by Bryan James
We rooted through the tourist information that was floating around on board until we found a dusty map of the D.C. subway. The pamphlet was dated, but it had the station information, which is all we needed. We circled our access point, cross-referenced the road map, and finalized the plan.
As the others got ready to sleep, Kate and I escaped to the observation deck and stared over the railing at the opposite shore, lulled into a fair rendition of calm by the hum of the engine and the gentle rocking of the ship.
“Seems unreal, doesn’t it?” I asked, watching the last of a purple sunset fade behind the tree-line of the coast.
“Tell me about it. Every day since I showed up for work all those light-years ago seems like an out of body experience. It’s such an unreal world out there. I used to watch those horror movies as a kid, and I never got scared. You know why?” I shook my head, still staring at the far coast.
“Because I knew there were no real monsters in the world. That all those ideas—all those creepy slime-covered aliens and fang-toothed Lotharios—were fiction.” She stared at the fading light on the coast. “Not any more.”
I understood the feeling. “Hey, you’re talking to a guy whose business is fiction,” I said sympathetically. “I hear you, loud and clear. You know what the worst part is? Really, if I’m being honest?”
“No more cheeseburgers?”
I laughed. “Well, other than that.”
“No more cold beer?”
“Ouch. Okay, behind that.”
She smiled. “What?”
“I went down during society. I mean, my whole thing—the trial, the guilt, the set-up—it all happened at a time when the internet functioned, cable news broadcast everything at light speed to every corner of the globe, and everyone knew everything at every minute of the day.” I sighed, realizing how selfish this was.
“I know this is narcissistic, but it’s one thing to lose someone you love and be framed for the murder. It’s another thing to never be able to clear your name. I feel like I’m going to go through life with this banner-ad above my head, you know? When everyone knows your face, but the last they heard, that face was the face of a murderer ...”
She was quiet for a moment, then spoke softly.
“I understand the frustration, I do. But maybe it would help to reframe it. Those conceptions and judgments were made in a world—in a job and profession—where it mattered very much what people thought of you—even more so than us normal people,” I laughed and squeezed her hand.
“But what people think of you now doesn’t matter as much. You said it yourself. There’s no cable news, no internet. Fuck, Mike. There aren’t even that many people. And the ones that are left, like the ones on board this boat,” she turned her head as Ky’s voice rang from inside the cabin, trying to teach Romeo to roll over.
“They don’t care about that crap. They care about what you’re doing now. For them. With them. Not who you were, or what you allegedly did.”
I knew this, and I knew it was damned selfish to think of it that way. I smiled at her and reached my arm around her shoulders.
“You’re right. From hereon in, I will eschew the labels placed upon me by the remainder of an uncaring society, and fight for truth, justice and the human way.”
“Don’t go too far, hero. It’s not the movies. Case in point,” she said, stepping away and frowning. “You stink. Why don’t you check and see if that crew shower is working?”
I smiled at her and grabbed her in a huge hug. She groaned and squirmed as I held her tighter.
“Sure thing,” I said, looking at her as she smiled despite herself. “Wanna join me?”
One eyebrow shot up, and she smiled broadly as we walked toward the crew’s cabin together.
Chapter 33
The four adults traded two-hour watch shifts through the night, but nothing eventful occurred. I relieved Ted, who relieved Kate. The quiet was slightly unnerving, and the night was dark. Stars shone brightly in a sky unviolated by ambient light.
As the sun rose on the far horizon, I awoke, splashing some water on my face. I spared a brief kiss for Kate as she stirred, and made my way to the bridge. George stood at the wheel, hands in his pockets, staring at the far shore. His bristled white beard seemed to glow in the brightening daylight, and his pipe, now lit and with a small wisp of smoke curling from the bowl, was a compliment to his Santa-Claus appearance. His bright blue eyes glowed as he turned.
“Morning,” he said simply.
“Sup?” I asked pertly, checking the fuel levels and engine temperature before yawning once.
He chuckled softly.
“I’ll assume that’s some manner of greeting in urban slang,” he intoned, before sitting down in the captain’s chair.
“Oh yeah, me and my homies are tight with that. It’s just how we roll.” I smiled as he nodded sagely, as if he understood the nonsense I had spouted.
I grabbed the intercom microphone and pressed the transmit key.
“Good morning, campers. It’s time to rock and roll. Please bring your seat backs and tray tables to their full upright and undead positions, grab your ankles, and kiss your asses goodbye. We are starting the engines, and we will be on dry land within the hour. The temperature at our destination is a balmy ‘who the hell knows,’ and the baggage will be available at carousel three.” I depressed the key and smiled at my humor.
Behind me, I heard George leave.
Killjoy.
George signaled from below when the sea-anchors were pulled up, and I gave him a thumbs-up. I pushed the throttles forward slowly and felt the large boat move sluggishly against the water.
We had pulled up the GPS coordinates of the ferry terminal on the hand-held unit I had taken from Ted’s shop. It wasn’t a refined or precise marine unit, but it gave us an idea of which direction to head. Besides, if I was any judge of my own driving abilities—and I was—I didn’t think I’d be doing any fancy maneuvering with the ferry. I just needed to know which direction to point.
Twenty minutes in to the trip, Kate stuck her head in the bridge and let me know that the supplies we could salvage from the ship were loaded on the bus. This included some bottled water, some snacks from the gift shop, and a toolbox from the engine room. We also found ten gallons of reserve diesel fuel in the engine room that we had transferred to the reserve tank on the bus.
The shoreline was coming into sharper relief as we approached. To our left, the Bay Bridge was also getting closer as we narrowed our angle of approach. Closer to the structure, I could only stare as I looked at the high expanse.
Cars were packed bumper to bumper, and there were gaps in the guardrail at several places. A tractor trailer hung precariously from the edge of the expanse, tractor dangling over the bay, and the trailer lodged between several pylons above. Over, between and within all the vehicles, the undead reigned.
There were so many roaming between and over the cars and trucks on the bridge that from a distance, it appeared that the very ground was undulating, like a gigantic snake suspended by wires above the water. I shivered at the thought of what would have become of us had we chosen to attempt the bridge instead of the boat.
I throttled back as we got closer. Within a mile of the ferry terminal, I slowed to a near stop and called everyone to the bridge. Ky and Romeo were the first up, and she leaned forward on the railing in front of the glass.
“Cool!” she said, staring at the panoramic view.
Romeo agreed, barking once and rearing up to put his paws on the window next to her.
Kate and George followed, talking quietly.
“Mike, you seen or heard from Ted?” asked George, eyes slightly worried.
“No,” I said, thinking back to last night’s watch.
“I relieved him at around two o’clock, and he just wandered back to the main compartment to go to sleep. Why?”
Kate and George exchanged looks.
“We can’t find him, and there was blood on his
shirt when George saw him earlier this morning. He looked ill, and was walking toward the railing.”
“Why didn’t you talk to him?” I asked George, concerned now.
He shrugged. “Ted had mentioned getting seasick yesterday, so I just thought ...”
I cursed. “So you think he was bitten?”
Kate nodded. “Probably yesterday when you guys went all John Wayne at the fence.”
I looked out over the water before asking.
“So do we go ahead and park, or do we spend time looking for him?”
The decision was taken out of my hands as Romeo began barking furiously, and then sped out of the room, onto the narrow deck surrounding the bridge.
“Romeo!” shouted Ky, and ran after him, even as Kate was yelling, “Ky, get back here!”
From outside, I heard Ky scream, and then the vicious snarling of a defensive dog.
We rounded the corner to see Ted, or what used to be Ted, laying on the ground, struggling to rise with a fifty pound dog standing over its head. Romeo’s jaws were snapping inches from the thing’s face, harrying it and keeping it from rising further.
Ky stood behind Romeo, trying to get a shot with her crossbow. I leaned in and dragged the dog off the creature as Ky’s arrow zipped past my shoulder, taking the thing in the mouth. The body went limp and I dropped Romeo, who ran to Ky without looking back, cropped tail whipping back and forth furiously.
“Good dog,” I said, rubbing his back quickly as I turned to George. “George, listen, I ...”
He shook his head, squatting slowly and painfully near the body of his friend.
“No need, Mr. McKnight. He wouldn’t have wanted to go on like that. He wasn’t himself anymore. I lost my wife and my son to these things; I have no more tears to shed.”
My suspicions about him were confirmed as Kate stepped forward, laying a hand on his back.
I walked inside, where Ky and Romeo were sitting in the corner. She was rubbing his ears and he was still wagging. Seemed like a terminal condition for that dog.
Kate and George followed, and I didn’t speak as I moved the throttle forward to one-quarter speed and slowly approached the pier. After ten more minutes of churning through the smooth water of the Bay, we passed between two small jetties, and into a sheltered harbor surrounded on all sides by concrete walkways. A sign suspended from the jetty read simply “Ferry Terminal, Pier 1.”
I slowed the boat to a mere crawl and, as we got closer, began to feather the reverse engines. The ship was much larger than the small pleasure-craft that I had used to own, but the concept was similar.
On shore, the coast was silent. Nothing moved, and the wind sent dead leaves and stray garbage across the quiet stone and concrete of the pier. The green shingles of the terminal’s roof were covered in fall foliage, and the leaves fell when the wind kicked up, giving the false impression of movement.
As we reached five hundred yards, I felt that we were moving too quickly and increased the reverse speed slightly. The ferry slowed to a near stop roughly two hundred yards short. I chuckled and increased the throttle slightly, then monitored the speed as we crept forward. I didn’t want to take too long approaching the pier, as the engines of the huge boat were loud, and were likely transmitting our presence even now to the sharp ears of the undead in the area. I knew that the packs on this side of the bay would be larger, and I wasn’t eager to encounter any so soon.
The ferry approached twenty feet, then ten. I slammed the engines into full reverse for two seconds and then cut the power, taking it to idle. We drifted forward slightly too fast and hit the tires lining the edge of the pier too quickly, bouncing hard as George leapt to land clumsily with a heaving line in hand. He stumbled, almost falling into the dark, cold water, before righting himself and throwing the line over the bollard. The ferry snapped to the line and slowed. I laughed in triumph, and Ky whooped. Kate put her arm on my shoulder and kissed me lightly on the cheek as she passed.
We shut off the engines and jogged down to the ramp controls, eager to get the bus lined up for a quick exit. The motors hummed as the large metal ramp lowered. Kate and Ky boarded the bus with Romeo in tow, and George walked across the ramp and stopped next to me at the control panel. Across the small harbor, two zombies emerged from the open door of a building, both dressed in some manner of uniform—probably the ferry terminal uniform—with a white shirt and green overalls.
I checked the rest of the horizon, noting the opened gate in front of us and thankful that we didn’t have to struggle with a locked gate again.
We walked to the bus and boarded. George took his seat and slowly reversed the bus off the ferry, pulling a tight circle and driving forward, out the gates and onto the road. I blew the boat a kiss as we drove away, thankful for its service.
Chapter 34
There was one bottleneck in the otherwise good plan. One more bridge, over the Severn River, stood between us and a variety of rural and lesser-used roads that we planned to use to access the New Carrollton Metro station. From there, we would move along the tracks until we went below ground at C Street, using the cordoned-off rail tracks as a protected route. All subways had barriers on the sides of the tracks, and Washington D.C.’s was no different. It was an old system, but it would serve this function well.
We drove along rural roads until we were forced to turn onto Route 50 Westbound, to funnel into the bridge. From ferry terminal to onramp, we encountered few obstacles. The roads were silent, and aside from several crashed and abandoned vehicles, the path was clear.
Ky spent the drive in continuing efforts to teach Romeo to roll over. I shook my head, smiling, as she scowled when he darted to me and back to her, thumping his tail on the floor, waiting for the coming treat. I didn’t think he knew what he was doing, only that somehow, running to people who she pointed at resulted in treaty, chewy, beef-flavored goodness.
George drove carefully and slowly to conserve fuel, slowing to a near stop when we approached vehicles, not wanting to damage the blades on the side, or the plow in front. I quickly realized that if the plow were damaged by a large vehicle, our anti-zombie tank would be borderline ineffective, as zombies would quickly jam under the wheels without having been sliced and diced first.
Kate slept, curled up on the bed in the back of the bus. I covered her with a blanket, and spent the time poring over the maps—particularly the Metro line map. I wanted to be prepared in the worst case scenario: a forced evacuation onto the streets of Washington, D.C..
At one junction, a mini-mall, anchored by a Super Fresh grocery, showed signs of life inside. Bullet holes peppered the glass in front, and wooden pallets had been levered into the gaps, including in front of the doors. Several vehicles were parked outside, facing away from the store as if in evacuation preparation. A large pile of corpses were gathered outside the front doorway, gore spattering the red brick storefront.
After a quick consultation with George, Kate and I decided to try to make contact with anyone who might be inside. If it were abandoned, or the inhabitants dead, we could use the supplies.
We pulled up in the rear of the store and checked the back exit, which was predictably shut and locked. I suddenly had a memory of the hardware store in which I worked as a kid—I had snuck to the roof every day for a secret cigarette. Every large commercial building has roof access, and I was willing to bet that the folks inside didn’t consider the roof a zombie-liability.
From the top of the bus, it was a decent jump up, but Kate and I managed. In the center of the tar-covered expanse, a small building sat amidst air conditioning units and vents. The door was painted a dull white, and flakes of rust spotted the exterior. I had a flashback to the roof of the facility in New York, and shook it off quickly. Crushed out cigarettes were littered around the doorway and under the small overhang above the door.
We moved silently, and I placed my hand on the door knob. It turned easily and I smiled, opening the door slowly into the dark hallway. Reaching o
utside, I grabbed a large concrete chunk, which had clearly been used to prop the door open before, and jammed it under the door, both for light and to make sure it didn’t somehow lock behind us.
The stairwell appeared clear, and was deathly quiet. Below, the only sound was that of our footsteps, echoing softly in the small stairwell.
Suddenly, I had a bad feeling about this building.
We exchanged looks and moved down the stairs slowly, careful to make soft footfalls to avoid echoes. At the bottom of the stairs, another door, this one with a push handle, indicating it moved inward toward the store, was propped slightly open. The dark shadows at the bottom of the stairwell were deep, and it wasn’t until I reached forward to grasp the handle that I recognized the obstruction. It was a foot.
Just a foot.
I recoiled slightly, and pointed at the appendage, frowning. Kate gave a questioning look, lowering her shotgun slightly and pointing to the roof. I shook my head, wanting to explore a little further. The place could be abandoned, or everyone inside could be dead. In either event, we needed supplies, and a fortified grocery store seemed as good a place as any to look. If we got caught in the tunnels, we couldn’t live off of pilfered potato chips and soda for very long.
I gently bent down and removed the obstruction, picking it up by a still-tied, blood-drenched lace and placing it in the stairwell, anxious to keep my hand on the door to prevent it from clicking loudly inside the store or locking. As I leaned forward, I caught the stench of death. My hand shot up, pistol raised.
I slowly opened the door and stood, stunned.
The interior of the store was dark, but sunlight filtered in from the large windows in the front of the store. A rotten stench slammed into me as I opened the door wider; it was the smell of dead bodies.
Many, many dead bodies.
I gagged as I took in the scene.
Body parts littered the floor, and blood streaked the linoleum. Some bodies, half eaten, were leaning against the walls and shelves. In the dairy section, where we entered, at least twenty different corpses lay in various states of decomposition and decay, body parts spread over the floor, entrails and innards mashed into pulp or showing signs of having been eaten, then discarded. Behind me, Kate vomited softly in the small display of rotting yogurt, and I swallowed back my own bile.
