The Creature – A Short Horror Story About A Sailor Lost At Sea

The rubber floor of the life raft ripples beneath me. It wasn’t the usual ripple I’d got used to over the last few weeks, caused by the waves, the one that undulates gently up and down as the raft is lifted, in turn, by each wave before being dropped again. This ripple is different: it’s faster, more purposeful, as if something big has just swum beneath the raft. Almost as soon as I feel it, it’s gone and the life raft goes back to conforming to the slow, laborious roll of the ocean waves. Maybe it was just my imagination; maybe I’m starting to hallucinate: after all, I haven’t eaten in more than a week, and the single sip of water I now ration myself to each day is barely enough to keep me alive, let alone sane. Then I feel the ripple again. This time it’s slower, more deliberate and I feel whatever it is pass under my legs as I sit with my back against the inflated rubber ring which forms the side of the life raft. I try to estimate its size by the time it takes to pass under me, but all I can tell is that it’s big: eight feet, ten, maybe fifteen or even twenty, who knows, but something that big and this far from land could only be one of two things: a shark or a whale. I feel around and open the side of the orange tent which forms a roof over the life raft, protecting me from the intense tropical sun during the day, and the rain storms at night, but it’s too dark to see anything. There must be clouds overhead, because I can’t see the stars. In fact, and I know this because I try it, I can’t even see my hand in front of my face. I listen, hoping to hear the tell-tale whoosh and whup of a whale breathing out and then back in again, but the only sound is that of the waves lapping gently against the side of the life raft. I zip the flap closed again, trying to shut out whatever it is that’s outside, and stare down at the floor. It’s as dark in here as it is outside so I know I can’t see anything, but I stare nonetheless, my eyes searching the darkness in the vain hope of seeing something that will tell me what’s underneath me.

I feel the ripple once more, and then I feel the floor of the life raft lift as if something is pushing it up from below. Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to be losing interest and if anything it’s growing bolder. A few seconds later, something bumps against the side of the life raft, hard enough to make it shudder and throw me sideways onto the floor. I can feel the panic start to rise inside me, but I don’t break out into a cold sweat. At first, I wonder why; then I realise I’m too dehydrated. My body is shutting down all non-essential reactions to save what little water it has left, and that includes sweating, no matter how scared I am.

For a moment there’s silence, then I hear something slap against the rubber. It’s forceful and sends a shiver across the life raft, almost as if the raft itself is shaking with fear. I try to swallow, but I can’t, again because of the dehydration and my body’s response to it. I feel the floor of the life raft lift a second time as whatever it is pushes up from below once more. If it’s doing that with its head, then the creature which is stalking me in the darkness is truly massive, because I can tell by the movement that its several feet across. I clutch to the side of the raft, not knowing if I should try to move out of the way, or remain as still as possible. Eventually, the floor flattens out again and the creature moves away. Only then do I realise I’ve been holding my breath and I let it out with an audible sigh. A second later, the creature hits the life raft again: this time it’s not a gentle, exploratory push, it’s a full on attack, as if the creature is trying to break through the rubber floor. Somehow it must be able to sense my presence within the life raft and it’s determined to get me, but the rubber holds, thwarting its intent.

The seconds slowly tick by, and nothing more happens. They turn into minutes and still the creature hasn’t returned. Maybe it’s given up, maybe it’s realised it’s too difficult to get me and has gone off to seek easier prey. Maybe … My thoughts are interrupted by something ramming the side of the life raft, pushing it through the water as if it were attached to a powerful engine. I cling on for dear life, worried I might be tipped into the water, but thankfully this doesn’t happen. Instead, after what seems like an age, the life raft starts to slow, and then stop. My heart is pounding, but above the noise this is making in my ears, I can hear something else. It takes me a moment to realise that it’s the sound of air leaking from the life raft. Desperately, I feel around in the dark, trying to find the hole, but I can’t. All around me, I can feel the life raft getting softer and softer as it slowly deflates and sinks lower and lower into the water. Again, the creature pushes up from below, causing the rubber floor to bend and deform beneath me. It seems to be searching for me, trying to work out exactly where I am, and how it can get to me.

I cannot see it, but I sense intelligence in its actions. Not human intelligence, but something colder, more analytical and more predatory. This is a creature that’s used to getting its own way. I feel the first wave slop over the side of the life raft; it won’t be long before it sinks and I end up in the water. I unzip the flap in the roof again so that I won’t be trapped inside as the raft continues to collapse around me, but I’m unwilling to abandon it quite yet. It might not offer me much protection, but it’s better than nothing and outside in the inky blackness, it will be just me and the creature. Humans are used to being top dog, but out here, to it, I’m nothing more than prey. It bumps against the side of the life raft again, impatient to get at the tasty morsel it knows is inside. I try to think of something I can do, but my brain has frozen. I know I’m going to die, and my brain can’t cope with it. The creature rams the raft again, and I hear more air hissing out into the night. There’s now so little of it left in the raft that it’s not much more than a flaccid mass of rubber that’s barely keeping itself above the waves. I can hear the creature circling me, splashing the water with its tail as it turns. While I can’t see anything in the dark, it seems to have no trouble knowing exactly where I am. It’s toying with me, and we both know it. All I can do is hope that when the end comes it’s quick, but somehow I know that this isn’t the end the creature has planned for me. Somehow, I know it wants to make me suffer. The very thought of what’s going to happen makes me want to be sick, but I have nothing to bring up, so all I can do is dry heave. The longer the end is drawn out, the more I lose control of my body, the fear of what’s to come is tearing me apart, ripping at my very soul.

I hear myself yelling at the creature, alternating between begging with it to leave me alone and urging it to hurry up and get it over with. Unsurprisingly, the creature doesn’t respond, it just continues to circle. It’s in total control, and I know it’s the one who will decide when I die. All I can do is wait, cowering in the darkness, trembling with fear, until it decides that I am finished. I try to block out what’s going to happen to me, but I can’t. I can hear screaming, and even though I know it must be me, it seems like it’s coming from somewhere other than my own body. I feel the life raft finally start to sink beneath me and I claw my way out just as it disappears into the depths. Instinctively, I find myself treading water, but I don’t know why. The creature brushes against me, and I can feel the roughness of its skin tear at my flesh as it passes, but still I cannot see it. Death is coming for me and yet I’m blind to it. Somehow this makes it worse. If I could see it, I could prepare, but I can’t. I don’t know why, but suddenly a calmness settles over me and I lie back, floating on the surface, arms held out, almost as if I’m offering myself to the creature, giving myself to it as if I’m some sort of sacrifice to a god I don’t believe in. At least this way, death will be on my terms and not its, and I will meet my fate face on, with open arms. I know I won’t survive for long, but at least my death will be my own.

***

This isn’t quite my usual type of short story, particularly as it lacks even the slightest hint of the undead, but it’s an idea that has been floating around in my head for sometime and I finally had time to get it down on paper. I don’t know quite where it came from, but I liked the idea of a lone sailor being stalked by something unseen that’s lurking in the darkness beneath him. It provides an interesting perspective from which to explore the concept of our own mortality. Unseen, it haunts us, just as the creature in the story haunts the lost sailor, lurking in the darkness that is our future. Yet, we shouldn’t necessarily fear it, for a life lived in fear is no life at all. Instead, we should embrace it and use the knowledge that we will, one day, die to ensure that we make the most of whatever time we have left available to us: enjoy life, do good, be nice to others, make sure you leave the world a better place than when you arrived in it, and don’t let the fear of what fate might have in store for you get it the way of living your life the way you wish to live it right now. Happy Friday!

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From the author of For Those In Peril On The Sea, a tale of post-apocalyptic survival in a world where zombie-like infected rule the land and all the last few human survivors can do is stay on their boats and try to survive. Now available in print and as a Kindle ebook. Click here or visit www.forthoseinperil.net to find out more. To download a preview of the first three chapters, click here.

To read the Foreword Clarion Review of For Those In Peril On The Sea (where it scored five stars out of five) click here.

The Custom Of The Sea

The custom of the sea is a commonly-used euphemism for cannibalism. Not your every day cannibalism (if there is such a thing) but a very specific type. It has occurred regularly for hundreds, maybe even thousands of years but it’s also something that’s never talked about in polite company, even by those who resort to it. So what is the custom of the sea? In the days before satellite phones and emergency beacons if a ship went down while crossing an ocean, it wasn’t unusual for a few survivors to find themselves bobbing around in a lifeboat or life raft with no way to tell any would-be rescuers where they were. If the were lucky they might get picked up by another ship after a few days but if they weren’t, they could find themselves out there in the middle of nowhere for weeks or even months.

When they ended up in this position, sailors were faced with a stark choice: starve or turn to whatever food source that was available to them. So what could they eat? Well, they might have some basic supplies with them and after they ran out there’d be fish or seabirds, maybe even a turtle or two if they could catch them. The trouble is without the right equipment that’s extremely difficult to do. There’s one food source, however, they could easily get their hands on: human flesh. In some cases they’d wait for someone to die of natural causes before consuming them but in others the custom of the sea was much more unsavoury. When there was no other option, one survivor would be killed and eaten so that the rest could live. It is said there were very specific, if unwritten, rules as to how this was done and it involved drawing lots. However, in practice it seems things weren’t always so democratic and instead it was the most junior or unpopular crew member who was eaten first.

One of the most famous examples occurred when a whaling ship called the Essex was attacked and sunk by a male sperm whale in the middle of the South Pacific in 1820 (if this sounds familiar it’s because Herman Melville based his epic Moby Dick on these event). The surviving whalers found themselves in three small boats and more than 1000 miles from the nearest land. The few that lasted the three months until they were finally picked up by other ships survived, in part, by following the custom of the sea and eating some of their fellow crew members after they died.

Of course, this type of cannibalism doesn’t just happen at sea but in any circumstances where people find themselves trapped with no other sources of food. Probably the most famous modern example happened after a plane carrying a Uruguayan rugby team crashed in the Andes in 1972 and involved the survivors eating those killed in the crash in order to sustain themselves long enough to be rescued. All this raises an interesting question. Were a zombie apocalypse ever to happen, it’s likely that there’d be small groups of people trapped in houses, offices, hotel rooms, bank vaults, military bunkers and almost every other possible hidey-hole and safe place you could imagine. Many of these groups would have little food and they’d be faced with having to choose between staying safe and starving to death or going outside and facing the zombie hordes in order to find food. Assuming only those infected by whatever’s causing the zombism in the first place will become zombies and not just everyone who dies, would such survivors, like so many have done before them, resort to the custom of the sea?

Based on what we know about how people have responded to similar circumstances in the past, I suspect that in a lot of cases, the answer may well be yes, at least towards the beginning of event when they still have hope and think that rescue might be a possibility. This is because in a zombie apocalypse, the world outside would be a truly terrifying place and if they feel safe, most people will choose to stay where they are rather than going outside and risk being attacked by zombies. Some may try a few foraging trips first but if these fail or if those that try are killed by the undead, it’s likely that the rest will simply stop trying and just hunker down where they are, and where they know they’re safe, waiting and hoping that someone will rescue them. Of those that do resort to cannibalism, most will probably wait until someone dies a natural death before consuming them. Some people may volunteer to die to help those around them survive, while those in other groups may draw lots to decide who’s going to get sacrificed. There will also undoubtedly be a few where things will be less democratic and selfless, and they’ll gang up on the weak, the elderly or just the plain old unpopular.

The custom of the sea, therefore, has an interesting, if rarely considered, implication were a zombie apocalypse were ever to happen: if, when it starts, you find yourself part of a group that’s trapped and there’s no other readily available food, it’s quite likely that it won’t just be the zombies that will be eyeing you up as a potential meal!


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From the author of For Those In Peril On The Sea, a tale of post-apocalyptic survival in a world where zombie-like infected rule the land and all the last few human survivors can do is stay on their boats and try to survive. Now available in print and as an ebook. Click here or visit www.forthoseinperil.net to find out more. To download a preview of the first three chapters, click here.

To read the Foreword Clarion Review of For Those In Peril On The Sea (where it scored five stars out of five) click here.

For Those In Peril On The Sea – Preview, Part 3

This is the final posting in the series which feature extracts from my book For Those In Peril On The Sea that will be available from Pictish Beast Publications in the UK from the 3rd of January 2013. You can find the first two postings by clicking here and here. It’s a tale of survival in a post-apocalyptic world where the land is no longer safe, leaving the few remaining people struggling to survive at sea. If you like what you read here, you can find out more about it by clicking here. If you wish to read this extract offline, you can download a PDF version of it from here.

Chapter Two

We sat off Hole-in-the-Wall for the next few hours, watching the lighthouse flash its signal into the darkness as it had done for more than 150 years. I counted off in my head, one flash every ten seconds. Not many people realise that each lighthouse has its own signature; a unique pattern of flashes and pauses that allows seafarers to know where they are as soon as they see it. The system had been designed in the age of sail, before electronic navigation and the global positioning system. Now, with all our electrics out of action, I could see why it worked so well. The signal was reassuring, it told us exactly where we were, reminding us that there was other human life out there, that despite all we’d been through, everything back on shore was still as we’d left it: cold beers, strangers to talk to, hamburgers, cigarettes, newspapers, a toilet that stayed still while you sat on it … all the little trinkets of civilisation we never even thought about until we were deprived of them. And in a few days, I’d be enjoying them all.

As the sun rose behind us, we trimmed the sails and headed round the point at Hole-in-the-Wall, sailing past the arch and into the lee on the other side. The rain had cleared and we could see the octagonal houses of the lighthouse keepers squatting at the base of the massive red tower. My heart leapt at our first real sign of land and civilisation. Bill pulled the boat as close to the rocky shore as he dared and Jon blew on the hand-held foghorn. We waited. No one stirred in the buildings up on the hill. Jon blew the horn again, but still there was no response. This was unusual. There should always be someone at the lighthouse. Sure, it wasn’t as important since the lighthouse had been automated, the recently-added solar panels disrupting its once smooth, almost sleek, profile, but still, someone should be there.

‘D’you think it’s just a bit too early for them?’ Jon looked at Bill.

‘Possibly.’ Bill picked up the binoculars and examined the cluster of buildings. ‘There’s a truck there so it looks like somebody’s home.’

‘Should we wait or just carry on?’ I was keen to keep moving towards Miami and I didn’t want to spend too long waiting for people to get up.

‘We really need to get a message to the owners. We’re already a week overdue, and they will be worrying about what’s happened to us. We need to let them know we’re okay and when we’ll finally get into Miami.’ Bill scanned the buildings again, then turned to Jon and me. ‘You two up for a trip ashore?’

‘Yeah.’ Jon sounded as keen as I was to spend some time off the boat, even if it was just a walk up to the lighthouse and back.

We inflated the small rubber dinghy, fitted the little outboard and lowered it over the side. Jon and I clambered in and started the engine. The dinghy bumped over the choppy waves and within a few minutes, we were tying it to a heavy iron ring set into rocks below the lighthouse. Once the dinghy was secured, we climbed up steps carved directly into the rock. At the top we found a natural stone platform with a narrow concrete path snaking up the hill towards the lighthouse. We walked slowly and unsteadily, our bodies unused to being on solid ground after six weeks on an ever-moving surface. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell of earth after rain. It was the kind of smell you didn’t miss, that you didn’t even notice until it was no longer there. I drank in the calls of birds and the chirps of insects that flowed from the trees surrounding the path. Neither Jon or I spoke; we were too busy relishing these novel sounds after weeks of little more than the slap, slap, slap of waves against the side of the boat and the clinking and clanking of the rigging.

We were at the first building all too soon and I knocked on the solid wooden door. As we waited for a response, we surveyed the property.

‘This is quite some place.’ Jon shaded his eyes with his hand as he stared out at the land beyond the lighthouse, ’Imagine living all the way out here, you’d go mad with boredom. There’d be nothing to do.’

Being young, Jon didn’t yet appreciate how wonderful it could be to be alone, far from any other living person. He looked at the lighthouse and saw it as isolated and lonely. I looked at it and saw a sanctuary from the confusion of the modern world.

After a few minutes, we started to wander around, calling out a greeting to anyone who might be there, but no one replied. We tried the second house, but no one answered. The buildings themselves were weathered but well-kept, and they weren’t shuttered or boarded up, meaning someone must still be living there, despite the fact the lighthouse had been automated. The presence of the truck seemed to confirm this. It sat on the hill facing towards a road so old it was little more than a rutted track. I could see that it weaved a path through the bushes for about half a mile to where it disappeared round a corner.

‘I’m going to take a look at the truck.’

I didn’t know what it would tell us but I followed Jon as he walked over to it. The truck was an ancient pickup, the red paint faded and speckled with rust. There was a large dent in its tailgate and one of the rear lights was broken. Apart from that, it looked in reasonable condition for its age. As we neared, I saw that the driver’s door lay open, the glass from its broken window scattered amongst the stones on the ground. There was something that looked very much like blood smeared across the vinyl seats, as if someone had been dragged out by force, and the keys were still in the ignition.

Jon’s eyes widened as his eyes shifted from the truck to me and back again. ‘What d’you think happened here?’

‘I don’t know.’ As I spoke I felt a sense of unease rising within me.

‘What now?’ Jon was staring down the road as if expecting someone to appear suddenly.

‘I guess we find somewhere to leave a note.’

I headed back to the first house with Jon following behind. Once there, we ambled along the veranda that surrounded it, searching for any clues that would tell us where the lighthouse keepers were. On the far side of the building there was another door. I knocked, but again there was no response. I leant on the wooden balustrade that surrounded the veranda and looked out across the landscape, wondering what to do next. The land dropped away immediately below the building and a set of concrete steps led down to an outhouse. Along its roof, little brown lizards scuttled as they displayed to each other. Beyond that, the land disappeared off towards the horizon in a series of low, rolling hills covered with scrubby bushes. The green expanse of land made a pleasant change after weeks of nothing but featureless sea.

I heard the door creak open behind me and turned to see Jon with his hand on the latch.

‘You can’t just go wandering into someone’s home, especially when they’re not there.’

‘It wasn’t like it was locked.’ Jon was about to step inside when he hesitated, ‘What the hell?’

I looked past him into a kitchen that had been turned upside down. Pots and pans were scattered across the floor, interspersed with fragments of broken crockery. A door to a store cupboard lay open, revealing that its contents had been pulled hurriedly from the shelves. A table and chairs were stacked against a second door on the far side of the room and the cooker was pushed up against them as if someone had tried to make a barricade. The walls were covered with red smears, while several pools of what looked like congealing blood lay on the floor. Whatever the people had been trying to keep out must have found another way in.

‘Rob, is that what I think it is?’ Jon was nervous.

‘Yeah, I think so.’

‘Where d’you think it came from?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Should we check the rest of the house? See if anyone’s injured?’

‘I guess so.’

Despite this, we remained in the doorway, neither of us wanting to be the first to step inside. Rather than enter, I decided to walk round the outside, pausing at each window to cup my hands against the glass and peer inside. I found no one but I could see the contents of each room were strewn across the floor, and furniture piled up near the doors. The only difference was that in these rooms the makeshift barriers had been pushed away as if someone, or something, had forced its way in. In all of them, there was red spattered on whitewashed walls, and dark pools on the floor. Once back at the kitchen door, I stopped and scanned the surrounding landscape again. Other than the lighthouse buildings, there wasn’t a single trace of human habitation in sight. The solitude that had seemed so appealing when we first arrived now felt oppressive.

‘Jesus, Rob, that’s a lot of blood.’

‘Yeah.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

‘Do you think it’s … you know, human?’

‘I don’t know. Even if it’s from an animal, it’s creepy.’

‘Fucking creepy. Did you see the way the doors had been barricaded?’

‘Yeah.’ I was only half-listening to him. Instead, my brain was racing, trying to find some sort of explanation for what we’d discovered.

‘So what do we do now?’

‘Huh?’ This question brought me back to reality. I thought about it for a few second, ‘I guess we should check the other buildings. You know, just in case.’

‘D’you think it’s safe?’

‘I don’t know, but we should do it anyway. It’s the right thing to do.’

‘Yeah, I suppose.’

I looked over at Jon and saw he was biting his lower lip nervously. ‘You can stay here if you want, but I’m going to check them out.’

‘No way. I’m coming with you. This place is really starting to scare the shit out of me. You’re not leaving me on my own.’

Jon followed as I walked slowly over to the other house. As I did so, I cast my eyes around, alert to possible signs of danger, but I saw nothing that seemed out of place. I crept around its veranda, peering in the windows. This one looked unoccupied and there were no signs of life … or of death. Next, I checked the outbuildings, but they were locked. I banged on the doors and called, but no one answered. Finally, I turned my attention to the lighthouse. From where we stood, I could see the door was slightly ajar.

I was half-way there when Jon suddenly stopped. ‘I thought I saw something move.’

‘Where?’

‘In the lighthouse.’ Jon grabbed my shoulder as he spoke.

Irritated, I shook him off. ‘What was it?’

‘I don’t know. I just thought I saw a movement.’

I searched the shadows. ‘I don’t see anything now.’

We moved forward again. Once at the lighthouse, I slowly pushed the door open. Jon jumped as it creaked loudly, the sound echoing around the stone tower. I stepped inside.

‘Hello?’ My voice sounded odd as it reverberated off the curved stone walls, ‘Anyone there?’

There was no reply. I looked round the room. It was dark but enough light came through the door for me to see a set of stairs spiralling upwards. There was nothing else; no sign of anyone; no sign of anything that might be alive.

‘Should we go up?’

I looked over a Jon. ‘Do you want to?’

‘No way.’

‘Me neither.’

Suddenly, there was a shriek outside. We ran through the door just in time to see a small flock of parrots burst into the air.

‘I think we should go back to the boat.’ Jon’s voice wavered as he spoke and I could tell he was starting to get jittery.

I didn’t blame him. The place was really starting to get to me too. ‘Yeah, let’s go.’

Jon looked relieved and headed back down the path. I followed after him, noticing he was moving much faster than he had on the way up. As I walked, I looked back over my shoulder and wondered about what we’d found. Other than the blood all over the house and the broken window in the truck, nothing seemed out of place. Something had happened here, but I couldn’t think what. I couldn’t help but be reminded of an old poem about another lighthouse, one back home on Flannan Isle. It had been found unmanned in 1900, the table still laid for dinner with food untouched on the plates. All three lighthouse keepers had vanished, and no one had ever found out what had happened to them.

We were about three-quarters of the way down the narrow path when a silhouette appeared on the skyline behind the lighthouse, a large machete clutched in its right hand. Instantly, we were both running, moving as fast as we could over the cracked and uneven surface. Glancing back, I saw the figure pursuing us, screaming indecipherably at the top of its voice.

We reached the stone steps and scrambled down to the dinghy. I fumbled with the rope that held it to the rock, trying desperately to undo it.

‘Come on, Rob.’ There was a sense of urgency in Jon’s voice I’d never heard before, not even at the height of the storm.

‘I can’t. The knot’s pulled too tight.’

‘Here, try this,’ Jon held out his Leatherman, the small knife already open. I grabbed it and started sawing frantically at the rope.

‘Come on! Whoever that is will be here any second.’ Jon eyes were darting nervously between where I was struggling with the rope and the top of steps.

‘I’m going as fast as I can. Just get the engine started so we’re ready to go as soon as I’m done.’

I was about half-way through the rope already and I redoubled my efforts. I heard Jon yank on the starter chord. The engine shuddered, but that was all. He adjusted the throttle and tried again. Again it turned over, but it still didn’t catch.

‘Careful, you’ll flood it.’

‘I know what I’m doing, Rob.’ Jon never liked it when I gave him advice, but there was a hint of panic in his voice.

I felt the rope separate and I pushed us away from the rocks. Jon was pulling repeatedly on the chord but the engine still refused to start. My eyes flicked upwards. While I couldn’t see the path, I knew the figure could appear at any moment and we were still within range of a machete. As Jon continued to fiddle with the engine, I grabbed an oar and started paddling, making short, sharp strokes on alternating sides of the bow.

We were twenty yards out when the engine finally spluttered into life and a look of relief spread cross Jon’s face. Back on the shore, I could see the figure standing on the rocks just above the steps. He was a tall, black man, his white t-shirt soaked in blood. As we motored towards to the waiting boat, he waved the machete and screamed something I couldn’t quite make out. Without warning, he stopped and sank to his knees, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed. Jon shifted the engine into neutral; the man no longer seemed insane and dangerous, just broken and desperate.

‘Should we go back?’ Jon asked hesitantly.

‘I don’t know. I don’t think we should risk it. What if it’s a trap? I mean, he’s covered in blood.’ While he no longer looked threatening, the man still frightened me.

All of a sudden, with a speed that was unsettling, the man leapt to his feet and sprang round to face the path. A new shape was outlined on the crest of the hill. I couldn’t tell if it was human or animal, or even if there was more than one, and almost as soon as I’d seen it, it was gone. The man looked desperately left and right, as if trying to decide which way he should run but, before he made his choice, two shapes shot out of the bushes. He flailed the machete wildly as they flew towards him but it made little difference. When they reached him, they attacked and, within seconds, the man was on the ground. Even from that distance, we could hear his screams of pain and the guttural growls of the creatures. He struggled frantically, trying to throw them off, but despite his size they were too much for him. His movements slowed and eventually ceased as the life drained out of him, but the creatures kept up their assault, tearing at his body, ripping him limb from limb.

‘What the fuck are those things?’ There was a look of abject horror on Jon’s face.

‘I don’t know. Let’s just get the hell out of here. Now!’

Jon slammed the engine into gear and we skimmed over the water at full speed, trying to resist the urge to look back. We tied off the dinghy and scrambled onto the catamaran. Bill was standing in the cockpit staring towards the shore with the binoculars,

‘For a minute there I thought you were going to go back. Just as well you didn’t.’

‘Could you see what those animals were; the ones that attacked him?’ I wanted to know. I wanted to understand how close we’d come to being attacked ourselves.

Bill looked at me and said nothing as he handed me the binoculars. I aimed them towards the shore and could see two huddled shapes crouching over what was left of the man. As I watched, one of them stood up and I could see what it was. It was a young boy, no more than thirteen. Blood dripped from his face as he stared straight at me. His eyes bored into mine, unblinking, so wild, so animalistic, and yet so human. He knelt back down and started tearing at the carcass again. I watched as he clawed at the man’s stomach, opening up his abdomen and pulling out his intestines. He plunged his head into the man’s body, reappearing a second later with a large piece of liver in his mouth. I lowered the binoculars and stared at Bill, not believing what I’d just seen. As I did so, CJ came out onto the deck.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Don’t know,’ Jon shot back at her as his eyes shifted from Bill to me and back again. ‘Can I get the binoculars?’

I passed them to him and watched as he raised them to his eyes.

‘They’re eating him.’ Jon was appalled.

‘What d’you mean they’re eating him? Who’s eating who? Give me the binoculars,’ CJ held out her hand but Jon didn’t give them to her.

‘Trust me. You don’t want to see.’

CJ scowled at him but there was something in Jon’s voice that suggested he was right and she didn’t push it.

As we pulled the dinghy out of the water and hauled up the anchor, Jon told Bill and CJ what we’d found up at the lighthouse. He sounded almost excited but it was probably just the after-effects of the adrenaline from his body’s fight or flight reaction. I was certainly feeling a little shaky for the same reason.

Jon was just finishing. ‘Jesus, there was blood everywhere … I mean, a lot of it.’

I felt the need to say something. CJ had a terrified look on her face and Jon needed calming down.

‘There wasn’t that much really. I mean maybe it was all from one person …’ Even as I said it, I knew in my heart it wasn’t true.

Once we were underway and had put some distance between ourselves and the lighthouse, we gathered in the cockpit. We were all been badly shaken by what we’d witnessed and for a while none of us spoke, each lost in our own thoughts. It was CJ who eventually broke the silence.

‘What now?’

‘Very good question.’ Bill sat there thinking for a few seconds before continuing. ‘No matter what happened back there, there’s nothing we can do about it. In fact, I think you guys were very lucky to get back to the dinghy when you did, otherwise … ’ I didn’t want to think what the otherwise might have been.

After a moment Bill carried on. ‘We’ll need to report it, The only question is where. As far as I can see, we’ve got four choices.’ He counted each of them off on his fingers as he spoke, ‘There’s a small village marked on the chart just up the coast, but there’s no guarantee it’ll have a police station. Even if it does, it’s going to be a small one and I’m not too sure they’d be able to deal with this sort of thing on their own.’

Given what we’d just seen, I was amazed at how calm Bill was, at how clearly he was thinking. My own mind had frozen, able to do little more than replay the same shocking sights over and over again, yet Bill was able to think logically about what we needed to do next, just as he’d done in the storm. These were the times I was so glad it was Bill who was in charge and not me.

‘Two, we can sail south and report it in Nassau. Or three, we can continue west and report it in Freeport on Grand Bahama. They’re both pretty big cities, at least as far as the Bahamas are concerned, and both will have sizeable police forces. But it’ll take time for them to get themselves together and get over to Hole-in-the-Wall.

‘Four, we can carry on to Miami, and report it from there. The important thing to remember is that, no matter where we report it, it’s going to raise a lot of questions.’

Bill was silent for a second or two. ’Frankly, I’m not too sure people will believe us. We could get tied up in the investigation for days, even weeks. There’s nothing we can do for that poor sod back there, so if the rest of you agree, I’d rather report it in Miami than in the Bahamas. That way we won’t be stuck in a foreign country while this thing is looked into.’

‘It mightn’t be a foreign country to you …’ I was a concerned Bill had forgotten we weren’t all Americans.

‘Good point. But I think you and CJ would still be better off in the US than in the Bahamas. Whatever went on back there, it’s going to cause a big stir when it comes out. At least in the US you’ll have less of a chance of getting dragged into it. We all will. What do you think?’

Bill looked around at the rest of us.

Jon nodded his agreement, as did I, but with more hesitation. My mind was finally starting to work again and while I could see Bill’s point, I still didn’t like the fact I might get stuck in an unfamiliar country, far from my boat, while any investigation took place.

‘CJ?’

‘Erm …’

‘Oh come on, Cammy, make a decision for once; not that it really matters what you think.’ Jon sounded irritated.

‘Shut up, Jon, that’s not helpful.’ I couldn’t stop myself snapping at him. It annoyed me that, despite what we’d just witnessed, Jon still couldn’t resist needling CJ. It incensed me just as much that CJ made it so easy for him. Glancing over at her, I saw the resentment and anger that had been building up within her towards Jon throughout the voyage start to bubble to the surface.

Bill must have seen this too because he sat down and put a reassuring arm around her.

‘CJ, it’s important that we all agree on what we’re going to do.’ Bill’s voice was calm and comforting, ‘What do you think? Are you happy with us carrying on to Miami?’

‘I guess Miami would be okay.’

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but Bill held up his hand and Jon thought better of it.

Bill looked round at each of us again, ‘Right, Miami it is then.’

***

‘What d’you think happened back there?’ I was keen to hear Bill’s thoughts. Night had fallen and we were over the shallow waters of Great Bahama Bank, passing between the islands of Great Isaacs and the Bimimis. We’d covered half the distance to Miami and we would be there by daybreak at the very latest. Bill and I were alone in the cockpit and we’d soon be crossing the Gulf Stream, an unpredictable stretch of water that could be whipped up into rough pyramids of water at a moment’s notice, if the wind started pushing against the northward-flowing current. We were lucky, the wind had been strong enough to keep us moving along at a decent pace, while gentle enough not to stir the waters up too much. It would be an easy passage, the skies were clear and the stars were laid out above us, the silver ribbon of the Milky Way shining brightly in the heavens. This was the type of crossing I usually relished, but I couldn’t enjoy it because the events from that morning were still replaying themselves in my head.

It took Bill a while to reply. ‘I really don’t know.’

I tried again, ‘Why would they do that to another person?’ I wanted an answer, any kind of answer, something that might explain what we’d seen.

‘I don’t know. Why do people do any of the cruel things that they do to each other?’ Bill stared out into the darkness.

‘But this is different. Even in comparison to most human atrocities, what happened back there was vicious. I’ve never seen anything like it. They were like wild animals.’ I stopped and thought for a second, ‘No, they were worse than that. They didn’t just kill him, they ripped him apart.’ Just thinking about it made me feel sick.

‘I know.’ Bill turned and look at me, there was a pained expression on his face. ‘I know. I’ve seen a lot in my life, but I’ve never seen anything like that.’

Even if I’d wanted to I don’t think I could have slept that night. I couldn’t get the image of the young boy with his wild, staring eyes, out of my head, or the terrified screaming of the man as he was torn apart. I felt there was something deeply wrong with a world where such things could happen. I couldn’t wait to get back to civilisation and get so drunk that those images would be erased from my mind, at least for a few hours.

Chapter Three

Sometime in the night the wind shifted around to the west, and with it came a strange smell. It was barely discernible at first, but it grew stronger the closer we got to the Florida coast. Mostly, it smelt of smoke; not wood smoke but something thicker, more acrid, with an undertone of singed flesh. Bill had gone down to his bunk a couple of hours before, and Jon had replaced him on watch. As we discussed what the smell might be, CJ brought out a coffee for Jon and a tea for me.

CJ looked towards the front of the boat, standing on tiptoes to get a better view over the cabin.

‘Hey, is that the sun coming up?’

‘Don’t be daft, Cammy.’ Jon took a sip of his coffee, ‘We’re heading west. The sun rises in the east, doesn’t it?’

‘Well, there’s something going on over there,’ CJ retorted. ‘It definitely looks like a sunrise.’

She sounded so certain that Jon and I stood up to see what she was talking about. Sure enough there was an orange glow on the horizon.

‘Must be some kind of brush fire.’ Jon didn’t sound convinced, but it seemed logical.

We watched for the next hour. By then, we could make out flames leaping high into the darkness. The fire explained the strange smell, or at least it seemed to, but the smoke didn’t smell like a brush fire, it smelt more industrial. I scanned the horizon. The flames were strung out in loose clusters along a stretch of coast about half a mile long, and directly ahead of us. On either side there was …


*****************************************************************************
From the author of For Those In Peril On The Sea, a tale of post-apocalyptic survival in a world where zombie-like infected rule the land and all the last few human survivors can do is stay on their boats and try to survive. Now available in the UK. Click here or visit www.forthoseinperil.net to find out more.

For Those In Peril On The Sea – Preview, Part 2

This is the second of a series of postings which will feature extracts from my book For Those In Peril On The Sea that will be available from Pictish Beast Publications in the UK from the 3rd of January 2013. You can find the first posting (the prologue) by clicking here. It’s a tale of survival in a post-apocalyptic world where the land is no longer safe, leaving the few remaining people struggling to survive at sea. If you like what you read here, you can find out more about it by clicking here. If you wish to read this extract offline, you can download a PDF version of it from here.

Chapter One

I huddled in the night, trying to keep myself out of the wind and the rain. We’d been outside for six hours, searching desperately for a sign of life in the darkness, looking for the signal that would tell us everything was alright, that we’d soon be safe.

‘There. At one o’clock.’ Bill pointed ahead of us, ‘Did you see it?’

It was another five minutes before any of us saw it again. A flash of light in the blackness, glimpsed only once but definitely there. The rain eased slightly and we were able to see it each time it blinked on and off. That was the signal we’d been seeking. In good weather, it would’ve been visible from more than twenty miles away, but with all the rain we could’ve been as close as five miles when we first saw it.

‘We’ll head towards it, but we don’t know what might be out there, so keep your eyes peeled.’ Bill’s tone was authoritative. ‘We’ve got this far, so let’s not screw it up now.’

Bill always seemed to know what to do, and this was probably the only thing that had got us here in one piece. Even then it had been a close call; too close for my liking.

‘What’s that?’ CJ was pointing over the bow, ‘Directly ahead. Something’s out there, something moved.’

CJ was always seeing things that weren’t really there, but tonight I’d give her the benefit of the doubt. I stared into the darkness, straining my eyes, looking for anything that might indicate danger. Suddenly, there was an explosion of air just a few feet away. I jumped, as did Jon. CJ let out a startled yelp. Jon snorted derisively and clicked on the hand-held spotlight before playing it across the sea. A massive creature had broken the surface just off our right-hand bow. Jon swept the light along the animal’s body. As it lay on the surface, floating in the water like the trunk of a gigantic tree, its single blowhole opened again and another powerful breath shot into the night, water droplets glistening in the spotlight’s beam.

‘It’s okay,’ Jon called back to Bill. ‘It’s a sperm whale, just a baby. I think it’s checking us out.’

I calmed myself and continued to search for the pale line on the horizon that would be waves breaking against the low finger of rock that stretched into the ocean somewhere ahead of us. This was home to the Hole-in-the-Wall lighthouse, named after the arch cut through the peninsula by the ever-pounding waves. Having made it all the way from South Africa on our way to Miami, the southern tip of Great Abaco, marked by the lighthouse, was our first sight of land since passing Saint Helena almost five weeks before. Given the weather, we wouldn’t see the breakers until they were only a mile or so away, which would be too close for comfort.

‘We should heave to and wait for daylight.’ I turned to find that Bill, as usual, was one step ahead of me. He was already adjusting the sails and changing the course, bringing us to a halt even in the heavy seas.

I considered the others one by one, the people I had spent the last seven weeks with, six of them at sea with no one else for company. I couldn’t wait to get to Miami where I could step off the boat and never see any of them again. That wasn’t quite true. I’d probably keep in touch with Bill, but I doubted I’d ever hear from Jon again, and probably not from CJ either. We were just too different, in age, in outlook, in everything.

I’d been sailing around the world for the past three years having set out shortly after I’d left the only real job I’d ever had, working as a teaching assistant at a university. I’d never intended to go into teaching. It was only meant to be a temporary job over one winter, to help pay off some bills. I’d gone into archaeology thinking it would be all about exploring ancient ruins and Indiana Jones-style adventures. The first few weeks as an undergraduate dispelled that illusion but, unlike a number of my classmates, I had liked it enough to carry on.

My first dig was a Celtic hill fort in southern Ireland. It didn’t pay but it’d been fascinating, and enough to convince me that it was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. By the time I completed my Ph.D., I was getting sick of the sparse living conditions and the low or, more often than not, no pay. Digs were also seasonal, especially back home in Scotland, and after September, the few meagre jobs that were available dried up until the following spring. Three years after that, I was worse than broke. Up to my eyeballs in debt, I took the teaching job purely for the money, but I quickly got used to having a regular income and the temporary job stretched into eight years of drudgery.

While the students were a pain, the faculty members were worse. Every staff meeting seemed to consist of little more than an exhibition of one-upmanship, cutting put-downs and quibbles over who deserved the office with the most windows. Before I knew it, I was thirty-six and stuck in a job I hated. I hadn’t done any fieldwork in years, and the closest I ever came to any real archaeology was piecing together shards of pottery for a man who openly despised me, in a tiny office with no windows. I worked long hours for little thanks, and the pay, although good at first, hadn’t kept pace with inflation, while the cost of everything else had rocketed, and I was back to being broke most of the time.

Since it was only meant to be a temporary job, I hadn’t bothered to get to know anyone properly, I hadn’t put down any roots, I hadn’t started any relationships. Yet, as others had come and gone, I’d remained. My only escape was sailing. When my parents died in a car accident, I took the little money they left me and bought a thirty-five foot sail boat that had seen better days. I couldn’t afford to pay anyone else to do it for me, so I spent every scrap of spare time doing it up myself. As I did, I dreamed of cruising exotic coasts and exploring the world. When the economy went south and the university started laying people off, I took the redundancy money, cashed in my pension, sold up pretty much everything I owned and, for the first time in a long time, I followed my dreams.

In three years, I had sailed 20,000 miles, visiting archaeological sites throughout the world. I’d started in the Mediterranean then headed for the Yucatan peninsula and Central America. From there, I‘d passed through the Panama Canal to Easter Island and the archipelagos of the South Pacific before moving on to the Indian Ocean. I’d rediscovered my love for archaeology but my money was pretty much gone and I knew at some point I’d need to go home and get a proper job once more. Then my boat was damaged in rough seas while travelling around the southern tip of Africa and I had put in at Cape Town to make repairs. I’d have still been there if the delivery job hadn’t come along when it did.

When I arrived at the shed that served as an office for the boatyard, four people were already there: my three new crewmates and the yard’s owner. The first three were strangers but I’d known the last one for almost a month as my boat was in his yard. We got on well enough and since he knew I was broke, he’d offered me the job when it came up. I’d only taken it because I needed the money to make repairs, but it also delayed the inevitable return to gainful employment for a little bit longer. As I entered the office, the yard owner looked up and smiled.

‘Hi, Rob. These are the others.’ He gestured towards the three strangers. Pointing to the first one, he said, ‘This is Bill, he’ll be the one in charge.’

Bill was in his late fifties, his face tanned and weathered from a life at sea. He was well-built without being stocky and had a firm handshake. Bill had started life as a commercial fisherman in Maine. When the local fish stocks collapsed, he’d sold up and become a crewman on a charter boat in the Caribbean, leaving behind an ex-wife he’d married too young, then divorced when they’d grown up and realised they’d become very different people. Thirty years later, he was one of the most-respected charter-boat captains in the Indian Ocean, working in places as far apart as South Africa, the Seychelles, Australia and New Zealand. His services were always in demand, but he was now ready to retire and had taken the delivery job to get him to Florida. Once there, he was planning on buying a boat and heading south to reacquaint himself with the islands where he’d started his chartering career.

‘Jon will be the second mate.’

Jon sprang to his feet and grabbed my outstretched hand, greeting me with an over-familiar ‘Hey’.

If you hadn’t known it from his accent, you’d have guessed he was American just by looking at him. Jon was tall and tanned, with shoulder-length blond hair, and was dressed in that effortlessly smart-casual manner only Americans seem to be able to carry off. Jon had grown up in a wealthy family, playing around on expensive boats at his father’s yacht club, and had been expected to go into the family law business, just like his older brother and sister before him. Jon, however, had other plans, dropping out of college after two years when he’d been offered the opportunity to take part in a round-the-world yacht race, his family money allowing him to easily pay the costs that everyone else had to scrimp and save to be able to afford. While his family didn’t approve, they put up with it, figuring he’d go back to college after he got the whole sailing thing out of his system. That had been four years before I met him and Jon still showed no sign of having got anything out of his system.

‘Finally, this is Camilla.’ The owner pointed towards a young, well-dressed girl perched on the edge of a desk.

‘It’s CJ,’ she corrected him quickly.

‘Sorry. This is CJ.’ The owner scowled at her before continuing. ‘She’ll do all the galley stuff and be an extra pair of hands if you need it.’

Camilla Jamieson, or CJ as she preferred to be called, was British, blonde, pretty and posh. She was nineteen and in the middle of a gap year that was being spent having, as she put it, ‘epic adventures’. She had little real sailing experience, having finished her exams at an exclusive all-girls school in the home counties only the summer before, but she’d worked as the cook on Bill’s last charter trip just to see ‘what having a real job would be like’. Bill had grown to like her and, more importantly, her cooking skills; enough to put in a good word and get her the position of cook on the delivery job. She wouldn’t need to know much about sailing, just do whatever she was told, and try not to throw to up in the soup she was making if the seas got a bit rough.

Bill proved himself to be as good a captain as his reputation suggested. He knew his stuff, knew how to get us to work together and do what needed to be done. Jon got on my nerves. He always thought he knew best and was insufferably pompous on the few occasions he was actually right. How Bill was so patient with him, I didn’t know, but I think it helped that Jon looked up to him, almost idolised him. Bill had lived the life Jon wanted so much, and Jon hung on his every word. With me it was different; to Jon I was just some middle-aged guy who could do nothing to help him get where he wanted to go. While Bill offered him the opportunity to learn his chosen trade, he resented the fact that, as first mate, I ranked above him in the on-board pecking order. Maybe it was his youthful enthusiasm, or the way he thought he had the answer to everything, or how he thought he could solve all the world’s problems if only people would listen to him, but something about Jon just rubbed me up the wrong way. I’d probably been just the same when I was his age but now, almost a decade and a half later, I was more jaded, more world-weary, and more realistic about how much one person could actually do to change the world for the better.

CJ was okay, and the meals she created were amongst the best I’d ever had while at sea, but she had a tendency towards the melodramatic, and she was oversensitive to criticism when she got something wrong. She got offended on the few occasions we didn’t like her cooking and frequently accused us of taking her for granted, which both Jon and I almost certainly did most of the time.

After six weeks of being cooped up on a forty-four by twenty-foot piece of fibreglass and plastic, I longed to reach Miami, to get away from the others, to get back to the solitude of my own boat. There was nothing like the feeling of being alone at sea and only so long I could spend on a small boat with people I didn’t really get on with without wanting to kill them, pitch them over the side or, at the very least, never set eyes on them again.

When he was bored, Jon’s favourite sport was needling CJ, calling her ‘Cammy’ just to annoy her as he’d seen how much she’d hated it the first time he’d done it. He’d make fun of the fact she was a rich girl who was only there to play at being poor but, given his own background, he didn’t appear to notice the irony. At one point, I blew my top and pointed this out in no uncertain terms. While I’d apologised the next day, a certain frostiness remained.

At least there was more room than on most boats with a crew of four. The catamaran was designed to sleep eight, ten at a push, meaning we each had cabin to ourselves, somewhere to hole up and hide when being around each other got too much. I think this was the only thing that kept me from throttling Jon, particularly since we’d run into a storm and lost all of our electronics. Without them, not only was it much more difficult to sail, since we had no auto-helm, no radar and no GPS receiver to tell us where we were, but we also had no satellite television or radios, and so no contact with the outside world. If we had, it would have at least given us something new to talk about rather than having the same conversations, hearing the same stories and having the same arguments over and over again.

The storm had been unexpected and intense: a white squall, a wall of rain, spray and 100-mile-an-hour winds that sprang out of nowhere. The vicious winds tore at the sails and waves crashed over us. The cockpit filled in seconds, and would have carried Bill and CJ over the side if it weren’t for their safety harnesses. The storm hit so suddenly we’d had no time to close the hatches and water poured into the cabin from all directions. Once inside, it rained down into the hulls, filling the bilges and the engine compartments, shorting out the electrical system and, with it, the electric bilge pumps. With all the water on board, we lost much of our buoyancy and sank so low that we were almost beneath the waves.

Just as it seemed the boat would flounder and we would all drown, Bill found a course where the waves no longer swept over us quite so frequently. He ordered CJ below to close the hatches and set me and Jon to work on the manual bilge pumps. Soon we were riding high enough again that the immediate danger of being swamped had passed and we could concentrate on fighting the storm. After two hours, it finally blew itself out, leaving us battered and bruised.

As calm descended once more, we inspected the damage. The rigging was loose and most of the sails were split. Both engines had been drenched and neither would start. The batteries had been submerged long enough to have lost their charge, and without the engines we had no way to recharge them. The electrical system had had such a dousing that none of our electronic equipment would work again until it had been given a thorough drying out; something we couldn’t do while rolling around in the middle of the ocean. In my cabin in the left-hand hull, I found all my clothes were soaked. Neither my little FM radio nor my mobile phone had survived their unexpected immersion, and the pages of all my books were pasted together.

We were cut off from the outside world and all we could do was limp onwards. Bill tightened up the rigging and sewed the damaged sails back together. He brought out his ancient sextant so he could work out where we were and in what direction we needed to be heading. After a few days, we had most of the basics sorted … but only the basics. We still had no engines, no electrical system and no electronic equipment. Bill aimed us for Hole-in-the-Wall as it was the first land we’d encounter on our direct route to Miami and, despite the battering the catamaran had received, we still needed to complete the delivery. At the lighthouse, we could make contact with the keepers and get a message passed to the boat’s owners to let them know what had happened.

—

The preview of Chapter two can be found here.


*****************************************************************************
From the author of For Those In Peril On The Sea, a tale of post-apocalyptic survival in a world where zombie-like infected rule the land and all the last few human survivors can do is stay on their boats and try to survive. Now available in the UK. Click here or visit www.forthoseinperil.net to find out more.

For Those In Peril On The Sea – Preview, Part 1

This is the first of a series of postings which will feature extracts from my book For Those In Peril On The Sea that will be available from Pictish Beast Publications in the UK from the 3rd of January 2013. It’s a tale of survival in a post-apocalyptic world where the land is no longer safe, leaving the few remaining people struggling to survive at sea. If you like what you read here, you can find out more about it by clicking here. If you wish to read this extract offline, you can download a PDF version of it from here.

For Those In Peril On The Sea

Colin M. Drysdale

Prologue

‘And finally, it’s been alleged that a US biotech company has been testing a new rabies vaccine illegally in Haiti. The available information suggests that the vaccine is based on a new technology called “small interfering RNA”, or siRNA for short. It is thought that the vaccine is designed to interact with the virus to make it less deadly, increasing the likelihood that anyone given it after they’ve started showing symptoms will survive. If successful, such a vaccine could save more than 50,000 lives a year. While siRNA technology has been tested on animals, it is not yet licensed for use in humans. Evidence of the illegal trial only came to light when one of the participants fell ill and was taken to a local hospital.

And now, here on KWAD eighty-three point six, the weather for Miami and the tri-county area …’

***

‘Next on the KWAD news channel, a new strain of rabies has emerged in Haiti. Ten people are thought to have died so far, with a further twenty-five suspected cases being monitored in local hospitals. It seems to be unusually virulent and the source of the outbreak has yet to be identified.’

***

‘Coming up, rioting has broken out in the Haitian capital, Port au Prince. It was sparked by rumours that the emergence of a new strain of rabies is connected to an illegal vaccine trial, currently being investigated by the FDA. The company alleged to be involved strenuously denies any possible link. Next, on the KWAD nine o’clock news …’

‘Fucking Americans,’ Carlos spat the words out. ‘Think they can do whatever they want.’ Before he could finish something distracted him and he turned to the man standing on his right. ‘Hey, turn that down. I thought I heard something.’

Jorges switched the radio off and they both listened. The sound came again, something midway between a scream and a growl. There was a sudden crash, then silence.

‘Sounds like our passengers are getting restless.’ Carlos thought for a moment, ‘You’d better go and make sure they haven’t been messing with the cargo. If they have, just blow their brains out. That’ll teach ’em.’

Jorges grabbed his Uzi and climbed down from the flying bridge. He hated dealing with the people on these trips, especially when there were problems. They’d picked up their cargo in Haiti two days before, and while Jorges supervised the loading of a couple of tons of cocaine onto the sixty-foot motor cruiser, Carlos had gone into the city. He’d come back a few hours later with half a dozen locals in tow, each willing to pay $5,000 to be smuggled into the US. This was more than twice the usual rate because of the whole disease thing. People were starting to worry, not so much because of the disease itself, but because of the rioting that was now flaring up all over the place. Those who could afford to were doing their best to get out, one way or another.

People-smuggling had been Carlos’ idea. He’d figured they could make good money on the side. It mightn’t pay as much, but it was a whole lot safer than trying to skim off some of the cargo. Jorges had had a friend who’d tried that. They’d found him on the dock one night, sitting in his car with his head in his lap and his eyes gouged out. As long as they unloaded the people before they reached the rendezvous with the boss man, no one would ever know. Jorges wasn’t so keen on the idea at first, but hey, money was money, and the more they made on each trip the sooner he could get out of this business and go back to being just another fisherman.

Jorges had looked at the people Carlos had found this time: five men and a woman, all in their twenties, maybe early thirties at the most. The woman was sweating heavily, more heavily than you’d expect even given the warmth of the night. She leant on one of the men as he helped her on board and down into the cabin. Once they were in there, Carlos had locked the door, leaving them to make themselves comfortable amongst the bales of cocaine, while Jorges took the boat out of the harbour. They hadn’t heard a sound from the cabin in almost two days, but neither Carlos or Jorges worried about that. Each of the passengers had paid their money upfront and this was no Caribbean cruise. If anything happened along the way, it was up to them to sort it out between themselves.

Then, with Miami only a few hours away, they started hearing strange sounds, audible even above the roar of the twin engines and Jorges went to investigate. He removed the padlock from the cabin door, flung it back and took a couple of steps down the ladder.

‘What the fuck …?’ Jorge stared disbelievingly into the small room. ‘Carlos, we got a problem down here.’

In the dim light cast through the door by the moon, Jorges could see blood everywhere, smeared across the walls and the floor, even soaking into the bales of cocaine. He could see the body of one of the men, torn to shreds, lying at the foot of the ladder. The outlines of two more bodies were just visible in the darkness further into the cabin.

‘Carlos, get your ass down here now!’ Jorges was beginning to panic. He knew some people could react violently to taking too much cocaine, but this seemed altogether different. Then he heard a noise in the darkness, a low guttural groan, like a sick or injured dog. He took another step downwards and flicked a switch, flooding the cabin with light. Blood gleamed damply on every surface, while in the corner two figures crouched over the remains of a third, ripping at the lifeless body. One of the figures turned, startled by the sudden brightness. It was the woman, her face contorted with anger and smeared with blood. With a scream of rage, she launched herself at Jorges.

Almost too late Jorges reacted, pulling the trigger of his Uzi. The woman’s blood sprayed across the cabin as she crumpled to the floor. Jorges wasted no time firing on the man even though he posed no threat. He didn’t lower the gun until the man finally stopped moving, and that seemed to take longer than he’d have expected. It was then Jorges felt something running down the side of his face. He wiped it away and inspected the back of his hand. He was surprised to see there was blood on it. At first he wondered where it had come; then he realised it must be the woman’s.

‘Jesus!’ Carlos had finally arrived. He looked at Jorges accusingly. ‘What did you do to them?’

‘It wasn’t me. I only shot two of them. They did most of it to each other.’

‘Christ!’ Carlos looked round. ‘This place looks like a fucking slaughterhouse.’ He scratched the back of his head. ‘I hope the cargo’s okay.’

The very thought of what might happen to them if it wasn’t made Jorges go cold. ‘Carlos,’ his voice trembled with fear, ‘I don’t think we should do this anymore.’

‘Yeah, let’s just stick to the drugs next time.’ Carlos struggled to think of what they should do next. ‘We’ve not got much time before the rendezvous. You’d better get this cleaned up. If the boss man sees any of this, we’ll be in big trouble.’

Jorges picked his way through the cabin and spent the next hour throwing oozing body parts into the sea. This was definitely worth more than the $15,000 that was his share of the Haitians’ money. As he worked, he started to sweat, blaming it on the warmness of the night. But a something niggled at the back of his mind … could he have pick up something from all this blood?

***

‘Our top story tonight, on KWAD eighty-three point six; the first case of what is being called the Haitian rabies virus, or HRV, has been recorded here in Miami. A man suffering an intense fever was found dumped outside a hospital in Miami Beach in the early hours of this morning. Tonight, he is being held in isolation as doctors fight to save his life.’

***

‘The rioting that broke out in downtown Miami yesterday shows no signs of abating. Instead, it seems to be spreading to other urban areas. The police are baffled as to its cause but, off the record, a senior police source told the KWAD news team that it could be linked to a consignment of contaminated cocaine. What sort of contamination could cause such violence remains unclear …’

***

‘Welcome to the KWAD eighty-three point six early morning news. It’s now been confirmed that the rioting that’s sweeping rapidly through many inner-city areas across the country is connected to outbreaks of the Haitian rabies virus. Here in the US, HRV seems to be even more virulent than in Haiti, and it’s causing those infected to attack anyone they encounter. Residents in all affected cities are being asked to stay calm and stay inside until the situation is under control. How the virus got into the US remains unknown, but there is growing evidence that a large shipment of cocaine, smuggled into the US from Haiti, has been contaminated with the virus. Once in the US, the drugs would have been distributed quickly to many urban areas, explaining the almost simultaneous outbreaks in cities as far apart as Las Vegas and New York.

‘In related news, the USS Intrepid has been dispatched to patrol Haitian waters, to prevent any further shipments making it into the US. It is hoped that if the source of the virus can eliminated, the disease will burn itself out over the next few days.

‘Meanwhile, the situation in Haiti itself is becoming desperate, with little medical care and a complete breakdown of social order. Rioting has been recorded throughout the country, and it is starting to spill over into the neighbouring Dominican Republic. There, marauding gangs have been reported to be roaming the streets and attacking anyone they meet.
‘And now the weather …’

***

‘Some breaking news, the USS Intrepid has been overrun by an outbreak of HRV. The crew detained a dozen people they discovered in a small boat forty miles from Port au Prince early yesterday morning, and it is thought that one of them brought the disease on board. In the close confines of the ship, the virus spread rapidly through the crew and by this evening all contact with it was lost.

‘Now back to the unrest here in the US, which is worsening steadily and spreading further afield. Some experts believe it can no longer be blamed on a single batch of contaminated cocaine, and that the virus is now spreading from person to person …’

***

‘This is the KWAD news studio in Miami. If anyone out there is still listening, please send us help. They’re outside! They’re trying to get in!’

There was a loud crash in the background and the voice paused for a second. When the woman started speaking again, she sounded distant, as if she was no longer next to the microphone,

‘Oh god, they’ve got in. Shit, shit, shit! Shoot them! Someone, shoot them. Just shoot them! Shi …!’

—

Click here to read chapter one.

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From the author of For Those In Peril On The Sea, a tale of post-apocalyptic survival in a world where zombie-like infected rule the land and all the last few human survivors can do is stay on their boats and try to survive. Now available in the UK. Click here or visit www.forthoseinperil.net to find out more.

Upcoming Publication Of ‘For Those In Peril On The Sea’

Some of you may have noticed that I’ve been a bit remise with my postings for the last couple of weeks. This is because I’ve been running round like a headless chicken trying to get everything sorted for the UK publication of my novel about survival in post-apocalyptic world, called For Those In Peril On The Sea, on the 3rd of January 2013 (international and e-book editions won’t be released until March 2013 when I’ll have to go through it all again).

In the run up to the publication date, I’ll be posting excerpts from the first few chapters on this blog. I’ll start these postings on Boxing day (the day after Christmas) and end on Hogmanay (New Year’s Eve) – because nothing says Happy Holidays like a zombie-type apocalypse!

In the meantime, below is a very brief trailer/teaser I’ve put together for a bit of fun (it’s a simple animation based on the cover design).

Enjoy, and normal blogging will be resumed at some point in the not too distant future.

About For Those In Peril On The Sea (Pictish Beast Publications): This novel is set in a present day where a bio-tech company conducts an illegal trial of a new type of genetically engineered rabies vaccine in the slums of Haiti. The trial goes wrong, creating a strain of the virus that no longer kills people but instead turns them into violent, cannibalistic monsters. The virus rapidly spreads around the world and few people are left uninfected.

The story centres on Bill, Rob, Jon and CJ, four strangers brought together by chance to deliver a newly built yacht from South Africa to Miami.  When they start out, there was nothing to suggest it would be anything other than a routine delivery, but by the time they reach their destination, they find the land  is no longer safe. Their only option is to stay on the boat and try to survive.

Join Bill, Rob, Jon and CJ as they travel around their frightening new world. One where they must struggle against the infected that now rule the land, the elements and each other.

Sailing Away From The Apocalyptic, Part Three: Kitting Out Your Vessel.

Once you have selected your vessel , you need to think about what you would need to have on it (see Sailing Away From The Apocalypse, Part Two if you haven’t already done this).  For this most part, this will be the same as for any long-distance voyage.  This means you will need the usual collection of water makers, extra fuel tanks, a nice supply of canned food, a wind generator, solar panels, spare sails, spare parts and tools for your engine and so on.

You will also electrical equipment such as a radar, a depth sounder and a GPS receiver, to help you navigate and move around.  however, you will also need charts, a sextant and a plumb line (and know how to use them) for when your electrical equipment finally gives out. For communication, you’ll need a shortwave radio, a VHF radio, and an AM/FM receiver. These will help you keep in touch with any other groups of survivors as well as any communications from what’s left of the government or security forces.

In terms of safety equipment, you’ll need harnesses and running lines (to stop you falling over the side when its rough), a flare gun and flares, a high-powered spotlight and a well-stocked first aid kit (including pain killers, antibiotics and the tools for minor surgical procedures such as amputating a limb or two – hopefully not your own, but it is possible if you have to).  A life raft is probably optional, after all if the worst happens and you end up in it, you are probably pretty much done for and your death is likely to be long and drawn out over many weeks, rather than being over in a matter of minutes if you go down with your boat.

You will find that a small fast runabout invaluable for going out on foraging and scavenging trips as it will let you get to places you simply cannot get to on a sailboat.  You can also cover larger areas much more quickly. This runabout can either be a small rib that would otherwise serve as the tender for your sailboat or a larger dedicated runabout that you have picked up from somewhere.  However, remember runabouts will use a lot of fuel very quickly and you will need to be careful when you use them or you will soon run out.

Finally, we get to the subject of weapons.  This is a tricky one.  Most people would recommend carrying a veritable arsenal of guns and ammunition.  However, unless you actually know how to use them, I say keep clear of them.  In the close confines of a boat, you will find they are probably more dangerous to you and your fellow survivors than they are to anyone (or anything) that is attacking you. Similarly, while crossbows have a certain attraction (mostly because the ammunition is reusable), if you don’t know what you’re doing, you’re likely to accidentally pin your foot to the deck with a bolt as you try to reload it, leaving you as the zombie equivalent of candy floss (a soft, gooey treat wrapped around its own little stick!). As such, they are best avoided by the novice. Instead, I would concentrate on ensuring that you have the types of weapons you can use to stop people, or zombies, or plague survivors, or whatever might be out there, getting onboard. This might include machetes, clubs, baseball bats, swords and so on.  This will ensure that you can fight off any attacks when people get too close.  If they are any further away, your best bet is to try to out-manoeuvre them rather than take them on.

So that’s my advice for sailing away from the apocalypse. I hope you find it useful, and Bon Voyage! Oh and if, in the event of the apocalypse it turns out this advice is no use, I can only apologise, but you can at least die safe in the knowledge that I’m likely to have followed it myself and so to have met a similarly gruesome end!


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From the author of For Those In Peril On The Sea, a tale of post-apocalyptic survival in a world where zombie-like infected rule the land and all the last few human survivors can do is stay on their boats and try to survive. Now available in the UK. Click here or visit www.forthoseinperil.net to find out more.

Sailing Away From The Apocalyptic, Part Two: Your Choice Of Vessel

So you’ve decided that riding out the coming apocalypse at sea is a strategy that will work for you (see the posting called Sailing Away From The Apocalypse, Part One for more information).  Now all you need to do is select an appropriate vessel, and then make sure that it is close at hand when the apocalypse strikes. I know what you’re thinking, a sailboat is a sailboat isn’t it?  Can’t I just take the first one I find? If this is what you’re thinking, you might want to choose another escape plan as it sounds like you don’t know enough about sailing to make it a viable option and its likely you’ll sink and drown long before you start wondering which of your crew members it would be okay to eat simply to break the monotony of all the fish you’ve been living on. If, instead, you’re thinking, ‘Which would be better, that gaff-rigged ketch I’ve always had my eye on at the local marina, or that new yawl my next door neighbour just bought and keeps tied to the dock at the end of his garden?’ then maybe you’ve settled on the right way to survive.

There are three main issues you need to think about when selecting your vessel.  These are its size, its type and its age. In terms of size, I wouldn’t recommend anything less than about thirty foot in length, they’re just too small to live on for any extended period of time, especially if you have to cram it full of food and supplies. I also wouldn’t recommend anything much over fifty feet.  This is because such large boats will be difficult to handle on your own, and its important that you can still operate the boat single-handed, just in case something (disease, mutiny, they all get turned into zombies, that sort of thing) happens to everyone else onboard and you find out you’re the only one left.  Also, larger vessels are likely to have a deeper draft, restricting where you can go.  This means that as tempting and impressive as that tall ship tied up at the docks might seem, unless you have a well-trained crew of thirty or forty people and are only planning on sailing through deep waters rather than coming close to shore, it’s not really a viable option.

In terms of type, well this is really up to personal choice. However, I would tend to go for a multi-masted vessel, such as a ketch, a schooner or a yawl, over a single-masted one since you have more options in terms of sails, and if something happens to one mast, you have the other one to keep you moving.  The only exception I would make for this would be for a catamaran.  Their faster speed, the extra space they provide as well as their relatively shallow draft more than makes up for the fact most of them only have one mast.  In fact, a catamaran would almost certainly be my vessel of choice for these very reasons, and this is why I selected a catamaran for the main vessel in For Those In Peril On The Sea. However, catamarans are not necessarily common, and you may not have this option.  In this case, I would recommend a nice ketch as something that’s easy to sail as well as being flexible and roomy.

Finally, there is the issue of age.  You would have thought that the new the better would be the rule here, but it’s not as clear-cut as that.  Sure new vessels will be in better condition and will probably have newer equipment onboard, but often they are not nearly as strong.  In particular, modern technology allows boat-builders to work out what the absolute minimum thickness the fibre-glass needs to be for a yacht to be sea-worthy, making them more vulnerable to the occasional heavy knock.  In contrast, in the old days, boat-builders tended to take a belt and braces approach, making the hulls much thicker and stronger than the minimum needed.  This can make some of them as close to indestructible as it is possible for a sailboat to be, and so a better choice for surviving the apocalypse in.  For this reason, it might be worth considering that twenty year old ketch  that looks like an old tub over that brand spanking new yacht next to it.

What ever vessel you select, choosing it is only half the plan.  You also need to kit it out properly.  That will be covered in my next post.


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From the author of For Those In Peril On The Sea, a tale of post-apocalyptic survival in a world where zombie-like infected rule the land and all the last few human survivors can do is stay on their boats and try to survive. Now available in the UK. Click here or visit www.forthoseinperil.net to find out more.