Rosa spoke of the dead, sometimes thousands of them in the street, crashing into the terminal in relentless waves, soldiers firing out every door and window to the point that she thought the gunfire would never end. Yet other times they were scattered or gone altogether, leaving the barricaded survivors with no answer as to their whereabouts. She described the eerie sight of their silhouettes moving within the fog, lonely moans echoing through empty streets.
Her cheeks were wet by now, and Xavier rested a big hand gently on her shoulder. She didn’t pull away. “Little by little there were fewer people at the terminal,” she said. “There were casualties during the attacks, of course. And when the streets were clear, cops and soldiers would go out to gather supplies or look for survivors. Most never came back. The doctors began slipping away in the night too, taking food and weapons and sneaking out.” She wiped at her eyes. “Except for that older doc, the one who first called me over to help, the same guy who pulled his weapon on the other soldiers. He was a colonel. He didn’t sneak away. He found a janitor’s closet and put that pistol in his mouth to make sure he didn’t come back.”
Her voice shuddered at the edge of more tears, but she fought them back. “After a while there were only a few of us left.” She nodded at the pregnant couple and Darius. “There were a few patients too. When they turned, I took care of them.”
Rosa didn’t speak for a while, and there was only the growl of the motor and the whispery thump of water on fiberglass. Xavier didn’t speak, only stared out at the bay and felt ashamed for the times he had pitied himself these past weeks, as if he were the only one who had lived through the nightmare.
The young woman suddenly brightened. “One of my patients was a cop, a horseback officer, or whatever they’re called. He and his unit had been doing mounted crowd control, and they got hit by a wave of the dead. It ended up being hand-to-hand combat, and he got some of their blood in his eyes. He had the fever, all the symptoms, but by then the doctors weren’t letting anyone kill them until they turned.”
“If he was down with the fever,” Xavier asked, “how do you know what happened to him?”
She smiled. “Because he made it! He pulled through. That’s when the doctors started talking about something they started calling the slow burn, when we discovered that sometimes a person who had been exposed but not bitten could survive. Most of the time they didn’t, but it could happen.”
Xavier thought about that. Was it cause for hope? Or a setup for even greater disappointment and grief?
Rosa laughed. “Do you know that when he came out of it, the first thing he asked about was his horse?” She laughed again, but it turned into a choking sob.
Xavier kept his arm firmly around her. “What happened to the officer?”
There was a pause, and when she spoke her voice was flat. “As soon as he could walk, he left. Said he had to find his wife and kids. He made it fifty feet into the street before they took him down.” She pulled away then, though not abruptly. “They tore him to pieces, and all I could do was watch.”
The harbor craft hit some steeper waves, rising and falling more sharply. Alameda grew in the windshield before them. Above, the sky was a brawling mass of black and charcoal clouds, and the rain began to fall faster and with more strength. The new intensity of the downpour was more than Darius and the pregnant couple could tolerate, and now that the newcomer on the boat appeared to pose no threat, they hunched against the slashing rain and moved between Xavier and Rosa, going down into a small cabin in the bow.
“How did you come by this?” Xavier asked, rapping his knuckles against the fiberglass.
“We’ve only had it since this morning,” she said. “It was adrift and just floated into one of the ferry berths. There was no one on board, just a lot of blood and a half-full fuel tank.” She shrugged. “I guess all that basic seamanship training is finally paying off.”
The priest gave her a small smile. “Lucky for me. Thanks again.” After losing Alden—the schoolteacher with a heart condition and Xavier’s last friend in the world, it seemed—Xavier had quickly become cornered by the dead at a San Francisco marina. Corpses had swarmed toward him down a narrow dock, trapping him at the end, and it looked like he would go down swinging a tire iron. Then Rosa had appeared with her boat, saving his life. Of course once he was out of the water and on the deck, Darius had tried to take his life, but the shotgun was empty, and Xavier had been spared a second time.
“Finding you was an accident,” Rosa said with a shrug. “We were looking for a fuel pump, and then we were going to try for San Jose. There was talk of a refugee center down there.” She pointed forward. “An actual helicopter sighting trumps a rumor, though, don’t you think?”
“No argument.”
“Are you really a priest?” She wanted to say that his size and frightening scar made him look more like a gang enforcer, but she didn’t want to be rude. She held back a smile. Even at the end of the world, being polite was still important.
“Yes. . . . I guess.” When she raised an eyebrow at that, he pushed on. “Are you really a paramedic and Navy Reservist about to enter med school and paying the bills with exotic dancing?”
She laughed. “When you put it all together I guess it’s a lot. You sound like Jimmy. He’s—was my partner on the rig.” Rosa looked sideways at him. “Are you going to lecture me about how my dancing is a sin and all that, Father?”
“Let’s stick to Xavier, okay? I’m not the person to judge another on what she does to survive. I’m more interested in your medical training.” He told her he had been a Marine in Somalia and said the grunts had nothing but respect for the corpsmen that went into combat with them. He did not tell her that while over there, he had shot down two boys not even old enough to be out of elementary school. They had AK-47s and meant to kill Xavier and his squad so it was considered a justified shooting by many, but that was small comfort for a young Marine overcome with guilt. His inability to reconcile himself with the killing had ended his military career.
Rosa told him her unit had spent a year in Iraq, and that although female medics weren’t allowed out on the patrols, an aid station she was operating in a supposedly “secure” town was suddenly hit by insurgents, and she found herself firing back right alongside the men.
“Did the Navy give you your Combat Action Ribbon?”
She nodded.
“Well, then Semper Fi.” That made her smile, and the priest smiled back. “So why don’t you try to call me Xavier?”
“That’s going to be tough,” she said. “I’m Catholic.”
Xavier nodded at that. “Do your best. I’ll call you Doc, if that’s all right?”
“Sure,” Rosa said. She pointed at the landmass ahead of them in the fading light, a darker strip against a turbulent sky. “The helo set down on the west end of the island, where the naval air station used to be. Somewhere up ahead are the piers where the ships came in, where the Hornet is now. I figure we can dock there, and go on foot to the airfield.”
Xavier nodded. “And the dead?”
“If it doesn’t look safe at the docks we can cruise the water’s edge,” Rosa said, “maybe tie up at some rocks and force our way through the perimeter fence.”
“That sounds good. And if the dead get too numerous . . . ?”
“Then we haul ass back to the boat,” she finished.
“Okay, Doc, what do you need from me?”
“Tell Darius to give you that shotgun and the extra shells. No offense, but it’s better off in the hands of a former Marine than with a sociology professor who can’t manage to kill a man lying on the deck in front of him,” Rosa said, recalling the moment Xavier had climbed out of the cold waters of the bay. He had been shaking and Darius was convinced it meant that the man was infected. He aimed and pulled the trigger on his shotgun, but hadn’t realized he had fired his last shell. Xavier took t
he weapon away from him, and Rosa thought the man showed tremendous restraint by not giving the professor a beating or simply throwing him over the side. She winked, revealing that there was still some humor and life left in her. “After your little moment together on deck,” she said, “I don’t think he’ll give you a problem about it.”
Darius didn’t. He handed over the weapon, half a box of shells, and another round of apologies. Xavier gave him a smile and told him to relax, which seemed to make the man feel better. When the priest returned to the deck, Rosa pointed to ten o’clock.
“We’re not going to be alone,” she said.
Ahead were the Alameda naval piers, marking the entrance to a sheltered bay Rosa had described. The silhouettes of retired cruisers and destroyers were overshadowed by the much larger shape of the USS Hornet, a World War II aircraft carrier permanently moored at the piers and transformed into a museum.
Approaching the small bay from the left, staying close to the shoreline, was a barge coughing out a cloud of black diesel. At their present speeds, both vessels would reach the mouth of the little bay at the same time. The barge’s flat deck was packed with people crowded around a blue truck. All of them were looking at the patrol boat, their weapons raised.
THREE
Evan Tucker piloted the crowded maintenance barge along the southern edge of the old naval air station, scanning the rocky shoreline for a suitable landing spot. Twenty-five and good-looking, he had blue eyes and black hair down to his collar. Dressed in faded jeans, a denim jacket, and work boots, he looked the part of the wandering writer, traveling America’s roads as he dreamed of crafting the Great American Novel. In the weeks since the outbreak he had gone from vagabond loner to leader.
Out on deck, Calvin and his Family hunched against the rain, many seeking shelter behind the mass of the armored Bearcat riot vehicle. Calvin, a fiftyish hippie with an Australian bush hat and heavily armed, had thus far managed to keep the Family alive. The Family was his collection of free-spirited relatives and friends living a gypsy lifestyle. Their lack of dependency on modern conveniences had made them all the more resilient in what had become of the world.
Maya pressed close against Evan, resting her head on his shoulder. Her silent reassurance was calming, and he needed that now. She was a few years younger than him, with long dark hair and sapphire eyes. Maya had been deaf and mute since birth, but she and the young writer had no trouble communicating their feelings for one another. Her father, Calvin, approved.
The barge was rocking hard, taking the rhythmic surges of the bay full along its right side. They were exposed to more powerful waters out here, a forceful wind hammering them with rain and sudden, unexpected gusts, and yet again Evan was reminded that the long, flat vessel had never been intended for more than puttering about a placid harbor. He was forced to slow down for fear that a wave would tip them over, just as his imagination had pictured, and that action prolonged their exposure and increased the odds of catastrophe.
Though it had occurred less than an hour ago, their narrow escape from the relentless horde of the walking dead on the Oakland pier felt to Evan as if it had happened in another lifetime. For him now there was only the struggle to keep the barge level and on course, and to keep watch out the wheelhouse windows, praying for something more than rock and fence and windblown weeds.
After another hour of achingly slow chugging, during which time Evan’s arm, shoulder, and neck muscles had begun to cramp from his fight with the wheel, shapes in the distance began to materialize out of the rain. As the barge drew nearer, the shapes resolved into a pair of huge concrete piers with vintage gray warships and an old carrier tied to them. Evan let out a laugh, and Maya hugged him from behind. To the left of the piers was a large, rectangular lagoon notched into the Navy base, framed by a cement wall. A buoy floated near the entrance with a rusty yellow sign on it reading SEAPLANES above an arrow pointing into the lagoon. Evan slowed further as voices out on deck started shouting. With the armored van parked beside the wheelhouse he couldn’t see the cause of the commotion, but a moment later Calvin’s brother Dane, wearing a blond ponytail to the center of his back and armed with a lever-action rifle, appeared at the window.
“There’s a boat coming in from the right. It looks like a police boat.”
“You guys will have to handle it if things go bad,” Evan said. “I’m heading for that lagoon.”
“Got it.” Dane disappeared.
The rocking lessened as Evan passed the buoy and angled into the lagoon, aiming for a long, newer-looking dock—empty of boats—leading back toward shore and a cluster of white buildings around a small boatyard. The only vessel in sight was a weathered charter-fishing boat perched on metal stands in an extreme state of disassembly. What appeared to be its motor sat on a plywood worktable nearby, taken completely apart.
Dane returned to the window. “It’s definitely a police boat, but I don’t think they’re cops. There’s only a few people on deck, and they started waving when we got close to each other. They’re following us in.”
“Keep an eye on them,” Evan said, still not quite comfortable with giving orders. “And get some guns up front. I’m going to bring us in slow, and I want a warning if anyone sees drifters. I’m not taking us into another death trap.”
“Calvin’s already on it.” He disappeared again.
Evan scanned the approach. The old warships were far to the right now, and ahead, an access road appeared to run beside the concrete lip at the water’s edge. Derelict buildings with peeling paint lined the other side of the road, each identical to the next. He saw nothing moving on shore, and no one called out. It was small comfort, and he thought of the elderly zombie he had seen rattling the fence. The old drifter wouldn’t be the only one of his kind here.
He throttled back and guided the barge along the side of the dock, hitting it harder than he intended, the impact throwing several people off their feet but thankfully none into the water. The barge made a long scraping sound as it slowed, causing the dock to shudder and splinter in places, and Evan cursed, certain he was going to tear the entire length of boards and pilings apart. He wished for brakes and killed the engine. The left bow struck a sturdy piling and stopped the barge with a wrenching blow, resulting in alarmed cries. In seconds a handful of hippies were tying off, others with rifles leaping onto the dock and going ahead while parents helped their children off the barge.
“We’ll take care of your hog,” Dane shouted back to the wheelhouse, and immediately a group of men muscled the Harley Road King onto the dock, another carefully walking it ahead toward land. Evan and Maya walked out onto the deck, preparing to join the others.
Carney, one of the two escaped San Quentin inmates on the barge, caught up to Evan and stopped him before he could follow. They had spoken only briefly back in Oakland. “I didn’t get your name. You in charge of this group?”
Evan shook his head and pointed at Calvin, who was helping his wife, Faith, with their kids. “I’m Evan, just tagging along.” He introduced Maya.
“Uh-huh.” He pointed to an enormous, muscled Viking of a man covered in prison ink, with long blond hair, his cellmate of many years. “That’s TC. I’m Carney.” He left out their last long-term address. “We’re going to need this,” he said, jerking a thumb back at the Bearcat, its idling engine still knocking.
Evan looked at the truck, then at the narrow dock, feeling foolish. “Right. There’s got to be a boat ramp around here. I’ll beach this thing and you can drive off.” He failed to register that the side of the vehicle said CALIFORNIA D.O.C.
Carney nodded and went back to the truck. TC stood on the deck, smiling at the writer. Evan didn’t care for that smile, though he couldn’t say why. He helped Maya up onto the dock and then started untying the lines that secured the barge.
“I’ll ride with you,” said Calvin, standing near the bow, wrists draped comfortably over
the assault rifle hanging around his neck, rain dripping from the rim of his outback hat. He had noticed what was on the side of the truck and easily made the connection with these two big, tattooed men. “If these fellows decide to go their own way, you won’t be left walking by yourself.” Calvin was looking not at Evan as he spoke, but at TC.
The smile slid off the inmate’s face, and his eyes glittered with something unpleasant.
On the other side of the dock, Rosa and Xavier had pulled in shortly after the barge, the Navy Reservist bringing the patrol boat in smoothly. They tied off as their passengers hurried to join the hippies on shore, ducking against the rain.
“I’m a little worried about leaving the boat unguarded,” Rosa said softly, glancing at the crowd of unexpected company.
“So take the keys,” said the priest. “If all goes well with the helicopter, we won’t be back anyway.” He slung the shotgun and climbed off. Rosa hung a bright orange nylon satchel over her shoulder and followed.
On the barge, Calvin spotted the bold red cross on the side of Rosa’s bag. “Hey, are you a doctor?” When the woman shrugged, he pointed at the armored Bearcat. “There’s a really sick girl in there. Could you take a look at her?”
TC gave Calvin a look that Carney noticed from the cab of the truck. It was a look he was familiar with from their days at the state prison, and it never meant anything good for the person on the receiving end.
“I’ll go with you,” Xavier said, and followed Rosa onto the barge. Carney climbed out of the cab and took them to the rear doors, opening them and gesturing to the young woman bound and gagged on the floor. Calvin joined them. The barge’s diesel fired, and Evan backed slowly from the dock.
Omega Days (Book 2): Ship of the Dead Page 3
