The boat’s engine revved and I turned toward Robert. He had his pistol in one hand, furiously working the controls with the other. About the same time, I heard the sound of bare feet coming down the stairs, fast. I turned and saw the zombie. He was once in his late teens or early twenties, thin, blond hair, dirty jeans worn through at the knees, and a soiled t-shirt that read UConn. The right side of his face and ear were gone and you could actually see teeth where his cheek should have been. The zombie got about a third of the way down when he slipped and tumbled to the dock. He laid there for about a second before jumping up to face me, growling. I was still in firing position, fewer than seven feet away, and pulled the trigger. Don't know if it was me or the rocking of the boat, but I missed the head and hit him in the neck, just above the sternum. The shot left a hole the size of a grapefruit with very little tissue connecting skull to torso, and the force of the blast spun the body in such a way that the creature ended up falling on its chest, with the head looking up to the sky. Its eyes darted back and forth and I could hear the teeth click, as the jaw frantically moved up and down. It sounded a bit like someone hastily stacking porcelain plates. After a few seconds, it slowed and stopped. I was fascinated and tried to remember all my cranial nerves, what had I severed?
Somewhere in the distance, Robert was yelling and I felt the boat lurch forward. My mind screamed that more were coming, but I just kept staring at this head. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement, and instinctively turned and fired. The shot caught the zombie in the shoulder. She spun like a top with arms flailing about and dropped at the bottom of the stairs. This caused the one immediately behind her to trip and fall face first onto the dock. I fired again as the closest zombie was rising to her feet, the force of the blast literally blew her into the water as if somebody had wrapped a rope around her waist and quickly jerked her backwards. Robert gunned the motor and it took only seconds to gain safety.
I know we heard additional sporadic gunfire, but not much. By now, there were at least half dozen on the dock and stairs. We assumed they couldn’t swim, so how the hell did they get on the island? In my mind’s eye, I was cool and composed, talking to Robert in a rational, controlled voice about what we should do. Later, he told me that all I could say, “Was a literary cornucopia of swear words over and over again, in at least three languages.” I have never asked but always wanted to know what the hell a literary cornucopia was?
Robert took the Providence about a hundred yards away from Molly's Rock and anchored. We grabbed the binoculars and searched the water, hoping that someone had made it in, but I knew the truth. It just happened way too fast. Scanning the house, I saw some movement inside, just flashes of things passing in front of windows. By now, the island seemed to be crawling with the undead. I could see them running in and out of the B&B frantically searching for something to attack. Soon there were no more gunshots and I knew my friends were gone.
In a top floor window, I spotted Mary standing, her arms above her, palms flat against the glass panes. The quality of light made her look decades younger than her seventy-two years. She was not shouting or crying, just staring at me with wide shock-filled eyes. I turned away to yell to Robert, and when I looked back Mary was gone. There was some commotion in the room and it seemed like someone had splattered dark paint across the window. It was over.
From the place we anchored, I had a clear view of the land, leeward, side of the island. We had all seen and talked about the channel. Everyone just assumed it gave us a nice safety buffer. As I now studied it, I could just make out the white of continuous small waves breaking over something. This break seemed to extend all the way from the beach to the island. The break was not there when we cased the place. It was probably only a second but it seems a lot longer now before my brain worked it out and connected the dots. Then it hit me hard. Oh my God, a sandbar!
How could we have missed it? We were patient. We were organized. We had gone through so much; so much pain, so much fear, so much sacrifice. How could we have not thought it through? We were survivors. We were good, fast, efficient, and smart. Hell, half of us grew up on the water! How could we have missed... Low tide?
Chapter 1 ~ Dry Places
My name is John Ross Patrick. I am 46 years old, 5-10, 185 lbs., brown hair, short beard, average build, and unremarkable in many ways, I guess the only item of note is that I am still alive. The world I once knew is gone. There are no more tests to grade, no more bills to pay, no more papers to present, and no more dreaming of finding true love.
I was in the Atacama Desert in the north of Chile when things really started to heat up, i.e., I was in the middle of nowhere. I had heard about something going on in central Asia before I left, but my focus was on three weeks of reconnecting with old friends, excavation, and adventure in the driest place on earth, a place I had lived off and on for more than five years. I didn’t have much grant money, so this trip was solo and on the cheap, we’re talking street vendor cheap. When I got there, the shortwave I had left at the museum during my last sojourn was gone, but that was okay. I had lots of books to read, and some time away from it all seemed like a good idea. I quickly touched base with some friends in town, sent out mail, and took off in my rented jeep, which accounted for exactly sixty-two percent of the trip budget (including gas). I spent most of the time alone, mapping Incan roadway in the high Cordillera Occidental, home to the highest permanent human structures on earth. I did make a few side trips to tiny mountain towns when I needed supplies or just wanted to check them out. These were the type of places where you would be lucky if they spoke Spanish, most only spoke Quechua. I had a great time and spent most of it in this daydream of what I would say when I returned to Liz.
When I did venture back, I found it odd that there were no tourists in San Pedro de Atacama, the small town I was working out of and popular with backpackers doing the South American circuit. A traditional quiet pueblo with a great museum, ruins, hot springs, volcanoes, good food, and flamingos, an ideal side trip. Yeah, it’s the start of winter, but still, there should be somebody coming through. I didn't dwell on it but the mystery lingered in the back of my mind, for about … that long. I was also kind of bothered that the museum was closed and all of the non-town staff gone. No chance to say goodbye. The one museum guy I did find, Hector, a local who has worked there since he was a kid, told me they had been called away. To be honest, I was relieved because I didn’t want to stay any longer than necessary and there was a distinct possibility I would be asked to give a review of what I had accomplished, not to mention the various dinners and lunches I would have to attend. All I could really think about was Elizabeth, and where our relationship would go once I got back, so I just shrugged it off, maybe there was a holiday or a meeting in Santiago.
I was only in San Pedro for two days and spent that in isolation, reviewing my notes, deciding what I was going to store, and the best angle to get more grant money so I could return. When I did leave, I was in a rush to catch my plane in Arica, an eight hour bus ride north. Leaving San Pedro, the bus passed the town’s only church, built in 1641. It was packed to overflowing. What the hell? It’s nine-thirty in the morning and a Tuesday, a holy day? Funeral? And that was about as much as I thought about it. I stayed to myself on the long bus ride up the coast, working on my notes while everything was still fresh in my head. It had been a productive trip, but I was now more than ready to get home. It took me some time, but I slowly noticed there was something in the air, the speaking in hushed tones, the way people moved and stole glances at you out of the corner of their eyes. I assumed that this was just because I was the only gringo on the cheapest bus to Arica. Now I know it was fear. If I was not so absorbed with the work at hand and dreams of a happy homecoming, I might have paid more attention, not that it really would have mattered.
Arica is on the Pacific coast and known as the city of the eternal spring, since it is always around seventy degrees and it almost never rains there. It’s a nice port town
and only a dozen or so miles from the Peruvian border, also one of the cheapest ways of getting to Bolivia. There’s always something going on. I was only staying for a few hours and then off to Miami, but still something was odd, fewer people on the streets, none of the ‘buzz’ the town normally has, and where the hell were all the tourists?
The taxi to the airport should have been the wake-up call. I get in, the driver never looks at me, keeps all the windows down, and just waits.
“Airport please.” I could have said this in Spanish, but the guy was kind of an ass. He didn’t look me in the eye or try to help with my luggage. As soon as we pull away, he starts to talk to himself in a low voice. I could see him through his rear-view mirror, and he never looked back. It took me awhile and a few stoplights before I could start to hear what he was saying,
“Áve María, grátia pléna, Dóminus técum. Benedícta ….” It’s the Hail Mary in Latin! After he finished the prayer, he would kiss a gold medallion he had on a heavy gold necklace and start the prayer all over again, never looking back.
I got to the airport in time for a two-hour delay in which no one said anything, and I mean nobody, nothing. We just sat there in our cheap plastic seats and stared at the dirty linoleum. It reminded me of the grade school dances in the basement of St. Benedicts School back in Rhode Island. Nobody wanted to be there, but there was this strange something going on that made the uncomfortable situation somewhat interesting. I was still not putting one and one together, totally absorbed in ‘John-World’. I boarded the plane, got to my seat, took a couple diazepams, and was just ready to crash out when I glanced at a guy reading a newspaper across the aisle from me. My Spanish is not great, even with all the time spent in Latin America, but I could easily translate the bold oversize headline, ‘¡La Caminata Muerta!’ The Dead Walk! I chuckled to myself, thinking that this must be some Chilean version of the National Enquirer and drifted off to sleep. When we landed in Miami and stood to leave, I looked again at the newspaper now left on the empty seat, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. It was not some Latin tabloid but El Mercurio, Chiles' top newspaper.
Chapter 2 ~ On the Boat
May 30th (Continued)
“Something is off our stern! Shit! Sorry, John, I wasn’t paying attention to the radar.” This jolted me back to reality. I was on Providence with Robert and all my other friends were just slaughtered by zombies. Robert and I had not said a single word to each other since the incident on Molly’s Rock. I think we are both in denial, and definitely in shock. He did all the sailing and I was supposed to be a general lookout. I glanced back. “Let me get the binoculars and give it a look.” The white dot was clearly a sailboat, a large one.
“Okay, Robert, um, I don’t see anyone yet, but somebody had to set those sails.”
“I am going to move us to intercept. Let’s get ready.” This was an order, not a suggestion.
I knew what Robert meant and armed myself. We had just fucked up big time and the cool, pragmatic Robert, was being hyper cautious, although I had no clue what he intended since the boat was too big and moving way too fast.
“I want you on the bow. I’ll take care of port and don’t assume anything!” We were not going to screw up again.
“Roger that, Robert!” I took my position, ensured my shotgun was fully loaded and scanned the boat again. We were coming up on her port bow and as we got closer, more detail came into focus.
“Robert, I got someone on the bow!” I could see one individual, standing with its side to me, staring out at the open ocean.
“Let’s see… It looks to be an adult male and …” I paused as the figure turned in my direction. “Ah shit! It’s a zombie!” I could now make out that the left arm was gone below the elbow, the skin had that shiny gray look, and the clothes, shorts, and a white short-sleeve shirt, was covered in what was almost certainly dried blood.
We passed within twenty-five yards of the ship, a magnificent schooner, two masts under full sail, all white and dazzling in the summer sun. She made me think of The Great Gatsby, and that long, lost, gilded time of almost innocent indulgence.
The zombie didn’t move. I half expected him to be holding a martini glass, but he just stood there, silently looking at us. His expression was eerily one of sorrow and pity.
“Do you see any more?” yelled Robert.
“No.” As the ship passed, I caught a glimpse of her name, Comfort.
And so we continued to cruise down the coast.
It had now been over a week since the shit hit the fan in this area and it was beginning to show. As we sailed on, we ran into more and more deserted vessels, mostly sailboats. Some had zombies but we left them alone. They would just end up eventually sinking in a storm or drifting ashore. It wasn’t until later that I realized this was not such a good idea, since there were a lot of islands in the immediate area that may have survivors and this would be an excellent way of infecting them. Then again, it wasn’t my damn job to kill every fucking zombie we happen to run into. We did pass one boat where someone had hung themselves from the mast, he (or she), just dangled in the wind like some macabre wind charm. I did notice something that I thought was particularly odd. Every now and then, we would go by a collection of abandoned boats all crammed into one little area of the shore. Not being a seaman, I could only guess that it had something to do with the tide and currents. It just looked so surreal as if some giant child had gathered his toys in one area and would be right back. We never saw anyone living and would have certainly picked them up. Maybe we should have made more of an effort, you know made some sound and see who came running, but we didn’t. A number of fires were burning close to shore and once, I saw a gigantic explosion far inland, I have no idea what it was, maybe one of those large oil storage tanks or something. Whatever it was, I heard the rolling thunder of the blast maybe half a minute after the flash.
We did ‘explore/liberate’ two boats that afternoon. The first was a motorboat that looked like a grown up version of the one from Gilligan’s Island, a sports fisherman as Robert called it. It was just drifting a couple of hundred yards from shore and seagulls covered it. We pulled up within twenty yards, made lots of noise, and waited for a response. Without asking, Robert started to give me a rundown.
“My guess is early eighties, sleeps ten, we’re looking at a V-birth, a few guestrooms, master, engine, salons, dining…this is not going to be easy. You game?”
“Why not?” Distraction is a good thing. I had been eyeing boats all morning, wondering what little treasure-chest they might have and looking for any excuse not to think of yesterday, or the day before, or last week.
As usual, Robert was right. It was no walk in the park. The birds were there for the two corpses in the back of the boat. It looked to be what was left of an adult man and woman. I based this on clothing, since the bodies were pretty chewed up by the gulls, wind, and sun. The male was definitely in a black tux, but I had no clue what she was in. Whatever it was, the fabric must have been very light. It looked like they had a party before checking out. several bottles of Stolichnaya Elite were next to them, rotted food and trash were scattered about and a large mirror (now covered in seagull guano) lay on the center table. Outside, the scene was not that bad, except for all the guano, this boat-robbing thing could work out. Once we went inside, everything changed for the claustrophobic. The corridors were too narrow, the doors were all funky sizes, and the boat creaked and rocked. My fun index was exceedingly low and I was just plain nervous. Overall, it kind of sucked. Once the boat was clear, we just went around and collected stuff. Whoever owned the boat was wealthy, but didn’t know shit at all when it came to basic survival gear, but hey, we scored some canned oysters. The next was an abandoned sailboat where we spent the next three hours planning, measuring, screwing around, and planning some more in a vain attempt to retrofit Robert’s boat with this vessel’s reverse osmosis water-filtration system. Oh, well, we did score several cases of Monadnock bottled water and
some nautical charts. Funny, I never looked at the names of the two boats.
That night, we anchored in a small cove well away from shore. We had visible light till almost ten, and, so far, no visitors. As the day cooled down, our spirits rose ever so slightly. We didn’t talk much, just spent a lot of time staring off into the distance. For some reason, I started spending more and more time looking at the shore. Even if I live to be a hundred, which is highly unlikely, I will never truly be able to absorb the past week.
Dinner was Campbell’s Chunky New England clam chowder, Saltines, and a warm Dr. Pepper. Not the greatest, but it would have to do, and I wasn’t hungry anyway.
Robert is a big guy, 6-3, maybe 220, mid sixties, short grey hair, grey beard, and in great shape. The tattoo on his arm told me that he had once been a Marine, something he never talked about. A short conversation with him and you could easily tell that he was totally laid back, well read, and very smart. He always wanted to be a pilot but ended up teaching engineering. He loved sailing. Retirement was supposed to be this boat and the rest of the world. Robert had another passion, competitive pistol shooting. Yeah, I know. What are the odds of ending up with Dirk Pitt for a partner during a zombie apocalypse? One of the guys told me he had achieved a Masters rating with the International Defensive Pistol Association, regularly competed in NRA competitions, and was somewhat of a legend at the Capital City Gun and Pistol Club. This was obvious when you saw him in action. He was calm, almost Buddha-like, and seemed never to miss. Whereas, I counted down each shot as my shotgun only held seven, Robert always knew exactly where he was with his clip and when to reload. I think he tolerated me because I had tried to wrap my mind around what had happened, and like it or not, had somewhat come to terms with this new paradigm, and so had Robert.
Brutal Planet: A Zombie Novel Page 2
