Life Goes On by Tayell, Frank (large ebook reader txt) 📗

“But maybe not air conditioning,” Zach said. “So I’d go for that two-master with the mermaid painted on the bow.”

“It was a warning, not a guess,” Clyde said. “Watch that icebreaker for snipers.”

Tess watched the trees, looking for more birds taking flight, until she caught movement, far closer. Ten metres from the pier, the angler put down his bottle and raised his hand, but only briefly, before returning it to his reel.

Mackay had brought them in obliquely, away from the man’s fishing line, and to an empty mooring space on the western end of the long pier. Their boat bumped against the rubber tyres slung against the pier’s side. Zach grabbed a rope, while Clyde grabbed the ladder, throwing himself up to the quayside before the boat was secured.

“We’re police, we’re friendly,” Tess said, as she followed Clyde ashore.

The angler, some ten metres away, still hadn’t taken his attention from his rods.

“G’day,” Tess said. “Kia ora.”

And one of those, or both together, seemed to do the trick. The man stood, turned, removed his hat, raising it in front of his face, blocking out more of the sun.

“Hola,” he said. “You’re police?”

The word was stencilled on their body-armour, though they wore naval fatigues beneath, and were each carrying a rifle as well as the usual armoury of weapons at their belts.

“Commissioner Tess Qwong,” she said. “Australian Federal Police. We’re here under a mandate from the United Nations, the African Union, and the Pacific Alliance, looking for survivors.”

“The United Nations. Ha! A zombie organisation in a zombie world.” He laughed. “Call me Mikael,” he said.

Hearing his name, she pinned down his accent. It wasn’t South American or Spanish, but something Slavic. What she could see of his chest beneath his half-open shirt was tanned to a crisp. But the top of his bald head was pale, his eyes were sapphire-blue, and the tattoo on his left forearm consisted of nine characters written in Cyrillic. About sixty, a facelift had tried to subtract a few decades, but the equatorial sun had only added them back on. Except for a long knife strapped to his lower leg, he wasn’t visibly armed, nor were there any obvious firearms next to the chair or coolers.

“Good to meet you, Mikael,” Tess said. “Are there many survivors here?”

“There are few anywhere,” he replied. A frantic ringing erupted from a bell attached to the middle of his fishing rod. “Ah, lunch!” he said, grabbing the rod. “You, boy, you can help.”

“M’name’s Zach.”

“You have two hands? Make them useful,” Mikael said. “Here. Here. Hold!” As Zach held on, Mikael began working the reel.

With the year they’d been having, Tess was ninety percent certain a zom was on the other end of the line, but until it was hauled up, or the line broke, there’d be no more conversation from the angler. She looked north, instead, up the pier, and towards land. Palm trees dominated the view, but only partially obscured a cluster of buildings at the pier’s end. A blue pick-up truck had been driven onto the jetty, and must belong to Mikael. There was no one else by the vehicle, nor were there any gates or barricades at the end of the pier. That the vehicle had been driven onto the pier suggested the angler didn’t call any of the shore-side buildings his home. To the east of the pier were a cluster of concrete service buildings for the small cruise ships, tourist boats, and fishing hires that generated the islanders’ income. The large timber-and-plank one-storey on the western side of the pier was a bar-restaurant with a wrap-around sundeck jutting out and above the beach.

“Ah-ha!” Mikael yelled. “Hold! Pull! Lunch!”

Tess turned around to see a metre-long shark flapping at the end of the wire-line.

“Over the pier! Over the pier!” Mikael said, grabbing the rod and turning it so the giant fish was over the jetty. Droplets of seawater splattered as the aquatic monster flapped and thrashed. Mikael dropped, his knee slamming onto the shark’s belly as he dragged the knife from his ankle-sheath. One stab, and one last thrash of the tail, and the shark was still.

“A reef shark,” Mikael said. “But it is young, like you, boy. Have you eaten shark? You shall, and then you shall be a man! You came here to arrest the zombies?”

“To look for survivors,” Tess said, watching the blood pulse from the shark, pool in the gutter, and drip over the side of the quay.

“How many have you found?” Mikael asked as he crossed to his two iceboxes. He picked up a towel, wiping his knife clean, and then his hands.

“You’re the first in South America,” Tess said.

“I did wonder,” he said. “We all did.”

“There are more of you here?” Tess asked.

“I wouldn’t need three rods if it was only me,” he said, waving a hand at the boats.

“Are there zombies on the island?” Tess asked.

“Not anymore,” Mikael said. “But there aren’t many of us, either.”

“Do you know what happened in the north? To the mainland?” Tess asked,

“Nothing good,” Mikael said. “But it will take time to tell you what we know, so we will talk over lunch. We will share food and learn we are all friends. Do you want to radio your ship? Hmm.” He looked down at his two coolers. “Boy, help,” he said, wheeling the larger of the two coolers over to the still-bleeding shark.

Balancing the shark on the cooler, and with Zach pushing on one side, he began wheeling his catch towards the shore, leaving a blood trail behind.

“Glenn, use the radio on the boat. Call the captain,” Tess said.

“Aye-aye, ma’am,” Glenn said.

Clyde took his hand from the radio on his vest, and placed it on his gun.

“How many are you?” Tess asked.