I will. It’s not like I have any choice.
“You don’t,” she told him. Now she had determination, just a breath of it to go along with her hope. It met a test right off the bat: the black water of the Mississippi looked like it was sprouting grey arms and the occasional bobbing head. It was cold and disgusting, like she was wading into a soup of congealing disease.
If you don’t puke, I will, Ipes said.
“You can’t puke,” Jillybean replied in a breathless whisper just as the water reached her upper thighs. “Because, you’re not…” The remainder of the sentence could not be voiced. It could not even be considered. Too much of her personality, too much of her Freudian Id was invested in the concept, in the reality of Ipes as an actual being, and not as a fragment of her personality. To actually say, because you’re not real would mean she would have to accept that she was alone in the world.
The zebra glossed over the near faux pas, while he pointed out the closing river monsters. Don’t forget to moan, he reminded her.
She moaned in a disgusted, guttural manner until the monsters’ attention focused elsewhere. They began to stare at the barge with hunger in their dead eyes. The lone guard was standing now at the bow, watching for the approaching trucks. A thousand eyes were on him, allowing Jillybean to slink deep into the water looking like just another monster. It wasn’t long before she found herself relaxing. Her camouflage was top-notch and, as a ‘tadpole’, she was a good enough swimmer to float downstream unnoticed by everyone and everything.
Ipes, who hated to get wet even more than a cat does, rode on the top of her backpack and ran his mouth nonstop as if to make up for the half-hour when he hadn’t said anything. For him it must’ve been a Herculean feat to keep quiet for so long. Look out on your right, he said pointing at a woman whose face was skinless from the eyes down. They could see the bone of her jaw; it was startlingly white. She was doing her version of the “zombie crawl” cutting across Jillybean’s path.
Keeping her eyes listless and her lips clamped shut to keep the nasty water out, Jillybean reversed her stroke and treaded water, allowing the monster to pass within inches. The thing smelled atrocious, like a decaying corpse that had been left in a marsh for weeks. It was altogether putrid and was nearly enough to make her gag. She held back by the barest of margins.
Moan! Ipes ordered. Her moan had been replaced by a quick breath to keep from yakking, but now she complied with Ipes’ command, though it came out sounding like she was in pain. Now, angle for the boat. You can follow right behind her.
There was no way Jillybean was going to do that. The woman had left a trail in the water; a wake of decomposing fat and pus and stuff even more unmentionable. Jillybean paddled through it with her face held in rigid lines.
Ipes became frantic. You look like a little girl and not like a monster. You have to try to relax.
“I’ll try.” Making sure to keep her head lolled to the side, Jillybean went into duck mode: what was seen above the water was calm to the point of apathetic while beneath she swam like mad. She allowed herself to float a little way downstream before she fought the current to get back to the starboard side of the barge. On the port side, monsters were piled up in the dozens by the current, however on this side there were only a few of them, uselessly clawing at the rusting hull. The top edge was simply too high for any of them to reach, including Jillybean.
Luckily, for her, there was a ladder of metal rungs built into the back of the boat. The second she got to it, she monkeyed right up. Behind her the monsters went crazy after their fashion. They moaned louder and thrashed the water, desperate to get at this human who had emerged from out of nowhere. The little girl was no longer afraid of them; they couldn’t climb after all. Still, they could draw attention to her if they didn’t shut up.
On a whim, figuring it had never been tried before, she turned and like a frazzled mother she ‘shushed’ them. If anything it made them louder. I knew it wouldn’t work, Ipes said. You’re just going to have to hope that the guard is deaf.
“Or stupid,” Jillybean said, under her breath as she got to the top of the ladder. She found herself a dozen feet above the deck on a little walkway next to the pilothouse; it afforded her an excellent view. Just over half a mile down the road she could see a convoy of vehicles, kicking up dust and mowing down monsters. Closer, at the very tip of the boat, the guard was staring east into the rising sun with a hand thrown across his forehead as though he were saluting the vehicles.
What’s the plan? Ipes asked.
As usual, Jillybean didn’t have a plan. She only had a concept: blow up the boat…somehow. “I’ll figure it out,” she said, looking around, dripping water in a widening puddle beneath her feet. The barge itself was sixty feet long and about fifteen wide. It was flat and mostly empty except for a few oil drums strapped on deck. With the guard so close she didn’t dare go check them out.
Try the pilothouse, Ipes suggested.
“No duh,” Jillybean whispered; she had already taken three steps in that direction. The door to the pilothouse creaked but was more spooky than loud. It reminded her of something out of a scary movie and she was halfway certain that she would find either a ghost or a dead body inside. There was neither. It was just a dirty little room that smelled of diesel and cigarettes. Practically the only thing in the room was a single tall chair; its cushion consisted of cracked leather and layers of duct tape. It sat in front of a very large steering wheel; a boat-wheel as she thought it.
Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Ipes asked. A vision emerged in her mind of her at the wheel, driving the vessel downstream trailing white waves behind it as if the barge were a speedboat. You could ram it against something, Ipes told her. That would probably sink it.
“Maybe, maybe not. I don’t think this boat will go very fast and it looks really tough. Also, there’s the guard to think about.” These were just excuses, what she really wanted was to use the C4. If she was going to risk her life, she figured, it might as well be worth it. “But how do I get it to explode?” she wondered. Her innocent blue eyes scanned the little room. She took in the many gauges and the knobs and buttons arrayed around the wheel and concluded that they were all useless to her.
She let out an exasperated sigh and then climbed up on the chair to peek through the smoke-stained window. “Oh boy,” she said. In a cloud of dust, the long line of trucks was just pulling up to the front of the barge; she could make out the dark-haired River King in the lead vehicle. He was smiling, looking relaxed. Closer, the lone guard had one foot up on the bow. He yelled something she couldn’t understand, and then he threw his head back and laughed.
Jillybean! Ipes hissed. You’re out of time. Think of something or get out of here.
She was trying, but it felt like her mind had seized up again. In frustration she opened her pack to stare at what she had to work with: twine, tape, scissors, a block of C4, a detonator…it was all there doing her no good. The correct combination of items which could act as a trigger for the bomb refused to come to her, which meant, “There isn’t one,” she said, disappointedly. This left her with only Ipes’ stupid idea of driving off with the boat.
It’s not stupid. He sounded hurt by the accusation.
“Wait till that guy comes running up here,” she replied. “You’ll think it’s stupid then.” Ipes made a little sound that she took as “maybe.” She didn’t have time to reply. Her eyes were dancing over the dials and switches—one of which had a little square of a sign taped over it that was scrawled with words: Warm plugs for 1 min!
“Oh boy. What the heck are plugs?” She rescanned everything, looking for the word plugs and came up empty. “Maybe that switch was for the plugs.” The switch with the warning had three positions: up, down, and neutral where they currently sat. “Up or down, Ipes?” she asked with a little hitch to her throat. Her hand shook as it sat over the switch.
How should I know?
Her mental state had been adequate r
ight up until she was hit with a real decision. If she chose wrongly, at best she could break the engines, at worst she could give herself away prematurely and lose this chance.
Outside, the River King began yelling at his men to get moving. She looked out through the windshield once more. The men were piling out of the trucks and were beginning to herd the renegades into a group. The River King himself was standing just up the bank from the leading edge of the barge, talking with the single guard. Her eyes went to angry squints looking at him and her stomach lost its sour edge. She hated him. It was a feeling that wasn’t pleasant or even normal for her. It was a sign of her wacked out emotions again, but this time it worked in her favor. It quelled her fear and doubt.
“We’ll try down,” she said with a touch more strength to her voice. When she flicked down the switch there was whirring noise coming up through the steel deck beneath her feet. “Was that the right choice?”
Ipes shrugged. We’ll know in a minute. The two of them stared at the switch as though expecting it to do “something” and, when it didn’t, Jillybean glanced out front once more. The River King stood, turned away from the boat with his arms crossed in front of him. She could hear him directing his men like a drill sergeant. He was full of cussing yet his men didn’t seem to mind, especially the guard, who was being disgusting. He was peeing off the side of the boat onto the zombies and laughing about it.
“Gross,” Jillybean said and then went back to analyzing the console before her. There were only two things she was looking for: stop and go. The throttle was easy to understand. It was a handled lever with tick marks in silver that progressed all the way up to the word “Full.” While below it was the word “reverse.” But there was no stop or brake or even halt. She even got off the stool and looked around at the floor hoping to find a pedal like in the car.
“Well, that’s strange.”
Who cares if it’s strange? Ipes asked. Stopping is the least of our problems…the minute is up.
She jumped up on the tall chair, leaned far over to reach the glow plug switch and flicked it upward. Immediately the engine rumbled into life. It wasn’t a subtle noise. Everyone turned to look at the boathouse; most in mild curiosity, however the River King looked concerned, as if something wasn’t quite adding up. He glanced quizzically at the guard who was frozen in place, staring up at Jillybean in dread, the penis in his right hand no longer spraying urine onto the undead.
Jillybean, grinning like a jackal, pulled down hard on the throttle. The engines revved but there was a two second delay before the boat lurched backward. It was just enough time for the guard to stuff his penis back into his pants. The sudden jerk of the deck beneath his feet nearly sent the guard tumbling into the river. He fell against the hull and then rolled onto his back as the boat struck something unyielding.
Turn! Turn! Ipes was screaming. Head down stream. She spun the wheel and, slowly, the boat turned its nose south.
The guard was on his feet now. She could hear boots tromping on the deck. They sounded strange to her; as if the boat was hollow or made out of empty oil drums. The thought was fleeting. What mattered was the throttle. She pushed it forward, but unlike reverse, it resisted her feeble strength and only made it to a neutral setting; she had to hop down from the chair and grip the handle with both hands and push with her legs and back to get it move to the “full” position.
Again there was a delay, but when the fuel finally hit the engine the boat leapt forward with surprising speed. Fully loaded with a hundred tons of goods, it would’ve been like a pig in the water, but now it was empty, and it rode light and high in the choppy waters.
The guard was again surprised at the sudden change in momentum. He fell back with a cry. Ipes laughed, Ha-ha! Now ram it, Jillybean!
Easier said than done. The steering wheel was completely out of control, spinning in circles, and it was no wonder the boat was no longer pointing south. By the time she got herself back into the seat, they were heading due west. She stopped the wheel and then swung it back the other way. Even though she was expecting the sudden shift in direction, Jillybean still fell out of the chair. Outside the pilothouse window, there was a great deal of thumping and loud cursing—the guard had fallen again and he wasn’t happy about it.
Now the barge was heaving around to the east, but again it went too far—with the time constraints she was under, she couldn’t find the center point of the wheel.
I say we abandon ship, Ipes advised.
“Not yet,” she argued. The guard was on the stairs and she had one more second of mischief left to her. In the front pocket of her backpack at the bottom of a layer of odds and ends, she found a sturdy paperclip. She shoved it down into the groove on the throttle, hoping it would keep the engine churning at full power.
Only then did she race out of the port side door of the pilothouse, just as the guard rushed in from the starboard. She expected to be chased so she leapt down the stairs like a gazelle only to be thrown over a railing when the boat made a new shift in direction. She landed on the deck, banging her knee something good. If there had been time, she would have cried and rubbed the bruise, only the deck was no longer flat and dull like it had been.
The river was white capped and frothing and the barge was leaping as it hit crests and wakes of its own making. Two of the oil drums were rolling dangerously on deck while the third was over on its side, indented and leaking a foul, chemically smelling nastiness everywhere.
Don’t do it! Ipes ordered, as she reached into her pack once more.
“Too late,” she said. In her hand was a zippo lighter. With the practiced flick of a pack-and-a-half-a-day smoker she struck a flame to it, however before she could light the oil, something came zipping along the deck to strike her ankle. To her astonishment she saw it was an unopened jar of grape jelly. It was such a prize that she paused to stare at it.
Not now! Not now! Ipes cried. Forget it, you don’t have time.
Reluctantly, she ignored it and a second later, it rolled back the way it had come as the boated heaved over again as the guard fought to gain control of the barge. Once more she bent to try to light the lead edge of fuel puddle, something that wasn’t easy to do as she was trying to light it from the very furthest reach of her arm. Prudently she was afraid of being burned to a crisp when it lit.
The fire on her lighter went out and just as she relit it and reached once again for the fuel, something new rolled to a stop right next to her hand. The object took her breath away. It was green and mostly round but on top was a little square with a ring hanging off of it. “Whoa,” she said, her eyes very big in her gaunt face; the little ring made a clicking sound because her hand shook as she picked up the hand grenade.
Ipes was yelling in her mind but went ignored as her eyes followed the line from where the grenade and the jelly had rolled from. There was a lone backpack lying on its side next to the rusty hull. She ran to it, pausing only to scoop up the jar of jelly as it rolled by.
Just light the fire! Ipes screamed in her mind.
“Ok,” she answered, feeling a new calm come over her. This wasn’t the first time she had held a grenade. The last time had been in New York and, even though she had never talked about it to anyone, or even thought about it, really, she had held that first grenade in her hand with a deadly cold desire for revenge eating at her heart. They had killed Ram and they deserved all the death and destruction they got.
She had the same feeling now, only it was more pronounced, just like all her other emotions. Without batting an eye, she flicked the zippo into life and sent it skidding at the puddle of fuel. It went up, not in some tremendous explosion, but in a growly roar of flame. She didn’t even flinch. The cold part of her had known the open barrel of fuel wasn’t going to spark some sort of cataclysmic event, it was that or it simply didn’t care. Either way it was in charge, at least for the moment, and for once, fear wasn’t being considered.
The fire belched black smoke and spoke in a loud gr
umble, as though it was eating and wasn’t happy about it. She ignored it, just as she ignored Ipes who was bleating on about jumping overboard before the whole boat went up in flames. She was too busy rifling through the backpack to listen. Mostly what lay in the pack wasn’t immediately useful: two canteens, some food that didn’t interest her like the jelly had and some stinky man-clothes. What did interest her was a second hand grenade which she stuck in her belt loop. There was also a gun that she found in one of the side pockets. It was a black one with a wood handle, and reminded her of the kind of guns that police officers used. She transferred it to her pack, setting it beside the jelly jar.
Hurry, Jillybean! Ipes said, excitedly. The fire…
“Shut up,” Jillybean snapped. She didn’t have time to hear any more of his chicken-like squawking. Yes, the fire had grown huge in the thirty seconds since she had lit it, yet she knew it wouldn’t get much bigger, nor would it be enough to sink the boat; it was burning on a steel deck. Once it ate up all the fuel, it would peter away to nothing. She had more planning to do, and more running. Above her she heard the pilothouse door open.
The guard had stepped out of the port side door and now stood gaping at the fire. Jillybean scampered to the starboard side stairs. They curved against the bulkhead at a sharp angle so that she couldn’t see the guard; she could, however, hear people yelling from shore and pointing at her. It was somewhat of a shock to see that the barge was only sixty or so yards from the eastern bank. She would have to fix that. Jillybean went to the starboard door and, cracking it, saw that the room was empty.
We can blow up the pilothouse! Ipes said. Think about it, if you tape the grenade to the steering wheel we could probably exploded it right off and then what would they do?
The idea didn’t sit well with her. In fact it made her lip curl. Where was the fun in blowing up the pilothouse? Where was the blast of fire? Where was the great kaboom?
The Undead World (Book 5): The Apocalypse Renegades Page 18
