Generation Z

by Peter Meredith

  Aaron jumped up onto one of the benches and lifted his feet. Jenn was the closest and grabbed the top of the board, working it back and forth. It was caught on something beneath the keel. Stu helped, gritting his fine, white teeth as he strained. Slowly, it came up. Mike already had the sail filled and with a great deal of scraping and grinding the two boats separated.

  The zombies weren’t done. They tried to grab hold of the boat, but Stu plied his axe, using the hammer end to break fingers until the Puffer was free and running across the water. There were six of them in the boat and another swimming away from the mass of zombies churning the water. Mike deftly guided the Puffer over to him. It took three of them to pull the exhausted man into the boat.

  Except for their heavy breathing, it was quiet on the bay. The odd silence built up both tension and guilt among the people on the boat.

  “I have to ask,” Mike said, as he turned the Puffer back towards the island, “Was anyone scratched?”

  The men were barely men. Now that Jenn had a chance to see them up close, one might have been twenty-five; the other two were in their late teens. They looked back and forth at each other before they started inspecting their exposed flesh. No one seemed to have been scratched, and yet someone was bleeding.

  “Look there,” Aaron whispered. The water in the bottom of the boat was tinged pink.

  “Damn,” Stu cursed. “Who is it?” With everyone wet and bedraggled, it wasn’t obvious. Then one of the teens, shivering from the cold water and the shock of the attack, lifted up the cuff of his jeans. His sock was torn and stained pink. When he pulled it down, he revealed a jagged cut.

  Jenn thought it looked like a bite wound, however the young man, an eighteen-year old named Remy who had come to the island a year after the earthquake, insisted that he had cut it when he fell in the water. “You have to believe me! Th-there’s a lip on the front of the b-boat and I banged my-my-my leg on it when I fell in. Jeff, tell them. Tell them about the lip. You scraped your leg on it this morning. Tell them!”

  Jeff Battaglia, the older of them, slid one leg behind the other. “There’s a little lip, sure but-but the scratch wasn’t bad.” Like a poker player, keeping his cards close to his vest, Jeff took a peek at it beneath his covering hand. A tiny smile twitched the corner of his mouth up and down and in relief, he said, “You see? It’s scabbed over.”

  He showed them two partially healed scrapes. Everyone in the boat leaned forward to judge and, as a group, the cuts were deemed innocuous. A second later the group turned to Remy who began shaking his head. The panicked look he had worn in the water was back. Jenn thought he was going to cry.

  Just then, one of the other sailboats pulled up alongside them. In it were four people; two men and two women, all in their early twenties or late teens. One of the women stared at them unblinking, her chin going back and forth, her lips making tiny movements. It seemed as though she were counting and having a mental spasm because she kept coming up with only seven.

  “Where’s Ken?” she asked. Some of them glanced back to where the other sailboat was just an odd hump in the water, while others, Jenn included, glanced down at their shoes. She had known Ken Koester for most of her life and yet she hadn’t recognized his frightened face as he had bobbed in the water surrounded by zombies. She replayed the moment in her mind, remembering that she had instinctively wanted to save him. Stu had stopped her from trying and maybe he had been right to.

  Then again, maybe not. She had saved Remy only he had been bitten, which meant she really hadn’t saved anyone.

  “We need to go back,” the young woman declared. “There’s still time. He said he could swim. Remember? He said he had taken swim lessons back before.”

  This struck a chord in Jenn. She remembered him saying the same thing once years ago. It had been on the hottest day in July six or seven years before when she had been struggling to teach herself how to swim. Ken and a bunch of his friends had been watching, laughing as she shivered, her lips a purple color.

  Eventually, she had snapped “You’re all just jealous cuz you guys don’t know how to swim.”

  “I had lessons when I was a kid, back before,” Ken had said. “I can swim just fine.” It had been a lie and Ken had taken it to his death.

  “We’ll send the canoe back for him,” Mike said to the woman and began waving to the long canoe. Jenn spotted the half-lie easily. Yes, they would send the canoe back, but only to rescue the floundering sailboat. It was too valuable to leave behind. There would be no going back for Ken. No one could have lived through that feeding frenzy.

  The woman believed the lie. She stood up in her boat and began screaming for the rowers to beat the water.

  Mike watched for a moment and then, without a word, moved the boom and filled the sail. He handled the boat as if it were an extension of himself. It slid across the water, cutting straight for the dock as if the wind and current were bearing them right to it. Stu and Jenn watched him work the tiller and ducked out of the way of the boom as it swung over. They were both quiet, staring blankly. They and everyone else were purposely not looking at the doomed man who sat with them.

  Remy had somewhat of the same reaction and didn’t look at his ankle. One of his friends suggested letting it trail in the water in the hope that the salt water would help wash away any germs in the wound.

  “It’s okay,” he insisted. “I scraped it on the boat.”

  Nearly fifty people waited for them at the dock. On an island only two hundred yards long, word had spread quickly that the fleet had run into a school. Gerry was in front. He tossed Mike a rope, asking, “Ken?” Mike nodded, his face set and pinched. Gerry read the truth from the way the look hung on Mike’s face. “Who’s hurt?” he asked quietly. No one looked at Remy; he was a negative space; an invisible being in a crowded boat. Gerry’s face fell. “Remy, too? Damn it.”

  “I just scratched my ankle on the boat,” Remy said, his fierce eyes daring anyone to contradict him.

  A long sigh escaped Gerry. “I’m sure you’re right, but you know the drill.” Remy dropped his chin. The others clambered out of the boat as fast as they could, leaving the one man alone. Jenn, Stu and Aaron stood to the side on the dock, waiting for him to get out of the boat.

  Remy sat on the middle bench, his head down; he had to be asked to get out of the boat by Gerry. No one offered him a hand. No one wanted to touch him.

  Gerry waited in silence until Remy climbed out of the boat. “You know where to go,” he told Remy. The young man slunk along the dock with his head down, watched by almost the entire population of the island. Only Gerry didn’t watch. Instead, he gave Stu a long, steady look. “Do you want to wait for the outcome?” he asked. “You never know. Sometimes it doesn’t take.”

  He meant that sometimes a small scratch or an insignificant bite wouldn’t turn a person. In all of Jenn’s fifteen years, she had only heard of five instances of this. Still, there was always a chance. For good luck, Jenn sketched a quick sign of the cross, finishing it with a swipe of her hands across each other to rid them of any evil taint. Almost everyone did the same. Even Gerry made the sign; only Stu did not.

  “No,” Stu said. “I want to get across the bay before dark. Jenn and Aaron, let’s get back in the boat.”

  “And Mike?” Gerry asked. “Do you still want him?” He locked eyes with Stu for a ten count, which was a long time in the circumstances. Jenn didn’t understand why Stu hesitated. Even though Mike was only seventeen, he was clearly an expert sailor and if anyone could get them across the bay quickly it was Mike Gunter.

  And she didn’t understand why Gerry had asked about Mike at all. Unless he thought Mike was bad luck. While everyone else stared at Stu, waiting for an answer, Jenn looked at Mike out of the corner of her eye, wondering if he was tainted in some way, or if he was a jinx, or under a curse, just as she was.

  The curse was the reason no one ever came to her place and why she was never invited on expeditions. It was the reas
on she always went out alone when no one else ever did. No one talked about it, but she had been the unlucky number from the day she tagged along to the hilltop.

  Thankfully, it was Stu making the decision. He didn’t care about lucky numbers or jinxes.

  “Yes, we’ll take him. Get on board, Mike.”

  Chapter 6

  Jenn Lockhart

  The bad luck surrounding Mike and Jenn made itself felt the moment they slid away from the dock. It was late in the afternoon and an early fog began to roll in and as they crossed in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, the fog was already wrapping itself around the base of the towers, hiding them from view. It was bearing down on them like a white wall.

  Then the wind almost died. The sail sagged and they lost momentum, stranding them in the middle of the harbor. Every once in a while, a stray breeze would puff up the sail and egg them on, but for the most part they were at the mercy of the tide which bore them into the fog. As far as fog went, it wasn’t the densest Jenn had ever been in. Still, visibility dropped to about twenty feet.

  “This sucks,” Aaron griped. He was sitting up, stretching his neck as far as possible trying to peer through the fog. “How are we gonna get home now?”

  “Quiet,” Mike said. He had his head cocked, listening to a rumbling sound coming from in front of them.

  Aaron brightened. “Is that the shore?”

  Mike didn’t answer right away. He yanked the tiller all the way to the left and manhandled the boom around. Only then did he say, “No. That’s either Shag or Harding Rock. If we hit it, well…let’s just hope we don’t.” He glanced up at the sail, perhaps hoping for more wind.

  Jenn did a triple sign of the cross while Stu stared around the boat. “We can use our crossbows as oars,” he said, picking his up. He removed the bolt and dry-shot the weapon. “Just tell me which way to paddle.” Mike pointed off the port bow. Soon the three of them were splashing away with their crossbows while Aaron held the tiller over.

  Because of the power of the tides, they seemed to be drawn to the rock and the sound of the waves breaking over it got louder and louder. Beneath them the ocean pulsed. They would be dragged back and then rushed forward. Stu was paddling as hard as he could, while Mike was calling out: “Stroke, stroke, stroke,” in a rhythm that Jenn picked up.

  She was drenched in sweat and sea water when the fog broke around Shag Rock. One second it seemed like an insignificant stone mass poking up out of a green swell, and in the next second the water dropped revealing a huge, jagged formation that Jenn was sure would dash the Puffer to pieces.

  “Back on the right!” Mike cried. “Back! Back! Harder, Jenn!” She dug her crossbow in the water and honestly couldn’t tell if she was doing anything at all to help move the boat. Still, she swiped the bow through the water as hard as she could. It wasn’t enough. No matter what they did, the Puffer stayed pointed straight at the rock and when the water dropped again, they skimmed across the surface shooting down the face of the wave. It felt like they were sledding out of control.

  “Hold on!” Mike bellowed as they raced at the rock. Everyone crouched down as they came at the rock, passing so close to it that Jenn could have reached out to touch it if she hadn’t been so frightened. Sitting on it was a gull with beady eyes. It screamed a cry at them as they drifted back into the fog.

  The four of them sat in the boat for a few seconds, limp with relief. Mike let them have a breather before he said, “We still have to keep away from the mouth of the bay or we might get swept out to sea. Forward now. Stroke, stroke, stroke. Back on the left, Stu. No, you keep going forward, Jenn.”

  She didn’t have any idea which direction they were pointing and had to trust that Mike or Stu knew. Soon, her arms were like lead and she took one stroke for every three of Mike’s. When a soft zephyr puffed up the sail, everyone sat back, their chests heaving.

  Eventually, Mike roused himself and corrected their course. Jenn asked him, “How do you know where we are?”

  What she had mistaken for a watch was actually a compass. “You should never leave home without one,” he told her. His relaxed smile was back. “Hey Stu, wasn’t that a commercial back in the old days? Something about not leaving home without…something?”

  Stu shrugged. “Maybe, I don’t know. The only commercials I remember were for cereal and this video game Assassins Creed. Man, I wanted that game so bad, but my mom said I was too young.”

  Jenn had no recollection of TV whatsoever. She knew what they had been for, but no “show” or “commercial” that the older people talked about was ever familiar to her. To her, television like cell phones and X-rays, was just more magic from the past, lost to humanity.

  As Mike and Stu talked about Assassin’s Creed, she thought they sounded strangely young; like kids. They were animated and loud. Stu even laughed, something that was always a rarity. Their light mood was infectious, and Jenn allowed it to lull her into a false sense of security. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she found herself laughing along.

  “What’s an assassin?” Aaron asked. “Is that like a slaver? Or…ooh, look.” He pointed at a body floating in the fog. It was Ken Koester. His face had been chewed off, but they all knew it was him. Aaron crossed himself twice. Jenn did as well. As everyone knew, it was probably the worst luck ever to see the body of someone taken by zombies.

  “Has it changed over?” Aaron asked, his face stricken.

  “Not yet,” Mike said, adjusting the sail and skirting around the body, leaving it in the fog. Seeing Ken killed their joy and the four of them were quiet for the next few minutes. It was a relief when they heard a ringing bell. Mike angled towards it. It was the Pelican Harbor buoy.

  Jenn loaded her crossbow and kissed it for luck as they drifted their way through the fog, using the bell to orient themselves. They knew they were close, still it was a surprise when they nearly crashed into one of the docks. Stu fended it off to keep the boom from snapping in two.

  Stu jumped up onto the dock and tied the stern, saying, “I think we should leave the boat for now. I’ll come back for it in the morning.” He helped Aaron out of the boat, while Jenn climbed up on her own.

  Aaron was about to walk away when Stu clapped him on the back and kept his hand there. “You’re going to be quiet this time, right?” Aaron opened his mouth and Stu gave him a hard squeeze. “Just nod. There you go. If we run into something, you’re going to hide and you won’t come out until you hear my whistle just like we talked about. Now nod again.”

  Aaron nodded but looked troubled. He wasn’t the only one. The fog had enveloped the hill. It was very dangerous. It hid the beasts and lulled them into a stupor so that they made only low, soft groans that were difficult to hear. If you ran into one, escaping from it could be almost as dangerous as fighting it.

  They all knew the story of one of the Santas who had impaled himself on a tree branch while running in the fog. Jenn had first heard the story years before and although the details had changed over time, that didn’t make it any less real.

  Stu, his face glistening as the fog coated him, checked to make sure their weapons were ready. Then he gave Aaron a shake. Jenn jumped up and down twice, earning a nod from Stu. Mike just stared. “Checking for rattles,” Jenn told him. She showed him how her gear was taped down so she could walk or run as noiselessly as possible.

  Mike shrugged before jumping up and down a few times. Since most of his gear was stowed in the pillowcase and muffled by clothes, he didn’t make much noise.

  “Good enough,” Stu said. “Aaron stay right on my butt. Mike will come next. Jenn, take up the rear. Everyone stay close and keep quiet.”

  Jenn was a little surprised at being asked to take the trail position. It suggested that either Stu trusted her a lot or didn’t trust Mike at all. How could he not trust Mike? she wondered. Mike was older and stronger that she was. He had proven his courage on the bay when she had been close to panicking.

  Maybe he trusts me more on land. Her
thin, boyish chest swelled with pride at the thought and she made sure to earn her place. She stepped lighter than ever, moving with the grace of a deer. She passed through the fog like a ghost straight out of Miss Shay’s nightly tales. She swept along…

  “Hey,” Mike hissed. “Watch it.”

  She had stepped on the back of his ankle, tripping him. They stumbled together in a tangle of arms, legs and crossbows. The two were so close that her whispered, “Sorry,” tickled his ear.

  At the commotion, Stu turned, his bow at the ready. For a moment, anger flashed across his hard features, then strangely, he smirked and turned back. Jenn was surprised. Stu’s anger was legendary when operational silence was broken outside the gates of the complex.

  And yet, he only smirked? This made no sense to her and she worried over it as they made their way slowly uphill through what had once been a pretty residential neighborhood of white picket fences, flower gardens and two-car garages.

  Stu stopped at each street before crossing over. Instead of looking both ways, as children were taught in the Before, he paused at the corner to listen. At Locust Street, he heard the low rumble of a zombie somewhere close in front of them. To avoid it, they turned onto Locust, leaving the zombie behind them—only to run into more of them.

  Jenn thought she heard at least three. Stu held a finger to his lips and then pointed back the way they had come. In the fog he missed an aluminum can that had been sitting against the curb for the last twelve years. His boot hit it and sent it skittering away.

  It was loud.

  Quickly, they slunk down against a fence and froze as five zombies came lumbering down the street, groaning softly. Because of the fog Jenn could only make out their feet and lower legs and the occasional swing of a long arm. It didn’t make much sense, but the fog made them more monstrous in her mind. She pictured them ten feet tall, their mouth filled with long fangs, and demonic red eyes.

  Her crossbow seemed pathetic and weak compared to the monsters. She began to shiver and she wasn’t the only one feeling the fear. Aaron couldn’t help himself and began whimpering. One of the zombies heard.