Brought on by the scene ashore, the tension he was feeling in his neck and back was quickly translating into one hell of a banging headache. And as a result of having worn the prosthesis virtually nonstop for the better part of twenty-four hours, the nerves in the nub of scar tissue were irritated and letting him know.
Tara said, “This is a trip.” She was in the passenger seat, staring out at the Gulf water rushing by not a dozen feet away. Decisive and the pair of smaller vessels were partially obscured behind the pilothouse. Inside the pilothouse, Shorty was dividing his time between watching the cutter off his left shoulder and the shore at his twelve o’ clock.
Eyes glued to the rearview mirror, where the approaching shore was represented by mostly sandy beach, tufts of grass, and snippets of a cement walkway paralleling the Gulf, Riker said, “Reminds me of sitting backward in a moving subway car.”
Steve-O said, “Reminds me of a rollercoaster. And I think I’m going to be sick.”
Recoiling, Riker said, “Think you can hold it?”
Fingers pressed to his lips, Steve-O shook his head.
With all of the windows powered up and the doors closed, it was quiet enough in the cab so that rumbling sounds could be heard coming from the backseat.
Only half joking, Riker said, “Give him Shorty’s dry bag to spew into.”
“That’s not cool,” replied Tara as she emptied the store-bought junk food out on the floorboard and handed Steve-O the empty plastic sack. “Not quite as nice as the barf bags on the airplane,” she said. “But it’ll do.”
Riker felt a tremor race through the Shelby. Taking his eyes from the rearview, he regarded Shorty, who was gripping the wheel two-handed and staring back at him with an oh shit expression on his face.
Now unobstructed by the pilothouse, Riker got a good look at the source of Shorty’s worry.
The rigid-hulled inflatable boat was already disengaged from the motor yacht and charging hard across open water toward Miss Abigail. Behind the RIB, Decisive was underway, too, and just beginning to come around to port.
With maybe half a mile between Miss Abigail and shore, and a little more than that separating her from Decisive, Riker wasn’t too worried about the cutter getting between them and freedom. The RIB, however, was another story. Already it had halved the distance from its interdiction stop and Miss Abigail’s current position.
There was a crinkling of plastic and a retching sound in the backseat. It was followed immediately by Steve-O promising profusely that he got it all in the bag.
Feeling the ferry’s speed picking up, Riker started the Shelby’s engine. Regarding Steve-O in the mirror, he said, “Are you going to be able to do your part when the time comes?”
Steve-O said, “Yes.” More retching followed. Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, he added, “I will do my job, Lee.”
The acidic nose of fresh vomit permeating the cab prompted Riker to drop all four windows a couple of inches. For added measure, he started the Shelby’s A/C running.
Tara was holding her nose and watching Shorty’s every movement. At the same time, she was working a problem in her head that consisted of her best guess of their distance to shore and their current speed, the former of which she figured was half a mile or so, the latter pushing up against twenty nautical miles-per-hour.
“We’ve got about ninety seconds before we make land,” she noted. “Come on, Shorty. Put the spurs to her.”
Riker was watching Shorty, too. The man reminded him of an owl. His head was on a constant swivel as he continually shifted his gaze between the RIB and shore. Finally, as if Tara’s words had reached him, he pegged the throttles, stretched a bungee cord through the spokes of the wheel, and then anchored both hooked ends somewhere out of sight.
In the next beat he had exited the pilothouse and was hustling toward the bow as fast as his little legs would carry him.
Taking ahold of the grab bar by her head, Tara said, “The little boat is about to crawl up our ass.” Flicking her eyes to the side mirror, she saw two things. Close in and already drenched by the fine spray rising over the bow, Shorty was kneeling by the ramp and working on getting it lowered.
Farther off, on shore, the zombies of Buccaneer State Park had taken a keen interest in Miss Abigail.
Having already turned toward the engine noises rolling off the bay, the handful of Bolts intermingling with the Slogs broke ranks and set off sprinting for the strip of white sand fronting the RVs.
Riker had also been watching Shorty in the passenger-side wing mirror. Seeing the man rise and turn back toward the Shelby, he said, “Steve-O … now!”
Already free of his seatbelt, Steve-O lunged across the backseat and threw open the rear passenger-side door.
“Done,” stated Steve-O ahead of a couple more dry heaves.
Voice rising an octave, Tara said, “Ten seconds,” and started counting down.
Hearing his sister’s count hit eight, Riker swung his gaze forward and saw the RIB quickly draw up alongside the ferry and then suddenly go low in the water. Imagining the pilot had just cut power to the outboards and drawn them from the water in order to preserve the props, Riker put the transmission into Reverse, engaged Baja Mode on the four-wheel drive selector, and then released the parking brake.
Keeping pressure on the brake pedal and his eyes on the beach looming in his wing mirror, Riker revved the engine a few hundred RPMs into the power band. At once he could feel the Shelby’s 770 horsepower V8 and her huge Brembo brakes going to war with each other.
In the span of a couple of seconds, numerous things occurred.
The noise of metal grating against cement rose over everything as the ferry, still moving at top speed, ran aground.
A sound like a shotgun blast rang out and the Shelby’s tailgate was pelted with sand and pebbles when the deployed ramp met the dry section of the sloping boat ramp.
Catching a bit of collateral damage on his backside, Shorty dove into the backseat. As he hauled the door closed behind him, Riker pinned the accelerator, let up on the brake, and returned his attention to the RIB.
In the next beat, with the rising whine of the Whipple supercharger under hood drowning out Shorty’s smoker’s rasp, the warnings being shouted through a bullhorn by Petty Officer Magee, and the awful sound of Steve-O filling up his barf bag, the Shelby lurched violently from the ferry’s tilting deck.
When the truck’s load bed cleared the edge of the canted ramp, Riker saw that Shorty’s aim had been off by a degree or two. As a result, the ferry missed hitting the boat ramp square on. Still pushing water, Miss Abigail’s screws propelled her stern clockwise to port and she slipped sideways off the edge of the partially submerged ramp.
When the ferry’s slab-side smacked into the RIB, Petty Officer Magee and a second crewman were catapulted overboard. Then, like a flea flicked off a dog, the much smaller boat was sent spinning away from the multi-ton ferry. As the pilot worked to engage the props and get control of the RIB, a huge volume of water washed over its gunwales, causing the tiny craft to roll to port.
While all of this was happening, the Shelby was going airborne. As the big truck came down hard on the algae-covered ramp, its long travel suspension soaked up most of the impact.
Equal and opposite reactions being what they are, everyone aboard the rig Steve-O had just recently dubbed Dolly was thrown around like rag dolls.
The Shelby hadn’t made it a dozen feet up the ramp when the off-road tires began to slip and all forward momentum was lost.
Cursing the state crew responsible for maintaining the ramp, Riker reined in the throttle and, to counter the fishtailing rear end, turned the wheel hard to the right.
There was a squeal from the power steering pump when the front wheels reached the limit of their travel.
A bang sounded near the truck’s right rear quarter. A tick later, Tara was having a staring contest with a twenty-something male zombie. Unaware of the automotive glass separating it
from fresh meat, the thing slammed its face hard into her window. Though teeth splintered and the door vibrated from the head-butt, the window held.
In his wing mirror, Riker saw a mixture of Bolts and Slogs converging on the truck from the east. On the beach, Magee and the other Coastie were busy rescuing the pilot from the overturned RIB.
When the Shelby finally started moving again, a Bolt flashed by them on either side.
Tara’s zombie was still mashing its shredded lips against her blood-streaked window when the truck’s tires again lost purchase. Instantly, the zombie was enveloped in blue-gray tire smoke drifting from all four wheel wells.
“Put your window down and shoot it,” ordered Riker.
Before Tara could comply, the monster turned and sprinted off toward the RIB crew still wading ashore.
Chapter 40
“Come on, come on, come on,” chanted Riker. He had the wheel turned against the slow downhill slide and was stabbing the accelerator.
Miss Abigail was sideways to the boat ramp, her engines still sending power to a trio of chewed-up screws, when the Shelby’s rear tires finally burned off enough organic matter to catch hold of the pavement.
At roughly the same instant, Shorty was bailing out of the truck, his Glock in hand, screaming a warning at the waterlogged RIB crew.
One by one, the men became aware of Shorty. In the next beat, they saw what was bearing down on them.
With just seconds to react, Magee dragged his rifle around on its sling and engaged the nearest threats.
As the Bolts fell, their gaping head wounds turning the sand red, Riker was steering frantically to get the Shelby tracking straight.
A dozen feet from the Shelby, having dropped to a knee in the sand, Shorty was firing his pistol at the oblivious Bolts sprinting past him.
“What a tool,” bellowed Tara as she pulsed her window down. “He’s going to get himself killed.”
“I don’t know about that,” Riker said as the truck was buffeted by a wall of wind. Wincing against the combination of harsh sunlight and wind-driven sand infiltrating his partially open window, he pointed to the orange and white helicopter coming at them low and fast out of the east. Though he wasn’t certain if it was the same model chopper he had rented to scatter his mom’s ashes over Niagara Falls, it bore a striking resemblance. Same tricycle landing gear tucked away in the fuselage. Same rounded nose and sleek fuselage that tapered back to a shrouded tail rotor.
A man wearing a bulky helmet and wielding a scoped and suppressed M4 carbine was hanging out the open starboard-side door. Turbine emitting a ferocious whine, the helicopter ripped over a still-struggling Miss Abigail with only a yard or two separating its flat underbelly from the radar antenna spinning lazily atop the ferry’s pilothouse.
Once clear of the ferry, the helicopter flared hard to starboard, spun clockwise on axis a couple of degrees, and then adopted a level, steady hover over the beach.
Having been presented a clear shot at the zombies converging on his Coast Guard brethren, the crewman in the chopper opened fire on the runners.
Brass casings arcing from the rifle glittered in the sun as they tumbled groundward through the blowing sand.
Riker dragged his attention from the helo to Shorty in time to see the man shoot a teenaged Bolt pointblank in the face. As the runner dropped dead and plowed a berm of sand with its body, a dozen feet away Magee was kneeling on the beach and dumping rounds into the advancing dead.
Getting the Shelby pointed toward the parking lot entrance, Riker powered his window down, jabbed the Sig outside the truck, and started shooting at the Slogs angling toward Shorty and the others.
Above the fracas, the chopper was side-slipping left and dropping fast toward a clear patch of sand. In the door, tethered in place by a nylon strap, the crew member with the M4 was busy swapping magazines.
Seeing Magee check his fire as Shorty entered his sights, Riker laid on the horn, getting the attention of all parties involved.
The half-dozen Slogs cresting the grass berm between the beach and RV park turned in unison toward the new stimuli.
Realizing he was caught on the wrong end of a rifle, Shorty slowly raised both hands above his head.
Meeting Shorty’s wide-eyed gaze, Magee lifted his cheek off the rifle stock and pointed toward the slow-rolling pickup. Then, just as the helicopter settled on the beach behind him, he repeated the gesture, bellowing, “Save yourselves!”
Shorty didn’t need to be told twice. After reading the petty officer’s lips, he shielded his face against the stinging sand, leaped over a head-shot corpse, and hustled back to the Shelby.
Nearing the pickup, Shorty saw a runner vectoring in on him from the campground. It was a young girl wearing only pajama bottoms decorated with yellow and blue flowers. Chest red with blood and arms pumping furiously, she was fixated solely on him until the Shelby’s rear door opened and a steady stream of neon-green Nerf bullets cut the air directly in front of her.
The undead girl forgot all about Shorty and veered off toward the water, in hot pursuit of the colorful items. The moment her course changed, tiny geysers erupted in the sand in her wake and continued to walk the beach until the bullets responsible stitched a jagged pattern up her back. Slapped down face first into the sand, her arms and legs continued to move until a screaming hunk of lead split her skull wide open.
Hearing the door thunk shut behind him, Riker powered the Shelby up the beach toward a band of chest-high dunes.
Though he tried to blink it away, the image of the girl atop the crude sand angel decorated with a halo of her own brains would be forever seared into his memory.
Chapter 41
Tara had turned in her seat just as the Shelby’s front tires rolled across the cement walkway bordering the beach. Bracing against the rocking she knew was to come, she addressed Shorty. “What were you thinking jumping out like that? It certainly wasn’t in the plan.”
Busy clicking into his seatbelt, Shorty said, “You and all your bloody plans.”
In the rearview, Riker saw the last of the RIB crew scrambling aboard the helicopter. Arrayed all around them on the wet sand were more than a dozen corpses. As the craft launched skyward, black smoke pouring from Miss Abigail’s dying engines was sucked up by the spinning rotor only to be sent roiling away like so many breaking waves.
Turning from the parking lot to the drive running through the RV camping area, Riker said, “Shorty … you going to answer Tara’s question?”
Tucking away the empty Glock, he said, “They’ve come to my rescue before.”
Tara set her Glock on her thigh. Regarding Shorty, she said, “Those same three guys?”
“Here come some more Sickos,” warned Steve-O as a pair of slow-movers emerged from between two older model RVs.
Shorty said, “Different crew, Tara. Decisive was busy somewhere else in the Gulf.” Casting a wary gaze at the dead things, he went on to explain how, as a young man, he’d been foolish enough to flirt with a hurricane in a small open-bow boat. He shivered when he recounted the time spent in open water with nobody around and having to watch his own boat sink.
“Reminds me of the sinking of the USS Indianapolis,” noted Riker. “Being all alone out there with hundreds of hungry sharks below you.” He shuddered. “That’s some serious nightmare fuel.”
Shorty shook his head. “Spent six hours out there without seeing a single dorsal fin.”
“How’d you get rescued?”
“The crew chief in a Dolphin helicopter spotted me. Abby always insisted I wear the brightest life vest possible. Got me a puke-yellow one for my birthday a week prior. The rescue swimmer they sent in for me said if it hadn’t been for the vest, the crew chief would have missed seeing me.
“Hurricane Elena was a real nasty one. She made it to a Category Three. Luckily my boat lost power on her trailing edge.”
Steve-O announced the presence of more Sickos.
Riker spotted them the moment
the drive began to curl to the north. He said, “Good eye, Steve-O. How many you think?”
“Twenty … maybe more.”
The one-way drive was wide enough to accommodate even the largest RV. Which was a good thing. Because the zombies facing them were spread out five abreast and four to five deep—a slow-moving knot Riker hoped to lure to one side or the other.
All ages were represented. Whereas the Bolts that stormed the beach and boat ramp hadn’t been carrying with them the stench of rotting flesh, this motley band had the market cornered on it. Which led Riker to kick the A/C to High and posit an observation. “This is the third time I’ve seen younger, more fit specimens acting like slow-movers.”
“Slogs,” interrupted Tara. “It’s fitting. If there are Bolts among them, we’d know it by now.”
Continuing, Riker said, “And they smell like ass warmed over. Probably been dead a couple of days.”
“At least,” noted Shorty. “The one I killed yesterday died and then came back within an hour. He didn’t stink.”
“Yet,” said Tara. “Was he young?”
Shorty said, “Late twenties, I’d guess.”
As the Shelby rolled by the pack, the sound of palms slapping sheet metal and glass echoed throughout the cab.
Wincing, Tara continued her line of questioning. “Was he a sprinter?”
“Flo effin Jo,” answered Shorty.
“She was faaast on her feet,” added Steve-O. “Star of the twenty-fourth Olympiad. I watched every second of it at home with Mom and Dad.”
A Slog mashed its bloated face against Steve-O’s window. Something sharp had cut a deep fissure nearly ear to ear under the obese woman’s chin. And as her mouth pistoned up and down, shiny white maggots dribbled from the mortal wound.
Pulling free from the clutch of dead, Riker steered through the open gate. After turning right and noting on a sign how to get to the park exit, he stole a quick glance into the back seat.
Behind him, Steve-O had removed his hat and was fanning himself with it. The man looked green to the gills and on the verge of resuming the spew fest. On the opposite side, Shorty was crowding his door, muscles tensed and watching Steve-O’s every move.
The Plan Page 24
