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“One or two,” Kirilli sniffs. “I don’t like horror films. Why?”
“You must know, then, that their saliva is infectious. When a zombie bites one of the living, that person succumbs to the disease and turns—”
“No!” Kirilli cries, dropping the strip of shirt and lurching to his feet. “You’re joking! You must be!”
Dervish shrugs. “I’m only telling you what I’ve seen in the movies. It might all be nonsense, but when you think about it logically…”
As Kirilli’s face crumples, Dervish winks at me. I stifle a smile. This isn’t nice, but Kirilli deserves it. Not for being a coward, but for trying to lie. A good scare will do him no harm at all.
We drift for hours. The sun descends. Night claims the sky. After letting Kirilli fret for an hour, Dervish finally told him it was a wind-up. Kirilli cursed us foully and imaginatively. But he calmed down after a while and we’ve been silent since, bobbing about, absorbing the refreshing rays of the sun, thinking about the dead.
It all seems hopeless without Beranabus, especially knowing what I do about the Shadow. Mankind has reached breaking point and I can’t see any way forward. I doubt if even Beranabus could have made a difference. There are some things you can’t fight. Certain outcomes are inevitable.
Kirilli has spent the last few minutes examining the lifeboat, scouring it from bow to stern. He returns to his seat with a bottle of water and a small medical box. “Good news and bad,” he says, opening the box and looking for ointment to use on his wounds. The healing spell must have passed because he’s grimacing. “The good news—both oars are on board, there are six bottles of water and this medical box. The bad news—there’s no radio equipment or food, and once we drink the water we can’t replace it.”
“Do you know if the crew of the ship sent a distress signal?” Dervish asks.
“No idea. Even if they did, would it have penetrated the magical barrier?”
“Probably not,” Dervish sighs. “Can I have some water?”
Kirilli takes a swig, then passes it across. “Not too much,” he warns. “That has to last.”
Dervish chuckles drily. “It’ll probably last longer than me. My heart could pop any minute.”
“Let me check.” I place my hand on his chest and concentrate. I can sense the erratic beat of his heart. He’s in very poor condition. He needs hospitalisation or magic. If we could cross to the universe of the Demonata, we’d be fine.
I try absorbing power from the air, to open a window, but there’s virtually nothing to tap into and I’m in a sorry state. The moon will lend me strength when it rises, but it won’t be enough.
“Were you trying to open a window?” Dervish asks softly.
“Yes.”
“No joy?”
“I’ll be able to later, when I’m stronger,” I lie. But Dervish sees through me.
“No tears,” he croaks as I start to cry. “Don’t waste the moisture.”
“It’s OK,” Kirilli says, trying to cheer me up. “Even if there was no distress signal, the ship’s absence will be noted. The seas are monitored by computers and satellites. Most passengers had mobile phones and were in regular contact with family and work colleagues. They’ll be missed. I bet there’ll be an army of planes, helicopters and ships out here by dawn.”
“What if we’ve drifted so far they can’t find us?” Dervish asks.
“We can do without the pessimism, thank you,” Kirilli protests.
Dervish laughs, then his expression mellows. “Listen,” he says earnestly, “if I do croak and help doesn’t come, I want you to use my remains. Understand?”
“I’m not sure I do,” I frown.
“There’s not much meat on these bones, but it’ll keep you going for—”
“No!” I shout. “Don’t be obscene.”
“I’m being practical,” he says. “I’m letting you know I won’t object if—”
“There’ll be no cannibalism on this boat,” I growl. “Right, Kirilli?”
“He has a point,” Kirilli mutters. “He wouldn’t just be a food source—humans are seventy per cent water. And we could use his skin for shelter. His bones might come in handy too, if we have to fight off sharks or—”
