"Yes, we did," Tasha agreed.
"How did it make you feel when he called you that, Malik?"
"Bad. It hurt my feelings. I… I wanted to cry, but I didn't."
"Well, the same thing happens when you say fag. It hurts gay people's feelings."
"Yeah, but there ain't no gay people around here, Lamar."
I turned to Mitch and winked. He frowned in confusion. Then I turned back to Malik.
"How do you know there aren't any gay people around here?"
He shrugged. "I don't for sure, I guess. There just ain't."
"Malik, I'm gay."
He stared at me, mouth open in astonishment, half-chewed granola bar stuck to his tongue.
"Y-you're gay, Lamar? You like other guys?"
I nodded, smiling. "I sure am, and yes, I do. And when you say fag or faggot, it hurts my feelings just as bad as when someone calls us niggers. Faggots were bundles of sticks that people used to start fires with. When you call someone a fag, you're really saying that you want to burn them alive, even if you aren't aware of it. So don't do that anymore, okay?"
"Okay. I'm sorry. I didn't know that's what it meant."
"That's all right, buddy. Now you do."
"Damn straight, and I won't say it no more."
The kids went back to eating. I picked up my coffee cup and noticed that Mitch was staring at me.
"What?" I asked. "Don't tell me you have a problem with me being gay."
He held up his hands in mock surrender and laughed. "Hey, man, like I told you before, I just sell the Bible. Doesn't mean I believe what it says- especially the bit about men lying down with other men. I couldn't care less. Too much hate in the world. Nothing wrong with a little more love."
"So then what are you smiling at?"
"You, man. I was just thinking that you're pretty good when it comes to kids. You must have been a teacher or a coach or something. Am I right?"
"Not even close," I told him. "I worked at the Ford plant, until it shut down."
I didn't tell him the rest, didn't mention the robbery at the dealership or the money I'd gotten away with-money that was gone as soon as I paid the bills.
"Yeah," he said. "I remember reading about that in the Baltimore Sun. Lot of guys lost their jobs."
"It was tough," I agreed, then switched topics. "So, Mitch-how did you end up in Fells Point? You were a long way from Towson, weren't you?"
When he answered, his voice was thick with emotion. "I'd rather not talk about it. You cool with that, Lamar?"
"Sure, man. That's okay."
"Thanks."
Sounded like we both had secrets that we didn't want to share. I figured that was okay. Maybe being on this ship, sailing away from our homes, was a chance to reinvent ourselves-find out who we really were. The past was behind us. The past was dead-or maybe undead.
We went back to eating. I studied Hooper and Tran, tried to figure out if they'd assigned themselves as the ship's unofficial cooks or if they'd just decided to help out for the morning because nobody else would. There were a dozen people in the room, not counting the two of them and us. None of the people eating breakfast looked military. Judging from their conversations, most of them had been in the same situation we were in the night before-fleeing the flames and the zombies, and then happening upon the boat. Apparently the guy we'd met in the coast guard uniform had been hiding out on the ship at the time. When he saw what was happening, he'd decided to pull out to sea. Same plan I'd had. Great minds think alike and all that shit.
Joan, the woman who loaned a T-shirt to Tasha, joined us at our table. While she was there she told us her story. She'd been trapped in a bathroom for the last two weeks. Two zombies had chased her inside, but when they finally lost interest and left, the door was jammed and she couldn't get it open. The creatures had battered the doorknob till it was useless. The bathroom had no windows and no other exits. She drank water from the toilet bowl and survived by eating toilet paper and cough drops. She'd considered eating a bottle of ibuprofen as well, but decided to save them instead in case she needed to commit suicide. Lucky for her, she didn't have to. Three other survivors found her while they were looting the house, and freed her from the bathroom. Two of them were killed later on-one by a zombie and the other by a sniper. The third had run away during the sniper attack and she didn't know what had happened to him. If he'd stayed in Baltimore, he was probably dead by now.
We didn't talk much after she told us her story. Too busy eating. Joan was ravenous, and so were the rest of us. I'd had nothing since the fruit cocktail at my place the evening before. Already, it seemed like long ago, but in reality, it had been less than twelve hours. Malik asked me if he could have seconds and I told him I didn't see any trouble with that. When he'd left the table, Mitch took a sip of coffee and shifted uncomfortably.
"What's up?"
"Just thinking." He set his coffee mug down. It slid about a quarter of an inch as the ship rolled. Mitch's complexion paled.
"Seasick?" I asked, trying not to let on that I felt the same.
"A little, maybe," he admitted. "But that's not what I'm thinking about. Just wondering how much food we have onboard. 1 mean, I can't imagine any of this is the ship's stores. Must have been brought on after Hamelin's Revenge."
"I'm just happy for anything," Joan said.
"Me, too," Mitch agreed. "So is there anyone in charge of inventory or rationing?"
Before Joan or I could answer, there was a sudden burst of electronic feedback, and the ship's public address speakers crackled.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Chief Maxey is my name.
You can call me Wade or Chief or Captain- whatever you like. I'd like all hands to muster on the flight deck, located aft, at oh-nine-hundred hours. If you have companions still sleeping in their racks, please wake them and have them join us. I thought a brief orientation might be in order, since we all seem to have been thrown together like this. Thank you."
There was another burst of static and then the speaker cut off.
"What's he mean by muster?" Joan asked.
Tasha shrugged. "And where's the aft deck?"
"What time did he say," a man called out from across the room. "Oh nine what?"
"Folks, if I could…" An old man stood up. He was short, and his thin white hair was disheveled. He wore a dirty suit and thick trifocals that kept sliding down his face. He pushed them back up and said, "Hi."
"Hi," someone shouted back. Then more people joined in.
The old man blinked, grinning sheepishly, clearly embarrassed. The he cleared his throat and continued.
"My name is Professor Williams. Well, actually, my real name is Steven Williams, but my friends and family have always called me Professor, since I am one. Was one, I mean. Before retirement and before-well, before what happened to all of us. Anyway, just to clarify what our captain said, aft is the rear of the ship. I believe if you exit out of that hatch back there, what you call a door, and work your way along the catwalk on this side of the ship, you'll come to the aft deck. Can't miss it, really- big, black, flat area. The requested time was nine o'clock, which is about ten minutes from now."
"Thanks, Professor," another man called out. There was a sarcastic edge to the stranger's voice, and the old man blushed. He sat down quickly and stared at his tray.
I stood up and emptied my tray in the garbage can. Then I stopped at his table and tapped him on the shoulder. He was busy packing a pipe, and he jumped when I touched him, spilling tobacco onto the table. The professor looked up at me. He seemed very small.
"Sorry," I apologized. "Didn't mean to make you spill."
"Oh, it wasn't you. My hands aren't as steady as they used to be."
"Well, I just wanted to say thanks for that explanation, man. I was never in the military, so it all sounded like Greek to me until you spoke up."
He smiled, flashing a set of false teeth. "Thank you, Mister…?"
"Reed. Lamar Reed." I stuck out my hand and he shook it.
"Professor Steven Williams. Just call me Professor. But of course, you already know that."
"Hey Lamar," Malik yelled across the galley. "Can I get thirds?"
"Save some for everyone else," I said.
"But I'm still hungry."
"Don't be a pig."Tasha elbowed him in the ribs.
I turned back to the old man while Mitch quieted the kids down.
"They're lovely children," the professor said. "It's actually nice to see children again. Nice to see anyone, really, I suppose. I've spent the last month sequestered in a storage room at the public library. I had plenty to read but no one to talk to. It was a very lonely existence."
"Yeah," I agreed. "That would be tough."
"They seem very well-behaved."
"They're pretty good kids."
"Are you their father?"
"No. No, I'm just watching out for them. We crossed paths last night. They helped me out so I took them under my wing."
He smiled again. "Ah, so you are the protector, then. The hero archetype."
"Excuse me?"
"The hero. Are you familiar with the works of Joseph Campbell?"
"Can't say that I am."
"Well, then you must read The Hero With a Thousand Faces. It's all about mythic archetypes. Understand those and you have the key to unraveling the riddle of life itself. Fascinating material, really. Most scholars prefer his other books: The Mythic Image and The Masks of God, but I was never one for popular convention. Come find me later and I'll explain all about it. You're on a quest, Mr. Reed, and you are fulfilling a role."
"I'll do that," I said. Meanwhile, I had no clue what he was babbling about, and no time to wonder. There were more important things to worry ourselves with. Such as Mitch's idea of food rationing and exactly what destination-if any- Chief Maxey had in mind for us.
I found out soon enough. When we were done eating breakfast, the four of us filed outside, joined once again by Joan. Slowly, the rest of the passengers assembled on the flight deck. The sun hung high in the sky, bright and hot. Sweat beaded on my forehead. 1 shielded my eyes against the glare and studied our companions. I counted eighteen of us total, and I learned that there was one more person, a guy named Turn, who was piloting the ship while the rest of us had our little powwow. Apparently Turn was a retired harbormaster, and Chief Maxey had made him second-in-command.
Mitch sniffed the air and breathed deep. "Smell that salt air? Man, I love that sea breeze."
I grinned. "Know what else?"
"What's that?"
"For the first time in over a month, I don't smell rotting corpses."
He shuddered. "You're right. I hadn't even noticed. As horrible as it sounds, 1 guess I'd gotten used to it."
Another hatch banged open and Chief Maxey walked out onto the deck. His stride had purpose, and the expression on his face was all business. He wore the same uniform he'd had on the night before, and a pair of black sunglasses. He had us gather around him in a circle and silently studied each of us for a moment.
"Good morning." He didn't raise his voice. Didn't shout over the waves or the engines or the screeching birds that followed the ship, hoping for a handout. He didn't have to. The man had presence. Even though he was an overweight, middle-aged white guy in a dirty coast guard uniform and hat, and even though he smelled like he hadn't showered in days and had salt and pepper stubble on his face, the man commanded our attention. There was no doubt that he was in charge.
"I'd like to welcome each of you onboard the United States Coast Guard Cutter Spratling. I'm sorry that it can't be under better circumstances. We weren't properly introduced last night, and I'm sorry for that, too. If I was gruff with you, just ignore it. We were in a tense situation and I didn't have time for pleasantries. My priority was getting us away from the harbor. Also, I want to thank those of you who volunteered to help last night. Your willingness to chip in probably saved all our lives."
The crowd murmured thanks and then Maxey .-cleared his throat and continued.
"We've got a lot to cover, so make yourselves comfortable. I figure that first we-"
A man in front of me put his hand up. He was short and balding, and his scalp was beet red from sunburn. I wondered where he'd spent his time hiding from the zombies. Maybe a rooftop somewhere?
"Yes?" The chief pointed at him. "You have a question?"
"Sure do, Chief. If this is gonna take a while, why don't we move back inside to the galley where it's a lot more comfortable and cooler?"
Maxey's smile was tight. "I'm sorry, Mister…?"
"Basil. My name's Basil Martin."
"Well, Mr. Martin, the reason we're not going inside is because I need your attention. If you're too comfortable, then chances are your attention will drift. You might even nod off. I wouldn't blame you, of course. I'm sure each and every one of you has been through quite an ordeal. But if you quit paying attention, then you might as well jump overboard right now. Because I intend to stay alive. And as captain of this vessel, it's my job to make sure you folks do the same. I can't protect you unless you help me, and to do that, I need to make you fully aware of our situation. So I need your full attention. Clear?"
Blushing, Basil nodded, and then slipped past us to the back row.
"Now," the chief continued, "as I was saying, I figured we'd start with the basics. I'll tell you who I am and a little bit about the Spratling. Give you an overview of our situation. Then I'd like to know a little bit about each of you-especially any skills or trades you might have, or military or law enforcement experience. Let's start with a head count."
He paused, surveying the crowd. Then he nodded at Hooper.
"Where's the other guy? Tran? Wasn't he helping you with breakfast?"
"He's in the galley doing dishes. Don't matter none. Motherfucker can't speak English anyway."
The chief frowned, but continued with his count. I got the impression that he felt the same way about Cleveland Hooper as I did.
"Okay," Chief Maxey said. "So, counting the absent Mr. Tran, and our second mate Turn, who is piloting the ship while we're down here, there are twenty of us onboard."
Joan timidly raised her hand.
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry," she apologized. "But last night, after we'd gotten underway, I thought I counted twenty-one."
"Yes ma'am, you did."
"But you said there were twenty, counting the two men who are absent. Aren't we missing somebody else?"
"There were twenty-one. One member of our party was bitten sometime before he came aboard. He tried to hide it from us, but we discovered it early this morning, before most of you were awake. We removed him from the ship immediately."
Joan stuttered. "W-who? Who did that?"
"Turn and I, and Mr. Runkle.
"Mr. Runkle?"
"Yes, he's standing there to your left."
We all looked at Mr. Runkle, a large man, probably in his late thirties, physically fit and hair cropped short. 1 made him for a cop right away. It was in the way he carried himself. Chief Maxey confirmed my suspicions a second later.
"Mr. Runkle is a Baltimore City police officer. We asked for his help as soon as we were aware of the situation."
"Hi. Steven Runkle. Just call me Steve."
A few of us nodded at him, but our attention was on the chief. I noticed the professor step away from the group. Frowning, he lit his pipe and puffed on it. The smoke smelled like cherries. In the sudden silence, the roaring waves seemed to grow louder. Seagulls squawked above us, perched on one of the antennas.
"I'm sorry," a redheaded woman said, "but what exactly do you mean when you say you 'removed him from the ship'? Weren't we already out to sea by then?"
Chief Maxey nodded. "That's correct. And what is your name, Ma'am?"
"Never mind my name! You threw him overboard? You killed him?"
"No," Runkle said. "We didn't kill him. The bite did that.
He was already dying. You've all seen how fast the sickness works. The times vary depending on the person, but the end result is the same. Unless you totally incinerate the body or destroy its brain, it comes back after death. He'd have been dead in a few more minutes, and then…"
He didn't finish. He didn't have to.
"If it's any consolation," the chief muttered, "we made sure that he didn't suffer."
I braced myself for the expected outcry, but surprisingly there was none. A few people looked unhappy about it, a few more looked queasy, but nobody objected out loud. This was a new world with new laws. You did what you had to in order to stay alive. All of them had survived this long-they knew what it took. To remain human, you had to give up a little bit of your humanity. I'd done stuff I wasn't proud of-shooting Alan, for example. But something else was bothering me, too. If the guy had been bitten but was still alive when they threw him overboard, what happened after he drowned? Did he still turn into a zombie? Hamelin's Revenge was already in his bloodstream. Did he wake up on the bottom of the ocean and start attacking the fish? I wondered again if the disease could transfer to marine life.
"So there are twenty of us," Chief Maxey said once more. "That should give me a better idea of how long the ship's stores will last. Not that we really have any. But we'll get to that in a minute. First, let me tell you about myself and about your new home. If you didn't hear me before, my name is.SMC Wade Maxey, United States Coast Guard, retired. Specifically, I was a signalman. SMC stands for Signalman Chief. I actually served onboard the Spratling in the eighties, and when she was finally decommissioned in 1987 and turned into a historic attraction, I was hired by the Maritime Museum to serve as a curator and tour guide. Believe me when I tell you that nobody knows this ship better than me. I'm a part of her and she's a part of me, and I'm glad they saved her from the scrap yard. Usually, when they're no longer seaworthy, those old ships are cut up and sold for scrap by their owners before they become completely worthless. Only a few of the really old ones have survived. Most of the time, that's because of dumb luck. And sometimes, they escape the scrap yards because of their historical significance, as was the case with the Spratling. The coast guard felt it was an important vessel."
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