Water

by William Esmont

  The man on the catwalk got to his feet. He began pacing, looking down alternately at Chris and at the end of the catwalk where Ben would soon emerge.

  “C’mon, Ben,” Chris said under his breath. “Hurry up.”

  Ben reached the top of the ladder and stepped onto the catwalk. The crazed man backpedaled a few steps in what seemed like surprise then stopped, frozen in place. Ben took a step toward him, and the man cast a desperate, panicked gaze in Chris’s direction. For a split second, their eyes locked, and in that moment, Chris realized what was about to happen.

  “No!” he screamed, both at Ben and at the man.

  But it was too late. With a harried look in Ben’s direction, the man placed both hands on the catwalk railing and vaulted over the edge.

  Chris barely had time to move out of the way before the man slammed head-first onto the deck beside him. Blood and brains exploded from the guy’s shattered skull, soaking Chris’s legs and feet with gore. The urge to vomit rose up inside him. Bile burned the back of his throat. He turned away and heaved. His mouth filled, but he choked the foul-tasting liquid back before it could erupt into his mask and clog his breathing equipment.

  His watch beeped—only ten minutes of air left. He looked up in time to see Ben vanish from sight as he entered the ladder tube and began his long descent to the deck. Chris desperately wanted to find out what had happened on the catwalk, what had caused the man to take his own life, but each second he delayed cut away at his margin of error.

  Nine minutes. He couldn’t wait any longer.

  Overcome by guilt at leaving his friend behind, Chris turned and raced for the stairwell leading to the Zodiac.

  Ben would understand. He hoped.

  Twenty-three

  Isla Perpetua

  Megan awoke to the harsh clatter of metal on metal as someone worked the lock mechanism outside. She fumbled in the dark until her fingers closed over the shaft of the jack handle then struggled to her feet. Her knees popped with the effort. Her entire body throbbed in agony from sleeping on the unyielding steel floor.

  The doors swung open with a groan, and brilliant sunlight flooded the interior of the shipping container, momentarily blinding her.

  A man stood at the entryway, his body framed in partial silhouette. His right hand rested on the pistol strapped to his belt. In his left, he held a bottle. “Let’s go,” he said, tossing the bottle in her direction.

  Megan recognized the voice immediately. Nick.

  The plastic bottle bounced once at Megan’s feet then rolled toward the shadows at the rear of the container. Megan scrambled after the bottle, all thoughts of Nick forgotten. She had neither drunk nor eaten in at least twenty-four hours. She caught the bottle before it disappeared into the shadows. Tucking the jack handle between her knees, she unscrewed the sealed plastic cap and drank greedily.

  “Easy,” Nick said. “You’ll puke.”

  Megan forced herself to slow down. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “It’s time to go,” Nick said. “And you won’t be needing that anymore.” He gestured at the jack handle.

  Megan tossed the water bottle to the floor and hefted her improvised weapon, taking comfort in the sheer weight of the cool metal in her hands.

  Nick laughed. “Drop it.”

  Megan ignored him and took a step toward the sunlight. Jack’s container, a dozen yards away, stood open. Empty. “Where is he? Where’s Jack?”

  Nick cocked his head. “Your boyfriend? He’s fine. You’ll see him soon enough.”

  Megan took another step. “What about Jeremy?”

  Nick shook his head and stopped her with an outstretched arm. “Don’t worry about him.” He pointed at the pipe in Megan’s hand. “Drop it.”

  Megan didn’t want to relinquish her only weapon, but the look in Nick’s eyes told her she wasn’t going anywhere until she did. Reluctantly, she propped the metal bar against the wall of the container. She exited the container and followed Nick to an ancient white Volkswagen microbus. The faded image of a pyramid adorned the Mexican license plate bolted to the front bumper. Her heart soared when she saw Jack sitting in the rear seat, next to a man she didn’t recognize. Also in the bus were two of Nick’s men from the boat.

  “You’re riding shotgun,” Nick said, going around to the driver’s side and opening the door.

  Megan raced to the bus and climbed in. Immediately, she turned to face Jack, but a sharp warning from Nick stopped her before she could even open her mouth. “No talking!”

  “But—” She ached to know how he was.

  “Eyes forward,” Nick snapped, turning the key in the ignition.

  With a final surreptitious glance toward the rear, Megan obeyed.

  Twenty-four

  Gulf Star Oil Platform

  Chris reached the Gulf Star shortly after sunset. Following a painstaking decontamination regimen at dockside, in which he was once again doused in bleach and scrubbed raw, he headed straight for Hines’s quarters for a full debriefing. He had already provided a brief summary of his experience via radio on the way back, but Doctor Cain was intent on picking his brain clean of every possible clue as to what had gone wrong on the Dixie Sunrise.

  Dr. Cain leaned across the table and asked, “And this man, he was healthy? You’re absolutely sure?”

  Chris closed his eyes and massaged his temples with his fingertips. A monstrous headache was building deep in the center of his skull, rampaging like a cancer through his cranium. “Yeah. That is, unless you consider what he did when we found him.”

  Dr. Cain sat back in his chair and chewed the end of his pencil. “That’s fascinating—”

  Chris exploded from his chair and slammed his fists on the table. “Fascinating? Is that what you say when someone takes a header from fifty feet up? This guy… he didn’t even blink. He… he was terrified of us, like he thought we were going to kill him or something.” Chris stepped away from the table and faced the window.

  Hines slipped from his chair and took Chris by the arm. “Calm down, Chris. The doc is just trying to understand this thing.”

  “Marlon’s right,” Dr. Cain said. “If this man survived, it means Ben may have a chance. It means we all might.”

  “Fat lot of good that does Ben right now,” Chris spat. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to leave him behind?” He shrugged away from Hines and took his seat again. He mumbled an apology.

  The doctor smiled uncomfortably. “It’s okay, Chris. You have every right to be angry.”

  With a sigh, Hines retook his own seat. “So what are we going to do about this?”

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Excuse me,” Hines said, standing again. “I’ll be right back.” He went to the door and opened it partway. The person on the other side spoke in hushed tones. Hines pulled the door the rest of the way open and nodded at the doctor. “They need you.”

  Dr. Cain looked confused as he scraped his chair back and got to his feet. He stepped outside and closed the door.

  “I’m sorry about Ben,” Hines said, reaching for Chris’s hand. Tears of sympathy glistened in his eyes. “I know how close you guys are.” He squeezed gently.

  Chris shrugged. “Thanks. I—”

  The door opened, and Dr. Cain came back into the room. He wore a grim frown. “We’ve got two more showing symptoms.”

  “Damn. Who?” Chris asked.

  Dr. Cain checked his paper. “Sasha Chandler and Bruce Johnson.”

  Hines cursed and released Chris’s hand. “This is not what we need. Not now.”

  “We’re not going to be able to keep this under wraps much longer,” Chris said.

  Hines ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair. “I know. I’m working on it.”

  “Chris is right,” Dr. Cain said. “The Gulf Star is only so big. Rumors are already starting to spread. We need to make some kind of announcement soon, or else we’re going to face a full-on panic. We’ve already passed the p
oint where we can quarantine people. This thing is in the general population.”

  Hines covered his mouth and coughed into his fist. A wet, phlegmy rattle came from his chest.

  The doctor studied him with alarm. “How long have you been coughing like that, Marlon?”

  Hines shrugged guiltily. “It started this afternoon. It’s nothing.”

  Dr. Cain reached across the table and put a hand on Hines’s forehead. His eyes grew wide. “You’re burning up.”

  Hines brushed the doctor’s hand away. “I’m fine. Let’s get back to—”

  Chris held up his hand. “You should let the doc check you out. Just in case.”

  Hines snapped, “I said I’m fine!”

  But he wasn’t fine. Chris couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the symptoms before: the sallow, papery skin, the slight pink tinge to his eyes. While Chris had been feeling sorry for himself and his ordeal, Hines was falling ill right under his nose. “No,” Chris said. “You’re going to let Dr. Cain check you out. Right now.”

  Hines glared at him, but when Chris returned the stare, Hines finally blinked. “Okay. Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

  The doctor stood and motioned at Hines. “Come with me. I promise this won’t take long.”

  With a resigned sigh, Hines got up. Chris went to hug Hines but stopped under a stern glare from the doctor. “I’ll see you in a little bit,” he said instead.

  Hines glared at the doctor and nodded. “Sure. We’ll continue this when I get back.”

  Once he was alone, Chris went to the small stainless steel sink in the corner of the room. He turned the water as hot as it would go and scrubbed his hands until they stung. Then he washed his face. He dried off with a handful of paper towels. Afterward, he stepped into the hall and locked the door behind him.

  The time for hiding the sickness from the rest of the inhabitants was over. As Chris wound his way back to his own cabin, he was already busy putting together the words he would use when he addressed the crew. He only hoped the people of the Gulf Star would understand why they had taken so long to tell the truth.

  Twenty-five

  Isla Perpetua

  Nick piloted the bus on a circuitous route over heavily rutted roads leading deep into the jungle. Just when Megan thought her teeth would rattle out of her head, they emerged into a clearing and Nick brought the vehicle to an abrupt stop before a dingy, single-story concrete building. They waited in tense silence as several guards hustled a frightened-looking man and two women into the rear of the bus to sit beside Jack.

  Once everyone was settled, Nick took off again. After another fifteen or twenty minutes of driving over marginally better roads, he pulled the bus through a dilapidated steel and timber archway into a vast, open space that Megan instantly recognized as a soccer stadium. Low-slung metal bleachers lined each side, populated by dozens of haggard-looking spectators. The splintered remains of a wooden soccer goal lay heaped on the ground a few yards away from where they had stopped.

  “What’s this?” Megan asked. “Where are we?”

  Nick killed the ignition, opened his door, and exited the van without offering an answer. He motioned for everyone else to get out as well.

  Megan climbed to the ground. Puffs of dust rose up when her feet slapped the dirt. Any grass that had ever grown there was a distant memory. The other passengers tumbled out behind her.

  A sudden burst of electronic feedback split the air. Megan winced and covered her ears. The sound of a hand tapping a microphone followed, then a male voice saying, “Testing. Testing.”

  “C’mon,” Nick said, guiding them toward an empty ground-level spot in the stands. “He’s about to start.”

  Once Megan and the other prisoners were seated, Nick headed for the far end of the stadium and disappeared through a shadowy doorway. Two of his men remained behind.

  A young Mexican boy approached the stands. He carried a dented metal box on a strap around his neck. He dipped his hand inside the box and proceeded to disburse small, fist-sized empanadas wrapped in wax paper to each person. Megan’s stomach rumbled at the smell of the food. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. With pleading eyes and fingers held up in a V, she asked for two.

  “Si,” the boy said and handed her two empanadas.

  Megan’s mouth flooded with saliva as she sank her teeth into the soft dough and savory meat. She closed her eyes and relished the sensation of hot food on her palate. Her first empanada was gone in the blink of an eye. Jack, she noticed, hadn’t touched his yet.

  “Save that,” he said in a whisper, indicating the remaining handful of food Megan was about to devour.

  Megan had to force herself to not to eat any more. She folded the morsel back into its paper and set it on the bench beside her.

  Loud music began to blare through the public address system. The person at the controls quickly turned down the volume to a barely tolerable level.

  Megan craned her neck. “What’s happening?” she asked the man beside her.

  The man gave her a sharp glare and put his finger to his lips. With a frustrated glare, Megan returned her attention to the field. Activity at the far end, where Nick had gone, caught her attention.

  An expansive set of double doors swung open, and Purdue emerged from the darkness. He carried a microphone. Megan elbowed Jack and pointed.

  Purdue strode toward the center of the field with the confidence of a man accustomed to mass adoration. Once he reached the center, he stopped, clasped his hands, and looked expectantly toward the doors. Two more people emerged from the portal.

  At first, Megan wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Then her mind caught up. She blinked in disbelief then recoiled in disgust. “What the hell?”

  Nick, employing a long pole with a metal collar on the end, drove the skeletal and charred figure of a female zombie onto the field. He moved with the careful precision of a man handling a live bomb as he wrangled the hideous creature toward where Purdue waited. Yellowing bone peeked through the creature’s skin where it was not singed charcoal black. Wisps of hair fluttered in the weak breeze. The zombie’s head never stopped moving, thrashing at the air, overwhelmed by the scent of so much fresh meat within striking distance. The creature’s hands were tied to its sides with barbed wire. As the zombie drew closer, Megan saw that its jaw was also wired shut. Jack cursed under his breath and put his arm around Megan’s shoulders, drawing her close. The music reached a crescendo and then fell silent.

  Purdue raised his microphone. “Welcome, everyone! Welcome to our most sacred of services.” He repeated his greeting in Spanish.

  Megan’s attention was fixed on the zombie, and she almost didn’t notice the next person come stumbling through the doors, prodded from behind by another soldier. Jeremy.

  Jeremy was a mess, broken and bleeding from multiple suppurating lacerations on his face and torso. Nude, he glistened with perspiration. Tears streamed from his eyes. A cloth filled his mouth, and his hands were bound behind his back with wire, like the zombie. Heavy chains secured his ankles. The soldier drove him relentlessly forward with the barrel of an AK-47. Jeremy stumbled pitifully, coming to a stop a few yards short of Purdue and collapsing in a heap.

  A slimy ball of apprehension squirmed in Megan’s gut. She glanced at Jack, but he was riveted by the events unfolding before them. A hush fell over the stadium, punctuated only by Jeremy’s pathetic whimpering and the muted snarls of the zombie.

  Megan’s heart hammered. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to get up and run, but with the armed soldiers lurking nearby, she knew she wouldn’t make it ten feet before she was cut down.

  Purdue withdrew a black book from his front pocket and began to recite Bible verses. The first few were familiar ones. As he spoke, his voice grew deeper and more sonorous, filling with a mounting passion as if a fire were being kindled deep within.

  He stopped. His eyes roamed the crowd, taking in his audience and basking in their rapt attention. He motioned
to Nick, and Nick shuffled forward, driving the zombie closer to Purdue. The zombie twisted and writhed, struggling in vain to break free of its bonds.

  Purdue closed the book and raised his arms to the sky, reciting the next passage from memory. “And the holy book says, in Ezekiel 37:7-10: ‘So I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I was prophesying, there was a noise, a rattling sound, and the bones came together, bone to bone. I looked, and tendons and flesh appeared on them and skin covered them, and breath entered them. They came to life and stood up on their feet—a vast army.’”

  He took a step forward until he was barely an arm’s length from the zombie. “And what do we have before us today but a member of this vast army of God come to cleanse the earth?” He drew a slender knife from his belt and whirled around, flashing it for the all crowd to see.

  Megan pressed her body tight against Jack, seeking the visceral reassurance of his presence. Purdue inched even closer to the zombie. The monster strained at its bonds, desperate to feed on the living flesh before it. With an obviously practiced motion, he ran his knife down the monster’s arm, peeling away a leathery, mottled strip of skin six inches long and two inches wide. Bone flashed beneath flesh. Purdue raised his prize over his head and strode away from the creature, triumphant. The zombie unleashed a hoarse roar, sending shivers up Megan’s spine.

  A murmur of anticipation—or perhaps fear—raced through the crowd, and people rustled in their seats.

  “Up!” one of Nick’s men said from the end of Megan’s row. “Now!”

  Megan gave Jack a concerned glance then got to her feet. The soldier motioned at the playing field, indicating they should leave the bleachers. Megan and Jack were sandwiched in the center of the crowd as they filed out onto the field.

  Purdue sauntered over to them, the beatific smirk on his face making it painfully clear that he was hopelessly drunk on his own power. The zombie skin dangled from his hand like a fly strip, twisting and curling on itself, a living dead thing.