by Jones, K. J.
“Phebe and Matt dove in? Over.” Ben stood on the cement pier.
“Affirm. Again. Over.”
Ben paced the pier, hoping for a sign of life. The hull section normally below the surface of the water was painted a different color from the rest of the ship and barnacles attached throughout. At the stern, he could see the huge propeller. He walked the length of the ship, trying to think what to do.
Mullen sat, watching the ship and him.
A male voice said from somewhere on the other side, “Are we in the pool?” It sounded like Chris.
Brandon through the radio, “I hear voices. Over.”
“Hi, Bran,” a female voice said. Emily.
“They’re here.” Brandon’s voice sounded to be smiling. “It’s all of them. Thank you, God.”
“All of them? Over.”
“Affirmative. All of them. Hear them? They’re being stupid.” He laughed. “You idiots get over here.”
Mullen stood. “What’s happening?”
“The idiots are apparently alive.”
“All of them?”
“That’s what Pell said. You heard him.”
“Oh, they’re gonna be real cocky now.”
The skiff’s engines started up. They walked the pier southward, following the sound. As it cleared the bow of the ship, they saw the skiff tied to two red emergency inflatable rafts, tugging them towards the marina.
“Go, go.” Ben pushed Mullen forward.
They broke into a run to East Bay Street.
14.
They tied up at the dock and got out of their rafts, damp, but stretching their arms and backs as if they had been on a long car journey.
“Ah, another death-defying day in the apocalypse,” said Peter.
“We’re getting good at this,” Phebe responded.
“You and me, hotshot, we’re having a talk.”
“I second that,” said Matt.
“Go get your own fucking wife to talk to.”
“We got loot, y’all. Get your lazy asses over here and stopping bitching at each other. Or y’all not defying death today.”
Peter and Matt glowered at each other as they headed towards the second raft.
“Pell,” Ben radioed, despite he was merely a few yards away. “Go back and get the gator now.”
“Roger that, gunny.”
“Bye, honey.” Emily waved.
Mazy was too busy breathing in air. “Never ever am I going into anything closed up again. Ever!”
“Are you claustrophobic?” Emily asked.
“I wasn’t before I almost drowned inside a cruise ship.”
“I was in a small room.”
“Good for you.”
“Wow. Okay. You’re having a moment.”
They filled Mullen’s arms with cans. “Good to see you idiots survived. What, no hugs?”
“Just carry the food,” ordered Chris. “We done lost a lot. But ole girl there tried to save it. We gotta give Emily some kind of badge for that.”
“I got no more medals to give out,” said Peter.
“How come you don’t have medals?” asked Mullen.
“How do you think hotshot got these rings?” Peter held up Phebe’s left hand. “I bought her with these.”
She whipped her hand away from him. “What am I, a cow?”
“Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
“Oh, the words are going both ways in that talk.”
Matt, arms full of cans, said. “Kick his ass, Pheebs.”
Peter glared at him.
“Take all this here food back to the house. Did I hear right, Raven? There a gator?”
“Yeah.”
“Hot damn. We gonna have gator steaks tonight. I call grill master.”
“Ya know, morons,” said Mullen, “there was worry occurring.”
Mazy said, “You and me both.”
“You okay?” Ben asked her, a softened tone.
Chris asked, “How much beer was lost?”
Mazy shook her head at her raft group. “Never again, Ben.”
“Okay. Strictly land ops for you for now on.” He put his arm over her shoulders, juggling cans of food with the other arm.
15.
“What you mean, you gonna dive down there?” Chris was at the grill. He had helped butcher the collateral damage alligator.
“I am a certified diver.” Peter stood nearby, drinking a beer.
“You a certified dumbass. The boat sinking.”
“It’s a ship.”
“It the Titanic.”
“There’s still beer and food down there. I have tanks. Bet there’s a dive shop around here.”
“You ain’t going down there.” Chris pointed a metal spatula at Peter’s face. “I forbid it.”
“You do what? I must got water in my ears, cos I thought I heard you say –”
“No way. I’ll tell Miss Phebe on your ass.”
“You’re kidding me, right? She’s crazier than me.”
Chris opened his mouth to retort, then closed it. “Hmm. That may be true. But I blame you for that.”
“I’m blaming the apocalypse for it.”
“Maybe both. You do make females psycho.”
“Don’t mention her.”
“What? The cat?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Never got why people so attached to their pets. They animals.”
“So are you, but people for some reason get attached to you.”
Matt walked across the yard in the distance. Peter glared at him. Matt responded the same.
“Y’all gonna end up fighting. Why y’all so stupid? Is this over the girl?”
“Who?”
“Miss Pheebs?”
“Why would it be over her?”
Chris shrugged. “Men are dumb when it comes to females.”
“Speaking of which.”
Ben nurtured Mazy. She took a shower in the trawler and now had several layers of clothes on. Long hair combed and still wet. She sat on a lounger, arms crossed over her chest, and frowned at the world.
“Where’s my Pheebs?” Peter asked.
“Up there.” Chris pointed to the attic with the spatula. “If Ben down here, she up there. Gotta have lookouts with them assholes trying to infiltrate. You see the weapons we got? Been a good day. Apart from losing all them beers and the food.”
“I’ll dive down and get it.”
“There gators.” He pointed to the meat on the grill. “This could be you to them.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You a dumbass.”
Angela and Stanton came out with pots of food.
“Did we not debrief them?” Peter’s volume lower.
“Nuh. She gonna lose her shit to know what kind coming here. I would if I had black kids.”
“Huh. We’re not good at secrets in this place. She’ll find out.”
“So? She gonna take the switch to all our asses and then freak. But we got some time before the kids get locked down. She sure as fuck gonna lock their asses down. No more going outside these here walls. Ben said let’s get as many house loots done before than happens.”
“I guess he’s not freaked.”
“Nuh. Takes more than this shit to freak him out, I reckon.”
“That’s good since he’s in charge.” Peter looked at Mazy. “Half in charge.”
“You ain’t gonna be in charge?”
“Nope.”
“Thought this chain-of-command just until you better. You better now, ain’t ya?”
“I am. But I don’t want to lead.”
“Why not?”
“Really? Memory loss?”
“No. Look, son, we take losses in war.”
“Says the master of compartmentalization.” Peter shook his head. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“Cos of Matt? He just needing someone to blame.”
“Not because of Matt. Because of me.”
“We need you.”
“They are doing fine. Better than me.”
“You blaming yourself.”
“I was leader. The shit stops with me.”
“How in the fuck were you gonna stop what happened? You didn’t even know what the fuck was going on.”
“I should have. There’s the start of my fuck up. Look, I don’t want to talk –”
“Fuck that!”
Gazes moved to them for Chris’s sudden loud volume and annoyed tone.
“If anybody, it should be me. I was in uniform. You ain’t.”
“I was leader of this group, plain and simple. Why can’t you see that?”
“The blame needs to be on Jax. He was the leader of the whole fucking island. He misled us.”
Matt eyed them, his hands on his narrow hips and chin raised, hearing the problems coming out.
Angela and the kids heard the blame on Jackson.
Chris remained focused on Peter. “He made us feel safe when we weren’t. He chose to ignore the cult because of religious reasons.”
Jayce yelled, “He suffered for his mistake.” He threw his utensils down and stormed inside.
“Let my daddy rest in peace,” Nia yelled. She followed her brother.
Angela crossed her arms over her stomach. Her head bowed. She sniffled, then ran inside. For the first time, they saw her shed tears. The mountain of strength she had been buckled.
“Ange.” Mazy struggled off the lounger. Ben helped her up. She ran after the Jacksons.
“Nice,” Matt said. “You wanna upset more people?”
“Why are you looking at me?” Peter challenged. “It was his mouth. Or is your problem both of us now?”
Ben watched, feeling the tension rise.
Stanton made himself scarce. The others hadn’t come in from their respective places for dinner yet. The four men were alone outside.
“My problem is with you.”
“Shit,” Ben muttered.
Chris turned back to his grill and ignored the brewing tempest between his friends.
“Then come on, Gleason. Is it over Syanna or is it over my wife?”
Matt sharply laughed. “Bringing her into it?”
Chins raised. Shoulders wide. Step-by-step they closed the distance between them. Both were barefoot.
“Guys,” Ben said.
“No.” Chris turned around and used the spatula again as he talked. “They gotta get this outta their systems or they gonna be a pain in the ass to us all. So, y’all go ahead and throw down. Just no permanent damage. And don’t wreck the food.”
Ben shrugged and sat on the lounger. He then got up and pulled the table filled with pots of food and dishes out of the way.
Peter and Matt squared off on the lawn.
Ben got back off the lounger to attend to the door.
“What’s this?” asked Emily.
“Mixed martial arts never looks as good in real life as the movies. Lock the door behind you.”
A lot of throwing kicks and blocking. Emily found it boring to watch. She sat on the other lounger and helped herself to beans and rice.
“Isn’t boxing more interesting than this?” she asked.
“Can be. I don’t think Sully wants to hurt Matt.”
“Is that why they look like a rooster fight?”
“How do you know what that looks like?”
“I’m guessing. All legs at each other. Ostrich fights?” She chuckled.
“They both know the same moves is the problem. They’ve sparred forever.”
“Are the gator steaks ready?”
Chapter Four
1.
Tripwires were laid out throughout their territory. They engaged alarms and camera feeds at home base. Though Eric had lost his mind when it came to what was real and what was not – who was alive and who was not – he was a master of anything involving electronics or computers. Even more so than before he went crazy. As if the genius part of his brain had been released from all restraint. He set up the systems via a closed network Wi-Fi. An intranet.
That he slept under his desk and did not bathe would have to be ignored. Automobile fragrance trees, normally used for hanging from rear-view mirrors, hung all around his room, which he ignored
Half of his room was dominated by a computer bay. A single-sized air mattress tucked in a corner by the wall. And an altar to the dead taking up a stretch of wall. The room reflected his state of mind.
He had tried to attack Stanton. The group wasn’t sure what that was about. It could be a sign that Eric grew psychologically worse. Or merely that Stanton annoyed the crap out of him, as he had a habit of doing with most of them lately.
Mullen usually assisted Eric. But he could not share a bedroom with him. Though not overly tidy himself, the heaps of garbage Eric kept accumulating on the floor drove even Mullen nuts. His work shift with Eric usually began with him entering the bedroom with a garbage bag.
And an air freshener spray.
“Can’t I just throw him in the pool and squirt body wash on him?” Mullen asked at dinner.
Eric never joined them. Why would someone want to eat with a bunch of dead friends? Someone had to bring him a plate.
“He’ll freak out,” said Peter. “Like he did over the katana.”
When Eric spotted Peter outside with the katana, he went berserk. Screaming and flailing his arms as he rushed out of the house. So bad that Peter ended up giving it to him to shut him up. It now sat on the alter, sheathed and useless. Peter had to use broom handles to practice with Phebe.
“Can we put some kind of lock on this here china cabinet armory?” asked Chris. “I’m getting tired of looking for shit up in his stank room.”
Whenever something went missing, go to the altar to look for it. Eric roamed the house at night, picking up things to give to his dead family. Or possibly to the group themselves.
“We have to just tolerate it,” said Angela. “I got a plate ready for Eric. And this one for Jayce. Stanton, you do Jayce. Volunteer for Eric?”
Jayce, ever residing at the piazza faux door to the street, made sure Eric never tried to leave home base.
“I’ll go,” said Phebe. “It’s always fun how he tells me I am dead and a ghost talking to him.”
“Cheaper than hiring a medium,” said Peter.
He and Matt had bruises on their faces from their fight. But tension had been resolved and they were back to being friends.
“What you know about that?” asked Chris.
“My high school girlfriend was a Wiccan.”
“A what?”
“Oh,” said Matt. “Is that the girlfriend you once had? I mean, ya know, before.” He pointed at Phebe.
“Yeah.” Peter forked a mystery meat stew chunk into his mouth. He knew what it was – rat meat – but it didn’t taste half bad. He had eaten worse tasting things from MRE packets in the Army.
Phebe wasn’t permitted to know what it was. She’d probably puke on everyone.
Mullen said, “A Wiccan is a witch.”
“You dated a witch in high school?” Chris glared at Peter. A deep frown of disapproval.
“Yeah. And you dated a bitch. Who’s better?”
Chris thought about it. Shrugged. And resumed eating his stew.
“What? No comment?” Peter goaded.
“I ain’t got a fucking clue what the fuck goes on in this here world.”
“I didn’t get my witch pregnant. Unlike you with your bitch who rode a broom nightly.”
“Amber ain’t never touched a broom in her life. Nor a vacuum neither. That lazy fat bitch.”
“Okay then.” Emily stood. “On that note.”
“Do we have a therapist in the house?” asked Brandon.
“You first, motherfucker.” Chris pointed his fork at the younger man.
“Me? My biggest problem is the zombie apocalypse.”
“And probably us,” said Peter. “We were his dysfunction.” He pointed at Matt.
“No
t anymore.” Matt stretched. “I have my own.”
“Congratulations, Eagle Scout.”
“Were you really an Eagle Scout?” asked Brandon. “I was.”
“Oh, crap,” Peter muttered. “We got another one.”
“Do you have a problem with the Boy Scouts?”
“No. I enjoyed beating them up.”
“You did not beat up Boy Scouts.”
Emily rolled her eyes. Her boyfriend had chomped on the bait. Brandon was a good and honorable man, and a hard worker. A lot going for him. But he wasn’t the most street smart. He’d be eaten alive back home in New York. Her father Frank would have pulled Brandon’s leg constantly if they had ever met. If Boston could continually get his goat, NYC would have a field day.
“Brandon, let’s go.” She hoped to save him.
Peter smirked at her. Vivid blue eyes shined more than the glow of candle flames created.
She knew.
He knew that she knew.
“I totally beat up Boy Scouts. They’re the best wimps to beat up.”
“Boy Scouts aren’t wimps.”
“Oy vey.” Emily rested her head in her hand.
Phebe pushed back her chair and stood. “Join me, Em, in an Eric mission?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Emily scooped up the plate.
Peter grinned at her.
“Don’t eat him alive too much.” She patted Boston on the shoulder.
“I’ll try to leave some for you.”
Phebe chuckled as she walked with Emily towards the stairs.
Eric lived on the third floor. He needed greater space, and since he believed he was visited by ghosts all the time, he wouldn’t mind if Rupert haunted him. He switched rooms with Chris.
At night in bed, Phebe and Peter could hear Eric moving around above them. Sometimes he yelled. Sometimes it was in Mandarin. They were picking up a few words in the process.
“You okay?”
Emily seemed winded. She stopped midway up the elliptical staircase and leaned over the banister.
“I don’t know what’s with me lately. I feel so tired.”
“Has Matt or the doc checked you out?”
“Yeah. Soon as it started. They found nothing wrong. Nothing they could detect. What if I caught hepatitis?”
“You’d know the symptoms better than me.”
“Well, the body can react by fatigue whenever a pathogen is being attacked by the immune system. It’s often the first indication. But it usually develops other symptoms by now.”
