‘Uh-oh,’ said Sam, turning, as two dark, silhouetted figures detached themselves from a black screen of bushes on their left.
Purna raised her weapon, but the taller of the two figures slowed its advance, raising a hand.
‘Is OK,’ it announced. ‘We not sick.’
Though she lowered her weapon, Purna still looked wary, watching as the two figures moved out of the shadows and into the light from the hotel. The one that had spoken was a tall, slim, dark-skinned man of about twenty-five, wearing an orange surfing T-shirt, blue knee-length shorts and canvas beach shoes. He was holding a machete in one hand and had a stubby silver pistol with a wide nozzle stuffed into his waistband.
His companion was a slim, pretty Chinese girl with a bandaged hand, who was wearing the now-familiar hotel receptionist’s uniform. Seeing her, Logan exclaimed, ‘Hey! You’re OK!’
The Chinese girl nodded, her face expressionless.
Indicating the bandage, Purna said, ‘You’re Miss Mei, right? The girl on the phone?’
Again she nodded. ‘My name is Xian Mei.’
‘And you were bitten? Like him?’ Purna jerked her head towards Logan.
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re OK?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right,’ said Purna thoughtfully.
The young man stepped forward. ‘Come. I take you to safe place.’
‘What’s your name, man?’ Sam asked.
The young man smiled. ‘Sinamoi,’ he said.
Chapter 6. THE SAFE PLACE
‘WE ARE HERE.’
Sinamoi, with Xian Mei in tow, had led them through the potentially treacherous resort on a circuitous route, avoiding the main thoroughfares where the tourists hung out and sticking to hidden paths and back alleys. Although Purna, Sam and Logan had followed him without question, Purna in particular had remained wary, constantly alert to the fact that, for whatever reason, their guide might be deceiving them or leading them into a trap. They had seen one or two zombies wandering about, but had managed to remain out of sight and undetected.
‘Very quiet now, but tomorrow this will not be good place,’ Sinamoi hissed at one point, after they had lain low for a couple of minutes while a clearly infected black man — scrawny, old and white-bearded — had shambled past, snarling and twitching.
They finally emerged from a winding, tree-shrouded path to find themselves on the main route down to the shore, though it was evident from the way the soughing of the waves had been growing steadily louder over the past ten minutes that this was where they had been heading. Purna half expected to see the lights of a boat twinkling out on the black water, ready to whisk them away, but instead Sinamoi led them to a grey one-storey building with barred windows, squatting on the dunes that overlooked the powder-white beach.
‘What’s this?’ she asked.
‘Lifeguard station,’ Sinamoi replied. ‘Very strong building. Very safe.’
‘How do we get in?’ Sam wanted to know.
Sinamoi grinned, reached into his pocket and produced a key. ‘I am lifeguard,’ he said.
He unlocked the door and they went inside. The station was well equipped with tables and chairs, a two-way radio and even a small camping stove. There was all-weather gear hanging on hooks on the wall, a metal first-aid box the size of a small suitcase and a camp bed in one corner.
Sam nodded at the camp bed. ‘You live here?’
Sinamoi laughed, as if Sam had made a joke. In his broken English he explained that one of the duties of the lifeguards was to stay in constant touch with the fleet of offshore fishing boats, which operated out of Moresby harbour. If a boat got into difficulties, it was the responsibility of whoever was on night-duty to alert the other lifeguards so that a rescue boat could be launched.
‘And it’s your turn now, huh?’ said Logan tiredly, looking drawn and exhausted.
Sinamoi nodded and grinned.
‘So who told you to come looking for us?’ asked Purna.
Sinamoi pointed at the radio, which was scratched and battered with chunky, old-fashioned knobs and dials, and headphones that looked as though they were held together with heavy-duty parcel tape. Happily crackling and buzzing away to itself, it looked like the sort of lash-up you only ever saw these days in old war movies.
‘Man on radio,’ he said. ‘He try to …’ He imitated holding a cell phone up to his ear.
‘To call us?’ said Sam.
‘Yes. But signal gone. So he call me. Much stronger signal. Promise me much money if I bring you here.’
‘Did he now?’ said Purna. ‘And did he say
‘To keep you safe. Also he have message.’
‘What message?’
Sinamoi frowned. ‘He say go inland. Past jungle to other side of island. Go to prison island. Top of tower will be helicopter. It fly you away.’
‘Is that all he said?’ asked Sam.
Sinamoi nodded. ‘Yes. Except he try to call if he can.’ He mimed holding up a cell phone again.
Sam sighed. ‘You ever spoken to this guy before, Sinamoi?’
The lifeguard shook his head. ‘No.’
‘So you’ve no idea who he is?’
‘No. But he want to save you. So is friend, yes?’
‘I hope so,’ said Sam. He propped his weapon against the wall, pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down with a grunt. ‘Wish we knew who he was, though.’
Following his example, Purna and Logan also laid their weapons aside. Purna sat down too.
‘I’ve got a few ideas,’ she said.
‘Care to share them with the group?’
‘Sure. I could do with cleaning up a bit first, though, and we could all do with a drink. Need to keep our fluids up. Sinamoi, you got any water?’
The lifeguard nodded eagerly. Crossing the room, he pushed aside the all-weather gear to reveal a door, behind which was a tiny cubicle containing a primitive toilet and wash basin.
‘Much water. But this no drink.’ He put a hand on his stomach and stuck out his tongue, miming sickness. Then he crossed to the workbench on which the radio sat, knelt down, reached underneath it and dragged out a plastic, almost full five-litre water container. ‘This drink,’ he said.
As he poured water into a variety of chipped and grubby-looking mugs, Purna went into the toilet cubicle to clean up as best she could. Accepting a mug of water, Sam looked at Logan who was slumped against the wall. ‘You look wasted, man.’
‘I feel it,’ said Logan. Turning to Sinamoi, he flipped a thumb towards the camp bed and said, ‘Hey, mind if I crash a while?’
Sinamoi nodded vigorously. ‘Rest. Sleep.’ Then his brows beetled in concern. ‘You sick?’
‘Just tired,’ said Logan. ‘Lost some blood.’ He glanced at Sam, who was staring at him intently, and raised his right hand. ‘On my honour, man. It’s not the fucking virus. I’ve got no designs on your black hide.’
Unexpectedly Sam grinned. ‘Think you’d find my meat a little too refined for your palate anyway, white boy.’
Logan chuckled, trudged across to the camp bed and all but crumpled on to it with a groan.
‘You need medicine?’ said Sinamoi.
