by J. B. Beatty
“I'll be damned,” says Justin. “So the Finns are going to rule the world.”
“Yeah, that'll be a cold day in hell,” laughs Leena. “The Finns I know can't organize a quilting bee without a fistfight breaking out.”
“That's true,” confirms Lawrence. “Very ornery, very stubborn people. And I'm talking about the nice ones. Like us.”
“So how many people in the UP are still alive and healthy?” I ask.
“Comparatively speaking, a lot,” says Lawrence. “Society broke down, institutions crumbled. Packs of beasts roamed the roads. But a lot of families weren't affected at all. Most of them holed up in their cabins with their guns and went into full survivalist mode. We, however, for various reasons ended up on the road, and then on the boat.”
“Yeah, the boat, I was going to ask about this,” says Justin. “You seem to have been a lot more ambitious than we were on the boat thing.”
“Well, there's this brewery in Manistique,” begins Lawrence. “And in the fall I headed there because with winter coming, we had to be somewhere. Even if I wasn't going to stay at the brewery, we could pick up some supplies. Winters are long in Manistique. Leena and a few of the others were with me then. We're having a beer. A good beer, I might add. And looking out the window, keeping an eye out for beasts...”
“Not zombies?” I say.
“We voted. Beasts. Zombies is too Hollywood. And they're not technically zombies, but they are technically beasts.”
“Okay,” I say, unconvinced.
“We also had to keep our eye out for gangs.”
“Gangs?”
“Finns gone bad. Some of the teenagers. Too many guns, too much meth. And looking out the window, Leena says, 'What's that freighter doing here?' And we all looked out the window at this giant freighter that we barely noticed, because it's just like a building, a huge building, and how was I supposed to know a freighter this size is not supposed to be in Manistique?”
Leena jumps in. “It's not much of a port. It's a river mouth with some big docks, but nothing big enough to service a freighter that size. I'm from around Manistique, Gulliver actually. I knew enough to know that if this freighter had docked in Manistique, something was wrong.” She nods at Lawrence, who takes over.
“We talked about it for a while and realized the freighter might be easier to defend. It could be a safe place for the winter if we could get the heat going. Therefore we boarded it—that was a challenge the first time. There were some beasts aboard that we took care of. Decent supply of food, and plenty of fuel.
“Our theory is that when the virus hit, things got crazy on board and eventually the captain brought it into the river mouth here in an attempt to get help.”
“They didn't find help,” says Leena. “One of the beasts we killed was wearing a captain's uniform.”
“And we survived the winter. Gradually picked up more people here and there, fellow wanderers. Once the ice broke up we decided to take the freighter out on the water. That was after we saw the Great America people show up. Trucks, Humvees, and even a helicopter. They shot everything in their path, beasts or healthy. We thought we just might be safer away from shore.”
“Do you have someone who can pilot this thing?” asks Justin.
Leena shoots Lawrence an annoyed look. He sheepishly says, “We kind of went on the theory of how hard can it be?”
“And tell them how that worked out for you, Lawrence,” Leena says.
“Okay, so it was a little harder than you might think. Some aspects of the operation are a little tricky. Like steering, for instance. When something's 1,000-feet long and weighs over 60 tons, it's not as responsive as, say...”
“A bass boat?” offers Carrie.
“Exactly. And it doesn't quite stop on a dime. Tasks like docking are kind of a challenge. And reading some of the charts and instruments so we can avoid running aground. That's tricky too.”
“Who would have thought?” says Leena.
“We actually tried to dock it once. In Milwaukee. After three days we gave up. There might have been a little bit of damage involved.”
“What do you do if you don't ever dock it?”
“Basically,” says Leena, “we just float around in the middle of Lake Michigan.”
“Couldn't you go into Lake Huron?” I ask.
“Yes and no,” replies Lawrence. “Looking at the charts, I would think it's possible. For my skill level. Difficult, but possible. I think there's a good chance I wouldn't sink the ship. But the problem we would run into is Great America.”
“Yeah,” says Carrie. “I'm wondering how, with all of their military power, they haven't attacked you.”
“Well, they have, once. Maybe it was just a random event, but last month a Black Hawk chopper came by and unleashed on the cabins at the fore end of the ship. Maybe they spotted movement, or maybe they wanted target practice. In any case, since then we have adopted our basic strategy. We've seen several abandoned ships floating without direction on the lake. Eventually I would imagine that they're all going to run aground somewhere. What we do is try to mimic them. We float in a way that looks random. Sometimes we go for days without firing up the engines. We don't take a direct line anywhere. If they're watching us with radar, we would appear to be just another abandoned ship.
“And assuming that they may be watching us from drones or satellites, we keep below deck in daylight.”
“Wouldn't our boats tied up alongside be a dead giveaway?”
“They're not there anymore.”
I look out the window at the rising sun, as if I might expect to see anything.
“What did you do with our boat?” asks Justin, his voice on edge.
“Tony and Tony got it.”
“The Tonies,” says Leena.
“They're the masters of the winch,” explains Lawrence. “They figured out how to use that thing—it's strong enough to lift up some serious containers. Little boats are no problem. As soon as you got up here they went to work. By now both boats are stored out-of-sight.”
“What are you going to do with us?” Carrie asks. “Are we captives?”
Leena stands. “You're not captives,” she says with a smoker's laugh that ends in a small coughing fit. “We'll be glad to help you. You want to attack those assholes, what d'ya need? We'll help however we can. Not sure that's much. The size of this damn boat kind of gives the impression that we've really got it together, but we're really just like any other small band of scavengers: scraping by, trying to find creative ways to stay alive.”
54→FETCHED THE TUB A RATTLING KICK
The ship has plenty of bunks. And food. We ate well and slept well. When the sun set, the Tonies fired up the winch and lowered our boat to the water. We descended the ladder and climbed aboard. One of their guys, Roger, came with us. Lawrence had recommended him (“former Army, but he's good”).
We made good time and cut our engines after slowing down to a creep through Good Harbor Bay. Our landing spot is the beach at the north end of Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park. The rationale is that our boat engine would be unlikely to wake up anyone in nearby houses—since there are no nearby houses.
It doesn't take long for us to tie the boat to a big piece of driftwood—it's a tree that could have been used for a telephone pole. Then we hike along the beach before turning into the woods. It's about 9 miles to the clinic in Suttons Bay. We opt not to steal a car. To stay alive, we need to stay completely under the radar. By road, the only viable route takes us through the town of Lake Leelanau, which pre-Apocalypse was a small place that marketed its cuteness to great success. These days, probably a top destination for the people that Great America has decided to protect.
The village is situated on either side of a narrow stretch in the lake that grows much wider to the north and south. One bridge. We debated the safety of attempting a bridge crossing and decide against it. Instead, we aim south of the village, with plans to take a boat from one of the many docks fo
r the short passage across the lake. The water is probably 1500 feet across. A rowboat will do.
“Kayaks it is,” whispers Roger. We are standing in the darkness near the shore of the lake, after a 2-hour hike in which we circled wide around any lights or signs of civilization. The house is up a slope about 200 feet away and is clearly occupied. It seems that all the houses in this neighborhood are. Not only are the lights all on, but here and there we can see wide-screen TVs playing. We see people walking past the windows occasionally.
We had found a rowboat, but Roger got in and tested the oars and they squeaked so loudly in the oarlocks that we went to plan B. That brought us to this next house, which has a rack with six kayaks next to the water. The paddles are all neatly lined up at the end of the rack.
We gently lift the kayaks and place them at the edge of the water. Roger steps back and says, “I'll keep a lookout for beasts.”
“Keep a lookout,” I say, “but for regular people. All of our information says that they've hunted down every zombie—and potential zombie—in the area.”
Once all the kayaks are ready we begin the cumbersome process of getting ourselves in them. With rifles and backpacks we are carrying a little more gear than these vessels are built for. I end up with my backpack in my lap so that I can sit in the kayak. It turns out that I can’t paddle at all with my broken collarbone. Justin ties my kayak to his.
My rifle is jammed between my legs, barrel pointing like a beacon in the direction we are heading. We are not trained kayakers and I want to laugh as Carrie accidentally splashes me with her paddle. Instead, I follow silently. A half-moon above and clear skies, but the wind is cold on my face as we make our way across the lake.
Approaching the looming darkness of the east shore, we aim toward a wooded area alongside a lawn, so that we can land easily and then drag our kayaks into the cover of the trees. Roger runs downshore to check the boats at the dock. All I get of his explanation are the words, “Maximize our options.”
Once he's back, we follow the edge of the woods, taking the quickest route to the road. We cross that, pass through another zone of houses and lawns and forest patches. We don't make good time until we hit the farm fields. Once there, we strike a path to the northeast. In open areas, we move at a slow but steady jog. The backpack straps are already digging into my shoulders.
As we approach another road, Justin hoots once—it could be taken for an owl call if you don't know the signal. We all lay flat in the ditch as a vehicle approaches. It's driving slowly and I open my eyes and see the lights on top of a Ford Bronco. Probably one of the sheriff's vehicles. Whether the driver is a Great America hired gun or a local volunteer is anyone's guess. I look to my right and see that Carrie has her rifle in hand, already aiming in his direction. Justin and Roger are doing the same to my left. I realize that I am only focused on hiding, not on what to do if we are discovered.
The Bronco passes and the sound of the wheels on gravel fades. When all is silent, Justin says, “Go.” We cross the road and head into the fields on the other side. It is nearly an hour before we reach Suttons Bay. We emerge near a school, as planned. Roger leads us to the south, through the ball fields and across Elm Street. The town is silent. It must be 2am by now. If there are any patrols, or indeed anyone awake in the entire town, we see no sign of it. We stop in the woods, within sight of the parking lot outside the clinic. We can see the back door. It's set on a strip of buildings, alongside a pharmacy and what used to be a food store. Roger heads north, to survey the front of the building for security.
“This is strange,” Carrie whispers. “It's like there's no security at all. Everyone asleep?”
“They can afford to be,” says Justin. “No flu victims here. No bad guys. With that wall and army protecting them, they have no need to post guns at every door. I don't want to get overconfident, but this could be our best chance to snag the vaccine. If it goes badly, or even if it goes well and we get everything we need without a problem, you can bet that next time it won't be so easy.”
Over the walkie-talkie, Roger says, “All clear except for one parked car.”
“Roger Roger,” says Justin. We move across the parking lot to the back door. It is locked (we had to check). Justin starts working at it with a crow bar; the door is metal, so it takes an uncomfortably long time for him to work the bar in and get some leverage. Tough job when our main concern is staying silent. Carrie and I face out, guns drawn, as he works. Finally, we hear something give with a painful squeal.
Carrie stays behind to cover the door, shutting it from the outside before hiding behind a dumpster. Justin and I move in; I am on point. Lights are on in a minimal sense, probably security lighting. We get to the main hallway and I am following Justin's directions. He's reading the signs and looking for the medicine storage. A door opens down the hall and we hear a voice, “Who's there?” It's a woman. She steps out into the hall and faces us. She's wearing a white lab coat and is armed with a clipboard. She is clearly alarmed but trying to make up her mind.
“Miss,” I say calmly, trying to walk to her as fast as I can without alarming her. “You need to remain quiet. We’re following an intruder and we think he broke in the back door.”
She stands there looking at me, wire glasses against pale skin. Her red hair is tied in a ponytail. Her eyes are wide and she seems frozen. I am within 15 feet when she finally says, “You're not security.”
I glance down at my clothes; I am wearing camo and have a black balaclava bunched around my neck. “Rapid response detail,” I say. “Is anyone else in here with you?”
“No,” she says nervously. “It's just me.”
“Why are you here this late?” I try to sound like I have every right to grill her.
“I'm a lab tech. I had to run some tests before we open up in the morning.” She slowly backs into the room and I follow her. Behind me, Justin continues his search down the hall.
“I hope you understand,” I say. “We need to make sure you're secure until we catch this guy.”
“Is everything going to be alright?” she asks earnestly, backing against the counter.
“Hopefully it's just routine. We saw signs of breaking and entering at the back door. Miss, do you have a phone on you?”
“Yes.” She reaches toward her pocket.
“Let me see it, please.” She slowly hands it to me. It's not locked, thankfully. No calls made since the previous evening.
“Are you going to give that back?” she says, sliding along the counter away from me, eyes darting around the room. They land on a wall phone next to the door.
“As soon as the building's clear,” I say. I feel like I am using a fake voice, trying to sound authoritative and reassuring at the same time.
“You're not with the GAF,” she says. “Who are you?”
I look straight at her, my mind racing like a hamster wheel, looking for the right way to play this. Eventually I say, “Look, we're the good guys. We're not going to hurt you. We're not going to hurt anyone. We're non-violent.”
“That's a big gun for nonviolence.”
I shrug. “Self-protection only. We're just here to get some medicine and then we'll disappear in the night. No harm, no foul.”
“Why don't you wait until we're open in the morning and walk in the front door. You can have any medicine you want without a prescription. It wouldn't even cost you a dime.”
“Medical care is free now?”
“Where have you been?”
“Are you serious?” I say. “You've got socialized medicine now?”
She tilts her head quizzically and squints her eyes. “We don't call it that. Where are you from? Why are you really here?”
On her lab coat, her name, Rhonda, is embroidered. “Listen, Rhonda...”
“My name's Janice.” She seems confused, and then looks down at her coat. She says, “I was cold. Rhonda left her coat here.”
“Okay, Janice, we just need to get the medicine we're looking for. An
d the quicker we can do that, the less likely that anyone's going to get hurt. I just need to do my job here without worrying about you screaming for help.”
“I'm not going to scream. Can you give me my phone back?”
“When we're done,” I say. I step back and wind up and use my rifle butt to smash the phone on the wall. It takes two hits to be convincingly deactivated. Each time I strike it, Janice recoils in pain. “I didn't really want to do that,” I say apologetically. “We just have to get out of here fast, and we can't take the chance of anyone getting hurt.”
“You will not get away with this. Security will be here. They will get you.”
“Please don't wish for that, because if they come in here, we would have to kill them.” My voice turns cold as I add, “We don't like to kill people, but we have and we will.”
I'm guessing that my words don’t sufficiently frighten her. As my eyes start searching around the room for something I can use to tie her up—and tape her mouth shut—she attacks me with her clipboard. She gets one whack against my forehead and I lash out with my gun barrel, striking her to the floor.
Bleeding from her ear, she clutches her hand against her head and stares up at me furiously. “Asshole,” she whispers fiercely.
“You started it. Roll over on your belly,” I order, whincing from the pain in my shoulder. She rolls over slowly. I find some sort of medical device with a power cord in the cabinet, and I use the cord to tie her hands tightly together behind her back.
“They will find you and they will kill you,” she promises.
“I'm sure you're a decent person, so I'm just going to tell you one more time: we're the good guys.”
“Yeah, like hell,” she mutters before I lift her head up and starting wrapping medical tape around it, effectively covering her mouth. I dig through the cabinets and find another cord, which I use to tie her legs together.
Finally, I stand and prepare to join Justin. Already she is squirming and trying to escape. I cast my eyes about and finally look at the examination table. Jackpot. It's light enough that I can move it, heavy enough that it will immobilize her. I flip it over and rest it on her back, with the cushion against her. She's clearly not happy about it, but she can still breathe. I shut the door behind me and look for Justin.
