by Bobby Adair
“Go,” Dalhover told me. “I’m with them.”
I nodded, turned, and sprinted back down the dock.
When I got to the boat, Rachel was standing behind Murphy’s seat. Freitag was in a seat beside him. For such a large boat, there wasn’t much deck space, pretty much just a couple of couch-sized seats, one behind the other. We were all going to have to get chummy. I got onto the front couch beside Freitag.
She was just as happy about the arrangement as I was.
“Start it up,” I said to Murphy.
“You got it, boss.” Murphy turned the key.
Nothing happened.
“What’s the matter?” Freitag asked, panic pushing her thin voice up an octave.
“Murphy?” Rachel asked, putting a hand on his shoulder and leaning in.
“You’ve to be fucking kidding me.” Clearly violating the touching rule we’d agreed on, I reached across Freitag’s lap to get the extra keys from Murphy.
He misunderstood my intent. “I got this man. Give me a sec.” He was calm, but urgency was slipping toward panic. We both knew that being exposed, things could quickly go badly for us. The shores were full of Whites, and they might have already spotted our uninfected companions.
I quickly said, “Just give me the other keys while you work on getting this thing started.”
Paul was helping Gretchen onto the back of the boat.
Murphy handed me the keys.
Still leaning over Freitag, I looked at the numbers, pushed a few into her hand and said, “You check those two. I’ll check these two.” I jumped up and hopped over the gunwale, landing loudly on the dock. I was running toward a ski boat four slips over when I heard Freitag’s tiny feet land on the dock behind me.
Still, no sound came from the big engines on the stern of Murphy’s useless toy.
“Hurry,” Dalhover said to me as I cut the turn onto the main dock and headed toward the end. He readied his rifle and stood high on the back of the boat.
Glancing to my left as I ran, I saw what his concern was. A mob of twenty or thirty Whites was tentatively crossing the marina’s parking lot, closing in on the long gangway that led to the main dock.
I reached the boat at the end of the row of slips, and my first thought was junk. My second thought was to wonder why it was still afloat. Its paint was faded and flaked. Everything metal looked to be rusted to the point of uselessness. Shreds of a canvas cover dangled from places where it had once been secure.
Without slowing, I jumped up to step on the upper edge, and as I was landing in the boat, I saw that the place where I expected a deck to be was a hole instead, a hole where an inboard motor should have sat beneath a deck panel. Both were gone.
I rolled as I fell, and instead of breaking my leg in the hole, I hit the deck on my back, knocking the wind out of me and earning a few more bruises. Cursing and jumping to my feet, I clambered back over the gunwale and onto the walkway between the two slips. From down the dock, a little boat engine zinged to life. That had to be Freitag.
Good enough. I ran back over to the main dock. The Whites from the parking lot had lost all of their caution upon hearing the zinging little engine. They’d spotted our group and figured out quickly enough that most of us were edible. They were running toward the walkway.
Dalhover hollered a warning.
Gretchen and Paul were climbing their way slowly back out.
Running past Freitag’s boat, I was immediately concerned whether it would hold all of us. It was an old ski boat or fishing boat, or something. I cast a quick glance back at the Whites. My concerns about Freitag’s boat had suddenly turned irrelevant. We didn’t have time to be picky.
Paul was reaching over to hold onto Freitag’s little boat when Murphy’s two big Mercury Marine engines roared deafeningly over the water, stunning me, Dalhover, and all of the Whites. Unfortunately, the Whites recovered first and came charging at full speed. They were pouring onto the walkway, and the boat’s engines were so loud that I couldn’t hear their feet or their howls.
When I looked over at Paul and Gretchen, they’d changed direction and were running back to get into Murphy’s speed machine. The engines’ power was comforting and enticing.
I ran past the bow of Freitag’s boat and waved at her to get out.
Without any resistance she abandoned her newfound captaincy and climbed out of the boat.
Whites were on the main dock and coming toward us. Dalhover had loosed the rope at the stern of Murphy’s boat, and he turned to climb in. I ran up along the starboard side of the boat and hacked through the rope that had the bow tied tight. I tossed my machete up onto the expansive bow deck and jumped, catching a section of chrome railing and pulling myself up.
Dalhover’s rifle was firing. The boat was already moving out of the slip, and everyone inside was hollering at Freitag to hurry as she ran onto the walkway along the path I’d come, Whites on her heels. Without slowing, she reached the end of the dock and jumped for the boat. I reached out to her, catching her hand as she flew toward me.
The engines revved, and the boat accelerated.
Freitag’s feet swung out over the water and her face turned to fright. I fell to my belly, and her feet dipped into the water as I reached over with my other hand to get a grip on her that wouldn’t slip. As the boat made a turn away from the docks, the chasing Whites poured off the end of the dock and into the water, trying uselessly to catch us.
Dalhover yelled something, and as soon as Murphy understood, the big engines revved higher and the boat ripped across the cove, nearly dragging me into the water on top of Freitag.
“Don’t let go of me,” Freitag begged.
“I won’t.”
Hands grabbed at my belt and somebody jumped on my legs to hold me steady.
“We’re good,” I said to Freitag.
A moment later, an arm reached over my shoulder and grabbed a handful of Freitag’s shirt, pulling her up on top of me. I caught a knee in my face as Dalhover dragged her farther into the boat.
Dalhover let go of Freitag and Rachel got off of me.
I rolled over onto my back. “Thanks.”
Without any of the vitriol that I’d come to expect, Freitag said, “Yeah, thanks.”
We threw up a thirty-knot wake as we flew out of the cove and into the lake.
I sat up, and looked at the Whites far behind us, swimming stupidly toward us or turning back toward the dock. “That was exciting.”
Rachel laughed and Dalhover almost smiled. And for the moment—and it always ever just seemed like a moment—we were safe.
Over the wind and rumble of the engines, I looked at Dalhover. “My curiosity is nagging me, so I’ve got to know. What happened?”
Dalhover looked back into the marina as the boat picked up speed. We turned in the opposite direction that Jay’s henchmen had gone. He glanced at Freitag. “You go ahead.” Dalhover got up, cautiously climbed over the windshield, and got down into the cockpit beside Murphy.
I looked at Freitag.
Rachel asked, “What did happen? We couldn’t see anything from inside the houseboat. We heard the banging, and it wasn’t long after that all the running and shouting started.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “I’ll say.”
With our eyes on her, Freitag said, “We were checking the boats one at a time, looking around inside for keys or anything else that might be of use. We got to that cabin cruiser, and I went down the stairs and opened the door to the cabin. I guess by then I was getting lazy and—” Freitag glared at me.
I understood the warning and kept my comments to myself.
“—I wasn’t expecting anything to be inside. Not really. I peeked and didn’t see anything, so I swung the door wide open and went on in. Sergeant Dalhover was at the top of the stairs, asking if the cabin was clear. I was halfway across the cabin by then, and something shrieked behind me.”
“A White?” I guessed.
Freitag nodded.
�
��Right there in the cabin?” Rachel asked.
Freitag nodded again. “I frightened him as much as he frightened me. He was sitting in the corner to the right of the door. I never saw him until he screamed. Then he jumped up and rushed through the door.”
“How did Dalhover get inside?” I asked.
She shrugged. “When the White screamed, I tripped and fell as I was turning around. I heard Dalhover shout something. I heard them fall, and when I got back up, Dalhover was on the floor and kicking the door closed with his feet. I guess the frightened White ran into him as it tried to get outside. They scuffled, and by the time the White figured out that we were just what he’d been waiting for, it was too late.”
“That’s crazy.” Rachel smiled, and her smile was just as big and shiny as Murphy’s.
Freitag said, “That’s when the White started to pound on the door.”
“You probably should have just shot him through the door,” I said.
“We talked about that. We didn’t know which would bring more trouble, the noise of the gunshots, or the White pounding on the door.”
“Good point.” I nodded.
“We all made it out.” Rachel summed up, or perhaps just changed the subject, before Freitag and I went back at one another’s throats. “That’s the important thing.” She looked over the bow that was starting to bounce on the waves.
I said, “Murphy needs to slow down, or we need to get in the cockpit with the others.”
Freitag got up on her hands and knees and made her way toward the windshield to climb over. Rachel and I followed.
Chapter 22
An hour later, we were idling into a cove just a few miles across land from Mansfield Dam, but because the shape of the lake was dictated by the river which had been dammed to make it, we were still ten or fifteen miles away by water. Monk’s Island was at least five miles further up the lake.
Like all of the docks and boathouses on the lake, they weren’t built on piers. They floated with the drastically changing level of the lake, which might vary by thirty or forty feet throughout the course of a year. The benefit of that for us at the moment was that during the drought, all of the boathouses in the cove had been re-anchored farther and farther from the houses of their owners as the lake receded. When the floods came, with no one left to reposition them, they simply floated up from their current positions. Of course, many broke loose and floated freely. Some floated, still anchored to the lake bottom, but at a good distance from the shore.
Murphy pulled the boat up next to one such boathouse floating near the center of a cove. It had been built to house three boats behind garage-style doors, all three of which were closed when we arrived. He looked around for consensus and received shrugs and nods. One boathouse was as good as the next.
Looking at me, Paul asked, “Anybody want to swim under and see if there are any Whites inside?”
I accepted the task and stood up to climb over the windshield to the long bow deck. “I don’t mind going, but just so you guys know, for the future, when you’re in the water, the Whites can’t see enough of you to figure out if you’re one of them or not. At least the ones we’ve been dealing with downriver thought anybody swimming was food.”
“Really?” That surprised Gretchen.
Having the luxury of being on the island since the infection started, the islanders had little experience with the Whites. I figured none of them would last long onshore.
“I’ll go, then,” Paul said, jumping to his feet.
I shrugged. “Come along if you like.”
Dalhover gave Paul a dismissive look as he stood. “I’ll go.”
Though the two were of the same age, Paul had spent his life in academics, and while he wasn’t overweight at all, he didn’t look like he was up to any strenuous task. Dalhover looked like any middle-aged man, beaten down by life and, at a glance, unable to even change his own car tires. But I knew he wasn’t that. He was hard, athletic, and accomplished in the suddenly valuable skill of butchering hostile former human beings.
I was happier to have Dalhover along.
With my machete in hand, I jumped into the water and let my momentum carry me down. Dalhover splashed in, and side by side we swam beneath the wall of the boathouse. In the shadow beneath, I saw the hull of a small boat in the first slip. It left plenty of room around its sides for us to come up inside.
We surfaced together at the stern of the small boat, far enough from the walkways on either side that we couldn’t be reached by any White who might happen to be there. I inhaled quietly as I looked around, listened, and sniffed the air: nothing but dim light, lapping water, and motor oil.
Dalhover silently moved through the water over to the walkway along the wall. Once there, he pulled himself up with a degree of silence I could only envy. I was never quiet going into or climbing out of the water.
Leveling his rifle to point up the dock, he slowly looked around the dark room. No Whites stood or squatted on the docks, and the only other boat didn’t seem to have anyone on it. He looked down at me and shrugged.
Good so far.
Making a splashy noise, I climbed up on the dock beside him. I hefted my machete, showed it to Dalhover so that he understood my meaning, and scooted around him on the dock so that anything coming at us from any other part of the boathouse would come to me first. I said, “Hey. Anybody in here?”
Nothing responded.
In a louder voice, Dalhover rasped, “Come out if you’re in here.”
We waited.
“I think we’re good.” I walked slowly up the dock, eyeing every shadowy corner as I moved. “Let’s check it out to be sure.”
“Right behind you.”
We worked our way past the old wooden ski boat that we’d come up beside, passed a couple of windsurfing boards hanging on the wall, and moved over to the slip on the far side of the boathouse. I leaned over to get a good look inside that ski boat and saw that it was empty. Dalhover took his time examining storage shelves and cabinets built into the wall.
He said, “We’re clear.”
“Yeah.”
He crossed the dock to a door on the backside of the boathouse and fumbled with the lock until it opened. He peeked outside, looked back at me, and uncharacteristically smiled.
That got my interest, so I crossed the decking and took a look. “Nice.”
On the backside of the boathouse was a wide covered deck, a table big enough to seat eight, several pool loungers, a barbecue, and a small refrigerator.
After looking around to make sure that nothing on shore was showing an interest, Dalhover walked over and opened the fridge. The smile returned. “Beer.”
I laughed. “You just made my day.” I hurried down the length of the deck, got to the corner of the boathouse, and motioned to Murphy to bring the speedboat around. The engines rumbled slightly louder and Murphy navigated the boat around and parked it along the deck, which, as it turned out, blocked the view of the outdoor deck from the shore.
Unfortunately, the fridge held nothing but beer—some kind of edible food would have been nice. The beer was the temperature of tepid coffee, but pickiness over which kinds of calories to ingest in the late morning was a luxury that none of us could afford. So we all got a little buzzed.
I maybe got a little more buzzed than I should have, but I didn’t have any plans until the sun went down. Bedsides, I had a mountain of memories that I wanted to forget for a while. After drinking my brunch, I laid down for a nap. Dalhover, Paul, and Freitag all chose to keep watch. Maybe overkill, but what else were they going to do?
Murphy, Rachel, and Gretchen were talking nearby about something that sounded more and more like burbling, random syllables as I drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 23
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”
I opened my eyes. Murphy was leaning over me in the dim light and nudging me none too gently.
“You gonna sleep all night?”
Blinking the sleep
out of my eyes, I said, “I feel like a hammered turd.”
Murphy chuckled. “Too many beers.”
“I wish.” I sat up. “Too many hard miles lately. I need some down time.”
“I hear ya, man, but you wanted to get this Steph thing rolling.”
Sitting up introduced me to a headache. I rubbed my temples. “We need to. I just need a sec.”
“Cool, man.” Murphy sat down on the dock beside me and leaned against the wall.
“What time is it?”
“A little after nine.”
I looked around in the dimness. One flashlight was in the far corner of the boathouse, sitting on a wire shelf, pointed at the floor. It made a good night light—not bright enough to attract any attention from outside but enough so that I could see two shadows standing at the windows, peeking through the shades.
Murphy noticed that I was looking at the guards, “Freitag is outside on the deck, keeping watch.”
“Everybody else is asleep?”
Murphy pointed to the other side of the boathouse. Shadowy people sat on the floor by the shelves, talking softly. “They’re worrying over what we’re about to do.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
“I crashed for a couple of hours.” Murphy pushed a beer can into my hand. “Second breakfast. It’s all we’ve got.”
“It’ll have to do.” I popped the tab on the aluminum can. “We can’t live on this stuff.”
Murphy chuckled softly. “Lots of people do. At least it’s not light beer.”
“Thank God for that,” I agreed.
“It’s not ideal, but we could probably survive on warm beer for maybe four or five days.”
I shrugged and took a long, hideous drink of warm beer. “We should probably pull it out of the fridge and store it in a net in the water. I hate warm beer.”
“Tell the boss.”
“Is Gretchen the boss?” I asked. “Is that what was decided?”
“More or less. But you know, man. There’s nothing formal, so don’t start getting your panties in a wad about it.”
