The Mariner

However improbable, Clement slept, perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps as a way of protecting his mind from breaking. When he finally opened his eyes, a moment of doubt caused his heart to leap. Had he died? Was this the foggy wastes of the afterlife? As the beats slowed to a bearable rate, he saw it was not true. The darkness had given way to a dreary misty morning, a thick sea-fog blanketing the island in its soft embrace. Light was dull, but enough to see the way. It was time.

Joints screaming and head pounding, Clement silently got to his feet. He’d played the journey in his head many times; he knew the zoo well and had picked out several hiding spots encase things got dangerous. If any of these creatures, these zombies — yes, he thought, that’s what they must be! Zombies! — saw him, he would dash to the north, making as much sound as possible and then silently double back. The fog gave cover and these were stupid creatures, they could be deceived.

He placed his hands on the bars, and slowly slid them open. Metal upon rust gave a low gritty screech, quiet, yet appearing impossibly loud against the silent forest. Were the monkeys dead, or just lying low? In the distance he could make out the sounds of the waves lapping at the shore. When was the last time he’d managed to hear that this far inland?

Clement stepped out of his protective cage and surveyed the immediate surroundings. The fog gave him about ten feet of visibility, and in those he could tell all was clear. The forest floor was littered with dry leaves, but he found that if he shuffled forward he could nudge them rather than crack their brittle forms. After a few tries he started to time his movements with those of the distant waves, masking the sound of his steps.

Were any of the others alive? That strange sailor looked like he could handle himself, but the priest and the girl? Could he protect them as well? Perhaps they were gathered on the coast waiting for him?

Clement sped up his movements, eager to reach his destination, seizing upon the hope that whatever fire-fight had occurred, it were the humans who’d prevailed.

A cold chill from the morning stroked his neck. He turned, staring into the misty shadows that swirled behind, closing in his wake. Were there zombies in those mists? He strained he eyes, trying to see if the grey trails of movement had been caused by him, but the longer he spent watching one dimly lit corner, the more concerned he’d become about another.

He broke into a jog, and then a run. Gone was his nerve. Gone was the carefully laid plan. It wasn’t far now, soon he’d be at the beach with the others. There he’d be safe! There he wouldn’t have to look in every direction at once! There he wouldn’t have to feel imagined fingers clawing the nape of his neck!

And indeed, it was true. He’d reached the beach and was stepping over corpses of the Mindless, their bodies pierced by bullets, and by the shore he could see the party that had waited for him, standing patiently looking out to sea. Eight figures of stoic patience, eight beacons of hope.

“I’m here! I’m here!” he cried, allowing a relieved laugh to fall from his throat.

But as one of the figures turned to look at him, eyes mad and lips torn and bloody, he realised the figures in the mist were not friendly at all.

They had, however, been waiting.

The Mariner tried to shout a warning to the strong-handed man as he locked himself away, but there was no time. Behind them, the Mindless woman chased, stumbling and howling, yet it was not her he was concerned about, it was the countless other Mindless shrieks. The whole pack was bearing down on the last few survivors that dared to evade their punishments.

To his surprise, the two monks who’d joined them, an elderly woman and a portly middle-aged man were managing to keep up. Fear and a good diet giving reserves the Mariner would never have expected to look for, though both their faces were flushed with the effort.

Still, there wasn’t much looking to be done. Their journey was a desperate scurry, through foliage that tore and bit, yet what it dished out to them it also delivered in heaps to the Mindless behind. Trees were non-discriminatory, and the Mindless had little control over their flailing limbs.

Finally they broke cover onto the beach, sand bringing relief, yet infuriating sluggishness to their tread.

“The row-boat! McConnell, get the boat ready!” The Mariner ran on, past the small vessel that the others were trying to drag towards the seashore, his legs slipping in the wet sand, making his progress seem dream-like in its glacial tempo.