Three quick shots to the creatures in the rear at the top of the stairs causes a mad tangled jumble of bodies to fall toward the landing. Barely in time, he scuttles to his left and kicks a guy in a hospital gown in the head. On the way down he shoots and stomps his way through. All the years of training serve him well, and within minutes he exits the stairs through a shattered door and steps out into the ground level. Sunlight fills the room, revealing a waiting room full of shabby furniture, and a small enclosed office area off to the left side of the entrance.
The front doors are standing open.
Two of the things are standing in the doorway. One’s a stocky guy in nurse’s whites, and the other is an old woman in a bathrobe. On a normal day, they might be conversing about the weather, or whatever. Today, they both have blood and pale gobbets of flesh smearing their faces and their clothes. Almost like they dipped their fucking heads in a pig trough.
Re-load or shoot them?
Pretty sure I’m down to two or three rounds.
The nurse turns his way and snarls. He has a mouth full of twisted, yellow teeth. The laser beam centers just to the right of a bushy eyebrow, right over the temple.
He holds his breath, aims again, and squeezes. The head jerks, spraying blood, and the guy drops to his knees and then falls face forward. Meanwhile, completely oblivious to her companion’s demise, the old lady still stands motionless.
Probably deaf, and she might even be blind. Human flaws must carry over. He almost laughs.
This building must have been some sort of nursing home. “Might as well put you out of your misery, eh lady?” he says, raising the rifle.
Before he finishes the motion, the old lady’s head shatters, and the sound of the shot is from behind him. Ears ringing, he spins on his heels, and finds himself facing the woman from upstairs.
She grins at him, “Sorry about shooting past your ear, but that old bitch had it coming for years. I couldn’t let you shoot her first.”
He watches two small children appear from the darkness of the stair and stand next to her. He lowers his rifle.
“Thanks for cleaning things out for me. The elevator doesn’t work. I never would have made it out with the kids if not for you.”
He shrugs, and turns back toward the door out.
“That it? Nothing to say?”
“Nope,” he answers. “I thought you just had a daughter.”
“The boy is my nephew. You really just going to leave me and two kids all alone?”
He stands there and can’t say anything. His mouth is working, but nothing is coming out. Finally, he manages to say, “She left me. I didn’t leave her. She kicked me out and took my children away.”
“Well, I’m not her, Mister. I’m not helpless. I can help. The children are well-behaved. They listen.”
He can’t look her in the eyes. “I got nothing lady. You hear me? Nothing. I’m just another one of these dead things walking around.”
I don’t know anything about that. It’s all bullshit now. You can help someone. You can make a difference.”
He feels a tear slide down his face. “Don’t you understand lady?”
“Hell yes, I understand! Just get me and my kids to the Skyway Bridge, and then you can go do whatever you were doing.”
A kid’s voice says, “Please help us mister.”
He forces himself to look the woman in the eyes, “I don’t suppose you happen to have a car, do you?”
Tracks
His breath wheezes in and out, and he coughs. The white guy, Ralls is shooting a pistol into a crowd of camouflage-clad soldiers exiting a stair onto the deck. Judging by their continued advance, he must not being getting the headshots required to stop them.
Bronte and Sinclair stop next to him, on either side, while Tracks levels the machine gun on them, and sends the dead sprawling, and falling before a hail of bullets.
The engineering chief, and Bailov, are already busy readying one of the motor-powered launches. Only a sliver of deck encircles the enclosed cabin, leaving little outdoor freeboard, and the orange painted roof is a stark contrast to the white of its hull.
Bailov pulls on some heavy duty gloves from a tool locker.
“Can you two load the boat while Sinclair and I cover you?” asks Ralls, looking toward Bronte and Tracks.
“Sure thing,” says Bronte, already climbing on board through a hatch in the middle of the boat. He tosses his rifle onto a bench, and takes the first crate from Tracks.
The two work together, quickly unloading the boxes up and into the inside of the boat. Meanwhile the moans and cries of the dead mount, as more of them head their way.
In a matter of moments, the boxes are aboard, and all but Bailov scrambles after them. The sailor, stands by the winch controls, already lowering the craft toward the water far below. Sinclair screams at him, but the man either doesn’t hear or isn’t listening.
“Jump man!” yells Nast, as the boat rushes downward, almost falling.
A sea of people appear behind the man, grasping at his clothes, pulling, tearing, and finally the man leaps, or tries to anyway. Two of things have him, and for a moment, the sailor dangles with two people fighting to drag him back. The boat plunges into the water, throwing all of its loose contents around, as seawater pours in through the open hatch. Ralls cries out as his arm breaks with an audible snapping, and cold water swirls around him, but then the boat surges back to the surface.
Tracks struggles back to the doorway just in time to watch as the sailor falls, headfirst, dragging two soldiers overboard with him.
It is a long fall.
Talaski
“What are we stopping for?” Talaski asks.
“Look for yourself,” replies Mills, pointing several blocks up, toward a crowd of burning people. Not all of them are burning. Even as they sit there, more emerge around the corner, apparently pursuing a hunched over man with a limp, and several other figures, some in army uniforms, and some in hospital whites.
“What are we going to do?” asks Amy.
“They can either climb on top of the engine or hold on to the sides,” says Mills.
“We could just take that street right there,” says Suzy, pointing at a two lane brick road, just a few feet up on the right. “And avoid the whole mess.”
“Or we could just help them,” say Mills, sounding angry.
“You don’t know anything about them,” Suzy retorts. “They still might be killing everyone.”
Talaski sits still, saying nothing. He can see Keller doing the same. Anything they do will entail risk. Too much is out of their hands–Almost everything really.
“You’re a fucking loon, you know that lady?” Mills? face is suffused with red, from his scalp down to the red blotches at his cheeks.
Suzy turns on him, any trace of beauty gone from her face, “I don’t trust any of you government pricks. You’re all part of the system that started this whole thing.”
Talaski pictures shooting her, knowing what her face would look like as the bullet punched through her forehead. The easy solution. Instead, he says, “We help them.”
“Right on,” says Mills, giving the engine enough gas to start and creep forward at about five miles an hour. Suzy sits back in her seat, and faces forward, ignoring him.
“Get us about a block closer, Adam,” Talaski says to Mills. “Keller and I will dismount and go help them.”
The sound of the fire truck’s engine is loud as it echoes off the nearby one and two story storefronts that surround them on either side. Even so, Talaski catches a fragment of Amy saying something to Keller about “being safe.”
Keller has a big, happy smile on his face. Haven’t seen many of those in the last few years, my friend. Not nearly enough. It’ll be nice to see my friend have some happiness.
Talaski waits a heartbeat or two, as Keller gets a quick kiss, and then reaches for the door handle and says, “Let’s go Matt!”
“Be safe,” Mills yells as they jump from the truck.
Talaski raises a hand, and falls in beside Keller. They are running, but Keller’s flat out sprint is several gears below Talaski’s top speed. They pass several corpses sprawled in the street. One of them is still tangled in a bicycle.
Probably got hit by a car.
Several people in hospital whites run toward them, while about a half block distant, more people stop, turn around, and fire toward still unseen pursuers. Talaski starts to count.
“I count ten of them total, Nick,” says Keller.
“Yes. You stay with them and get them aboard the truck. I’m going on ahead.”
Keller nods, but doesn’t look happy.
The man in the lead slows to a stop in front of them. Tall, geeky looking white guy with long, brown sideburns and thick, black-framed glasses. Talaski focuses on the nameplate on the man’s white coat: Dr. Hull.
“Officer?” the doctor says, but Talaski brushes by him, picking up speed now that he doesn’t have to hold back for Keller.
“Talk to the man with me,” he says, over his shoulder.
Two more people in white try to stop him, one a black guy with a name plate that says Watkins, and the other a thirtyish blond woman named Tate. Both, probably nurses, are blood-spattered. Watkins had a fire-axe and Tate was carrying a small pistol.
Not too far now. Just ahead, seven people are either shooting or re-loading various weapons. Three civilians, three soldiers and a cop.
The firing trails off, just as Talaski comes to a stop.
The big guy with the flamethrower turns around, while pulling a red bandana from his shirt pocket. He’s the guy with the limp. He uses the bandanna to wipe his face, then looks at Talaski. The guy is very tan, with short, black curly hair, and with a build to match Keller’s. He gives a big smile, full of white teeth, “We’re looking for the shuttle bus officer. Think you could help us out?”
Talaski grins back, “Sorry we were late. By all means, please join us.”
Daric
He stands near the base of a stairway, and listens. The ship itself is making noises: groans and creaks. The flashlight is set for a wide beam, and he can see a lot.
The body of Graham lies before him, just beside the last stair.
He’d swear the man isn’t breathing.
Hears Tracks voice in his head: He dead boy.
“Don’t be one of them, Mister Graham,” he whispers. A rifle is lying beside the big man’s body.
From seemingly far away, he can still hear Beth and Janicea screaming for him to come back, but at the moment an engine noise drowns them out. He takes a step toward the rifle, and toward the body. “I better leave it Mister Graham.”
He can hears voices again, over the engine sound. Voices shouting his name.
“Daric, you better come back here!”
Bronte?
“Daric, where are you?”
“I’m here Bronte! I’m here!” he answers, running back the way he came.
Bronte stands framed in the doorway with a strange boat behind him. Daric runs and Bronte gathers him into his arms, hugging him tight.
“Thank God, boy. You gave us all a fright. What were you doing?”
“I was looking for you and Tracks, but I found Mister Graham instead.”
Bronte looks concerned, “Oh, is he trapped back there or something? Where is the boy?”
“I think he’s dead, sir.”
Bronte nods, and turns back around, toward the doorway. Tracks is right there, a foot or two away, standing in the open hatch of one of the ship’s lifeboats. Bronte hands him over and Tracks gives him a big hug.
“Take the boy, and I’ll check on Graham. Be right back.”
Tracks rumbles, “Okay Bronte.”
Foster
Someone is shaking his shoulder. He opens his eyes, lifts his head from the table, and feels a wet spot on his cheek. I was fucking drooling. An almost empty bottle of bourbon is sitting near the pile of reports he was reading earlier.
Lieutenant Green is standing nearby, face averted, as if that saves him any embarrassment. Guy doesn’t look much better than I feel.
“How long since you’ve slept Lieutenant?”
“The Speaker is in route, sir.”
“Did you hear my question, boy?”
Green’s face colors, but his expression doesn’t change. “Three days, sir.”
“What about the rest of the House? They coming with her?”
“They are being housed at a separate facility, sir. We don’t have the transport capability to bring them all here at once. Most of them brought their families too. I can show you where they are on the map if it is important?”
Foster laughs. “Doesn’t really matter where they are if all their constituents are dead, now, does it? Who the hell are they representing now? The majority in America right now are just a bunch of mindless, hungry wretches! How’s that for a reality check?”
“Several states are almost untouched sir! We are a long shot from losing, and we might be able to contain this thing!”
“Think so, Lieutenant? One of those reports is suggesting we use neutron bombs on overrun areas.”
The younger man grimaces at the emphasis on his rank. “General Kyler has always been a reactionary, sir! We don’t even know whether anything short of a firestorm will kill them.”
“I’m afraid we will have to test that out soon,” Foster says, while holding up a hand to forestall any reply from Green. “Now, I’m going to get cleaned up. Escort the Speaker to me when she arrives, and then go get some sleep. Send me Clive, to take your place. He should be able to handle it.”
“Your secret service guy?”
“Yes.”
“Right away sir.”
Trish
“So what’s that fireman got?” Morgan asks, while pushing the wheel chair. He’s also holding a baseball cap full of keys, and watching her bend over. “I mean aside from good looks and smooth lines.”
“I’ve had enough of this conversation, Morgan,” she replies over her shoulder. Somehow, she ended up having to check each corpse in the store for keys. So far, she’s checked close to twenty bodies. At least we haven’t run into anymore living dead.
Morgan sighs, loudly.
“Watching me bend over isn’t enough for you?”
“What makes you think That’s what I’m doing?”
She stops in mid-stride, and looks back at him, letting some of her anger show.
“I can feel your eyes burning a hole through my shorts.”
“So what if they are?”
“I used to think you were a nice guy, but you’re no different than the rest.
He laughs. “And I thought you were a nice girl.”
“Guess we were both wrong,” she mutters to herself. They are getting close to the back of the store. She stops for a moment and cocks her head, hopefully cluing him in that she is listening for company. He doesn’t say anything, but she can see him playing his flashlight over a row of open-topped refrigerator cases. Things are beginning to get smelly. No telling how long the power’s been out in here or whether the place had a back-up generator.
To their right, about ten feet away, she can see a pair of metal doors. A little bit further to the right is a loaded grocery stocking cart. Close to twenty cases of various food stuffs are on it.
Trish walks over to the doors and pushes them open. They are the swinging type with a window in each one. Heavy duty metal racks of canned goods, paper towels and cleaning supplies fill the wall to her right almost to the ceiling. To the left is a bulletin board with schedules tacked to it. A little further down is another hallway that turns left. Straight ahead of her, just past the hallway is a cardboard baling machine and a pull-down receiving door. Boxes are spilling out of it, and a lot of trash covers the floor.
“Maintenance man must have called out,” Morgan says from behind her. He doesn’t wait for a response, and pushes the wheelchair past her. He puts the hat in the seat, and while holding h
is flashlight, he starts to turn down the hallway.
She doesn’t even smile. Fuck him. I’ve done a lot worse jobs than dance naked for money.
“I smell something bad–How about you?” Morgan asks.
She sniffs.
Something lunges out of the hallway and crashes into the wheelchair.
Trish catches a glimpse of what might be a teenager wearing one of the grocery store’s green vests. His hair is long and greasy, and he continues forward and almost into Morgan’s arms.
It all happens so fast. Morgan loses his flashlight, and doesn’t even try for the holstered pistol at his waist. The struggle is too immediate and dire to do more than grapple. The teenager is snarling, and snapping his teeth, while Morgan tries to hold him off.
“Shoot him Trish!” Morgan shouts. “For god’s sake, please!”
Trish keeps trying to aim, while holding her flashlight on the two, but the fight must be an even match. The two are stumbling and crashing all over the room.
Suddenly they both crash to the floor, and she hears Morgan wail, “It hurts! Triiisssh! Help me! It hurts!”
She manages to get closer without falling, and in the beam of her light she sees the teen look up at her. The things face is a mask of blood, and in its teeth is a long piece of gory flesh. She squeezes the trigger of her pistol. Most of the thing’s right ear vanishes in a mist, and it doesn’t even stop chewing. Sobbing, she steps closer, and shoots again. The thing’s head snaps back and it goes limp, falling back on top of Morgan.
Aside from her own distressed gasps, all is quiet. She takes a step closer. Plays the light over the faces in front of her. Sees the teen has slid partway off Morgan, and that it now has a gory weeping hole where its left eye used to be. As for Morgan, a good portion of his throat is missing. His face is a mask of agony, and his eyes are still open wide.
“Oh God, Morgan. Fuck! I really don’t need this now.”
How long before he comes back? I must have four bullets left because one was in the chamber. Didn’t think of that when I checked the magazine, but the thought was there.
“Gonna have to give you a preemptive shot, Morgan. Don’t have time to wait. Sorry things ended this way.”
To be sure, she puts the barrel up close to his left temple and fires. His head flops to the side, and once again silence falls around her as her breathing levels out.
Dead Tide Rising Page 11
