SALT: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller Read online

  Heinrich turned to see Stanic approach..

  “I suggest you lot get lost,” Stanic said, his face promising violence.

  Heinrich and Dietmar each took a step towards the engineer, but soon stepped back when he swung the heavy wrench their way, the tool missing their heads by inches. Jim took the opportunity to grab Heinrich by the shoulders and pull him back, clearing a way through. The tall, blond German tripped as he fell back.

  Monika broke ranks and dashed to Heinrich’s aid, leaving Dietmar standing between Stanic and Jim.

  “You still want to do this?” Jim said, making the small man spin round with surprise.

  Jim grabbed him by the robe and thrust him against the wall of the corridor, banging his head in the process. Through gritted teeth, Jim said, “You dare try this shit again and you’ll be joining Susan in the brig.”

  Jim tightened his grip on the robe, choking the man as the cloth tightened round his throat. Dietmar’s face grew purple under the strain before he finally nodded. Jim let him collapse to the floor. As soon as Dietmar regained his balance, he staggered off, following Heinrich and Monika, all the while swearing in German and promising various acts of retribution.

  “Thanks, Stan,” Jim said as he took a deep breath in an effort to calm down. “I appreciate the backup. What happened to your hand?”

  Stanic looked at his hand as though he hadn’t even realised it was wounded. “Oh, crap, I didn’t even know. Must have caught on something. I’ve been trying to get the desalinators running again. It’s hard work without Ade. He knew those machines like the back of his hand. Ten times the engineer I’ll ever be.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve seen what you can do. I’ve all the faith in you. Though you should get that seen to.” It was then that he remembered why he was here.

  The radio call.

  Dr Singh. “Shit, sorry, Stan, I gotta go.”

  Jim rushed past the engineer, careening into the door, slamming it against the wall as he entered the medical facility. Ahead of him was the main desk where Kyla would often be doing paperwork or drinking coffee as she tried to work some form of treatment for the quarantined citizens.

  Much like Angelina and the others, he thought.

  Loose papers littered the floor. A wastepaper bin lay on its side, the trash spilling out. A chair was tipped over, and fragments of a china mug lay scattered among the debris, leading Jim’s eye through the obvious signs of struggle until he saw the first spots of blood.

  Careful not to disturb the tableau, Jim made his way further into the office until he saw Kyla Singh lying at Annette’s feet.

  Her body looked whole for the most part save her neck.

  Her head was at the wrong angle. Broken, twisted, like a paper cup. A reddened gash split the skin and flesh below her chin. Blood surrounded her, covering the floor, turning it into a red lake, her head and neck a peninsula, and Annette’s legs, shaking, behind the body like swaying reeds.

  Annette was crying. She shouldn’t have had to deal with this. Although she worked with Singh, had trained under her, she wasn’t actually a medical student. She hadn’t been exposed to situations like this before. Her main role was in triage and assisting Singh in gathering and analysing samples.

  Her face was red and puffy. She wiped her nose with her sleeve and looked at Jim with glassy blue eyes. “Why would anyone do this?” she said. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, Ann, but we’ll find out.”

  “I can’t believe she’s gone… one moment she was here, and now…” The girl hid her face in her hands. Her shoulders bucked with the sobs.

  Jim remained in his place, paralysed, scared he’d ruin any evidence. He tried to think of the right words to console the girl, but all he could see was his wife in her hospital bed, the pillows stained red where she’d taken her own life, unable to go on fighting the cancer. He didn’t blame her, of course; her condition had been terminal. She had often spoken of her wish to end her suffering sooner, but Jim couldn’t let her go.

  “Ann, I know this is hard, but you’ve got to tell me what you know. What did you see when you came in? Was there anyone leaving the facility? Anything at all out of the ordinary?”

  Annette took a deep breath and composed herself. Closing her eyes, she recounted what she had seen. “I didn’t see anyone when I approached. The place was empty. I opened the door, expecting to see Dr Singh at her desk like she is most mornings. I was due to help her with the weekly samples—” She broke off, swallowing a sob.

  Jim remained quiet, gave her room to gather her thoughts.

  “It was the smell that I noticed first.”

  “The blood?” Jim asked.

  Annette shook her head, wrinkling her nose as though she were experiencing the scent again. “No, it was some kind of chemical. I can’t really describe it. If anything, it was kind of acidic, maybe, I don’t really know. I thought it strange, and that’s when I noticed the mess in the office and… Dr Singh’s body.”

  Jim remembered what Annette had said earlier on the radio. All this time he’d focused on Singh’s death. “You said ‘they’ on the radio. Who else?”

  As he looked at her, she turned her head. The door to the quarantine. “Mike,” Annette said, almost with a reverential whisper.

  He needed to go look for himself, compelled to know it was true.

  Being careful not to step in blood, he tiptoed through the office and opened the door. Bloody footprints stained the tiled floor, leading through the quarantine until they stopped at Mike’s room. The plastic hung to one side where it had been cut open.

  Not wanting to breach the quarantine by opening the door, Jim stepped forward and peered through the small glass window. Mike’s body was slumped on the ground, his face pressed against the floor, his arms beneath his chest, and his legs spread out behind him.

  There was less blood around him than around Singh’s body, but Mike’s head was caved in on one side, indicating he had been bludgeoned to death.

  “Is it bad?” a voice said. Jim spun round to see Stanic standing on the threshold of the quarantine, his hand bandaged, presumably by Annette. “Anything I can do?”

  “No, Stan, just give us some space, if you don’t mind. We have to avoid contaminating the crime scene. I’ll call Eva, see what she can find out.”

  “Want me to fetch her? Probably not safe for her to walk about on her own given the circumstances, and Faust’s lot all het up.”

  “It’s okay. She’s got company. Could you radio Duncan for me? Tell him Faust’s lot are probably on their way to the Bravo. Tell him I’ll be back once I’ve spoken with Eva.”

  “I’ll do one better,” Stanic said. “I’ll head there myself. I need to chat with some of your crew anyway about breaking up some of those small fishing vessels for parts.”

  “Fine,” Jim said. “Be careful.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Stan gave him a casual salute of respect and left the medical facility, thanking Annette for his bandage.

  Jim left the facility behind Stanic and watched the engineer leave the ship. He reached for his two-way radio and dialled in Eva’s channel.

  “Eva, this is Jim. Are you there, over?”

  Static.

  “Eva, do you copy, over?”

  “Jim? I’m here. What’s up? Did you deal with the… what we spoke about last night?”

  “I think you should come to the medical facility right away. There’s been…” Jim took a deep breath, steadying his voice. “Two murders. Come quickly, and bring Graves with you, just in case.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr Singh and…”

  Jim didn’t need to finish the sentence, Eva knew.

  “I’ll be right there,” Eva said, her voice shaking.

  The radio went dead. Jim went ba
ck inside and comforted Annette. “It’s okay. Eva will know what to do. She’ll find out who did this.”

  He just hoped that was true. Even though just this morning he’d promised himself he would be a better man than he was yesterday, he already felt the need to find a stash of rum and drink himself into oblivion.

  Chapter 23

  Eva wiped the sea spray from her face, squinting against the low-hanging sun. The bright light glinted off the ocean, creating a dazzling panorama. She and Marcus Graves made their way from his yacht across boards and planks, from boat to boat, through narrow passages and up ladders to taller ships until they reached the edge of the main flotilla and made their way across to the Alonsa.

  Tons of trash had floated in on the previous night’s tide.

  It always seemed odd to Eva that one of the most enduring remnants of humanity were tennis balls. Every tide that brought the sea of plastic, wreckage, and myriad bits of human detritus to gather at the edges of the flotilla and the Orizaba peak invariably included dozens or sometimes hundreds of tennis balls, footballs, and basketballs.

  But mostly tennis balls.

  The one thing they and the sheer amount of plastic brought into sharp focus was just how much time, energy, and resources had gone into making pointless crap. Fitting that the pointless crap was what had outlasted humanity.

  The flotilla’s group of teenagers, some twenty in all, had woken, bleary-eyed, to their duties: cleaning off the trash. The group chatted lazily as they took up their positions. Using fishing nets and hand-winches they brought it all in and separated it, filling the containers on the Chinese container ship with the organised materials.

  Burnables were placed in one, plastic and other non-usable items in another. In the time Eva had been in the flotilla, they’d filled nearly ten large containers with plastics.

  A group of them smiled and waved at Eva as they headed to the far east of the flotilla to start their work. Eva nodded her head, but found it difficult to return a smile.

  The pain in her ribs, although considerably better for her night’s rest, still provided the proverbial thorn in the lion’s paw. And with Jim’s news… well, that was never great to wake up to. She didn’t feel like she had woken and hoped this was just a nightmare. She thought that every morning when she woke to the sounds of lapping waves, creaking boat hulls and the distinct lack of Emily.

  “Gotta be the same geezer, right?” Graves said. He helped her across the divide, watching that she didn’t slip or crack her head on the edges of the opening. “I mean, it’s not likely we’d have a copycat.”

  “Can’t rule anything out yet. Got to keep an open mind, see the crime scene first.”

  Eva let go of his arm when she had successfully traversed the gap. She walked past Graves further into the cruise liner, hiding her sudden feeling of grief. Thinking of Mike’s death as a crime scene brought tears to her eyes.

  Despite the bright sun outside, the level at which they entered remained dark and cold. The once gloriously decorated hallways and rooms were now ramshackle and barren, having been stripped for materials. Ducting, wiring, pipework and elements of the boat’s infrastructure showed through the panelled walls like the arteries and bones of some great, long-dead beast.

  After descending the central staircase to the level below, they passed a pair of old-timers. Marlene and Chad, the oldest left on the flotilla. They were both in their seventies, and every morning they came down to this level, which used to be a dining room and dance hall.

  After their breakfast of fish and seaweed, they’d take to the dusty, water-damaged ballroom dance floor and tango, reliving their honeymoon night.

  The last night before the world drowned.

  Chad, bald and dressed in his tatty suit, gave Eva a wink as he led Marlene around the dance floor with a grace and agility that defied his age. Eva managed a smile for him and nodded back, despite finding the scene profoundly sad.

  At least they had each other, she thought. This brought her back to Mike. At one time she had thought she had loved him. Well, that wasn’t true. She knew she loved him, but since he had returned, she had wondered whether those feelings were honest or whether they were some hopeful attempt at connecting with someone.

  She felt like a magpie stealing from someone’s nest.

  If you were to face the end of the world, it would be easier to handle if you had a loved one to be with. Like Jean and Mike, or Marlene and Chad. Now the first two were gone, taking Eva’s chance with them. She thought of Danny, wondering how she would tell him.

  “How do they do it?” Graves said as they left the dining hall and entered the corridor that led toward the medical facility. “Every damned morning.”

  “I guess they do it to survive, to keep going. By remembering their night before the event, reliving it, they can remain hopeful. A few hours of happiness to offset reality.”

  Graves shrugged. “I’d rather sleep in.”

  “The last of the romantics, eh?”

  “I don’t go in for sentimentality. I survive by staying focused.”

  “Well, I hope the cynicism keeps you warm and comforted when you’re the last one left.”

  Eva didn’t say any more until she entered the medical facility and found Jim comforting Dr Singh’s young assistant, Annette. They were stood to the side of the room. Behind them, between the overturned desk and chair, was Dr Singh’s body. Her arms were outstretched; the blood, now drying to a dark crimson, surrounded her. Her head lay at an angle.

  Graves and Jim muttered something about a job, but Eva wasn’t listening, she was analysing the tableau. There were distinctive and recognisable footprints where someone had walked in Singh’s blood. Though some were smudged, they got clearer as they left the body and headed towards the quarantine section.

  Eva turned to Annette. “How many people have come through here?”

  “Just me, Jim and Stanic.”

  Eva looked at her shoes, and then at Jim’s. Neither were the large, heavy boots of the prints. She recognised them as being the same as the ridged prints left on the fishing boat during Jean’s murder. This was as messy as that time.

  The killer certainly wasn’t a careful craftsman. A man of rage, she thought.

  Someone who killed with fury and anger. She instinctively moved her hand to her ribs, knowing she had felt that fury first hand.

  “Where is Stanic? I’ll need to rule him out.”

  “He’s on the Bravo,” Jim said.

  “Good. I’ve got to see Danny. I’ll catch up with him then.”

  “I’m going there now,” Graves said. “I’ll let him know you want to see him.”

  “You think this could have been Stanic?” Annette said. “He was in engineering this morning; it couldn’t have been him.”

  “I doubt it was,” Eva said. Stanic had been nothing but exemplary, but if he was there, he might have seen someone or something.

  “Some of Faust’s lot was here when I arrived,” Jim said.

  Eva thought about it for a moment. It just didn’t make sense.

  As far as she knew, none of them had any issue with Jean or Mike, let alone Dr Singh. It also didn’t match with the evidence currently leading to an American male with engineering experience. After assessing the scene, she’d have to go through the manifest and narrow down her list of suspects.

  The scene itself was fairly straightforward. Eva had seen it a dozen times before while working in homicide.

  Singh had taken several blows to the head before having her throat cut. The wound looked rough, ragged. Wasn’t likely to be a particularly fine knife.

  Possibly a gutting knife or a hook.

  Given the prints leading down the length of the office and their spacing—Eva stepped next to each one, making her walk with long strides—the kill
er had likely rushed forward, probably run.

  Being careful not to disturb anything, she pushed the door open with the tip of her foot. The prints carried on, fading as they went, until they reached the door to Mike’s room. The plastic flapped in the sudden movement of air.

  As she passed the other rooms, most of the people inside were either asleep or drifting in and out of fever-induced unconsciousness.

  A terrible thought came to her as she wondered why they kept them alive. The bacterial infection was a slow but efficient killer. It seemed cruel to keep these people locked away while they slowly approached death. But it seemed the idea of euthanasia still remained unsettling for most despite the lack of any need for governmental regulation.

  Specks of blood spotted the edge of the plastic covering.

  Probably Singh’s transferred there by the weapon the killer had used to cut away the plastic. She looked through the window to see Mike slumped forward, his head clearly caved in.

  It seemed the killer had two weapons: one for cutting, and another for bludgeoning.

  The same prints were evident on the tiles of Mike’s room, just in front of the bunk on which he once sat. The room was still well tidied: the bunk unruffled, the nightstand still had a glass of water and a book upon its surface.

  The only thing that had been disturbed was Mike.

  Eva’s throat closed up as tears obscured her vision. She blinked to clear them, but more came. She reached her hand out, pressed her palm against the window, and let out a sob. She collapsed, then clenched her fists and struck the door, letting out a scream of anger mixed with grief.

  This was far worse than when he’d left. Then, she had hope that perhaps, despite the odds, he’d return. Only he had. And now this.

  Eva sat back on her heels and tried to compose herself. Tried to remember who she was and what she was. Eva Morgan, detective. Of course, back then she never had to investigate the death of a loved one. Now her best friend and the man she had grown to love were gone, there would always be that involvement.