Dead Tide Rising

by Stephen North

  Morgan stands next to her near the edge of the roof, and looks down. “I wonder if any of them are in the store?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “If any of them are in there, I wonder how many there are, and can we lock the doors? Hell, maybe those soldiers did us a favor. Don’t all these grocery stores supply wheel chairs for their customers?”

  “Now you’re onto something, Morgan,” she says. “We can’t just leave him to die.”

  “Biggest problem, assuming there is a wheelchair, and assuming we can lock up the store will be getting Anton down.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Nothing beyond going ahead and checking things out. If the place isn’t looted at least we can get something to eat and drink also.”

  “Let me explain to them,” she says, and turns back toward Debbie and Anton.

  She can tell Debbie is about to break down. The woman is sitting next to Anton, crying hysterically.

  “We don’t even have a gun, do we?” Debbie wants to know.

  “I have one,” says Morgan. “Even got four extra clips for it. I took them off Dodd when I killed him.”

  “Their called magazines,” says Anton.

  “I call ‘em clips.”

  “Suit yourself. What do I care if you sound like an asshole.”

  “Shut up Anton!” Trish snaps. “Morgan and I are going to go down there. See if it’s safe. There might even be a wheelchair for you Anton.”

  Debbie sniffs and wipes her nose with a tissue, “Guess you want to leave me behind with him, right? I mean, I understand, but you just didn’t mention me, so…”

  “We’ll be back.”

  Trish turns away. The roof is nearly featureless, except for the bulky shapes of six air conditioners. She walks toward them. None of them are working. She’d known but still hoped that somehow the power was still on here.

  A door is set into the roof, just feet from the A/C units. Couldn’t be lucky enough for it to be a stairway.

  Morgan beats her to it, and grabs the handle, “Goddamn thing is locked!”

  What are the odds?

  “Should we try shooting it?” she asks.

  “No. Let me look over the back wall, and see if there is a fire escape ladder. There has to be one, but let me check.”

  “I’m still coming with you.”

  “Whatever,” he replies, already turned away and walking.

  The ladder is there. They both stop and look over the edge. There is a good thirty feet or so of pavement between the store’s back wall and a wall that separates them from a subdivision behind the store. Off to the left she can see a large piece of machinery connected to the building, and the low 73 concrete wall of one of the loading bays. Even further away in that direction are two green-painted trash containers and a double stacked row of cardboard bales on pallets. To the right she can see a fire exit from the building with a railed handi-capped ramp and what looks like two corpses. Neither of them are moving.

  “Looks clear,” Trish says.

  “I’ll go down, first. Sure you don’t want to stay here?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  She almost laughs in his face, but manages to contain herself. He has no idea what I’ve been through so far. Course, he thinks he’s being a gentleman. There is a lot to like about him. He tries real hard to be a good guy.

  “I’ll wait for you to tell me it’s clear.”

  He nods, grasps the ladder handles, and levers himself over the edge and onto the ladder. Not quite a two-story drop. He reaches the bottom of the ladder but is still roughly ten feet from the bottom. “It has an extension. Hold on,” he says, not quite loud enough to be a shout.

  A minute or two goes by, then she hears a metallic clang, and the ladder extends down. He drops a foot or so to the ground, and almost collapses when his feet hit the ground. “That hurt!”

  I’ll bet it did.

  He pulls the gun, and limps toward the bodies. The pistol looks big in his hand, but he seems to have no trouble with its weight.

  “Somebody shot them! Head shots!”

  She lifts her right leg over the roof’s lip, steps onto the first rung, then swings her other leg over. A moment or so later she drops to the ground and joins him by the three dead people.

  Found the source of the dirty bathroom smell.

  “What do you think we should do next?” she asks.

  A brief surprised look crosses his face, then disappears. She can almost see feel his self-confidence grow. “Let’s check 74 that fire door. If it’s locked, the loading dock isn’t far away. Lot closer than going around front.”

  “And less visible.”

  He smiles. “That too. Follow me.”

  Just that one question, that one respectful question was all it took. He’d die for me right now. So easy to build him up, he must have no confidence at all. God thing I’m not an evil manipulative bitch like some of my co-workers. They’d suck this guy dry and toss him aside in a heartbeat.

  The fire door is locked. A crowbar might get them in. They turn back the other way and draw close to the big piece of machinery. “What is this thing, do you know, Morgan?”

  “Compactor. Smell that? These stores throw everything in them.”

  The smell is bad. Far worse than a rotten food smell. They pass it by and presently come to the low stone wall where it meets the back wall of the store. Around the corner are two recessed loading bays. One of the bays has a trailer and truck backed into it. They stop for a minute, but don’t see anyone, live or dead.

  “Let’s see what’s on the other side of the truck,” Morgan says.

  He leads the way, and carefully peers under and around the truck. They then walk a little bit further and can see a ramp leading up to a short landing and a set of double doors set into the building’s wall just to the right of another short wall. After that, there is a small patch of grass, and then the rear walls of other stores in the strip mall.

  Four people are standing around near the back double doors. A Frito-Lay truck is parked not far behind the people, and its rear doors are still open, almost as if a delivery was still being made.

  “We go in this way, we’ll make a lot of noise,” he says in a whisper.

  Trish nods. “And we don’t know how many are inside.”

  “Think we should go around front?”

  She raises her shirt front up and wipes sweat out of her eyes, then lets the shirt drop back into place. When she looks back up, his face is flushed, but he is looking at the zombies. “They’re just tits, Morgan. I think we should go around front. All the wheelchairs will be up there anyway.”

  He sighs. “Okay.”

  Bronte

  The sign above the doors says, ‘Parade,’ followed by the numeral six. Hadley stops and holds up a closed fist. Graham and Tracks stop behind him, while Bronte turns half way around to keep watch back down the stairwell.

  “Hear some voices outside,” Hadley says.

  “As good a place as any to go out,” Graham replies.

  The stocky police chief nods, “Ok, I’ll go first.” He reaches out and turns the door handle, pushes the door open and goes out. Bronte follows the other two.

  The others are standing in a lobby. There are stairs up and down mirroring theirs straight across from them and to the left a bank of elevators on both sides of the wall. Four strangers share the room with them. A man wearing a blood-smeared white uniform and carrying a sword and a woman in military fatigues stand in a doorway between the elevators and stairs on the far wall. In the center of the room are two sailors, one a grizzled old black man, and the other a young Asian man with burns on his arms.

  “Who are you?” asks the guy with the sword.

  “I’m Chief Hadley, St. Petersburg P.D. and these men are my friends. Who’re you?”

  “I’m Captain Ralls, and this is Lieutenant Sinclair, Chief Nast and…”

  The young Asian says, “I’m Crewman Bailov.”

  “You’ve been wound
ed Mr. Hadley?” Ralls asks.

  “What off it? I’m not dead yet. I can still do some good. And That’s Chief to you Captain.”

  Tracks steps between the two men, towering over both by close to a foot. “Listen, we here for a reason. We need guns and ammo. If you’ve been bit, you are a danger to us all, Chief. You gonna help?”

  “If you’ve been bit, you are a danger to us all, Chief.”

  ason. We need guns and ammo. You gonna help?”

  The captain’s cheeks turn red, “Are you here to loot the ship?”

  “Dead soldiers don’t need guns,” Hadley says.

  The woman speaks up, “Maybe we can make a deal?”

  “Maybe we can,” Hadley answers.

  “And maybe we can’t,” says the captain. “I don’t deal with thieves.”

  Bronte can’t help it. This guy is pushing him too far. “We are survivors, Captain. People you were going to leave behind.”

  The man frowns, appearing to consider this. “Touch. Follow me, back down the stairs. There are guns, ammo and food all boxed up and ready right near the door you came in through. If you try to take them from the dead soldiers, you’ll be fighting a long time.”

  “Lead on,” Hadley says.

  For block after block, all there are, on either side of the four lane avenue, are houses, mostly one story. None of them are mansions, and only a few are so neglected that she’d label them dumps.

  She slows to pass two wrecked trailer trucks and notices a big concrete marker that reads ‘Harshaw Estates.’ She gets a good look at it, because she is driving up onto someone’s lawn to get around the traffic pile-up. Within twenty feet she is able to pull back onto 22nd Ave N. The car powers up and over curbs with no problem.

  Wonder if Mom’s slept through all of this? My Mom could sleep through the apocalypse! She’s slept through gunfire, why not this?

  Couple of years ago a gang attacked the family living two doors down from their house. Something gang related. Nobody died but a car got fire-bombed. Fully automatic weapons were fired, but did her mom wake? A slap wouldn’t do it. She’d tried. A bucket of cold water could be used if you were willing to accept the consequences. Problem was, not much could justify angering her mother.

  The stop lights are all out. No power anywhere that she can tell. No other cars on the road either. Seems like some people would still be driving, but maybe not. A lot of zombies are out, cruising around though.

  A kid, maybe ten or twelve darts out from her right, hopping a hedge and dashing into the path of her car. She hits the brakes, and squeals to a stop just a foot shy of flattening him. He looks up at her briefly from under a mop of red curls, then keeps running. Four or five zombies shamble out from over the same hedge and she floors the gas leaving them all behind.

  She turns the radio on, while blocks ahead, up at the intersection of U.S. 19 and 22nd she can see flashing lights and what might be flames. Over it all, a pall of smoke rises and fans out, barely moving in the muggy air.

  “Al Connors here, live from the top of the Skyway Bridge. Should have that Lance Mathers interview with the President in just a few minutes, but right now, I want to encourage you, wherever you are, if you can, get to the Skyway. We have food, water, and a safe place for you. The Coast Guard has established a Safe Haven beginning at the Toll booths on either side of the bridge. Skip tell us your situation on the west end of the bridge near St. Pete.”

  “Thanks Al, This is Skip Bachman, and I’m actually way past the toll plaza on the St. Pete side, along with a squad of military police at a marina. Hundreds of people are here trying to steal boats. Many of these people have guns. One recent shootout left eight people dead and twenty wounded. We are trying to steer survivors toward the bridge, but too many people won’t listen…”

  She turns the radio off, and takes her foot off the gas pedal. The car drifts to a stop, as she looks at the carnage before her in the intersection. People are walking around everywhere. Bet they aren’t people anymore.

  Maybe if I cut over and take my next right, I’ll find a way around. No sense wasting time–Just do it! The next right turn is only one lane each way, but looks clear.

  At the end of the block is a four-way intersection. To the right is a small lake that takes up most of the next block, while on every other side there are more houses. She stops right in the middle of the intersection and looks left, which is the way she is trying to go.

  She shakes her head. A woman carrying a child exits a vehicle another block down, leaves the car in the middle of the road, and runs. Roughly ten people follow her, most of them staggering with poor coordination. Straight ahead looks clear for blocks, while a right turn would lead her smack into hundreds of people.

  She cuts the wheel and turns left. The wheels shriek and she catches a whiff of burning rubber. Ooops, too much gas! She swoops down on the abandoned car fast, steers left of it, to avoid the zombies and goes up and over the left curb. Something scraps on the bottom of the car before she can pull back onto 21st Avenue N but she floors the gas again and bounces free. Within seconds she travels the remaining two blocks, then careens out onto U.S. 19. There are people all over the street, some standing, some prone, but she only hits one crossing the highway’s six lanes. The person might have been a hooker once, but the glimpse she got gave a jumbled picture of a black woman in a hot pink mini-dress and pumps covered with blood flying through the air, then her car plunged back onto another side road. On the left is a shopping plaza, and to the right is a pawn shop. The whole front of the pawn shop is caved-in, and she can see people inside. An enormous pick-up truck is parked in the rubble.

  No stopping for anything. Got to get home.

  The road bears to the left ahead, leaving no other choice of direction. Good thing that is the way I’m going. A chain link fence surrounds an enormous area covered with weeds. Further in are a few derelict buildings. She glances that way with mild interest, but then turns her attention back to the road as it curves to the left. 22nd Avenue North is in sight, and appears clear barely a block further up. Several semis are parked behind the shopping plaza, but she doesn’t see anyone near them.

  Her right tires bounce over the curb and she takes out the stop sign while making a right turn onto 22nd Avenue. My nerves are shot. Can’t believe I’m almost home!

  Looking ahead she sees another terrible pile-up. She can feel hope evaporate like rain on hot pavement. The car isn’t going to make it beneath the overpass for Interstate 275. Both entry and exit ramps to the interstate are blocked with cars and wandering figures, and a fierce fire is raging underneath the overpass.

  About two blocks from the mess, she brakes and stops the car. A Lowe’s is to her left and a Home Depot to the right. The next closest road going east is 38th Avenue N, sixteen blocks north of here. Straight ahead, if the way were open, she is roughly four blocks from her house.

  I’m going to have to leave most of this stuff. The thought kills her inside. Park over at Home Depot, lock it up, and hope for the best.

  When no better idea appears, she does exactly that. The parking lot is almost full. Most of the cars might even have been left with the same plan in mind as hers. She pulls into a space on the edge of the parking lot, and turns the engine off. I can carry this bag and the gun, and not much more. Need a backpack or something. Don’t even know what’s in the bag. She opens the bag and begins to rummage through it. Let’s see: bag of Doritos; bottle of water; box of bullets; some candy bars; a Penthouse magazine; cigarettes; sunglasses and 81 a bottle of Ibuprophen. Not exactly the treasure of El Dorado, but some good stuff.

  She stuffs the car keys and gun in the bag, opens the car door, and steps carefully out onto the parking lot. Doesn’t see any glass. The concrete is hot, but not unbearable yet, on her bare feet. Slings the bag over her shoulder and the strap is long enough that she can easily reach in for the gun. The shopping bags in the back seat nag at her. What’s in them? Might matter to me later.

  No o
ne appears to be nearby. She manages to shut the front door without making a lot of noise. Looks around, and sees no one near. Gets the back door open and quickly leans over to check the bags. There are two-liter bottles of soda, gallon jugs of water, and several bags full of can goods, along with three cases of Budweiser. She lifts one of the water jugs, opens the lid and drinks as much as she can, feeling excess water soak her shirt.

  That one little bottle of water isn’t going to cut it pretty soon. Too hot out. I’ll take this one with me and just toss it away if I have to run.

  The jug is still more than two-thirds full when she straightens back up and shuts the door. With the jug in one hand and the bag slung under the other, she checks to make sure the doors are locked, and then quickly turns away. She hot foots it, the jug sloshing, over to a section of grass bordering the parking lot. The grass feels much better underfoot.

  On this side, the west side, of the overpass, the cars are backed up about ten deep on either side, many of them locked together, almost as if the drivers tried to push their way through. Flames and a lot of smoke obscure any clear view of the passage under the interstate. She realizes it’s probably better to try to go over, than under, even though the trip will take twice as long or more.

  If only I had some socks, even.

  Please be there Mom. I’m coming.

  There is a sidewalk that parallels the road, but she plans to stay on the grass as long as possible, hopefully all the way to the interstate ramp. She runs again, feeling the water cool on her chest, and trying to be leery of her footing or any surprises that might pop up.

  As she draws near to the southbound ramp the smoke eddies and she catches a glimpse underneath the overpass. Sees burned vehicles: cars; trucks and mini-vans. Charred corpses are all over, walking around, lying prone, or feasting. This last almost stops her in her tracks, but her determination to find her mother drives her on and she leaves the last of the grass and sprints up the ramp.

  Two people are walking almost side by side just ahead of her. She darts around them and hears their moans as she pulls away. Her breathing is uneven, terror preventing her from finding the natural rhythm that would normally keep her going for miles.