“We all soldiers,” answers Tracks. “At least used to be. Hard to forget.”
“So,” says the attractive red-haired woman, “are we taking the motorized lifeboat or not?”
Ralls looks Bronte in the eyes. “I say we do it. We got the firepower.”
“The elevators are working,” says Nast. “We just put all the extra stuff and the dolly carts on the elevators, hit the Leto Deck button, and follow them up on the stairs. Simple.”
“I will ride up in one,” says Hadley. “I don’t think I’ll make it up or down anymore stairs. Maybe I can take some of them with me.”
Bronte nods slowly at Ralls. “Me, Tracks, Hadley and the woman, will cover for you while you get the lifeboat ready.”
“Sounds good to me,” Ralls replies.
“I am not the woman,” says the redhead, “I am Lieutenant Sinclair, and I am taking as many chances as you are.”
“Yes ma’am, I’ll remember that.”
Jacobs
Most of the fire escape is missing. Only this floor remains. The rest lies in a pile of twisted metal on the ground.
Only way out of here is that stairwell. I do have forty feet of rope in my backpack, but that is useless from this high up.
“What are you doing in here boy?”
The voice is male, low and menacing, some sort of Spanish accent. Jacobs very carefully levers himself back into the building.
“Ain’t no way out, ‘cept like the ladies out there.”
“Why is that?” Jacobs asks, still refusing to look at the other man, only a moment later he reaches his feet and stands up.
“Cause I said so,” the man says.
Jacobs is within two quick steps of the other guy, a hunched over, barrel-chested guy wearing a pair of faded cut-off Levi’s, a white, short-sleeved Guayabera shirt, and a pair of lime-green Croc sandals. He is holding an old K-Bar bayonet. A drop of blood drips off the point drips onto the floor.
“You Mr. Clements?”
“Clemente.”
“Oh, the lady next door…”
“That bitch, she never pronounces my name properly.”
“Well, Mister Clemente, I was just looking for an easy way down. Looks like your fire escape is gone. So I’ll just head on down the stairs.”
The man stares him in the eyes for a moment, then looks down. The knife twirls in his hand. Must practice fucking around with the damn thing.
“Take me with you.”
For a second or two, Jacobs toys with the idea. Guy might go psycho on me if I say no. Just have to put some stink on him then. “No can do. I’m on a special assignment. Now if you want to follow me down, then leave about twenty minutes after me. I catch you creeping up on me, though, and I’ll waste you.”
“That your final answer?” the man asks. “Not very friendly are you?”
Jacobs shifts the M-4 around, sees the red dot of the laser slide across the man’s face and stops it just above the nose. Squeezes the trigger.
“No I’m not.”
The echo of the shot is still in his ears as the body falls and sprawls backward in the doorway.
Natalie
She stops in the grass off to the side at the bottom of the entrance ramp and looks across the piled up cars. Maybe if I try the exit ramp?
The ramp is full as far as she can see on it. Probably a lot of things there too, but maybe not. Something behind her tries to moan, but manages only a disgusting choking rattle, reminding her that she has no time to stand around debating what to do.
Oh God, my feet Mom, my feet hurt bad!
Halfway across 22nd Avenue, she sees forty or fifty zombies coming down the ramp. There is no way to run past them. Hears herself blubbering, but doesn’t stop. Runs back toward the car.
Nothing stops her, or slows her down on the way back. She just can’t believe how hard it is to get home. The interstate runs the length of St. Petersburg. If every underpass is blocked…She forces that thought away. I will get home. There has to be a way.
She turns the key, and the engine starts right up. Puts her foot on the brake and shifts into reverse. Glances behind and sees a short, plump woman wearing an orange apron standing right behind the trunk. Part of the woman’s face has been chewed, and the sight pushes Natalie over the edge. She floors the gas and the woman disappears so fast beneath the car that she is only able to stop after running her over completely.
The wheels roll over the corpse again as Natalie shifts into drive, and heads for the exit. She can smell burning rubber as she peels back out onto 22nd Avenue North and turns left away from the Interstate.
I’ll try 38th Avenue North. Might make it taking back roads.
Morgan
Trish kneels down and peers around the corner of the building. Morgan stops beside her and kneels down too. Not sure how much good the kneeling is doing us, but I’ll go along.
The smell hits him before he can even take in the scene that awaits them. Dead meat rotting in the sun. Corpses are all over the parking lot. Over a hundred. A major battle of some type was fought here. There are several vehicles, but all of them are shot up.
Some of the corpses still have guns in their hands.
“Whatever happened here probably isn’t over,” Trish says. “I think people came expecting to loot the place and someone inside fought them off.”
“I think you’re right.”
“We have to have a wheelchair. So, I’m going in,” she says.
“I’m going with you, like it or not.”
She looks at him, and doesn’t conceal her admiration. “You are a good man, Morgan. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
He blushes. “I wish that were so, Trish, but thanks for saying it.”
Her hand is on his back as she stands up. She looks around the corner of the building. The doors have been smashed open. More corpses lie among the glass and twisted metal. “Hello!” she shouts. “Hello in there! Anybody home?”
No one answers.
Trish steps around the corner, heads toward the nearest corpse holding a gun. It’s a dead woman laying face down: A very large dead woman actually. Several flies rise out of the bloody corn-rowed hair on top of her head. He imagines her trying not to look too close. There is a semi-automatic pistol in the woman’s hand. Not a big gun. Something a woman could handle no problem. She grabs the gun by the barrel and tries to twist it out of the woman’s grip. The fingers appear stiff, but she seems determined. A few seconds later the gun comes free.
He can’t help but watch every move she makes. Something a little bit icy about her, something that almost reminds him of his lost love, Doctor Bastrov. Trish pauses a moment more, looking for the magazine release on the pistol. Finds it on the left side just behind the trigger, and pushes it. The magazine drops an inch or two and she pulls it free. She knows her business. There are little windows in the magazine to show how many bullets are left. “I got five bullets,” she says and then replaces the magazine. Probably one still in the chamber, too. Better than nothing. I’ll go first anyway. She may know about guns, but can she shoot?
Morgan comes out from around the corner, with his gun pointing toward the entrance. Not a single front window is still intact. Shattered glass is all over the ground, as are some more bodies that got closer than the others.
He lets out a low whistle.
A short very dark-skinned, black man staggers just inside the entrance doors. Behind him are five or six people. His hair is shorn almost down to the scalp and he is wearing jeans, a green t-shirt and boots. Three big bloody holes show in the t-shirt.
“So, all you want is a wheelchair?” Morgan asks.
“I’d like to get some food and water, but the wheelchair is what we really need.”
“I’ll shoot first until I run out, then you cover me, ok?”
“Sure Morgan, just remember I only have five or six rounds in this thing.”
The short guy is getting very close. Morgan aims for the nose and fires. Th
e guy jerks to a stop and drops. Morgan shifts his aim. A tall, but average-sized guy in a green apron shuffles closer, almost on top of the first one. The gun fires and jerks up in Morgan’s hand. Fuck! Too nervous. The guy continues forward, only now he’s reaching out, way too close. Missed completely.
Trish waits beside him, hopefully trying to soak up details of the store. Morgan can see shopping carts are to the left, and a huge scale for people is on the right. A second set of automatic doors are also smashed.
Morgan fires again and the guy in the apron twists to the left, then falls forward with a nice hole drilled in his forehead.
Five more shots take down the remaining four corpses.
His ears are ringing and for the moment the smell of gunpowder overpowers the smell of rot and death.
“Re-load while you can,” Trish says.
“Yeah, and then let’s go shopping.”
She grins. “You are getting better at focusing on what is important.”
He puts the almost empty magazine in his left front pants pocket and pulls a new one out of his right. Three more full magazines left. While re-loading, he watches Trish from the corner of his eye. She steps gingerly over the newly put down corpses and stops by the rows of carts. “Here’s our wheelchair!” she exclaims, pulling a folded shape on wheels free.
“If we have to push him around in that very far, we’re all dead,” he says.
Trish lets out a sigh. “We have to get him off the roof first. Then we’ll worry about finding a car or something, okay?”
“All righty.”
“You ready yet?”
“I forgot my coupons, but…”
She pushes the chair through the broken doors and into the store proper. Morgan follows her in, gun in hand. Toward the back of the store, its almost pitch black inside.
“I can’t see, Morgan. We need flashlights.”
“Let me try over by the registers. You can usually find flashlights there; you know, in case of storms and the power fails.”
“I’m right behind you.”
They skirt a large, mounded display of Pepsi products and the closest register is about ten feet away. The light is better because they are close to a second set of doors.
Morgan squats down behind the register counter and starts rummaging around. Comes up with a flashlight almost immediately. He hands it to Trish.
“Now, we’ll find one for me, and we should be in business,” he says.
“I wonder if we could make it through the whole store to the receiving dock area and go out that way?” Trish asks.
“I think we’d be pushing our luck. Be better for us to just grab some snacks and drinks, get the hell out, and be happy with what we have.”
Morgan can see a dreamy look on Trish’s face. Maybe she has a good idea.
Her next sentence confirms his hope.
“Be even better if one of the corpses has car keys that match a car out front.”
Booth
“I’m taking my mask off,” Booth says. “I’d rather be able to see better, than wear the goddamned thing any longer.”
Lassiter shrugs at him. Without further ado, Booth puts his helmet in his lap and pulls the mask off. The air cycling through the open cabin provides immediate relief, and quickly dries the sweat. Lepski and Hicks follow his lead and take theirs off too.
“Ah, that air feels good,” says Hicks.
The land beneath the chopper has given way to large swathes of mangroves. There are roads cutting through the greenery like grey scars, occasional buildings, but the dominating feature is the massive power plant on the edge of the bay. Three colossal smoke stacks tower into the sky surrounded by more buildings.
The helicopter banks right, and on a mangrove island not far from the Plant, a plume of smoke rises. The tail rotors of another helicopter are visible rising from the jungle-like vegetation.
Booth puts his helmet back on, and plugs the headset back in. A moment or two later, Captain Duncan’s voice says, “We’ll set down just outside the perimeter fence. It is just a short jog from there to the water’s edge and the water is shallow all the way to the wreck site island.”
“Roger that,” Booth says.
“Get ready. We’re going in.”
Lassiter swivels around and grabs hold of an M-60 machine gun mounted in the doorway. Booth disconnects from the headset and gets ready, watching for Lassiter’s signal.
The helicopter hovers a couple of feet above a wide expanse of grass, when Lepski, Hicks and finally Booth drop the short distance and kneel, each facing a different direction. Moments later the chopper rises up and then swivels around and flies away on a southerly heading.
“Anybody see anything?” Booth asks over his helmet mic.
“Clear,” both men answer. The fence is at their back roughly thirty feet away, and the mangroves begin about twenty feet in front of them.
“I’ll take point,” Booth says.
“I’ll take rear guard,” says Hicks.
The three men cross the grass quickly, and begin to wend their way through the tangled roots of the mangrove trees. The ground is soft, mucky and riddled with the holes made by hordes of fiddler crabs. The waves coming in are gentle, and they walk quite a distance before it even comes to their waists.
“At least we can see a fucking shark coming,” says Hicks.
“I’m surprised how clear it is,” Lepski replies. “Look at all the fish!”
Booth clears his throat. “Knock it off guys. Concentrate.”
“How many hours we been at this straight, Booth?” asks Hicks. “Over twenty. And whether you are willing to admit it or not, we’re still playing a game while the rest of the world falls apart or does whatever the fuck they want.”
“Doesn’t matter. None of that shit matters. What’s important is doing what we trained to do most of our lives. The rest of the world can go to hell, but we will take care of business.”
Hicks face is very red. Even worse, he stops and is striding toward Booth. For the first time, Booth gets a scary thought. What if Hicks has been drinking, or worse? His nose is an angry red with bright visible veins. Can almost imagine them pulsing with blood.
“I hate to tell you this now, Booth, but what the fuck are we risking our lives for? The President’s wife and kids?”
Booth stops, almost hip deep now in the warm water. “You got someplace better to be Hicks? Somebody waiting for you at home?” Both of those were cheap shots and both scored. Hicks is blinking his eyes rapidly, but too late, tears are running down his cheeks.
“You goddamn bastard Booth, you goddamned fucking bastard,” Hicks says, but his voice is broken and all the outrage drained away.
The three men resume wading, and within a few strides the water level drops again. “I can smell AV gas,” says Lepski. Booth’s boots are now splashing in ankle deep water.
A large chunk of the downed chopper is visible.
A woman stands up in the wreckage, a pistol held in both hands, but the barrel is pointing down.
“First Lady?” Booth asks, out loud.
The woman nods, and sobs, “Oh thank God!”
Anton
He lies on his back on the immense pebbled roof, and bakes in the sun like a sickly whale cast up on shore, too weak, and too apathetic to fight any longer. Through slitted eyes, he watches a slowly drifting cloud, hoping it will block out the sun, if only for a moment or two. The sweat pouring from his body provides some comfort when the breeze picks up.
Wish I had my sunglasses and hat.
A fly buzzes him, and he swats at it half-heartedly.
Come get me my lord. I’m ready.
The voice, usually so comforting and friendly, has taken on a whining quality that grates on his nerves.
“I wonder where they are Anton? We heard all those shots. Think they are dead?”
He watches her pace, fingers knotted in her dress, revealing long relatively well-formed legs. From somewhere, he finds the grace to a
nswer kindly, “They’re ok, Debbie. Just relax. Those two are survivors.”
“I was mean to Morgan, you know.”
“Oh?”
Hope she doesn’t chatter too much longer. My throat and mouth are parched.
“We all were actually,” she says, and walks back near him. Her shadow falls over his face and he almost thanks her. “Nobody thanked him for what he did to help us. I was worried he was getting goofy over me, and I just didn’t want him to expect a reward or something. I’m still grieving over Larry.”
“He might have a big dick Debs,” he hears himself say and laughs. Debbie blushes, and half turns away, choking back a laugh. The sun is back to blasting down on him.
“You and your filthy mind, Anton, too bad you can’t…”
He laughs again. “Yeah, I have the filthy mind, Debbie, but even when it worked, my dick was never large.”
For some reason, this admission must have triggered something. The next thing he knows, she is sitting beside him with his head cradled in her lap. Her shadow falls over him. A tear falls, hitting his cheek.
“I wonder if they’ll be back soon…”
Daric
The Sea Hummer and catamaran float together in a light chop of water the color of weak tea. Sunlight reflecting off the water and the gleaming white side of the grounded cruise ship makes it hard to open his eyes more than a squint. With a pair of binoculars, he slowly scans the ship’s upper decks, hoping for a glimpse of Bronte or Tracks.
Ozzie stands beside him with an arm over his shoulders. “I’m ready, when they appear, son. “I got the Hummer all set. All I have to do is cast off one line and I can zip right over.”
Daric looks up at the old, lean, grizzled white man. The man’s skin is nearly as dark as his own, but has a mahogany tint. Might be an Indian or something. The man’s shaggy white hair and eyebrows are the only things to wreck that image. Never seen an Indian with white hair.
“I need to go help them, Ozzie,” Daric says.
Ozzie looks down at him, “Think you are ready?”
“Yes sir.”
“Can you untie a knot real quick, if I show you?”
“Yes sir.”
Ozzie kneels down beside him. “Watch closely son. First you pull here, then…”
Dead Tide Rising Page 8
