It started to rain again as he headed north up the coast. On board Cale had found several maps. It took some time but eventually he found his approximate location on one of them. As he scanned the maps he realized, given the size and comfort of the ship, he could try and make it all the way to the U.S. on it.
The Strait of Gibraltar was the narrowest point on the Mediterranean Sea to the Atlantic and that was only about thirty miles wide by Cale’s measurement. He planned to gather more supplies and then work his way toward the north Atlantic. Once he found a good place, he’d get back on land and acquire more food and water. Water was his main concern. He still had plenty of MREs. He tried calculating how long it would take by boat to get from his present location to the U.S., but that was hopeless. He’d even ration himself to one MRE a day if he had to. All he wanted was to get home.
As he cruised further north he passed beaches and hotels. Some of the infected paralleled his movement along the beach until they were out of sight. Carefully, he navigated around buoys and manmade sandbars. He passed by a marina and decided this looked like a good place to go scouting. He slowed the Freedom Runner down and let it coast to a stop. The weather made the water choppy, and the vessel was tossed back and forth. Cale found and dropped the anchor. He needed to clean up the deck and consult the map before he went ashore.
Dreamland
It had been a while since Cale had dropped anchor about a mile off the beach, longer than he’d wanted it to. The sun was going to set soon. By now he’d taken a shower and unpacked his bag into the empty dresser drawers of cabin two. His one spare uniform, still damp, didn’t even fill up one drawer. Cale decided he should probably check out a clothing store while he was getting supplies. This still being a tourist area, he was sure he could find something more his style. If you asked his mother-in-law, she’d say she was the one who gave him style. This was somewhat true. If it weren’t for her being a shopaholic, Cale would still be wearing high school cross country and track shirts.
Getting accustomed to the swaying of the boat, Cale slowly walked to the bed. Tomorrow morning he’d pull in closer and use the inflatable life boat to get to shore, taking with him his empty bag and weapons, and a lot of ammo. It would be best to get food and water first. He stood up and retrieved his iPod from the stereo port. Finding his Mellow play list, he hit play, and The Chauffer by the Deftones came on. He adjusted the volume and retreated to his warm new bed. Finally, a complete and total night of sleep, with no worries of an undead crawling on to the boat to get him.
The storm outside had died down, the rain now faintly hitting the boat. It was soothing, a constant tapping that wasn’t the least bit annoying. He’d always loved the sound of rain. Cale could hear thunder rumbling far off in the distance. This was going to be a really good night.
For a while he lay and wondered about his wife and daughter, then about his brothers. His thoughts jumped from one to the next, until he rocking of the vessel gently put him to sleep. He dreamed that he was lying on the deck of the yacht. His wife was next to him, while their daughter napped below deck. Her beautiful long dark brown hair shone in the sun. He sat up and leaned over her, and his reflection appeared on her aviator sunglasses. Her head turned slightly to see what he was doing, and she smiled at him. It was a perfect smile. Her lips were full and soft. Cale lowered himself and kissed her cheek softly. She smelled so good, like apples with a slight hint of cinnamon.
Her skin was smooth and tanned. She wore a white string bikini. Her legs, bent at the knee, lay elegantly and gracefully on her blue beach towel. She was perfect. He often wondered how he could have possibly won the heart of such a gorgeous woman.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Smiling Cale replied, “Nothing, just thinking I’m the luckiest man in the world right now.”
“Whatever,” she shot back with a smile.
He smirked. “Well, I am.”
She removed her giant sunglasses, revealing her beautiful brown eyes. Cale could get lost in those eyes forever. He leaned in closer; she smelled so good. Her luscious lips met his; they kissed for a few minutes. He rolled his body onto hers, and she adjusted her legs so he could lie between them. Slowly, his right hand slid up to her left breast. It was firm but soft, perfect. His hand then shifted underneath her top. Her hands grabbed at his biceps and back. Her soft moans of enjoyment excited him but as he began to untie her string top, he could feel his grip failing. Suddenly she began to slip away from him. Cale’s eyes shot open. He lay there in the dark, alone.
“Damn it,” he exclaimed. “Just when it was getting good.”
It had been four months since the last time he’d seen his wife. It was frustrating. He was beginning to fear he’d forget what she looked and felt like. He missed her laugh. She truly was his better half. Cale tossed and turned angrily for an hour. He could feel himself getting tired, but just couldn’t fall asleep.
“So much for a worry free night,” he said to himself.
He lay staring at the ceiling for a while longer. The storm outside had passed. He checked his watch; he’d only been asleep for about four hours. Unable to fall back to sleep he decided to go up on deck. The full moon hung in a cloudless sky, stars twinkling brightly. The deserted beach front hotels were still lit up, which was amazing. It was certainly odd to see a large city still fully powered. Beyond the beach, the city stretched to the sky. It was beautifully lit and the sound of the waves was relaxing. Cale went back down into the bedroom. The small window let in a little moonlight.
He lifted his shirt and checked his wound. The gash had scabbed over, but still caused discomfort. Cale flattened back onto the bed, face down. The boat bobbed rhythmically in the water. He could definitely get used to this. Suddenly the rhythm of the boat was thrown off, as something solid hit the side. Cale quickly sat up and walked to the bedroom door. Once there he looked at the stairs, through the hall and galley. The smell of the undead crept into the room. They were on the boat.
Sea of Faces
What the hell? What was going on? Footsteps followed the sound of sudden contact with the side of the vessel. Slow clumsy footsteps.
“How the fuck?” he said, as he grabbed his rifle and proceeded for the stairs.
At the top, he edged into the moonlight and looked around the boat. Empty. He looked through the window and into the drive cabin; it too was empty. He looked out over the dark water, scanning all sides of the boat, looking for what had hit his vessel. There was nothing but the vast and lonely sea. He looked back toward the beach.
“HOLY SHIT!” he exclaimed.
The land was gone; it was completely out of sight. Cale grabbed the anchor line and began to pull the rope in. It was cold and slick. He was just up here, what happened? The line was frayed and broken, and when he looked down into the water there was something pale just under the surface. But then, more and more pale ‘things’ appeared below. They were faces. Hundreds of them. Hands began to reach out of the water, rotting and decayed, reaching for him. The smell of the undead permeated the air. Cale looked at his wet hand. It was stained with blood. His view quickly shifted to the rope. It too was covered in blood.
“What the…?”
He looked back as the teaming masses began climbing out of the water. He stumbled back, confused. How was all this possible? As he backed up he could hear his name being whispered,
“Cale--- Cale.”
A yellow and decaying hand grasped his shoulder tightly, cold on his bare skin. Cale spun quickly, weapon at the ready. It was Zach’s reanimated corpse staring him in the eye. His lifeless orbs reflected Cale’s now pale face. The dark veins had climbed onto his face and burst the vessels in his eyes. Zach’s mouth opened. His teeth were black, gums bleeding, dark and red. His breath smelled like a rotting cadaver.
“Cale.” he choked. Was
The bullet wound in his head dark, his clothes torn and stained with dirt.
“Cale.”
Cale tried to draw his
weapon, but his hand came up empty. He looked around the deck, but it was gone. Undead cannibals climbed up onto the deck, stiffly rising to their feet. How did this happen? What was going on? Zach lunged at him, and Cale felt powerless as his friend slammed him to the deck. He lay there as hungry faces closed in on him, sealing his fate.
Hit and Run
Cale woke up suddenly, in a sweat and face down on the bed. The moonlight from the window had shifted considerably. Cale reached for his watch. It was almost a quarter to seven, time to get up. He reluctantly climbed out of the comfy warm bed and walked to the bathroom to take a piss. His tooth brush and tooth paste sat on the counter next to the sink. He brushed his teeth and then began to get dressed. His clothes, even though they’d been washed, still smelled like a rotting body.
“Jeez, I really need to get some new clothes.”
He strapped his weapon holsters to his body, one on each leg, and slung his rifle over his shoulder. As he did so, the rifle pushed into his side. Cale felt a twinge of pain and winced. The firearm had pushed into his cut slightly, reopening it.
“Damn it.”
After inspecting the wound, Cale decided he’d be fine. Back up on deck, the chilly air stung his lungs and bit at his face. The sun was up now. Cale looked around for the inflatable emergency raft. Under a seat cushion was a compartment, and the small space held what looked like a fat yellow book. He removed it from under the seat. Red tabs dangled off of it. The instructions said to pull on the red tabs, and the raft would automatically inflate. Clearly, Cale would want to move closer to land before he attempted this. He sat the compressed raft on the deck, walked into the drive cabin and started the boat. It roared to life. He began moving the vessel toward the beach. When the boat reached about a half mile from land, he stopped the motor and dropped anchor.
He stood facing the beach. It would be best to hurry and do this; he didn’t want a mob forming. He picked up the bundle that resembled a phone book, pulled the red tabs, and dropped the yellow package into the water next to the boat. Within seconds the small rectangle transformed into a raft. Cale grabbed the oars that were tied to the rim of the boat. Carefully he lowered himself into the raft, his brown bag on his back, and his legs heavy with the extra ammo he’d stored in his pockets. Once settled in the raft, he began row. He made it to the beach and dragged the raft high onto shore. He looked around but didn’t see anyone. As he walked further inland, a clothing store was the first to catch his attention.
As he approached it, he looked around for any undead. He could smell them, so there had to be a few in the area. Trash and debris littered the streets; an empty car sat in the middle of the road. Cale continued to the broken window of the clothing store. A mannequin dressed in American blue jeans and a brown T-shirt lay discarded on the floor. Glass was scattered around the frame of the window and cracked under his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he could see movement. Back on the street, a half dressed teenage boy walked laboriously in Cale’s direction. He had numerous bite marks and lacerations along his arm, and he was reaching out for Cale. Slowly he began to build up speed to an awkward jog. This would have to be a quick trip. Cale disappeared into the darkness of the store.
Inside, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was a small store, and the apparel sold here was a mix of different cultures. T-shirts with logos of foreign soccer teams hung on the racks. Cale began to yank the shirts off of the hangers and plunged them into his brown bag. He continued on and found a rack of sweat shirts, some hooded, and others hoodless. He grabbed four of these, and continued to the next clothing rack. More shirts hung on hangers, and he snatched some off the rack. One shirt in particular caught his eye. It was grey and had the words ‘Track and Field’ on it. He smiled as he stashed the shirt into his bag. He could make out the shape of a shelf against the wall. Neatly folded pants of all kinds were stacked up on it. Cale moved over and began collecting jeans, khakis, and cargo pants. By now his bag was almost full. He had more than he needed. As Cale fastened the tie on his bag, he noticed the light grow slightly dimmer in the store. Cale stood up and looked over each of the racks. Silhouetted in the light of the shattered window was the undead boy. Cale took aim and shot him in the head with precision. Lifeless now, the boy lay next to the mannequin.
“Now is a good time to split,” he said as he lifted his bag onto his back with difficulty.
His side started to sting as he moved for the open window. He leaped over the deceased boy and into the street. Blinded at first by the sunlight, he scanned the area for any more attackers when his eyes adjusted. It looked clear, but he could hear moaning. There were lots of people here somewhere. Cale ran back to the beach as fast as his legs would carry him. He was unsure if any of them were giving chase. It didn’t matter. He had to get to the raft and go.
On the beach he threw his bag into the small craft, and began dragging it into the water. The waves from the sea began to push him and the large floatation device back toward shore. Waist deep in water, he looked back up the beach.
“Oh, shit.”
A large group of people were moving toward him in the water. Some of them were limping, but others moved with surprising speed.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
With all of his strength he began pulling the raft. Cale was now armpit deep in the water. Kicking as hard as he could he started swimming further out to sea, toward the boat. On the beach the crowd stopped with the water at their knees. They looked confused. They seemed fascinated by the water. The current was still pulling Cale back toward the beach.
“Oh, no,” he thought to himself.
He began to kick harder, kicking for his life. The sea water splashed into his mouth, leaving a salty taste. The Mediterranean was cold. The current’s power over him began to subside and weaken. He was going to make it to the Freedom Runner. Finally, at a decent distance from shore, he climbed into his raft, and settled himself in. His legs were tired.
He picked up the oars and started rowing. By the time he’d reached the boat,’ his arms were worn out. He definitely needed a break before heading back out. Aboard the yacht he unpacked his new clothes into the dresser drawers. His own attire was dripping wet. He’d need to eat before making another run. On the deck he looked out toward the beach. The large crowd had dispersed, but a few stragglers were left aimlessly walking around. The raft was tied to the boat, bobbing beside it. Cale opened an MRE, a veggie omelet. As he ate, he watched the crowd grow smaller. They didn’t seem to notice him now. After keeping watch for another hour or so he prepared himself for another raid. His arms were still fatigued, but he didn’t want to waste the daylight.
After consulting the map once more, he found a market that was a few blocks inland. He didn’t like the idea of going in that far, but he had no choice. He told himself he needed to be smart and use the knife to take the infected down. The gunfire drew too much attention. As Cale lowered himself into the raft, the wind changed directions. He could smell them in the city. The breeze also brought the sound of their collective moans. The whole city was dead. And he was going in.
The Cold One
As the current started to bring him in, Cale sat the oars down and readied Zach’s knife. His attackers waded out into the water to greet him. Cale stepped out of the raft and began pulling it up the shore. He stopped momentarily to dispatch one of them. It was easy; the waves lapping at the shore made the infected unsteady and clumsy. Cale placed one hand on his shoulder as the assailant stumbled. With little effort the blade pierced the top of his head. The blade was difficult to remove, however. Cale had to place his foot on the man and yank. The lifeless corpse was now debris in the tide. The other two had been pulled out by the current. Every now and then Cale could see their heads bobbing further out. Now that the coast was clear, he pulled the raft further up the beach, and clear of the tides reach. If he was going to do this again he’d need to make sure the coast was clear before coming back to the raft. His last escapade wasn’t thought
out very thoroughly, given the concept of the tides.
With the small vessel firmly on land, Cale proceeded toward the food market. He walked up the beach and onto the street. He passed between abandoned cars and trucks. Inside he could see infected still buckled in, forever confined to their seats. Carefully he ducked behind vehicles, avoiding the attention of the undead. On the north side of the street a sign read ‘Metropolitan’. Various flags hung from poles. He identified an American flag quickly. Inside he could see the undead moving about. The power in the building was still on, so this area still had their power grid intact. Stop lights still went through their cycles, changing from green to yellow then eventually red. He continued on for another block and then quietly he removed the map from his pack. After taking it out of the plastic MRE bag he used to waterproof it, he checked his location. He looked around for landmarks. White flags with blue boarders hung from windows and balconies. At the center a five pointed star. He thought he’d found his position. If he read it correctly he’d come up to an intersection soon. The market was still pretty far inland. He could smell the undead in the area. He packed up his map and shouldered his bag, and then he heard a moan behind him.
Cale turned, knife ready. It was a man; his left arm was no longer in its socket. Quickly, Cale jabbed at the man with the knife, planting it firmly into his orbital cavity. He slumped to the street. Cale proceeded toward his destination. A walk that should have taken twenty minutes turned into an hour and a half. Occasionally Cale took refuge in an open van. The occupants had already converted and crawled out long ago. Most of the blood had dried and congealed. He had to redirect around an alley. It was a short cut, but the alley was packed with the walking dead. He arrived at a gas station, where he checked the map. He was in the right place; it had been labeled as a market. Cale approached the front of the store; silently he pushed the glass door and entered. The store actually didn’t look that bad, some dust lined the shelves and floor, but other than that, it was pretty well stocked. He proceeded down one of the aisles. Without checking the labels on anything he began to pack his bag.
Blood on the Sand (Z Plan) Page 11
