Dan Roebling sat down dejectedly in his easy chair. He had a bottle of Tito’s vodka in his hand. It was his favorite brand. If it were only cold, it would be perfect. Taking pulls directly from the bottle, he sat in the dark thinking. His wife, Bonnie, had died of cancer ten years ago. His construction business had been going strong, and he practically lived at the office, using work to consume his time and try to dull the pain and loneliness of his soulmate’s loss. When that didn’t work, he gave the business to his two sons who worked with him and moved to Florida for a fresh start. Maybe a new lifestyle would ease his melancholia. He enjoyed his life here, met new friends, even dated a few times. Nothing serious. No one would ever replace Bonnie.
Dan was a little startled to find that he had finished the entire bottle of vodka. He had been lost in thought and hadn’t realized that he continually had been drinking from the bottle. Oh well. He rose from his favorite chair and staggered a little over to the sliding glass doors. Stepping out, he closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. Rain, he thought. We are going to get some rain here soon. It was still hot, but he could feel it getting ever so slightly cooler. That would be nice. He smiled and looked out into the night. He realized he was still carrying the bottle, and he put it down on the patio table. Climbing up on the railing, Dan Roebling thought, Here I come, Bonnie, and jumped.
As the two boats circled around the Key, everyone on board could see the three large fires that had started. Suddenly, a fourth explosion sounded. This one was huge. They saw a big fireball shoot up into the night sky.
What i is going on? wondered Jack.
As they came closer to their portion of the city, they could see the panic and confusion happening on shore. One of the fires was nearer the shoreline. Silhouetted by the orange flames, they could discern among the moving figures the clear presence of zombies. A lot of them. A whole lot.
“What the hell is happening over there?” Sean gasped. “How did all these damn zombies get through? What happened to the barricades?”
“Bouchard!” spat Tommy. “This has to be his work. The three explosions we heard.”
“Four,” Mike corrected.
As they approached the dock where My Way was secured, Jake ran up to meet them.
“The zombies have breached the ramparts,” Jake yelled to them.
Climbing out of the boat and onto the dock, Tommy asked him, “What exactly happened?”
“From what I was told by the people there,” Jake answered,” Bouchard’s men went to three of our defensive barricades and set off charges. They picked the ones where we had less of a presence. By the time they were spotted, it was too late. Then they placed those…What do you call them—boom boxes. Anyway, they turned them up full volume right outside the blown-out openings. The zombies came out in force.” He looked back behind him in fear. “Even after we were able to shoot apart the CD players, it was too late. All the noise and fires drew them in.”
“What was the fourth explosion?” asked Sean, climbing up.
“Oh,” said Jake, “as those creatures poured through, people panicked, and a stray shot hit one of the pumps at the BP gas station nearby.”
By now Mel Gorman, the charter-boat captain, had come up. “The explosion took out almost a whole block.”
Jake looked at Tommy and Sean. “Morris, Bob, and their wives are already aboard. I think we should try to save whom we can and leave.”
“Right,” nodded Sean. “I’ll go get the girls.” He ran down the dock toward the hotel. Mike quickly followed.
Tommy turned to Mel. “See whom you can find. Do you have access to your cabin cruiser?”
“It’s up at the other end. I’ll pick up whomever I can and meet you in the water at the eastern end.”
“Great,” Tommy said as Mel quickly walked away. Then he paused and, turning to Manny, said, “Get everyone here on board too. Mario and Luis will help get Jake ready to depart. Send Travis out to the head of the dock to wait for Sean and them.”
“What about you?” Manny asked suspiciously. He didn’t like the look in his squad leader’s eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” Tommy said as he started into town. “I have some unfinished business left.”
Moving swiftly away, he heard Manny yell after him, “Wait, I’ll come too.”
“No,” Tommy called over his shoulder. “Get everyone on board. I’ll do this myself.”
Linda, Susan, and Naomi were waiting in the lobby when Sean and Mike ran in. All of their stuff was piled in front.
Sean kissed Linda and told her, “Bouchard and his men are dead. Unfortunately, he must have had a surprise cooked up for us. I guess he figured he’d force us out and then pick us off.”
The girls said in unison, “Is everybody all right?”
Mike, who had just kissed and hugged Susan, held her and said to them, “No. We lost Rich Foley. And that cop, Del, was killed also.”
“Oh no,” the girls gasped.
“’Fraid so,” said Sean. “Look, the zombies have broken through, and we have to get out of here right now.”
“Shit,” grumbled Naomi. “I really liked it here.”
“Let’s gather our stuff and get going,” said Mike, bending down and grabbing a couple of duffel bags.
Tommy had run past the hotel and down the street. He passed several people. Some were running for their boats in the marina area, but some just looked confused. Making it to the warehouse where Corso was being held, he saw the guards were nowhere to be seen. Entering the building, he went immediately to the room where the prisoner was being held. He unlocked the heavy door and entered. Corso was sitting there in the chair, smiling at him. Tommy could see that he had been unsuccessfully trying to get out of the handcuffs that were now fastened behind his back.
“Well, soldier boy,” Corso said with a chuckle, “it sounds like you may have a bit of trouble out there. Heh, heh…Things not quite working out for you? Shame.”
Tommy walked up and roughly yanked Corso up on his feet. “You’re coming with me, you psycho nutcase.”
Corso just laughed as he was manhandled out of the building. As Tommy was dragging Corso down the street, the ex-pirate looked around admiringly. “Well, looks as though the boys did a nice job fucking up your happy little nest here. I always loved the smell of a good wood fire. Makes me wish you had brought some marshmallows.”
“Shut up,” said Tommy gruffly.
Corso was looking over his shoulder as Tommy roughly shoved him down the street.
“Whoa! G. I. Joe, are those zombies I see down the road? Ha! It looks as though your ass is in a sling now. Why don’t you just let me go? Run and save yourself.”
As they reached the dock and started moving toward the awaiting yacht, Tommy stopped and, grabbing Corso around the collar, pulled the smirking killer toward him.
“You’re not getting rescued, you fuck. Bouchard is dead. His men are dead. All of your scumbag pirate friends are dead.” Tommy dragged the tall, thin man over to the end of the dock. Taking some satisfaction in the man’s faltering smile, he said, “You’re the only one left, asshole.”
Corso looked up at Jake’s yacht. He saw everyone standing at the rail, watching. He was about to turn around when he noticed Carlos Guzman trying to shrink into the crowd. He stopped and looked dumbly at him for a second. Then it clicked. Looking back at Tommy, he was almost amazed, and he grinned. The evil grin got wider and wider until he was consumed by roaring bouts of laughter.
Tommy, grimacing, reached down and unlocked one of Corso’s wrists. He took the handcuff off and quickly snapped it around the metal rope ring on the piling at the end of the dock. As Tommy climbed aboard the yacht and it started to pull away, Corso yelled out to him, “Hey, soldier boy. You think you’re finished with us? You’ve got no fucking clue!” His laughter was an evil, gravelly sound. “Your shit hasn’t even begun yet. You bastards got no idea what a shit-storm you just stepped into.”
Watching Corso rant and rave
, Tommy figured he was seeing the false bravado of a defeated man. Walking aft to keep Corso in view, Tommy pointed his finger down the dock and, in a presentably accurate imitation of Tony Montana from Scarface, yelled, “I want you to meet my little friends.”
Corso stopped and turned around. A dozen zombies were coming onto the long dock and heading right for him. He whirled back toward Tommy, who was smiling and waving. Snarling, he shouted, “Fuck you!”
Corso instantly started tugging and yanking on the handcuff attached to his left wrist. As the moaning undead shambled toward him, his violent jerking motions increased in intensity. Corso was repeatedly glancing over his shoulder at the approaching mob while trying desperately to push the now-bloodied cuff off his wrist with his right hand. By the sounds, he already knew that he had broken his left wrist and dislocated his thumb. However, no matter what he did, the cuff was on too tight to force it off his wrist. In sheer desperation, Corso put his foot on the wooden piling and started tugging with all his might on his wrist. Though the metal cut deeply into his skin, he couldn’t free himself. He stopped and, panting furiously, looked around again at his approaching attackers as they neared. Sensing a meal staked out for them, the undead were all reaching and snarling.
With no other recourse left to him, Corso looked at his manacled wrist and said, “Not today.” Swiftly bringing his damaged hand up to his mouth, he savagely started gnawing at his own hand. His desperately ripping teeth cut through flesh and tendon. Moments before the outstretched hands grasped him, he separated hand from wrist. He threw the now dismembered hand at the face of the nearest zombie. With the bloodied handcuffs now swinging freely on the piling’s metal ring, Corso took two steps and dove off the dock and into the Gulf of Mexico.
He surfaced, spitting out seawater. Looking toward the dock, he watched as the rotting crowd of ghouls gathered, some in front being pushed off by the growing mob. Corso swam away from his pursuers, awkwardly trying to maneuver with one hand and a stump. Blood kept shooting from the shredded artery, turning the ocean around him red. Stopping and treading water, he reached down and started to undo his belt. Yanking it off, he clumsily tried wrapping it around his arm to stop the bleeding. No, not today, he thought to himself. You don’t get Corso today.
It was just then, as he was bobbing in the ocean, that he noticed the first fin circling.
Mel Gorman made it to his cabin cruiser tied up at the other end of the marina. He boarded and started getting ready to sail. As he was preparing, he stopped to look around. The city of Key West was in chaos. There was a narrow alley between two buildings across from him. He could see a number of people huddling at the far end. He sounded the ship’s horn and waved his arms. Mel could see some of them turn and point to him. He motioned for them to come. They all started down the narrow walkway. Some looked to be carrying others who were hurt.
Just then, he turned and saw two police officers round the corner of the far left building. That building had been used to house and repair boats. Mel waved to them also. The two cops turned back around and started firing their guns back the way they came. As they did, a woman appeared, struggling to push an old man in a wheelchair ahead of her. She was limping badly. One of the cops turned his head as she passed, and he was struck by two recently turned zombies. The three went down heavily, with the officer’s gun skidding across the pavement away from him. The struggle was brief as one latched his teeth onto the cop’s arm and the other to his throat. Backing away, the second cop shot the two zombies, though it took him four shots to kill them. Other undead now appeared from around the corner. Screaming started to come from back in the alleyway. Apparently, other zombies that were following the first group had begun to attack the stragglers at the end of the line. The remaining cop, seeing the emerging group running from the alley out of the corner of his eye, swiftly turned and fired a shot in reflex at them. The shot hit a man in the chest who was carrying a moaning woman. They both fell in the mouth of the alley, where several people toppled over their prostrate forms. This successfully sealed the exit as well as the deaths of the remaining refugees. As the survivors raced to the boat, Mel started untying the ropes to get away. He noticed that he had a small skiff still attached to the back of the boat by a towline. Just leave it, he thought.
As the first people came up, Mel started helping them on board. The officer was still standing in the middle of the wharf, shooting at the multiplying number of undead pouring onto it. The limping woman pushing the man in the wheelchair was almost to the edge of the wharf. The old man was pounding his fist on the arm of the chair, urging her on. She looked ready to collapse. The two were closely followed by four zombies, two men and two women. They looked newly turned. All were bloodied. One of the women was dressed in only a bra and shorts and was missing part of her face. While the struggling woman aimed the chair at the cruiser, two of the zombies caught up to her. As they hit her hard from behind and took her down, her forward momentum pushed her hapless patient forward at an increased speed. Mel saw what was happening and yelled out, “Somebody get him.”
However, it was too late. Realizing what had just occurred, the old man, who was still pounding his fist on the chair, opened his mouth. With eyeglasses askew on his face and a hoarse cry issuing from his gaping mouth, the man rapidly rolled across the wharf and tipped over the edge. Both man and chair hit the water with a splash.
Mel ran to the bridge and started to pull away. The remaining cop, seeing he was cut off from any escape, continued to take down any undead who neared the boat until he was overwhelmed.
Moving out to sea, Mel turned to look back. The wharf was now crowded with the undead. Behind them, Key West burned. His boat was packed with people who had fled the holocaust. Some were bloodied, some looked catatonic, and almost all were crying.
Once he was far enough away that he felt safe, the crusty old skipper steered into the pitch-black night. He was headed to his rendezvous point with Jake. As he slowly circled around the island in the darkness, he heard raised voices and then screams coming from the crowd jammed into his boat. Some of the people on board were bitten before they embarked. Unnoticed, they died and then reanimated. Attacking their closest neighbors, they sent everyone scurrying to escape in the tight quarters. One of the men reached into a stowage compartment on deck and, before Mel could react, came up with the flare gun. Pointing it out in front of him at a busty blonde who had just finished ripping the throat out of a fat man dressed in an “I’m With Stupid” T-shirt, he fired. The flare hit her in the chest with a searing bright-yellow light. Unfazed, she charged him. He had already reloaded a new flare. When she hit him, he accidentally fired that one into the deck of the boat. Mel grabbed an extinguisher, and, as he stepped to the edge of the bridge, he realized it was hopeless. Bodies were catching fire as the crowd struggled back and forth. Mel quickly dropped the extinguisher, shut down the engines, and, rushing to the nearest rail, yelled, “Jump!”
Breaking the surface, Mel could hear several bodies splashing into the ocean from the sides of the boat. He swam aft and made it to the skiff that was being towed behind the cruiser. The water was rough due to the passing storm. Mel, a very good swimmer all his life, found he really had to struggle to reach it. He pulled himself out of the water and into the bobbing boat. He reached down into a small box and pulled out a flashlight. Turning it on, he waved it around, calling out. He then untied the towline and started the small outboard motor. Hearing splashing in the water, he moved the flashlight until he spotted someone. A bespectacled man was swimming toward him. He steered the boat in his direction, reached down, and pulled him up out of the waves. The drenched man flopped into the bottom of the skiff, breathing heavily. He circled to the other side of the burning cabin cruiser, where he could see two heads in the water.
“Señor, please,” called a voice.
As Mel steered toward the two heads bobbing in and out of view, he heard a voice calling from the other side. Coming up alongside the two people,
Mel and the other man pulled the man and woman on board. As they were getting the two new passengers situated, they drifted closer to the burning boat. A zombie, his clothes all ablaze, climbed on the rail and jumped toward the skiff, arms reaching out. Missing by at least six feet, he floundered in the water, clothes sizzling, and then quickly sank.
“Help us.”
“We’re drowning, please.”
“Help!”
Mel steered the boat through the chops. He took the turn wide because of the surface conditions and because he was afraid of the furiously burning vessel exploding. Heading toward the fading voices, he waved the flashlight around so he could be seen. The fire was producing light so he could see the choppy seas around him. Mel and the others on board called out, but their calls went unanswered. The several voices they had heard were now silent. They could see no one in the water. They were gone.
Mel set the throttle, and they sped off to the east. As the wet, exhausted people huddled together, Mel’s cabin cruiser exploded spectacularly in a big orange ball of flame. Fifteen minutes later, one of the survivors pointed and said in an accented voice, “Look, look. There is a boat.”
Indeed, ahead of them they could see the lights of Jake’s yacht glowing in the darkness. Pacing over, they were suddenly bathed in a bright light. As the searchlight found them, they heard Mario Brutolli shout out, “Ahoy, is that you, Gorman?”
Smiling and relieved, Mel called back, “Yes, it’s me. I have some survivors with me.”
“Come alongside and we’ll take you aboard,” Mario answered.
Twenty minutes later, the four soaked passengers were sitting in the galley and wrapped in blankets. Sean passed out shots of brandy to them. Everyone was sitting and talking of their experiences. The three new people introduced themselves. The one man, shivering and straightening the eyeglasses on his face, had a heavy accent. His name was Konrad Stasser. He and his wife were on holiday in the United States when Pandora first arrived. They were from Düsseldorf, Germany, celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Konrad’s wife, Greta, had to be hospitalized during the first Pandora outbreak. By the time she was well enough to fly and they could get tickets, the Pandora 2 Mutation reared its ugly head, and they found themselves stranded here. By the next week, the poor, unfortunate Herr Stasser had to beat his wife’s head in with the hotel lamp when, after “resting” for a while, she woke and tried to rip her husband’s throat out.
Pandora 2: Death is not an Option Page 8
