Brian Keene

by Dead Sea (epub)

  "Yes, that's one of the reasons 1 was so looking forward to retirement. Trust me, Lamar, that particular loathing of literature is not confined to just inner-city schools. It seems to be present across the nation. Very sad."

  "Yeah."

  "Well, Achilles and the others I mentioned all used their powers to aid their families and loved ones."

  "So you're saying Mitch is part of our family? He's the warrior to my hero, and we're both looking out for the kids?"

  "Exactly." He put his pipe back in his mouth. "However, some warriors used their prowess for selfish reasons. Grendel and young Gilgamesh are cautionary examples of this. Luckily for you, Mitch doesn't fall into that subarchetype."

  I shook my head. "I still think Mitch is the hero. I mean, he saved us all back in Baltimore. If it wasn't for him, Tasha, Malik, and I would all be zombies now."

  "Well, I humbly disagree. However, if it eases your mind, the archetypes like warrior, king, and trickster are rather fluid. One can be warriorlike and tricksterlike, a king and a fool. Remember, they represent aspects of personality which individuals tap into or manifest in times of trouble. The hero manifests not aspects of personality, but a total person, the summation of all the qualities that have allowed him to successfully complete the hero journey and safeguard his people or bring back gifts. Going even further, I think the archetypes not only provide a guide for our personal behavior, but also role models for us, as humans, to live up to. At an unconscious level, when the time is appropriate, like right now, we strive to live up to the expectations of the warrior that have been instinctively passed down to us since the dawn of man. That's why we fight when all hope is lost; to not fight would be to deny part of the collective memories that define humanity. We fight because that is who we are. We fight because we are human."

  "And what are they?" I cast my hand toward land, even though we couldn't see it in the darkness.

  "The dead?" Professor Williams frowned. "Road-kill that doesn't have enough decency to lie down and rot in peace. The waste products of our souls. They're walking toilets, Lamar. Nothing more."

  A smile crossed his face. After a second, we both began to snicker, and then laugh. I bent over and clutched my stomach. 1 couldn't remember 'the last time I'd laughed that hard. It felt good, like a release.

  "Walking toilets," I gasped, straightening up again. "That's good, Professor."

  "I always end my dissertations with a joke. That way I can tell if I've put people to sleep."

  The ladder clanged. We both turned, and saw Murphy walking toward us. He was stumbling in the darkness, his eyes not yet adjusted.

  "Good evening, Mr. Murphy," the professor called.

  Murphy jumped, his hand flailing for the rail. He peered toward us, blinking.

  "Who's there? Professor Williams? Is that you?"

  "Yes, it's me. Mr. Reed is here with me. He and I were just discussing mythology."

  Murphy crept closer. "Hey, Lamar."

  I nodded. "What's up."

  Murphy stood beside us, his collar pulled up against the chill. Despite the summer heat, the ocean was cold at night.

  "Couldn't sleep," he said. "It's hot and 1 got the shakes. I'd kill for a drink right now."

  The professor nodded. "I think each of us have something we'd kill for at this point."

  I thought about the kids. Yeah, maybe I couldn't kill for Turn, but I'd damn sure kill for them.

  'A few of us have been talking," Murphy said, his voice low. "We're not so sure about the chief's plan for this oil rig."

  "How come?" I asked. "Seems like as safe a spot as any."

  "Sure, if there are no zombies onboard. But what if there are? Then what? Do we really want a repeat of what happened the other day?"

  The professor tapped his pipe on the handrail. The ashes drifted away. "So where would you suggest we go, Mr. Murphy?"

  The big man shrugged. "My plan all along was to head for the wilderness. Go down into Virginia or West Virginia. Get high up into the mountains, where there is snow all year, and live there."

  I frowned. "I may be a city boy and all, but I don't think there's mountains in Virginia that have snow all year long."

  "And even if there were," the professor added, "the zombies would find you there, too. The mountains are just as dangerous as the cities-perhaps even more. We have no idea how many members of the animal kingdom are now infected."

  Murphy rubbed his grizzled cheeks and sighed. He placed his shaking hands on the railing and sighed. I could tell that he was jonesing bad.

  "I don't think they would find us," he said. "What are zombies? They're just mobile corpses and nothing more. Cut off an arm or a leg, and they keep coming. They're dead, but they can move and function and take a hell of a lot of damage. My theory is this-if I get to someplace where the temperature is below freezing, the zombies can't move. Think about it for a second. They're dead, so they have no body heat. There's nothing to keep their bodies from freezing. If they tried to attack us there, they'd literally freeze in their tracks before they could ever reach us. That's a lot more convenient than having to shoot them all in the head or setting them on fire."

  The professor looked thoughtful. "Well, biology and science aren't my specialty, but I agree that makes sense. In theory, at least. If their blood and tissue freezes, then they would indeed become immobile. But you must consider something. Could we sail to such a location?"

  "Basil had an idea," Murphy said. "There are ski resorts in Pennsylvania and Virginia. We could pull into port and make for one of them."

  I shook my head. "That's no good. First of all, we'd never make it there."

  "Why not?"

  "A group this size? Come on, Murphy! Those things would slaughter us before we made it five miles. We'd have to find reliable transport, gas, more weapons, all that shit. But let's say we did make it to a ski resort. What you gonna do then? Get the artificial snow machine running? Maybe. But that ain't gonna chill the air-it's only making snow. Snow won't freeze them. You need to control the temperature for that. Sure, it would make a good winter hideout, but as soon as spring came, we'd be on the run again."

  Murphy muttered under his breath.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I said, I guess we didn't think of that."

  "Your idea does have merit," the professor said. "But we'd have to travel to a region where the temperatures remain below freezing all year round- Antarctica, for example. Such an environment would be hostile to the living as well."

  Murphy grunted. "Look around next time we go ashore, Prof. The whole world's pretty fucking hostile."

  "Yes, it is. That's why I support the chief's decision. If the undead are aboard the oil rig, it would be far easier to exterminate their limited numbers than to do battle with an entire mainland population."

  Murphy still didn't seem convinced. "We're on a ship. Don't see why we can't go to the North Pole or Antarctica, like you said."

  "We could," the professor agreed. "But a trek of that magnitude would require a lot more fuel than we currently have. Fuel we can possibly find at our current destination."

  I stifled a yawn. I'll give the professor one thing- interesting as the old man was, he'd definitely cured my insomnia.

  "Guys," I said, "I'm gonna hit the hay. It's been a long day and I'm wiped out. Murphy, make me one promise, okay?"

  "What's that, Lamar?"

  "That we stick together. All of us. If you guys don't like the chief's plan, let's talk about it as a group. The last thing we need right now is a fucking mutiny."

  He half smiled, half nodded. "No worries, man. Get some sleep."

  "Good night, Lamar," the professor said. "Give my regards to the warrior."

  "I'll do that. Night."

  The ship rolled beneath my feet as we crested a swell. Hanging on to the handrail, I made my way through the darkness, back down the ladder, and then through the hatch and down the passageway. I was surprised to find Mitch standing outside our compartment.<
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  "Where have you been?" he whispered. "I came back and the kids were in there by themselves."

  "Sorry," I said. "Couldn't sleep. Went topside to get some air. Are they okay?"

  "Yeah, they're fine. I was just a little worried, is all. You okay?"

  I nodded. "Yeah, man, I'm fine. How about you?"

  "Sure. I was playing cards with Cliff, Tony, Chuck, and Tran."

  "Tran can play cards?"

  "Well of course he can play, Lamar. Just because he doesn't speak English doesn't mean he's an idiot."

  "Point taken. So how was the game?"

  "I left early. Tony's in a pissy mood-he's having really bad nicotine cravings. I did find out that we may have trouble with Basil and Murphy, though."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Yeah. Apparently, they aren't too happy with our current course. Want to second-guess the chief. Even talked about forcing him to change course, head back to land."

  "The professor and I ran into Murphy. He mentioned it, too, but I didn't think he was serious. Figured he was just bullshitting, you know?"

  Mitch pulled a small square of gum from his pocket and popped it in his mouth. "Nicotine gum," he said with a wink. "But don't tell Tony. 1 don't have much left and I need it to last. Anyway, I got the impression that it was more Basil than Murphy. Basil's the ringleader. The question is, how many people has he swung over to his side and how serious are they?"

  We walked down the passageway and back out into the night, so that we wouldn't wake the kids up, and so no one else would hear us while we talked.

  "Think we should tell someone?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "Well, Chuck already knows. He's going to let the chief and Runkle know about it, too. I guess we'll leave it up to them. It's in their hands. I don't think much of Runkle, but I'll side with him on this. If we have to put them in the brig, then so be it. Last thing we need right now is a mutiny."

  "Well, I got your back. Just let me know." He grinned. "Thanks, man. That means a lot." "Not that I'll do much good, I guess." Mitch frowned. "What are you talking about? Ain't nobody else on this ship I'd rather have at my side." "You know what I'm saying, man. If the shit hits the fan, what good am I? I've got nothing to offer. You and Tony are the experts when it comes to guns. Meanwhile, I couldn't hit the broadside of a fucking barn. Runkle is a cop. We know he can handle himself. The chief knows the boat and Chuck's his new apprentice, so that makes him valuable. Hell, even Murphy's good for something. He keeps us moving down there in the boiler room. Everybody's got their place. So far, all I've done is throw up at the rescue station when we saw those crosses and choke when it came to killing that preacher. The professor says I'm the hero, but I think he must be senile." "The hero?"

  I explained to Mitch all about the archetypes and monomyths and the professor's theories on the two of us. When I was finished, Mitch shook his head, laughing softly.

  "Well, if that don't beat all. I'm the warrior, huh? I'll take that, I guess. Better than being the trickster. But he's right, Lamar. In those kid's eyes, you're a hero. They look up to you. After all the bad shit that's happened to them, you're the best person they could have come across." "But I don't know shit about kids. I'm impatient with them. I curse too much. I'm not a parental figure."

  "Too bad, buddy, because you've got the job whether you want it or not. I think you'll be okay. Take it from me. There's no instruction manual that comes with kids. You do your best and try not to fuck up and realize that you probably will anyway. You're their hero. Try to live up to that."

  His voice cracked, and I realized that he was crying. Tears dripped down into his beard. "Mitch?" I was shocked. "What's wrong, man?" "I… Do you remember our first morning onboard? When we were eating breakfast in the galley? You asked me why I'd gone from Towson down into the city, and I told you I didn't want to talk about it."

  "Yeah." I nodded, thinking back. "I remember." "Well, the truth is, I was looking for my son, Mickey. We always called him Mick. Mitch and Mick-our little family joke. My wife and I got divorced when he was fourteen. I was on the road a lot. Had a sales route at the time-copiers and fax machines for businesses. I did something stupid. Had a one night stand with this girl in New York City-a client of mine. Beautiful girl. She made me feel young again. Even so, I felt guilty about it afterward. Swore 1 wouldn't do it again and figured my wife would never find out. But I gave the girl my e-mail address and we chatted online a lot, and my wife found the e-mails. Some of them referenced that night. Yeah, I know-I'm a dumb ass.

  Anyway, we split up and my son blamed me. He had a hard time with it. A few years later, he got into drugs and dropped out of school. I lost all contact with him. When they declared martial law, I called my ex-wife. I hadn't talked to her in about six months, but it was the end of the world, you know? I was worried about him-about them both. My ex-wife answered. She was worried sick. Turned out she hadn't seen or heard from Mick in months. All she knew was that he was dating this girl named Frankie. She was a prostitute and a heroin addict, and she'd gotten Mick addicted, too. One of my ex-wife's co-workers had apparently seen him and his girlfriend. They were sleeping on the streets down in Fells Point."

  "So you went looking for him?" "Yeah, 1 did." Mitch sighed. "It was a stupid thing to do, but love makes us dumb sometimes. There was no way he could have been alive. I knew that, deep down inside. But I had to do it anyway, because I'm his father and that's part of it. When you become a parent, you have all these dreams. Maybe your kid will be a quarterback for the Ravens someday, or maybe he'll win the Nobel Peace Prize. My dream was a little simpler than that. I just wanted grandkids. Don't guess I'll ever have one now. But you have these dreams and you'll do anything to help your child achieve them, and sometimes, you do this even if your dreams aren't your kid's desires. You help your kids out. That's what you're supposed to do. But I wasn't there to help Mick, so I had to make up for it, even if he was dead. I had to see it through."

  "You could have been killed."

  "And I almost was-many, many times. Started out okay. Blew away most of my neighbors-they'd all been infected. But then, once I'd taken care of them, 1 was home free. My car had a full tank of gas and I had plenty of ammo. Fucking Rambo, right? At first, I stuck to York Road, but believe it or not, it was more congested than Interstate Eighty-three, so I switched to the highway. I made it as far as Television Hill before the fucking car overheated. Then I grabbed my guns out of the trunk and went on foot. Understand me, Lamar. I had to see it through to the end, but I expected to die every second of every minute. Those things were everywhere. The deeper 1 went into the city, the worse it got. I'd been in the city for two days before I ran across you and the kids."

  "Jesus…" I was stunned. "Two whole days? How did you make it?"

  "Determination. I went there looking for my son and I intended to find him."

  "Did you?"

  "No." He paused, taking a deep breath. "No, I never did. But I found you guys instead and that's enough for me. I tried. In my heart, I know that and I've made peace with it. I tried to find Mick. I made the effort, and Mick would have appreciated that. It would have been important to him. Nothing else matters. And that's why Tasha and Malik look up to you so much-because they see you trying. So the professor is right, Lamar. You're their hero."

  "But I'm not a hero," I snapped. "I'm a fraud, man. A fucking poseur. I'm everything people assume that I am when they first see the color of my skin or find out where I'm from."

  "What are you talking about? Is this because you couldn't shoot the preacher?"

  "I'm not talking about the preacher. I'm talking about before all of this shit. I did a bad thing, Mitch. A real bad thing."

  "What? Were you a drug dealer or something?"

  "See?" I pointed a finger at him. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. I'm black and from the ghetto, and when I tell you that I did something bad, you fucking automatically assume it must have been drug related. I must have committed some type of crime."<
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  "Hey," Mitch said, "that's got nothing to do with it. You said you did something bad. Of course I'm gonna assume it's a crime."

  "Because I'm black."

  "Oh, bullshit."

  "No, it's not bullshit, Mitch. You just can't see it from where you're sitting."

  He sighed. "Then prove me wrong. Go ahead and tell me what it was."

  "That's the thing. I have no right to get pissed off at you, because in the end, I contributed to that bullshit. I became what I hated. See, I lived in the city and shit, but I always felt like an outsider. Not just because I'm gay, but because I didn't do drugs, or sell them, or do any of the other crazy shit that so many people were into. The thug life isn't just something you see in rap videos. So many people emulate it, because it's all they know. It's a way out. A way to fight back. I never wanted to be a part of that."

  Mitch nodded silently, encouraging me to continue. I was surprised by the sudden swelling of rage inside me.

  "I had a good job in White Marsh, working on the assembly line at the Ford plant. Paid my bills on time, wasn't in too much debt. Didn't have much to show for it all, but I figured good things would come, right? And then I got laid off. They closed the plant down. Opened a new one in China, and shipped our jobs over there. I got on unemployment, but that didn't amount to shit. Couldn't find a job anywhere. Either I wasn't qualified enough or I was too qualified. Shit, I couldn't even get a job in fast food. Every month the stack of past-due bills got higher and I got deeper into shit. Then the phone calls started. Bill collectors. Fucking locusts is what they are. They'd call all hours of the day, even on the weekends. Even on Sunday. I was about to lose everything. And all I could think was 'Why me?' I'd done everything right. You used to see these politicians on TV, saying that black folks needed to work harder-needed to better ourselves and our communities. Well, that's exactly what the hell I was trying to do. And you know what I got for it? I got fucked."

  "And that's why you feel like a fraud? Shit, Lamar, it wasn't your fault."

  "No, maybe it wasn't my fault. But it sure as hell was a few days later when I took what little money I still had and bought a pistol. And it was definitely my fault when I decided to get even with Ford by robbing one of their dealerships."