Ex-Isle by Peter Clines (electronic reader TXT) 📕

zombie girl was Stealth. Or maybe Banzai. They were here, all good and righteous and truthful, and the boss’s time on top was over.

Hell, even if Nautilus wasn’t done here, Mitchel’s throbbing face was a pretty clear indicator where he was going to be left when things settled. Either the heroes would throw him overboard or Nautilus would. Damned if they do, damned if they don’t.

His nose hurt. Like getting jabbed with pins and razors and burning cigarettes all at once. If it hadn’t been broken before, the little zombie bitch had done it for sure.

Definitely time for plan B.

One of the yachts, the MystRunner, had a spare lifeboat down by its stern. Not one of the big deluxe boats, just an inflatable raft with oars. That’s why it had been ignored for so long. Well, that and he’d put a big padlock on the hatch. He’d stashed a few bags inside when he could—some simple tools, bottles of fresh water, dried fish. About two weeks of supplies, if he wasn’t greedy. Enough to get him away from Lemuria.

He couldn’t get away from Nautilus, though. If the big guy came after the lifeboat, he’d catch it, easy. Mitchel knew he’d need a distraction. Something to keep everyone busy long enough that once they had time to go after him, he’d be halfway back to Hawaii and it just wouldn’t be worth the effort.

Which is why he was deep inside the oil tanker. Nobody wanted to see their still-moving wife-husband-kids-parent get tossed overboard, so most of the infected bodies—and almost-bodies—got tossed down into the Hole. Mitchel had just tossed the zombie girl down there the other day. There were almost three hundred exes in the Hole. A damned good-sized distraction.

There was really only one way for the exes to go with all the narrow hallways and stairs. He’d spun the wheel and pulled the latch on the inspection door to the tanker’s forward chamber. It slid open, the zombies stumbled out, and then someone hit the side of the ship with a big hammer.

The hallway rang like a gong. The deck plates shook like the vibrating bed in a cheap motel. The tremor made Mitchel’s nose jangle with pain, and he stumbled to his knees.

A bunch of the exes fell flat on their faces. One dead woman tipped over, and its forehead hit the raised edge of the hatch with a sound like breaking wood. It slid down into the chamber and out of sight.

He scrambled away from the exes. The one in front, a young blonde with short hair and a cruise ship uniform, reached for him with two mutilated hands. Its snapping teeth echoed in the metal hallway. Behind it was a dead black man with a gore-soaked mustache and a red jacket.

Mitchel got to his feet and ran. He might’ve been a little hasty setting plan B in motion. If the island had hit something, people’d be distracted enough. He might’ve set all the exes loose for nothing. Which would suck for them.

He glanced over his shoulder, his one small shred of decency wondering if there was any chance of getting the hatch closed again. But there were already a good twenty or thirty exes in the hallway, with more stumbling out over their fallen numbers. A few of them had wandered in the opposite direction, but most of them were between him and the hatch.

So Mitchel went back to plan B. He led the exes down the narrow hall and to the set of metal stairs. And the dead men, women, and children followed him back up to the deck.

The impact shook the ship again.

Not good, said Zzzap.

Hussein ran for the railing. “Is he attacking us?”

“He might’ve already broken through the hull,” said Eliza. “He’s strong enough.”

St. George and Madelyn followed him. “Wouldn’t we feel it if the ship was sinking?” she asked.

“Not as fast as you’d think,” Devon told her. “There’s a lot of different bulkheads that are sealed off from each other. It’s more like, by the time we could feel the ship was sinking, it’d be too late to do anything about it.”

St. George rolled his shoulders. “I need to get down there.”

And do what? Zzzap flitted above the deck. Almost drown again?

“I could go,” said Madelyn. “I don’t need to breathe.”

Yeah, but we’ve seen how the Corpse Girl versus Nautilus fight plays out, said Zzzap.

“If I build up enough speed,” said St. George, “I might be able to grab him and drag him out.”

What do you mean?

“Straight up, straight down. A high dive.”

Devon frowned. “Won’t that just, like, crush you?”

“I’m tougher than I look.”

He’s going to have home court advantage, said Zzzap. Better sight, better maneuverability. A chunk of your strength is just going to go to fighting water pressure.

“Yeah, but so will his.”

No, said the gleaming wraith, his body’s designed around being underwater. That’s why he’s so strong on the surface.

St. George bit his lip. “Do you have a better idea?”

Another tremor shook the man-made island.

“Here,” said Devon. “You’ll need these.” He held out a pair of long, sealed packets. Glow sticks.

St. George tore open the ends and slid the tubes into his hand.

“How long have you been hiding those for?” asked Madelyn.

“Got ’em out of your packs.”

St. George flicked his wrist, and the tubes slapped hard against his other palm. He shook them three times and a dim glow appeared. Two more shakes doubled the intensity. “Not sure how far I’ll be able to see with these.”

Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll be able to see you.

“Great.”

“Kick his ass,” said Madelyn.

St. George focused on the spot between his shoulder blades and shot into the sky.

He sucked in air. He’d read somewhere, ages back, it was more efficient to take lots of short, quick breaths than one long one. He sucked in air again and again and his chest expanded as he arced across the sky, passing over the oil tanker, a smaller yacht, and the tugboat.

Then he kicked his feet