Read Online Salby (Book 2): Salby Evolution by Ian D. Moore - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ian D. Moore
Tags: Zombies
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complement, including any unregistered passengers, which most shipping companies carried in any spare bunks to maximise revenue.
“You know I can’t cook to save my life. Ding dinners are my speciality and that’s about it. Stab it with a fork, whack it in the microwave and hey presto!” I quipped.
If it wasn’t for Charley when you were together, you and the kids would have starved. It’s only necessity you cook for. You never cooked for her once. What exactly did you do to help? Wait, let me guess, you worked, pah! Is that all?
“I worked my ass off Goddammit!” I yelled.
“What? What are you talking about? Are you okay?”
“Pardon? Oh, um, yes. I’m sorry, I was miles away there, thinking about something else.”
“I’ll do us something. Sit, please, sir.”
My gaze wandered around the room as she began to prepare food. Silently, I cursed the voices in my mind. I found it hard to believe we were on a ship in the middle of the sea. Save for the rocking motion and the ever-present drone of the engines, the restaurant area was better than some I’d frequented back home.
It wasn’t long before two steaming plates, with what looked like sausages, eggs, a pool of mixed beans and tomatoes, and several stacked high rounds of hot toast were placed before me. Cutlery soon followed and we both ate as though it could be our last meal, ever. Only when the final mouthful met its end did she speak, the sustenance calming the angry growls within.
“I’ve lost a few weeks at least. When we finally made it to the docks, you were just about conscious. You could barely walk, and I had to drag you most of the way onto the ship. I managed to keep us out of sight, but when we got to the steps down to the hold, I had no way of getting you down besides—” she hesitated.
“Besides what?” I queried, in the hope she could fill in some blanks.
“Besides letting you go,” she mumbled.
“You pushed me down four flights of stairs?”
“Not exactly. You collapsed at the top. I couldn’t lift you, so I rolled you under the guard rails and you fell into the grain pile below. You caught your wound on the way down, opened it up again, I think. When I got to you, you were buried in the grain. I dug you out and managed to lay you flat so that I could tend to your leg wound.”
“Go on, what then?” I pushed.
“I’d dropped the bag—with the first aid kit in it—out on the ramp. Without medical supplies, I needed to stop the flow of, um, blood. Only it wasn’t blood, at least, I don’t think so, hard to see in the light. I placed my hand over the wound to seal it, that’s the last I remember of that. I blacked out soon after. Only when I got to the kitchen for the first time did I realise that I’d been out cold for three days solid.” She paused, her head bowed as she played with the cutlery, carving circles in the remaining juices on the plate before she continued.
“I remember I felt rage like I’ve never felt rage before. I don’t mean just anger. I mean primal, kill someone rage . I had uncontrollable desires to kill, wound, inflict pain and suffering, to taste and draw blood. Didn’t matter who or where. I armed myself with a meat cleaver and an enormous chef’s knife from the kitchen, and I cut, slashed, stabbed and chopped my way through the vessel, deck-by-deck, room-by-room. With each new victim, the urges grew more powerful, until just you and I remained. Only then did it start to fade—the longing for the copper taste of blood in my mouth. There were no more screams or pleas to taunt the voices in my head. After that, I came back to check on you, but you hadn’t moved an inch. I went for the first aid kit, patched you up, then I cooked, we ate, we slept, and here we are,” she finished.
“What then? You said we’ve been on the boat nearly nine weeks. What about the rest of it?” I pushed.
“I remember waking briefly, though my recollection of what I did is hazy. I knew we were
“You know I can’t cook to save my life. Ding dinners are my speciality and that’s about it. Stab it with a fork, whack it in the microwave and hey presto!” I quipped.
If it wasn’t for Charley when you were together, you and the kids would have starved. It’s only necessity you cook for. You never cooked for her once. What exactly did you do to help? Wait, let me guess, you worked, pah! Is that all?
“I worked my ass off Goddammit!” I yelled.
“What? What are you talking about? Are you okay?”
“Pardon? Oh, um, yes. I’m sorry, I was miles away there, thinking about something else.”
“I’ll do us something. Sit, please, sir.”
My gaze wandered around the room as she began to prepare food. Silently, I cursed the voices in my mind. I found it hard to believe we were on a ship in the middle of the sea. Save for the rocking motion and the ever-present drone of the engines, the restaurant area was better than some I’d frequented back home.
It wasn’t long before two steaming plates, with what looked like sausages, eggs, a pool of mixed beans and tomatoes, and several stacked high rounds of hot toast were placed before me. Cutlery soon followed and we both ate as though it could be our last meal, ever. Only when the final mouthful met its end did she speak, the sustenance calming the angry growls within.
“I’ve lost a few weeks at least. When we finally made it to the docks, you were just about conscious. You could barely walk, and I had to drag you most of the way onto the ship. I managed to keep us out of sight, but when we got to the steps down to the hold, I had no way of getting you down besides—” she hesitated.
“Besides what?” I queried, in the hope she could fill in some blanks.
“Besides letting you go,” she mumbled.
“You pushed me down four flights of stairs?”
“Not exactly. You collapsed at the top. I couldn’t lift you, so I rolled you under the guard rails and you fell into the grain pile below. You caught your wound on the way down, opened it up again, I think. When I got to you, you were buried in the grain. I dug you out and managed to lay you flat so that I could tend to your leg wound.”
“Go on, what then?” I pushed.
“I’d dropped the bag—with the first aid kit in it—out on the ramp. Without medical supplies, I needed to stop the flow of, um, blood. Only it wasn’t blood, at least, I don’t think so, hard to see in the light. I placed my hand over the wound to seal it, that’s the last I remember of that. I blacked out soon after. Only when I got to the kitchen for the first time did I realise that I’d been out cold for three days solid.” She paused, her head bowed as she played with the cutlery, carving circles in the remaining juices on the plate before she continued.
“I remember I felt rage like I’ve never felt rage before. I don’t mean just anger. I mean primal, kill someone rage . I had uncontrollable desires to kill, wound, inflict pain and suffering, to taste and draw blood. Didn’t matter who or where. I armed myself with a meat cleaver and an enormous chef’s knife from the kitchen, and I cut, slashed, stabbed and chopped my way through the vessel, deck-by-deck, room-by-room. With each new victim, the urges grew more powerful, until just you and I remained. Only then did it start to fade—the longing for the copper taste of blood in my mouth. There were no more screams or pleas to taunt the voices in my head. After that, I came back to check on you, but you hadn’t moved an inch. I went for the first aid kit, patched you up, then I cooked, we ate, we slept, and here we are,” she finished.
“What then? You said we’ve been on the boat nearly nine weeks. What about the rest of it?” I pushed.
“I remember waking briefly, though my recollection of what I did is hazy. I knew we were
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