There were a dozen dead people in the bar. Some had clearly been sitting at stools when the virus struck and just toppled off on to the floor. Others were at tables with plates of food before them, slumped down as if they'd decided to take an afternoon nap. The smell wasn't too bad because the air conditioning was on. A glass-fronted cooler behind the bar was still lit, and of course there was the music, which was so much louder up close. Clearly the bar had its own private generator which had continued working ever since death had paid its nightmare visit. Jimmy hunted around for a few minutes, and finally found it outside, around the back. He pushed a lever up, and Bob Marley slowly ground to a halt. Now all that could be heard was the buzzing of tens of thousands of flies around the bodies.
Jimmy re-entered the bar and opened the fridge. He took out a can of Diet Coke, popped the lid, and took a long drink.
From behind, a voice said, 'That's one dollar.'
Jimmy laughed and turned, expecting to see one of his companions, but it wasn't. There was a bare-chested man in khaki shorts with a shotgun raised and pointed at him.
'One dollar,' he repeated.
'I don't have one dollar,' said Jimmy.
'You better have. It comes out of my wages if you don't.'
Jimmy swallowed. 'I really don't have it.'
The man opened fire. As Jimmy threw himself to the ground the CD jukebox behind him exploded.
'One dollar!'
Jimmy raised his hands in a calming fashion and slowly got back to his feet. 'Won't . . . that come out of your wages?'
'No! I'm not responsible for the jukebox! Just the bar!'
'OK . . . all right. . .'
Thundering footsteps sounded along the wooden walkway outside the bar, and a moment later Jonas Jones and Benson appeared in the doorway. The man with the shotgun immediately swung towards them. They raised their hands.
'Is it a drink from the bar you want?' the man asked. 'Or are you here for something to eat?'
Jonas and Benson exchanged glances.
'A drink would be nice,' said Benson. 'And then if we could look at a menu.'
'Take a seat,' said the man, indicating one of the vacated bar stools. 'I'll be with you in a minute.' He jabbed the shotgun towards Jimmy again. 'Well?'
'I . . . uh . . . left my wallet . . . on the beach . . .'
The man studied him suspiciously for a moment, then snapped: 'Well go and get it. If you're not back in two minutes I'll come looking for you.'
Jimmy backed out of the bar.
Outside he immediately ran into Jeffers and the remaining crew. He quickly explained that there was a crazy man with a gun inside, and that Jonas and Benson were nevertheless ordering drinks.
'They're what?' Jeffers demanded.
Jimmy explained again. 'Now — do any of you have a dollar?'
They checked their pockets, but none of them did. There was no need to carry money on the Titanic at the best of times, and now that these were the worst of times, there was even less point. As Pedroza had realized, dollars were now completely and utterly worthless. Jeffers nodded back down the beach. 'If you want dollars, that's where you'll get them.'
It was a disgusting notion — but he was determined to go back to the bar. The man with the gun was terrifying in his madness, but also kind of fascinating. Jimmy darted along the sand, found a woman's handbag and searched through it, all the time keeping his eyes averted from her swollen corpse and, in particular, her two feet, right beside the bag, which rats had partially gnawed away. He found thirty dollars.
When he got back to the bar Jeffers was peering into it through the half open shutters. The man had set the gun down and was mixing a cocktail for Benson. He'd already poured a glass of beer for Jonas. Neither of them looked particularly uncomfortable. Jimmy moved towards the doors.
'Jimmy!' Jeffers hissed. 'What are you doing?'
'I owe him a dollar.'
'Stay where you are, that's an or—'
Jimmy ignored him. He stepped into the bar, holding the dollars up before him and grinning at the man behind the bar. 'The drinks are on me!' he cried. The man waved him in. Jimmy, in turn, looked back at Jeffers and waved him in. Jeffers hesitated, then shook his head and reluctantly holstered his gun.
A minute later they were all sitting on bar stools, sipping drinks, the floor behind them littered with mouldering corpses.
It was very surreal.
***
They talked about the weather. They talked about sports. And music. There had been a wide-eyed look about the man from the start, but as they sat there it gradually diminished. He said his name was Nick Tabarrok and he'd worked as assistant manager of the beach bar for the past seven years. A week previously the manager had suddenly resigned following a row with his wife, packed his bags and caught the ferry to a neighbouring island, leaving Nick in charge for the first time. He was determined to prove that he was up to the job. Everything went perfectly for the first day. On the second, everyone died. But he was absolutely set on keeping the bar working and the books balanced until its owners returned.
'Don't you think,' Benson hesitantly suggested, 'it would have been a good idea to move the bodies out of the bar?'
Nick peered at them, almost as if he was seeing them for the first time. 'Yeah. Suppose. Health inspectors won't be too keen on that . . .' He laughed, but just for a moment. His brow furrowed and he shook his head. 'I . . . should have . . .'
Jonas finished his beer and set his glass down. 'Set us up another one there, Nick.'
Jeffers glanced at his watch and gave Jonas a hard look.
Jonas ignored him. As Nick poured him another drink he said, 'So, Nick, how come you didn't . . . you know . . . with the rest of them?'
Nick set the glass down before the Chief Engineer. 'But I did.'
Jonas laughed. 'What are you, a ghost, then?'
'No, I mean, I flopped down just like the others, most of them were gone in ten minutes, but then Mamma Joss appeared and gave me her medicine and when I woke up the next day, I was fine.'
'Mamma Joss?'
'Mamma Joss. She's my granny . . . or auntie . . . or something. She lives up on the mountain. She's . . . about a hundred and twenty years old. She's . . . a doctor. Not got certificates, but . . . knows all the old cures.'
'And she cured you?' Jeffers asked, his voice heavy with doubt.
'Oh yeah,' said Nick. 'I was always her favourite.'
'And what about all those guys out there, she didn't help them?'
Nick shook his head. 'Course not. She doesn't like tourists. We don't see her down here much, she stays clear. Good thing she came down that day, though.'
'Where is she now?' Jimmy asked.
'She went home, I guess. She has chickens. A goat. Need to be fed.'
Jeffers drained his glass, then tapped his watch. 'OK lads, we've work to do.'
Jonas picked up his newly poured beer and sank it in one. Nick lifted their glasses and began to wash them. Jimmy left money on the counter for the drinks, and told a grateful Nick to keep the change.
Back in the car park Jeffers took only a couple of minutes to select a people carrier capable of carrying them all to Charlotte Amalie and to usher them on board. But as the others climbed in Jimmy stayed where he was. Jeffers wound down a window. 'C'mon Jimmy,' he snapped impatiently, 'we're already running . . .'