The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3) (34 page)

“Survival of the fittest. Darwin would’ve been proud,” she grunted with disdain. “What the fuck has the world come to? They didn’t need to attack us. We could’ve let them in and lived side by side. This didn’t need to happen.”

After five more minutes of silence and reflection, she shook herself. With her confession over, Tina stood up and approached Al’s bedside. A tear had fallen from her eye and was slowly making its way along her cheek. She snorted and wiped her face, deciding that she needed to accept the new world order and put her old values and sentiments behind her. If she and the people around her were to survive, she had to become as strong and unemotional as their attackers had been. They had shown no empathy for the people inside the FOB. It was a necessary evil, and she began to understand that they needed to be just as ruthless. Her emotions would need to be locked away, only to see the light of day when the time came that they could declare themselves as safe.

Having regained her composure, her face changed and became as hard as stone. In that instant, she had transformed into a completely different person from who she had been before the outbreak and the collapse of civilisation. She was their leader now.

“You take it easy, mate,” she said, giving Al a gentle but reassuring pat on the shoulder. She leaned forward and kissed his bruised and swollen cheek.

She left the room, headed for the perimeter defences.

A short while later, as she stood on top of the wall, she surveyed the landscape. Smoke, still lingering from the assault and the endless explosions and rattling gunfire, clung low to the ground and drifted over the countless bodies. The burnt out tanks and destroyed vehicles sat in silence, still smouldering. But it was not the battlefield from the previous day that she watched but the battlefield of the future. Thousands of walking and howling corpses were now crowding their walls.

22

“Watch your depth, Chief,” the captain muttered.

The view through the periscope revealed nothing, but Werner wanted to be sure that they were clear before surfacing the boat. He did not take anything for granted and methodically considered every possibility. They had been submerged for almost thirty-six hours, running at silent speed as they slipped by the large, dark silhouettes of the enemy ships.

Bringing them as close to the southern English coast as he could, Werner and his boat drifted through the shallows, gliding on the currents and hugging the shoreline. The crew were nervous, some even terrified, as they drifted by the menacing vessels that were patrolling the English Channel. It was the first experience of a combat situation for most of them, and their taut expressions and bulging eyes betrayed that fact.

Even amongst Stan and his men, the atmosphere was one of trepidation and uncertainty. They sat in silence, staring up at the curve of the pressure hull and wincing with the slightest noise as they expected to hear the sound of fast turning screws, churning the water and headed directly for them.

The men inside the U-boat had played the nerve destroying game for what seemed an eternity. Time seemed to stand still, and some wondered whether or not they were actually making any headway through the water. Only the captain, chief engineer, and navigator seemed relaxed and sure of their excruciatingly slow progress. The hours ticked by with nothing but the sound of heavy breathing and the occasional creak of the hull to occupy their minds.

Once they were clear of the enemy fleet, the captain allowed the boat to be ventilated through the snorkel. The auxiliary pumps and air scrubbers were started up, and after a while, with no sign of them being detected, Werner ordered the diesels to be engaged at low revolutions, and to their astonishment the low rumbling noise that they created did not seem to attract any unwanted attention.

It seemed impossible that they had not been attacked while they escaped from the island and ever since it appeared that no one was bothering to look for them. With modern radar and sonar, it would not have been difficult for the ships on the surface to locate the submerged boat and deal it a deathly blow. However, the luck that had been bestowed upon the old boat and its crew persisted.

Werner had insisted that they remain submerged throughout the following day, not wanting to tempt fate and allowing them to be easily picked up by radar and even the naked eye. Once the boat was ventilated and the batteries fully charged, the electric motors were re-engaged and the Type-XXI made steady progress towards the west. With each nautical mile that they gained from the island, Werner ordered an increase in speed, slowly building up until the boat was racing away at seventeen knots beneath the surface. By nightfall the next day they had made the turn north, passing between the Isle of Scilly and Land’s End, headed for St. George’s Channel and the Irish Sea. Now, as their captain made his final checks, the crew prepared to surface the boat and taste the fresh sea air again after two agonising and nerve tearing days of running submerged.

“Any surface contacts?” Werner asked, his face still pressed up against the eyepiece of the periscope as he swivelled in a full circle.

“Nothing heard, sir,” came the reply.

Werner stepped back and checked the men standing around within the control room watching him intently and awaiting his commands. The chief, appearing calm and relaxed, was standing in his usual position close behind the helmsman and ready to pass on the orders from the captain. He raised an eyebrow and gave a slight nod of his head.

“Surface the boat,” Werner ordered.

Headed due-north, the boat made best speed as it chopped its way through the low rolling waves of the Irish Sea. The air was cool and crisp, and the sky above mostly clear with faint wispy clouds and the occasional seagull that swooped in on the U-boat to take a closer look at the strange addition to the seascape. The captain wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and the Isle of Wight before the next sunset. Beyond that, none of them had given any further thought to where they were going or what they would do when they got there.

The crew had relaxed a little once they had passed Land’s End. The turn north was the psychological equivalent of having turned a corner to escape a pursuer. Inside the cramped hull, sailors and soldiers ate and slept wherever they could. The scraps of Stan’s team, exhausted and close to collapse, lay sprawled in the narrow bunks or propped up against machinery, snoring loudly against the rhythmic chug of the diesel engines.

Only Paul seemed to be devoid of sleep. He was sitting in the bow compartment, as close to the front of the boat as was possible. Everyone else had opted to drop themselves down in sections that were further aft, but Paul wanted to be somewhere that did not mean him resting within the main thoroughfare, being constantly disturbed as people moved from one compartment to the next. He wanted peace and quiet, but more than anything, to slip into a deep slumber and forget what he had experienced over the previous forty-eight hours. However, no matter how hard he tried or how much his body screamed for it, sleep was impossible. Each time he closed his eyes he could see the smashed face of Danny, the mutilated Land Rover, and the bodies of the others sprawled over the blood-soaked tarmac. He could hear the endless rattle of machineguns, the dull but ear-splitting crump of high explosives, but more than anything, the screams of the wounded. He sat staring, hypnotised by the sway of the boat with his head lolling from side to side as he continued to stare at the back of the man lying in the bunk directly across from him.

Apart from the occasional cough, groan, or sputter, the man had not spoken a word to anyone or moved the entire time that they had been on board. From what Paul knew, he was an officer and had some sort of close link to the team that he himself had inadvertently become a member of. He had seen the man around the command centre a few times but had never had any interaction with him. A tall and gangly man with long features, the officer had been dragged across the island, completely unresponsive from shock and fear. Gerry, Paul remembered someone referring to him as, was totally lost in his own world, having experienced more than his mind was capable of enduring.

Paul considered attempting to speak to him, or at least checking on him to make sure that he was okay, but after a moment of thought he decided against the idea. He did not have the energy to tend to his own needs, let alone a virtual stranger, and an officer at that.

On the bridge, Stan and Taff were enjoying the feel of the cool sea breeze against their grime covered faces. Even with the hatch open and the ventilators working, the air inside the boat seemed to be stale and the atmosphere overly stuffy. Over to their right they could see the faint blue outline of land as it poked just above the horizon. To their left, there was nothing but open sea. They seemed a million miles away now from what had happened on the island, and it was almost as though the events had taken place in a previous life. Now, they were headed north and away from the carnage, free to go anywhere they wanted without being watched by higher command. However, the people that they had lost were never far from their thoughts.

“Where do you think we should head for?” Stan asked, turning to Werner.

“I’m not sure, to be honest. If we had more fuel, I would’ve suggested heading into the Mediterranean and finding a nice quiet island. You know, retire and enjoy the sunshine for the rest of our days.”

“How much fuel do we have, then?”

“Not enough to get to the Med,” Werner grinned.

“Wine and olives are out of the question, then,” Taff grunted.

They continued on for another eight hours in virtual silence, only speaking occasionally, and remaining lost in their own thoughts as they savoured the fresh air that blew into their faces. Taff smoked endlessly, leaning against the superstructure of the conning tower and looking disinterested. He had only climbed up onto the bridge so that he could smoke and because he did not like being cooped up down below. He had never been completely comfortable with enclosed spaces and if there was an option, he would always choose to be out in the open.

“Ship sighted, sir,” a sailor from the watch crew suddenly exclaimed with excitement.

Stan and Taff turned and saw the man pointing out ahead of them, slightly right from the angle on the bow. Far off in the distance, barely visible on the horizon, there was a faint black smudge. To Stan and Taff, it was impossible to identify it as a ship with the naked eye, and they would have probably missed it entirely.

Werner raised his binoculars and studied the distant shape for a while, humming a song to himself as he did so. He was relaxed and showed no outward concern, and as a result, the young sailors around him adopted the same tranquil composure. It was one of the hallmarks of a good submarine captain, being able to remain cool when facing potential danger. If the captain had gone into a panic or appeared as anything other than calm, the crew would have reacted in the very same manner.

“Looks like a liner, possibly even a ferry,” Werner finally concluded as he passed the binoculars across to Stan. “Doesn’t seem to be moving though. It may have broken its moorings and drifted out to sea from the mainland.”

“Or it could be filled with survivors,” Taff added.

“Maybe, or it could even be a ghost ship,” Stan replied.

“Yeah, a modern day Mary Celeste. I wouldn’t be surprised. We seem to be attracting every fucking drama possible lately.”

The boat turned towards the distant ship, approaching cautiously as it closed the gap and steadily reducing its speed. Werner ordered everyone to diving stations; ready for a rapid dive should there be a sudden threat. For all they knew, the ferry could be filled with well-armed and trigger happy survivors, willing to fire on anyone that approached. Soon they were just a kilometre apart as the U-boat inched closer, the crew remaining on full alert and standing at action stations. The men on the bridge watched the ship closely through their binoculars, studying it intently.

“Can’t see anyone on the upper deck,” Werner grumbled.

“Their anchor’s down, Captain.”

Stan and Taff instinctively turned their attention towards the bow of the large ship. The sailor was correct; the ferry was at anchor. Its huge rusted chains hung tautly from the bow and disappeared into the sea, holding it in place.

“Anything on the radio?” Werner called down through the voice pipe. The reply came back negative. There had been no communication from the silent and eerie vessel.

“Any weapons visible?”

Again, the reply came back as negative from the crew on watch. They endlessly scanned the deck and superstructure, but there was no sign of life.

“All stop, Chief,” the captain ordered as they drew within three-hundred metres. “Standby main vents and start flooding the tanks, ready to dive.”

The boat became heavier as the chief engineer prepared them for a rapid descent into the depths with the fore and aft decks already awash and submerged beneath the waves. If the captain suddenly ordered an emergency dive, it would only take a few seconds for the boat to disappear beneath the surface.

“Ghost ship?” Taff asked with a raised eyebrow and turned to Stan.

Stan watched the ship. He could see no signs of damage or movement, but he could not help but feel that there was something wrong. Someone had sailed the vessel out to that particular spot and then dropped the anchor. If there were people on board, then the U-boat would have been seen as it approached. Now, they were either hiding, or it really was a ghost ship.

“Ahoy,” Werner suddenly called up at the towering sides of the ship. “Is there anyone on board?”

There was no reply. Again, the captain attempted to hail anyone aboard the ferry, but his calls never received an answer. He looked to Stan and shrugged his shoulders.

“Looks like nobody’s home.”

“Is there any way of us getting up there to have a look?” Taff asked, searching for a ladder or rope leading up onto the deck.

“Don’t expect me to volunteer, mate,” a voice replied from behind them. “There’s no fucking way that I’m going up there.”

It was Kyle, the veteran, having climbed on to the bridge when he heard that a ship had been sighted. He was curious but had no intentions of going aboard. He scrutinised the ferry with narrowed eyes and a blank expression. His instincts were telling him that something was amiss, and that boarding the ship would be a bad idea.

“For Christ’s sake,” Werner suddenly spat after another minute of scanning the decks.

Stan and the others followed his gaze and turned their attention towards the bow of the vessel. There they could see a number of small round shapes popping up over the sides of the ship. They were heads. There were more of them appearing by the second, all of them looking down upon the men on the bridge of the U-boat below. The bobbing heads were soon joined by the poignant moan of the infected. Seeing the living men, the dead aboard the sea ferry began to surge with excitement.

Hundreds of them emerged from within the ship and began to crowd the deck, leaning over and reaching out towards the submarine with clutching fingers. It was not long before bodies began to tumble over the sides, plummeting from a height of twenty metres before smashing into the water with loud splashes. Most of them were never seen again as they went straight to the bottom of the Irish Sea. Others resurfaced and bobbed around like grotesque buoys, flailing their arms, and slapping the water’s surface.