“Sounds good Tracks. At least so long as no one is there.”
“I tell the Captain and the others?”
“Yes, any problems send them to me.”
Mills
Mills’ mind is still on the burned out remains of the fire station they’d all hoped to find refuge in. What a downer to find it in that condition. There was nothing left to salvage. He really didn’t know how to handle it. His cherished memories of St. Pete were being destroyed piece by piece and one by one.
He barely reacts, when a sports car whips around him at more than fifty miles an hour, but he doesn’t let it bother him too much. Some guy in a Corvette with a droopy mustache and a head full of wavy brown hair.
A moment or two later, Mills swerves around a Dodge Caravan, parked in the middle of the street with the engine still running, the doors wide open, and a flat right front tire. Even though he drives up over the curb the truck still takes the right passenger door right off.
There is a road block ahead. The Corvette is idling roughly fifty feet in front of the on-ramp to Interstate 275. A big, olive-drab National Guard deuce and a half truck blocks the road. To either side are sandbagged machine gun emplacements. Several hundred bodies litter the ground in-between the sports car and the sand bags.
Mills slows to a stop right behind the Corvette, and puts the engine in park. The car has Massachusetts plates.
The guy turns around toward them. He’s wearing a light brown suit, with the shirt underneath undone to his navel. His long hair is blowing in the light breeze as rain starts to fall and 180 spatter on the ground. Mills notices a long-barreled revolver in the guy’s left hand.
“What are we doing, Nick?” Mills asks, looking over at Talaski.
“I’d say we’re all getting out. Looks like the soldiers guarding this entrance are dead or gone.”
“I’ll talk to this guy, while you figure things out.”
“Sure thing Adam, you do that.”
Mills shuts the engine off, but leaves the keys in the ignition, then grabs his shotgun, pack and the axe. The rain is coming down harder, and slanting almost sideways in the wind, as he shuts the door and steps to the ground. He shrugs the pack over his shoulders, makes sure he can reach the axe, and carries the shotgun barrel down while approaching the Corvette’s driver.
“Never pays to be in a hurry, does it?” Mills asks, unable to resist messing with the guy.
The man smiles, “Fuck you Jake,” he says with a strong New England accent.
“Ah, a true New England native, I see.”
“What calling you Jake? You are a firefighter aren’t you?”
Mills nods. “I lived up there for a while, out on the Cape. I suppose I’m a good Jake.”
“Any ideas around this?” the guy asks, pointing at the army truck.
“Let’s have a look and see if any occur to me.”
Mills walks past the guy and starts to wend his way through the bodies. The falling rain is working on the dried pools of blood, washing the stains away.
The guy is following him. “Lot of dead, stinking meat around here.”
Too true. The smell is awful, and many of the corpses are horribly mutilated or disfigured. Most look like they died twice–Make that, died badly twice. All of humanity, young, old seems to be represented, and the way the corpses are piled hints at an Alamo-type stand that must have taken place here.
The bodies are even closer together as they near the edge of the left emplacement. Expended brass from a machine gun covers the ground and some bodies. A lot more of the creatures kept going than those that died–At least that must be true judging by how much ammo was fired compared to bodies. Mills pauses a moment to pull on his gloves.
No way am I touching any of them. Not unless I fucking have to.
The rain is making things slippery. Mills tries to place his boots carefully, and not to imagine what is squishing, or sucking beneath them. Beside him, the guy makes a disgusted sound, and Mills gets a whiff of something really rancid.
“Goddamn it!” the guy snarls. “Almost lost my shoe in that mess, that broad was so messed up. Stuck my fucking foot right through her stomach!”
Mills doesn’t look. He’s close enough to grab the top of the nearest sandbag wall.
Feels grit, even through the gloves, as he pulls himself over. More of the brass bullet casings cover the ground, along with a pile of trash: food wrappers, soda, and beer cans. No dead soldier though.
The guy follows him over the wall.
“That really sucked, man. Got blood and guts all over me.”
“Not yours.”
“True.”
“You want to check the other emplacement, while I check the truck?” the guy asks.
Mills shrugs, looks back at the others. Talaski has most of them out and in a loose perimeter around the fire truck. The guy boosts himself up and grabs the door handle to the cab, which happens to be the driver’s side. Meanwhile Mills walks over to the other emplacement.
“The same story over here…” Mills manages to say, and then sees the guy falling backwards with a soldier on top of him. The two crash to the ground with the soldier on top.
“Get him off me! Jesus, get him off me….”
Mills steps up and clubs the soldier with the shotgun, putting everything behind it. The stock hits the soldier in the back of the head, and something crunches. The soldier’s body goes limp, and the guy curses, and pushes the body from on top of him. “Can’t believe the bastard didn’t bite me.”
Wait a heartbeat or two. The guy is hyped.
“What is your name, anyway?” Mills asks, while extending a hand to help the guy up. He notices the guy still has the revolver clenched in his left hand.
“Dmitri Chaikov. Thanks for helping me.” Dmitri takes Mills hand and shakes it. “Guess you’re right about being in a hurry.”
Mills grunts. “Others will be here soon. Why don’t you finish checking the truck and I’ll look around the back?”
Dmitri nods. Mills walks toward the back of the truck, while checking the load on his shotgun. Damn, I never re-loaded. Didn’t have time. He quickly begins to feed cartridges into the action.
He can hear Keller’s booming voice, as the others approach, even over the rain.
Sure hope we can use this truck. We’ll all fit anyway! One more step takes him clear of the back of the truck and he can see the long half circle of the ramp and realizes that this is the on ramp for northbound traffic. A large grassy bowl is in the middle surrounding a pond half-obscured by a film of green algae.
Of much more interest are the scattered figures of the undead, standing in the water or on the sloped side of the ramp.
Real pond scum.
More of them are up on the interstate itself, and Mills begins to worry in earnest.
“The damn thing won’t even turn over!” Dmitri shouts. Louder than Keller. A few of the unwashed turn their way.
Talaski stops beside him, taking in the view.
Mills says, “I think the soldiers left us.”
“I’m used to that,” is all the other man says.
Foster
Clive stands by the door, as Lieutenant Green ushers the tall, slim soldier into the room. Green and the soldier stop about ten feet from his desk, and says, “Mister President, this is Sergeant First Class Nathan Preston. He is the senior NCO of the rescue operation.”
Foster stands, and extends his hand across the desk. The sergeant steps forward and shakes briefly, face expressionless, but his grip clammy. Foster doesn’t miss the Ranger Tab the man is wearing on his shoulder.
“Good to meet you Sergeant! Do you have your plans drawn up?”
“Yes sir! We’re cocked and locked, er…I mean, we are ready sir. Most of our families are or were still in the base apartments. The hope is that the base is still secure and all we have to do is evacuate them.” Foster nods, giving the sergeant his best smile. “We have two Chinooks on standby and we should be able t
o get everybody. We’ll bring your team in on Blackhawks.”
“Very good sir. The satellite photos the Lieutenant got me have helped. We can see a few corpses here and there, both inside and outside the post gates, but no large groupings.”
“Wish they were up to the minute photos, Sergeant. Things may have changed.”
“We’ll deal with that, sir.”
“Very good, Sergeant! Good luck and God speed!”
“Appreciate this sir, especially given your own situation.”
“It is the right thing to do. Now, jump to it, and get our people back here safely.”
The sergeant salutes, and Foster rises from his desk to return the salute. When Foster drops his hand, the man does an about face and marches out the door.
“Send the Speaker in next Clive. The sooner I’m done with her, the better.”
Clive smiles faintly, and then turns to the door.
Foster sits back down. What to do? What to do?
Trish
The guy won’t stop shaking the rack. Makes it hard to hold on, and try to drop a case of chemicals on their head at the same time. In desperation, she finally crawls between pallets and gets her body braced against the wall. Then, with her legs and feet, she starts pushing against the cardboard cases.
She hears, more than feels, another case fall. Did it hit him? She can’t see. Just in case, she pushes some more, but this time she must have pushed too hard or something. The whole front facing of the pallet plummets to the floor. The ensuing reek is horrible. Too much! She begins to cough, choking on the smell.
Have to get out of here!
She squeezes her body back between the pallets and looks down, aiming the flashlight. Four or five cases must have fallen. The gutless guy has rejoined his truly dead brethren. He’s lying face down, with his head crushed between the pallet and the closest shelf on the rack.
Now, the guy with the tie!
Trish levers her feet to the next lower shelf rack. She watches the last creature as she does. It’s almost as if he is waiting for her, as he continues to stand on the far side of the pallet.
She could actually step on the pallet at this point. I want to make these shots count. She checks her balance, then aims the flashlight, and the pistol at the man’s head.
The first shot misses him completely. Who knows where it went? It did ricochet around the room a bit. The second shot plows through his cheek and teeth. The third is about dead center on the wide expanse of wrinkled skin on his forehead.
The body drops to the floor.
Trish doesn’t waste time, and scrambles the rest of the way down and over to Morgan’s corpse. Steels herself, at the sight of his violated flesh. She strips the gun belt from him, buckles it around her own waist, then grabs the gun. She fishes in his pockets for the extra magazines. Moment by moment, she is feeling better. Less afraid.
That last guy. Probably a manager. She notices a badge still clipped to his shirt pocket. It reads: Bob Best, Assistant Store Manager.
Managers have keys!
Something pounds on the receiving doors. The noise grows in volume. There was more than one of them outside.
A keychain is hooked to one of his belt loops. She unclips it, and adds it to the pile in the hat that is still in the wheelchair’s seat.
The big question is: Do I open the receiving doors and fight the zombies out there, or go find a car first?
Damn it Morgan–Why did you have to go and die on me?
The biggest problem in her mind is getting Anton off the roof. They never really had a plan for that at all. Getting the food, water and a wheelchair were all, well, not easy, but easier. Even with Morgan she has no idea how they could get him down.
Not true, Patricia. There is one idea: Far-fetched, maybe a little cruel, but an idea that might work even without Morgan.
No way is Debbie going to go for it, but Anton might. It all really boils down to how bad do you want to live? And you better answer with some enthusiasm or its all for nothing.
“I’ll make sure I have the key first. Then we’ll go with the flow.”
Something makes her point the flashlight down the hall, first.
The remains of two bodies are there, mostly in pieces, scattered all over. Blood and flesh cover the walls and the concrete floor. Great big splashes of red and pallid white accompanied by the now almost familiar smells of copper, excrement and urine.
Two office doors stand open, one on either side, and at the end a ladder is mounted on the wall with a security or safety grating around it, all the way to the ceiling.
Another way to the roof! First open the receiving doors. Kill the zombies out there, and fill the others in on what’s happened.
The pounding is really getting on her nerves. She walks to the door, while pushing the wheelchair. Stops in front of the doors and begins to try keys from the manager’s key ring. The lock is actually in a funny little box with a pop up lid. She finally matches a key to the lock, but the racket outside almost unnerves her. How many could be out there now?
I hate to leave this door open, while I go get a car.
She slides the key ring into the front of her shorts, hefts the gun in her right hand, and gives the door a violent kick. Someone on the other side grunts and staggers down the ramp, falling backwards.
Trish sets the flashlight down quick beside the door, and then plows through the door on her own, pistol held in both hands.
A tall, busty woman wearing a UPS uniform is the first to reach for her. Her left shoulder is a massive ulcerated mess, raw and weeping, and most of her shirt is in shreds.
She reaches out with her right hand, and pushes the door further open. Trish backpedals a step or two.
She cups her left hand beneath the right, which holds the pistol. From roughly a three foot distance, she aims for the woman’s left eye, squeezes the trigger, and watches gore and gunk fly from the top of her head. The woman staggers a step or two towards the door, and slides downward. With the sound of the shot still ringing in her ears, Trish steps past the woman and from point blank range shoots a Potato Chip vendor just above and through his ear. The bullet goes straight through and exits on the other side in a sludgy burst.
There were at least two more! Where are they?
Trish looks down the ramp. To her right is a docking bay. Two vendor trucks are still parked back here, and the Tractor and its trailer are still backed into the dock.
“Ah, there is one,” she murmurs to herself.
She takes a step or two out the door.
“Watch out!” someone yells from above her.
Trish spins on her heals, looks up, around and into the eyes of an immense, but short woman staggering toward her.
The woman crashes into her, stumbles, but pushes Trish just hard enough to knock her over the rail and down into the tractor-trailer well. The fall is brief, but still knocks her senseless when her head hits the pavement.
Lying sprawled on her back, she moans once or twice and then slips away.
Booth
Off in the distance, to the west, Booth can see rain pouring down from one edge of the horizon to the other. As they disembark, following the First Lady and her son, drops of rain are already falling here too.
The First Lady is met by a contingent of Coast Guard officers in their dress blue uniforms accompanied by a few political types in suits. Booth also spots one Naval officer in the group.
“Ahoy, popinjays everywhere around here, matey,” Hicks mutters, walking beside him as they exit the helicopter. Lassiter waves goodbye and goes off toward the pilots as the helicopter shuts down.
“Five of us, just two days ago. And did she even say Goodbye?”
“I didn’t hear anything Booth, but we are just peons. Don’t let it get you down. The high and mighty tend to take people like us for granted.”
Hicks appears to ponder this while slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “Wonder if there is anyplace to get drunk around here?”
Despite the banter, Booth is getting more irritated as the conversation goes on. “I’m loving the reception we get man. Fucking rescue the First Lady, and they don’t even tell us where to go to relax.”
A gruff looking Coast Guard sailor approaches them, and steps to the side without speaking to go around them.
“Wait a minute, Coastie! Got a moment for a couple of tired heroes?” Hicks says.
The sailor’s dour expression doesn’t change, but he does stop and give them a once over, then a nod.
“Got a place for guests on board? We need a few beers, something to eat, maybe a shower…”
“You guys special ops or something?” With a pure Carolina accent, the sailor asks. Booth notices the smell of beer on the guy’s breath, and that his eyes are bloodshot.
He also might have slurred his words a bit. Not real noticeable, unless you were the observant type. Like me.
“Or something,” Hicks responds, “Can you help us out?”
“Sure, just follow me. Chief Segar will know what to do.”
Lassiter
“Captain! Captain Duncan, hold on!” Lassiter nearly shouts.
“Yeah, Chief? I’m beat, can you make it fast?” The pilot and copilot stop, and stand waiting for him. Both are wearing khaki flight suits with pistols strapped under their arms, and soft caps on their heads. The flight helmets are all still in the chopper.
Lassiter almost rolls his eyes. Is it worth it? Probably should just forget about it, like the rest of them have. Can’t just switch off like that. Never could.
“Did you forget about the people we left on the roof?”
“You really going to bust my balls on that, Chief? We can’t save everybody. Besides, did you hear, the whole fleet is about to weigh anchor. They were just waiting for us to rescue the First Lady. Now we can all get the fuck out.”
“I just feel like shit that we dumped them like that, Captain. Christ, the big guy was a paraplegic. One of the women looked at me like I was a piece of shit.”
“Chief, that is nothing but bullshit. You can’t let people make you do anything. You allow them to. Fuck them. You think they would have even tried to rescue you if the circumstances were reversed?”
“So that is your answer, Captain?”
Dead Tide Rising Page 14
