The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3) Page 34

  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.

  By now, the cries of the dead could be heard from inside the hull of the submarine. Their heavy slaps as t
hey dropped into the water were magnified inside the U-boat. The crew were becoming jittery, and the captain sensed it.

  “Back one-third,” he ordered down into the control room.

  As the boat pulled away, the dead continued to plummet into the cold sea. By now, the water was filled with the rotted body parts and carcases of dozens of writhing men, women, and children, all staring longingly at the withdrawing U-boat.

  “It’s like a fucked up version of the final scenes in ‘Titanic’,” Kyle whispered.

  They continued north, increasing speed in order to put them far away from the infected laden ship. The captain knew that there was no real threat from the dead on board the stricken vessel, but his men would feel much more comfortable once they were away from it. The wails of the infected travelled far across the waves, and it was quite some time before they were out of earshot and longer still until they could no longer see the infested ship.

  Paul sat intermittently dozing, his head drooping towards his chest, and then suddenly being jolted as his mind flitted between sleep and consciousness. He was frustrated with himself, unable to fall into the coma that his body and mind so desperately needed. He had tried lying in one of the bunks but had begun to suffer from sea-sickness as the boat rocked from the waves crashing against its sides. Instead, he opted to remain seated on the grated floor of the deck, the cool steel of the deck-plates helping his body to keep the nausea at bay. The steady thrum of the engines echoed through the boat and vibrated through the hull, sending him into a trance, but not enough to allow him to forget and sleep.

  He became distantly aware of movement close by. He could sense another human being but as he looked up, he saw that the compartment was empty. There was no one else there, only the jumble of confusing ducts, pipes, valves, and conduits that ran over every surface of the boat’s interior, and seemed impossible to understand. He was alone, Richard and Bull having left at some point while he was tinkering on the brink of consciousness and completely unaware of their movements.

  He allowed his head to sag again and closed his eyes. He had missed something, and his brain would not let him forget it. A voice inside his mind continued to nag him from a distance, repeatedly telling him that he was not alone. He struggled to understand the feeling or why he was experiencing it. It was as though a sense that he was unaware of had awakened and was now passing information onto his clouded subconscious. There was a noise, the squeaking sound made from springs as pressure was applied or released from them. He snapped his head up and looked across at the bunk directly in front of him.

  Gerry was staring back at him, his attention completely fixed upon Paul as he slowly began climbing up from his lying position. Paul frowned, and focussed his blurry vision as the officer shrouded in shadow beneath the upper bunk slowly emerged into the dim light of the bow compartment.

  A cry of terror became lodged in Paul’s throat as his blood froze and an invisible icy hand closed around his neck. He attempted to force himself upright, pushing his feet down against the deck-plates, but his body stopped abruptly as his shoulders were tugged back down towards the floor.

  Gerry had died at some point and nobody had noticed. Now, his corpse was lunging towards him. Bringing his legs up into a squat, Paul pushed again as the cry for help finally became dislodged from his throat. The harness that was carrying his ammunition had become snagged by the bedframe of the bunk that he was leaning against, preventing him from gaining his feet and getting away. Gerry’s grasping fingers reached out for him, the festering wound in the shape of teeth marks becoming visible on his forearm as the sleeve of his shirt shifted. Paul thrashed and struggled to pull himself free from the floor.

  “Help,” he howled, his calls becoming absorbed amongst the ambient din of the U-boat. “Somebody help me.”

  Gerry’s body slipped from the bunk and landed on top of him, pinning him to the floor. With his harness snagged and the weight of the corpse, he could not roll from under it. He pushed with his hands and attempted to force Gerry’s reanimated body to the side, but due to the cramped space of the central walkway, the lifeless man remained on top of him, snapping at his face with his teeth and snarling aggressively.

  He continued to frantically call for help as he struggled. He thrust one of his hands up under the Gerry’s chin, keeping his biting jaws at bay and hoping to hold him off until someone came to his aid. The dead man’s withered and ghostly face lunged down towards him as his fingers groped Paul’s soft warm flesh. Gerry’s mouth, filled with the deadly infection, was just centimetres from his own with strings of bloodied drool seeping from his lips. Paul’s grasp around Gerry’s throat slipped. His hand slid into thin air and the clashing teeth closed in.

  Paul howled again, this time with the excruciating pain that he felt as the teeth of the dead officer clamped around the soft tissue of his cheek. With a tearing pop, a large chunk of flesh was ripped from his face, and immediately Paul’s vision became veiled in red as his blood gushed from the wound. He kicked and yelled at the top of his lungs, writhing and pushing against the creature that held him firmly pinned to the floor.

  Gerry was chewing at the blood soaked meat that he had pulled from Paul’s face, grunting noisily. As Paul fought, Gerry’s reanimated corpse began to grope and tear at him, digging his long fingers and sharp nails into the exposed flesh around his neck. It did not take long for the skin to break beneath the pressure. Seeing the blood, Gerry dipped his head and bit down again, tearing a long slither of skin and sinew from around Paul’s throat.

  Again, Paul cried out, sputtering and convulsing as blood began to spurt from the pulsing wound. He shook his head and pushed with his feet as his hands hopelessly battered at Gerry’s head and shoulders. He was choking on his own blood while Gerry continued to feast on him. As more of his blood gushed out of the wounds, he steadily lost his strength, his vision beginning to blur as the bony fingers tore at his face and throat. With the last of his strength, he roared again, hoping that someone in the next compartment would hear him and come to his rescue while Gerry stared down at him, chewing greedily.

  Feebly pushing at the body on top of him, Paul’s numbing fingers fell upon a number of bulging shapes within his harness. Through the pain and torture that his body was now suffering, his subconscious immediately recognised what his fingers had brushed against. As Gerry’s teeth gripped a large portion of his windpipe, cutting off his breath and any further screams, Paul placed his finger through one of the rings. Staring up at the flat and unblinking eyes of his attacker as his blood spewed out over the floor and seeped into the bilge, he heaved the pin. From within the pouch, filled with grenades and a claymore, he heard the familiar, high-pitched, metallic clink as the fly-off lever sprang upwards, igniting the fuse.

  On the bridge, no one had heard Paul’s blood-curdling screams, but seconds later, the bow of the boat suddenly dipped and a jet of water spurted up from beneath the outer deck, accompanied by a crunching bang as something exploded out from inside. A series of loud clangs and heavy thuds rushed up through the conning tower hatch in very quick succession accompanied by a fierce vibration that rushed along the length of the hull, sending it rocking and twisting through the waves. Another judder ran through the boat, and a high-pitched hiss began to emit from the bow as pipes carrying high-pressure air and water erupted. Immediately, the U-boat lunged across to the right and took on a list. Already, the bow was dipping into the sea, and it only took a few seconds before the forward deck was completely awash with the stern slowly rising up out of the water.

  “All stop,” Werner cried, ordering the engines to be put into neutral and preventing the boat from driving itself under.

  Everyone on the bridge scrambled towards the hatch as a cloud of black smoke billowed up from the interior. Panic stricken voices emerged from the darkness, screaming damage reports and crying for help.

  “Chief, what the hell’s happening?”

  “We have a hull breech,” the strained voice of the
chief replied up from the control room and the bedlam. “Heavy flooding in the torpedo room. Trim tanks are ruptured and taking on water. Pumps can’t cope, sir.”

  “Seal the forward hatches and blow all forward tanks. Blow everything we have, Chief. Flood all aft tanks and stand-by to abandon ship.”

  “Fire in electric motor room,” another voice called out urgently from within the blackness beneath them.

  Werner jumped back away from the hatch and across to the front of the bridge. By now, the sea had reached the base of the conning tower, and the stern was climbing higher out of the water. He had hoped that forcing all the compressed air they had into the forward ballast and trim tanks and flooding the stern tanks with sea water would allow the boat to settle on an even keel. However, it was clear that there was just too much water rushing in through the damaged section of the bow. They were going down fast, and the boat was now at a forty-five degree angle. Mixed with the smoke, fire, and rushing water, it would be difficult for anyone inside to clamber out.

  A choking and sputtering figure emerged from the hatch in the tower, scrambling up the ladder and out from the choking interior. He was quickly followed by more terrified and gasping men, including Bull and Richard. The watch crew helped to haul them up into the clean air where they collapsed onto the deck of the bridge and lay coughing and wiping at their stinging eyes. More fires seemed to have broken out from down below. Screams travelled up through the hatch with a sudden wave of heat and an orange glow.

  “Where’s Gerry and Paul?” Taff shouted down at Bull as he dragged him away from the hatch. “Have you seen them?”

  The boat suddenly tipped forward violently as the hull groaned and whined against the strain. The men on the bridge needed to cling on to whatever they could to prevent them from falling. Bull was struggling to climb to his feet, grasping for anything that could to help him. Taff reached down and dragged him up, holding onto the housing around the periscope with his free hand.