Dead Tide Rising

by Stephen North

  Oh Shit! I missed the whole thing! A TiVo recorder is next to the monitor. He activates the onscreen menu and sees that Preston’s cam is still working, so he is seeing a live feed.

  He decides it will be better to see what happened from the beginning.

  Preston’s helicopter descends toward a relatively open area between the enlisted housing buildings. There are some trees, but the pilot manages to squeeze in without too much trouble and set down.

  Something is missing. I turned the sound off! No wonder I forgot…

  Foster finds the button, and hears Preston shouting, “Go, go, go!” as men pile out of the helicopters. As soon as they are clear, the helicopters lift off.

  Preston’s men are the marines. Wonder how much they like having an army sergeant over them? Never did ask him why? Any family he has shouldn’t be quartered anywhere near the marine family housing.

  Preston barks orders. The group splits in two. Half the marines go with Preston toward Building A and the other half follow a lowly corporal to Building C.

  Zombies are visible in all directions, each time Preston looks around. Not enough to pose a threat yet, but odds are there are a lot more nearby.

  Preston’s men move out in a v-shaped formation until they reach Building A’s south entrance. From there, they form a half circle around the entrance facing out, with Preston and three other soldiers going for the door.

  “Door’s open Sergeant,” says the first man to reach it.

  “We’re going in. Remember your orders. Clear your floor, secure any survivors, and meet down here in front of this door as soon as your floor is clear.” The men in front of Preston are all grim-faced. None of them reply.

  “Private Perez, lead the way,” Preston snaps. Just inside the doorway is a foyer complete with an elevator, a door to a fire stair, a door to the quarters on this level. Perez heads straight for the door to the fire stair door, and other teams follow them in.

  Preston’s men go all the way to the top–The fourth floor. There is another foyer with the same layout. Only difference is the elevator door are open. Plus there is a terrible smell.

  Perez looks in the elevator, gags and almost immediately bends over and vomits.

  Preston doesn’t look. Nor do any the others. They know what is in there. Another marine, a guy named Brown, opens the door to the living quarters. Preston looks this time.

  He sees a long tiled hallway with doors on either side. At the other end, it looks like there is some sort of communal living room complete with large windows.

  Probably a good view, Foster thinks, then notices one of the windows is broken.

  Gunfire and screams come from below. Preston mutters something. All three marines are looking at him. “Focus on the job, gentlemen! Move out!”

  Perez shakes his head, but enters the hallway, followed by the others, with Preston in the rear. Perez pounds on the first door. “This is Grossman’s place,” he says, “he deserted just before we evacuated the White House.”

  Nobody answers. Perez steps to the side, holding his rifle ready. Brown steps up, blasts the door lock with his shotgun, then kicks the door in. Preston orders the third marine, a black guy named Reedy to cover the hallway and their backs.

  Perez advances down a short hallway into a living room. Brown checks a door in the hallway. “Closet,” he says. Preston enters the living room, and looks around. Immediately to the right is a bar counter, stools and behind that a kitchen. Straight ahead is a dining table with six chairs, and behind that, patio doors to a balcony. Up to the right, past the kitchen, is a doorway.

  The white, filmy curtains near the patio door are billowing in a steady breeze through shattered doors. A dismembered torso lies in the glass without a head or arms. What is left is still wearing a housecoat and slippers.

  Perez backs away from the corpse. His face has been pale since the elevator. An immense shape emerges from the doorway and grabs him by the shoulders. “Fuck!” Perez shouts, while trying to break free. The giant is another marine, still in uniform. He thrusts his face just under the edge of Perez’s helmet, grunting as his teeth close over the smaller marine’s neck.

  Perez is screaming in agony. Preston isn’t moving. Probably pissing himself. Only Brown reacts. His shotgun is just visible from the corner of Preston’s field of view when he opens fire. He doesn’t attempt to discriminate with his aim, but simply hoses both men with a all eight rounds. In a cloud 221 of blood and gibbets of flesh, Perez spins free of the giant’s grip as both fall backward and into the open doorway.

  In the ensuing silence, Brown feeds more rounds into the shotgun. In the background, Foster thinks he can still hear distant gunfire.

  Preston remains frozen. Brown turns toward him and shouts, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He steps right up into Preston’s face.

  Preston shakes his head.

  “You freeze up again, and I’ll fucking kill you!” He grabs the front of Preston’s shirt and shakes him.

  “Grossman was my brother-in-law,” Preston says.

  Brown’s face is red and angry. His eyes are blazing hate. Comprehension dawns on his face. “That was Grossman…”

  The sergeant doesn’t reply.

  “And the woman is your sister.”

  “Yes.”

  Brown turns away. “Get your head on straight, and we’ll clear the rest of this floor,” he says.

  Preston stays there for a moment. Foster thinks he hears a sniffling noise.

  Another scream, then a prolonged burst of machine gun fire.

  Preston takes a pack of cigarettes from the top left pocket of his shirt. Places one between his lips and lights up. Foster can hear him breath in, then exhale. A plume of smoke appears, then dissipates.

  “Hurry the fuck up, Preston.”

  The voice sounds like Reedy’s.

  The sergeant puts the pack back in his pocket, turns, walks out of the room, and joins the other two men in the hallway.

  “Got one for me?” Brown asks.

  “No,” Preston answers.

  He leads the way further down the hall, past a pool of dried blood and a woman’s purse. The next door is open. Preston steps inside.

  “Hey wait,” Brown shouts, “you fool!”

  The room setup is simply reversed.

  Outside in the hallway, a new voice: “We’re trapped. Everyone’s dead. Help me Reedy!”

  Preston pauses in the living room. Foster thinks he can hear a metallic clicking noise. Preston’s playing with his safety!

  “Oh Jesus Reedy, here they come!”

  Brown’s voice, “Calm down Berry! We’re here, man! Oh shit!”

  Preston turns and runs back into the hallway. Sees the other three men, backing toward him. Moans echo from the stair.

  “Get to the roof man! Run! Call the choppers!” Foster finds himself shouting at the monitor.

  Instead Preston turns away from the others and starts to run blindly the other way–Right into a massive group of people in front of him. Too late, he looks up and sees several open doors. Fingers claw at him. He loses his rifle. His helmet flies off. Someone steps on it, another one kicks it.

  In the end, it careens down the hallway and settles in the center of the floor.

  A long expanse of tiled floor is all that is visible.

  Natalie

  “Take these,” he tells her. “Addresses for both my parents places are in the wallet, and the keys to both are on the ring.”

  “No! You’re coming with me!” She can feel tears running down her face.

  “No, I’m not, Natalie. I’m going to be one of them!”

  They both are in the kitchen, and there is a terrible pounding going on at the front door. A window shatters and something tumbles inside.

  “Go now, for Christ’s sake!” he shouts.

  Her eyes are streaming tears.

  He pushes her backwards. “Don’t be a fool. Now go!”

  Heart pounding, her whole being in an emotional
uproar, she runs into the kitchen. She stops long enough to grab the gun and then goes to the back door. Several of the things are laying on the ground, and several more are wandering in from the alley into the yard. If she doesn’t act now, odds are she won’t make it to the car.

  The urge to just give up is strong.

  She steels her nerve, opens the door and burst outside. One of the things makes a grab for her and misses. Another one, a young woman with only half a face, crashes into the trunk of the car, and continues around toward the driver’s side. Natalie makes it to the driver’s door and yanks it open. She scoots inside just as Half-Face slams into the door, forcing it open farther. The thing wheezes as it starts to lean down and open its mouth wide.

  Something happens and bits of the woman’s head shower her lap as she hears the shot. The woman falls backwards and Natalie yanks the door closed. Only then does she look up and see Mark standing on the small porch with his rifle in hand. She fumbles with the car keys. If she stops now, she might chicken out. Turns the key, and the engine turns right over with a small rumble.

  Mark fires twice more, then lifts a hand. He drops the rifle to the ground and reaches for the pistol shoved in his waist band.

  She is backing out. The car rolls over two large lumps.

  Her sobs are racking her whole torso. The tears are almost blinding.

  He sits down on the porch, still waving with his left hand.

  There is a small, rueful smile on his face.

  She loses sight of him for a moment as she backs around the hedge and into the alley. He’s still waving and smiling as she pulls back even with the driveway.

  She makes herself look away and pushes the gas a little too fast and Odin’s house blocks her view.

  Somewhere near the end of the block, she hears one more shot.

  Jacobs

  The room he finds himself in is a kitchen, probably ten by ten feet. The cabinetry, counters and appliances all appear to be from the sixties. The refrigerator is an old side by side. The counters all wrap around the right side of the room, and the appliances are squeezed in beside them. There is a small table and two chairs on the left side of the room, and a door directly across from the backdoor. Newspapers litter the table.

  The house is very dark. With the power out, a rainy day, and small windows, he isn’t surprised by this. Still even with lights, he’d put money down that this kitchen was never a cheery place.

  Something slams into a wall in whatever room is beyond the kitchen. The dog whines again, and edges backwards toward the doggie door.

  He reaches for his flashlight where it should be clipped to his belt. Gone. Probably lost it when the truck crashed. He shrugs and fishes in a side pocket on his pants. Comes out with a smaller light that would be more suitable for reading a map than exploring a house.

  “Better than nothing,” he murmurs to himself.

  The dog gives a low bark, then a long growl.

  Something slams into the door, and it shakes in its frame. Won’t take much more of that.

  He pulls his knife. Just in case those things outside don’t know he is here. A shot would announce it to them all.

  Nails scrabble on the wood. Another pound.

  Jacobs takes the handle in his left hand, and the big knife in the other. The point and edge are razor sharp. He has used it to shave before.

  The door opens the knob turning in his hand by whoever is on the other side. Jacobs doesn’t fight it, and simply steps to the side, sees the human shape and thrusts with the knife.

  The point glances off a cheekbone and slides right into the person’s eye. Hears a gasp as he steps forward and shoves harder. The person falls over backwards and lands on their back, feet drumming the terrazzo floor. He drops to his knees alongside the body, knife ready to plunge again, but the feet are slowing, and the person, a man, lets out a long rattling sigh, then is still.

  Just killed a live person. The dead ones don’t breathe.

  He doesn’t want to turn the flashlight on.

  The dog whines.

  “It’s okay, Sussu girl. Good girl.”

  He wipes the blade off on the man’s nightshirt. Stands up, and clicks the flashlight on: Dead old guy in his pajamas. Could have killed him with a punch.

  Boxes and old newspaper are piled high in the space to his left. Magazines and books also. The space was probably the dining room. Further in is a big living room, complete with an old recliner, a sofa, and an old style twenty inch analog TV with a converter box sitting on top of it beside rabbit ears.

  A staircase climbs the wall to his right, with the steps facing the front door.

  What do I do? See if I can find the old guy’s keys to the truck outside and get the hell out of here? Or hope the zombies pass this place by?

  He settles into the old man’s recliner. Just for a moment to think.

  Sussu settles at his feet, still whining occasionally.

  The moment stretches out.

  Jacobs falls asleep.

  Juliet

  The captain’s office is without character. Just a plain, somewhat scarred desk, two chairs, several filing cabinets and a map of the world on the wall.

  The man has no charm, whatsoever. He also has a big nose that is hard not to notice or stare at. His teeth are yellow. Probably smells like a cigarette.

  “Captain Marsh, is there a plan to re-unite me with my husband, or not?”

  “No ma’am, there isn’t. We don’t have an aircraft capable of getting you there without refueling. If you can just wait till the Evac fleet returns from Europe…”

  “What about the helicopters?”

  Marsh is a poor actor. She watches him close his eyes and apparently count silently to ten.

  “Well?” she asks, unable to wait.

  “It is completely irresponsible of me to accede to this, ma’am. It isn’t just your life, but that of whoever is willing to take you.”

  “I’d like the crew and soldiers who rescued me.”

  “I can’t order them to ma’am. All I can do is ask for volunteers.”

  “Then do that. I’d like to see them all in the next fifteen minutes.”

  His expression sours, “They are already waiting outside. Ensign Friese, send in Captain Duncan and the others.”

  A moment later, the men begin to file in and stand against the wall in front of the filing cabinets. Juliet looks them over one by one.

  The two pilots, Duncan and Day, have the hotshot image down pat. Both men have cocky postures and mirrored sunglasses. Day is taller with a heavier build. The crew chief, Lassiter is middle-aged and not quite as fit as his crewmates, but has an air of maturity and intelligence lacking in the other two. The last two men, her rescuers, black-uniformed soldiers of some kind, look alert enough, but their expressions give nothing away as to what they are thinking.

  Marsh steps around his desk and stands next to her. A faint odor of cologne wafts from him. “Gentlemen,” he says, “The First Lady has a proposal for you, but it is merely a request. Any or all of you may refuse her request.”

  Juliet feels her blood pressure soar. How dare this man try to undermine her like this! She manages to mask her outrage, and strangle the reprimand on her tongue. Her sole concession is to clear her throat before speaking.

  “First of all, I would like to thank each one of you for your sacrifices while trying to rescue me and my children. I’d be dead without you. However, that being said, I would like you to consider taking me to the President.”

  She pauses.

  The pilot speaks up, “Ma’am, I’m not sure where the President is right now, but our helicopter only has an operational range of 360 miles or so. Unless Captain Marsh, here, has a set of external tanks? If that is the case, we can take a nice long trip without having to refuel.”

  “He’s in North Carolina,” Marsh says. “And no, we don’t have the tanks.”

  Day speaks up, “Assuming we made a side trip to St. Pete-Clearwater airport, we might find
the external tanks there.”

  “Each time we land somewhere we run the risk of disaster,” Duncan replies.

  “I’m in,” says the soldier named Booth.

  “Me too,” says the other soldier, Hicks.

  Lassiter raises a hand, “Count me in.”

  Everyone turns toward the two pilots.

  “Be sure,” says Marsh. His face is tomato red. Probably stroking out thinking he will be blamed if we die.

  “We’ll do it, ma’am,” says Duncan, and Day nods in agreement.

  She wants to hug them, but settles for saying, “Thank you so much! I have every confidence in you all that we will make it.”

  Trish

  The rain stops.

  She adjusts the seat, shifting it far forward, then fastens her safety belt. Anton is strapped in the passenger seat, while Debbie holds on to a rack while standing up in the back.

  “There is no way it is worth going back in there, right?” Trish asks.

  “No way! There’s a cooler full of Gatorade and water back here too,” Debbie replies.

  “So we have food, drinks…”

  Anton interrupts her, “And plenty of toilet paper.”

  The three of them laugh. “We’ll get out of this. It’s not that far to the bridge from here.”

  Both of her friends nod.

  “Here Anton, you take Morgan’s pistol. I can’t shoot when I’m driving.”

  He takes it from her carefully, and even checks the safety.

  The other gun is shoved into a small pack at her feet, along with the extra magazines for Morgan’s pistol. With only one shot left in her gun, it is basically just something to club someone with.

  The engine turns over smoothly. She takes a quick look in the rearview mirrors, sees all is clear, then shifts into Drive.

  “Never drove anything this big before,” she says.

  “No?” Anton asks. “Me either. What about you Debbie?”

  “Nope, never even drove a pick-up. Don’t have a clue about shifting.”

  “Thank God this thing has an automatic transmission,” Trish says.