Mark Morris: Dead Island

Logan gritted his teeth. ‘Yes, I can stand. If I can’t I’m fucking dead, right?’

With Sam’s and — surprisingly — Kevin’s help, Logan rose to his feet. Vaguely, through the swimming pain in his head, he was still aware of gunshots being fired, of zombies dropping like cattle in an abattoir.

‘How’s Xian Mei?’ he gasped.

‘She’ll be fine. Come on.’

‘Where we going?’

‘No questions. Just come on .’

Staggering, limping, supported on one side by Kevin and on the other by Sam, who was firing from the hip, blowing advancing zombies aside as they went, they made it to the door at the far side of the room.

When they were through, Sam quickly but gently lowered Logan to the ground. Logan sat with his back against the wall, wondering where his gun had gone, willing his head to stop spinning. Everything was still a blur, however, a mush of noise and activity. He was aware of people running towards him, of more shots being fired, and then what sounded like whimpers of pain. He tried to focus, to concentrate, but the sounds ran together, became distorted, and he felt as if he was sinking into a deep well. He tried to claw his way back towards the light, but thick velvety blackness swamped him, rolling over him in waves. Finally, unable to find the strength to fight it any longer, he passed out …

… and woke what seemed like seconds later, gasping in shock. ‘How you doing?’ asked a voice.

Sam. It was Sam. Logan blinked at him.

‘Where am I?’

‘In prison,’ Sam said, and with that it all came flooding back.

Logan rubbed a hand over his face and groaned. ‘Figures. My mom always said I’d end up in jail. How’s Xian Mei?’

‘Worse than you,’ said Sam, ‘but she’ll be OK.’

‘What’d they do to her?’

‘They tore a lot of the skin off her arm. Purna bandaged her up pretty good. Here.’

Sam offered Logan a bottle of water. He took it gratefully, chugging it down. The water helped revive him and he looked around. They were in a corridor. It was featureless, kind of depressing, but quiet. Blessedly quiet.

Everyone was sitting around, taking a breather, getting over what had happened. They looked like the remains of an army after a very tough battle — exhausted, blood-stained, shell-shocked. Xian Mei, her left arm heavily bandaged from fingertips to shoulder like the Bride of Frankenstein, had dark rings around her eyes and an expression so pasty her lips looked bloodless.

‘Hey,’ Logan said to her, and she rewarded him with a weary smile.

The only person not sitting down was Purna. She glanced at Logan and then at Xian Mei.

‘Are you two OK to carry on?’

In any other situation Logan would have laughed and told her to take a hike, but now he simply nodded and with Sam’s help rose to his feet.

‘It’s OK,’ Sam mumbled. ‘There ain’t no more zombies.’

‘Good,’ said Logan, ‘because I think I lost my gun. I hope Purna doesn’t make me pay for it.’

Led by Kevin, the seven of them made their way slowly along the long corridor to a door at the far end. This one was open like the others ( Thank you, Ryder White , Logan thought) and led through a number of empty administrative offices and linking corridors to a central lobby area where several corridors converged. There was no sign of the infected in this part of the building, and indeed no sign they had ever been here. The left-hand wall was dominated by a lift with metal doors.

‘This is it,’ said Kevin. ‘Sector Seven awaits.’

He pressed the button and the downward-facing arrow lit up. For a few seconds they waited, not speaking, like strangers in a hotel lobby. There was a ping and the lift doors slowly opened. They shuffled inside and Kevin pressed a button marked 7. As soon as the lift doors closed, Logan heard a hissing sound, which at first he thought was something to do with the lift mechanism. Then Purna said, ‘What’s that?’

‘That’s the gas,’ said Kevin, his voice oddly muffled.

Logan turned, bemused, and saw that Kevin had released a small catch next to the lift buttons, which had caused a flap to drop down. Behind the flap was a compartment, like a tiny locker, from which Kevin, shielded by the people standing next to him, had produced a gas mask. He was now wearing the mask and the hissing was getting louder.

‘What—’ Purna said, then her legs folded under her and she slid unconscious to the floor.

Gas? Logan thought, trying to make sense of what was happening, but all at once his mind felt slow and syrupy, his head heavy as a boulder. The last thing he saw, before his body shut down and he blacked out for the second time in an hour, was Kevin’s masked face goggling down at him.

‘SO THIS IS what it’s all about. It really doesn’t look like much, does it?’

The words tugged Sam up from a black pool of unconsciousness. He opened first one eye and then the other, his head pounding as if he was suffering from the worst ever hangover. He was vaguely aware he was sitting in a chair, but had no idea how he had got there. The last thing he remembered was …

The lift! The memory snapped him fully awake and he tried to jump to his feet.

But he couldn’t move. He was paralysed. Kevin’s gas had paralysed him! Then he realized his back was aching, and there was a glassy cramped feeling in his shoulders, and something was cutting into his wrists.

Not paralysed then. Thank God. Not paralysed, but immobile all the same. Tied to a chair.

He blinked to clear his blurred vision, turned his head towards the source of the words he had heard echoing in his mind. He saw a smear of orange ( Hallowe’en pumpkin orange , he thought, and felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for his childhood). Then the smear tightened, coalesced, and he realized he was looking at Kevin in his orange prison overalls.

The skinny man was leaning against a control desk, backlit by the icy glare from a wall of TV screens. The screens depicted different static views of the prison — corridors and cell areas, kitchens, shower blocks, the library, the exercise yard. Sam could see that most of the places were deserted, but in a few the infected milled about like sleepwalkers. He turned his attention back to Kevin. The man was holding up a vial of yellowish liquid that resembled weak tea or piss.

‘What’s going on?’ Sam mumbled and Kevin glanced across at him.

‘Oh, welcome back,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your little nap?’

Sam ignored him, looking around to take in his surroundings. He was relieved to see his friends were all here, and apparently OK — aside from the fact that, like him, they had been manacled to chairs and had had their backpacks and weapons taken away.

Of the others, Purna and Xian Mei were the only ones who were conscious. Logan, Jin and Yerema were still slumped forward, eyes closed, breathing heavily.

Xian Mei looked ill, her skin clammy, her face and body tense as if the slightest movement caused her pain. The thick bandage around her arm was stained red where blood had seeped through from the wound beneath.

‘You OK?’ Sam asked her.

She licked her lips and gave a tiny unconvincing nod.

In contrast to Xian Mei, Purna looked fighting fit, her dark eyes blazing with anger.

‘What do you hope to gain from this, Kevin ?’ she said, making his name sound like an insult.

‘Oh, I’ve already gained it,’ he said.

She scowled. ‘What are you talking about?’

Smiling and slipping the vial into his pocket, he said, ‘Let me tell you a little story.’

‘Oh, is this the bit where the bad guy gloats about how clever he’s been and the good guys get bored?’ Sam said.