‘Hey,’ she said gently, ‘you did good. You saved my life.’
Jin looked at the carnage around her. ‘That was … horrible,’ she whispered.
Purna nodded. ‘Yes it was. But it’s all over now and they’re at peace.’
Suddenly Sam raised his head. ‘Hey, listen up everyone.’
Despite the constant clang of bells, they heard a rustling and grunting, coming from somewhere in the undergrowth, moving in their direction. It was not close to them, but not too far away either.
‘Let’s move,’ said Purna. ‘But keep alert. Eyes and ears everywhere.’
They moved swiftly uphill, Xian Mei in the lead, Purna limping along with the shotgun and Jin, who was still shaking, just in front of Sam. Closer to the church the vegetation died back a little and they were able to see the building, perched on the side of the hill and overlooking the city below, in all its glory.
In truth, however, despite its imposing location the building itself was not in the best shape. The roof was missing tiles, and many of the interlocking wooden planks that comprised its walls had either warped or rotted. In some places the damage was so bad it had been patched up with tin or corrugated iron, which itself had now gone rusty. Looking at the dilapidated building, it struck Sam that it didn’t seem very defendable. If enough zombies made a concerted effort to get in, they would – he was sure of it.
As they moved across the open patch of scrubby ground towards the sun-scoured but stout-looking main doors of the church, another of the infected crawled out from behind a tombstone and began dragging itself along the ground towards them. This one was an overweight man in his forties wearing a soiled and ripped policeman’s uniform. Half of his face had been torn away and his right leg was a ragged, bleeding stump. Jin put a hand over her mouth and looked away as Xian Mei strode determinedly forward. Standing over the crawling zombie, but taking care not to come within range of its frantically grasping hands, she said, ‘Sorry.’ Then she raised her machete and ruthlessly brought it down.
The others waited for her to rejoin them before walking up to the church. Purna bashed on the door with the barrel of the shotgun. ‘Hey!’ she shouted. ‘You in there!’
‘We came to see if you needed help!’ called Xian Mei.
They waited less than ten seconds and then one of the two doors creaked slowly open. Purna stepped back, half-raising the shotgun warily. A man’s face appeared, his skin the colour of teak, his close-cropped hair and neat moustache white and grizzled.
‘Friends or foes?’ he enquired in a deep, gentle, almost melodious voice.
‘Friends, we hope,’ said Xian Mei.
‘I hope so too,’ said the man and pulled the door further open. ‘Not that we refuse entry to anyone here. Come in.’
The four of them trooped inside and the old man closed and locked the door behind them.
‘Name’s Ed,’ he said. ‘Ed Lacey.’
Purna introduced herself and the rest of them. ‘You’re not native to these parts,’ she noted.
‘I’m from Florida. Was on holiday with my wife, Maya. Some holiday, huh?’
In spite of everything, Sam grinned. The man’s gentle humour was a welcome tonic after what they had been through. ‘Not exactly the paradise we were hoping for either.’
Ed laughed softly, then raised a hand and crooked a finger. ‘C’mon, I’ll introduce you to the others.’
The interior of the church was as shabby as the exterior – chunks of plaster missing from the walls, many of the pews broken or water-damaged. At the far end, huddled on rickety wooden chairs around a large crucifix that towered above the raised pulpit, were around thirty people. Most looked like shell-shocked parishioners who had fled here, seeking sanctuary, from the overcrowded slums of Moresby directly below. However, a few of the group were clearly more affluent, among them a smattering of white-faced western holidaymakers, who had somehow managed, whether by accident or design, to find their way here.
Looking around and nodding greetings at people as Ed named them, Sam noted that the ages of the group members ranged from less than one (a tired-looking bony-shouldered mother who couldn’t have been more than seventeen was breast-feeding a fidgeting, fractious baby) to a half-dozen men and women in their seventies or possibly eighties. One man who was younger than that – sixty maybe – was lying full-length on a pew, bolstered by hassocks and cushions. He was an overweight white man (though his face at the moment was the colour of beetroot), and he was breathing in ratcheting gasps, a clenched fist resting on his chest and his fleshy features knotted in pain.
An equally overweight white woman in a floral summer dress was perched next to him on a stool, clutching his free hand and murmuring platitudes. For the first time Ed Lacey’s face clouded with concern. ‘That there’s Mr and Mrs Owen,’ he said. ‘Mr Owen ain’t too well.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Purna a little sharply. Sam knew what she was thinking. If Mr Owens’ condition was caused by a zombie bite then they were all in danger.
Ed read the meaning behind her question immediately. ‘It ain’t what you think. It’s his heart, his wife says.’
Overhearing them, Mrs Owen turned her head. She seemed too preoccupied with her husband’s illness to show any reaction to their bloodied state or the weapons they were carrying.
‘He needs his pills,’ she said. ‘But they’re back at the hotel.’
‘What kind of pills are they?’ asked Jin.
‘They’re called Nadolol. They’re—’
‘I know. Beta blockers, prescribed for the treatment of angina pectoris. Is that what your husband suffers from?’
‘Yes,’ said the woman, surprised. ‘Are you a doctor?’
‘No,’ said Jin, ‘I’m a nurse. How bad is he?’
‘Very bad. He needs his pills regularly. If he doesn’t get them …’ The woman’s voice choked off and she shook her head. When she next spoke they could all hear the flutter of fear in her voice. ‘… well, I don’t know what might happen.’
Jin turned to the others. Quietly she said, ‘We have to try and get this man his medication.’
Purna frowned. ‘How?’
‘There’s a pharmacy on the high street. They should have some Nadolol there.’
Lowering her voice, Purna said, ‘We can’t go all the way back there. Taking a detour to come here almost got us killed.’
Hovering just behind them, Ed reached out and touched Purna on the arm. ‘Mind if I say something?’
Purna turned with a frown, but raised her eyebrows to indicate he should continue.
‘Maybe we can resolve this situation to our mutual benefit,’ Ed said.
Purna’s frown deepened. ‘How?’
‘Come with me. There’s a couple people I think you should meet.’
He led Purna and Jin away from the main group by the pulpit and across to a moth-eaten red curtain in the far corner. He lifted this aside to reveal a door, which he pushed open. Beyond the door the continuing sound of church bells grew instantly louder. Ed led them through a small sacristy and then through another door into a stone chamber containing nothing but a flight of circular stone steps. As they ascended the steps the church bells became so loud they could barely hear themselves think. Eventually they emerged into a stone-floored bell tower, where two people, both very different in age and build but wearing identical expressions of grim determination, were tugging at long black bell pulls. Ed raised a hand, but it was a redundant gesture. As soon as they caught sight of Purna and Jin, the couple ceased their bell-ringing as if by mutual consent.
One of the bell-ringers, a wizened, wiry woman in a nun’s habit, scuttled forward with a beaming smile and took Purna’s hand. At the top of her voice she shouted above the slowing but still-clanging peal of the bells, ‘Has He sent you to find us?’
At first Purna didn’t know what she meant, but then she realized. ‘I don’t know about that. We followed the sound of the bells.’
The little nun seemed pleased with her answer. ‘Of course you did.’
Ed leaned forward and said, ‘I think we and these people might be able to help each other. Can we talk downstairs?’
The nun nodded and they all descended to the sacristy. The second bell-ringer, a tall, handsome broad-shouldered man with caramel-coloured skin, brought up the rear. Quickly Ed made the introductions, then explained and summed up the situation.
‘We need medication for Mr Owen, and we also need food and water for everyone, and a way to defend ourselves until help arrives. I’m guessing you people would welcome the chance to get your hands on some better weapons too, to help you do whatever you’re doing?’
‘We’re getting off the island,’ Purna said firmly. ‘I think you should too.’
Ed shook his head. ‘There are too many of us, and some of us aren’t as … well, as physically adept as you young people. No, we’ll sit it out here until they send in the cavalry.’
‘What if they don’t?’ said Jin.
Unease flickered briefly over Ed’s face, then he said confidently, ‘They will. They always do.’
The nun, whom Ed had introduced as Sister Helen, had been sitting throughout the conversation with an almost beatific smile on her face. Purna now turned to her and asked, ‘What do you think, Sister Helen?’
‘About what, my child?’
‘Well, it’s evident from what I’ve heard that a lot of the people here look up to you, that they regard you as their spiritual leader. Do you think you should wait here for help or try to help yourselves?’
Beaming, Sister Helen said, ‘Oh, there’s no help to be found anywhere, except ultimately from God.’
Purna looked confused. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’
Sister Helen leaned forward and gently took her hand. ‘There is no escape for anyone, my child, not in this life. God’s wrath is upon us all. This is His judgement.’
Purna licked her lips, glanced at the others. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t believe that. To me, that just sounds like giving up, accepting the inevitable. And I’m not a giving-up sort of person.’
She expected an argument, perhaps even recriminations, but Sister Helen simply spread her hands. ‘That is your prerogative, my child.’
Again Purna glanced around, focusing on Ed. ‘So what’s the deal here?’
‘The deal is that this church is a sanctuary, that Sister Helen is kind enough to take in anyone who wants shelter or protection. Personally she believes that this is the Apocalypse, that we can do nothing more useful than pray and wait out the inevitable, but – and forgive me for saying this, Sister – not all of us feel the same way. Personally I respect Sister Helen’s beliefs, and I can truly say that my wife Maya and I will be eternally grateful for her kindness, but I happen to think there’s a way out of this – or that even if there isn’t, then that don’t mean we should quit trying to find one. So here’s my proposal: if you guys head back into town to pick up some medication for Mr Owen and enough provisions to keep us going for the next few days, and weapons to defend ourselves with, if needs be, then we’ll show you a way to get better weapons for yourselves – guns, maybe even explosives.’
‘How?’ Purna asked.
Ed indicated the tall handsome man, who had so far said barely a word. ‘Dani here and his brother, Pedro, run a business that sets up security systems for companies and individuals on Banoi – electric fences,
CCTV
, internal coded locking systems, you name it. And it just so happens that one of their clients is the police, and that a few years ago Dani and Pedro installed a weapons vault in the resort station on the main street.’
Dani nodded. His voice was soft and deep, his English good but strongly accented. ‘I have security codes in here.’ He tapped his head. ‘Inside vault is plenty of weapon for all. If Sister Helen says is OK, I come with you.’
They all looked at Sister Helen, who said smilingly, ‘Oh, we all have free will. I cannot possibly speak for Him.’
Dani looked at Purna and nodded slowly. ‘Then I come with you,’ he said.
‘
HOLY
CRAP
.’
Sam’s tone was almost reverential. The sight that greeted them as they turned the corner on to the main resort street was both terrifying and awe-inspiring.
The infected were everywhere. In a hideously grotesque parody of consumerism, they were shuffling up and down the long main street as if window shopping. Some of them were even wandering aimlessly in and out of the stores and bars and restaurants, presumably looking for food.
If anyone
was
still alive in the buildings, however, they were keeping well hidden. There were a few eviscerated bodies, or parts of bodies, strewn about like roadkill, which Sam guessed must belong to people either lucky or unlucky enough to have been so badly torn apart that there was no chance of them coming back, but there was no sign of anyone actually
alive
– no survivors sitting on roofs with ‘Help’ signs, or peering out of upper-floor windows.
As for the infected themselves, they were made up almost entirely of holidaymakers and resort staff. Many were dressed in nightwear or brightly coloured holiday clothes; some were wearing the uniforms of hotel staff or retail assistants. They were of all ages and colours and creeds, and they almost all bore the evidence of bites or other, more serious wounds. Sam could see one old man constantly stumbling on his own intestines, slick pink loops of which were hanging out of a rent in his stomach and trailing around his feet like a tangle of dead snakes. Other zombies were missing limbs or feet or hands; some, unable to walk, were dragging themselves along, their fingernails torn and bleeding. Yet others were missing parts of their face – one man had had his entire lower jaw torn away and his fat, blackening tongue was plastered to his throat like a feeding leech. The majority of them were smeared with the remains of recent meals, hands and faces caked in drying blood and clots of raw meat.
So far, despite the noise of the van’s engine, Purna, Sam and the others had been ignored – further evidence that Sam’s theory was correct and that the infected only responded to what they could eat, blanking out everything else.
‘You reckon they can smell us in here?’ Sam said as the van idled at the intersection.