bolted to the deck. The captain watched him pry off one of his rubber deck boots in an attempt to pull his foot free of the chain.
It looked like it may have been about to work, but at that moment the shadows in the brig exploded in a rush of arms, legs, rotting flesh and razor-sharp teeth. In the days that followed, the captain would swear that he could hear Malcolm squealing out for help, even through the helicopter noise, but in seconds he lost sight of the crewman under the onslaught of dozens of zombie figures bursting out of the hold, and falling upon him, thrilled at the gift of a meal so close.
Whittaker turned away, looking past the ship, as the Port of Savannah loomed larger. The converted oil tanker was deep inside the sheltered waterway now, and a little Harbor Patrol boat squealed alongside the mammoth ship, light bar flashing, siren wailing. There was absolutely nothing anyone on it could do. Even emptied of oil, a sixty-thousand ton vehicle with existing momentum simply could not be stopped on short notice.
The captain turned back to the helicopter. Except for poor Malcolm down there, they were ready to go. Sure, there were a few lowly deckhands still down below in the bilge area, having been instructed to stay down there until landing in port, but they didn’t speak English, were undocumented, and most important of all, not easily traced back to DeKirk enterprises. In short, they were expendable…and would only serve to whet the zombie’s appetites after they had finished off Malcolm—or let enough of him remain to be reanimated and join the growing army before it leapt onto the Savannah port.
Whittaker climbed the helicopter’s ladder, even as the stench of the living dead mob reached him. It was choking, almost unbearable—and it rose so fast after being trapped in that hold for so long. After a transoceanic voyage confined in an oil tank with no water or drainage, even on the open deck, the smell of rotting flesh mixed with caked-on urine, feces (the captain flashed on a vodka-infused card game in Antarctica during which he’d won a bet with one of the Russian soldiers that zombies do need to “take a piss,” after he’d chained one up in the corner of the room and waited until it soiled itself), and blood was so revolting as to be an almost palpable, physical threat.
Whittaker stopped climbing about halfway up, reeling from the olfactory assault. He gagged, but pushed himself to resume his ascent. The pilot would have no qualms about leaving him behind, fearing what DeKirk would do to him even more should he fail to complete his objective. He turned back and looked down, one last time, to say goodbye to his ship, to the tanker and the dreadnought, and his eyes then locked on the dispersing crowd near the open cargo doors.
“I’m sorry, Malcolm,” he said to the gore-stained deck and the grotesque bloodstain—all that remained of the man he had just so recently played cards with and shared numerous bottles of vodka.
The captain climbed two more rungs and motioned up to the pilot to lift away. The rotor whine increased in pitch and the helicopter began rising from the deck. Suddenly, Malcolm was there—at the bottom of the ladder, leading the pack of the undead, having pulled away from them. Whittaker marveled at the ability of the corpse to even move, as badly devoured and shredded as it was: right leg stripped almost entirely of flesh below the knee, abdomen torn open and insides all but devoured, revealing the bony pelvis and spinal column; his neck open with a dozen bites and his cheekbones exposed, pink tongue wagging in a mouth of vampiric-looking sharpened teeth that hadn’t been there before.
He lunged and grabbed onto the lowest rung of the ladder just before it was carried beyond his reach.
The captain was too many rungs above to pry his former crewmate loose. “Let go, Malcolm! Stay dead!” Or undead. Damn it, how fast did that transformation happen?
Malcolm tightened
It looked like it may have been about to work, but at that moment the shadows in the brig exploded in a rush of arms, legs, rotting flesh and razor-sharp teeth. In the days that followed, the captain would swear that he could hear Malcolm squealing out for help, even through the helicopter noise, but in seconds he lost sight of the crewman under the onslaught of dozens of zombie figures bursting out of the hold, and falling upon him, thrilled at the gift of a meal so close.
Whittaker turned away, looking past the ship, as the Port of Savannah loomed larger. The converted oil tanker was deep inside the sheltered waterway now, and a little Harbor Patrol boat squealed alongside the mammoth ship, light bar flashing, siren wailing. There was absolutely nothing anyone on it could do. Even emptied of oil, a sixty-thousand ton vehicle with existing momentum simply could not be stopped on short notice.
The captain turned back to the helicopter. Except for poor Malcolm down there, they were ready to go. Sure, there were a few lowly deckhands still down below in the bilge area, having been instructed to stay down there until landing in port, but they didn’t speak English, were undocumented, and most important of all, not easily traced back to DeKirk enterprises. In short, they were expendable…and would only serve to whet the zombie’s appetites after they had finished off Malcolm—or let enough of him remain to be reanimated and join the growing army before it leapt onto the Savannah port.
Whittaker climbed the helicopter’s ladder, even as the stench of the living dead mob reached him. It was choking, almost unbearable—and it rose so fast after being trapped in that hold for so long. After a transoceanic voyage confined in an oil tank with no water or drainage, even on the open deck, the smell of rotting flesh mixed with caked-on urine, feces (the captain flashed on a vodka-infused card game in Antarctica during which he’d won a bet with one of the Russian soldiers that zombies do need to “take a piss,” after he’d chained one up in the corner of the room and waited until it soiled itself), and blood was so revolting as to be an almost palpable, physical threat.
Whittaker stopped climbing about halfway up, reeling from the olfactory assault. He gagged, but pushed himself to resume his ascent. The pilot would have no qualms about leaving him behind, fearing what DeKirk would do to him even more should he fail to complete his objective. He turned back and looked down, one last time, to say goodbye to his ship, to the tanker and the dreadnought, and his eyes then locked on the dispersing crowd near the open cargo doors.
“I’m sorry, Malcolm,” he said to the gore-stained deck and the grotesque bloodstain—all that remained of the man he had just so recently played cards with and shared numerous bottles of vodka.
The captain climbed two more rungs and motioned up to the pilot to lift away. The rotor whine increased in pitch and the helicopter began rising from the deck. Suddenly, Malcolm was there—at the bottom of the ladder, leading the pack of the undead, having pulled away from them. Whittaker marveled at the ability of the corpse to even move, as badly devoured and shredded as it was: right leg stripped almost entirely of flesh below the knee, abdomen torn open and insides all but devoured, revealing the bony pelvis and spinal column; his neck open with a dozen bites and his cheekbones exposed, pink tongue wagging in a mouth of vampiric-looking sharpened teeth that hadn’t been there before.
He lunged and grabbed onto the lowest rung of the ladder just before it was carried beyond his reach.
The captain was too many rungs above to pry his former crewmate loose. “Let go, Malcolm! Stay dead!” Or undead. Damn it, how fast did that transformation happen?
Malcolm tightened
Similar Books
