Dead Tide Rising

by Stephen North

  He gives one last look back at the ascending chopper, then reaches for his flashlight. The door closes behind him as he turns the flashlight on, and draws his pistol. The cone of light reveals penciled graffiti all over the walls. The stairs creak beneath his feet.

  No door at the bottom. The stairs just open out into a hall, lit by a skylight. How tall was this place, maybe ten stories? There is a door immediately to his left. Probably more stairs. Down the hall, there are doors on the left, right and an elevator door at the end. The floor is wood and there are a couple of paintings on the walls. He thinks they might be done in watercolors. Scenes with lots of oaks draped in Spanish moss and women in hoop dresses.

  I should just take the stairs down. What am I doing fucking around looking at art? Or clearing rooms?

  His left hand is on the left hand door’s knob. The flashlight is hooked back on his belt. The pistol is in his right hand, and pointed at the door. He tries the knob and it turns. His boots on the wood floor probably made more noise than opening the door did.

  Four shots left. I never re-loaded. The Smith and Wesson SW99 holds nine rounds.

  The room is dark, but not overly so. On the far wall, vertical blinds shift with the vagaries of a breeze. To the right is a living room with a sofa, two recliners, a coffee table, a big screen TV, and another doorway. To the left is a kitchen behind a long marble counter and barstools. Another doorway that way also.

  My heart is pounding.

  Why? More than likely the whole floor is empty. Maybe even the whole building.

  Now, That’s wishful thinking!

  He moves off toward the living room doorway first. And fuck it, I am going to re-load. Right now!

  He thumbs the almost empty clip out of the pistol and takes a full one from the pouch on his waist belt. Puts the almost empty into the left cargo pocket on his pants. He pulls the pistol’s slide back, inserts the fresh clip into the well, and lets the slide go.

  A round is now in the chamber.

  The doorway used to have a door. The hinges and pieces of splintered wood are still attached to the door frame, but the door itself lies in the room beyond. The master bedroom apparently. Something, or things, clawed and pounded the way in.

  The room is darker than the living room, but he can still see a dresser against the wall to his left, and to the right, a king-sized bed, another TV mounted on the wall, and another doorway. That door is broken down, too.

  “Anybody here?” he asks, probably too softly, and pauses.

  No answer. He can’t smell anything, but his heart is sure beating fast.

  “Hello?” this said a little louder.

  Nothing.

  Another pause, this time just outside what is probably a bathroom.

  He darts around, gun aimed everywhere, questing for a target. Sees a closet to the right, a double sink further in, and a shower at the end.

  Some towels are in a pile beside a bathroom rug outside the shower.

  Something touches his shoulder.

  Tracks

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Bronte shift in the chair just to his left. A .357 revolver is in his lap and he is wiping the cylinder down with an oily rag. He then replaces the six cartridges, one by one fitting them into the cylinder.

  Bronte asks, “Where you know him from, Tracks? Never knew you were friends with any cops.”

  Tracks grunts. Just looking at the man can take him back–Back across more than thirty years, back to the first day he saw Jubal Hadley.

  “This your son, Reggie?” the big white man asked. Even then, Tracks was tall, taller than this stranger, and wider too, but something about Jubal Hadley scared him. Probably his washed-out eyes. He always stood ramrod straight, kept his hair buzz-cut, and looked you in the eye when he spoke to you.

  “Yeah Jube, this is my little man, my boxer.” His father, Reggie, was a big man too, but with just a fringe of salt and pepper hair circling the back of his head. He was a Vietnam Vet also, just like Jubal Hadley. They even served in the same unit and came back from the war and joined the St. Pete Police together.

  The man extended his big right hand attached to a pale, hairy arm toward Tracks. Tracks didn’t allow himself to blink, or even change expression, but shook the man’s hand with a solemn look on his face. His mother didn’t quite hate Jubal Hadley, but her opinion wasn’t warm, and she made only a minimum effort to be civil to the man.

  She wouldn’t tell him why.

  “Good to meet you,” Hadley said, looking him the eyes, “I heard you can throw a punch.”

  “Yes sir,” Tracks replied. “Course, take one too.”

  “Better to avoid it son.”

  “Like them close, sir. Nice and close, and then punch them out of the ring.”

  “Mostly,” his dad answered.

  Tracks remembered the brief, hot flush of anger that one word brought, but his dad was right. Two weeks later, his father would be dead, and although Tracks would pursue a boxing career for a few more years, that dream died too.

  And now, all these years later, only Bronte, and the boy, Daric matter.

  Already sweating. The sun is barely up, and his upper lip and the back of his head are wet with sweat. Hadley and Graham brush past him, and Bronte stands and all four of them are at the front of the little Sea Hummer.

  Gut is gurgling. This is crazy.

  Ozzie edges the small boat closer until Tracks can reach out and touch the metal behemoth’s side. The bulk of the cruise ship looms over them, blindingly white in most places, but scorched black in others. “Guess the only way in is through that door we saw,” Hadley says.

  “Look like it,” Tracks replies.

  “Good thing it’s high tide, too,” Graham says, “otherwise we’d need a ladder or something.”

  The whole ship is canted to the left just enough to be noticeable. This brings the open door to within a foot or so of the water.

  Graham joins Tracks as they get close and says, “If I remember right, we won’t have to go far once we get in there. The stairwell isn’t too far.”

  The moment they draw even, Tracks grabs a line and ties it to a cleat beside the door. Graham climbs in, and stands in the doorway a moment, catching his breath. Dude’s in pretty bad shape. Bet that gut is killing him.

  “You ok, Graham?” Hadley asks.

  “Yeah, just need a moment to catch my breath. Come on up!” He extends a big hand and pulls Hadley up. Not a weakling though. Bronte goes next, following Hadley past Graham and down the passage. Tracks says, “Ozzie, remember the plan.”

  Ozzie replies, “Gotcha. Don’t worry. Just come back safe.”

  “We be ok, Ozzie. Be right back.”

  Be right; please be right.

  Out of sight, but just around a corner he hears Hadley say, “Oh shit!”

  Hadley

  Can’t see. He stands in the doorway a moment, revolver in hand, and reaches into his pants pocket for the cheap flashlight. Sees what look like storage lockers and a desk in the dim light from the passage behind him, but the rest is in shadow.

  He glances down to flick the flashlight on when something slams into him from the darkness. “Shit!” he yells, dropping the flashlight, as the thing latches onto his arm and bites down. “Holy shit! Oh dear God!” A middle-aged guy in a quasi-naval type uniform has just taken a large, hairy chunk out of his left arm! Panicking, he tries to put the pistol against the thing’s head, but loses patience. The fucking thing is eating his flesh. He pulls the trigger again and again, as blood and brains spatter everywhere. Stumbles backwards into someone as the grip on his arm loosens.

  “I got you,” Bronte says in his ear. “Just sit down over here, Chief.” Hadley looks at his forearm, incredulous over the blood and how big the missing chunk is. A vein is actually spurting blood. He holds the arm away from his body, instead of stemming the blood. Tracks is bending over him now, holding a medical kit.

  “No, Alan, don’t waste time. I’m a dead man. Let
’s just get what we came for and we’ll worry about me later.”

  “Let me wrap it, Chief. Stop the bleeding.”

  “I’ve had worse. Just help me up.”

  Tracks wraps his arm, puts the kit back into a backpack, and pulls him to his feet.

  Hadley shifts the pistol to his left hand and opens the cylinder. “Gotta re-load,” he says. The only problem is he’s shaking too much. Shock must be setting in.

  He pulls a box of ammo out of his pocket, but Tracks take both gun and ammo from him.

  “Let me, Chief,” he says, and sounds almost tender. He opens the cylinder shakes out the spent casings and replaces them from the handful that Hadley gave him. “Better get you another gun quick. Only five shells left.” He extends the gun butt first back to him, and hands over the extra bullets.

  “Thanks. Don’t get funny on me now. We may all be dead in a few minutes.”

  Hard to stand the pitying looks. “Everybody’s gotta die sometime. Let me keep leading the way.”

  Graham says, “This way then. It’s the closest stairway that will take us up.”

  Ralls

  One stab is all it takes. The damned Yeoman’s head quiets immediately. Course, trying to yank the sword out isn’t fun, but the trip below to help the Engineering Chief won’t be a party for anyone, either. Just the beginning.

  One last look around the bridge and he opens the starboard door and steps into bright sunshine. Many of the formerly prone figures are now up and about. In fact, there is a snarl as he turns right and toward the stair that descends a deck. The missing Army Reserve Colonel is standing awkwardly in a pool of dried blood. Several bodies lay around him, along with a lot of spent shell casings.

  He’s still holding a carbine, but the magazine is missing. And That’s not all That’s missing folks! Several bloody bandages cover what must be terrible bites, judging by the amount of blood. The colonel turns toward him, snarling louder as he lurches forward, stretching his arms out as if to embrace him.

  Ralls steps forward too, raises the cutlass up and slashes down over the barrel of the carbine. The razor-sharp, heavy blade slices into the colonel’s neck and jars to a stop partway thru. Must have hit his spine or something! The man’s body falls backward, and the blade pulls free. No time to finish the job, just push past him! Press on!

  Feels a gust of wind rustle his shirt and pants legs. The stair below is clear. With one hand on the rail, he jumps over the body and it’s thrashing, but apparently uncontrolled limbs. His black oxford shoes clatter on the steel steps. Everywhere he looks, people are looking up at him and heading his way. He shivers. Like a bunch of soulless puppets following me.

  What now? Do I go below now? Should’ve told that crewman to evacuate everyone and meet me on deck!

  He leaves the stairs, and heads back toward the stern, or rear of the ship, passing the funnel. Several gaping holes have been punched in it, probably from that damn chopper’s mini-gun. The mini-gun killed almost everyone on deck.

  The next stair down is fifty feet away. Chairs, small tables and sun lounges are all around him now. To his right is the Crow’s Nest Bar. Several bodies over there, and one, a tall, long-legged redhead, still upright. He recognizes her. Lieutenant Sinclair? Was that it?

  She spots him and raises a glass. “Top of the morning to you Captain. Join me in a drink?”

  “Good God, Lieutenant, are you kidding?”

  “No sir, my questions are always sincere. Just thought you might enjoy a drink. Shooting people you know is thirsty work.”

  Careful, she might be off her rocker.

  He doesn’t reply, but is standing there from a distance of ten feet or so, just staring. There are four corpses laying at her feet. All look like they’ve been shot thru the head. All soldiers.

  “I’m not nuts, Captain. We’ve just traded one hell for another. Might as well enjoy yourself when you have the chance.”

  “I have to rescue my crew.” She puts the drink down. Something green in a tall, fluted glass. “Want some help?”

  “I could sure use it. They’re in the Engine Room.” She reaches down and plucks her soft cap off the bar top, settles it onto her head, The brass rectangle of a second lieutenant is aligned perfectly above her nose on the cap. “All my men are dead. Might as well try to save yours.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nice sword,” she says while picking up an assault rifle. It too, was on the bar top.

  The wind gusts again and he watches blood spread across the gleaming white deck. “Yeah, it’s nice enough,” he says, “but it’s fucking heavy. Wish I’d practiced with it instead of just keeping it sharp.”

  “I wish I’d gone home and stayed with my family. Don’t know why I’m even trying to stay alive.”

  He was about to lead the way, but that remark pulls him up short. “Think They’re dead?”

  “I think we’re all dead and some of us just don’t know it yet.”

  He shakes his head. “No, do you think they are dead?”

  “I talked them into coming down to the Pier. My folks and my little sister.” She looks over his shoulder, toward the inverted Pyramid at the end of the causeway, known as the Pier. “I hope They’re dead.”

  “I’m sorry Lieutenant.”

  “Never mind, sir. I don’t even know if they ever got here. That is a mystery for another time.”

  He nods, and waves her to follow him. Both cross through and around the deck furniture, and stop beside the covered entrance to the stairs. The red glow of an emergency light can be seen about a flight down.

  Both stand stock still as the sound of five or six shots echoes up from the water and below.

  Keller

  Three floors up the air is smoky and there is a chemical reek of some kind. Cleaning chemicals, maybe? Only bad shit smells this bad.

  “It’s hopeless big man,” says Mitch from behind him on the stairs.

  Keller grunts, voice muffled by the shirt he has pulled up over his mouth and nose. His eyes are watery, and his nose is running.

  “You can go on if you want, but I’m done. You know and I know that they would be down here by now if they could.”

  Keller turns around. Mitch coughs.

  “Giving up that easy?”

  “Yep. Sediment will kill you.”

  “You mean sentiment.”

  “Fuck off. I don’t care how big you are.”

  “You should care. I’ve killed weasels like you before.”

  “That so?” Mitch puts his hand on the revolver in the holster on his right hip. He draws the weapon with his eyes wide, and his gun hand trembling.

  Got to him with that, but he still drew anyway.

  Keller takes a step toward him. “You are going to put that gun away, be a team player and a man. You will do as Nick or I tell you. Are we clear?”

  The man’s hand shifts and now the barrel is aimed at Keller’s chest. He shuffles backwards. “Sure. Just give me and Suzy a chance. You’ll be glad, I promise. We all need each other now.”

  Might be easier to just break his neck right here and tell the others that something fell on him. Could I really murder someone like that? To protect people I care about, I’d do worse than that. What else is there now?

  Keller takes another step toward him.

  “Ok, Mitch…”

  The gun bucks in Mitch’s hand. The sound of the shot is lost among the roar of the flames. Keller feels his knees buckle, no pain though. Did he miss? Someone shouts from below. Sound of footsteps in the stairwell. “Keller, Mitch, come on back! The others are safe. An army chopper got them! Keller!”

  The voice of that firefighter, Mills. Mitch shouts back, “We hear you! We’re coming down.”

  Keller reaches out, grabs Mitch’s gun hand, and with the other hand, fingers stiff, jabs him in the eyes. Mitch screams as one of his eyeballs bursts. Blood and gore all over. Falls to his knees, pulling Mitch with him. The gun clatters to the floor. Keller wraps both of his hands ar
ound the man’s head. Twists violently. The screaming stops, Keller keeps falling. The cool tile of the floor feels good on his cheek.

  Got to get up. Get out of here. He pushes himself away from Mitch’s body, gets to his knees, then feet. Holds out a hand, as if to shake, “Are we cool?”

  Mitch doesn’t answer. At the moment, although his body is face up, his face is turned the wrong way, far beyond what is normal, or survivable.

  “All choked up, eh buddy? Don’t worry, it will pass.”

  Keller heads back the way they came.

  Natalie

  She doesn’t want to look, but has to. Monk isn’t exactly squashed, but bones are protruding through the wife-beater t-shirt he’s wearing. His head has an odd shape. Somebody ran him over. Sam maybe? Hope so. Looks like he and that other guy, Tim, both got smushed.

  Monk is lying in a pool of drying blood. She doesn’t really want to step in it. If he has the keys, she will have to roll him over.

  Roll him over or stand here forever.

  She bends over to put the gun on the ground, near the edge of the puddle. Feels a gust of wind lift the back of her skirt. If only Sam could see that, bet he’d cream his jeans. Oh God! Without hesitating further, she steps close to the corpse, squats and reaches under his torso with both hands. His skin isn’t cold, but just touching him makes her want to scream . Lifts with a grunt and pushes forward.

  The body rolls over and his arms have apparently started to stiffen: they remain bent at the elbow, splayed out from his body, and don’t relax. Rigor Mortis, she thinks.

  Must’ve been dead a while. She really has no idea, though. He Ain’t fresh.

  Don’t look at his face. Don’t.

  Looks like a fright mask of blood. His eyes are open and staring, and his nose is flattened. Little pebbles are imbedded in his skin. Worst of all, his mouth is open, and his whole lower jaw and chin are off kilter, almost ripped off.

  Look away. He isn’t going to wake up.

  She sees a lump in his right pants pocket, and digs in. Pulls out a large key ring with a big piece of pointed metal attached to it. It’s all worth it, if these are the keys.