Awake

by Edward J. McFadden III

  “Dig’m in! Dig!” Maureen yelled, and in a few minutes, they had moved away from the blaze, into a nearby stream that led out into the wide bay to the south of the island.

  Maureen spun in her seat and watched the glow of the fire in the distance. Saura, Raul, and Ping trailed after her, their faces dirty and sullen. Something darted into the shadows. It had looked like a person in a kayak.

  Tim, Maureen thought, and doubled her stroke.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As the night deepened, so did Don’s angst. Under the light of day, things always appeared clearer, more direct, but the darkness brought worry, apprehension, and uncertainty. They sat in Rick Dempsey’s living room, each pulling on their preferred drink, and staring out the large picture window in the front of the living room, but there was nothing to see. Blackness pressed in on them, and Don’s thoughts drifted to West Miami, and County Road 953, and the chaos that was surely raging there. Lester was in an armchair across from Don and Dempsey, who sat on a fine leather couch. Both dogs had a place on adjacent chairs, and neither had made a sound in some time, like they were off the clock.

  “So, you’re a special agent?” Dempsey asked.

  “Last I checked,” Don said, as he worked on his third cup of coffee.

  “You sure don’t look like one. How’d you end up in here?”

  “Same as you. Unlucky, I guess,” Don said.

  The room fell silent. Tank’s gaze shifted from Don to Dempsey, but Jessie was uninterested. She curled in a ball facing away from them. Two windows were open a crack, but they heard nothing except the sea breeze, and the rattling of mangrove and palmetto leaves.

  “What brings you here, Don? Having a federal agent protecting me during the apocalypse is cool and all, but what could you possibly want to talk to me about?”

  “When was the last time you took ride?” Don asked. The man had said he didn’t do ride, but Don didn’t believe him.

  Dempsey’s eyes shifted to the floor, he rubbed his chin, and then looked back at Don, all confidence gone. “Last night. I made a pick-up, did my runs, had a meeting or two, and then came home to chill.”

  “Any strange effects? Anything different than you’ve experienced before?”

  “Nope. I had a nice clean ride, and felt good after. No worries. Why? You think ride is causing this?”

  Don wasn’t sure how much he should tell Dempsey. The man was a criminal, and those tendencies didn’t evaporate just because there were monsters running around. This wasn’t a typical investigation, however. He needed this man to cooperate, and tell the truth. So he decided to do the same. “I don’t think so, unless some folks are immune. I’ve seen people who have the disease, but who don’t use ride.”

  “Why me then?”

  “I’d hoped you would be able to help with that. The ride chain is still my best lead, and many of the early victims were connected to the drug. Tell me about where you get your stuff. Be as specific as possible.”

  “I get my ride from the same dude everybody does, Drago out in the Glades,” Dempsey said.

  Lester laughed. “The guy knows Drago was kind of a dick and a gutless coward, right? Harry beat his ass regularly,” Lester said.

  Don laughed. Harry Potter had become such a large part of pop culture that even he knew something of the boy wizard, despite having never read a word of the books or seen any of the films. “Not Draco. Drago. It means dragon,” Don said. Lester looked away.

  “Everybody gets their ride from this guy? Does he make it?”

  “He’s the main guy. His stuff is the best, and he’s cheap. Those two things mean more money for me. As to who makes it… ”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “No clue. Only a chosen few know how to find him. I’ve heard he has connections to Cuban gangs, and ties to the communist party in Cuba,” Dempsey said. He took a sip of his drink. “He’s a scary dude. Missing half his face from a knife fight when he was a boy. Ruthless and violent. The guy scares the piss out of me every time I see him.”

  “So you know how to get to his place?”

  Dempsey hesitated, then said, “Screw it. Doesn’t matter now anyway. Yeah, I can find him.”

  “Does he sell anything else? Other drugs? Weapons? Anything?”

  “Not that I know of. I give him money and he gives me the stuff. We didn’t even talk last time. I remember, because I was in such a hurry to leave he made me come back for my change.”

  “Your change?” Don asked.

  “Yeah. He owed me a hundred bucks. This guy likes things to be even to the penny.”

  The hair on the back of Don’s neck stood at attention. “Do you still have that hundred?”

  “Four twenties and two tens, actually, but no. I stopped at the market on my way home, plus I needed to make change for a few customers.”

  Don got up and paced back and forth across the plush carpet. If it wasn’t the drugs, what else do drug dealers deal in? Money. If the chimera was on the money, that would make perfect sense. The federal government had been concerned with the possibility of paper money being used as a weapon for years. They feared it provided a good host device for terrorists looking to spread a virus, and all kinds of bacteria lived and even thrived on paper money. All circulated paper money has fungus and bacteria on it.

  “Have you slept since you saw Drago?” Don asked, though there were no scar lines on the man’s face. If money was the disease vector, then Dempsey was most likely infected. Don didn’t feel the need to inform the man just yet. If he knew he was infected, he might choose to give up.

  Dempsey scratched his head. “No. I came home and partied, and I tried to sleep, but couldn’t.”

  Now that Don had a potential how, he wanted the why. “This guy Drago a radical? He ever say anything that would lead you to believe he’d want to kill all of Miami? That wouldn’t be good for business.”

  “Drago don’t care about nobody but Drago. Story goes they took him from his mother when he was a boy because he was a big kid. They forced him to be part of a gang that robbed, murdered, and raped its way across Cuba and it made him harsh and unfeeling. He ain’t all there. Some say he’s here because his gang sees the US as an excellent market for their product. Others say he’s here to destroy the Yumas.”

  “Yumas?”

  “Like Gringo.”

  So Drago wanted to destroy America. Get in line. “Let’s go see what’s happening on the police scanner,” Don said.

  They went to a downstairs bedroom where Dempsey kept the device. The room was sparsely furnished, but it had a desk on which the scanner rested. Dempsey turned it on, and they listened to static for several minutes before voices boomed from the speaker.

  “Kitten, this is cat. You copy.”

  A pause, then, “This is kitten. Go ahead.”

  “Bring home the milk,” said the voice, and Dempsey turned the scanner dial in frustration.

  “The military uses code, but not the cops.”

  They listened for a while as the police still operating within the city limits did their best to deploy dwindling resources, but it didn’t sound like they were having much luck. Walkers were all over the city. Emboldened by the darkness, it sounded as though things were getting out of hand, just as Don thought they would. Any doubt he’d felt about the quarantine fell away. If it hadn’t been for his quick, decisive action, they would be facing at a worldwide pandemic, and still might be.

  Don went back to the living room where Lester and Tank waited. Food lay strewn about the coffee table, and Don leaned over and grabbed a handful of potato chips. Dempsey strolled back into the room and plopped down on the couch. Candles burned at the center of the table, and they cast wavering light about the room. Outside, piercing screams shattered the stillness, and Don went to the window, peered out, but saw nobody.

  When he looked back at Dempsey, he had his head back, eyes closed. If he was infected, and he fell asleep, they’d need to be ready to wake him. They needed h
im.

  “You nodding off, partner. Got me?” Lester said, and Dempsey’s eyes snapped open.

  “So, you are worried,” Dempsey said.

  “No more than we are for ourselves,” Don lied.

  Another scream echoed outside, and this time, its source was clear. A group of walkers came up the road, hooting and screeching.

  “Kill those candles,” Don said, and the room fell into darkness. “Stay out of sight. They’ll go by if they don’t notice us.” He hoped. It was troubling to see walkers out on the street. They looked emboldened, and as Don surveyed them, his stomach went cold. Their mumbling could be heard clearly in the house as they ambled forward as if sleepwalking.

  A group of fifty or so walkers came up the street, and disappeared around the bend in the road. Don and his companions waited in the dark for what seemed like hours, but was only fifteen minutes, before the walkers reappeared on the road out front. They passed by without incident, and disappeared back the way they had come. Don relit the candles and took the last pull on his coffee.

  “What the hell do you make of that?” Dempsey asked. He looked pale in the candlelight.

  “You’ve never seen one before, have you?” Lester asked.

  Dempsey shook his head no.

  “It’s much nastier up close,” Lester said.

  They settled in for the night. Don and Lester had no intention of sleeping, but the dogs had no problem. Tank and Jessie slept the deep sleep of the canine, and Tank’s snoring went well with Jessie’s barking fits as she dreamed. Don tried to watch Dempsey without looking like he was watching him. Several times, he’d closed his eyes to nothing but the barest of slits, but Dempsey showed no signs of sleeping. Don didn’t know if the man was on cocaine, or had taken caffeine, but his eyes darted about, and he sweat like a man who didn’t think he’d see another dawn.

  Darkness washed over Don as he dozed, and Dempsey must have also fallen asleep, because the short bald man clawed at Don as he came awake. Don kicked him off, and pain from the gunshot wound paralyzed him, but he staggered to his feet. The dogs barked, and Lester jumped up, shotgun before him.

  Don searched for his M16, which was across the room standing against the wall. What was he thinking? He couldn’t kill Dempsey. He needed him, and getting to the Glades with Dempsey and having to deal with a bullet wound wasn’t the best way to make time.

  Don jumped forward and startled the walker, hoping Lester would see the opening. He did. When Dempsey cringed against Don’s fake blow, there had been the briefest of moments when his full attention was on Don. Lester had used that instant to crack Dempsey across the face with the butt of the shotgun.

  Dempsey fell back, and as he floated between consciousness and sleep, his body writhed and contorted like giant bugs crawled beneath his skin.

  “Shit,” Don said, as he retrieved the M16.

  “What now?” Lester asked.

  Don switched the M16 to single shot and fired, just grazing Dempsey’s leg enough to cut it open. He doubled over in pain, but it wasn’t enough. The thing that had been Dempsey hovered between panic, sleep, and hunger for flesh. When it came at Don, he fired again, and blew a bigger chunk from Dempsey’s leg.

  Dempsey went down in a heap, and it took several minutes for him to come back to himself. The pressure beneath his skin eased, and blood vessels receded, leaving only thin white scar lines. He sat panting and coughing as they fed him water. Dempsey didn’t remember any of it.

  “I was one of them?” Dempsey asked.

  “Yes,” Don said.

  Dempsey looked like a deflated balloon, all his life energy gone. “So I guess I’m done for.”

  “Not necessarily,” Don lied. “I’m trying to get a sample of the disease to my people on the outside. Stick with me and you have a chance.”

  Dempsey perked up, and looked at Don with eyes filled with fear, desperation, and hope. “You think?” Then his face sagged as questions filled his mind. “Wouldn’t they already have a walker? Couldn’t they figure out the disease using a captive?”

  “Maybe, but most likely not fast enough. When a virus enters the human body and takes hold, the biology of the situation changes,” Don said. He knew a fair amount about diseases as it was part of his job, but he was no expert.

  “How can I help?” Dempsey said.

  “I think you know the answer to that already.”

  “Drago’s place,” Dempsey said, and he deflated again.

  “You don’t need to see him. Hell, you don’t even need to come the entire way. I just need you to get me there,” Don said.

  “Fair enough.”

  “Do we need a boat?” Lester asked. “If he’s hiding out in the middle of nowhere, I don’t see how we’ll get to him without one.”

  “We’ll go by airboat,” Dempsey said. “I’ve got one stashed for when I make the trip. That’s if it hasn’t been messed with or stolen.”

  Don pondered this. Heading out to sea would be impossible, but he doubted the Navy kept watch on the interior waterways. The Glades were a tangle of woodlands, streams, lakes, rivers, and mangrove forests, and there were no clear paths. Given that Drago was hiding, Don assumed he’d be on an isolated interior island. “You sure? When was the last time you used it? Last night when you met with him?”

  “Nah, he met me at a bar last night.” Dempsey looked perplexed. “That was the first time he’d ever done that.”

  “You think he’s abandoned his place out in the Glades?” Don asked.

  “I doubt it.”

  “You have a car we can use to get to your boat?”

  “Sure do,” Dempsey said. “Come see.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Paddling in the pitch black with only two small flashlights to light the way, Maureen and her party threaded their way through a series of estuaries, bays, and thick mangrove patches half-buried in water. They’d been paddling for more than an hour. Maureen’s watch glowed in the darkness, and it read 3:06AM. The sun would be up in a few hours, and the nightmare would be over, though she knew it would never really be over. Tim and Lilly were still alive, but infected, and Geoff, Sheryl, Hawk, and Wendy wouldn’t see another sunrise.

  They’d decided not to stop and to paddle through the night hoping to make it out by early morning. Maureen did her best to lead the party east, but hardwood hammocks, small islands, and mangroves impeded their path. Raul said they’d drifted too far south. Moonlight helped them navigate, but Maureen still wasn’t overseeing all the glowing eyes in the darkness. When the glow of the fire had died, Maureen had another cartoon flashback. This time of Bugs Bunny staring at a wall of eyes.

  Raul whimpered behind her, and she couldn’t help but shed a tear for Wendy as well. Unlike Saura and Ping, she’d thrown herself into the fray to save her husband, and the guilt Raul must be feeling made her think of Tim, and of what they had become. He’d turned into the literal monster she believed him to be, and she scolded herself again for her inability to show compassion for a man she had once loved. They were through whether Tim lived or died, but this idea brought neither happiness nor peace. The “incident” was a catalyst that revealed a much bigger problem. A problem that couldn’t be fixed. There was no excuse for what he’d done, but it took two to form a shitty relationship.

  Ping struggled to keep up because Saura slept in her kayak, and he towed her, the lead line of her boat tied to the rear handle on his. Every few minutes, Maureen would intentionally dip her paddle a little too deep, and remove it from the water with a splash and plop, which woke the spoiled brat every time. Ping cleared his throat and sucked mucus every few seconds, and Maureen wished she had a cough drop to give him.

  They had to backtrack when they hit a dead end in a thick mangrove patch. Sawgrass and cattails filled every empty space, and Maureen was sick of seeing the stuff. After several turns, Raul informed them they were going southeast, and they needed to turn hard left if they wanted to get back on course. They paddled along the west side of
a hardwood hammock, and that made heading due east impossible.

  “What now, Pocahontas? Portage across?” Raul asked.

  “We can’t portage. It would take forever in the dark. We’d have to balance ourselves on the mangrove trees while pulling our boats behind us. Even if you and I could do it…” Maureen looked back at Ping as he towed his snoring wife.

  “Yeah,” Raul said. She could tell by his tone what he was thinking, because she’d been contemplating the same thing: maybe they should cut Saura and Ping loose, but that just wasn’t in her, and Raul didn’t press.

  They paddled on and soon entered a grass-choked bay, the moonlight reflecting off the spiked, variegated leaves of the sawgrass. The grass bent and snapped as they paddled through it, and Saura woke and paddled. Every stroke she moaned, or grunted, and Maureen was about to tell her to shut her cake hole when something in blackness caught her eye.

  In the distance, an orange light flickered. It looked to be a fire, and Maureen’s spirits rose. She doubled her stroke and pulled away from her companions. Raul did his best to keep up, but after a few minutes, Maureen fought alone through the grass, the sound of Raul and the others struggling to keep up fading behind her.

  “Maureen! Slow up, Speedy Gonzales,” Raul yelled.

  The light wavered for a few seconds, diminished, and went out. Maureen stopped paddling. “Way to go, Raul. You scared them.” Whoever’s campfire it had been, it was now out, and with no light to head for, she waited for everyone to catch up.

  “What the hell was that all about?” asked Raul when he arrived.

  Maureen didn’t answer. She didn’t have an answer. She’d seen the light and every instinct in her body told her to get to it as fast as she could. Rather than try to explain that to Raul, she said, “I saw something. A light. I thought it might be help. Then you screamed, and they must have heard you.”

  “So they put out their fire?” Raul said.

  Ping and Saura arrived, both huffing and puffing, and Saura looked putout. Her vacation wasn’t going the way she wanted. Her slick black hair, which was normally held vertical via several clips of dubious styles, now fell straight to her shoulders and was almost invisible in the blackness. “What now,” she said. “Like, you trying to lose us?”