by Smith, S. L.
“And the boat?” Justin asked. He was creeping closer to the boat along the sunken timber mats, trying to meet in midway. Chet was ahead of him by several yards.
“Plenty enough, up and down here. This is actually my cousin’s. He won’t be needing it anymore.”
*****
“A what?” Isherwood asked. He had heard Patrick without problem; they were only a couple feet apart from each other. He just couldn’t understand it. “But why hang yourself? Put a bullet in your brain, at least, right?”
“Is that how you’d handle it?” Patrick asked him, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, yeah, sure,” Isherwood answered quickly and just as quickly shifted the vehicle out of park. Feeling uncomfortably unsure about his response, he added, “Right?”
“I don’t know,” Patrick answered. “Something to think about. Or not think about. Should probably ask one of the priests.”
“Okay, yeah,” Isherwood said, thoughtfully. “But regardless, why does this person have a noose hanging from a flagpole? Why out in the open like that? Why not a closet or locked room or something?”
“No clue. But, an empty noose means we might get a chance to ask them ourselves.”
Isherwood nodded as he eased the Jeep forward toward the tower. “There’s something else.”
“What.”
“Can you see that smallish plane over there?”
“Yeah, was gonna ask about that. Think it could be our way out of here?” Patrick asked.
“Hey, I like it here. But no, I saw something – somethings – moving around inside.”
“You’re saying we’ll have to clear it out before we go to the tower?”
“Possibly. Don’t know. We’ll have to see how it looks first.”
Isherwood drove the Jeep in an arc towards the tower, giving the plane a wide berth. He and Patrick were both watching the plane cautiously to make sure nothing suddenly erupted from it. Isherwood kept the broadside of the Jeep facing the plane, so he could use the window frame as a rifle rest, if needed. The plane seemed to wobble a bit as they passed. Something was stirring within.
“Something’s weird about that plane,” Patrick said. He was staring at the white plane. Two parallel lines of blue stripes swept across the fuselage. The nose of the plane was elongated and came almost to a point.
Isherwood squinted, trying to see what Patrick was seeing. Then his eyes grew wide. “Oh my God, you’re right. It’s not a plane. I mean, it is a plane, but … it’s a jet.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s it. Can’t see many of those around here, huh?”
“I don’t know. Wish I knew more about all this. Think I’m about to be making that wish a lot.”
“Maybe the noose person can help us there,” Patrick said. “Doesn’t look like anybody in there’s gonna be too helpful.” Then, mumbling to himself, he added, “more like, ‘help’ themselves to my insides.”
They were nearing the tower, having passed by the jet. It was a LearJet 60 though neither man knew much about planes. Isherwood had decided to go with Patrick’s plan and was driving right up into the parking spaces beside the control building. Or, he would have had a shot not suddenly rang out.
Isherwood hadn’t been driving fast, but he slammed his foot hard onto the brake. There was a short, loud screech of tires on the airstrip. It was probably a familiar sound to the airstrip, like that of a plane touching down. Isherwood cursed at himself for letting his guard down. Had he been paying closer attention, he might have seen the muzzle flash. “Did you see where he fired from?” he asked.
“Nah, no. No,” Patrick stuttered. The sudden explosion of gunfire had left him rattled.
Isherwood cursed again. “He must’ve shot above us. Warning shot. Suppose that’s a good sign.”
“What?” Patrick blurted out. “A good sign? Could’ve ripped right through us.”
“But he didn’t. That’s the point.”
“Hold up,” Patrick said. “The whole reason we even came here: you thought those kidnappers might’ve set a trap. Now, they’re shooting at us, and it’s a good thing. Sounds to me, you were right along.”
“No, no. Pretty sure I was wrong about all that.”
“Just because someone shot at us?”
“No, because of the gate,” Isherwood began. “Also, all the zombies inside the fence. Tells me whoever’s come here, post-crap hitting the fan, came from the sky. Also, that it wasn’t a group or raiding party because no shot zombies. I see the effects of the initial outbreak, but nothing more. You know? Seems like somebody landed here, maybe after running out of gas, ran for cover in the tower, and trapped there ever since.”
“How’re you gonna say they’re trapped by a half dozen zombies after they just shot at us?”
“Maybe they don’t know what’s going on, maybe they don’t zeeks can be killed. I don’t know. Maybe they’re just afraid, or are trapped by something in their head. You saw the noose, didn’t you?”
“So, what?” Patrick looked like a man on the verge. “We’re just gonna walk right up to the building waving a white flag or something? If whatever’s in there is afraid, we don’t know what they’re gonna do. And, if they don’t even know how to kill a zombie, how’re they gonna know we’re not zombines?”
Isherwood shrugged. “You can stay here if you want. Might not be a bad play.”
“No, if they’re slow to trust, they’d really not trust us then.”
“So what’s your idea then?”
Patrick cursed.
“My idea?” A smirk was edging up the side of Isherwood’s mouth.
“Whatever, jerk,” Patrick sighed. “Let’s just get this over with. Once more unto the breach …”
“Okay, once more,” he said, pulling on the door handle.
“You leaving that?” Patrick asked, nodding at the rifle Isherwood had grabbed.
Isherwood looked down at the .22 in his hand and shrugged. “Yeah, okay.” He placed the rifle across the hood of his Jeep. His sidearms, too, he unholstered and left on top of the hood. Patrick was already doing the same. “Sure hope I see little Emmy and Dee-dee again.”
The men nodded to each other when they had finished emptying their personal arsenals onto the Jeep’s hood. Isherwood, whether on purpose or just by habit, returned his sword to his back.They turned and began walking towards the control building. Patrick was expecting, with every step, for another shot to rip across the empty, quiet airstrip.
And then it happened. Another shot rang out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE CAJUN NAVY
“There,” Justin whispered. Even as he said it, the boat’s motor was throttling down. Justin could feel Chet shifting anxiously in the boat behind him. His hands were audibly tightening along the rail of the boat.
Glenn nodded, “I see it.” He reached back to make sure his boys were hunkering down in the boat. Both Micha and Eli were low in the boat, but still peering over the side.
Justin leveled his AR at the other boat, peering at it through the scope. It was just a shadow among other shadows drifting close to the riverbank and struggling against the swirling currents. They hadn’t needed to search far for the boat. Justin had done a good thing knocking out the boat’s motor, and, now with Glenn’s help, they had turned the situation back in their favor.
“Dad,” Eli said.
“Got it,” Glenn answered without Eli needing to say another word. The boat, instead of slowing down further to approach the other boat from behind, began sweeping around it in a wide arc. Justin was confused until he began searching farther along the bank through his scope. There was another boat, a third boat. He couldn’t see what it was moored onto. As before, there was no well-defined riverbank. There was only the place where the trees grew thicker. There was a scattering of trees growing deeper in the river and plenty of stumps as well. It made navigating the area treacherous, especially with all swirling water and back eddies. Glenn looked to be trying to interpose his boat between the other two, w
hile not getting too close to the bank.
There was soon very little point in whispering, if ever there was, given the sound of the motor. In a few moments, they were between the two boats. They were close enough to see the kidnapper’s eyes now, but his eyes kept shifting away from them. Both of the girls seemed to be lying unconscious on the deck just out of sight.
Chet was the first to break the silence. He cursed at the greasy-haired kidnapper. “If you hurt her, rat fink, I’m gonna kill you.”
“Look, buddy,” Glenn followed up. “We’ve got rifles trained on you right now and another ready to blow up your new boat, just like the last time. Get out of the boat, right now, and we’ll let you live.”
The kidnapper’s eyes kept shifting underneath a tangle of slick hair. He continued to say nothing, but there was an audible click as he cocked a pistol or shotgun that was presumably hidden across his lap.
“Classic,” Justin said.
“Just shoot him,” Glenn instructed. The rat boy didn’t register a response, except for the constant, darting movement of his eyes.
“No,” Chet yelled. “You could uh, uh nick the fink’s brain stem or something and he might pull the trigger involuntary, you know?”
Their boat was edging closer and closer to a large whirlpool that, they now realized, stood between the rat’s boat and his replacement boat. They understood too late why the kidnapper hadn’t yet closed the gap to his new boat. Without a functioning motor, his boat would be helplessly trapped in the churning water and eventually capsize. Whether the rat realized it or not, he set a trap for all of them.
“Why doesn’t he just give up, Dad?” Eli whispered. Glenn didn’t respond but shook his head curtly, as if to say he didn’t know, but for God’s sake, shut up.
The tension was growing. The flickering of the rat’s eyes was finally slowing. It was as though they had all grown accustomed to their rhythmic movement. They all grew uneasy at the change. Some of them even shivered, as if they had unconsciously accepted the rhythmic shifting of the eyes as a countdown of some sort.
“What the’ells he doing?” Micha asked, as he shifted uncomfortably along the slick metal floor of the boat.
The eyes suddenly stop flickering. Eli let out an audible gasp. The rat’s eyes had settled on something beyond them, something in the river behind them. What happened next took everybody by surprise. Shots suddenly rang out. Small explosions, gunfire, the sound of rending metal, and water splashing broke out across the water, finally breaking the mounting tension.
*****
The crack of the rifle echoed between the empty buildings of the airport and the wide open airstrip. Isherwood and Patrick both collapsed to the ground. Isherwood called over to Patrick, but there was no answer. He scrambled over to where his friend lay.
It all seemed to be happening in slow motion. Isherwood’s head and hands felt sluggish as he crawled over to Patrick. Patrick was lying still on the ground. He was looking around frantically for blood, as he crawled. There was no pool around the body. He looked back along the concrete for any kind of spray. There was nothing. He shook his friend’s shoulder softly. He was limp.
“Come on, man,” Isherwood moaned, as he rolled his friend over onto his back. He took Patrick’s head in his hands and inspected it for any kind of wound. There was a bad-looking scrape on his forehead, but that was it. He patted around Patrick’s chest and torso, seeing if he’d feel any kind of wet spot. Still, there was nothing. He pulled up Patrick’s shirt. Still nothing.
“What the hell, man? Did’ya just faint?” He pulled on the man’s limp hand and felt for a pulse. He sighed and let the arm drop back down to the concrete. He had a bottle of water in one of the cargo pockets of his pants. He spun the cap off and squeezed the bottle’s contents into his friend’s face. Finally, Patrick stirred as from a deep sleep. “Get up, buddy. You just knocked yourself out.”
Patrick sat up suddenly and blood spilled into his right eye. He slapped a hand to his forehead and began panicking. “I’ve been hit, I’ve been hit,” he kept repeating.
“Shut up, man. It’s just a scrape. We’ll get you a G. I. Joe band-aid out of the kit.”
“Seriously? What the heck was he shooting at? Just another warning …?” He trailed off. He was facing the Jeep and suddenly his eyes went wide. He scrambled to his feet and lunged back towards the Jeep.
Isherwood was still kneeling on the concrete beside where Patrick had been laying limp, only a moment ago. He looked back to the Jeep to see what Patrick was freaking out about. He looked to the windshield expecting to see a bullet hole there and began to chide himself inwardly for not hearing the sound of the breaking glass. But something else caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. They had left their doors open behind them, or he would have seen it much sooner. From underneath his open driver’s door, he saw feet. Shambling feet. He leaned down instinctively to look under the vehicle. There were more feet. A lot more feet. Twenty or more.
“What the’ell you boys sittin’ around for? You wanna get eaten?” It was a third voice, coming from behind them. It was then that Isherwood finally noticed the nearly headless body of a zombie lying beside the back of the Jeep. That’s where the bullet went, he thought dumbly.
Patrick had grabbed his guns from the Jeep’s hood and was already firing. He hadn’t even noticed the shooter come up from behind them. The shooter was running towards them and was soon past Isherwood. For a brief moment, they exchanged glances. Isherwood was still sitting on the ground. He looked up with a pathetic expression of bewilderment on his face. The shooter looked down at him with such scorn and contempt. He was so embarrassed that he barely noticed the obvious.
“But, you’re a chick,” he said stupidly.
The woman was on about her business. She didn’t even turn back to Isherwood to countenance his dumb remark. He, too, was on his feet in a flash, as if blown to his feet by the passing woman – or else trying to quickly distance himself from his embarrassment.
The woman and Patrick had both found rifle rests along the Jeep. Patrick was using the side mirror, while the woman was kneeling beside the rear bumper, as Isherwood had just minutes before.
“Try not to shoot my head off,” Isherwood said as he ran past the Jeep and into the center of the advancing swarm of zombies. The setting sun flashed once more as he pulled his sword free of its scabbard. He brought the blade down across his body, slicing the cap off a long-haired woman’s skull. He caught a glimpse of the jet in the distance. Another dead person was staggering through the open door of plane’s fuselage. It immediately slammed down onto the hard concrete of the airstrip, five or six feet below. There were a couple more beneath the door. These were struggling towards them, unable to stand on their cracked and ruined legs. One was dragging itself forward on its elbows. Flaps of skin like shirtsleeves trailed after it. The bare bones of its elbows made a terrible grating sound as they scraped against the concrete.
Those still at the plane posed no immediate threat, and Isherwood was already swinging his blade towards the next haggard creature. They weren’t dressed, he noticed, as he would’ve expected of people riding a private jet. He didn’t dwell long on the thought, though. Just then his sword got stuck in a skull. He had struck too far below the crown, failing to anticipate the up and down movement of the zombie’s lurching stride. The blade sank through the muscles connecting that half of the creature’s jaw and into its eye socket. The zombie – it was another long-haired woman – looked at him with pure hatred radiating from her remaining eye. There was something familiar about that look of hatred.
This wasn’t the first time Isherwood had jammed his sword, though it was happening less and less. He would typically use the sword to guide the zombie’s body into a controlled fall. The body would make a slow arc to the ground, where he could plant one boot on the creature’s skull for leverage. This time was different. The long-haired woman seemed fueled by a living malice. She kept advancing towards him alon
g the edge of the blade, inadvertently shearing through what remained of her face and skull. She finished the job for him, falling into pieces just before their faces could meet.
Isherwood finished off the remaining zombies at the leading edge of the swarm. It seemed like the woman had sharpened his sword with her own skull and the sword seemed to melt through the remaining spines and skulls like a hot knife through butter. When there were no more zombies in his immediate vicinity, he began advancing on the next group. Before he could close the gap, he watched as the heads of the next two zombies dissolved into a thick red mist following the double crack of rifles firing behind him.
Not counting the zombies still dragging themselves forward on shattered legs, the swarm was soon dealt with. Isherwood hung back for a while to avoid stepping into Patrick’s or the woman’s firing lines. Once the rifles fell silent, though, he strode towards the crawling zombies. He would make quick work of them with his blade.
He stopped in front of the zombie with the skin flaps trailing from its elbows and placed both hands along the hilt of his blade. He noticed that, male or female, this was one of the oldest zombies he’d seen. As he was about to bring the blade down, there came a soft tap on his shoulder. He turned to see the woman’s face, the shooter’s face, who had not long ago looked at him with such contempt, the same look, almost, he’d seen across the face of zombie whose skull had jammed on his blade. Isherwood finally understood as he saw the tears streaking down the woman’s face.
She put the barrel of her rifle into his hand. It was hot to the touch, and Isherwood quickly shifted his grasp. Without a word, she took the sword from his hand. She paused after stepping over to the zombie and bowed her head. She might even have said a quick prayer as the creature began clawing at her shoes. Then, she seemed to mimic Isherwood’s stance and, after the briefest hesitation, brought the blade down expertly into the zombie’s skull. Its hand stilled at her shoe. She took it and gently placed it across the chest of the elderly zombie.
