She kneels beside the corpses, and pushes the teen the rest of the way off Morgan’s body. Her gaze settles on his waist, looks briefly at the small bulge beneath the gun belt, “Too bad you thought more with that, than with your brain.”
She is reaching for the buckle of his gun belt when four more zombies stumble against the wheelchair and into the room. There is no time to get the gun. No place to go. She looks behind her, specifically at the metal racks.
A husky man wearing slacks, shirt and tie, falls at her feet as she backs away, and turns toward the racks. There is time to leap onto a pallet of dog food, then up to the rack itself. A small woman with tattooed arms almost catches her on the rack, but is slightly too short. Her fingertips brush the bottom of Trish’s right sneaker, but fail to find a hold.
Trish stops for a breather on the second level of the rack, about ten feet up. The four creatures stare up at her, snarling and trying to reach her.
She looks at her gun, still in hand.
Three bullets left.
Booth
Smoke trails away, dissipating into the pale blue of the sky over the wrecked helicopter. Lepski is still in his perch, firing away at an ever increasing amount of the dead wading out into the water. There must be several hundred of them. Twenty or thirty weren’t walking anymore, giving evidence to Lepski’s marksmanship. Best of all, none of them appeared to be following Booth and his companions.
Booth’s thighs are burning. Fortunately, the President’s wife is in good shape, at least physically. She is moving with a purpose and hasn’t uttered the first complaint. Food and water are uppermost in his mind, other than finding a sheltered spot from their pursuers.
Hicks is already stepping onto the soft, thin strip of beige sand that leads to an opening in the mangroves. The bushy looking plants grow high, and obscure any view, short of the smoke stacks and main building, of the immense complex that lies behind them.
“Missus President,” he says, and she stops and turns back toward him.
“Call me Julie, or Juliet, if you please, Private.”
“Yes ma’am. We’ll find some place to hold up, and I have extra water and food in my pack, okay?”
He hurries the rest of the way out of the water, closing the distance between them to about five feet apart.
At the edge of the mangroves, Hicks stops, kneels in the nearly dry sand near a mangrove tree. He motions for them to do the same, waving his hand down. Booth brushes past Juliet and kneels beside Hicks.
The paved clearing surrounding the fence is filled with stumbling, shambling dead people.
“I count twenty-seven of them, sir,” Hicks murmurs.
“Probably more in the wood line,” replies Booth.
“Ok sir, what’s the plan? We going inside the fence or waiting here where they dropped us off?”
Guy looks more like a derelict than ever. His nose is still red, his cheeks are sprouting the beginning of a serious five o’clock shadow, and his eyes are bloodshot.
“Drop the sir bullshit right now,” Booth says, knowing he has a sour look on his face. “We don’t have any clippers for the fence, do we?”
“Lepski has them,” Hicks answers.
“How much longer do we have to wait?” Julie asks.
Both men are silent a moment. Over the increasing number of shots, they hear the thump of rotors.
“Not long to wait, but this isn’t safe,” Booth says.
Hicks takes a swig of his canteen and offers it to Juliet. She takes it with a smile.
The boy takes it next and chugs what is left.
Booth slaps at a mosquito, and says, “I say drop as many as we can, pop smoke and climb on board.”
Hicks shrugs.
Juliet says, “You gentlemen know what is best.”
Natalie
Mark stands at the outside the upstairs bathroom in the hallway. She isn’t sure whether she wanted him to, or not, but felt disappointment when he didn’t follow her in. “Ok, the house is clear,” he says, “I’ll just go make sure we are locked up tight and you can go ahead and find out if There’s any hot water left.”
She tries to grin. “I’m hoping the power hasn’t been out long.”
“Alright, I’ll be waiting downstairs,” he says, but the questioning look is there.
Her grin slides away. “I’d rather you came back up and joined me, Mark. I don’t think I can stand being alone.”
His solemn nod in response, surprises her. He took the remark seriously and didn’t make some adolescent horn dog remark. “I’ll be right there.”
Without waiting to see whether he left or not, she pulls her top over her head. In the mirror over the sink, she examines her tanned, lean body. No visible rape damage.
Nice hot shower and I’ll be good as new.
She shakes her head, knowing a lie when she hears one. Forces herself to focus on the task at hand. Get clean! The tub is right behind her. She turns around, leans past the shower curtain, and turns the hot water knob far to the right. Water immediately begins to jet out of the spout, and she stays bent over to make sure it heats up. Within seconds she feels the water heat up, adjusts the cold knob to get the right temperature, and then turns on the shower head knob. Shimmying out of her skirt is easily accomplished, and now, completely naked, she steps into the tub and lets the spray blast her. She is reaching for her washcloth and the soap when she hears Mark’s voice from the hallway, sounding awkward: “You sure you want company? I completely understand either way.”
“Just come in here with me. I need someone to be with me.”
“I’m hurrying. It’s unlacing these damn boots that takes so long.”
A moment later, his large muscular body slips between the curtain and the wall.
She trembles, unable to control herself.
He pulls her to him, takes the wash cloth and soap, and begins to wash her body. She leans her head against his chest.
Her sobs are barely audible over the trickle and patter of the water.
Lassiter
“I got green smoke at three o’clock,” Lassiter shouts into his headset. “You guys got audio, Captain?”
Captain Duncan replies, “Roger on the green smoke. We got audio, Chief. Be ready on the door gun. They’re trying to clear the apron now, but odds are we’ll have some unauthorized passengers trying to board.”
“Yes sir! I’m ready.”
“Going in.”
The chopper descends rapidly. On a small mangrove island, Lassiter spots the wrecked chopper and sees an incredible amount of people surrounding it and in the water nearby. The power plant is very close with the drifting green smoke he spotted a moment before. There is a fringe of mangroves, then the concrete apron and a chain link fence. Three or four people are standing, and most of the rest litter the ground nearby in smears of red.
The skids barely touch the ground. Lassiter holds onto the machine gun’s pistol grip as the three adults and a kid run toward the chopper. If anything, the two soldiers look more haggard than before, and the woman looks like she’s been to hell and back. The kid is a little boy holding tightly to the woman’s hand. The soldiers assist the woman and child aboard, then pile on behind. One of them, with Booth on his name tag leans close to Lassiter and shouts, “We left one of my men near the wreck!”
Lassiter nods, “I’ll let the captain know.”
Booth nods and goes to help the woman get settled in while the helicopter is already lifting off.
“Captain, one guy stayed with the wreck. We have a request to extract him.” Lassiter dreads the answer for a variety of reasons, but chiefly the odds are long that anyone is still alive back there.
Duncan surprises him with, “We’ll take a nice long look, Chief, but I got to get Mrs. Foster out of here.”
“I told the man I’d ask, Captain.”
“I don’t want a repeat of that Jacobs fiasco, so keep your sidearm ready.”
“Roger that sir.”
Booth is
sitting, looking directly at him as the conversation ends. Lassiter gives Booth a thumbs up and a grin. There’s no way, I can draw my gun that they won’t notice. I’m just going to have to hope for the best.
The helicopter passes low, about thirty feet up, over the mangroves, and only the pilots can see what is ahead of them. To the side, Lassiter has a great view of a swarm of people exiting the mangroves and wading through the water. Many of them look skyward and reach with their arms. Then Duncan banks the chopper to the left, and all of them can see the wreck. There are a lot of bodies, lying motionless either in the water or on the small island, but many more massed around the metal hulk, literally pushing on it, and fighting to get inside.
“I don’t see any survivors,” says Duncan.
“Me either,” says the copilot, Day.
None of them hear it, but they are all watching when an explosion blooms inside the downed chopper and a cloud of smoke and flame pours through every window and hole in the fuselage. A secondary larger explosion follows a few seconds later.
Lassiter looks over at Booth and the other soldier. Booth has his eyes closed, and the other guy, Hicks, is weeping uncontrollably.
The little boy says something to the woman, but Lassiter can’t hear it. She gives him a hug.
Wish I could hug someone, right now.
Jacobs
“I see you found some pants,” Jacobs says.
She gives him a lopsided grin, “Yes, and I’ve got a backpack full of food and water, too.”
“I still don’t like this.”
“You don’t have to like it, but please for the sake of the kids, at least, please help me.”
He reaches over and grips her shoulder. She glances at his hand, but then looks directly in his eyes. “I expect you to follow me close, obey whatever I say, and to keep those kids under control. Nod if you understand me.”
She nods, and says “I understand you.”
“I have to be ruthless if one of us gets bit–You understand what that means?”
Her eyes widen a bit, “We’ve been stuck in that building for two days. I’m scared to death now, but there is no choice. We would never have got out but for you.”
“My motives were bad. I still wish there was some way to know who killed my teammate, but there is no way to know. I just have to find a way to move on. At least you are giving me a purpose. So, where is this parking lot, anyway?”
“Just across First Avenue North, about half a block east. You can probably see it from here.”
Jacobs leans out from the wall, and looks around the corner. Four or five of the dead things are standing around not far from the parking lot in front of a pawn shop. There are several cars in the parking lot, including a big crew cab truck. “Your truck is the electric blue one with the crew cab?” he asks.
“Yes, my daughter calls it Big Blue.”
“It’s big alright, and you have the keys?”
She pats the pocket of the skintight blue jeans she is wearing now. “Right here.”
“Ok, I say we just make a beeline for it, going as fast as we can with the kids. I’ll carry one and you carry the other.”
“Anybody got a name?” he asks.
“I was wondering when you’d get around to asking that,” she says.
“I’m Sergeant Jacobs,” he replies, “and you are?”
“I’m Sara Downes, and my daughter is Abby, and the little guy is Tucker.”
“Well, Sara, Abby and Tucker, are you ready?”
For a moment the two kids look up at him, little stern-faced cherubs no older than five or six each of them, and then both nod solemnly.
“I got to carry you Tucker,” he says. “That okay with you?”
The boy looks over at his aunt, then back to Jacobs. “Yes sir.”
“Hoorah son. Just hold on tight.” Jacobs says and lifts the boy high and up into the crook of his left arm. “Hold my rifle, That’s it. I’m going to have to use my pistol for this.”
The boy gives him another serious nod while Sara lifts her daughter up. Jacobs can see the truck keys clenched tight in her right fist.
Sara winks at him, and he takes off at a moderate jog, trying not to favor his ankle, but lurching somewhat anyway. Sara is right on his heels, and for the moment that is all that matters. Having something to do is important.
He makes twenty some-odd steps before firing the first shot. The first of two men wearing a suit goes down, falling backwards off balance with a hole just above his left eye.
The next closest of the undead looks like a UPS guy and is dressed in a brown jumpsuit. Most of his left arm is missing, and his face has three deep gouges from left temple to just under the right side of his jaw. Jacobs side kicks the guy’s kneecap with everything he has. The kneecap shatters and the man falls face first onto the pavement.
Jacobs waits for Sara to run around him, then they both run straight for the truck. The other three dead things are too far away to bother with.
Sara fumbles with the keys a bit, but finds the button on the key fob and clicks once. She then lifts Abby into the truck, followed by Tucker as Jacobs hands him over.
“I’ll get in on the other side,” he says.
The engine turns over and rumbles to life as he runs around the back to the other side. He reaches for the handle and it’s still locked. Looks up with exasperation through the window.
Sara isn’t looking at him. In the back seat, the two kids are buckling themselves into child seats. The engine revves, and he watches as the truck careens backwards running right over two of the dead things. The truck comes to a stop, facing west on First Avenue North, as she shifts. The last standing creature is ten feet in front of her. The engine roars. The truck clips the thing, sending it flying, and is about to leave Jacobs behind.
You fucking bitch! Not again!
Without really thinking about it, Jacobs takes three quick steps and manages to grab the back of the truck. His feet drag the pavement, and then he manages to swing himself into the truck’s bed. He lands on his right arm and side and reaches out with his left hand to grip the tool box mounted against the rear of the cab.
The truck’s rear window is tinted, and all he can really see are the backs of the kids heads. The truck picks up speed. She must know I’m back here! Probably going to try to shake me off. Not today Whore! All bets are off.
He fires the pistol through the window. The glass shatters, the kids scream, and the Sara cuts the wheel far too hard to the left in an attempt to turn onto Sixteenth Street North. The truck overbalances, rides briefly on the right wheels and rolls.
Jacobs flies free, soaring briefly, before crashing into something that gives, tugs, takes and gives way at last.
His body rolls twice more, bruised, bloody, broken, and unconscious.
Tracks
The day is turning dark. Tracks looks up at the sky, and the clouds towering over them painted in angry tones of slate and gray. “More rain coming,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. The army woman, Sinclair is beside him, she may not have heard him.
“No sign of that guy,” says Sinclair, her long red hair blowing free in the breeze, while leaning out of the hatch. “He wouldn’t just sink to the bottom?”
From within the cabin, the chief engineer Nast, answers, “He should have surfaced minutes ago. God knows what happened to the poor bastard.”
“It was either him or the boy. You made the right choice,” says Ralls, sitting on one of the bench seats, holding his broken arm. “Hate to admit it, but sometimes crewman can’t swim as well as their record file says they can.
“The zombies sure sank like rocks,” Sinclair adds.
“How is your arm?” Bronte asks Ralls, while sitting down next to him.
“I’m sure it is broken,” Ralls answers. “I can see a bone moving under the skin.”
“You right handed?”
Ralls gives a rueful smile, “Of course.”
“Where we going Bronte?” Tracks asks.
/>
“Are we giving up the search?” Bronte asks in return, looking at the ship captain.
“He’s gone. I’d say lets join the rest of your people and give this problem some thought and discussion. The obvious choice is going to the Skyway Bridge to the Coast Guard. Not sure it is the best choice, though.”
“Okay, let’s get back,” Bronte agrees.
Nast goes back to the bridge controls, and within moments the engine purrs to life and he steers them toward the other two small craft.
Talaski
“Hang on everyone,” shouts Mills. Most of the people crammed into the fire engine’s cab groan in response.
The sky is clouded over and grey, and rain is falling as the truck plows through two SUVs with their bumpers locked. They part with relative ease, and are not a serious obstacle for the fire engine.
“About a mile up, there is a fire station. Maybe we could hold up there, until tomorrow?” asks the guy with the flamethrower.
“What is your name?” Talaski asks.
“I’m Amedeo, Sergeant Amedeo De Roma. Third Platoon, and the chain-smoking hangdog guy over there is Sergeant Creek. We’re remnants of the local Military Police Company. Pretty sure we are all that is left.
Creek perks up for a moment, “Don’t forget Private O’Reilly.”
De Roma nods, then continues, “Our platoon’s squads got scattered all over hell’s creation. One squad was not enough to contain the situation over at St. Anthony’s Hospital.”
Creek interrupts again, “They pulled me and six of my guys to help at the hospital. I’m the only one left. For all I know though, the three left behind might still be alive.”
Talaski shrugs. “God knows.”
Mills has the windshield wipers going. The rain is really starting to pound down. Too bad for the people hanging on outside.
“You know where the station I mentioned is?” De Roma asks Mills.
“Yep, I worked out of there three years ago. We’ll stop there, it isn’t much farther, about three more blocks.”
“I’m not sure whether we will stay,” says Talaski.
“Oh?” says De Roma, “I was thinking we should stay together. Might have a better chance to make it to the Skyway.”
Dead Tide Rising Page 12
