Dead Tide Rising

by Stephen North

  Talaski

  Once past the massacre, they encounter no trouble until they get close to the toll booths. The wrecked or abandoned vehicles have all been pushed to the sides of the highway, and the only obstacles are the wandering dead themselves. A few are making a pilgrimage to the summit.

  “We should turn back,” says Mills. If the army were still here, none of these dead people would be cruising around like this.”

  “Look, a ship is about to pass under the bridge now,” says Keller. “We’re too late.”

  “Anybody see that Corvette?” Talaski asks.

  “You serious, Ski?”

  “Don’t call me that again.”

  Mills looks at him.

  “I’m serious,” Talaski says.

  “Take the turn-off for the Pier,” Amy says, leaning over the seat once again to talk in Mills ear. “Maybe one of the ships will come get us?”

  Mills maintains his staring contest with Talaski.

  “Well?” he asks, after a moment or two.

  Talaski shrugs. “There’s nothing else.”

  “Never been down there, anyway,” Mills replies. “Except when it was part of the old bridge.”

  They turn off on a side road next to the toll booths. The road leads into a rest area, and there are quite a few cars parked here, along with some tractor trailers.

  There’s even some sort of amphibious tank or something pulled up just short of the toll booth station that blocks the road to the Pier. A hand-painted sign says: “THIS WAY TO EVACUATION POINT. No one is in the toll booth. Chain link fenced has been strung from the water’s edge on the Gulf side to the water’s edge on the Bay side. A guard arm is dropped across the road.

  Mills drives through the arm, and it snaps easily.

  Keller says, “They must have drove that tank up through the bay or something. The treads would’ve torn the road to pieces.”

  Apparently no one has anything to add to that. They all seem to be absorbed in other things. Like a bunch of scavenger birds that takes wing, leaving a line of bodies partially picked clean of flesh.

  “Are they vultures?” Amy asks.

  “Probably,” Keller answers.

  Suitcases, clothes, and all sorts of personal items are strewn all over. And of course, a few of the walking variety of dead are around too. Mills isn’t driving fast, and a large group is starting to follow them. A few wear the uniforms of police and soldiers.

  Talaski can see a large building up ahead, and the end of the Pier. Quite a few vehicles are jammed together up there.

  “This is crazy, Nick,” Keller says. You think anybody’s really going to come over here and rescue us?”

  Talaski shrugs, asks, “Got any flares in here, Mills?”

  Mills actually seems to come to life. “Check under your seat–Should be road flares, and I’ll check the tool drawers in back.”

  “We have company out there, guys,” Amy says.

  “They are all over out there, Amy,” Mills agrees, “As it is, we’ll have to see if there is a ladder down to the water.”

  “Might have to jump in, if there isn’t a ladder,” Keller says.

  Talaski frowns, “Nobody jumps in if the tide is running out.”

  “Why?” Keller asks.

  “God knows where the current will take you,” Talaski answers.

  Mills cuts the engine and lets the truck coast to a stop. They are about twenty feet from the building housing a snack bar and bait shop. “Maybe one of you could cover me, while I look in the tool drawers on the side of the truck.”

  “Sure thing,” Amy says.

  Mills leaves the keys in the ignition.

  Talaski reaches under the seat and finds a bundle of road flares, and reflective cones. He takes the flares and leaves the cones where they are.

  All four of them climb down from the truck, and fan out. Talaski shoves the flares into his belt for now.

  The wind is stiff and steady, pressing against them almost continuously. Talaski smells salt, fish and the stink of death. They are downwind from the approaching zombies.

  “Look for those flares, Adam,” Keller says. “We’ll cover you.”

  Mills nods, but Keller probably doesn’t see it.

  The dead are approaching with some distance between most of them. Not much chance for a single shotgun blast to drop more than one. On the other hand, they are more dangerous when in mass.

  Keller and Amy kneel next to each other. She starts firing before he does. Her little carbine has better range. Talaski holds himself in reserve and watches their rear and the building. No telling how many of the things might be in there.

  Two minutes go by, and ten zombies are down. Amy and Keller are patient, and waiting for their shots.

  “No flare gun,” says Mills.

  The sun is going down. Talaski can see it almost touching the horizon, a fiery red ball highlighting the smudges that are more storm clouds.

  “I don’t see a ladder anywhere,” says Keller.

  “We’ll try the Bait House,” says Talaski.

  Amy and Keller stand up and all four head for a door on the back side of the building. From here they can see that metallic, rolling shutters are down over the service windows.

  The door isn’t locked. Mills has his pistol in his right hand, and a flashlight in his left, when he opens the door. Talaski follows him in, and steps around Mills.

  He sees bait tanks and supplies on one side of the room, and a long service counter with snacks, a soda fountain, and a grill on the other. The snacks are all gone, and the bait tanks are empty. There is a door to his left. He steps over to it, hearing the others come in behind him.

  Mills tries the door. “It’s unlocked to,” he says. Inside is a small room just big enough for a hatch in the floor. “And here is our way down.”

  “At least there is a way down, if they do send a boat for us,” Amy says.

  “Wish they’d left us something to eat,” says Keller, opening cabinets behind the counter. “We better start signally now. If the fleet is pulling out, we’re running out of time,” Mills says.

  Talaski leads the way, shotgun ready as the door swings in. A man is standing right there, and he pulls the trigger. Most of the man’s head, neck and shoulders vaporizes. And as the body falls, Talaski is already pushing out past it, firing twice more at a group of three. There is still enough light to see, but the shadows are lengthening, and soon it will be pitch black.

  The others file out behind him. Mills swings his flashlight around, apparently making sure the way to the pier wall is clear. The shape of another big ship is approaching the bay side of the bridge. Talaski breaks out the pack of road flares and hands them out as they jog toward the wall.

  The stone wall is only waist high. About a twenty foot drop to the water.

  The tide is going out.

  Keller has his flare lit and he waves it. Amy joins him.

  Talaski palms one flare, shoves the rest of them into his belt, and turns back to keep watch. Mills joins him. “Sorry about calling you Ski.”

  “Temper’s short. Don’t sweat it.”

  The dead are approaching. Talaski can see the movement if not the entirety of their shapes. He activates the flare and tosses it about fifteen feet away from them.

  “Jesus,” mutters Mills. At least twenty people are shuffling toward them.

  “Got about two hours of light,” Talaski says, “before we need another one.”

  Mills laughs. “If we’re still here then…

  “If,” agrees Talaski.

  “Looks like a helicopter is taking off from that last ship,” Amy says. “Do you think?”

  Talaski wants to believe–He really does.

  But inside There’s nothing.

  Nothing.

  Foster

  Lieutenant Green opens the door and a Marine and an MP are outside.

  “Step aside Green,” says the Marine, a big, black guy. “We’re arresting the President.”

&
nbsp; “Reedy!” Foster says.

  “You know me?” the man asks.

  “Not well,” Foster replies, and raises the pistol.

  Reedy flinches, tries to back away and raise his own weapon.

  Foster shoots him three times. Turns and shoots the MP too.

  Both men fall to the floor and blood rapidly pools on the bare concrete.

  “Get a move on Green. I don’t know where we are going.”

  Green gives him a shocked look.

  Foster grabs him by the collar and pulls him close, “Listen man, we aren’t playing games here. It was us or them. I’m well versed on the importance of that. Save talking for later.”

  “This way, sir,” Green says and points at a door thirty feet down a narrow side passage full of pipes and pumps from floor to ceiling.

  The passage never turns or widens, but it does start to rise gradually after almost half a mile. They come to an open doorway with the sign above the lintel: Waste Reclamation and Treatment. They stop for a moment, and Foster tries to catch his breath.

  “Not enough time for the treadmill lately,” he says, a faint smile on his lips.

  Green isn’t winded. Not even sweating.

  Somewhere behind them, they hear shouts, and pounding boots.

  “The chase is on,” Foster says, “We better get a move on.”

  Green leads the way across a room filled with machinery, gauges, some computers over against the far wall to a hermitically sealed door. He punches a sequence of numbers into the keypad.

  The door hisses as it opens. They both step inside, and the door closes behind them. The room is big enough for maybe five men. Green steps over to another keypad, and enters a five digit code. Foster catches that much, this time.

  “Three Two Three, and what is the rest, Lieutenant?”

  The other man chuckles. “Very good, sir, the rest is: Eight Five. My birthday.”

  The next door opens. A metal staircase is cut in the living rock.

  “After you, Mister President.”

  Foster doesn’t hesitate, but starts taking the steps two at a time. “I’m better with steps,” he offers, with a wry smile.

  Janicea

  The man above her, lifts her right leg, puts pressure on her shoulder, and keeps thrusting. Her scream doesn’t even slow him. His friend stands over them. She can see him over the guy’s shoulder.

  Sinclair’s voice says, “Get off her, now!”

  She feels the man stiffen, he then relaxes, moaning. He thrusts a couple more times, then rests his face beside hers. Like he didn’t even hear the command!

  “One last time,” Sinclair says, “Get off of her.”

  Sinclair hears the other man laugh.

  The man on top of Janicea, lifts himself up, and slides out of her, “Maybe when I’m done honey. Just have a seat–There’ll be plenty for you when it’s your turn.”

  Janicea sees Sinclair step forward and put the rifle barrel against the man’s head.

  “Fuck off,” she says and pulls the trigger.

  Nothing happens.

  Must’ve jammed. All this sand!

  “Fuck!”

  The other man grabs Sinclair arms from the rear, and says, “Gonna pay for that SoldierGirl.”

  The man rolls off Janicea, as Sinclair raises her boot and drives it down on the foot of the man behind her. The man is wearing sandals, and he roars in pain, losing his grip on her. She then snaps her head backwards into the man’s face.

  Daric appears, a small gun clenched in his fist.

  The long haired man, apparently weaponless, gives up and starts running back toward the jetskis. Meanwhile his companion is being beat to a pulp.

  Daric runs after the long haired man.

  Janicea somehow gets to her feet and begins to run after them.

  Ozzie tries to trip him on the way, rising up from the sand, but the guy sidesteps and kicks him in the face.

  Daric screams, “No!” He stops running, and clasps the gun in both hands. The guy is climbing aboard the still running jetski.

  The range is long for a .22, but Daric doesn’t know this. He starts shooting, the gun barely kicking in his small hands.

  One time the guy jerks, as if in pain, and another time a bullet twangs off the jetski’s metal hide. To Janicea, the gun’s ammo seems endless. The man is speeding away, and the boy is still shooting at him.

  She stops next to Daric, and the little gun’s slide locks back.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  Daric looks up at her briefly, eyes dull and dead, then seems to remember something. He turns away toward the other jetski. Beth lies motionless in the sand not far away from it. Daric runs, calling her name.

  “Beth! Beth!” His voice cracks, and the despair in it rends her heart.

  Janicea follows behind, in too much pain to run more, and afraid of what may have happened.

  Daric drops to his knees by the small body of his friend.

  As she draws near, she can see the still form of the little white fluffy dog, still cradled in her arms.

  Jacobs

  The rifle’s bolt locks to the rear. He presses the magazine release button, and places the empty on the cabinet. He selects a full one and slides it into the magazine well. Releases the bolt, and taps the forward assist.

  Might have taken ten seconds. Only one more zombie has appeared. Roughly thirty people are piled up all over the staircase and the landing in front of the front door.

  Dead again.

  The smells of gunpowder, rot, blood and shit are heavy in the air.

  Got to get out of here. The smell is making him gag.

  The zombie is closer. It is a teenage girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Probably Latino. She wears a black t-shirt with “Led Zeppelin” on it, a skimpy blue jean mini-skirt, and boots. Her right arm has a bite wound on it.

  She is crawling on her hands and knees over the bodies. Her shirt is torn and he can see a gold necklace dangling in front of some serious cleavage. He closes his eyes, but can still see the hunger in her eyes, the almost hateful desire to consume him that is driving her.

  He puts the rifle down, and lifts his pistol. Flicks the safety off. A round is in the chamber.

  “You want me bitch? He opens his shirt, points at his chest over his heart.

  “You want to tear my heart out don’t you?”

  She hisses, and he can’t help but think about the sexual aspect of her on all fours.

  Her long hair falling over one eye.

  Meets her eyes as she gets close to the cabinet.

  Puts the gun barrel up under his chin, with one hand, and strokes the dogs ear with the other.

  The girl reaches out for him.

  Sussu kisses his hand.

  Johnny

  It is very hard to judge distance with only one eye. Add fatigue, fear of heights, and not being able to swim into the equation, and the situation seems hopeless.

  “Must be these thunderstorms in the area making it so windy,” says the guy who just climbed out of a Corvette. The woman with him, a good-looking, but trashy blond, nods, but doesn’t say anything.

  Johnny doesn’t reply. He’s busy watching the approaching cruise ship and trying to gather his nerve.

  “You thinking of jumping, Mister?” the woman asks. Not far away, he can hear the moans of the undead, coming from both directions of the bridge. Johnny has already killed ten of them just to give himself enough time to decide whether to jump from the bridge to the ship or not. When it passes under, there is only a drop of about twelve feet. Or was it seventeen feet? He can’t remember. Just remembers reading it somewhere.

  The wind is something he didn’t think about, but should have. It might blow hard enough to make him miss the ship’s superstructure when, or if he goes for it.

  “Beautiful sunset, isn’t it?” the woman asks. She’s standing beside him now, her long hair whipping in the wind. “You don’t talk much do you?”

  He shakes his head.

/>   “Look at that sunset–It’s incredible isn’t it?”

  Johnny takes a moment to look around. He can hear sea gulls crying, and the wind. Off to the west, the view is breathtaking. The sun is moments from disappearing over the horizon, seemingly about to sink into the waters of the Gulf, and the clouds are bathed in a rosy glow. Elsewhere, a few of St. Petersburg’s skyscrapers are on fire, lending more of an air of menace, than of beauty.

  A rain drop hits him on the hand.

  He looks back at the ship. So close now, and moving fast.

  “He’s really going to do it, eh Suzy?” the man asks. Johnny can see a pistol in the man’s hand.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Johnny braces himself on the wall. It isn’t very high. Doesn’t seem high enough to stop even a small car from barreling over the edge into space, really. More important to think you are safe, maybe.

  An overwhelming number of zombies is within thirty feet of them on the bridge’s north end, while on the south, it is closer to fifteen feet.

  “Not long now, Suzy. You still want me to shoot you?” The man is close by now, although the gun is still pointing down, and resting against the guy’s thigh.

  Johnny shakes his head, wishing he could skip out of this conversation.

  “Maybe we could jump like Frankenstein here, Dmitri?”

  “I’m done, Suzy. You got maybe a minute to decide.”

  Thirty seconds if you are going to jump.

  Johnny can see the ship’s bow through the grating now.

  The woman laughs. “Oh God,” she says, “I don’t want to die.”

  The ship’s bridge is visible, and the bow is poking out from under the bridge. The wind is exerting steady pressure that is making him lean. He steps up on the wall, and holds onto a light pole with his left hand, and extends his other hand toward the woman.

  The gun goes off.

  “They are getting too close Suzy–Decide!” the man shouts.

  The woman looks into Johnny’s eyes, and she mouths the words, “I can’t.”

  He jumps.