Dead Tide Rising

by Stephen North

  Trish ducks behind a vent of some sort. If they see me wearing this armored shirt, they might guess I took it from their buddy. Christ I’m getting paranoid. “Get down Morgan. Those guys kill everybody!”

  Morgan drops down beside her with a groan. “Sorry, I’m pretty beat up.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Something isn’t right about the way it’s just sitting there.”

  “Yeah, I think we better go tell the others.” Trish gets to her feet and darts toward the door to the stairwell. She can hear Morgan right on her heels. Behind them, the chopper comes closer.

  What if…

  Just inside the door, Trish turns back, puts a hand on Morgan’s chest. “You don’t think they are coming to rescue us, do you?

  “I didn’t think of that, but maybe.”

  Blake looks back around at the helicopter.

  Juliet

  She wakes to enormous pain, her clothes wet, with mud caking her hands and face. Several pungent smells fill her head, at least one of them, a bad smell. The bad one is aircraft fuel–Helicopter fuel. Someone is crying. Who? One of the kids? What happened?

  “Mommy!”

  George’s voice. Her oldest.

  She claws her way up out of the darkness, and opens her eyes. Tries to move, but her whole body aches, especially her back.

  “Mommy, wake up!”

  “I’m awake, George, I’m awake.”

  George is sitting in her lap, hugging her. They’re lying on the ground outside the helicopter. Lying in mud and salt water actually, with several knotty mangrove roots poking her in the back.

  “Where is your sister, George?”

  “She’s still sleeping in the copter.”

  “Sleeping?” Feels terror spike through her veins.

  “You always tell me to let her take her naps.”

  She puts her left hand on his head and strokes his hair. “That’s a good boy. My sweet boy.”

  “A bunch of the guards are sleeping too, Mommy. Agent Costas told me to stay out here with you. He’s hurt bad and couldn’t get out.”

  “You were a good boy to listen to him George. Are you hurt?” He shakes his head, his famous curly red hair plastered to his scalp. My little angel.

  “Do you think you can help your Mommy up?”

  “Sure Mom, just let me put Nosy down.” She watches him place his beloved worn-out stuffed dog into the branches of a mangrove. Grabs her arm with both of his sturdy, not so small anymore arms, and yanks, even as she fights her way up and to her knees in the muck.

  She bites back the scream, and takes a breath or two. “Thanks Sweetie Pie. Don’t forget to grab Nosy.” As he bends over to retrieve his friend, she grabs a nearby mature mangrove and uses both arms to pull herself the rest of the way up.

  I don’t really want to know what’s happened in the helicopter. My heart can’t take it, Burt. I need you here with me. Oh please…

  The helicopter crashed more or less upright, but the tail section is canted upwards toward the front. The fuselage is split into two jagged halves with the back portion almost buried in the mud and mangrove bushes. Water laps at the more level front half and the body of Agent Costas is lying against one of the bench seats. He doesn’t appear to be conscious, but she can see he’s still breathing. A pistol is still clutched in his hand on his chest. Several bodies litter the ground, face-up and facedown in the water, all of them either soldiers or agents that shared the helicopter with them. As she steps closer, something scrabbles frantically to be free of tangled seat belts and wreckage in a seat not far from Costas.

  She takes a reluctant step closer, hobbling more than walking. Sees the small shape, teeth bared and snarling, still trapped inside. 35

  “Stay behind me, George!” she shrieks, “Don’t look! Oh God, don’t look, honey.”

  “Ok Mommy,” George says, “Got my eyes closed.”

  Agent Costas stirs, rubs his eyes with his free hand, “I’m sorry, ma’am, I couldn’t bear to do it. If she broke free, yes, but she isn’t going anywhere.”

  That thing is not my daughter.

  She gathers her composure. “Can you take care of the problem for me, Agent Costas?”

  “Yes ma’am, and then we’ll see about getting you and your son out of here.” Lassiter is sweating. His hands are up, as if he can ward off a bullet.

  “You gonna fire the rockets or not, Captain?”

  The captain, Duncan clears his throat, “There are living people on top of that building Sergeant! We just got word that the aNo Live? order is rescinded. All we have to do now is put down the re-animates. Killing healthy people is not going to help.”

  Jacobs sights down the barrel, “It’s so simple, Captain. Fire the rockets or I’ll shoot Lassiter.”

  “Sergeant!” says Booth, “It’s not worth it. Just put the gun down and we’ll get out of here.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you Booth, so shut your pie hole!”

  “Safeties off. Rockets are now live,” Duncan says.

  “Acquiring target,” says the copilot, Lot.

  “Now firing.”

  On either side of the chopper there is a rippling roar as the rockets launch. Seconds later, the chopper shifts to the right, and Jacobs sees multiple explosions tear a gaping hole into the Police Station. The whole southern face of the building is wreathed in flame. Burning debris falls to the ground as the smoke billows up and out.

  “Satisfied, Sergeant?” asks Duncan in a monotone.

  Jacobs can feel the lunatic grin on his face, but doesn’t care. “Set me down on the roof of that building east of the station, and you are done with me.”

  “Roger that!”

  The helicopter banks to the right.

  “What’s your plan, Sarge?” asks Lepski.

  “Gonna make sure I got them all. After that, who the fuck knows?”

  “You change your mind, we’ll come and get you,” says Booth.

  Jacobs nods. “Just do as you’re told and keep together. Maybe you guys will make it through this.”

  “You going to quit pointing that thing at me?” shouts Lassiter.

  “Sure Chief, sorry about that,” Jacobs says with a grin, and lowers the pistol to his lap. With his free hand, he takes off the headset and tosses it at Lassiter.

  The Chief stares at him hard, but keeps his mouth closed.

  “Don’t annoy me Chief. Just hold it in. Cry about it later. You say something now, and you might tempt me too much, get me?”

  “I get you, Jacobs. Just get off my bird.”

  Jacobs looks around at his men. “Any of you coming?”

  Booth shakes his head, “Not this time, Sarge.”

  “You’re on your own,” says Lepski.

  Hicks looks like he’s about to cry. “Sitting this one out, Sergeant.” 37 Jacobs nods. The helicopter is descending. They can all feel the skids make contact with the roof. Jacobs unsnaps his safety belt and slides out of the chopper.

  Ankle is still throbbing.

  He waves goodbye to his men, as the chopper lifts off and banks back toward the east, toward Tampa. Unslings his M-4 carbine, and looks around. Two big air conditioners, couple of chairs and a small building that must be the stairwell is all that he can see. He quick steps with a limp over to the door.

  Anton

  Something explodes. The whole building shudders, and from outside, he sees a sheet of flame envelope the windows. An explosion? Probably from a couple floors down.

  Debbie is screaming.

  What happened?

  The fire spreads quickly.

  Debbie runs out of the room and into the corridor.

  She leaving me? Face it man, you’re nothing but a burden.

  He turns on his chair. Uses the toggle control to steer his way after Debbie. The chair is actually fast with good maneuverability, but he can’t keep up with someone who is sprinting.

  And let’s face it, Debbie doesn’t sprint. She doesn’t even walk very fast,
but it is breathtaking to watch. A lot of motion.

  As he pushes past the door, Debbie yells, “Elevator’s out. I’ll check the stairs. Just stay here a moment, Anton!”

  Ain’t no way, then. No way can I crawl down the stairs.

  Trish barrels into the corridor from the roof stairwell, catches sight of him.

  “Anton, haul ass. There’s a helicopter out there wanting to lift us out of here!”

  Despite his misgivings, he turns her way full throttle, hand mashing down on the control. “I don’t want to die, Trish!”

  “Morgan’s with me, Anton. We’ll help you!”

  He skids to a stop just outside the stairwell. “Do you two really think you can get me up those stairs? My legs are completely dead.”

  “Shut up Anton,” says Morgan and kneels down to get his left arm around his neck. Trish takes his right. Good thing they both are about the same height, but I won’t say it.

  “On three we lift him and haul ass up those stairs. Got it, Morgan?” Trish asks.

  “On three, yes ma’am.”

  “Here we go, one, two, three!” Both of them heave him up and out of the chair and stagger up three steps before collapsing. Anton chokes off a scream as his nose flattens and bursts with blood, leaving him dazed.

  “Again!” Trish shouts, and they heave again. This time they make it to the landing before collapsing again.

  Debbie appears behind them. “The fire is in the stair down, too. Oh, let me help you’all. Maybe if I get up front and take his legs?”

  “Go for it,” says Morgan, gasping.

  “Three!” Trish shouts and they heave him up, staggering once into the wall, but keeping their grip all the way to the top. A soldier is there, all in black. A name tag over his right shirt pocket reads: aLepski.? “Here ladies,” Lepski says, “let me take him. Get on the chopper!”

  “What about his chair?” asks Morgan. Anton isn’t sure, but that ladies remark probably didn’t go over too well with Morgan. The small man is hunched over and breathing heavy. Now his face is flushed.

  “No time,” Lepski says. “Go, go, go!”

  Lepski slings his rifle over his back and kneels down. He takes a grip on Anton’s upper arm and heaves him up onto his shoulder, while standing up.

  “Okay, sir, I’ll get you out of here now.”

  “Thanks son.”

  The man is running, long strides that carry him closer to the waiting seats.

  Natalie

  She finds her clothes beside the car she woke up on. The top is ok. Dirty but ok. The short skirt is also in fair shape, but her bra and panties have been cut with a knife. For a moment, she tries to remember the scene: the two girls holding her down on the hood, while the guy, Monk, stripped her…Monk, slapping her once backhanded. After that, things got hazy. Any idea of fighting slipped away. Looking down, watching a big knife slide beneath her bra, in-between her breasts. Monk’s lip raised in a little sadistic sneer while jerking the blade up and slicing right thru the flimsy material. The padded cups fell away to either side. My nipples were stiff. Remembering that was a bit startling. Was I turned on? The two girls were laughing. Was it because my bra was padded or because of my nipples?

  Well, I wasn’t turned on. Getting slapped pisses me off.

  Anyway, Monk was in a hurry. The knife slipped down and under the string of her panties over her left thigh. One of the girls, what was her name? Heidi or something like that. Whatever her name was, she leaned over and kissed her, while the knife ripped through the cloth. Then Monk pushed both girls away, and told them to get lost.

  Her uppermost thought was: better to be unconscious than to have to remember this. Piss him off. Worst case I end up dead. Hopefully, I just wake up later and don’t remember. In the old world I might have not had the courage to do this, but now? Now, I may want to be dead for real.

  When the girls let her arms go, and stepped back, she swung a fist with all her might straight at his nose. Somehow he dodged it and slapped her hand away. He then swatted her into oblivion with the back of his hand. After that the lights stayed out for a long time.

  So now, here I am, bare ass under my skirt, in a parking lot full of dead people. My shoes must still be in Sam’s car. Wherever that is.

  Shoes, weapons and a place to hide. Everything else is secondary. Maybe food and water belong on the list.

  She stands up, but crouches to hide her silhouette behind the car. Looks around carefully. Figures stagger around hundreds of feet away, but out here on the edge of the parking lot, all appears quiet for the moment. She peers through the back window. The driver’s side window is open. Maybe this is their, Tim or Monk’s, car.

  She edges around, wishing she had a bat, a knife–Anything to defend herself.

  The driver’s side door is unlocked. The front seat is huge and it looks like genuine black leather upholstery. And right there, in between the seats, is a big silver revolver and a beige-colored bag. In the back seat are what look like full grocery bags.

  Oh God, if only the keys are in the ignition! She opens the door and slides in. Feels for the keys beneath the shifter.

  No dice.

  Probably on one of the bodies.

  Got a gun now, I don’t care! But oh God, please let one of them have the keys!

  Maybe I can even make it home.

  Haven’t even thought of Mom through all of this.

  With good reason: Mom might have slept through all of this. Black out drunks do that.

  Talaski

  The explosion is so unexpected, that Talaski nearly falls. A quick grab at a rifle rack, bolted to the floor, saves him. The others enter the room, and stand in a gaggle watching him point his gun at Mitch.

  Mitch looks like he wants to run, but the unwavering barrel must be scaring him.

  He spits his cigarette onto the floor.

  “What the hell was that?” Mills asks.

  “Sounded like rockets,” answers Keller. “Probably helicopter rockets. Guess the military must have decided to shut us down.”

  “Why? Hell, I just want to help people.”

  “Not sure, probably just a fuck-up. Bet they think this place has been taken over by the dead.”

  Mitch clears his throat. His hand rests on the pistol grip, holstered at the right side of his waist. “Just let Suzy and I go man,” he says to Talaski. “This is a different world. We are willing to team up with you, no harm, no foul. We can be good team players, can’t we Suze?”

  “Sure we can, Mitch,” Suzy says, stepping away from the group and stopping beside Mitch. “I like you all.”

  The funny thing is, her smile seems genuine.

  Talaski scowls, “You mean you thought we were people you could use, right?”

  “Listen, officer, I don’t like guns being pointed at me, and I didn’t like the sound of those explosions. Either make a move, or let’s get the hell out of here, ok?”

  Talaski glances at Keller. Keller raises and eyebrow and shrugs.

  “Ok, everyone, we are going to have to do this quick. Matt can you and Mr. Personality here go see what’s going on, while I get people equipped?”

  Keller nods. “Can do, you ready Mitch?”

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  “Hey Mills, try to get a hold of Anton while They’re doing it. Use the walkie.”

  “Sure thing, Ski,” Mills says.

  Ski. The use of that particular diminutive practically guarantees a bad response, but he lets it slide for now. Time to address it later. Keller leads the way back up the stairs.

  Ralls

  The sheer horror of it is too much. The contrast of a motionless body with the still animated head fills him with loathing. I need to make it stop.

  But how?

  Standing here looking at it isn’t accomplishing anything.

  He forces himself into motion, side-stepping around the corpse. Reaches for the door handle to his watch cabin and goes in quick. Hits the light switch. He spends far more time her
e, than in his much larger quarters below. The room is roughly eight by eight feet. Room enough for a wall-mounted cot, a chair, desk and closet. An olive drab, army-style pistol belt hangs in the closet, complete with his 1911, .45 caliber Colt pistol. He grabs it and straps it on, and reaches for his two spare magazines and the box of ammo. First he ejects the magazine in the pistol and loads two more bullets into it. Next he loads the other two magazines. He slides them into a pouch on the belt. Twenty one rounds ready. He slaps the first magazine home, then pulls back and releases the slide. Locked and loaded now. He puts the pistol back into the holster. I still have twenty nine rounds left. Gonna need those for sure, but what do I do with them. Fuckers are heavy. Pull my goddamned pants off if I just put them in my pants pocket.

  Just wondering what to do with with the bullets, makes him remember the still wet stain down the front of his otherwise white slacks. Fuck it, they’ll dry.

  Guess I’ll just put half in each front pocket and pray for the best. He divides the bullets into two, more or less, equal handfuls and slips them into each pocket on the front of his white slacks. The weight is noticeable and annoying, but his belt holds.

  That does that.

  He turns to the wall above his desk. Two swords hang on brackets there. One of them is a souvenir and the other an antique that his grandfather carried. He reaches for the first, the souvenir, a reproduction of a twenty-eight inch naval cutlass. Never thought I’d wear or use this damn thing. The truly strange part was that he’d developed the habit of taking care of both blades. Both have scabbards and are razor sharp. His Dad always told him, if you have a weapon, take care of it. Might save your life someday.

  He hooks the scabbard to his belt and draws the sword.

  “Now, Yeoman Banks, let’s see about giving you peace.”

  Jacobs

  Made me drop a little high. He can feel the impact on his knees and ankles. In fact, his right ankle isn’t up to the challenge, and buckles beneath him. Only his left hand, grabbing onto a nearby vent, keeps him from dropping to his knees.

  The rotor wash falls away quickly. Fuckers couldn’t wait to dump me. The small shed sized building is nearby, near the roof’s edge. He limps over to it and tries the handle. The door opens onto a narrow wooden stair, leading to a landing ten steps below. Dark down there. Tries a switch just inside on the wall, but nothing happens.