Reckoning in an Undead Age

by A. M. Geever

  Reckoning in an Undead Age

  A.M. Geever

  ZBZ-1 Press

  Copyright © 2021 by A.M. Geever

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  20/20 Vision lyrics courtesy of Anti-Flag, Copyright © 2020

  In memory of George Floyd

  I had a 20/20 vision of the last of the wrongs undone. No more hate, no division, no one is free until the war is won.

  —Anti-Flag

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Doug frowned as he stepped through the doorway into the yacht’s fore cabin. Mario lay on the berth, limp as a rag doll. He coughed, a deep, wet hacking that went on for half a minute, before he spit into the bucket on the floor.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Mario fell back against the mattress. He looked spent from the coughing fit. His breath wheezed in and out for a few seconds before he answered.

  “Worse.”

  Doug stepped closer and put the back of his free hand against Mario’s forehead. It burned hot against his skin. He held up the mug he carried, a wisp of steam curling from it.

  “More pepper-honey tea.”

  “I’ll drink it later.”

  “No,” Doug said. “Now. You have to stay on schedule.”

  Mario pushed to sit up, but seemed to struggle with the effort. Doug set the mug down and slipped his hands under Mario’s arms to give him a boost.

  “How’s Tessa?” Mario croaked.

  “Pretty much the same.”

  Tessa actually seemed a little worse than yesterday, even though her cough was not as bad as Mario’s, but Doug didn’t want him worrying about that. Had Doug not already been concerned, the fact that Mario just accepted his help to sit up instead of shooing him away would’ve set alarm bells ringing.

  “We’re going to find somewhere to put in tonight, find a dry building where we can stop for a few days,” Doug said as Mario sipped his tea. “I’ll check in on you later.”

  “Okay,” Mario said. “Thank you.”

  Doug plastered a smile on his face. “Anytime.”

  He stepped into the parlor, catching sight of the breakfast dishes in the galley’s sink that still needed to be washed. He reached the ladder and climbed up into the yacht’s cockpit, squinting his eyes despite the overhead canopy that shielded him from the bright sunshine. He twitched his fine, sandy-colored hair out of his eyes.

  Everywhere Doug looked, he saw beauty: calm blue ocean, golden sunshine, and a dark, craggy coastline edged with green forest. He zipped up his windbreaker against the chill. The sunshine that seemed to promise warmth might as well be a siren calling sailors toward sharp rocks on which to founder. Oceanside temperatures this far north along the Pacific coast, even now in late August, rarely ventured beyond the seventies. Though less than a mile from the shore, topside temperatures on the yacht hovered another ten degrees cooler due to the ever-present breeze.

  Skye looked up at him. “How are they?”

  Doug dropped into the seat beside her. “Worse.”

  “Watch the helm,” Skye said, reaching out to steady the mid-sized, wagon-like wheel that Doug had jostled. “So we shoot for Eureka, and we’ll see what we see?”

  “Yeah,” Doug said, frowning. “Mario didn’t protest at all when I helped him sit up to drink his tea. He sounded like he was coughing up a lung. He would’ve just gone back to sleep if I hadn’t told him he had to drink it right away. Tessa’s cough isn’t as bad as Mario’s, but it’s getting there.”

  Skye took Doug’s hand in hers. He looked at her, his breath catching in his throat. Those blue eyes got him every time.

  “They’ll be okay,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “We’ll hole up somewhere dry and keep them on the antibiotics. They’ll be right as rain in a few days.”

  “If it’s bacterial pneumonia, and if the antibiotics we have are the right ones,” Doug said, worry creeping into his voice. “Or maybe it’s viral, and then we’ve wasted antibiotics we might need later.”

  “I know,” Skye said. “But we are where we are, with what we’ve got.”

  Doug shook his head and scowled. She was right, of course, but— But what? Skye was right. He was already doing all he could, even though it felt inadequate.

  “What if he dies?” Doug whispered. “I’ll have to tell Miranda, and then she really will… God, I hate this.”

  “Hey,” Skye said softly. When Doug looked at her, she said, “Do you remember Avi Lehr?”

  “The Rabbi rock climber?” Doug said. “Yeah, of course.”

  “It will have to be sufficient. He said that all the time.”

  The corner of Doug’s mouth quirked up in a wry smile. Now she was using the Torah to reassure him. “That’s not exactly how it translates, but close enough.” The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “It's so loud when they cough. Sometimes I think we should just stay on the yacht in case it attracts zombies, but this damp can’t be good for them.”

  “We’re talking about sheltering in a city that wasn’t even thirty thousand people before, in a part of California that didn’t have a lot of people to begin with. There’s no way every zombie stuck around.” Skye narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on? You’re usually more optimistic than this.”

  Doug squeezed her hand, sure that it would sound as stupid out loud as it did in his head.

  “He’s in the same cabin as Connor, when he…” His voice petered out. “I know it’s stupid, but it kind of freaks me out.”

  Skye grimaced. “That would freak me out, too.”

  Buoyed by Skye’s answer, Doug gave himself a mental shake. “So,” he said, forcing a cheerfulness that he didn’t feel into his voice. “Eureka it is. We’ll hole up somewhere dry, get some rest, and they’ll both be right as rain in no time.”

  Skye leaned over and kissed him lightly. Her lips were soft and warm.

  “That’s the spirit,” she said. “This is just a quick detour. We’ll be back on track soon.”

  “We’ll be fine. Just go—”

  Tessa’s attempt at reassurance was interrupted by a coughing fit. Doug frowned, concern for her deepening. Normally, she reminded Doug of a pixie with her slight build, short blond hair, blue eyes, and pointy chin. Now she looked like a waif from a Dickens novel on the verge of dying from consumption. She seemed to have shrunk, and she wasn’t tall to begin with, though Doug knew it was only her hunched shoulders. He remembered how she had wriggled int
o the tiny crawl spaces at the Institute, never once complaining about the cobwebs and rat turds sticking to her clothes while she helped get the electricity. She’d seemed to relish the opportunity to use her skills as an electrician on a grander scale than her regular duties at LO afforded. She’d even been a good sport when she learned how Mario had given her the slip so he could get food to Jeremiah that first time they’d gone to P-Land. It seemed a lifetime ago, and Doug found himself wishing that she’d stayed at LO instead of coming with them. She’d be healthy there, and safe, instead of hacking up a lung and getting sicker by the minute.

  Tessa finally quit coughing and spit over the rail. “We’ll be okay, Doug. Quit dicking around and find somewhere we can crash.”

  The anxious, vertical line appeared between Skye’s eyebrows as she studied Tessa’s pale face. Doug felt his lips turn down, a reflection of what Skye’s lips were doing. Tessa was bundled in sweaters and jackets, a knit cap pulled over her head so low that her eyebrows were hidden. Her cheeks were scarlet, which combined with the many layers of outerwear made her look like a kid coming in from playing in the snow. Even her blue eyes looked washed out. She shivered, but the chill that caused her to bundle up had nothing to do with the weather.

  “If you need us for any reason, send up a flare,” Doug said.

  “I will.” When she tipped her head toward the dock, her pointy chin popped out from under her scarf. “Now go, so I can sit back down. We’ll be fine.”

  Skye turned to Doug. “Ready?”

  Doug nodded, then stepped off the yacht onto the dock. He hated being forced to leave two sick people on their own.

  Skye shaded her eyes with her hand as she walked. “It looks pretty clear. With any luck, it’ll stay that way.” She grinned and added, “And if not, I’ll protect you.”

  “You repelling zombies does come in handy,” Doug said.

  The marina where they’d moored, on the south side of Woodley Island near the confluence of the Humboldt and Arcata Bays, looked shabby, years of neglect taking their toll. Remarkably, several boats along this dock—one a small sailboat, the others cabin cruisers—were still intact, though in need of serious maintenance. Far more had sunk. The tips of masts poked through the water’s surface, all of them at crazy angles along the empty slips, the shadowy outlines of the submerged vessels visible up close. Another dock, parallel to where they were moored, had twisted along its length before spiraling into the water. Their hollow footsteps clunked against the planks, the sound jarring in the silence, but this dock seemed sound enough.

  “D'ya think this has been maintained, given that the other dock sunk?” Skye asked.

  “Maybe…or the other dock suffered damage this one didn’t.”

  They reached land, where a low building faced them, its fenced, outdoor patio a jumble of knocked-over tables and broken umbrellas. A faded sign, Cafe Marina & Woodley's Bar, hung askew from the eave above the patio.

  “Must have been nice back in the day,” Doug said, picturing a bustling marina in the world before zombies. The tall rigging of pleasure craft would have been silhouetted by the sunset. Tables of tourists getting pleasantly buzzed on the bar’s patio could have enjoyed the view. “Would have been a perfect place to take you on a date.”

  Skye grinned at him. She refastened her hair, tucking the silvery-blond ponytail into her jacket collar.

  “Maybe we can have a drink before we go.”

  After a cursory inspection of Woodley Island, he and Skye had decided to venture into Eureka proper. The island had the restaurant, a lighthouse, a National Weather Service station, and not much else. It had meant a mile-long trek into the town, but they’d managed to find a place to stay that was directly across from the marina at the end of Eureka’s I Street. After scrounging up a rowboat, they could make the trip across the water to the yacht in two minutes.

  So far, it was the only good thing he could say for their stay in Eureka.

  He hovered with Skye in the bathroom’s open door. Its walls and floor were padded with mattresses, from this house and the one next door. It made the sick room cramped, but it was worth it to muffle the worst of Mario’s and Tessa’s coughing. Mario lay closer to the door, alongside the tub, limp with fever. Tessa was farther into the room, by the sink and toilet. She woke for short periods, but in her fevered state everything she’d said was gibberish. They both had thick, wet coughs, and hacked up gobs of phlegm so chunky that Doug and Skye were taking turns watching them, just to make sure they didn’t choke. In addition to the antibiotics, they pumped them as full of found cold and flu medicine as they could, and home remedies, too, but they only seemed to worsen.

  They kept a campfire going just outside the kitchen door so they could fill the tub with heated water from the bay. Sheets were draped from the wall over the tub, tucked through towel and shower curtain rods, and around the mattress edges. It looked like a kid’s pillow fort run amok, but it helped confine the steam in a smaller space. Without the sheets, it dissipated almost as quickly as they poured the heated water in the tub. Doug wasn’t sure if the steamy air helped them breathe more easily, or if he and Skye were just running themselves ragged.

  He stepped into the hall, and Skye followed him to where it opened into the living room. Only then did they pull down the found N-95 masks they hoped would prevent them from falling ill.

  “I don’t know what else to do,” Skye said. “They’re just getting worse.”

  She mumbled with fatigue, her voice bleak. Dark circles wreathed her eyes, more prominent because she’d become so pale that Doug worried she was getting sick, too.

  “I’m going to check out the hospital,” he said.

  Skye’s mouth compressed to a hard line. “No,” she said firmly. “Hospitals are always death traps.”

  “What we’re doing isn’t working,” he countered. “I can’t believe they’ve gotten so much sicker in just two days. Maybe I can get different antibiotics there.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not—”

  She looked past him, out the windows that overlooked the bay, then said, “A sailboat.”

  Doug turned, and a moment later he saw it: a sleek hull sitting low in the water, with graceful rigging sprouting high above. It looked a lot like their yacht, fifty feet long if it was an inch. Its sharp prow sliced through the water, heading toward the marina.

  “They must have seen the yacht,” Doug said softly. “We should have moved it somewhere less visible.”

  Any boat or ship that entered the bay and turned north would be able to pick out the yacht without too much investigation. It was the only seaworthy watercraft at the marina, which meant it probably had good stuff on board.

  “I’ve got to get over there,” Doug said, already reaching for his leather jacket. He buckled his holster around his hips. The weight of his Glock felt reassuring, and a distracted part of his brain recognized that this made him utterly American.

  “I’ll climb onto the roof and cover you from here with the rifle,” Skye said. She rested her hands on the lapels of his jacket. Her beautiful blue-gold eyes were filled with worry. “Be careful. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Two minutes later he was tying the rowboat to the dock. The other boat, which was indeed a yacht similar to theirs, was a hundred yards from the marina. Doug scurried aboard, stationing himself aft on the starboard side, and waited.

  As it neared, the yacht slowed to a crawl. Doug saw two people—one in the cockpit, another dropping the main sail. Task completed, the figure who’d dropped the sail walked back toward the cockpit. When the yacht was thirty feet away it was almost dead in the water. Doug rested his hand on the butt of his Glock, tension thrumming in every cell. This could be good, bad, or a wash, but the encounter had to play out before he’d know.

  “I wish we hadn’t stopped here,” he muttered, second-guessing his decision. He’d have preferred to run into no one; it lessened their chances of having an altercation. Most peop
le he’d met while traveling were okay, but the ones who weren’t were always high on the dirtbag scale.

  A man made his way to the prow of the other yacht. All Doug could tell was that he was dark-haired, with a slender build. A woman joined him, her body language tense. She mirrored Doug’s stance, her hand resting on the gun on her hip.

  “Hello,” the man said, waving his arm over his head. “We come in peace.”

  Despite his anxiety, the corners of Doug’s mouth quirked up. The only people he’d ever heard say that were some old Dead Heads he’d met at a concert when he was in college. They’d asked Doug and his friends if they minded them squeezing into the too small spot beside them. Doug and his friends hadn’t minded and made some room. The Dead Heads shared their magic mushrooms, which left Doug tripping for two days. He aced a physics pop quiz he didn’t remember taking, but decided against hallucinogenics as a strategy for academic success.

  “Hello,” Doug replied. “How many of you are there?”

  The two exchanged a glance, then the man said, “Three. I’m Hussein. I’m traveling with my daughter and mother. And you?”

  “Four,” Doug said.

  “Is it safe enough to stay here for a few days?”

  Doug shrugged. He really didn’t like where this was heading. “As safe as anywhere.”

  The woman spoke, his daughter presumably, since she wasn’t old enough to be the man’s mother. “Do you mind if we stop? Nene’s seasick. We’d like to give her a break and see if we can find something for her. We still have a ways to go.”