Doomware (34 page)

David gasped with relief and wiped the moisture from his eyes. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Of course the boy was sleeping. He must have set his brainware to make him sleep for a while, instructing it not to wake him, not for anything, shutting out the terror of the fall and making his limp body less susceptible to injury. The kid was no fool.

“Can you drive?” Tarot asked, questioning more the state of the vehicle than his driving abilities.

David jolted as if he’d been electrocuted. He’d almost forgotten about the horde of zombies pursuing them. There was no time to wonder how they’d survived, nor to give thanks for it; they weren’t out of danger yet. Peering out the side window, which was cracked and buckled but somehow in one piece like the windscreen, his eyes sought out the wing mirror, but it was no longer there. Instead, he looked over his shoulder and saw zombies making their way down the ridge towards them. Some were hauling themselves along as best they could on broken limbs, having jumped or fallen after the Rover. The main tide of zombies was flowing back along the seafront towards Shanti Court, running for the stone steps leading down to the beach. In no time the whole area would be crawling with them, here where there was an abundance of handy-sized weapons they could use: rocks and pebbles. David shuddered at the thought.

He put the Rover in gear and hit the accelerator. The engine growled and chugged angrily, but mercifully they started to edge forward nonetheless. Ahead of them stretched an expanse of pebbles interspersed with sea-worn rock formations. Beyond that, a few hundred yards away, the beach changed from rock to shingle, and then from shingle to sand. If they could only make it to the sandy part of the beach, which stretched for miles, they might be home free. The Rover gradually picked up speed, but progress was painfully slow – not to mention painful. They juddered and bumped over the rocky beach, the battered car’s tyres and suspension failing miserably to cushion them. The only consolation was that the zombies’ progress was similarly hampered: running on wet, uneven, unstable pebbles wasn’t easy, even for the living dead. Something clanged against the exterior of the car, and David’s first thought was that the zombies were hurling pebbles at them. After a few seconds’ driving, glancing in the rear view mirror, he realised he was mistaken. The offliners were probably furious with themselves and their zombie pawns for pushing the Rover off the edge of the seafront, and were undoubtedly wondering whether the boy had been hurt. They weren’t about to make the same mistake again; they couldn’t risk a heavy projectile coming through the sunroof, which was already damaged and weakened, and striking the boy.

David circumvented a particularly jagged rock formation and fixed his attention on their immediate destination. He couldn’t wait for the relative comfort of driving on shingle and sand. It took a deliberate mental effort not to start relishing it too early, as he had the prospect of escape up on the seafront. On the dun sand up ahead he noticed there were far fewer zombies than usual. In fact, compared to every other day, the beach was practically deserted. It was clear that the zombies who would normally be beachcombing were the same ones who were currently involved in carrying out the offliners’ bidding.

They were only yards from the start of the shingle when the Land Rover came shuddering to a halt. The engine was still running, and David thought they’d become stuck on something he’d missed. He revved the engine. It spluttered and roared but they failed to move forward.

“I think the axle’s gone,” said Tarot.

“Shit!” David shouted, slamming a fist against the steering wheel.

He looked ahead towards the slipway. They were a long way from it, too far to make it on foot. The zombies wouldn’t tie up with tiredness and pain like they would; they were bound to catch them. And even if they did, by some miracle, make it off the beach, what would they do then? Where was there to go?

The engine gave a jarring stutter and died. He pressed the ignition button, but the only response was a dull click. The vehicle had given up the ghost. It had probably done well to get them this far. There was nothing else for it. He unclipped his and the boy’s seat belts. He wasn’t about to give in to those bastards no matter how hopeless the situation looked.

“I’ll carry him,” he said to Tarot. “Cover us.”

“I’m right with you.”

Before they could get out of the vehicle, a sudden surge of sound and a shadow falling over them stopped them in their tracks. It didn’t take long to discover the source of the sound; David’s heart leapt when he saw it. Beyond the cracked glass of the windscreen a huge black object had appeared in the sky above them. For a moment he couldn’t take it in. It was so unexpected, so long since he’d seen its like, that at first fear clouded his mind, and all he could do was gape at the thing as if it was a visitor from another world.

It was a helicopter – of an old, obsolete design, with a bubble-like cockpit and two large skids. It was small by contemporary standards, but right now it seemed to be filling the entire sky.

“My God! Is it them?” David gasped, referring to the offliners.

“I don’t know,” Tarot replied. “Why would they expose themselves now? They’re fucking cowards.”

They watched as the helicopter turned in mid-air and settled onto the sand ahead of them broadside on. A door slid open and two men emerged from the helicopter’s passenger compartment. Both were dressed in urban military attire and were armed with sub-machine guns.

“Shit!” David said through gritted teeth, and he started groping around for his own weapon.

“Wait a minute,” Tarot said.

Ducking under the main rotor, the men sprinted towards them. One of them gave a hand signal clearing indicating that they should get on board the aircraft. Then they both opened fire, shooting past the Rover, aiming for the pursuing zombies army.

“I’ll be damned!” David said. “What d’you think?”

“I think we don’t have much of a choice.”

As they lifted off, David watched the scene from the helicopter’s window with the same kind of immobile detachment he might have watched a television screen. The beaten-up Land Rover stood facing them, the doors on one side thrown open – the driver’s-side door was so buckled it had refused to open – and its windscreen wipers still sweeping jerkily. A river of zombies swarmed around it, getting pummelled by the helicopter’s downdraught, suddenly looking impotent and unthreatening as their earthbound hands stretched hopelessly towards them. It felt incredible to be above the danger so suddenly, to be so effortlessly defying the surly bonds of earth, plucked from danger as if by the hand of God. He didn’t think about where they were going; it was enough to be going anywhere, though the exhilaration of it was tainted by an odd kind of grief over the Rover’s demise – the antiquated machine had sacrificed itself saving them from the most modern of terrors.

As they moved higher his attention shifted to the point where they’d fallen from the seafront. At this distance the drop looked anything but formidable, the slope of the pebble ridge almost gentle, so much so that it was difficult to reconcile the memory of what had happened with the sight of where it had taken place. What
had
happened there? he wondered. Before the fall. What had caused the Land Rover to swerve so badly? He had no way of knowing, and he ceased thinking about it seconds later when the shore disappeared from view entirely and they were flying over open ocean.

In the cramped passenger compartment they were knee to knee with the two military-clad men, who were stony-faced and businesslike, their eyes hidden behind tactical glasses and their ears covered by headphones. The men talked to each other and the pilots via microphones suspended close to their mouths, but their words were lost to the sound of the rotors. The boy was on David’s lap, still unconscious. One of the men pointed to him and gave a questioning look. David flashed him an okay sign. Seconds later the boy’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around at the passenger compartment and its occupants with a blank expression on his face.

“Are you okay?” David mouthed at him, eliciting a dazed nod in response.

One of the rescuers grinned at the boy, giving him a thumbs up. Shawn smiled uncertainly and pressed himself closer to David. Then a sad expression clouded his face and it looked as if he was about to start crying. David smoothed his hair, realising he was probably thinking about the cat. The poor thing was trapped and would slowly starve to death, doomed by a cage that was meant to protect it – if it had survived the zombie onslaught. How on earth would he console the boy over something like that? He cursed himself for not freeing the cat when he had the chance, although he knew he hadn’t even had time to think of such a thing let alone carry it out.

The helicopter banked slightly, and all thoughts of the cat went out of his head when he spotted their destination: a ship. At first it was just a hazy outline on the horizon, difficult to scale in the featureless expanse of ocean, but as they approached details began to emerge. It was a sizeable vessel, dark-grey in colour, verging on black, giving it a vaguely ominous appearance. It appeared to be motionless, and the absence of a bow wave and a wake confirmed it was at anchor. The central part of the ship was dominated by a main structure housing the bridge and assorted communications equipment. The foredeck was crowded with smaller deployable boats, while the deck astern was completely taken up by a helicopter landing pad and what looked to be some kind of movable structure, in all likelihood a hangar for shielding the aircraft in bad weather. He found he couldn’t define the ship’s type exactly, but, like the helicopter, it was in excellent condition given its advanced age. As they grew near the vessel’s name became visible, painted in white letters on the hull:
MV Cankered Host
. This was undoubtedly the mystery ship Shawn had spotted two days ago.

The helicopter took a long time settling onto its landing pad. While it hovered David could see members of the ship’s crew running to and fro, or stood watching from behind portholes and railings. The windows of the bridge were dotted with faces peering out.

As soon as they touched down the pitch of the aircraft’s rotors changed as the engine started powering down. Somebody slid the door open and they disembarked, David keeping one hand on the boy at all times. They stood on the deck a short distance from the helicopter, and David felt as if he’d been transported into another world or another time. Very quickly they were surrounded by people. The crew was a mixture of races and sexes, but was predominately white and male. All were dressed in either camouflage, naval or nondescript utilitarian uniform. Some were armed. It felt strange – strangely unnerving – to see so many people who weren’t zombified.

For a while the whine of the helicopter’s decelerating rotors prevented conversation, and during this time David and Tarot exchanged nervous looks. David was acutely aware of the many eyes upon them, and he felt embarrassed by the dreadful physical condition they were in. He also couldn’t help noting that, if it hadn’t been for his cut, bruised and bloodied state, Tarot would have blended right in with the rest of the crew. The two men who’d been with them in the passenger compartment of the helicopter remained close by at all times. They’d removed their headsets; one was fair-haired and pale-skinned, while the other was darker and shaven-headed.

“Who are you people?” Tarot said once the rotors’ whine had reduced to a low enough level.

The fair-haired man turned to face him. “You’re required to relinquish your weapons at once,” he said, his bearing stiff and his tone of voice official. “Captain’s orders.”

David and Tarot looked at each other. It wasn’t exactly what they’d hoped for as the first words from their rescuers.

David repeated Tarot’s question in a dry monotone: “Who are you people?”

“Survivors,” the man replied, raising his eyebrows slightly. “Your weapons, please.”

The man was directing his attention towards Tarot, who was the only one conspicuously armed; in his haste, David had left his machine gun in the Land Rover.

“Give it to them,” David said. It was obvious they had no choice in the matter.

Tarot unslung his gun and held it rigidly in front of him, as if daring them to touch it, a gesture of defiance that made David smile to himself inside. A crew member stepped forward and took it.

“We have to pat you down,” the fair-haired man said – then, over his shoulder, he snapped: “Search them.”

Two more crew members stepped forward and commenced body searches. In short order, their handguns, their remaining ammunition and Tarot’s grenades were all confiscated. David felt deflated by this exchange, even more so when one of the crew moved to search the boy.

“You don’t have to search him!” he said, surprised and indignant, placing his arms around the boy protectively. “He’s just a boy; it’s not necessary.”

The crew member looked to the fair-haired man, whose eyes remained inscrutable behind his glasses.

After a pause, he flicked a hand and said, “Leave it.”

“Do you have a medic?” asked Tarot. “We’ve been in… an accident.”

“You’re to see the Captain first.”

“Why’s that? One of us might have concussion.”

“Captain’s orders. You’re to meet with him at once. Then the ship’s doctor will be at your disposal.”

This was fine with David. He’d rather get some answers from the Captain than sit around being prodded by some doctor. He and Tarot were only walking wounded, while the boy’s brainware would have flagged up any major injuries. Not that the Captain knew that, of course. It was unorthodox for him to delay medical attention; the guy was obviously eager to get some answers of his own.

“This way,” said the fair-haired man.

* * *

As they trooped into the bowels of the ship, Tarot posed questions to the crew members escorting them, but each time the question was deflected with a brusque reference to the Captain. David had only ever seen a ship this old in movies, or read about one in books. As they walked, he tried to take in the sights and sounds, the maritime museum-like feel of the place, but other things kept demanding his attention. Only now, with the recession of adrenaline, was he starting to feel pain. His legs hurt where they’d struck the underside of the steering wheel and the dashboard. His left cheekbone throbbed where something – probably his gun or an errant magazine – had struck him during the fall. His right elbow was afire with pain. He began to rethink his keenness to see the Captain before the doctor.