by Tom Calen
He bit back complaint at the vessel’s slow speed, as he knew the wakes caused by faster travel would be more noticeable than the muffled hum of the engines. His eyes strained as he scanned the darkness behind them. At the late hour, much of the island’s lights were off, its citizens long since having made their way to bed. Minutes ticked by as more and more of the island came into view. Mike had not been conscious for much of the journey to the island and he wondered if the fluttering in his stomach was what the others had felt all those months ago.
“Here we go,” Matt announced as his hand eased the throttle bar upwards. The engines grew louder and the plastic sheeting covering the flying bridge snapped to tautness as the wind drove against it. As Mike looked to the lower deck, he could make out the forms of Erik and Andrew keeping watch to the rear. Even with the moonlight, visibility was minimal and he became quite impressed with Matt’s navigation skills, though he refrained from speaking to the man as he piloted the boat. They cut across the water in darkness and silence, save for the roar of the engines, for the next half hour. Throttling down slightly, Matt flipped several switches and lights around the boat burned to life.
“We’re about twenty miles from the island,” he said to Mike over his shoulder. “Probably could have slowed sooner, but some of those taller buildings on the coast can see pretty far out.”
Mike had been splitting his gaze from forward to back, and there had been no sign of pursuit. He realized there must be some irony in finding success in an escape that brought them towards Tils.
“By the time dawn hits, we’ll be at the Keys,” Matt continued.
Stepping to the bridge’s control panel, Mike saw from the mounted clock that dawn was only two hours off. The realization brought a yawn to his lips that stretched his jaw wide. Almost twenty-four hours since I’ve slept. As he told Matt that he was going to the cabin, a second yawn escaped and he covered his mouth with the back of his hand.
Rung by metal rung, he lowered himself down to the deck where Erik and Andrew still kept a vigilant watch.
“Split the watch,” he told them. “And get some rest.” Whether they would follow the direction he did not know. Those boys will take most commands, except when it comes to working less, he thought before reminding himself again. Not boys, men.
Sliding open the glass door to the cabin, Mike smiled as Gazelle jumped off a cushioned bench to greet him. Before Michelle could ask, he informed her of their distance from the island and that it appeared they were not followed. The relief on her face was clear. He spent a few minutes figuring out how to lower the small table so that it joined with the cushioned benches to form a bed. He looked to Michelle for help only to find her fumbling with the other table. He thought he heard her mutter something about not knowing the tables became beds. Eventually, he discovered the secret and eagerly stretched out on the thin cushion mattress. It was far from comfortable, but his exhaustion brought sleep within seconds of reclining.
--
“Land-ho! Rise and shine!”
Stirring from sleep, Mike lifted his torso up with elbows and tried to focus on the blurry image of Erik standing in the cabin’s doorway.
“Land-ho? Really?” Mike asked sarcastically.
“I know, right? Always wanted to say that, ha!” With that, Erik turned back to the deck.
If Mike had not known differently, he would have suspected the young man to be drunk. Swinging his legs over to the floor, he muttered to Gazelle. “Land-ho. Suddenly I’m travelling with Popeye.” As expected, the dog simply sat with tail wagging and head tilting at each of his words. “You’re all too happy!” he told her with little commitment in his voice. Stretching wide, he rose from the bed and shuffled onto the deck.
From the sun’s height it was well past dawn, and by the endless stretch of coast ahead, they were also well past the Florida Keys. Climbing to the bridge, Mike greeted Matt, who still manned the boat’s controls.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Still about ten miles south of Naples,” he replied.
Way past the Keys, Mike realized. Just a short distance from their destination, he could feel the flutters in his stomach return anew. Seeking a distraction, he looked to the boat’s bow where daylight showed the four large drums strapped two to a side. Matt had not wanted to rely on finding fuel in Naples, thus he secured well over two hundred gallons to the bow’s railings.
Matt eased the boat to a slow, but steady speed. Far beyond his area of familiarity, he did not want to risk collision with submerged objects. The closer they came to shore, and as the water grew shallower, Mike could easily see the reason for the man’s caution. Six years of untended ships in untended seas could drastically change the underwater landscape. They passed well over a dozen sunken vessels, some small fishing craft and others massive barges and cruise ships, which waited patiently to damage an unmindful captain’s ship.
With considerable skill, Matt piloted the boat deftly, safely past the obstructions and steered toward one of the many marinas along the shoreline. Mike spoke a few directions to Erik and Andrew who stared intently at the coast. If an ambush awaited them, it would not end well for he and the others. Once again, his eyes glanced over the large drums of fuel. If it comes to a gunfight… well, at least we’ll go quickly.
Entering the first marina, Mike could feel the silent tension building within him and his companions. He held his twin guns ready in the bridge; Matt had furled the plastic wind shields to allow for clearer vision. Erik and Andrew stood rigidly below, each armed with one of Tumelo’s shotguns. Steadily, Matt throttled down until only a low hum remained. The boat crept forward inch by inch as it passed three ruined docks before reaching a fourth where they could disembark.
Hesitant to break from their guard, Erik and Andrew eventually set about securing the craft to the metal cleats on the dock. Once the lines were secure, Matt helped Mike and the others unload their few supplies from the boat. With humans, dog, and supplies deposited on the wooden planks, Erik and Andrew helped Matt lift one of the drums as he worked to replenish the depleted fuel of the boat’s tank. Once the second drum was emptied, and left on the dock with its twin, brief thanks and farewells were exchanged, almost a repeat of the scene with Tumelo hours earlier.
Like a scene from a movie of a different era, Mike found himself joining the others as they waved from the dock, watching Matt as he moved the boat out of the marina. When he realized what he was doing, he lowered his hand and silently scolded himself. Might as well be shouting Bon Voyage while we wave to the man’s back! He was about to direct the others to follow him up the dock, his ears picked out a distinct popping sound. Reflex more than thought had both hands gripping a gun as his eyes searched through the jumble of ships in the marina.
Pop.
This time, with the boat’s engine further away, Erik and Andrew both heard the second shot. Andrew brought the shotgun up with one hand while his left pulled Michelle to the dock.
“It’s not aimed at us,” Mike thought aloud. Their collective sets of eyes turned in unison to Matt and his boat as it still slid slowly through the marina. Mike knew shouting would have no effect if the man had not already heard the gun shots. Still unsure of the exact location of the shooter, he refused to wait for a third shot which could very well be the shot to take down Matt or the boat. Firing his guns in what he hoped was the correct direction, Mike he along the dock hoping to gain higher ground. Shotgun blasts trailed behind him as Erik and Andrew followed his lead.
Wherever the shooter hid, it was clear his aim was now directed at Mike and the others. More than once, the air by his ear snapped loudly as a bullet flew past. Nearing the ramp leading up from the dock, he huddled himself into a roll so that he was safely hidden behind a large boat. He signaled for Erik and Andrew to lower themselves as well. Doubting he could make the exposed run up the ramp, Mike hurled himself unceremoniously over the boat’s stern; it was similar to the Carver they had arrived on, and he climbed a shor
t ladder into the craft’s bridge. Ducking low behind the panel of instruments, Mike hoped that he would be able to spot the gunman with the few extra feet of height the boat afforded.
Waiting for the next shot, he kept his gaze loose, passing quickly from left to right. Matt’s boat still coasted through the marina, the bow looming larger than before.
Bow? Mike’s mind shouted, and he whiplashed his neck back to the boat. He’s coming back! Why is he coming back?! Leaping the short distance from bridge to deck, Mike then hurdled the stern, barely landing on the dock, before he engaged in an all-out sprint back down the dock.
His feet pounded along the wooden dock, each thump loudly echoing his thundering heart. Several yards from the dock’s end, he could see Matt as he piloted the boat towards him. Shouting wildly, Mike repeatedly threw his arms to the right signaling Matt to jump off the boat. Finally close enough to see the other man’s expression, he gestured again and yelled, “Get off the boat!”
Recognition dawned in Matt’s features. He stepped atop the bridge’s instrument panel and dove, arms outstretched before him, into the water. His feet barely made it beneath the surface before an angry explosion erupted, forcing Mike and Michelle off their feet. The dock rose up quickly to his back and he felt the air forced from his lungs. Forcing his mind to clarity, he looked towards the dock’s edge and saw Matt swimming the last few strokes before climbing on the rocking wooden structure.
Sucking air back into his lungs, he was surprised to find his guns still gripped tightly in each hand. Michelle rose from the dock and was quickly enveloped in Andrew’s concerned embrace. Erik ran past him and extended a hand to Matt as he struggled onto the dock. Slowly rising from his prone position, Mike thought to himself, Welcome home.
Chapter Eighteen
The fact she was being followed did not bother Lisa. She had noticed the signs several days after the incident at the house. What did rattle her, however, was the inability to lose her stalkers. She had alternated between day and night travel, had tacked several miles off-course in wandering directions, even allowed a small river to carry her southeast for a time before returning to land. Yet, every attempt to disappear had been met with further evidence that whoever, or whatever, tracked her was continuing to do so with dogged perseverance.
The days and nights had become such a jumble that Lisa was unclear exactly how much time had passed since fighting her way past the Tils that had swarmed the farmhouse. Five days? Six? More? her mind kept asking. However long it had been, her thoughts had been consumed by her attention to what followed her. Several times she sought out higher ground, whether atop a barn or in a small tree, but even with long moments of studying she was unable to see movement behind her. No longer stopping for her meals, Lisa had grown used to walking and eating. The only stops she allowed herself were for rest. Though, even that was more by force than choice. Knowing that something lurked in the distance, sleep only came to her in short fitful increments. The effects from a pattern of an hour sleep here, perhaps a few more there, were beginning to show. Not only did her muscles never feel fully rested, but her mind seemed to ache as well. Mental operations were slower, thoughts became more scattered. And, always now, there was the nervous tension that ran icy fingers down her back at each unexpected noise.
Just keep moving, she often reminded herself. Each step gets you closer. Probably only a few more days to go. Though, in truth, her silent cheerleading fell far short of its goal. With the efforts to shake off her trackers, Lisa had lost sense of how many extra miles, and therefore days, she had added to the journey. Her plan had been to follow the interstate until reaching Houston, and then break northeast for the base. Have I passed Houston yet? No, I would have seen it even if I was off course. She knew a vehicle would speed the task, but a day earlier, or perhaps two, she had stopped to examine some of the abandoned cars and trucks along the parkway. Every engine she went over seemed a puzzle with a million pieces. Each time she tried working on one, her mind was too focused on watching the road. Hours passed before she accepted defeat and continued on. Was that three days ago? she thought.
Travelling at night was exceedingly worse than in the light of day. Granted, she enjoyed the relief from the hot Texan sun baking down on her, but in the night paranoia grew exponentially. The blackness seemed to close in around her. She wondered at the feelings of claustrophobia she experienced in the endlessly stretching fields and woods around her. The night was like a hand clenching her chest, forcing her heart to pound harder and her lungs to fight for each breath. Rarely did she risk using the flashlight to better see the paths before her. But worse than walking in the night, it was the required periods of rest she needed.
Unwilling to trap herself inside another building, Lisa had taken to sleeping outdoors. With her back pressed against a tree, her gun held tightly in her right hand and the ARC in her left, she stared out into the darkness until her eyelids grew heavy. They sprang back open, however, whenever a branch creaked or the wind rustled through leaves.
The ground she now rested upon was thankfully dry, unlike the downpour in which she had first set out. The tree pressed painfully into her back, but she was too tired to do anything but ignore it. In the stillness of the night, when birds and other creatures sought their own slumber, Lisa cringed with each breath she took. They might hear you breathing, a voice warned. Lately even her own thoughts startled her, as if the voice in her mind was no longer her own.
--
Scrambling on hands and knees, Lisa dug deep into the hillside as she hauled herself up. She did not need to look behind her, she could hear them, their hungry growls burned her ears. Panic gripped her as she realized they were gaining on her. Climb! a voice demanded. With renewed energy, she passed hand over hand, pulling herself along the hill. Glancing up, her heart sunk as she saw the endless height rising before her. Clouds hid the hill’s peak. Climb! the voice called out again.
“I can’t!” she screamed. As she called out, her grip loosened and she could feel the air whip past her as she fell. With horror, she saw the ground rising quickly towards her. She could see their faces now. The mouths stretched wide, teeth gnashing, waiting to dig into her flesh. She knew the Tils were eager to feast. She screamed wordlessly when she truly saw the faces of the infected. Duncan. Marena. Mike. Michelle. Paul.
“NOOOO!” she screamed again.
--
Gasping, Lisa opened her eyes and quickly leveled the weapon into the sweeping darkness. Recognition of the dream-state flashed, and she slowly lowered the gun. The dreams were another reason she was wary of sleep. She could not recall the last rest that had not ended with springing awake, haunting images swirling into vapor as she wrestled herself to clarity. She believed them to be getting worse, though in truth, the remembered fragments felt familiar, like those of a recurring dream one cannot fully recall but hints of it lurk in memory.
With a calming breath, she shifted slightly against the tree and did not fight the dipping of her chin as sleep retook her.
--
Bending awkwardly to retrieve the last plate from the dishwasher, Lisa kept a firm hand on the small of her back. Straightening herself, she padded over to the cabinet and stacked the dish.
“I thought you were going to rest?” Paul admonished as he walked into the kitchen.
“If I spend one more minute resting, I’m going to go crazy,” she half-joked. The past nine months had been a much easier and pleasant time. But, a now one week overdue Lisa could not recall a time when she had not been pregnant. She had given up reciting the running list of what ached and hurt from head to toes.
“Dr. Marena said you shouldn’t exert yourself, babe,” he told her.
Dr. Marena? I know that name.
Flash.
“Almost there, honey,” Paul comforted her. With one hand on the steering wheel, he allowed her to grasp the other. As each contraction hit, she squeezed down until the pain subsided.
“Hurry,” she said through a
clenched jaw. By the end of the next contraction, she could feel him pulling his hand free. Opening her eyes, Lisa was relieved to see the hospital parking lot. He jumped from the car and grabbed a wheelchair from in front of the sliding glass doors. She felt him lift her gently into the thin leather seat.
If not for another contraction, she might have laughed as Paul pushed the wheelchair forward with no regard for who might be in the way. Through the grunting and breathing, she could hear him speak with the nurse at the desk.
“Yes, Mr. Jenson,” the woman in white said gently. “We have a room ready. We paged your doctor, but he has a virus and can’t make it in. Our doctor on staff will be assisting the delivery.”
Virus? No. Not now!
Flash.
“Ready,” the man called out behind his surgical mask. “On the count of three, Lisa, I need you to give me a big push. One…”
“You can do this, honey,” Paul whispered in her ear.
“Two…”
“Just squeeze my hand, Lisa,” her husband said.
“Three.”
The pain was intense and forced the scream out of her lungs. She thought her hand must be crushing Paul’s, but all that mattered was the pain. The room shifted slightly and Lisa realized that she was no longer screaming. Paul’s face beamed as a tear slid slowly down his cheek.
“You did it!” he exclaimed as he kissed her sweat-covered brow.
A weak smile and laugh passed her lips and from the corner of her eye she saw a nurse step towards her with a tight bundle of white in her arms.
“Here is your son,” the woman said as she placed the baby against Lisa’s chest.
The smile faded from her face as she looked down at the baby—no—the thing in her arms. Its head was tilted severely to one side and eyes of solid black stared at her. Razor sharp teeth glistened with saliva as a deep growl filled the silence. Lisa could feel the blood freeze in her veins.
