Brian Keene

by Dead Sea (epub)

  "Oh, shit…"

  "Exactly. I woke up one morning and the bill collectors were calling before I'd even got out of bed. I walked into the Ford dealership with the gun stuffed in my waistband and my shirt pulled down over it. A salesman came over to help me and 1 told him I wanted to take one of the cars for a test drive. We went out. He was sitting beside me, talking about all the different features and shit. When he told me to turn around, instead, I pulled into an old industrial complex."

  "And then what?"

  "I robbed him at gunpoint. I was so nervous I thought I'd puke. I think the salesman actually took it better than me. I remember at one point, he was having trouble getting his wallet out of his pants and he apologized. And all I kept thinking was that it should be me who was apologizing, not him. I took all his money, and then I drove us to an ATM and made him empty out his account. When we were finished, I bailed. I was sick for the next three days. Oh, I was out of debt-temporarily, at least. I paid my past-due mortgage and made sure the bank wouldn't foreclose. But the guilt was crushing me, man. I couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Figured the cops would kick down my front door at any second. But they never did. And in some ways, that was worse, because that meant I still had to live with the guilt in silence. I'd become everything 1 hated. And then I was broke again. I was still dealing with all that when Hamelin's Revenge came along. I've been focused on staying alive ever since. But I can't forget about what happened. It's right there, in the past. I can't change it and I can't forget about it. The kids and you and the professor-you all think I'm somebody that I'm not. I ain't no hero. I'm a fucking loser."

  He shook his head. "You're a damn fool is what you are."

  "Excuse me?"

  Mitch grinned. "Don't you see, Lamar? None of that matters now. The past is just that-the past. It's as dead as those things in the streets. We've left it behind. Everyone makes mistakes. That's what molds us. But it doesn't matter who we were or what we did before all of this happened. We're still alive! When the rest of the world is fucking dying, we're still here. The only thing that matters now is how we respond and who we become. You know, that preacher back at the rescue station may have been insane, but he was right about one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "We really are born again. I'm not talking about in any religious sense. We've got a second chance to reinvent ourselves, to become someone different. The professor is right. We're on a quest-all of us. So stop worrying about the past and start thinking about the future. The past is dead."

  "So are the zombies," I said. "But that doesn't stop them from coming back and biting us in the ass. What kind of future can we possibly look forward to? Living on the run? Hiding out every time we go to the mainland? That's not living. That's existing."

  "It's enough for me. And the same goes for you. Otherwise, you'd walk out on the flight deck right now and jump into the ocean. You're a fighter, same as me-you do it because you don't know what else to do. And now you're fighting for those kids, whether you'll admit to it or not. So suck it up and be a hero. Hell, who knows? We live through this and civilization makes a comeback, then maybe they'll have mythology about us in five thousand years. We'll be history."

  I shrugged. "Maybe we already are."

  "That's not what I meant," Mitch said, smiling, "and you know it."

  His smile grew broader. After a moment, I returned it. We crept back into the compartment and, with the lights out, crawled into our racks. Tasha and Malik didn't stir. The ship gently rolled from side to side, creaking and groaning. Steam pipes along the wall ticked. My stomach grumbled.

  "Good night," Mitch whispered.

  "Night."

  I lay back in my rack and stared at nothing. I thought about the past. Maybe Mitch was right. Maybe it didn't exist anymore. Maybe that version of Lamar Reed was as dead as the city he'd left behind when he sailed out to sea. The future waited right over the horizon, and when the sun came up tomorrow morning, it would rise on the first day of the rest of our lives. I wondered how long those lives would be.

  Chapter Nine

  The chief had been right about the weather. The next morning we woke to cold rain. A storm had blown in overnight. Massive gray and black clouds swallowed the horizon, obscuring the lines between sea and sky. Thunder boomed across the water. Dime-sized drops of rain pelted the decks. The waves grew larger and the ship tilted like a carnival amusement ride. Most of us hadn't developed our sea legs yet and every time the Spratling took a particularly hard roll, we ran into the bulkheads. At breakfast, which consisted of fish we'd caught the day before, we had to hold on to our trays tightly, or else they'd slide down the table and crash into each other. Even those of us who hadn't struggled with seasickness before now looked queasy.

  The weather suited the crew's mood. But by noon, the clouds had cleared and the rain stopped. The ocean grew calm, flat like glass, the waves barely cresting. The sun shined down and the ternperature climbed again. Seagulls circled the ship, hoping for a handout. Old habits died hard, I guess. There were a million meals walking around on shore for them.

  According to the chief, we were still on course for the oil drilling platform. Mitch, Basil, Professor Williams, and I had spent the morning performing other duties below deck. I also spent some time with Tasha and Malik. My late-night conversations with Mitch and the professor kept running through my mind, and I decided to try to live up to whatever the kids wanted me to be. Once the storm had passed, we met up on the flight deck, got out our deep-sea rods and tackle gear, and began the day's fishing. Tran and Nick had saved the guts and heads from yesterday's catch in a bucket so that we could use them for bait. We lined up along the railing with the bait bucket between us and cast our lines. The professor had found a floppy-brimmed hat somewhere onboard and he wore it to keep the sun off his head. He looked like a geriatric Gilligan. Basil was quiet and sullen. He didn't say anything about his mutinous thoughts regarding our destination, and the three of us didn't let on that we knew. Instead, Mitch and the professor traded jokes back and forth, and I laughed. Basil pretty much ignored us, standing off by himself farther down the deck.

  We pulled in half a dozen groupers and striped sea bass, and Mitch hooked a small shark, which was about four feet long. Then the professor caught a really nice-sized tuna-enough to feed us all for one meal. He wasn't strong enough to haul it up over the rail, so Mitch grabbed the line and did it for him. The tuna had swallowed the hook. Blood dribbled from its mouth and ran across the deck. The fish flopped around, thrashing its tail like a hammer. Its gills flapped uselessly.

  "Can you take it off the hook for me, Mr. Bollinger?"

  Mitch grinned. "No way, Professor. I hauled him in for you. You can take him off yourself. I ain't baiting your hook again, either."

  "Youth," Professor Williams said in mock disdain. "No respect for their elders."

  "You know what they say, man-age before beauty."

  Nose wrinkling in disgust, the Professor bent down and grabbed the fish with one hand. His other hand forced its mouth open. Slimy fish blood trickled over his fingers and wrists and dripped onto the deck. He tugged on the line, peering down the tuna's gullet. It wriggled in his grasp.

  "Oh dear," the professor said. "He really did swallow the hook. This must be what is meant by 'hook, line and sinker.' Poor thing. He's in bad shape. Will one of you gentlemen please hand me the needle-nose pliers out of the tackle box?"

  Basil leaned over and picked up the pliers. As he handed them to the professor, he suddenly drew away.

  "What the hell's that on its tail?"

  We all looked closer. Near the bottom of the fish's tail was a small, ulcerated sore. It was raw and open, leaking pale fluid.

  The professor frowned. "It appears the fish is infected with something; perhaps a parasite or fungus of some kind, or a reaction to some pollutant."

  Mitch shook his head. "Looks like a bite mark, doesn't it?"

  "That's not a bite," Basil argued. "More like a sore. Pro
fessor's right. It's probably a parasite, maybe a worm of some kind. We won't know for sure until Tran and Nick clean it."

  The professor took the pliers from Basil and forced them down the tuna's throat. It was still bleeding, and his grip kept slipping as a result. The fish continued struggling. I had to give it credit. Like us, it kept on fighting, even if death was inevitable. Suddenly, the tuna jerked in the professor's grasp. He dropped the pliers. The hook ripped free, taking a chunk of fish innards with it. The line went taught and the hook's point speared the professor's hand, right between his thumb and forefinger. It dug deep, the barbs slipping beneath his skin. Professor Williams shouted in pain and the fish flopped away across the deck. The professor stared at his hand- his own blood flowing overtop the fish blood.

  "Jesus," Basil gasped. "You okay, Professor?"

  The color drained from the older man's face. "No, I am most assuredly not okay. It hurts a great deal. Could one of you please get it out? I'm feeling light-headed."

  I held him up from behind while Mitch went to work on the hook. The professor was bathed in sweat, but his skin felt cold. He hadn't been kidding. He was limp in my arms-on the verge of passing out.

  "You'll be fine," I assured him. "You're just in mild shock. Take deep breaths and try putting your head between your knees.

  "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I'm afraid that I don't deal very well with pain. I feel pretty silly."

  "Don't worry about it. I'd freak out too, if I had a fishhook in my hand."

  Frowning, Mitch jiggled the hook. The professor groaned.

  "It's in there pretty good," Mitch said. "The barbs are underneath your skin. I'm going to have to work it out slowly."

  The professor gulped. "Will it hurt?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then I suggest that Lamar and Basil hold me down. I'd hate to lash out at you in the heat of the moment, Mitch."

  Mitch grinned. "I'd hate that, too. Hold still, now."

  Basil held the professor's legs while I held his free hand. He gritted his teeth and moaned as Mitch began working the hook free. More blood flowed. I looked away from it, glancing over at the fish. Incredibly, it was still flopping around on the deck. It almost seemed as if it were trying to reach Mitch, heaving itself toward him in a series of flips and leaps. Then I realized it was probably just trying to get back into the water. Basil turned to look at it as well, his grip on the professor momentarily forgotten. The professor's arm jerked and the hook tore free, taking a good chunk of his skin with it. The professor cried out and Mitch cursed Basil.

  "What the hell are you doing? I told you to hold him."

  "It's the tuna. Look at it. Damn thing's still alive."

  "Throw it back over the side," Mitch said. "That fish is more trouble than it's worth. Nobody is going to eat it with that sore on its tail anyway."

  Basil made a grab for the tuna with both hands. The fish was so slippery with blood that it slid from his grasp and fell back to the deck. Its mouth worked soundlessly. He picked it up again and dumped it over the side. The tuna splashed into the ocean and then vanished beneath the surface. Basil looked at his hands in disgust and held them up for us to see.

  "Gross. I got blood and scales all over me."

  "Go wash up," Mitch said. "And take the professor with you. Get him cleaned up. Find out from the chief if we've got any hydrogen peroxide or disinfectant onboard."

  "I'm sure we do," Basil said.

  I helped Professor Williams to his feet. "You okay to stand?"

  He nodded weakly. "Yes, I think so. I'll be fine now. Thank you both, gentlemen. You see, I was right. The two of you are the embodiments of the warrior and the hero."

  Mitch flexed his bicep and laughed. "That's us."

  The professor leaned on Basil for support and the two of them went below. Mitch and I fished for another hour, but didn't get any more bites. It was weird-as if the tuna had warned away all the other fish in the sea. Finally, we took count of our catch and decided that we had enough to last the crew till tomorrow. Then we dumped the bait bucket over the side. The chum floated atop the waves-a gory treat for any scavengers lurking below the surface. A few of the birds darted down to scoop entrails from the water. We stored the fishing gear and headed below deck to clean up. Both Mitch and I smelled like fish. I remember thinking at least we didn't have the tuna's blood all over our hands.

  "Is Mitch gonna be your new boyfriend?"

  I was stunned by the question, and I stared at Malik for a moment, trying to figure out if he was serious or just joking around. His expression was earnest.

  "No," I said. "I don't think Mitch is gay, Malik." Dinner had been over for several hours and the three of us were getting ready to turn in for the night. Mitch was off playing cards again with the guys in the engineering compartment. The ship was quiet, except for the occasional tick or groan from the pipes. Most of the crew had gone to bed. Both Basil and the professor had been absent from the galley during dinner. I'd gone to check on them before we ate. The professor said he wasn't feeling good-too much excitement for one day. His voice was tired. His hand was bandaged and doctored. Basil didn't answer when I knocked on the hatch to his berthing compartment. Curiosity got the best of me, and I opened the hatch and peeked inside. He was asleep and did not stir when I whispered his name. After dinner, Joan and Alicia had volunteered to take them each a plate of food and check in on them. We hadn't seen them since, but I assumed both men were okay. Otherwise, the women would have told us.

  "Okay" Malik said. "I just wondered. The two of you are friends. I wasn't sure if that meant you were boyfriends, too."

  "Gay men can be friends with other guys, Malik. That doesn't necessarily mean they're 'together.' I like Mitch, but not that way. He's a good guy, and he's helped us out quite a bit. We would have never gotten away from the dogs if it hadn't been for him."

  "1 like him, too," Malik said, closing his Walking Dead comic. I'd been right about that. He'd read it several times every night since I'd given it to him. "Both of you."

  Tasha looked up from a picture she was drawing with some pens and pencils that Carol had given to her.

  "Malik never knew our dad."

  "I did too."

  "No, you didn't. You said you can't remember him."

  "I do… a little bit. I think. Sometimes…"

  I sat down on the rack next to him. "It's okay if you don't. I don't remember my father. He left when I was still a baby."

  "Really? Our dad did the same thing. Momma said he was no good."

  I chuckled. "My mother used to say the same thing about mine. I used to worry, when I was your age. Thought that maybe I was somehow weaker or dumber than the other guys in my class, because I didn't have a father to teach me stuff the way they did. But you know what? Some of them would have been better off without their fathers around. Some of their dads were drunks or abusive or just ignored them. And you know what else? I was better off without my dad. From everything I've heard he would have been a lousy role model."

  "What's a role model?" Malik asked.

  "Someone you look up to," Tasha told him. "Like how you look up to Lamar and Mitch."

  Malik twitched uncomfortably, clearly embarrassed that his older sister had revealed that. I wasn't sure what to say, and before I could respond, the hatch opened and Mitch walked into the compartment. Apparently, he'd had a good night with the cards. He grinned from ear to ear. He shut the hatch behind him and started to speak, but then looked at the three of us.

  "What's going on? What did I miss?"

  "Nothing," I said. "Why?"

  "Because the way the three of you got quiet, it looks like you were talking about me."

  I grinned. "You're paranoid. Malik and I were just talking about what it's like for a boy to grow up without a dad."

  "Probably better off sometimes." Mitch sat down on the rack across from us. "My old man was a real jerk. He didn't beat me or abuse me, nothing like that, but he was never there. He was always working, and
if he wasn't at work, then he was at the bar with his union buddies. Never had time for us. My folks got divorced when I was ten. I liked my stepfather a lot more than I did my real dad. He was there, at least."

  "What happened to them?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "My real dad died of prostate cancer about ten years ago. He was one of these guys that never liked going to the doctor. Usually, you can survive prostate cancer if they catch it in time, and it moves so slowly that diagnosing and treating it are pretty easy to do. But he was a real bull-headed son of a bitch. He didn't go to the doctor until it was too late. My stepdad and my mom retired in Arizona. I talked to them about a week before Hamelin's Revenge. Now… I don't know."

  Malik sighed. "Shit. I'd just be happy to have a dad at all."

  "Well," Mitch said, "here's something I've learned over time, Malik. A family isn't just a mom, dad, brother, and sister. It can be any combination of those. And sometimes, the people don't even have to be related. Hell, you could say we've got our own. little family right here. Me, you, Tasha, and Lamar. We've been through a lot in the last week, but we've stuck together and looked out for each other, right? That's what families do."

  Mitch punched him playfully on the shoulder and Malik giggled.

  "So if we're a family," Tasha said with a smile, "then which one of you is the mother?"

  Mitch and Malik looked at me, both of them grinning. I cut them off with a laugh.

  "Don't even say it or I'll kick both your butts."

  Mitch stood up. "Hold that thought. I'm gonna go take a leak and brush my teeth."

  He opened the hatch and stepped halfway out into the passageway. He stopped suddenly. We heard Mitch say, "Joan, what's wrong?"

  And then he screamed and we were a family no more.

  Mitch stumbled back into the berthing compartment. His forearm gushed blood from a large, ragged hole. The wound was alarmingly deep. I could see tendons inside the hole. His free hand fumbled with his hip holster, trying to free his pistol. The shock must have prevented him from doing so, because his fingers slid away. Joan lurched through the hatchway chewing the missing piece of Mitch's arm. She was obviously dead. The left side of her face and neck had been gnawed off. The bites still bled, so she hadn't been dead for long. Her hands and face were smeared scarlet.