Domain of the Dead by David Moody, Iain McKinnon, Travis Adkins Page A

a scruffy cargo vessel, her paint blistered and her seams tinged with rust. On her cargo deck was an empty square with the letter H in bold yellow paint. None of this caught the survivors’ attention as they craned for a better view from their approach. What mesmerised them were the people. On deck and in the bridge there could be seen a myriad of living human beings. None of the people were apparently interested in such a mundane thing as a helicopter.
    A smile broke out on Sarah’s face as the skids of the chopper touched down on the deck. For the first time in years she felt safe.
     
    * * *
     
    A whistle pierced the noise of the rotor blades winding down.
    A thick set marine shouted out, “Hey Bates, where’s the rest of the crew?!”
    “Still in country!” Bates called back.
    At the side of the landing pad stood two marines. Unlike Bates, they wore green uniforms and soft peaked caps. Sarah didn’t know much about the military but the one who shouted had a couple of stripes and an anchor insignia patch on his arm.
    The lead marine bellowed, “Who the fuck are these civvies?!”
    “Survivors, French,” came Bates’ curt reply.
    “What, Cahz and Cannon are still on the mainland and you found room for some useless civvies?!” French blustered.
    “Was his idea, so don’t go blowing your shit, Lawrence,” Angel said.
    The second marine spoke up. “Looks like you got a promotion.”
    “No one’s got any promotion just as soon as this bird is refuelled. Idris is heading back for them,” Bates said, giving a reluctant Angel a hand getting out of the chopper.
    The door to the deck opened and through it came striding the executive officer. Like the rest of the ship’s crew, Commander Patterson wore a version of the soldier’s uniform excluding the armour and webbing, but unsurprisingly the garment was a navy blue. His blue peaked baseball style cap was clutched in his right hand to prevent the down draft of the dawdling rotor blades from blowing it away. The same wasn’t true of his thinning blond hair; the combover flapped in the wind like a tattered flag on a forgotten battlefield. The tints on his round gold-framed glasses had turned opaque in the strong afternoon light, obscuring his over magnified grey-blue eyes.
    “Private Bates! Private Chernov!” Patterson hollered as if he were chastising children.
    “Yes sir!” the pair barked back.
    “Captain wants debriefed immediately!” Patterson thumbed his free hand in the direction of the bridge.
    Bates was still helping Angel out of the chopper. Her injured arm had swollen up and a suffusion of purples and reds had spread out from her elbow.
    Bates shouldered Angel’s rifle. “Sure I’ll just stow—”
    “Just nothing, Bates,” Patterson scolded, maintaining his schoolmaster persona. “NOW!”
    “Yes, sir,” Bates sneered while giving Patterson a limp salute.
    As they passed him, Patterson stopped Angel. “What’s up with you soldier?”
    Angel, clutching her arm, looked down at her injury and then back up at the executive officer. “Women’s troubles, sir.”
    Without looking back she walked off.
    As quickly as the wind changed the position of his combover, Patterson’s demeanour also changed. As Sarah stepped out of the aircraft, he stretched out his hand to help her and her young ward onto the landing platform.
    “Ma’am, I am Commander Patterson,” he said, utterly unphased by the insubordination displayed by Bates and Angel. “And you are?”
    “I’m Sarah, this is Nathan.”
    “Hi,” Nathan said.
    Patterson knelt down to bring himself eye level with the third survivor. He pealed off his glasses and asked, “And who might you be, young lady?”
    Jennifer looked up at Sarah. It wasn’t a look for permission; Jennifer had grown up in a world devoid of stranger danger and parents fretting over child abduction. Jennifer was looking to Sarah for reassurance that it was worthwhile getting to know the man.
    Sarah’s smile was