Convergence: The Far Side of Hell (A Five Roads to Texas Novel Book 4)

by AJ Powers

  A quick search of the cabin yielded no infected, so Malcom ignored the odor and went straight for the cabinets toward the bow of the ship. The first one he opened had some canned goods, crackers, and a few bags of chips, which was comforting since they didn’t have all that much food with them. The second cabinet was some more food and the source of the smell—a dead rat that was fresh enough to still be bloated. Malcom swallowed the bile and shut the door before moving to the next cabinet.

  Jackpot.

  The yellow-and-black toolbox was sitting on the shelf right in front of him, along with several manuals secured inside gallon-sized Ziploc bags. The cabinet also held quite a few other essentials to keep a boat operating smoothly, such as spare parts, fuel stabilizer, and duct tape.

  Grabbing the tool box off the shelf, Malcom returned to the fresh air outside and set the box down on the bench next to Tessa. The sky was bright enough that he no longer needed the flashlight, so he clicked it off and stuffed it into his pocket before rummaging through the toolbox. Like every toolbox he ever opened, it took a while to find the Phillips-head screwdriver buried near the bottom. Moving quickly, Malcom started removing the screws on the panel.

  The best-case scenario was that Tessa’s husband disconnected the cables from the terminals to prevent drainage. Malcom could have that problem solved in a few minutes. Unfortunately, not only were the cables still connected, they were caked in corrosion, too.

  Malcom muttered out a curse.

  Before Tessa could ask, he said, “The battery’s in rough shape.” Again, before Tessa could follow up, he popped to his feet and ran back into the cabin, grabbing the jump kit he’d seen on the shelf below the tool box. He knew it was a long shot, especially since the TEST button on the jump box only flashed two out of five bars, but it would only take a few seconds to confirm his theory.

  And it did just that.

  Even with the jumper cables clamped to the terminals, Malcom was barely able to rouse a few clicks out of the starter. The battery needed to be replaced, which was not factored into his game plan for the morning.

  Malcom let out an exasperated sigh as he climbed back down to the deck. “If we don’t get a new battery in this thing then we’re fucked.”

  “Do you know how to do that?” Tessa asked.

  “Of course!” he retorted. “Any man with a shred of testosterone can swap out a simple battery.” He walked over to the bench and grabbed a few items out of the toolbox. He looked over at Tessa, his expression less than reassuring. “Problem is finding one before we run out of time.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  16 – Cincinnati, Ohio – May 26th

  Malcom squinted his eyes as he peered through the window of the small shop at the end of the marina. From where he was standing it looked to be empty of threats. Carefully, he moved to the entrance. He hoped the shop would have a healthy supply of charged batteries on hand, but the size of the building alone was reason enough to keep his hopes tepid. But when he saw a small sign on the window of the door that read, DEAD BATTERY? WE’VE GOT YOU COVERED. ORDER TODAY, he was cautiously optimistic.

  The door was locked, so he set his toolbox down next to his feet and pulled out his knife. He dug at the doorframe with the tip of the blade for several minutes, finally able to wedge the knife in far enough to pry the door open. As it bumped off the adjacent wall, Malcom heard a pair of shuffling footsteps fast approaching.

  He spun around just in time to drive the four-inch blade through the bearded man’s esophagus up through the back of his throat. A thick, dark substance gushed out around the handle of the knife, causing Malcom to release his grip on the weapon and stumble backward into the store. The beast attempted to let out a scream, but all that came out was the wheezing sounds of death.

  With the knife still hanging from his throat, the creature lurched toward Malcom, determination filling his foggy eyes.

  “Son of a bitch,” Malcom said as he continued his retreat further into the store. He knew he could drop the man with a single shot from the 9mm hanging on his side, but he wasn’t willing to open that can of worms. Yet.

  Despite the steady stream of blood running down the man’s neck, the wheeze bag in front of him refused to die.

  Bumping into a heavy-duty shelf, Malcom looked over his shoulder and saw a line of river anchors rocking from the impact.

  Bingo.

  Without hesitation, Malcom grabbed the most vicious-looking anchor of the bunch—a nice little twelve-pounder—and charged at the infected man while at the same time drawing his arm back. He swung the anchor over his head, bringing it down on the man’s head like Thor’s Hammer, feeling, as much as hearing, the top of the skull fracture into dozens of pieces. The man switched off immediately, his body dropping to the ground with a weighty thud that shook the floorboards.

  Malcom stood silently in the middle of the store, listening carefully for any sign that other infected had heard the brutal showdown between him and the dead man on the floor, but the only noise that filled the room was the rhythmic drops of blood splashing off the floor from the anchor still lodged in the infected man’s head.

  Assuming his cover wasn’t yet blown, Malcom yanked the knife out of the infected man’s throat before opening a bag of shop towels to clean the blood off both his hands and the blade. After uttering his first prayer in over two months that he hadn’t been infected, Malcom started his search.

  The front turned up nothing of use, but he was jolted with excitement when he spotted five batteries sitting on top of a work bench in the back. The celebration, however, was short-lived when he didn’t find the right battery for the boat.

  With no time to be angry over the circumstances, Malcom snatched a digital battery tester off one of the shelves before grabbing the toolbox and heading back over to the docks. He didn’t have the slightest clue what make and model the Tessa Marie was, but he hopped aboard the first one he saw that was remotely comparable in size and quickly located the battery compartment.

  Strike one.

  He moved to another.

  Strike two.

  Halfway back to his boat now, he thought maybe he’d get lucky and hit a homerun.

  Strike three.

  Rules be damned, he’d give himself a strike fifteen if that’s what it took. There had to be a boat in the marina that shared the same battery as the Tessa Marie.

  And lucky number seven proved to be the one.

  “Yes!” Malcom said excitedly as he finished removing the panel—he found a match. But just because it was the right battery, and the terminals were clean, didn’t mean it had enough juice to get their motors going. Malcom tore the packaging off the battery tester and quickly put it to work. “Hell yeah!” he said victoriously when the digital readout offered positive results. But the moment of hope faded as a terrifying noise gradually filled the silent morning air.

  Tornado sirens.

  “Oh shit,” he grunted, glancing down at his watch. It was 8:32 A.M. He spent way more time investigating the boats than he realized. He had less than thirty minutes before shock and awe rocked the Queen City; he needed to work fast. The three souls waiting for him on the boat were counting on it.

  Despite his jittery hands, Malcom had the battery disconnected and sitting on the deck in under two minutes. Grabbing only the tools he needed to install the battery back on the Tessa Marie, Malcom grabbed the battery and jumped ship back onto the dock. He looked out past the park and into the streets where hundreds of infected were going berserk, disoriented by the shrill sounds they couldn’t seem to locate. As Malcom hurried back to the boat, he felt the eyes of a thousand infected upon him. And it wasn’t long before they were on his heels.

  Malcom broke out into a full-on sprint, which was hindered by the fifty-pound block of plastic in his hands. Focused on keeping a tight grip on their only lifeline, Malcom hadn’t noticed just how quickly the infected were gaining on him. They were only about fifty yards behind him by the time he reached their dock
.

  Tessa hurried over to the side of the boat and pointed her M&P Shield in his direction. As soon as Malcom cleared her lane of fire, Tessa let loose on the trio of incoming infected, dispatching two of them before running dry.

  “Look out!” she screamed as Malcom awkwardly jumped into the boat.

  Malcom spun around and saw the third infected man barreling down the dock. “Ahh shit,” he barked, setting the battery down on the bench before drawing his Glock.

  A quick triple-tap neutralized the threat, buying Malcom enough time to retrieve his rifle near the stern. He knelt down and propped the barrel on the ledge of the boat before taking several carefully aimed shots at the incoming infected. With each squeeze of the trigger, he watched another body crash to the ground. Not one of them made it to within thirty yards of the boat.

  With a temporary reprieve from the onslaught, Malcom leaned the FAL up against the bench and scrambled back over to the battery. As he hauled the battery over to the stern, he looked at Tessa and shouted over the sirens, “Keep ’em off us while I get this thing hooked up.”

  Tessa nodded nervously. “I’ll try my best.”

  Malcom fought to break through the corrosion built up on the screws near the terminals, but with the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he was confident he would have been able to loosen the screws with his fingers if it had come to it.

  Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed a small wire brush and frantically scrubbed the connectors on the ends of the cables, getting as much of the crusty white and green substance off as he could. Time prevented him from doing a thorough job, but good enough would have to do for today.

  “Five more coming our way,” Tessa spouted, lifting her gun to take aim.

  Malcom dropped the new battery into place just as Tessa unleashed more fury on the approaching infected. Her eight rounds went fast.

  “I need to reload,” she said, forcing Malcom to abandon the battery and drop two more infected with his rifle while she made her gun hot again. “Ready!” she said as the slide slammed forward.

  Dropping back down to his knees, Malcom finished connecting the cables to the terminals of the battery, wrenching everything tight with the flathead screwdriver.

  After another torrent of gunshots, Tessa shouted, “I’m out,” as she held up an empty magazine.

  “Here.” Malcom handed her his Glock. “It’s just like yours, only a little bigger,” he said while reaching for the two spare mags. He glanced up at the steering deck then back at Tessa. “All right, let’s get out of here.”

  Once back in the captain’s chair, Malcom muttered another quiet prayer as he gave the key a twist. The lights on the control panel lit up and several beeps and buzzers sounded off. Needles and dials flicked to life, showing the various levels of fluids, including their fuel, which was around a quarter tank. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to get them the fuck out of dodge before the rockets red-glared all over Cincinnati.

  Malcom cranked the key all the way, causing the pair of outboard motors to cough and sputter, but unable to turn over. He tried several more times, but no joy.

  This is not good, he thought.

  The sirens started to wane as they slowly powered down, one by one, across the city.

  This is really not good.

  “They’re stopping! What does that mean?” Tessa yelled loudly, much to Malcom’s chagrin. “Do you think they called off the bombs?”

  “I think it means…” he paused for a moment as he wiped the building sweat off his forehead, sighing in defeat. “It means we gave it a hell of a try, Tessa.”

  “No!” she yelled back, firing several shots into the park behind them before continuing. “We didn’t fight our way through hell just to throw in the fucking towel this close to the end zone. Get your ass up and figure it out!” She scolded him like a fiery coach down fourteen late in the fourth.

  The fuel stabilizer, Malcom heard himself shout in his head. Pushing off the chair, he dropped down to the deck below and nearly ripped the door off the hinges as he stormed into the cabin. Naomi shrieked in terror and TJ, who was crying inconsolably, pressed harder into his sister. The sight might have been worthy of a few heartfelt tears had the situation not been so dire. Kicking his emotions to the curb, Malcom ran over to the tool cabinet and grabbed the bottle of stabilizer off the shelf.

  Another seven or eight gunshots popped from outside, adding to TJ’s horrified cries. “Stay here!” Malcom ordered, his tone sounding more like a worried father than a stranger.

  He ran back outside and immediately spotted the growing horde of infected stacking up between the two stadiums—Tessa’s gunfire was drawing them in. Knowing it would be a fruitless endeavor, Malcom fought the urge to grab his rifle and tag-team the infected with Tessa. There were far more of them than they had bullets. The best option—the only option—was to get the motors running.

  As he unscrewed the cap to the fuel tank, Malcom noticed a quiet drone filling the air. And once Tessa stopped for a magazine change, she noticed it too. There was no doubting what the sound was.

  “Get us out of here, Malcom,” Tessa said franticly as she slammed the magazine home, lighting up the three closest infected to the docks.

  Knowing an extra kick from the additive couldn’t possibly make the situation any worse, Malcom dumped what was left of the stabilizer into the tank and replaced the cap. He darted over to his FAL and took down several more tangos before he heard Tessa screaming at him over the gunfire.

  “…wasting time! I’ll take care of them.”

  Malcom dropped the FAL onto the bench and ran toward the middle of the boat, cutting the two ropes binding them to the dock along the way. He climbed the short ladder and pulled himself up onto the steering deck, feeling a chill ripple through his spine as the quiet hum of the approaching bombers transitioned into persistent thunder. “Please, God, let this work,” he said as he attempted to fire up the boat one last time… One way or another.

  He turned the key, but the motors still protested with kicks and splutters. “Come on, you piece of shit. Start!” he shouted, smacking the steering wheel in front of him. He tried again but got more of the same.

  “Malcom!” Tessa yelled, barely audible over the roaring jet engines. “Hurry!”

  One last try, he thought.

  Nothing.

  Fuck it. Two last tries.

  The motors coughed and choked as smoke spewed out of the exhaust before they revved to life. Stunned in triumph, Malcom had to shake his head and blink a few times before he had the cognitive wherewithal to push the throttle forward.

  As the boat swung away from the dock, infected ran off the edge in pursuit, plummeting into the murky depths of the Ohio River.

  “Yes!” Tessa shrieked with excitement.

  Malcom’s knuckles turned ashen as his hands gripped the steering wheel. He guided the boat through a maze of rogue sailboats, driftwood, and other debris that had collected inside the marina over the past two months, making a straight shot to the exit impossible.

  Every other sound in the world was now overpowered by the turbine-powered destruction closing in on them. “Damn it!” Malcom yelled as the Tessa Marie sideswiped another day cruiser, nearly knocking him out of his chair. “Hold on!” he yelled back to Tessa, but he couldn’t even hear his own voice. Maneuvering the boat around the last major obstacle, Malcom opened the throttle and darted out into the middle of the river, immediately angling the bow westward at a little over twenty knots. With the boat now in open water, Malcom looked over his shoulder and took in the most startling sight his eyes had ever seen: eight B-52 Stratofortress bombers flying in formation just beneath the clouds.

  “Mother of God,” he uttered as the leading plane jettisoned its payload.

  Malcom’s jaw hung slack as he watched dozens of bombs scream toward the earth, the little parachutes on the back doing nothing to slow their furious descent. The explosions sounded like machine gun fire thumping painfully in his ch
est as fireballs and plumes of smoke filled the streets of downtown Cincinnati, giving him nightmarish flashbacks to 9/11. It was both heartbreaking and exhilarating at the same time.

  While Malcom stared in awe at the razing of Cincinnati, the lead B-52 flew damn near overhead, banking hard while pulling up, the eight engines screeched out an ear-splitting whine as it passed by.

  With his eyes fixed on the Big Ugly Fat Fucker flying overhead, Malcom mouthed out, “What the hell?” as the jet deployed its chaff. He wasn’t an aviation expert, but he knew what chaff was used for…

  “Get down!” Malcom screamed at Tessa just before a surface-to-air missile struck the gigantic jet on the belly, immediately blowing the two engines closest to the impact. The jet, still banking hard to the west, fought to gain altitude. But when a third engine erupted with flames, the enormous weight of the aircraft became too much for the remaining engines to bear.

  The bomber had become the bomb.

  The B-52 managed to make it a couple miles back into Ohio before slamming into the ground, a massive fireball signaling its demise.

  The remaining B-52s deployed their chaff and egressed to the south, avoiding the hard, vulnerable turn their squadron mate had made. Seconds later, they shrouded themselves inside the low-hanging clouds, leaving behind a ruined city in their wake. As the bombers disappeared, the world fell into a palpable silence except for the horrific ringing in Malcom’s ears.

  “What the fuck just happened?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  17 – Near North Bend, Ohio – May 26th

  Except for the babbles of a terrified toddler, no one had uttered a word since the B-52s had ascended into the clouds like angels of death. It was hard enough to digest the images of a city that both Malcom and Tessa knew and loved all their lives become nothing more than a mountain of brick and twisted steel. But trying to comprehend how or why one of the jets was shot down in the process was baffling. It didn’t make any sense for the government to authorize a bombing run, then blast one of their own jets out of the sky. It’s not as if those things were quick—or cheap—to replace, especially given the current state of the world. No, there was no way that was friendly fire.