Fifteen
Gulf Star Oil Platform
Chris found Hines in the gardens on the top deck of the oil platform, bent over a row of pepper plants. A blue wire mesh pail sat on the ground beside him, overflowing with green and red chili peppers. “There you are!” he called out.
Hines looked up and smiled warmly. “Chris! Hey!”
Chris shoved his hands in his pockets. “I thought I’d find you up here.”
Hines picked up the pail and got to his feet. He gestured toward a wooden bench a few feet away in the shade of an overhanging piece of machinery. “Come. Let’s sit.”
Chris followed Hines to the bench and took a seat beside him.
Hines plucked one of the chili peppers from his harvest and held it up, scrutinizing it as if inspecting a fine gem. He placed the pepper under his nose and inhaled deeply. “Before this all happened, I couldn’t stand spicy food. Now I can’t get enough.”
Chris chuckled. “We should try roasting them, by the way. Jack was telling me how they used to do that when he lived in New Mexico. He said we’ve got all the parts for a roaster.”
“I like that,” Hines said, shifting his position on the bench until he was resting against Chris’s side. “I wonder how they’re doing.”
Chris placed his arm around Hines’s shoulders and drew him close. “Me too. Me too.”
The Texas had quickly outrun the meager range of the radios aboard the Gulf Star. In the week since Megan, Jack, and Jeremy had vanished over the southern horizon, Chris had vacillated between worry over their well-being and envy at not being with them. But staying with Hines had been the right choice, especially after the scare on the MK Excelsior. Chris only wished they could have more time alone together. He knew deep in his heart that it was impossible. Their existence on the Gulf Star, the fragile sense of normality they all enjoyed, was nothing more than a cruel illusion, a temporary respite from the horrors roaming the shoreline only two miles to the west. Unless… unless the island Jeremy had told them about truly existed. If they were so lucky, then maybe Chris would allow himself to hope for something more than their prison in the sea.
The door leading to the internal stairwell clanged open, and Dr. Cain stepped out into the garden area. He scanned the deck, and his eyes lit up when he spotted Chris and Hines. With a relieved look, he pushed the door closed behind him and strode over to the bench. “I was hoping I’d find you up here.”
Hines slipped out from under Chris’s arm and got to his feet. “What’s going on?”
Dr. Cain’s gaze fell on Chris. “Actually, can we speak in private? This is important.”
Hines shook his head. His face grew hard. “Chris can hear whatever you’re going to say.”
Chris smiled uncomfortably, not sure he wanted to be privy to whatever had gotten the doctor so upset.
Dr. Cain took a deep breath and stole another glance at Chris before speaking. “We’ve got a problem.”
***
Hines’s brow knotted in anger. “So you’re telling me everyone on the Dixie is sick with this thing? Why is this the first I’m hearing about this?”
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Cain said, shaking his head. “Whatever it is, it came on fast. The Dixie sent a crew into the outskirts of Port Arthur four days ago to scavenge some electrical parts. The entire shore party returned complaining of feeling light-headed and nauseous. They ignored the symptoms at first, assuming they were suffering from exposure to some sort of industrial chemical.”
Chris hadn’t yet been to Port Arthur, but he was aware of its history. Even though the former petrochemical hub had been spared a zombie-cleansing nuclear strike by the government, the high concentration of refinery operations and liquefied natural gas terminals had quickly succumbed to the lack of operator maintenance, and the whole city had gone up in flames. “How many people are on the Dixie?” he asked.
“Fourteen at the moment,” Dr. Cain said. “There were twenty this morning.”
Hines’s eyes narrowed. “That’s impossible.”
Dr. Cain’s face grew grim. “I’m afraid not. They have six confirmed dead so far. Two more are close, according to my latest call.”
“Why am I just now hearing about this?” Hines asked angrily.
The doctor held up his hands. “Relax, Marlon. This is news to me as well. They’ve been busy trying to manage the crisis. They thought they had it under control, and—”
“Who’s in charge over there?”
Dr. Cain consulted his notes. “It was a man named Eddie. Eddie Gomez. But he already died. At the moment, no one is running things.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Hines said.
Chris pictured the Dixie Sunrise. Around half the size of the Gulf Star, the older sister platform sat six miles to the northeast, just off the coast of Port Arthur, Texas. Chris had only been to the Dixie a few times, and he couldn’t understand what people saw in the shabby excuse for an oil rig. The people who lived there tended to be loners and outcasts, the types who couldn’t stand to be around other people, yet they still relied on the goodwill and technical expertise of their larger and more developed neighbor to the south when the going got tough.
Dr. Cain blew out a tired sigh. “It gets worse. Chip Henley didn’t show up for his shift yesterday.”
“I don’t get the connection,” Chris said. Chip, a former barber from Galveston, did odd jobs on the platform, as well as keeping everyone on board well shorn.
Hines cast his gaze to the sky. “Damn it! I sent Chip and Justin out to meet with some people from the Dixie the other day. Some of the electrical parts were for the Gulf Star.”
Cold fingers of fear entwined themselves in Chris’ intestines.
“Are they…?” Hines asked.
Dr. Cain nodded somberly. “I’m afraid so. They’re both showing the same symptoms as the people on the Dixie. I’ve confined them to their quarters and posted people outside so no one gets in or out. I don’t know who else they’ve interacted with, though.”
Hines clenched his fists. His already tired face seemed to have aged ten years in a few minutes. “So what do you recommend?”
Dr. Cain shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t have a good answer. We have no idea what we’re dealing with. Only that it can kill.”
“What do we tell people?” Hines asked.
Dr. Cain glanced around surreptitiously as if searching for anyone who may be listening in. “I’d recommend you keep this quiet for the time being. Until we know more. You don’t want to cause a panic.”
Chris said, “You can’t hide something like this! People’s lives are at—”
Hines put up a hand. “Calm down, Chris. The doctor is right.” He turned stern eyes on Dr. Cain. “For now.”
“But—” Chris started.
“No.” Hines’s voice was firm. “Not a word. Understand? Not until we have a handle on this thing.”
Chris swallowed. “So what next?”
Dr. Cain responded, “I’ll do my best to treat Chip and Justin with what we’ve got on board, but until we figure out what’s killing people on the Dixie, all I can offer is palliative measures—fluids, aspirin, that sort of thing.”
“And if those don’t work?” Chris asked. “What if they get worse? What if they die?”
Cain’s eyes flicked to Hines then back to Chris. “We’ll just have to watch and wait. I’m supposed to call the Dixie again in a few hours. I’ll keep you posted.”
“You do that,” Hines said gravely. “I want to know as soon as something changes.”
Sixteen
The Texas
One mile north of Isla Perpetua
A thick line of muddy brown and black scum running the length of the Texas’s hull was the only reminder of the oil slick three days to their north. For Megan, the nagging fear still remained that the slick would continue to spread and that the tarry mess would eventually blanket the entire ocean. With each passing mile, however, her concerns became a little les
s pressing. She had other things to worry about, namely, the island looming directly in front of them.
“Are you sure that’s it?” she asked Jeremy.
Jeremy consulted the charts he had been poring over for the past several minutes then nodded. “I think so.”
“I sure hope you’re right,” Megan said. She eyed the surf crashing against the reef. “We don’t want to get hung up on that thing. It’s a long way to shore.”
Jack waved his stump. “I’d prefer not to swim if we can avoid it.”
Jeremy rolled up the map and slid it back into its watertight plastic storage tube. “I’m sure. This is Isla Perpetua.”
Megan surveyed the island. A dilapidated wooden pier jutted out from a sheltered cove several hundred yards beyond the reef. Palm trees dotted the powdery-white sands of the shoreline, some standing straight and tall, others bent to the constant wind buffeting the island. Beyond the tree line was the unmistakable outline of at least one building.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll go in slow and quiet. Keep your eyes peeled for rotters. They could be anywhere.”
Jeremy started to say something but stopped with his mouth agape. An expression of shocked surprise spread across his face. “Look!” he said, pointing at the mouth of the cove.
Megan did a double take when she saw the cause for Jeremy’s concern. Two cabin cruisers were racing across the glassy waters, bearing on a direct course for the Texas. The noise from the boats’ motors hadn’t yet reached them, but the white plumes of spray behind them gave a sense of their terrific speed.
“Oh, shit.”
***
The first boat slowed to a stop twenty yards off the starboard side of the Texas. Megan counted five men on deck and suspected there were more below decks that she couldn’t see. The men wore a mismatched assortment of military fatigues, and they all carried assault weapons, which they kept trained on the Texas. She touched her fingertips to the butt of the pistol strapped to her waist, seeking its comfort. The second boat arrived a few moments later and took up a slow, circling pattern around the Texas and the first boat, effectively dashing any hope she had of turning and running back to the open water of the Caribbean. Even if they managed to get away, the powerboats were faster and more agile. They were trapped.
A darkly tanned rail-thin man with short gray hair and a bushy goatee stepped forward. “You have until the count of three to put down your weapons, or we’ll sink you where you are. One!”
Megan exchanged a terrified glance with Jack.
“You bastard,” Jack snarled, turning on Jeremy. “I thought you said your people were here? What the hell is going on?”
Jeremy shook his head and held up his hands. “I… I don’t know these guys. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Two!” the man with the goatee shouted.
Too stunned for words at Jeremy’s apparent betrayal, Megan slipped her pistol from its holster and placed it on the deck at her feet. Her hands trembled as she took a step back and raised them over her head.
The goateed man turned to his pilot and said something in rapid-fire Spanish. A few seconds later, the boat began crawling toward the Texas.
“Let me do the talking,” Jeremy said. “I—”
“No,” Megan said angrily, never taking her eyes off the guns pointed in her direction. “Don’t say another word!”
Jeremy gave her a shocked look and closed his mouth.
As the powerboat drew even with the Texas, two men leaped to the deck of the sailboat. While Megan looked on helplessly, one of the men collected their surrendered weapons.
The second one ducked into the cabin then emerged a minute later and announced, “We’re all clear, Nick!”
“Nick,” she repeated under her breath, memorizing their captor’s name.
Nick grunted and casually raised his gun to his shoulder, the barrel pointing at the cloudless sky. “Who’s in charge here?”
With a withering glare in Jeremy’s direction and a firm set to her jaw, Megan stepped forward. “I am. And who are you?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack cringe.
Nick ignored her question. Sizing her up, he asked, “Is this all of you?”
Megan cocked her head and squinted at him, not sure she understood the question.
Nick lowered his rifle until he was aiming it directly at her chest. “I said, are there any more boats with you?”
“No,” Megan responded dryly. “We’re it.”
Nick regarded her thoughtfully, as if not quite sure how to react to a woman announcing she was in charge. Megan stared back without blinking.
“Okay then,” Nick said after a tense pause. “You’re coming with us.” He called to his men, “Lock ‘em up, boys! We’re getting out of here!”
“Wait—” Megan blurted.
But it was no use. Before she could get a word in, Nick’s men were already hustling her across the deck toward the other boat.
Seventeen
Gulf Star Oil Platform
Chris brought his coffee mug to his mouth and took a quick sip. Behind him, Hines paced the length of the radio room. A few feet to Chris’s right, Dr. Cain sat hunched over a pad of paper, idly tapping his pen against the page, his eyes half-closed.
The sun had barely made its presence known on the horizon when Hines had dragged Chris and the doctor bleary-eyed to the radio room to get an update from the Dixie Sunrise. “I’ve got a bad feeling,” he had said by way of explanation.
Chris activated the radio transmitter. “Dixie Sunrise. This is the Gulf Star. Come in.”
Silence.
He repeated the message. Hines stopped pacing. His lighter scraped twice, followed by a sharp inhalation and the soft crackling of burning paper and tobacco. Acrid smoke filled the room.
Chris spun his chair. “Those are all the frequencies they would be monitoring.”
Hines put his hand to his mouth and coughed. “Try again.”
“Come on, Marlon,” Chris protested. “They’re not answering.”
“Do it.” Marlon’s voice was full of steel, offering no hint of compromise.
Chris swung around and picked up the microphone.
“Wait,” Dr. Cain said. “Chris is right. This is a waste of time.”
Hines fixed the doctor in his gaze. “What makes you so sure?”
Cain stood and proffered his notepad. “I’ve been doing some calculations. I think we’re too late.”
“Too late?” Chris asked.
Cain checked the time. “Our last contact was almost twelve hours ago. They had six dead and two sick at that point.”
“So?” Hines said, a sharp edge of annoyance in his voice.
“So I think they’re too sick to respond.”
Hinson took a drag from his cigarette. “Or they’re all dead.”
Chris swallowed hard. Silence poured into the space between the men as they digested the doctor’s proclamation.
Chris eventually asked, “Are you sure?”
Dr. Cain shook his head angrily. “No. I’m not sure. Like I said earlier, I’m not sure of anything.”
Hines deposited his cigarette into a can half full of flat soda. The can sizzled as the cigarette was extinguished. “God damn it! I knew it!”
In a sudden moment of clarity, Chris realized that was why Hines hadn’t come to his cabin until the early hours of the morning, and why when he had, he had tossed and turned all night, finally crawling from bed with a string of muffled curses.
“How are our people doing?” Hines asked.
Cain huffed. “The same as last night. Stable, for the moment. Justin was complaining about a headache, though.”
“Is that in line with the symptoms on the Dixie?” Hines asked.
With a tight grimace, Cain nodded.
Hines took a seat between the doctor and Chris. The chair creaked under his weight. “We need to know more. We can’t operate like this.”
Chris didn’t like where Hinson was going with that l
ine of thought.
Hines added, “We need to send a team to investigate.”
Dr. Cain turned a page in his notebook. “I was thinking the same thing, but that brings up some serious logistical issues. The most difficult is how do we prevent our people from getting sick?”
“How have you been avoiding contact with the people here?” Chris asked.
“They’re locked into their cabins,” Dr. Cain answered. “We haven’t had any face-to-face contact, except through closed doors.” Seeming to sense Chris’s skepticism, he added, “It’s the best we could do on short notice.”
“That won’t work if we send a team over to the Dixie,” Hines said bitterly. “They’re going to need mobility to investigate. To help if they find anyone still alive…”
An idea was brewing in Chris’s head. As Cain and Hines debated the logistics of getting on and off the Dixie without bringing the infection back to the Gulf Star, Chris stood and went to the door.
“Where are you going?” Hines asked, looking up.
Chris just said, “I’ll be right back.”
Without waiting for Hines to protest further, Chris pulled open the door and dashed from the room. He ran to the stairs and quickly descended three decks. His entire plan hinged on a half-forgotten memory of something he had seen in one of the platform’s supply closets years earlier.
Chris reached his destination a few minutes later. Fluorescent lights attached to a motion sensor buzzed to life overhead as he entered the room. He scanned the cramped space, finally settling on a floor-to-ceiling shelving unit stretching across the wall on his left. He found what he was looking for partially buried under a stack of toilet paper: a four-pack of bulky neon-orange survival suits, still encased in their original shrink-wrap. With a triumphant grin, Chris gathered the suits and raced from the room.
Elements of the Undead (Book 4): Water Page 7
