Dead Tide Rising

by Stephen North

  “We’ll find more supplies at the station,” says Mills, “unless someone looted it.”

  “Guess we’ll know in a moment or two,” Talaski answers.

  Foster

  “Smoke if you wish,” Foster says, while spreading some cheese on a cracker.

  “I’m conserving my supply, sir, but thank you.”

  “I don’t really want to talk to the bitch, Clive.”

  Clive’s face is impassive, as usual, but thankfully, he is always ready with an opinion. “Things are different, Mr. President, especially considering the unique situation we are facing.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “What’s left of her branch of the government is all isolated with their families. None of the power structure passes their way–Yet. Maybe never again. You and the Joint Chiefs are in command, now. I see too, that we succeeded in withdrawing most of our forces from Europe, Asia and the Middle-East before the situation became untenable.”

  Foster nods, “Yes, you even have the politically correct wording down pat. Untenable, a terrible joke, but, we left most of our heavy weaponry behind. When those forces arrive we will have to re-acquire the heavy stuff from quite a few overrun areas.”

  “How many of those troops are going to be willing to do anything but go try to rescue their own families, sir? The morale of the troops that are guarding us now is terrible. Just imagine how they feel about the leadership that is supposed to protect them saving their own families, while leaving theirs at the mercy of the undead? Our position is grave, sir. You yourself have made the same sacrifice, so they’ve stuck by you, but the Speaker? I think even her staff’s families were rescued. Friends of the family. You name it. Unless we can 167 do the same for everyone, what kind of message are we sending?” The agent’s words strike him like physical blows. What if word gets out that I’m trying to rescue my own family? If only Green knows…

  “How many soldiers, and staff are here, Clive?”

  Clive sits down, finally, while appearing to ponder the question. “Only three members of your detail, other than me, a platoon of marines, four or five secretaries and clerks, and then the emergency garrison consisting of Lieutenant Green and his platoon of MPs.”

  Foster takes a sip of wine. Have to consider very carefully how to let things play out. One misstep and even Clive here might decide to leave me or worse. “I’d like a list compiled of our personnel and how many have families still out there. Some effort needs to be made on their behalf.”

  The burly agent’s face reddens. “Sir, given your example, nobody is daring to complain. It is a wonderful gesture…”

  “It is more than a gesture, Clive. I need the hearts and minds of my people. I need commitment and dedication. Morale must be upheld.”

  Is that a glimmer of tears in the other man’s eyes?

  For some reason, this reaction makes him think of Ronald Reagan.

  Maybe a president can become an actor? Not just the reverse.

  Trish

  For about a half hour, the four monsters forgot about her. With fresh meat, Morgan, readily at hand, they crouched around him and began to feast. The sounds they made! Trish couldn’t bear to watch, so she sat in the darkness, trying to ignore them and figure out what to do. She turned her flashlight onto the freight on the racks, but her mind remained focused on her dilemma.

  Sooner or later, more of them would find their way inside. As it is, I could probably jump down and run out of here. They’d never catch me!

  But that meant abandoning Morgan’s gun and the wheelchair. Even worse, all the keys!

  The receiving bay doors are so close. God knows what Debbie and Anton must be thinking. Did they hear the shots? What if the helicopter came back right now?

  The helicopter isn’t coming back. That is one thing she is sure of.

  Boxes of Clorox are the first thing she comes across. Big gallon size plastic bottles, three to a case. She imagines what it must be like to stock them. I can lift it, but I wouldn’t want to do that everyday. The thought stops her dead as she pictures a whole case of the stuff toppling down on a dumb ass zombie. Might work as good or better than bullets.

  She turns the flashlight back toward the floor and there, right below her, caught in the beam is the woman with sleeve tattoos. Her arms are extended up, almost in a yearning fashion, with bloody fingers and a red ruin of a mouth opened wide. “How about a case right in the chops?” Trish asks, “Would you like that?”

  The woman staggers a step in her eagerness.

  Trish tears at the plastic wrap sealing the boxes on the pallet together, then works one loose. She pauses a moment with it half free, while checking her aim. “Bombs away!” she whispers, and pushes the case off. It falls, twisting from end to end once, strikes the woman’s arm, then head with tremendous force. The woman’s legs give way and she crumples to the ground, motionless.

  Someone laughs. That’s me! That was beautiful, if I don’t say so myself.

  The other three stand and shuffle over, stepping on the body and tripping over the box in their own eagerness to get her.

  Trish lines up another box, then lets it go. The box hits another woman, this one larger, with a mass of curly brown hair right in the face, dropping her flat on her back immediately. The smell of bleach fills the air. One or more of the bottles must have broken on that one. This woman doesn’t move again either.

  Two to go. One of them is the guy with the tie. The other is a badly-mauled older man. Course, just because his stomach cavity is empty, doesn’t mean he is slow.

  The guy with the tie is still standing near the pallet she jumped on to climb the rack. The old man is shuffling around the pallet. For an old guy, he does appear to have some big arms. His forearms are almost ridiculously huge, and in the light of her flashlight she can that they are sheathed in Morgan’s blood.

  She tracks the old guy’s progress all the way to just below her. He walks right into the pool of bleach and reaches for the nearest support post for the rack.

  Oh shit!

  Next thing she knows, he begins to yank on the steel post with all his might, straining and tugging. The metal structure creaks and groans, but his strength isn’t enough to damage the rack. Cans and smaller loose items topple from the shelves. She grabs onto the next nearest post and holds on, 170 momentarily losing sight of him, when the flashlight beam illuminates the far wall.

  Time for another bomb–If I can keep him from shaking me loose!

  Anton

  In the dream he is seven again and hiding in the bushes. He tries to clench down on his bowels, but they are roiling.

  “Gonna get you Antman! I know you’re around here somewhere…”

  Can’t hide much longer. Have to find a bathroom.

  “When I find you, I’m going to hurt you bad. The longer I have to look, the worse it’s going to be for you.”

  The bushes rustle nearby and he jumps to his feet, adrenalin pumping and runs. Something grabs his shoulder and…

  “They aren’t coming. We’re trapped.”

  The voice startles him, and jerks him awake. Her voice is beginning to piss him off. No matter how much it would suck to be abandoned and alone up here, he wonders if it might not be worth it.

  “They aren’t coming.”

  “Give it a rest, will you Debbie?” he asks.

  “You heard the shots, Anton. Swear I even heard a scream. Both of them are probably dead.”

  “What good is it doing either of us, if you are right? Bitching going to make it better? It’s not making me happier!”

  She glares at him. “You think this is fun for me, sitting up here with you? Do you?”

  Nice one. Got me! Time to apologize for being a fat-assed paraplegic.

  He doesn’t say anything. Just closes his eyes, and lowers his head back against the air conditioner.

  “Sorry about that, Anton. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Look Debbie, just leave me here. I’ll never get down anywa
y.”

  “Don’t say that. Trish and Morgan are getting you a wheelchair. They’ll bring food and something to drink too! That helicopter might even be on the way back, right now.”

  Anton laughs briefly, then goes into a coughing jag. “Survival of the fittest, Debbie. Assuming anyone wants to now. What kind of world is left out there? Not one where I got a shot at life. You picture trying to push me in a wheelchair? Really? Ain’t happening. How long before I get you killed too?”

  He looks at her, trying to gauge how well he’s getting his point across.

  Tears shimmer in her eyes, “Shut up! Shut the hell up! We didn’t get this far to leave you now.”

  “Nah, Debbie, you just missed the sign: Anton’s end of the road.”

  She stands up, and walks away from him.

  He closes his eyes again, and tries not to think about being hungry, thirsty, or worst of all, the uproar churning through his gut and bowels.

  Juliet

  “Where are we going?” Juliet asks, looking at Lassiter. The man’s broad face has a drawn, haggard look to it. Probably hasn’t slept in days.

  “Captain Duncan says we are heading for Coast Guard Cutter, Wolcott. From there, ma’am, I have no idea what happens, but I’m sure something is being arranged to get you back to the President.”

  She nods, looks out the open doorway to her left. They must be circling in to land on the back of a huge white ship in the distance. It is dwarfed by the nearby cruise ship, and freighters, but still big to her.

  The two soldiers who rescued her are dozing. They too, look exhausted and at the end of their rope. She looks at their nametags: Booth and Hicks. Have to remember to do something nice for them. The people who died for her and her son so that they could live is weighing on her conscience: Agent Costas; that other soldier, Lepski.

  “Is my husband still in Washington, do you know?” she asks Lassiter.

  “I doubt it ma’am. Washington was overrun hours ago. I think they tried to quarantine it, as a matter of fact.”

  She shakes her head. “This is too much!”

  “Well, you should be safe now. Hold on tight, we’re about to land.”

  She hears the rotors change pitch as they begin to drop toward the ship below. The whole process is so similar to the crash, she closes her eyes and holds tightly to her son.

  “We’ll see Daddy soon, I promise Sweetie.”

  Her boy buries his head against her side, and holds on very tight.

  Natalie

  With a shovel from the garage, Mark is digging a hole big enough for Odin and her mom in the backyard. Both bodies lay nearby, wrapped in blankets, waiting. The oak her dad planted years ago is about ten feet away, but more than once, Mark needs an axe to clear away roots that have spread everywhere.

  He looks up at her briefly, while leaning on the axe. Sweat is pouring down his face, arms and chest. You could never tell that he’d just had a shower.

  “Even though he killed her, my Mom wouldn’t mind being buried with him,” Natalie says.

  “No? They sweet on each other?”

  “More like drinking buddies, but I’m sure whenever I wasn’t around, he probably got all he wanted.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The hungry way they’d look at each other.”

  He nods, and begins to hack away at another root. She allows herself to look at him while he is occupied, and admires his brawny arms, wide shoulders and his sculpted chest muscles. Just a light dusting of hair covers his chest and stomach. He’s wearing a pair of her dad’s sweat pants, socks and sneakers. The sweat pants don’t leave much to the imagination. Think straight. What do I say? Am I going to tell him that she was a black-out drunk? Or how about finding her passed out on the dining room floor with her skirt around her waist? That was a good one! Somehow I have to get a grip and let it all go. Remember the good.

  Finally, words that she can live with come, “She was a sad, confused person when my dad died. Odin did bring back some joy to her life. He never beat her. They enjoyed the same things. Probably was better than being alone.”

  She still had me.

  “I’ve seen worse relationships,” he says.

  “There’s always worse, isn’t there? Anyway, don’t you have family to look for? Someone worrying about you?”

  “My parents are on vacation in Europe. Last call I got they were trying to get a flight home from Paris. That was two days ago.”

  “So, what do you think we should do?”

  He scoops and flings the dirt in a steady rhythm that reveals his familiarity with the chore, and maybe a desire to finish the job. Finally, he slows, and looks up at her. “I say we take whatever food we have here in the house, load your car up and head for my parents? house out on Snell Isle, or their condo on Tierra Verde. Maybe we could even stop by my checkpoint and trade this car for a Hummer and get the rest of the guns and ammo. The house has security shutters, a generator, food and water.”

  “I think you sold me. Let’s go to Snell Isle–It really isn’t that far anyway.”

  Jacobs

  He can still feel his fingers wrapped around the pistol in his right hand. Good! Kid kept my rifle.

  But where am I?

  His body is one big ache. His skin feels tight where blood has caked and dried, and his muscles feel stiff and heavy from exhaustion. He rolls onto his back, opens his eyes, and with an empty feeling, looks up at the sky. Even the clouds look confused: Mottled billowing shapes of white, gray, and black. A raindrop hits him in the face.

  Maybe I’m a monster too.

  He sits up. Bits of leaves, twigs and even a branch come with him. Must’ve crashed through that hedge over there. Wonder how long I was out?

  Climbs to his feet. He is standing in an empty parking lot surrounded on three sides by hedges. The right sleeve of his shirt, and the right leg of his pants are shredded. The skin beneath is abraded and crusted over with scabs. He can feel another cut high on his right cheek pull every time he frowns or squints.

  He hobbles over to the hedge, and peers out.

  More monsters are headed this way from the east, from downtown. He looks to the left and right. To the left, or north, even more are on the way. To the right, or south, the truck lies upside down up on the sidewalk in what looks like a pool of gas.

  Fucking whore. Fuck me over will ya?

  Not this time!

  He pushes his way back through the hole in the bushes, and steps onto the sidewalk. The things are still far away.

  Walks over to the truck’s driver side. Sara is hanging upside down by her seat belt. The windshield is smashed, and glass is everywhere. Only one seat is occupied in the back. In the other, the belt hangs unclipped. He looks forward, through the windshield. A small, ragged, bloody lump lies in the street, about twenty feet away. He can’t tell which of the kids it is.

  Shrugs. Through the shattered glass of the window he reaches in and unlocks her door. It opens with a terrible rasp. First he grabs his rifle, then he backs away and looks at her through the window, while on his knees.

  She doesn’t stir.

  He settles back on his ass, knees before him and waits.

  The wind gusts, and he can smell gas that must be leaking from the truck.

  Five minutes go by and he hears a moan. “Help me,” he hears her say.

  He reaches into his pocket,

  “Help me please!” She’s looking at him.

  “Help you?” he asks.

  “Yes!”

  “Help you? I’ll help you, lady.” His fingers close around the small, cylinder shape in his pocket.

  “Oh thank you! Thank you!”

  “I’ll help you burn!”

  He flicks the flame to life on the lighter and tosses it toward a growing puddle under the truck.

  There is a rapid roar and a shriek. He backs away fast, and hears himself laughing.

  Bronte

  The girl, Beth, sits beside Daric, and holds his hand.
The boy’s face is serious, and his free hand is trembling. The image reminds him so much of his own younger brother, years ago, that he can feel his heart lurch.

  “What happened to Mister Graham?” Daric asks.

  “I think he had a heart attack, and fell down the stairs.”

  “I wonder why he wasn’t up and walking around? Maybe he was still alive?”

  Tracks stands up, and places a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He dead, Daric.”

  “You sure you checked Bronte? He might still be alive!”

  Bronte can’t quite hide the sudden blaze of anger, but he can direct it, “That’s bullshit boy, and you know it! He died trying to help us. So did Chief Hadley, and the sailor. Thanks to them, we have at least two weeks worth of water, and probably three weeks worth of food.”

  “And guns,” says Tracks.

  “He still might be alive,” the boy says, while stubbornly staring into his eyes.

  “Stay out of trouble and behave.”

  “You’re being crazy, Daric–Just like my brother, thinking my dad was still alive. Bronte wouldn’t have left Mister Graham, and you know it.”

  Daric closes his eyes, and lowers his head. “I just don’t want anyone else to die.”

  Bronte puts his arm around the boy, “We’re safe here on the boats, Daric. I’ll do my best.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now, both of you, go down to the galley and see if Janicea needs any help with dinner.”

  The two men watch the children enter the door to the main cabin of the catamaran. A white, fluffy dart follows close on their heels, barking.

  “What you thinking, Bronte?” Tracks broad face is tired. His left eye is bloodshot.

  Bronte looks down at a map they found in a locker on the bridge. “I keep picturing an island. Something remote where they can’t get us.”

  “Coquina Key, or Fort Desoto maybe?”

  “There’s a little island over in Shore Acres. Not even sure it has a name. Has seawalls all around and only one bridge. See it here–At the end of Tanglewood Drive?”

  “I know it. Nice place. Never been flooded either. Be some docks we could use too. Probably food in the houses.”