Undead Island: The Complete Collection

Undead Island

The Complete Collection

By Luke Shephard

© 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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The Complete Collection 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!

Table of Contents

Volume One

Volume Two

Volume Three

~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 hair, was slowly stumbling up from the ocean, feet crunching and slipping against the pebbles.

Mark struggled to his feet and looked across the shoreline, horror rising from the pit of his stomach. Black bodies were being swept in by the tide as far as his eyes could see. Some walked slowly out of the water like mermen, others lay prone on the shingle, unmoving. He stepped backwards slowly, forcing his legs to move.

Fuck me, he whispered, then turned and ran back up the beach towards the lighthouse.

*****

Come on Holly, give me a break.

I need that lantern, Alf.

Behind the counter of Finnay’s only Post Office, Alf McIntye ran a hand over his balding forehead, tickling the short white hairs.

Have some patience, girl-

The dead are patient, Alf. The elderly are patient. Little Japanese wise men are patient. I’ve got a lighthouse sitting on top of a cliff face which isn’t giving off any light.

Shouldn’t you have a spare?

Of course I should have a spare, why do you think I’m so angry?

So...

Holly buried her face in her hands, dark ringlets of hair tumbling around her, exaggerating the movement. It was just one disaster after another this morning – and all because of that prick Mark.

Ok, ok, let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that this whole cluster-fuck is my fault.

Aye, that’s a fine start, Alf interrupted, crossing his arms across his chest.

Holly levelled her green gaze at the older man. What do I have to do to get you to order in a new Tegra lantern in the next two minutes?

"Magic up a radio signal between here and Stornoway. Listen, maybe you don’t understand how deep this mess is. I’ve not heard from the Island – let alone the mainland – for over a week. I’ve got two week’s worth of rubbish in the yard because we’ve no waste collection. I can’t get hold of anyone – anyone – at Stornoway harbour. I’ve got a mailbag fuller than my balls because the Royal Mail have vanished off the face of the Earth, too. I sent Jonny out on Belle two days ago and haven’t heard a jot back.

In short, things are damned bleak, Hol. I haven’t known a blackout this long since the eighties.

Sounds like my love-life, Holly mumbled grimly.

The bell rang out from the front of the post office. Alf and Holly both looked around to see Sheila Midgarten shaking the rain from her coat.

Any news, Alfy? asked as she closed the door behind her, pulling down her hood to reveal sandy-blonde hair trussed up into a pony-tail.  When she noticed Holly that famous broad grin broke out over her face.

Holly Shelton! As I live and breathe - oh, sorry loves. Am I interrupting something? she looked suddenly bashful as she detected the tension in the room.

It’s alright Sheila, said Holly, flashing her warmest smile. She’d been pretty close to Sheila back when she would regularly visit town. She found her unexpected presence to be strangely calming.

She turned back to Alf, taking care to keep the smile where she left it. I’m sorry Alf, but I’m in a bit off a mess myself out here. I need to get back online as soon as possible. Look, could I just ask you to give the Island a call now? Just for my piece of mind?

And what about my piece of mind, may I ask?

Please, Alf?

Ach, alright alright. Wait here. D’ye need me right away, Sheila?

Oh, no love, you’re alright,

Right. Well, if you’ll excuse me ladies,

Alf turned away and slunk into the back room. Holly sighed deeply, then turned to face Sheila.

Hello dearie! How are you? she said, approaching with her arms out wide, forcing a joviality which she didn’t feel inside.

How am I? How are you! Sheila said, kissing Holly on the cheek. I’ve not seen you for such a long time. You know Julie’s convinced you’ve turned into a hermit or a recluse or something.

Aye, well she’s only half wrong there.

You know my sister’s normally half right, though she’ll argue the other half to death. We all see rather a lot of Mark, though...

And Christina?

Just saying her name sent a cold shiver down Holly’s spine. The picture of her face flashed through her mind for the millionth time. A little over a year ago, Holly had returned to the lighthouse early, after cutting short a trip to Lewis. As she entered the living room Mark sprang to his feet, awkwardly fastening his belt and knocking over a glass of red wine.

The image of Christina rising from the floor and wiping her lips would stay with Holly forever, she feared. Christina had only been nineteen then. But the stare she’d given Holly had been cool as tempered steel. She calmly picked up the wine, said goodnight to Mark and left.

No, love, we don’t see much of her. Not with him, at any rate.

Hmm. No doubt he’s left her high and dry, too.

Their marriage had been struggling before then. Even back in London, Mark’s eyes had wandered hungrily over every slim female body that passed him, and Holly’s trust was paper-thin. The lighthouse was supposed to fix that, as well as a hundred over things. But Christina’s exit that night marked the death-rattle for their relationship.

Oh, sweetie. How are things?

"Apart from the steady erosion of my life’s dreams, the shameless self-destruction of my marriage and the continued flight of my muse? Well, the bulb’s gone in the