by Schafer, Jon
Waving its arms and tread milling its feet, the dead thing walked along the bottom until it ran into one of the pilings that supported the dock above. Turning, it made its way toward the seawall, which it could follow along until it found somewhere to crawl out.
As if enough bad fortune had not already befallen it (yesterday it had come into contact with infected blood at the hospital where it worked and was now a re-animated corpse), It soon found itself enmeshed in a discarded cast net wrapped around one of the cross beams of the dock.
It thrashed around trying to get loose but this only caused it to become more entangled. Helplessly, it twisted and pawed at the net but to no avail. It was still trying to work itself free hours later when a thumping noise approached and then stopped nearby. Shortly after that, two large splashes indicated that it was no longer alone.
It still had one arm free, which it slowly waved back and forth to stay upright in the slight current. Other than that, it remained motionless, waiting to see what came its way.
Fitz found the end of the dock easily. From experience, he knew that things naturally washed towards the seawall in this part of the Intracoastal, so after checking to make sure Carter was with him, he kicked his fins to propel him in that direction.
He spotted the body immediately, his first thought being, the poor bastard might have made it if he hadn't got all tangled up. Hell of a way to go, kicking and screaming as your lungs burst for air.
Grunting to get Carter’s attention, Fitz pointed to the dead man. Drawing his knife, he indicated he would cut him free and motioned for Terri to hang back.
Fitz approached the body from the side facing away from the dock so as to minimize his chances of getting tangled in the net. He reached out to steady the corpse with one hand so he could slip his knife under the mesh and cut upward. Fitz had just grasped the dead man's shoulder when suddenly its head turned his way, locking eyes with him and then blinking rapidly.
The shoulder in Fitz's hand jerked loose as the dead thing’s head lunged toward him. Reacting quickly, the diver twisted in a ball and spun to get away. As he extended his legs to kick, he felt something jerk him backwards. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the moving dead man had grabbed his fin and was dragging him back. With a burst of strength brought on by panic, Fitz jackknifed his body and tore his foot loose from the swim fin.
All thoughts of training left him as he bolted upward. Luckily he had not been down long enough to get anything but a minor case of decompression sickness. After reaching the surface, he tore off his mask and thrashed wildly toward the boat, shedding his equipment on the way.
The driver saw the commotion caused by Fitz and noticed the bug eyed look of fear on the man's face. Thinking he had run into a bull shark, he extracted a rifle from where it was secured under the steering station and prepared to protect the diver.
Fitz reached the boat, and after dragging himself onto the deck, started spitting out saltwater and dry heaving as he tried to grasp what he had just seen. Attempting to put it into words, he managed to say, "Dead."
The pilot asked, "Terri? Is Terri dead?"
Still on all fours, Fitz gagged again as he shook his head no. "The victim is dead," he managed to say.
"Of course he's dead," the diver replied in confusion.
Worrying about his sanity at what he was about to relate, Fitz said, "He's alive. It's one of those things, but he's dead."
The pilot moved to the radio to call into base for help. He had just picked up the handset when from behind he heard Fitz say in a defeated voice, “It got Terri.”
Looking toward the dock, the boat's driver saw immediately where Fitz was staring. Near the seawall, a huge swell of dark red blood flowed on the surface before drifting outward and fading to the same dirty color as the water. He frantically yelled to Fitz, "Go in! Help him!"
"I'm not going back in there!" Fitz screamed back in a hysterical voice. "Nothing will get me in there. There might be more of those things in there."
Looking at Fitz with disgust, the pilot started to take off his shoes, preparing to dive in. He glanced at where Fitz crouched in terror with his back hunched against the gunwale and suddenly though better of his rescue attempt. He had seen Fitz face countless dangers in the water without flinching, and now here he was, cringing like a beat puppy.
Going back to the radio, the pilot called in the situation and asked for assistance. He had been briefed that morning to immediately report anything out of the ordinary that might be connected to the spreading HWNW virus. He felt this qualified.
Below the surface, it discarded pieces of wet suit as it ripped flesh from bone with its teeth.
It thought it had missed out on feeding when the first food got away, but seconds later another food source came to him. The second food had grabbed at the net wrapped around it and started cutting frantically with a knife. The diver thinking he was saving a drowning man. Instead of waiting to be freed though, it couldn't restrain its urge to eat. Giving in to its instincts, it gripped the food's arm, pulling the appendage to its mouth before biting though the spongy rubber covering it and into a bicep.
The food had struggled, slashing uselessly at the dead man’s torso with the knife as it continued to bite chunks of neoprene and flesh from the food. Soon the food had slowed its movements and stopped. The food was dead but it didn't discard the carcass as it would when food was plentiful. In the dim recluses of its feeble brain, it knew that a long time might pass before it had a chance to feed again down here.
CHAPTER TEN
Clearwater, Florida:
Steve was about to step out the stairwell door onto the roof of the Garnett Building when his cell phone rang. Pulling it from his pocket, he checked the caller ID and saw it was Heather.
With a feeling of pleasure mixed with guilty apprehension, he answered by saying, "KLAM Music Radio, we play all the greatest hits. Our request lines are open, so what do you want to hear?"
"The Governor is announcing martial law at nine tomorrow morning," Heather said in a flat voice.
Steve paused for a second as he considered this before replying, "Wouldn't you rather hear ‘Freebird’ by Lynyrd Skynyrd?"
Heather gave a short barking laugh, "I think I want to hear ‘We Gotta Get Out of This Place’ by the Animals."
"And go where?" Steve asked.
"That's the problem," Heather said with a sigh. "From the sound of it, there’s nowhere else to go. The television is saying that the sickness has spread worldwide."
"That's not the first I've heard of that, it's been all over the Internet," Steve replied. Stepping onto the roof, he heard the faint noise of traffic from the street below. The sound carried through the mouthpiece of his phone loud enough for Heather to notice and ask where he was.
"Times Square," he replied as he tried to remember where the valve he was looking for was located. "I've got a craving for a Nathan’s hotdog."
"Bring me two with chili and onions."
"Won't be sleeping in my bed," Steve quipped. Then, realizing what he said, moved on quickly. "Actually I'm on the roof of the Bank Building trying to deal with my water problem."
"Part of the master plan you told me about this morning?" Heather asked.
Locating the valve he was seeking on the far side of a huge metal tank, Steve replied, "A small but vital part." Trying to twist the wheel open with the phone pinched between his ear and shoulder proved difficult, so he asked Heather to hold on and set it on the roof.
Grasping both hands on the wheel, Steve reminded himself righty tightie - lefty loosie, then tried to spin the wheel clockwise. But no matter how hard he twisted, grunted and groaned, he got nowhere.
Picking the phone back up, grasping for breath he said, "Can I call you back?"
With a chuckle Heather replied, "You're all done having phone sex and now you want to hang up. Why don't we ever talk anymore?" She finished wistfully.
Realizing how he must have sounded trying to open the v
alve, he burst out laughing.
"I needed a good laugh, thank you," he said. "I’ve got to find a pry bar or something to get this thing to open."
"Maybe I can help," Heather offered. "I grew up on a farm in Illinois, and my dad taught me all about machinery. What are you trying to do?"
Instead of making a comment about the farmer's daughter, he explained about the valve he needed to open to fill the water tank on the roof. When he finished, Heather said, "Look at where the wheel attaches to the stem. There's probably a piece of metal that flips over and locks it in place."
Steve saw what she was talking about immediately. Flipping the lock back, he found the wheel turned easily in his hands. In seconds, he was rewarded with the sound of water rushing through the pipes leading to the top of the tank.
"Got it," he exclaimed into the phone.
"My invoice is in the mail," Heather said.
"So’s the check," Steve shot back.
"That reminds me," Heather said, "they’re talking about suspending postal delivery starting Monday if they can't get a handle on this thing. There's a rumor that this is a terrorist attack being spread through the mail like anthrax or something. They're worried for the carriers’ safety."
"Where do you really think it came from?" Steve asked, curious as to any theories she might have.
"I don't know but I don’t think it’s terrorists," Heather answered. "I was surfing the web reading stories and there's a lot of theories: UFO's, sunspots, government testing, yada, yada, yada. From what I've read though, I think it mutated from some existing virus. A professor out of Little Rock -."
"Doctor Hawkins?" Steve broke in.
"Yeah, that's his name. He's part of the government team working on finding a cure for HWNW. He believes it's a normal virus that was altered by accidental exposure to radiation and what he calls other outside influences. Wonder what he means by that?"
"Global warming?" Steve suggested, as he headed back to the stairs.
Ignoring him, Heather continued, "They don't say anything about how close they are to a cure, but I hope they find one soon. They're saying that there's a lull in reported infections, but that doesn't mean anything. San Francisco thought they had the problem in check, and now there's talk of abandoning the city."
Steve was about to enter the door to the stairs when a loud explosion made him spin in its direction and duck. "What the hell was that?" He yelled in surprise.
"Are you all right? Steve, answer me," Heather said, her voice filled with concern.
"I'm fine,” he replied. “Hold on, I'm going to go see what that was."
Sprinting to the front of the building, Steve could see smoke coming from the direction of the marina as a series of smaller explosions shook the air. He was relaying this to Heather when she cut in, "I’ve gotta go. My beeper just went off. Be careful, there's a lot of weirdoes out and everyone's on edge. A lot of people are going around armed."
"I was just going to say the same thing to you. And don't worry about me, I'm one of the armed weirdoes," Steve replied.
"Gotta go," Heather said in a rush and disconnected.
Steve watched the columns of smoke rise into the air for a moment before turning to leave. He already had enough on his plate and this was somebody else's tragedy.
Going down the stairs to the radio station, he remembered that he’d left the November access codes for the building's doors in the storage compartment between the front seats of his Jeep. The numbers were changed every month for security reasons.
Knowing he had to have those to distribute to the station’s staff, he started to exit onto the twelfth floor so he could take the elevator down. A scraping noise from the stairwell below caught his attention before he could exit, causing him to freeze with his hand on the door's handle.
The scraping noise was repeated, followed by a thump.
A chill went through Steve's body as he remembered that he’d left his pistol in his backpack and had left his backpack on the floor of his office next to his desk. The scrape thump came again, echoing in the enclosed space. The rational part of Steve's mind tried to dismiss the noise as someone dragging something up the stairs. But fueled by stories of the walking dead roaming around and dining on humans, it didn't take. All he could think about was getting his hands on his pistol.
Easing the thumb latch on the door handle down, he jumped slightly when it made a loud, sharp click. In the silence of the stairwell it sounded as if a bomb had gone off.
About to throw the door open and bolt through, he pulled up short when a voice called from below, "Little help here. Hello, anyone there?"
Shaking his head in disgust at his jumpiness, Steve called back, "Yeah, hold on," before descending.
Three floors down he came across a man who seemed familiar but Steve couldn't place where he knew him. With a shiny bald head and hawk like features, the man stood over six feet tall and had wide shoulders. Although he was impressive in size, the man's body was definitely going downhill. A large potbelly hung over his gray work pants and his shirt barely hid the man tits he was growing. He decided that this was what the high school football star ended up looking like twenty-five years after graduation.
Steve started to introduce himself when the man said abruptly, "Grab that," and pointed to one of the two large, wheeled suitcases next to him on the stairs. Ignoring the man's order, Steve stuck out his hand saying, "Steve Wendell, KLAM Radio."
Looking annoyed, the man shook hands and gave a grunt in acknowledgement. Grabbing the handle on one of the cases, he looked from the other to Steve as if to say, what are you waiting for?
Right then, Steve named him The Fat Football Fuck, or Triple F for short. Although irritated at the man's brusque manner, he obliged by grabbing the handle of the second suitcase. Surprised at how heavy the bag was he asked, "What floor?"
A clipped, "Twelve," came in response.
That's how I know him, Steve thought. I must have passed him in the hall.
The wheels on the suitcase were too small to work on the stairs so it was a matter of manhandling it up the incline until he reached the landing on twelve. Once there, Steve tried to turn over his burden, but fat football fuck ignored the proffered handle and said in a condescending voice, "It’s just down the hall."
Before Steve could protest, Triple F turned and went through the door.
Steve kept his cool as he followed him down the hall in the opposite direction from the station. Stopping in front of the last suite, Triple F unlocked the door and wheeled his case in before he came out, grabbed the other case and re-entered the suite, shutting the door behind him without a word.
"You’re welcome," Steve said to the empty hallway.
The sign on the door read: Brian Harrison, and below that, Money Market Specialist.
Steve decided to come back with a laundry marker one night, cross out the Money Market Specialist and write ASSHOLE in its place.
As he turned away, he concluded that acting out by doing something like that would be petty and childish. With this in his mind, he vowed to do it that evening.
Walking back down the long corridor, he spotted Jonny G coming out from the short hall that served the elevators and stairs. The intern caught sight of him and started talking a mile a minute about what he had seen and heard on the Internet, TV and on the streets.
Steve listened for a moment to see if Jonny had heard any new information, but he was just rehashing old news. Holding out his keys, he told him to go down and retrieve the new security code from his Jeep.
"Where are you parked, boss?" Jonny asked sincerely.
Thinking he was being put on, Steve didn't answer right away. Then seeing the earnest look on Jonny's face, he finally said, "Same place I park every day, top floor of the parking garage in the spot with the sign in front of it that reads Steve Wendell, KLAM Station Manager."
Eager to please, Jonny G went off on his errand, leaving Steve to wonder how the kid found his way to work every day.<
br />
He entered his office and sat down at the desk with a sigh. Glancing at his backpack, he thought about the pistol inside. He'd had two really good scares in the past few days where he could see himself pulling it out and quite possibly using it.
Years ago he had killed two men in Detroit who tried to carjack him at knife point. He had relied on his split second judgment as to whether or not to fire and had been right. Would he be right again in a similar situation? He knew he couldn't take the chance of putting himself, or someone else, in danger by not reacting to a situation and pulling the trigger, so he compromised in making his second vow of the day in light of the current crisis.
First vow, find marker for graffiti on Triple F's door.
Second vow, if in doubt pull the pistol out. I can't apologize to someone for pointing a gun at them if I’m dead. I'll just have to use my best judgment if I put that last half-ounce of pressure on the trigger when the time comes.
Satisfied with his decision, Steve accessed the station’s news provider in New York but couldn't connect. A message came on screen informing him that the web site was down. Trying their alternative site out of Los Angeles yielded the same result. Giving up and switching to a search engine he typed in: Doctor Lyonel H. Hawkins. Before he could hit the fetch button, his cell phone rang.
Seeing it was Heather again, he felt slightly worried that she would be calling back so soon. Instead of his usual greeting he answered, "This is Steve."
"Listen, don't freak out when I tell you this and go running home because there's nothing there that needs you tear-assing through town to the beach."
Shit, Steve's mind screamed, Ginny.
Keeping his voice calm, he asked, "What's going on?"
"We had an attack out on Indian Rocks Beach by one of the dead."
For an instant, Steve thought she meant The Grateful Dead but quickly grasped what she was really saying. He almost laughed at his own idea of Jerry Garcia eating people on the beach. His mind wandered for a second, questioning whether those who had been dead for a long time could come back to life. Maybe he could take a trip to Paris and watch Jim Morrison rise from the grave. Maybe ask him to sing ‘The End’.
