Spears were brandished and threats screamed, but the terrified men and women rowing toward them didn’t slow down. Then on shore, more people, healthy people, broke out of a building and ran through the mob of their marauding neighbors. Many were pulled down, but many made it to the water, diving in, swimming toward to the sailboat, desperate pleas for help being screamed out.
Below deck Dean cursed repeatedly as he bashed his head backing out of the engine bay. The crescent wrench had fallen into the worst possible darkest spot and he couldn’t find it. “Keep it cranking,” he yelled up to Billy as he grabbed a rusty pair of pliers and moved them back and forth to release some of the corrosion. As he forced his head and torso over the top of the engine, he cursed the boat’s designers for making the damn thing so inaccessible. He wished he had a flashlight, wished that the trickle charger also charged the batteries that ran the accessories — like the fucking lights. Then the starter battery began to wind down, the charge dropping off, the cranks coming slower.
Sanders and the rest had stopped trying to propel the boat by rocking it. Instead, everyone was preoccupied with kicking off the hands of people who could reach up to the rail and were trying to pull themselves aboard. The twins were overwhelmed with the task of using their minds.
George heard his name called out.
“Mr. Sanders. Please help me. Please!”
A girl dog-paddled in the water below him. He recognized Sarah Flynn immediately. He’d known the girl since she was just a toddler. Her father had sailed with him, gone to his death in the expedition to cross the country. As someone who loved to tell a good yarn, Sanders had been a volunteer at the Nantucket school, telling fanciful tales to Sarah and many other Halflie children. The girl had sat on George Sander’s knee on many occasions. She reached out, expecting his help, not the slightest doubt of it in her face. “My mom is one of them, Mr. Sanders. Help me.”
Sanders was stricken with a paralysis of indecision. Others were pulling themselves aboard only to fling themselves off again as Hansel and Gretel entered their minds.
So many now.
Ted Harper got all the way aboard, his face filled with relief. Ted not understanding that he wasn’t wanted, not even comprehending it, assuming salvation and reaching overboard to help pull a friend up. George was still staring at Sarah Flynn, the girl’s face becoming confused as her outstretched hand was ignored. Then the engine caught with a belch of black smoke shooting out of the exhaust pipe. Billy pushed the throttle forward and George Sanders, wiping away tears, watched Sarah Flynn fall away in the fresh wake.
Shoving Ted Harper, Jon said, “Sorry! I’m so sorry. You’re infected.” A final push sent the man overboard with a surprised yelp. The bow of the Viento plowed forward, splitting the damned onto either side of her.
Jarvis saw the sailboat leave the harbor and head east. He knew of the proximity bombs that were part of every boat that belonged on Nantucket, and he imagined it blowing sky high when the sloop got outside the zone. He wondered how many others had tried such a desperate escape and now littered the seafloor.
If it had worked as planned, the island should be overrun with infected. Thanks to his hard work, and the chemists back home, the bulk of the population hadn’t had access to their real medication for some time. A smile spread across his face; the idea of keeping these dangerous people alive was insane — even if they were trapped on an island. The chances of an error occurring and the horror of the infection taking root again was simply unacceptable. The North Americans had been soft on these so called Halflies. Fools.
As he drove into the mouth of the harbor, he was stunned by the chaos. The docks were covered with infected. Some people were waving a makeshift Help flag from the tallest church spire. He shuddered as he took in the success of his deeds. There were more than enough for the plan to work. Once inside the harbor, it was just a matter of turning the tug around, and letting the barge settle against the swarming docks. The dogs were already doing their job, barking themselves horse.
In his excitement, Jarvis took his turn a little too quickly. The huge heavy lumber barge had far too much momentum and rather than sliding up along side, it crashed into the docks, folding them up like shattered matchsticks. Dozens of the infected were crushed or sent into the water. This gave a group of healthy people the break they needed. With axes, clubs, and knives in hand, a large group of twenty or more broke out of where they had barricaded themselves inside a warehouse. They raced past the remaining infected who were preoccupied with Jarvis’ display, cutting down and clubbing the few who noticed them. They leapt onto the barge and formed themselves up to keep back more Fiends who were trying to follow them.
Assuming that Jarvis was there for some kind of reckless rescue, many of them yelled for him to pull away.
“Well, damn. Won’t do. Won’t do at all,” mumbled Jarvis to himself.
The back of the tug was equipped with a mounted MK43 Mod machine gun — loaded and ready to fire for just such a situation. He stepped out of the steering house and walked around to the backside where the gun was perched. The cover came off quickly and he yanked back the cocking handle.
Several of the healthy raised a cheer when they saw the machine gun, which promptly died as they saw it aimed at them.
Jarvis pulled the trigger in practiced 6 to 9 round bursts. The ball ammo blew great gouts of splinters into the air, mixed with blood, brains, bones and cloth. It took roughly fifteen-seconds to slaughter every man, woman, and child.
Two or three managed to dive for cover behind the lumber, but were quickly overwhelmed by the Fiends who poured aboard behind them.
Jarvis waited until the barge was covered with Fiends; the monsters crawling over each other to get to the dogs who had retreated to the barge’s bow. The poor beasts hopelessly barked toward Jarvis in distress before finally jumping overboard and swimming toward the more empty shore to the East.
Five minutes later, he had three hundred or more of the damned crawling over each other amongst the lumber and the gore. Deciding that he had enough, he throttled up and aimed for the harbor’s mouth.
The distance between the tug and the barge was too great for the Fiends to cross. Nevertheless, he felt his spine tingling as he drove. He couldn’t help but repeatedly look over his shoulder. He had greased the lines between the vessels so heavily that even the most adept ape couldn’t shimmy across. Yet, every glance back at the seething horde had him feeling his testicles pulling up into his body with revulsion and fear.
As he passed through the harbor’s mouth, healthy onlookers stood by in their rowboats and rafts and stared at the spectacle. There was no effort made to flag down this boat. This boat was clearly on some sort of ghastly mission.
There would be no rescue for the Halflies of Nantucket.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dirty Deeds
The diesel on the Viento started to run rough before they’d even gotten out of the harbor. Dean planned to head east and then south to avoid the Navy patrols north of Nantucket and around Martha’s Vineyard. Once in open ocean, they would work their way toward Rhode Island and hope for the best remote landing. However, the diesel didn’t like burning whale. He suspected it was the old neglected injectors, but who really knew? When the engine coughed out a final prop rotation, the boat settled into a drift, the air and water around them flat, moist, and lifeless.
George was sweating, the bite clearly giving him an infection to fight with. He had become quickly exhausted pumping all of that oil. Dean’s mind shot back and forth between worry over his first mate and greater worry for all of them. Without antibiotics, Sanders would have to fight off whatever had taken hold of him alone. He ordered his friend to go below and rest.
They had hoisted the sail, but it hung limply, stretched out and dirty with age and neglect.
That they had Jon and Nikki aboard as potential witnesses to everyone’s good health offered little comfort, there was no mercy for a Halflie who attempted escape.
No civilian boat was allowed in these waters and no civilian would consider it. A boat off Nantucket was deemed hostile, no matter what. Should it leave the designated Halflie fishing areas, it was a ripe target — shoot first ask questions later.
“Pray for wind everyone,” said Billy with an attempt at cheer in his voice. Eliza gave the boy’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.
They’d heard the echo of the machine gun across the still water. Now they spotted the tug taking the same route out that they had. The barge it towed looked like a floating ant hill, the deranged cargo like a swarm of disturbed insects.
To the south of them, the high-tech sail rig of a large yacht was coming into view. Dean recognized it immediately. “That’s the Hagel.” A bitter edge came into his voice. “Navy ship.”
Dean went below to fetch the binoculars. He reeled back at the stench of fresh vomit. Sanders lay in a bunk sweating and shivering with a harsh fever, puke on his clothes, the bunk, and the floor. His speech sounded drunken, confused, “Can’t remember water. Water in…left… water tanks. Thirsty.”
Dean slid open a cabinet in the galley, pulled out a cup and began pumping a hand crank faucet. Air popped and hissed out of the tap until water spurted out and filled the glass. He handed it to his friend. “Jesus, George.”
Sanders gulped the water down and handed it back for more. He slurred, “Topssside?”
“Don’t worry yourself.” Dean handed him another glass and grabbed the binoculars off the nav table. He took the glass back before Sanders, falling back on the bunk, could drop it. Then the man passed out.
Back up top, Dean watched the Hagel slip up along side the tug and tie off so that the two boat’s sterns were matched up in distance to the Fiend filled barge.
“What the hell is going on?”
While Jarvis finished tying off the Hagel’s stern line to his own, the Fiends who weren’t engaged in a full fledged orgy were howling with desire for the meat that was just out of reach, their roar like a boxing match audience with its blood fully up.
In order to keep the line taut between the ship and the barge, Jarvis had left the tug in forward gear with the engine running at the lowest RPM. The autopilot was engaged and after double checking that he remained on the correct heading, he took a moment to observe his surroundings. His glance north had him catching sight of the sloop that had left the Nantucket harbor. He’d swear it was past the safe zone, and he anticipated the explosion that would sink it at any moment.
He met Commander Ragnar amidships of the huge yacht. He recognized the big man, whom he’d met at the re-christening of the Eagle several years before. Ragnar did not recognize him in return.
Even with eighty feet between them and the barge to their stern, the men had to yell to each other to be heard over the fiendish din. Ragnar cut right to the chase, nodding at the madness. “Fine work, Mr. Pettybone. Clearly the right man you’ve been for the job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’ll transfer this mess quickly now. Get you on your way.”
A flush had risen on Pettybone’s face in response to the praise. He hoped that the commander would confuse what must be redness building in his face with the chill air.
Ragnar noted it, offered a crack of a smile and pointed at the distant sloop. “That sail there. Do you know the status?”
“Out of Nantucket. Rigged, all their boats are, with an explosive that will scuttle ‘em if past the fishing grounds they go. Should pop any moment now.”
“Let’s hope so. Can’t have witnesses.”
“Ugly it is back there,” said Jarvis almost absently. “The island I mean.”
The island was but a gray line in the distance and dotted with plumes of smoke. “Surprised I am that more of them didn’t choose to die in an exploding boat. The wrecking of their communications seems total. The US Navy shows no signs of movement. Though that smoke…”
Ragnar nodded at the insanity on the barge. “Doing them a favor we are. Fools, the Northerners are, keeping these things alive.” The commander stared for a moment, then shook it off. “Anyway, like I said, excellent work, Mr. Pettybone. A lot has been asked of you. I‘m to tell you to sit back a bit now; enjoy the show. When you can, appreciate we would, some reporting on what you hear and see, but that’s all, for now.”
Jarvis felt his face turn pale as he cringed inside. He had assumed that he could come home when this mission was done. He was tired of the old America, which was tired itself; most of its citizens having burrowed deep into virtual reality rather than face what the real world had become. He wanted to be with his people again. People who loved the earth for what it was, who worked the land, lived in a communal society of trust and good cheer. The long winter was finally almost gone. He wanted to feel the Sun on his face in his new country. “Yes, Commander. Forward my compliments, if you please, on a successful mission.” Then he decided to throw in, “I will await my orders to come home.”
The lines holding the barge to the Fog Cutter were successfully transferred to the Hagel. Jarvis Pettybone waved goodbye and swallowed hard as he watched the yacht make way toward Martha’s Vineyard, a load of screaming, howling, lusting death, towed behind. A few of the infected, having tried and failed to shimmy across the greased lines, splashed insipidly into the wake and were dragged beneath the barge. Lucky them.
As Jarvis pointed his craft back toward Hyannis Port, he considered pausing long enough to sink the sloop that hadn’t exploded yet. It was within his rights to do so. In fact, it was listed among his job requirements, but it would have raised questions as to why he was so far west and south after making his drop. He would have liked to blow off the steam that was rising around his collar. He’d had a blast shooting up all of those desperate refugees as they stormed the barge. God, that had been glorious. He fought the urge as he passed the sloop, leaving it three hundred yards to port, and kept fighting it until he was a mile past. Maybe he would do a little Virtutrip himself tonight when he got home. The Dungeon called to him. The Spanish Inquisition game would be just what the doctor ordered.
Dean fully expected the tug to either run them down or shoot them up. That neither happened was extremely perplexing. Maybe the driver called it in to the Navy. More confusing was the Navy ship, Hagel, hauling a barge full of infected in the direction of Martha’s Vineyard.
He didn’t get to think about it for long. An inhuman noise rose from below deck… Sanders was sleeping below deck.
Billy said, “Dad? What’s wrong with George?”
It had opened its eyes in confusion, thirst and hunger twisting Its guts, only to be quickly offset by overwhelming nausea. The space It was in smelled of oil. It knew the smell of oil. And vomit. It could taste crusty vomit on Its lips. Then It sensed the children, felt the children’s urgent fear for the Others. Fuck the children! Fuck the Others! There was Fresh above. It launched Itself off the bunk and looked down the narrow space, Its eyes glaring at the ladder to the hole at the end — the light and the sound of the young Fresh One speaking. It remembered the young one, wanted to eat the young one, drive Its hands through the belly of it and yank out and chew its soft liver.
Above deck, Nikki pointed at the twins. “What’s wrong with them?”
Dean, torn between the sounds below and the pucks, called out, “Guys? What’s up?”
All of their minds were suddenly gripped with the children’s shared senses, suddenly mixed with the mad mind of another, the remnants of George. Their collective vision filled with George’s point of view below deck and swirled with his madness — bite throat, tear away flesh, gorge on blood, snap and bite and rip away cheeks, nose, neck. Boy first — belly first. They could see the gangway ladder, fingers grabbing the hand-holds up into the daylight.
George Sanders, the Fiend, shoved right past Dean and Jon, its entire focus on Billy who remained standing at the helm just as transfixed as everyone else with the twin’s powerful vision.
The pucks were stunned. George was their frie
nd — no longer their friend.
Sanders’ once commanding posture was somehow twisted into a sinister shape, his fingers curled in anticipation of clutching prey, his formerly gentle mouth and eyes corkscrewed into the face of a demon.
Everyone on deck became paralyzed by the twin’s distress. Dean, Eliza and Jon were aware of their own horror, but were held fast by the twin’s mental shock run amok. It was Nikki who broke free, delivering a windpipe shattering karate chop to Sanders’ throat, just as he got within an arm’s reach of latching onto Billy’s delicate neck.
The shock of the chop instantly broke the catatonic effect of the twin’s surprise. Everyone screamed their delayed astonishment, clutching their own throats, while the Fiend, Sanders, writhed on the deck, haggardly gasping for air, still reaching for Billy.
His shattered windpipe swelling shut, bloody foam bubbling from his lips, George Sanders’ tried to get to his knees, his desire to kill unabated.
Dean gained enough sense to end it for good. With tears bursting from his eyes, he apologized to his dear friend, kicked him on his back, and stomped down hard on Sanders’ ruined throat. He kept his boot there, pressing with all his might as the Fiend weakly grasped at his leg.
When it was over they stood in stunned silence. Dean sat down, snot running out his nose. “How? He was immune. Immune!” The second statement coming out with an animal sound of incredulity.
The twins, who had never cried before, felt hot tears well in their eyes, and they let their sorrow pour out to the others.
Dean snapped at them. “Stop it! Control your fucking-selves!”
Like a mist being sucked back into a bog, the sensation dissipated. Contrite, they stepped among the others and crouched down to look at a dead man who had become their good friend.
A House Divided: Book 3 of The Of Sudden Origin Saga Page 12
