Must be either a Jehovah’s witness or a zombie. The thought almost makes her smile. This guy definitely isn’t the former–Not anymore if he was. He looks like he may have been well to do, and is wearing a tattered slate gray suit, a dirty white shirt and a pale green tie. His face is as pale, his cheeks bloody, and his right ear is almost severed, and hangs only by shredded flesh.
His footsteps are loud on the porch. He crashes into one of the porch supports, and then just stands there.
Does he know we are here?
Whether he does or not, just standing within feet of him is freaking her out. All he has to do is look a little to his right and he’ll probably notice her. Her legs are locked at the knee. She wants to run, but can’t. The curtains are wide open, and he might hear her if she tries to run.
From the backyard, someone, probably Mark, screams her name. There is a long burst of gunfire. Mark shouts her name again. Yet, she remains paralyzed. The zombie on the porch is looking straight at her. His jaw is twitching and she hears him moan. Apart from the moaning, she really can’t be sure that he has spotted her. Can’t just stand here though!
Something tells her, check on Mark. It has only been a couple minutes, but the shout and gunfire worry her.
More shots. Something crashes into the back door, and it crashes open. Mark shouts her name, “Natalie! Oh god, where are you?”
Before she can reply the thing outside begins to pound on the front door. No need for silence anymore.
“I’m here Mark, I’m coming.”
She runs back to the kitchen, and starts to grab the supplies. We have to leave now!
Mark is standing there, still shirtless, taking deep panicked breaths. Red is smeared all over one massive shoulder and running down his chest. A terribly sad look is on his face.
“No!” she shouts, drawing the word out into a keening shriek. “No!”
“Have to get you out of here, Natalie. Come on. I just killed three of them.”
She closes her eyes.
And they killed you too.
Jacobs
He turns his face away from the slanting rain and looks back the way he came.
The interstate is growing distant, but that isn’t what draws his attention. He is being pursued. The rain doesn’t slow them. Twenty or thirty of the dead things are following him. “Got a fan club,” he mutters to himself. Laughs briefly. “Imagine that!”
The first bungalow was crawling with things. Almost didn’t get away that time.
When he kicked in the front door, they almost fell out in their eagerness to get to him. Goddamned place was stuffed full of pasty white human maggots.
“Got myself a real shit pot load of them now. All of them eager for some Jacobs sushi.”
He is walking on a sidewalk on the south side of some neighborhood street, travelling west. Must be an old sidewalk. Immense oak trees growing along the sidewalk’s edge have buckled the concrete for long stretches. Cars are parked or abandoned all over the street.
People are everywhere too, but so far, all of them of the mindless, dead variety.
None of them have cut him off, but the number of them following him is growing.
“Where is the Neighborhood Watch when I need them?” he asks, turning his face to the sky.
A guy pinned beneath a car reaches out for him, moaning. A young housewife in an open bathrobe staggers from a brick-paved alleyway. She is still wearing pink slippers and wispy high cut panties, but both of her arms end in stumps. Two 208 kids, probably ten or so stand up behind a manicured hedge and get trapped trying to grab him. Both of them look like they’ve been chewed on all over.
Jacobs keeps moving, limping slightly, trying to ignore the pain radiating from his ankle. Feels a hunger pang. He hasn’t eaten anything in hours, and isn’t even sure what’s in his pack.
Most of the houses he is passing are small and rundown. Probably shacks built in the late forties or fifties for retiring veterans, or maybe someone’s idea of a vacation home. Nothing fancy. Most of them probably have two bedrooms and one bath. Maybe a carport or a detached garage.
Something is burning…probably a car.
Wonder if they can smell me? Rain might help prevent that.
The sky is getting darker. He cuts across a yard, running past an immense cactus and a fire hydrant. The grass is spongy beneath his feet. His ankle twists and he yelps in pain and surprise, barely keeping his balance. Just around the corner to his left or south, a Mercedes sedan is on fire and surrounded by the dead. Most of them are standing but a few are lying in the street. The fire is flickering and almost out.
Not that way!
He lunges to his right and back onto his original course. Probably should’ve tried the Interstate, he thinks. His breath is still even, but the idea of food and a place to pass out is very appealing.
The next block up he can see four or five three story houses in a row. They aren’t in much better shape than the previous homes, but the second one has a five foot high cinder block wall around it. The top of the wall even has spikes. He tries not to get excited. Something will be wrong.
He pours on a bit more speed, heedless of pain now.
There is no garage in the front. Just a driveway and a gate in the wall. No cars visible. Garage is probably in the back.
The wall extends around the back.
He stops at the gate and lifts the handle. Looks back once. There are shapes in the downpour, but they have no definition. Probably can’t see me.
He steps inside quickly and shuts the gate behind him. Go through the front door or try the back?
The grass is brown and dead. A hose lies uncoiled beside some ragged rose bushes. The house itself has a Spanish flair or flavor to it. Looks sort of like a fort. Not pretty. The windows are small, narrow and have half circle arches at the top. The front porch is up two stairs, and two chairs are there. The front doors are massive and a small sign on the left one says: No solicitors are allowed.
His boots churn up mud as he decides to run around the house to the back. The exterior wall does, in fact, attach to a detached two-story garage in the back. An old brown pickup truck is parked beneath a huge oak tree right outside the back door of the house. Just as he steps around the truck a wet, stinking yellow shape hurls itself into his arms. Smells bad breath as something wet lashes his face.
“Down boy, down,” he says in a harsh whisper, not having any idea whether the big Labrador Retriever is male or female.
The dog immediately sits and looks up at him. He notices that there is a collar and tag.
He holds out a hand, and the dog sniffs, then licks him again.
Something begins to unravel within him. Oh God, keep it together, he tells himself. A big goofy dog may be the last thing he needs.
The dog’s eyes are big brown pools, and as it sits there panting, or smiling, he finds himself slipping to his knees and hugging it. The name tag says: Sussu.
“Sussu, eh?” The dog continues to grin and holds up a paw. He takes it, muddy and stinky and shakes.
“Pleased to meet a sweet girl like you.”
Sussu whines low, and he realizes that he is still very much in danger. He looks from the garage to the house, trying to decide between the two. Picks the house and gets to his feet.
The back door has a doggie door. If the door is locked, he might be able to squeeze through…
The handle turns and he steps inside the dark house and out of the rain. The dog brushes past him and he closes the door.
Trish
Trish wakes to rain pounding a metal roof somewhere overhead. Sounds like a tropical downpour. Just awake enough to realize that the pillow beneath her head isn’t her usual big fluffy one, and that her bed is as hard as a floor.
She reaches a hand out from beneath her blanket and touches cold metal. I’m not home! The thought crushes her. Everything comes back to her. All the horror and terrible events must be real.
“She’s waking up,” a voice say
s. The voice is familiar–Anton is his name
There isn’t any light, but she hears a click and then there is. Debbie stands a few feet away, framed in a narrow doorway, holding a flashlight. “You okay, Trish-honey?”
Hearing the other woman use an endearment with her name is a bit of a shock, but maybe she isn’t so bad.
“Have a headache. What happened?” She can see all kinds of boxes to either side of Debbie. Boxes with chip labels on them.
Anton answers, “You fell and hit your head. This guy came along and saved you. Saved us all actually. We’re in a Snack truck behind the grocery store.”
“I remember the truck, and a UPS truck, too, I think. Where is this guy who helped us?”
“Gone,” Debbie says. “He helped me get Anton off the roof, and then left us.”
Trish lays her head back down. “He helped get Anton down and left.”
“That was a helluva thing, too, Trish,” Anton says. “He got the chair, the flashlights and all the keys.”
“He’s not coming back?”
Anton shrugs, or tries to anyway. “He doesn’t talk much. Just sort-of waved and walked away.”
“He didn’t talk at all. Might’ve been mute or something,” Debbie adds. “He was smarter than he looked.”
Anton coughs, and says, “He was wearing a Wal-Mart badge.”
“You one of those Wal-Mart haters, Anton?” Debbie asks.
“What do you think, Debbie? I look like someone who shops at Target?” he says, sticking his tongue out, and leering like Gene Simmons. He pronounces Target like it is a French word.
Trish finds herself laughing right along with Debbie. Anton does have a sense of humor at least.
“So, do you guys have a plan?” Trish asks.
“I’d say go for more supplies, but it might be better to wait till tomorrow now. I’m sure you could use the rest, couldn’t you?” Debbie asks.
“As more of a burden, I will go along with anything you two want,” says Anton. “I think rest is a good idea. Who knows when we’ll be safe again.”
They are silent. Debbie turns off the flashlight and settles back onto the floor. Lightning flickers through the cab windows up front. Wind gusts rock the whole truck as the rain comes down even harder.
“I’m sorry about Morgan. I couldn’t save him,” Trish says.
She is beginning to wonder whether they heard her, when Anton says, “We’re all living on borrowed time, Trish. We know you did the best you could.”
The rain is lulling her to sleep. Staying awake is a worthy ideal, but one she can no longer live up to.
She drifts off.
Bronte
The better part of the afternoon passes as they turn the boats north and try to stay in the channel. Only Ozzie, Nast and Captain Ralls know their way around a boat. Tracks has spent some time on small fishing boats, but mostly as a passenger or fisherman.
Captain Ralls is steering the catamaran while Bronte stands beside him. Several rain squalls have come and gone, and for the moment, three to five foot waves are causing more trouble than the rain.
“Your friend that sure about this island?” Ralls asks.
Bronte shrugs. “Who knows? He grew up here. All I know is that neighborhood is Lily White.
Ralls chokes or laughs, hard to say which. “Lily White, eh? I didn’t have you pegged as racist.”
“I’m not racist. Just stating facts as they were told to me. You have a problem with that?”
The other man meets his stare. “No, no problem. Free speech, right? Just found it interesting that the demographic of people living there mattered.”
“All that matters now is the living–Doesn’t matter what color they are to me.”
Bronte watches the other man nod, but knows that somehow he’s crossed a line, and the other man didn’t like it. I don’t really know these people at all, and I may have to depend on them. That thought scares him more than whatever what may await them back on land.
Houses line the shore. Mansions on tiny lots. Almost every house has a dock. A lot still have boats–That surprises him. Did they run out of time, or just have no plan? Quite a few dead faces watch as they pass. A large number even try to follow them, either walking blindly off seawalls or struggling to climb fences.
“Some fancy tombs, over there,” mutters Ralls.
“Whole place is a tomb,” Bronte replies. “A dead trap.”
“I wonder what would have happened if I’d managed to get my ship out of the bay? From what I hear, guess the Coast Guard would have stopped us anyway short of the Skyway.”
Bronte watches water droplets merge and run down the windshield glass.
“You might have been fine. Some of these army guys may have taken their orders too seriously. A few months ago, I probably would have pulled the trigger right along with them. Maybe even up to the night this all started. I was ready to kill anyone connected with my brother’s death.”
“Someone murder your brother?”
Bronte looks up, and answers in a flat tone, “Somebody murdered my brother.”
“You find out who did it?”
“I was sure. Little fuck named Devlin. Tracked him to a crack house. Tracks and I were standing outside the house when this whole thing went down.”
“You were going to kill him?”
“Yes.”
“So something happened, and you lost your chance?”
Bronte nods.
“It went against everything I’ve believed in, but all I wanted was revenge.”
The boat slows down, and Ralls says, “Something ahead of us in the water. Looks like people in life vests.” Bronte looks behind, and notices that the other two boats are slowing and making to pull up alongside theirs. He steps out onto the deck and keeps a hand on the railing as he makes his way forward.
There are twelve dead people in the water. He can see that some, if not all, have been shot. Kids, adults, old people–None were exempted. Never know who did this either.
Janicea steps up beside him holding a fishing gaff.
“Ralls told me you might need this,” she says. He looks into her eyes, and sees how remote she is. He takes the pole with the hook at the end from her hands.
“You don’t have the stomach for death at all, do you?” he asks.
“I thought I did, Bronte. I really did. When I killed and…caused the deaths of a whole busload of people, I kept seeing their faces. I still do.”
Bronte hugs her with his left arm, holding the gaff in his right hand. “I’ll try to help you forget. Maybe we can make this island we’re going to a safe place.”
“I hope so Bronte. I really do.”
Talaski
He can tell that Amy is almost exhausted. She is too proud to complain, but the evidence is there in her deep breathing, and the slow, leaden motion of her arms and legs as they carry another body to the side of the road and watch it tumble down the grassy slope.
“Wish the others would have stayed to help,” Suzy says.
Keller snorts, “They’ll wish they had when we pass them in the truck.”
“I’m sort-of surprised you stayed, Suzy,” says Mills.
Suzy tosses her hair as she kneels to pick up the feet of another corpse. Dmitri grabs the torso. “I’m not walking to the bridge,” she replies.
“Long as you behave, you’re not,” Mills answers.
“Fuck you Sparky! I’ve had about enough of your shit!” She reaches for her holstered pistol.
“Now wait,” snaps Dmitri, dropping his end. The corpse falls, makes a splash and lays face up. “Why are you people arguing?”
“No time to explain,” says Talaski. “We do need to put our disagreements aside until we find a safe place or get to the evacuation point at the bridge.”
Gunfire interrupts anything more that might have been said. Sergeant De Roma’s group of soldiers and hospital staff are engaging the nearest walking dead up on the interstate.
Close to thirty
zombies are approaching them up the ramp, also, but they aren’t moving quickly. More have closed the gap between De Roma and them.
“Let’s get back to work then,” says Keller.
Fortunately no one else appears to have anything else to say, so work resumes. Within ten minutes they have cleared enough bodies to pass through without clogging the wheels or undercarriage of the fire truck.
Talaski notices that the undead are almost upon them. “Everyone get ready. Any moment now.”
“I’ll put the deuce and a half in neutral, then we can all push it out of the way,” Dmitri says.
“Wait! Oh, never mind.” Talaski can hear the resignation in his voice, but they will either survive this or they won’t. Simple enough. He runs toward a knot of the undead, not far away. Flips the safety off, and manages to arrive just as the first few make it past the fire truck and fan out.
Somewhere behind him, metal screeches and a few moments later the sound of a crash. Mills shouts, “Hurry!”
Talaski kneels to steady his aim. Waits for one to draw within ten feet. Tall black guy, mid-forties wearing an Atlanta Braves team shirt with a chunk missing out of his neck. Just behind him is an obese white guy in a dirty t-shirt and jeans. Talaski aims carefully, while aware that three more are coming up on his right.
Pulls the trigger. The blast takes both men down. Shifts aim to the right. Fires three more times. Five zombies down. Stands back up as someone comes up behind him–Amy and Keller.
“Where’s Mills?” he asks.
“He’s coming,” Amy answers, “but Suzy is getting into that stranger’s car.”
Talaski nods, “Good. Something bad was going to happen if we didn’t part ways.”
Foster
The woman has been gone for over an hour, but he can’t get her out of his mind. The ice in his glass is long since melted, but That’s okay. He takes a long swallow. Her scent is still on his fingers. Thinks about how he pushed her face down over this very desk.
She left him dazed, unable to think clearly. I’m in over my head. He replays the scene in his mind. Realizes his pants are still unzipped and around his ankles. Never do to let Green or Clive see him like this. He stands up, pulls on his pants and zips up.
When he sits back down, he happens to look at the TV monitor. The screen is still on, and currently shows a picture of a long expanse of tiled floor. The name aPreston? is flashing at the bottom of the screen.
Dead Tide Rising Page 16
