Mark Morris: Dead Island

Then it charged.

It thundered towards Charon like a bull elephant, its terrible ratcheting cry a jagged blade of sound that ripped the air apart. Sam had to hand it to the skinny guy — if nothing else, the man had balls. Most people would have turned and run, but Charon stood his ground, levelled his gun and began to fire. Arm ramrod-straight, he pumped bullet after bullet into the creature’s head — or at least, into the grotesquely swollen protuberance on its shoulders that now passed for a head. Each shot ripped away dough-like chunks of flesh, thick blackish fluid gushing from the gaping wounds. The first few bullets barely slowed the creature down, but then the barrage began to take its toll. Punctured in a dozen or more places, the creature started to stagger and sway, leaving a black trail like engine oil behind it. Still Charon backed away before its advance; still he fired his gun, reloading quickly when he needed to. Eventually he could back away no more. He came to a halt a metre from the edge of the tower roof. The creature was stumbling now, wheezing as it came. Charon stopped firing his gun and slowly raised his arms, like a high diver preparing for a plunge into the water below.

‘Come on,’ he shouted. And then he screamed at it: ‘ Come on! ’

As if reacting to the taunt, the creature broke into a renewed run, putting the last of its energy into a final attack. Charon waited until it was no more than a couple of metres away from him, then he hurled himself to one side. With a final screech the creature, unable to halt its forward momentum, plunged over the edge of the tower and plummeted to the ground far below. There was a moment of silence followed by a sizzling bang, like a massive electrical circuit shorting out.

Before anyone could react, there came the faint drone of an engine from somewhere overhead. Sam looked up and saw a black speck in the sky, growing steadily larger. Even though Charon had been occupied by the creature for the past couple of minutes, the rest of them had simply stood and watched. If they had been anywhere else they might have used the distraction to try to escape, but up here on the roof there had been nowhere to escape to . Now Charon was walking back towards them almost casually, his gun trained on them.

‘Stand well back,’ he shouted. ‘Give him room to land.’

Sam didn’t know much about helicopters, but he could see this was a pretty big one. It was black and fat-bodied like a gigantic well-fed fly. As it descended towards them the downdraught from its whickering rotors caused their clothes to flap and the girls’ hair to whip and thrash around their faces. It landed gracefully, its wheels barely kissing the concrete before it came to rest. Charon gestured again with the gun.

‘Get in,’ he yelled.

‘Where are we going?’ Purna’s voice was almost lost in the noise.

He smiled a crooked smile. ‘Magical mystery tour.’

Still handcuffed, the five of them, with Charon bringing up the rear, trooped towards the chopper. The helmeted, black-goggled pilot barely glanced at them as they climbed aboard. Inside they sat on two rows of three seats, Logan and Xian Mei at the back, Sam, Purna and Yerema at the front. Charon sat up front, next to the pilot, though he swivelled in his seat so he could keep his gun trained on them. Nodding to the pilot, he said mockingly, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are now leaving paradise.’

With a deafening roar of engines, the helicopter lifted away from the roof of the tower. Sam’s stomach lurched as it banked slightly, swooping to one side. Looking out of a window, he saw the creature that had once been Dana White impaled on the electric fence. She was burning, the bulbous mass of her head hanging down, her vast arms spread as if crucified. As they headed up towards the clouds, Sam saw the island of Banoi receding below him. Turning away, he looked into the cold staring eyes of Charon, and wondered what the future would bring.