by Lundy, W. J.
“I’ll bring us right down the center, nice and slow. We’ll keep the motor just above a hum. They won’t bother us, okay? No shooting—and you keep old Rufous from barking, you got it?”
The boy didn’t look back, but Clay watched his head bob in response.
“Okay then, here we go.”
The old man nosed the bass boat around and headed for the channel, watching as they passed the large marina on the starboard side. As they drew closer, Clay could see it wasn’t as quiet as he’d originally thought. The glass widows of the marina clubhouse were broken. A large cabin cruiser drifted at the end of a mooring line, the sides of the bright-white hull streaked with blood. Clay gripped the wheel with white knuckles, keeping his distance. He steered his way into the channel, which was hardly fifty yards wide. Boats lined the edges. Some raised out of the water, while others were covered for the season. Street lamps lit a boardwalk that, at first, appeared empty, but as they glided past, Clay could see the outlines of figures waiting just inside the shadows, looking for an opportunity to attack them.
There was a thump against the boat, and Clay flinched back. They’d bumped against a body floating facedown in the water. Soon they hit another, and he turned on the navigation lights. To his horror, Clay saw that the channel was filled with floating corpses.
Andrew turned to him, his face ice white. “Turn back.”
“Hold it together, boy. We’re almost there,” Clay said, his voice cracking with his own fear.
Andrew tucked his head, pressing it against the dog’s back. From his seat at the controls, Clay could see the two of them trembling. As the boat impacted with the floating dead, the bodies pushed out of the way, forming a V-shaped wake behind them. Clay tried to focus straight ahead and not let the bobbing dead distract him. He could hear shuffling feet on the boardwalks to his left and right. He knew they were there, but he didn’t want to do anything to antagonize them.
The swells in the water grew higher as they navigated a corner and the channel widened toward Lake Michigan. He could see the navigation beacons off the lighthouse at the end of the breakwater. The channel continued to widen as the water grew choppy. The light aluminum boat rocked with the swells, and Clay increased the throttle. Soon they were past the breakwaters, moving into open water, the sounds of the crazies far behind them.
He moved a half mile out into the lake before killing the engine again. The boat rose and fell on the swells of the bigger lake. The sky was clear, away from the burning homes of Bass Lake, and he could once again see the stars. Clay reached down into the cooler and found a can. He looked to the bow and saw that the kid still had his head buried in the dog’s side.
“It’s okay, son. We’re clear,” he said, opening the can.
He spun his seat so that it faced back toward Bass Lake Channel. The only things visible were the flashing navigation lights and the orange glow of the burning fires. As his head panned south along the coastline, he could see that his community was not in a unique situation. Cities all down the horizon were burning.
He dropped a panel under the wheel and flicked on an AM/FM radio. Flipping through stations, he picked up static on every channel except for one, which broadcast a Seek shelter warning on a loop. The message was so generic that he couldn’t tell if the warning was for a tornado or a nuclear missile launch.
“What are we going to do?” Andrew whispered.
Clay turned and saw the boy had moved up beside him.
“Nothing tonight,” Clay said. He set his beer on the console and fished a jug filled with cement from beside his seat. He let it drop into the water and counted knots as it sank below the surface then impacted the bottom below. “Get some sleep. We’ll travel south along the shoreline in the morning. Someone’s bound to see us.”
31
Lake Michigan
March 28th
Water slapping against the side of the boat woke him. Clay lifted his head and looked up into the bright sun, and then looked at his watch. It was nearly eight o’clock in the morning. In the bow of the boat, the boy was still asleep, curled up next to Rufous.
Clay stretched and forced himself into a seated position. When he looked toward the shore, it looked like it was gone. He checked the anchor line, fearing it’d broken, but instead found the rope hanging straight, disappearing into the water. They must have drifted away from the sandbar during the night and dragged the anchor into deeper water. That was fine by Clay; the further from those crazies the better.
Andrew grunted from the front of the boat, and his eyes scanned the horizon. He panicked when he wasn’t able to find the shore. “Oh no, we’re lost,” he gasped then fixed his eyes on Clay.
Clay shook his head and pulled a bottle of water from his pack. He took a long drink before tossing the rest of the bottle to Andrew. “We ain’t lost. We’ve just drifted away from the shore. We go west, and we’ll run right back into it.”
“What if we don’t have enough gas to get back?”
“The lake ain’t but a hundred miles wide. We got fuel to do that, so stop worrying about it,” Clay said, spinning in his seat while using his binoculars to look out in a 360-degree circle.
“Yeah sure—if we don’t starve first.”
Clay sighed and stowed the binos. “Boy, we got fishing gear and we’re surrounded by fresh water. Nobody’s going to starve. You’re making me second-guess bringing you with me.”
Andrew nodded his head and drank down the rest of the bottle. He went to toss it over the side, when Clay stopped him. “Save the bottles; we might need to refill them.”
The old man pulled open the pack once again and grabbed a Ziploc bag filled with jerky. He took a piece and handed the rest to Andrew. “Give Rufous a bit too.” The boy nodded, accepting the bag.
Clay went back to the console and turned on the radio. He hit the scan button and watched the numbers scroll until it locked on a signal that squelched alarm tones. After a series of beeps, they heard a recorded message. “We interrupt our programming at the request of the White House. This is the Emergency Alert System. All normal programming has been discontinued during this emergency.”
“Wait—what is that?” Andrew said with his mouth full of jerky.
Clay held up a fist, silencing the boy as the radio message continued. “During this emergency, most stations will remain on the air, providing news and information to the public in designated areas. This is QZ109FM of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. We will continue to serve the Milwaukee area. If you are not in this local area, you should tune to stations providing news and information for your local area. You are listening to the Emergency Alert System serving the Milwaukee area.”
“Milwaukee!” Andrew gasped.
“Hush, boy. It’s just on the other side of the lake, now listen.”
“Do not use your telephone. The telephone lines should be kept open for emergency use only.”
“No problem there. Your old ass ain’t even got a cell phone,” Andrew said under his breath, causing Clay to shoot him another stern look.
“All individuals are urged to remain in place. Emergency crews are working urgently to respond to all calls. Please do not request assistance unless it is a dire emergency. Once again, remain in place, do not attempt to render assistance, do not open your doors to anyone not recognized as rescue personnel. Do not leave your home. Emergency Action Personnel, please stay tuned for an important message.”
“Hey, they said don’t leave your home!” Andrew exclaimed.
“They also said don’t let in strays,” Clay rebuffed.
“With the loss of the DC Metro Area, government operations have been moved to St. Louis, Missouri. All rescue operations and coordinated efforts will now be sourced from Region TWO ALPHA. For all designated Emergency Action Personnel, repeat: All rescue operations and coordinated efforts will now be sourced from Region TWO ALPHA. Emergency Action Personnel, please respond as appropriate, according to your group leaders. Unassigned or undesignated individ
uals, please report to Region TWO ALPHA for mission orders.”
“Two Alpha? What does that mean?” Andrew asked.
Clay scratched his head as the radio signal turned to static again. “I imagine it’s some sort of government speak for a rallying point. Maybe one of them rescue camps where they deliver food and water.”
“You think we should go there?” Andrew asked. “To St. Louis, I mean?”
Clay turned off the radio and shut the console. He looked off into the distance, seeing the darkening clouds. The waters were calm for the moment, but a storm and rough seas would make things bad for them, cruising in a bass boat designed for inland lakes. He exhaled and looked down at his boots, contemplating their situation. A breeze was blowing in at them, bringing on a chill.
“It’s a long way to St. Louis, boy. And it’s not like we have a truck waiting for us on shore,” Clay said, pulling his pack closer and opening the mouth so he could dig deeper into it.
“Hey, Clay?” Andrew said, his voice low. “Clay—”
He ignored the boy and was pulling a jacket from the bag, straightening it out on his lap when he heard the dog growl. He lifted his head and saw Andrew looking bug-eyed over his shoulder. Clay spun to see a large cabin cruiser bearing down on them.
“What in the hell!” Clay shouted, fumbling with the keys to get the smaller boat started. He turned the ignition, and the boat cranked to life. He shoved the throttle forward and blasted the small boat’s horn at the same time. He had the throttle maxed, but the Evinrude seemed to tread water, like it was churning, not wanting to propel the boat out of the way.
The old man put the jacket over his face, clenching his fist as he braced for the impact. Instead, he felt the jolt of the wake as the big boat passed dangerously close, spraying them with water. Clay’s thumb was still on the horn button when he pulled the jacket away from his face and looked toward the cabin cruiser, which was now slowing. On the dive deck, he spotted a skinny young man with a bearded face pointing at him. Soon after, the larger boat cut back. Clay realized he was still maxed on the throttle of the bass boat. He squeezed the lock button and pulled it all the way back.
“Grab that scatter gun, boy. I’m not sure who these folks are,” Clay shouted as he readied his own carbine. For a second, he considered getting back on the throttle and making a run for it. He quickly changed his mind; this wasn’t the open ocean, and a cabin cruiser wasn’t a pirate ship. Things couldn’t have gone to hell this quickly.
He lost sight of the man as the big boat made a 180-degree turn, coming back at them, this time much more slowly. Clay shielded his eyes off the reflection of a glassed-in main cabin. The boat edged closer, and then stopped hard. The pilot reversed the big props to match the speed of the drifting bass boat. As the boat slowly passed, Clay spotted the bearded man again on the dive deck. The man caught a glimpse of their weapons and flinched back.
Clay did a quick assessment and could see that the man was unarmed. “Ease that barrel down, Andy. Let’s see what the folks have to say,” he shouted loud enough for the people on the other vessel to hear.
“You all okay over there? We’re very sorry for nearly killing you,” the bearded man called out.
Nodding his head, Clay relaxed the grip on his own rifle and waved a hand. “We’re fine. I guess this old fishing boat does cut a low profile. I’ll write it up as an accident,” he shouted. “But tell me, where are you all off to so fast.”
The man gave Clay a sour expression. Another man who could have been his brother closed in behind him. The man had a nearly identically groomed beard. Both were young with their dark hair feathered back, and they wore thick-rimmed glasses. The only way Clay could tell them apart was their clothing. The late arrival wore a tight, button-down shirt, while the other one had on a tight V-neck. The two men exchanged glances before the buttoned-down beard stepped onto the dive deck and waved. “We’re running, everyone is running,” he shouted, his voice high-pitched and broken.
Clay played dumb for a moment. “Running from what?” he said. As the words came out, he saw the looks on the beards’ faces. Clay realized how stupid it must sound to anyone hearing the radio broadcast, or anyone who’d seen the crazies face-to-face.
Andrew spun and looked at him. “Seriously, Clay?”
He waved off the boy with his left hand and considered the other two men. Clay shook his head and knew it wasn’t a good time to play poker. “Yeah, I know what you’re running from. We’re running from it too. I’m Clay; this is my friend Andrew.”
The buttoned shirt exhaled a sign of relief. “Oh thank goodness. When you said that, I thought we might have been going mad.”
“You two brothers?” Clay asked.
“Oh, gosh no,” V-neck said, laughing. “I’m Miguel and this is my fiancé, Nikolai.”
“Fiancé?” Clay repeated. “Well, all right then. It’s good to meet you. Now, you all said you was running, anywhere in particular you all is running to?”
Miguel grimaced and looked to Nikolai. The second man nodded and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, we can’t say where we’re headed, but you should come with us.”
“Really. Why’s that?” Clay asked with a smirk.
Miguel frowned and pointed a hand to the dark storm clouds on the horizon. “There’s a major cell moving this way, and you won’t want to be out here in that.” Miguel’s arm shifted toward where the Michigan shoreline would be. “And you really don’t want to go back over there.”
Andrew looked at Clay and whispered, “He’s right, Clay. We should go with them.”
Rubbing his head, he looked over the boat, knowing the boy was right. “All right, give us a minute to gather our gear and we’ll be right over.”
32
Lake Michigan
March 28th
“I’m sorry there isn’t more,” Miguel said, handing Clay a cup of coffee. “This wasn’t a planned voyage, and we didn’t have time to go to the market.”
They sat in a small cabin aboard the large craft. Rufous, exhausted from the excitement, was passed out on the deck. From what Clay knew of boats, he thought this might be more of a yacht than any weekender’s toy. The boat was at least sixty feet long and boasted three decks that he knew of. They were currently somewhere on the second deck, in a type of galley. Clay and Andrew sat at a corner sofa, with a small table bolted to the floor in front of them.
Clay nodded his understanding, taking the cup and sliding his pack away with his feet. They still had their weapons; his 1911 was on his hip, while the pair of long guns sat on the floor near a footlocker. “I understand. I don’t even know if my home is still back there. What’s in these two bags is about all I’ve got to my name right now. And the kid there, he’s lost even more, so I won’t go complaining about hot coffee.”
Miguel smiled and looked at Andrew, who held the cup of coffee, but hadn’t drunk any of it. “Are you okay, hun?” he asked.
Shrugging, Andrew leaned forward and set the white porcelain cup on a small end table. “I just don’t like coffee, is all.”
Shaking his head, Clay reached for the cup and poured its contents into his own. “Beggars can’t be choosers, boy—guess that’s something you’ll learn the hard way. There’s still water in the bag if that suits you better.”
“Nonsense,” Miguel scoffed, rounding the table and taking back the now empty cup. “I bet a hot chocolate is what you’d like,” he said, smiling at Andrew. “Don’t tell Nikolai, but I know where he keeps his secret stash. You just sit right there, and I’ll get you a hot cup.” Miguel turned to return to the small galley.
Clay leaned close to Andrew and whispered, “I think that fella is sweet on you.”
“No. He’s just not an asshole like you,” Andrew fired back.
The old man snorted, not expecting a comeback. He tried to hold back a laugh but instead spilt hot coffee onto his shirt. “Well, I’ll give you that one, son. Can’t fault a man for standing up for himself.”
“Auto pilot and GPS are set. We’re moving very slowly; she’ll drive herself and not stray from course,” the man answered. He turned on his feet and saw Miguel in the galley over a hot kettle. “I’ll take a tea if you’re serving, dear,” he called out before moving across the space to a bench seat on the opposite bulkhead.
“So, tell me, Mr. Clay, where was it you were headed?” Nikolai asked.
For the first time, Clay picked up on the man’s accent, but he couldn’t place it. It sounded almost European, but not any like he’d heard before. “Where is it you’re from?” Clay asked, ignoring the man’s question.
“We’re from Oak Creek, just south of the big city on the other side of the lake,” Nikolai answered.
“Huh,” Clay said, tightening his brow.
Miguel moved back into the room, holding two cups. He handed one to Andrew and the other to Nikolai. He’d overheard the previous question and turned toward Clay with a smile. “It’s his accent, right?” He laughed. “We’re both born and raised in Milwaukee, but Nikolai has Polish parents. He doesn’t speak a word of Polish, but he picked up an inflection from them.”
“Nonsense,” Nikolai protested with just the hint of a Polish accent ringing through.
Miguel pointed at Clay, laughing. “See, there it is.”
Waving a hand, Nikolai shook his head and sipped at his tea. When he lowered the cup, he looked Clay in the eye. “Seriously now, Mr. Clay, where were you headed?”
Not wanting to tell the strangers too much, he looked to Andrew for support but could see that the boy was completely uninterested in the conversation and was fixated on the hot chocolate. Clay took another sip of his coffee and placed the cup on the table. “Can’t say for sure. Guess I figured we’d bob around for a bit, then bring the boat in closer. Look for a quiet spot where we could hide out, or maybe run into the Coast Guard. Maybe go in near one of the state parks where there aren’t many people.”
