Stephen Jones - Dark Terrors 5 - The Gollancz Book of Horror

Jerry said, ‘There’s no antidote at all, eh?’

‘They’ve not found one.’

‘And no one knows how long it will take for this thing to run its course?’

‘No.’

He shook his head. ‘Hell of a thing to do to a nice little island like this. Nice people. Well, let’s go down to the boat, let’s just see if we can…’

‘Jerry… if they let us leave… I don’t want you to come back here,’ Mary said.

‘Aw.. we’ll talk about that later.’

He moved to the door, drew the bolt and hesitated; then he threw the door open and stood back, with his gun ready. The street was empty. From the doorway we could look across the waterfront and out into the harbour. A large swordfish was hanging on a scale on the dock, hoisted up to be weighed and measured. Flecks of blue and green glinted in the drying skin. It would never be weighed now, never mounted. It seemed a shame. It was a big one; it had been caught at the wrong time, a death so vain it did not even bolster a fisherman’s vanity. The harbour was jammed with hobbling boats and there were navy boats crossing back and forth across the approaches. Jerry stepped into the street and looked both ways. A patrol was moving down the front, going away from us. There was no one else in sight. Mary and I moved out behind Jerry. I had forgotten the rifle; I went back for it. I followed Mary out and, as I did so, a loudhailer boomed from a naval gunboat.

‘Turn back! This island is under quarantine! Turn back at once!’

We saw the gunboat but we couldn’t see the reason for the command. Then, as we watched, a fishing boat slid into view, coming from the south. Jerry squinted at it. He said, ‘Why, that’s John Tate’s boat. What’s he doing out there?’

I said, ‘Tate? He told me he often ties up at one of the coves to the south, instead of using the harbour.’

‘He still does that? Old Tate! Used to do some free trading. Never very much; little rum or Havana. Hasn’t run a thing in ten years but he still clings to the image.’

Tate’s boat continued on its course.

I could see him on the bridge, a spindly old man with one eye and plenty of memories. The gunboat had veered towards him, intersecting his course, a white bow wave breaking from the grey prow. Tate spun the wheel and his wooden boat cut sharply to starboard. I had only met him the one time, but he’d left an impression. I could imagine him grinning with ferocious glee as he pitted his seamanship against the power of authority once again. He had run contraband past customs before and it was just like the old days — except he must have thought it a game, now, when he was doing nothing he thought illegal and could toy with them without fear of punishment or confiscated cargo. His small boat seemed to stand up on its stern as it changed course. The gunboat cut back, ponderous by comparison, and massive. The two vessels were dangerously close. The loudhailer sounded again. I couldn’t make out the words. Beside me, Jerry cursed violently.

‘They’re gonna ram him!’ he shouted.

‘Oh my God!’ Mary cried.

I saw Tate raise his fist, shaking it vehemently at the man on the bridge of the gunboat. He didn’t believe they were serious, I thought; he believed that some inexperienced navy captain was misjudging his approach and playing the game too close. Tate waved his gnarled fist, scolding the gunboat. The nimble wooden boat ducked down into a trough and the bow of the grey gunboat reared up. Tate’s fist came down; he still thought it was a mistake, but he realised it was a serious mistake. Then the gunboat rammed him.

Tate’s fishing boat went down within minutes.

The gunboat had taken the stern right off and veered away, like a bull hooking into a matador. I couldn’t see Tate. He must have been knocked down by the impact. Fragments of wood and rope dragged back from the gunboat, festooning the high prow and the bows of Tate’s boat pointed up to the sky and slid back and under. The water sighed as it closed.

The gunboat continued on.

Sailors looked back from the rails, but the boat never stopped. Jerry’s head was thrust forwards, the cords in his thick neck standing out like dark ropes, his throat rigged by rage.

He said, ‘They aren’t going to pick him up.’

‘No,’ I said softly. ‘They wouldn’t take him aboard… that wasn’t the idea.’

We looked, shading our eyes, but Tate never surfaced. Then we looked at one another.

‘So much for that idea,’ Jerry said.

We went back to the jail.

Mary had begun to sob hysterically. The sheriff put his hand on her shoulder and she clasped her own hand over his, her body vibrating. The tremors ran down Jerry’s forearm.

‘John Tate,’ she whispered. ‘Old pirate. He would have loved to live through this, wouldn’t he? It would have made such a fine story… better than how he lost his eye… how he eluded the navy gunboat. ’ She smiled sadly.

‘Or how he helped hang a man in the Red Walls,’ I said, not knowing why I said it; it seemed such an insignificant thing, viewed against the backdrop of his own death.

Jerry began to pace the room, like a prisoner in his own jail.

‘We’re safe enough here,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to wait it out.’

‘But how long?’ Mary sobbed.

We had no answer to that.

Jerry said, ‘I guess it could be… days… maybe weeks, even.’ He looked at me for confirmation. I didn’t know. He said, ‘We could always lock ourselves in the cell; they couldn’t get at us there.’

‘Weeks…’ I said. ‘What about food? Supplies?’

‘Lord! I never thought of that. We’ll have to get some stuff in here.’

The thought of preparing for a seige was not appealing.

‘They may decide to evacuate…’

‘Yeah, and they may not. We’d better not take a chance… that chance. There’s a shop just down the front.’

‘I think, if we’re going out again, we’d better do it now. This is likely to get worse before it gets better… liable to spread until… well, I’ll go with you.’

‘No, you stay here with Mary.’

‘Nothing I’d like better than not going out there again. But Mary will be safe enough here, with the door barred, and the two of us can carry a lot more. There’s no sense in making more than one forage. And… we can watch each other’s backs.’

‘He’s right, Jerry. I’ll be okay here. Just… don’t be very long.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. Jerry regarded her for a moment, then he nodded.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, and we went.

I stepped deliberately, as if my footfalls were ticking off the moments, punctuating the passage of time. Jerry preceded me through the deserted streets. The low sun blocked sharp patterns on the buildings, as clearly defined as the light in the whitewashed room, but my own shadow dragged reluctantly at my heels, as if cast from a different source — thrown from me by the glow of my fear. A low fog was clinging against the walls and a heavier fog came rolling out from a sidestreet, curling like a cat across Jerry’s boots. He stumbled, as if he’d tripped on the mist. He held his gun at his side, pointing down. I quickened my pace to catch him up and we moved on together. The walk was a hundred yards, no more. It seemed eternal. We met no one.

Mendoza’s Market was a dusty storeroom with shelves and glass-fronted counters stocked with tins of almost everything. The door wasn’t locked. Jerry stood just inside the entrance and shouted for Mendoza, who lived above. There was no response. We looked around the gloomy room.

Jerry said, ‘We should of made us up a shopping list. Well, grab one of these boxes and fill ‘er up with whatever takes your fancy; might as well dine to our taste.’