Undead Island (High Tide - Vol. 1): Undead Island, #1

By Luke Shephard

Volume 1 of the Undead Island series!

Life as a lighthouse keeper on a remote Scottish island isn't always the most exciting. Especially since she split with her husband, Mark. Yet, Holly loves her job, her friends, and her life on Bishop's Isle.

Until, one day, strange...things start to wash ashore. Dangerous things she has never seen before. Frightening things that nobody else on the island can explain.

Now, Holly must overcome a whirlwind of troubles and use her lighthouse to try and signal for help, and hope against hope that somebody sees her, and the island's, desperate plea in time...

Note: Parts of Undead Island were previously published as Bishop’s Isle.

Also includes 2 SNEAK PEAKS at upcoming novels!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roja Publishing
• Release date: Oct 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533747365

Book preview

Volume 1 of the Undead Island series!

Life as a lighthouse keeper on a remote Scottish island isn't always the most exciting. Especially since she split with her husband, Mark. Yet, Holly loves her job, her friends, and her life on Bishop's Isle.

Until, one day, strange...things start to wash ashore. Dangerous things she has never seen before. Frightening things that nobody else on the island can explain.

Now, Holly must overcome a whirlwind of troubles and use her lighthouse to try and signal for help, and hope against hope that somebody sees her, and the island's, desperate plea in time...

Note: Parts of Undead Island were previously published as Bishop’s Isle.

Also includes 2 SNEAK PEAKS at upcoming novels!

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~Volume One ~

When Mark saw the body washed up on the beach, the first thing he thought of was his ex-wife.

He’d been cleaning the storm windows at the top of the lighthouse when he saw it. He was thinking about packing it all in, abandoning his self-imposed exile and returning to the city – just as he’d once thought about leaving the city for the sanctuary of some distant stony shore. He hated days like this, he’d never got used to them. The morning air was heavy with fine rain, covering every surface with a damp sheen. The February wind was cold and quick, biting even beneath his thick yellow coat.

He dropped the squeegee into the bucket of now-cold water and wrung his hands to try and coax some life back into them. He turned towards frothy greyness of the sea and sky, stamping his feet. The wind roared in his face, freezing against his sodden auburn beard. His winter coat, Holly had called it once. Fat load of use it was doing now. His eyes scanned out across the horizon, watching the wheeling of gulls and the slow crash of waves against the rocks.

And there, gently rocking out of the tumult, was the unmistakable shape of a body.

In his four years out on the remote Scottish island called Bishop’s Isle, on the North-Western edge of the Outer Hebrides, he’d seen some strange things delivered on the tide. He’d awoken one morning to find a whole army of plastic goods littered among the stones – from pink Barbie dolls to brightly-coloured dildos.  He’d once found an actual message in a bottle – only to be disappointed when the paper inside read Plz call 01785 554979 4 sex. Then there’d been the incident with the seal...

Mark’s first thought, stupidly, was that the body was Christina’s. Maybe Holly had finally found her and dumped her lifeless body into the cold ocean. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it passed through his mind. Maybe Holly would have gone so far once – maybe – but enough time had passed by now that her rage must have cooled.

Still, Mark reflected, if Holly been here right now she’d have known exactly what to do. She was built for this life, it turned out. After all his insistence and all her complaints, when they finally reached their custom-built lighthouse it had been her who had adapted quicker. She seemed to have an intuition for what to do. She’d done the majority of maintenance on the lighthouse itself, even if she’ was misguided in its construction in the first place. She’d been unfazed by the harsh weather. She’d even taken to the quiet lifestyle and written her own best-selling novel. The bitch.

But Christ, Mark could have done with her advice now. He raced down the gantry and squeezed under the tiny doorway that lead into the tower. He bolted down the stairs, not caring about the thick water-stains his boots left in his wake. In the front hallway he grabbed the heavy-duty torch and a first-aid kit and wrenched the door open. He paused a moment to eye the phone, as if it would suddenly spring to life and give him sage counsel.

Just call her you dolt, he thought to himself. Or at least call the fucking police – it’s a corpse this time, not a strap-on.

But he closed the door and headed back out into the wind and rain.

It was a short-sharp hike down from the bluff to the beach. A path had been hewn into the cliff-face long ago, but the huge angular steps were treacherous in this sort of weather. Mark hopped down the slope as quickly as he dared.

He hadn’t spoken to Holly for almost a year, now. The island hadn’t been kind to them, that much was certainly true. Or maybe it was just unkind to him. While Holly had apparently found her calling both vocationally and domestically, Mark had basically tumbled from train-wreck to train-wreck. Re-building this old lighthouse was his last chance to make a success out of the whole sorry situation – and what had it brought him? A dead body with the high tide. At least, he’d assumed it was dead.

Mark stopped in his tracks about half-way down the slope. Thermos!, he thought. If that poor sod is alive, the first thing they’re going to want is something warm inside them. That was exactly the kind of bright idea that Holly would have had five minutes ago. Mark stared up disconsolately up at his lighthouse, and only then realised that the main light was off. Fuck, I should have turned the lantern back on, too.

Swearing with every step, he continued his graceless hop down the cliff-face.

He hit the beach with a crunch, leaping the final two steps and scattering the slick pebblestones. He then jogged awkwardly down the shingle towards the lumpen black shape lying just ahead of him. It seemed further up the beach than he had first thought, way above the incoming tide-line. He called out, but the wind carried his voice away. The body lay still.

As he finally approached the sodden figure, Mark fell to his knees in exhaustion. He dropped the torch and first-aid box and wiped the water from his face.

Hey, are you OK? he called out, feeling foolish even as he did so. The body lay face-down on the shore, yet the flesh Mark could see was almost blue from the cold. Torn blue overalls clung tightly to a thick, clammy frame, a mop of black hair hung lankly over the back its head. Mercifully, he couldn’t smell anything beyond the brine of the sea.

Ah, Christ, Mark muttered. He dug two hands beneath the body and, with a grunt, flipped it onto its back. As an outstretched arm flopped stiffly across the beach, Mark noticed that the fingers were slightly webbed. A white face stared up into the grey skies, featureless eyes clouded over and jaw hanging slackly.

The eyes moved, slowly rolling over to meet Mark’s astonished gaze.

Before Mark could react, the corpse’s mouth opened to release a noxious breath of rotten meat. An outspread arm whipped up to grip Mark wetly on the back of the head, pulling him into the open maw.

Mark panicked. He couldn’t even scream, reeling as he was from the putrid stench of the thing’s breath, and just froze, resisting the pressure at the back of his head and trying not to vomit. He gasped, a strange, guttural sound rising up from the back of his throat, somewhere between a grunt and a whine.

Then a red mist descended: Mark lost track of the situation and reacted out of sheer instinct – recoiling from the corpse’s impossible grasp, falling back into the shingle and kicking wildly. His boot connected with its torso, and again, and Mark started to scream, releasing his balled-up fear in a wave of furious kicks. The corpse tried to rise to its feet, but another kick from Mark sent it twisting back to the floor—where it lay still. Mark sat panting, his mind reeling at what had happened. As he watched the lifeless body it twitched, then the head turned around to meet Mark’s gaze once more. It started to pick itself clumsily to its feet on unbending arms. Its eyes were clouded over, milky-white, but the pupils burned with a yellow hunger.

This time Mark was quicker to react. He shuffled to his feet and picked up his torch. He brought the base of the handle down on the corpse’s head while it tried to rise, sending it crashing back into the pebbles. But even as the stones skittered away from the impact, it started to push itself upright once more, wheezing and groaning.

Fuck you! Mark cried, bringing the torch down again and again and again to a sickening chorus of cracks and squelches. Mother fucker! He collapsed to his knees with an anguished cry and continued to beat upon the thing’s head, pounding on the sodden skull until the torch was thick with blood, and kept on. When his arm was tired and his throat was dry he picked himself to his feet and stamped on the pulpy mass with the heel of his boot, rose his foot and brought it down repeatedly.

His rear foot slipped on the shingle, sending him crashing onto his back with a startled cry.

Mark lay there for a time, staring up at the leaden sky, trying to catch his breath. His arm burned, yet his hand was cold and sticky with blood. The rain fell against his face, soothing his racing blood.

There was silence. Mark heard little save for the gentle lap of the waves and the occasional forlorn cry of a gull. He closed his eyes, feeling his heart calm down to a normal beat. Pebbles crunched somewhere off to his right. Mark ignored the sound, dismissed it. Then another crunch reached his ears: something was moving up the beach.

Mark sat bolt upright. The corpse beside him lay still, a mess of white flesh and black blood. But another body, a woman with long, tangled