Mark Morris - Dead Island

‘You mustn’t think that,’ Xian Mei said firmly, ‘because it’s not true.’

‘She’s right, man,’ said Sam.

Purna smiled. ‘Thanks. But that doesn’t stop me hating myself sometimes.’

‘Yeah, well, I guess we all hate ourselves a little bit,’ Sam said.

Over in the corner Logan groaned and shifted in his sleep. They all glanced over at him and it was as if a spell had been broken, as if being reminded of their surroundings had snapped them back into the present.

‘So what do we do now?’ said Sam.

Purna frowned a little. ‘Why ask me? I’m not the leader.’

Sam spread his hands. ‘Hey, I was just throwing the question out. Far as I’m concerned, this is a democracy. But if you want my opinion …’

Both girls nodded.

Sam sighed and said, ‘Much as I’d like to stay here till this shit-storm blows over, I think the only way we gonna get rescued is if we rescue ourselves. Far as I can see, the two main things we gonna need are transport and proper weapons — preferably guns.’

Purna nodded. ‘And provisions — food and water.’

‘Medical supplies too,’ added Xian Mei.

Sam glanced up at one of the small barred windows. The glass was grimy but he could see the sky was lightening from black to a hazy, washed-denim blue.

‘In which case we should head out now before the world wakes up and we’re faced with more infected out there than we can handle.’

‘What about him?’ asked Xian Mei, nodding at Logan.

‘We’ll leave him here,’ said Purna. ‘He got bit pretty badly and needs to recover. It won’t do him or us any good to take him along.’

The three of them pushed back their chairs and stood up. Sinamoi, who had given the impression he had been following their discussion closely, now looked surprised. ‘Where you go?’

‘We need a car,’ Sam said, and mimed turning a steering wheel, ‘to do what the man says. Plus we need weapons.’ This time he mimed shooting a gun. ‘We gonna go look for some.’

Sinamoi looked concerned. ‘You not go. Dangerous.’

‘We got no choice,’ Sam said, spreading his hands.

Sinamoi held up a hand, finger pointing upwards. ‘Weapons. I got. You wait.’ Once again he dropped to his knees in front of the workbench supporting the radio and scrabbled underneath. He dragged out a battered cardboard box, the contents clinking together as they shifted. He indicated the box with a flourish, like a magician introducing his glamorous assistant. ‘You see?’

Inside the box was an assortment of knives and other tools that a lifeguard might need. There were several large, serrated diver’s knives, machetes for hacking aside foliage (and maybe, thought Sam, fighting off man-eating fish), a couple of crowbars with curved ends, and two stubby silver guns like the one Sinamoi had been wearing in his belt when he had first encountered them — and which Sam now realized were flare guns. Kneeling beside the box, he glanced across at his coat-hanger weapon, matted with now-dried gore, which was still propped against the wall, and wished it a silent goodbye.

‘Can we take some of this shit with us?’ he asked, looking at Sinamoi.

Sinamoi looked uncertain. ‘You not go.’

‘Your concern is touching,’ said Sam heavily, ‘but we got to. But we’ll be back to pick him up.’ He pointed at Logan.

Sinamoi was still shaking his head. Purna said, ‘I hate to burst your bubble, Sam, but I think he’s more concerned about the money he was promised than he is about us. He probably thinks if we go out there and get ourselves killed he won’t get paid.’

Sam considered a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of blue, red and orange bank notes. He held them out to Sinamoi.

‘Here you go, man. Plenty kina. You take it and we get to choose what we want from here.’ He indicated the weapons.

Sinamoi still looked uncertain. Sam pressed the money into his hand.

‘That’s all I got on me. OK?’

Sinamoi looked momentarily puzzled, then smiled. ‘OK.’

‘Cool,’ said Sam. He looked round and waved a hand at the box as if it was an open treasure chest. ‘Ladies, choose your weapons.’

‘YOU EVER SEE The Warriors ?’

Purna glanced at Sam. He was just ahead of her, walking along the road, a machete in one hand, a flare pistol in the other. Though his face was now clean, his red bandanna, jacket, jeans and trainers were still heavily stained with dried blood.

‘The old seventies film about New York gangs? Sure.’

‘How about you, Xian Mei?’

She shook her head. ‘Where I grew up, western culture was considered decadent and subversive. Although,’ she added almost proudly, ‘when I was a little girl my father did once bring home some video tapes of Sesame Street .’

Sam laughed. ‘Well, that’s kinda like The Warriors , I guess. Except with slightly less violence.’

‘What’s your point?’ asked Purna.

Sam shrugged. ‘When I first saw The Warriors I was maybe eleven, twelve years old. I mean, I thought it was cool and all, but … guys painting their faces like clowns? Gangs on roller skates? Even back then it seemed kinda dumb.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s weird, but I kinda feel the same now. Like this is unreal. Like it can’t really be happening. I mean, look around you. We got palm trees, and peace and quiet, and all that holiday shit, and pretty soon the sun’s gonna come out and it’s gonna be another beautiful day. I mean, that just don’t equate with people killing and eating each other and coming back from the dead. Here we are, walking along like we’re going into battle when we should be heading down to the beach. It’s crazy, man.’

‘“In war, it’s best not to think, it’s best just to do, because thinking clouds your judgement”,’ said Purna.

‘That right?’ said Sam, looking at her strangely.

Purna shrugged. ‘Or so someone once said anyway.’

‘Oh yeah? Who was that?’ asked Sam.

‘I can’t remember. All I know is I read it somewhere, and it seemed like sound advice at the time. It still does.’

Sam grunted.

Above them the sky was lightening in jags and streaks, as if the night sky was merely a cloth that was splitting apart as it shrank, revealing the paler blue of a new day beneath. Out on the horizon the sea shimmered like gold, and looking at it Sam couldn’t help but think how quickly the world could turn, how nothing was ever predictable. This time yesterday he’d been thinking that his first full day on Banoi would maybe involve a swim, a little sunbathing, perhaps a cocktail or two by the pool. Aside from his daily routine of sit-ups and push-ups, he had envisaged nothing more strenuous during his time here than some windsurfing and scuba diving, possibly an occasional light jog along the white sand before settling down to breakfast on his hotel balcony.

On Sinamoi’s advice they were currently following the low beach road into town, which was a little longer and more uneven than the main thoroughfare, but considerably quieter. It was, in truth, barely more than a dirt track, maybe wide enough for one car but certainly not two. To the left of the track was a sandy verge populated with lowlying, shrub-like eucalyptus trees, and dotted with occasional clusters of tin-roofed fishermen’s huts, all of which had been bleached and weathered by the elements. Beyond this, when the land dipped, they caught brief glittering glimpses of the sea, which appeared to be growing bluer and brighter with each minute that passed.

To the right of the track the foliage was thicker, rough-barked palms crowding together to form a wall whose spade-like leaves would provide welcome shade later in the day. Brightly coloured butterflies zigzagged through the air, and tiny brown and green lizards scurried across the path ahead of them as they walked. Above their heads, intermittently glimpsed birds of paradise screeched and clucked and cawed, and unseen insects crooned in the undergrowth. For the rest of nature it was business as usual, the latest in an endless succession of identical days. But for humankind it was a new and terrible dawn; the beginning of the end.