, the movements of his head suggested his gaze was moving unhurriedly from one to the next, as if he was assessing their individual strengths and weaknesses.

Finally he said, ‘Why you want to leave island?’

‘Paradise is a little too green for us, man,’ said Logan.

Purna flashed a frown at him, a silent warning that now was not the time for levity. ‘There is a sickness,’ she said. ‘It’s affecting everybody. Turning them … crazy.’ She demonstrated by swirling her hands around beside her head.

Mowen seemed unimpressed. ‘I know of sickness. Very bad for business.’

‘What
is
your business?’ asked Sam.

Mowen turned casually to look at him, his face implacable. ‘I buy things. I sell things.’ He paused, then added as an afterthought, ‘I help many people.’

‘Can you help us?’ asked Purna.

Mowen shrugged. ‘Why I should help you?’

‘Because Ryder White said you would,’ said Purna firmly.

Mowen’s lips gave a dismissive twitch, as if that argument held no sway with him. ‘Is too dangerous. Nothing in it for me.’

Purna looked thoughtful for a moment, as if deciding what she should tell him. Eventually she said, ‘You say this sickness is bad for your business?’

Mowen nodded.

‘If we get to the prison,’ she continued, ‘there’s a chance we can stop this sickness. Cure it.’

‘Why you go to prison?’ Mowen said. ‘Why you not go to place in jungle?’

Purna blinked. ‘
What
place in the jungle?’

Mowen waved a hand vaguely. ‘Is deep. Near Kuruni village. Is doctor there. Is place of … how you say … science?’

‘Like a laboratory?’ suggested Xian Mei.

‘Laboratory, yes. Doctor there …
he
start this.’

‘You’re saying there’s a laboratory in the jungle, and that the doctor there
started
this virus? This sickness?’ said Sam.

Mowen nodded as if it was obvious.

‘How do you know this?’ said Purna.

Mowen grimaced as if she was being naïve. ‘
I
know.
Everyone
know.’

Purna stared at him. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said, holding up a hand. ‘Don’t move.’

She turned and walked a couple of dozen paces away from the group, pulling her cell phone from her pocket. The signal was not great, but hopefully it would be good enough. She keyed in the number Ryder White had texted them all a little earlier.

After just one ring, White’s clipped voice said, ‘Yes?’

As concisely as possible Purna told him what Mowen had said.

Excitedly, White asked, ‘Will he take you there?’

‘He seems reluctant. He wants to know what’s in it for him.’

‘Tell him I’ll pay him whatever he wants. He’s done jobs for me in the past and he knows he can trust me to keep my word. Time may be running out, but money’s something I’m
not
short of.’

‘It could be a dead end,’ said Purna.

‘Or it could be exactly what I need – what we
all
need. It’s just too good a lead to ignore, despite the extra time involved.’

‘OK,’ Purna said. ‘How is your wife, by the way?’

‘Deteriorating. But stable enough for now. Listen, keep in touch, OK? Let me know what’s going on.’

‘If I can,’ said Purna, and broke the connection.

THE
JOURNEY
TO the laboratory would take almost three hours.

Because they hadn’t all needed to go, and because none of them were happy about leaving the van unguarded, it had been decided that Xian Mei would stay behind with Jin.

Mowen’s boat was a small ex-army tug. He had negotiated the waterways skilfully, standing proud astride his vessel like a pirate captain on the High Seas. Occasionally he had flipped his rifle off his shoulder to fire at what Logan had at first thought were drifting logs. ‘Friendly looking fuckers, aren’t they?’

‘Crocodile,’ Mowen had explained. ‘I shoot so they stay scared. If scared they not attack.’

At times the waterways had been nothing but dark, narrow swampy channels through dense green tunnels of vines and creepers; at others the banks had widened out and the overhanging treetops above them had separated like sliding shutters to admit a vast blue vista of sky. Mowen had been happy for Purna, Sam and Logan to bring their weapons along, and in fact seemed reasonably laid back about the entire venture, despite his initial reticence. Purna had been watching him closely the whole time, eyes narrowed, as if she didn’t really trust him.

For his part, although he felt a little unsettled about venturing into unknown territory, Sam was just glad to get a break from the relentless rage and hunger of the infected. And although he had initially thought Logan a bitter, over-pampered douche-bag, he was now glad of the guy’s company. In a strange way, what had happened had actually been good for Logan, or at least had shown him in a more favourable light. Deprived of the drugs and alcohol he had evidently started to become dependent upon since his accident, and given something other than his own woes to worry about, the ex-football star had proven himself to be a witty and likeable companion. He could be relied on to keep people’s spirits up with a quip or an irreverent comment when things got too heavy. Sam thought that even Purna liked having Logan around, though the Australian girl was hard to read – harder even, in many ways, than Mowen, despite the trader’s mirror shades and uncertain grasp of the English language.

Eventually they had come to a small jetty in the middle of the jungle, where Mowen had tied the boat up.

‘Now we walk,’ he’d said, gesturing off into the jungle.

‘How far?’ Purna had asked.

Mowen shrugged. ‘One hour maybe.’

At Mowen’s recommendation, they had each brought a rucksack of provisions, which they hoisted on to their backs, and a machete to hack their way through the jungle. Mowen had led the way at a brisk pace, occasionally pointing out hazards for them to avoid – snakes, spiders, plants that would sting or scratch or otherwise irritate their skin. It was not long before Sam and Logan had been dripping with sweat and even Purna’s flawless brown skin had gleamed with a light sheen of perspiration. Only Mowen ahead of them had seemed relatively un affected, though as Sam used his soggy bandanna to wipe sweat away from his forehead for perhaps the twentieth time, he had eventually been gratified to see a small damp triangle forming on the back of Mowen’s T-shirt, between his shoulder blades.

It had seemed considerably more than an hour’s walk before they had finally reached the ‘laboratory’. What surprised Sam most about it was the way it appeared, with no prior warning. One minute they were tramping through thick jungle, hacking encroaching vegetation out of the way, and the next they had stopped at the edge of a clearing where a good half-acre or more of trees and bushes had simply been excised, as if by a devastatingly corrosive energy beam from a passing alien spacecraft.

The ‘laboratory’ comprised a jumble of ugly grey prefab buildings surrounded on all sides by an unbroken, three-metre tall security fence. Armed guards, dressed in black combat fatigues and black baseball caps despite the heat, patrolled the perimeter. Attached to each of the guard’s baseball caps was a headset and microphone. Concealed behind bushes at the clearing’s edge, Mowen, Purna, Sam and Logan spent a minute or so observing proceedings. Logan made a wry comment about the apparent friendliness – or lack of it – of the guards, but no one replied. Instead Mowen raised a hand and whispered, ‘You wait here one moment.’

‘Why? What are you going to do?’ asked Purna suspiciously.

‘I talk to them,’ Mowen said and tapped his chest with the flat of his hand. ‘They know me.’

Before anyone could respond he stood up and walked out of the bushes. Immediately half a dozen AK 47s swung up and around to cover him, but Mowen seemed unconcerned. He simply raised his hands and strolled forward, and after a few seconds all but two of the guns were lowered. Purna, Sam and Logan looked on as the guards silently watched Mowen approach. The trader walked right up to the fence and started talking to one of the two guards who still had his gun raised.

‘What’s he saying?’ hissed Sam.

‘I don’t know,’ said Purna, clearly not liking the fact. ‘I can’t hear.’

The muttered conversation continued for maybe another thirty seconds, then the guard turned away and they saw him speaking earnestly into his microphone. Eventually he returned to Mowen to relay what instructions he had been given – whereupon Mowen turned and made a beckoning gesture.

‘Come out,’ he shouted. ‘Is OK.’

It was clear from Purna’s face that she was not happy with the situation, but she stood up and walked out into the clearing.

‘Well, here goes nothin’,’ Logan muttered to Sam, as the two of them rose and followed her.

Immediately the guns, which had been lowered when the guards had recognized Mowen, now snapped up again. ‘Hands up!’ one of the guards shouted, a swarthy-looking man with a thick black moustache. The three of them complied, though as they walked forward Purna muttered out of the corner of her mouth, ‘They better not ask us to give up our weapons.’

Sam wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that statement. Did she mean she would rather go down fighting than be rendered defenceless? He hoped not.

Registering the mistrust on Purna’s face, Mowen made a placatory gesture with his hands and said, ‘Is OK. Is cool.’ He turned to exchange a staccato burst of conversation with the moustached guard and then turned back and said, ‘You can put hands down.’

They lowered their hands, but Purna still looked mistrustful, her movements considered and cautious, the muscles in her arms and legs tight with tension. Her eyes darted left and right, taking in every tiny movement of the armed men on the other side of the fence. She reminded Sam of a big cat, a puma or a panther, wary of its human captors, or perhaps even of those trying to give it back its liberty.

The moustached guard gestured with his gun that they should move to the right. Sam wondered why, and then saw there was a gate about ten metres in that direction. Beyond the gate a caged tunnel led to another gate. They were ushered through one at a time, Purna first, then Sam, then Logan. The moustached guard pointed at Purna’s gun and said something she didn’t understand. She shook her head and turned to Mowen, who was still standing on the other side of the fence.

‘Tell him we’re not giving up our weapons,’ she said. ‘They’re all we’ve got out here.’

Obediently Mowen complied, and again a burst of conversation rattled between the two men. Then the moustached guard shrugged, and Mowen turned to Purna.

‘He say OK. But you keep them on back. You not touch them.’

‘We won’t touch them unless we have to,’ muttered Purna.

Logan was the last to be ushered through the caged tunnel. When he realized the guard was locking the gate behind him, he turned to Mowen. ‘You not coming with us?’

‘I wait here. You honoured guests. I … ?’ He shrugged and laughed.

‘I don’t like this,’ Purna murmured as the moustached guard indicated they should follow him and another four flanked them, two on each side. ‘Something’s happening that we don’t know about.’

‘Just take it easy,’ said Sam. ‘If they were gonna do anythin’ bad they’d have done it by now.’

‘Not necessarily,’ she replied. ‘We’re immune, remember. That makes us valuable.’

‘Yeah, but
they
don’t know we’re immune,’ said Logan.

‘Don’t they?’ she muttered darkly.

They were led to a door in the wall of one of the grey buildings, where the moustached guard pressed a button and spoke into a metal grille beside it. After a moment there was a buzz and the door clicked open. The moustached guard led them down a bare, narrow corridor, and from there through an interconnected series of functional low-ceilinged rooms. They reminded Logan of the claustrophobic Antarctic base in one of his favourite movies,
The Thing
.

Eventually they passed through another door and found themselves in a well-appointed laboratory, almost the entirety of one wall of which was dominated by stacks of cramped cages containing a variety of animals – monkeys, wallabies, rats. Running round the other three walls was a waist-high counter cluttered with items of gleaming hi-tech equipment and several computer consoles, on each of whose screens were displayed graphs or diagrams or simply tables of fluctuating data.

Examining the readings on a piece of equipment that looked to Sam like some kind of over-elaborate cappuccino machine was a wiry man in his thirties with close-cropped sandy hair. Although he was wearing a white lab coat, he didn’t match Sam’s idea of a mad scientist at all. He’d been expecting someone older, with wild hair and maybe a pair of spectacles perched on his forehead. This guy, however, looked more like a mountaineer or a marathon runner. When they entered the room, he turned sharply to look at them, his eyes so startlingly pale and blue that for a moment he looked almost other-worldly. Then he smiled and bustled across, hand outstretched.

‘Welcome! Welcome! I’m Dr West. How nice to have visitors. Way out here it happens so rarely.’

Of the three of them, Sam was the one who automatically put out his hand. The scientist’s grip was surprisingly strong as he shook it.

‘What’s with all the animals?’ Logan asked.

For a moment West’s smile faltered and he glanced at the moustached security guard.

‘Something wrong?’ asked Purna.

‘I was informed that you came here with Mowen? And that you had important information about a recent virus outbreak in the city?’