Stranded Series (Book 5): Into The Gulf

by Gray, W. S.

Sliding open the curtain, he saw several people in various stages of undress competing for limited space with which to get properly adorned. Harry waited patiently from his perch, watching the scene with casual disinterest.

  “Hey,” Trey called out. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Breakfast,” Harry said.

  For some reason, the thought that they’d have regular meal times on board a military vessel fleeing the zombie-plagued islands of the South Pacific struck Trey as odd. He smiled and shook his head. “This is bizarre,” he said.

  “What’s bizarre about eating?” Harry asked, seeing a spot. He quickly hopped down to fill the vacated space before someone else did. Lifting his bunk, he began rifling through the compartments underneath, retrieving his pants and other clothing. “Man’s gotta eat,” he said.

  Trey shrugged. He laid his head back down on his lumpy plastic-coated pillow, trying to determine if he were, in fact, hungry enough to justify a trip out of his cell. With what had occurred just the previous… night? For a second, Trey lost himself in pursuit of the time. Then he grunted and decided he needed to eat something.

  Even if that meant opening himself up to a potential ambush.

  Hopping down, he gathered up his garments and went about getting dressed, finding some solace in the banal act. Trey felt people brush past as they rushed into the corridor. He heard lockers slam and people muttering under the breath. The room stank of stale sweat and maleness. Trey decided that it wasn’t necessarily a pleasant odor.

  Dressed, he looked around, seeing his dad waiting patiently by the door, an impatient frown on his face. “Ready?” Harry asked, raising one eyebrow.

  Nodding, Trey advanced forward. He ignored the tightness in his chest and rising blood pressure as he plowed through into the hall, nearly running into a tall soldier in the process. “Sorry,” he said.

  “Je suis desole,” Harry whispered, his foul breath warm on the back of his son’s neck.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Trey asked. He had to walk in order not to be trampled by the mob. “Glad I don’t have to try and ask for directions to the… what do they call the café or whatever, anyway?” he asked.

  Harry chuckled. “Chow hall. Anyway, Je suis desole means ‘I’m sorry,’” he said. “You need to start learning some basic French. We’re probably going to be on this ship for a while.”

  Trey hit his shin on a piece of metal jutting up from the floor as he stopped to enter a humid stairwell that would lead up to the next deck. “Shit,” he said. Glaring down, he silently berated the obstruction that’d hurt him. “That hurt,” he said. Then he shuffled forward. One needed to keep up with the frenetic pace, he was learning.

  That is, if they didn’t want to be trampled.

  “Hopefully the food is good,” he said. He had to speak loudly in order to be heard above the developing din. Hundreds of voices could be heard simultaneously competing in the area just above them. As Trey emerged into the mess hall, he saw a long line of soldiers curving around a row of long white, cafeteria-style tables. The people who’d already gotten their food ate from plates and bowls atop brown trays, shoveling food greedily into their mouths.

  It appeared the some of the soldiers had coffee, but instead of in cups, the steaming beverage appeared to be contained in bowls. “Are they…” Trey licked his lips. It seemed so bizarre, to see people sipping coffee from bowls. It just added to the surreality of the situation. “Are they drinking from bowls?” he asked.

  “It does appear so, son,” Harry said affably, slapping his son on the back. “Astute observation. They teach you how to do that in law school?” he asked.

  “Shut up,” Trey said.

  Shuffling forward with the line, Trey began to feel hunger gnawing at his gut. He was glad he’d elected to get up. However, as he peeked at the passing trays for some clues as to what to expect from the French fare, it appeared that breakfast was both small and limited to various carbs and fruit. With, of course, the caffeine in a bowl.

  “Hope we see Sofia,” Trey said. At the mention of her name, he felt a pang of guilt. He didn’t like being separated from her. Plus, he genuinely missed her. For the first time in recent memory, they weren’t surrounded by vicious hordes or potential threats, and there Trey was, unable to devote the precious opportunity to reconnecting with the only person he’d ever truly loved.

  As they moved closer to the serving queue, Trey observed a row of lean men wearing hairnets busily serving bread and fruit to the individuals passing through the line. The entire process seemed eerie, in context. It seemed far too familiar. Orderly. Having had his default reset to a mode of perpetual panic, it felt hard to break free from his survival mode. Yet, the banal process of selecting viands from a cafeteria-style menu offered him the alluring prospect of letting his guard down.

  “When’s the last time we actually had breakfast?” Trey asked, turning back toward his father.

  Harry grunted. He shrugged. “I don’t remember,” he said. “But it’s been a while,” he said. He smiled and shook his head. “I’m almost afraid to drink the coffee,” he said.

  “Why?” Trey asked, raising an eyebrow. He felt genuinely curious.

  “You think I want to be buzzing around this madhouse? If we’re not plastered to our bunk, I guarantee someone will find something for us to do. Last thing I want to do after barely making out of that mess back there is get stuck, all jittery, cleaning toilets,” he said. “And that’d be just my luck.” He chuckled, then pointed when the line started moving. He wiped a hand over his face. “I tell you, the coffee on this ship might actually be good,” he said. “I remember someone telling me the French MREs are great,” he said.

  “Yeah, but these aren’t MREs,” Trey said.

  “I KNOW THAT, son,” Harry said, shaking his head and smiling with wry amusement. “What I’m saying is, they have a reputation for serving better grub than our ol’ Uncle Sam,” he said.

  Trey nodded. Then he shuffled forward to the actual serving area. Once within a few feet of the covered food, he could smell it. The warm, comforting aromas of freshly baked bread and pastries filled the space. One of the people behind the counter, a swarthy man with bad teeth and an ugly mole on his long, thin nose, looked up, a thin, impatient frown crossing his face.

  On instinct, not wanting to displease the figure, Trey pointed. He wasn’t even sure what he was pointing at. But he smiled with a tinge of relief when he saw the server reach out in the general direction of Trey’s finger. He grabbed a flaky, buttery croissant. However, Trey hadn’t taken a tray or any of the associated accouterment.

  When he turned, Trey saw that his dad had already retrieved the items for him, astutely noticing that his son had overlooked them. Muttering a general apology, Trey took the proffered tray and pushed it forward, allowing the server to dump the food on it. He moved down the line. Again pointing, Trey selected some green melon balls and some red grapes.

  Foregoing coffee, Trey waited for his dad at the end of the line. As he did so, he scanned the crowd. Part of him was just curious. The entire scene was quite unlike anything he’d ever encountered. Perhaps the closest thing he could think of that he’d experienced was the common cafeteria in college. Nonetheless, even that had been drastically different than this. For one, it hadn’t been nearly as loud. Trey tried to figure out how it could even be so noisy in the large room, given that every person he saw was busy earnestly shoveling food into their mouths.

  Just as Harry finished, Trey smiled. Euphoria flooded his veins. Pointing excitedly, he gestured toward where Bishop Bronson sat with Melody and Sofia. “Found them,” Trey said, almost in disbelief. Rushing forward, he almost slipped on some spilled liquids on the gleaming tile floor.

  Noticing the blank stares of several nearby French soldiers, Trey smiled awkwardly and waved a dismissive hand in the air. Then he continued on, too happy to reunite with his family to indulge any momentary embarrassment that might be accrued from such an incident.<
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  Securing a seat next to Melody, he pecked her on the cheek as he set his tray down on the table. Then he went over and gave his daughter a hug, smiling wide as she wrapped her arms enthusiastically around him. “Hey, sweetie,” Trey said. He beamed. A solitary tear slid down his cheek as he held the embrace. “I love you,” he whispered.

  Finally, feeling the collective stare of his small group boring a hole into him, Trey removed himself from his daughter’s arms. He wiped his eye and then sat down on the uncomfortable metal stool. He took a feeble bite of food, his hands trembling from the residual effects of raw emotion. Trying to act nonchalant, he avoided looking at anyone as he fought to regain some semblance of control over himself.

  “Good croissant,” Trey said, crumbs falling down onto his shirt.

  “You big sap, you,” Melody said, smiling. She reached out and placed one hand on her husband’s. “I’m glad to see you,” she said.

  “Yeah, me, too,” Trey said. He grinned as he wiped his face. “This really is a good croissant,” he said.

  “Oh, silly…” Melody said, shaking her head. She took a nibble from a piece of fruit and then spooned a bit of yogurt into her mouth.

  “Shit, I didn’t see the yogurt,” Trey said.

  “You know, you never used to cuss so much,” Melody said. “I’m not sure I’ll ever really get used to the change,” she said. She frowned. Staring vacantly off into the distance, she seemed lost in her own tumultuous thoughts for several seconds. Then, blinking, she snapped out of it. She shook her head and smiled. “Crazy,” she said.

  “What’s crazy?” Trey asked. He arched an eyebrow. Then, as he waited for a response, he became suddenly aware of the Bishop’s presence.

  “Hey, I almost forgot all about you,” Trey said. “How have you been?” he asked. Looking at the man, with his purple bags under his tired eyes, Trey couldn’t help but feel an immense gratitude for the religious leader’s personal courage and substantial sacrifices. It was hard to even fathom how much he’d really given up, to leave his old life and group behind, only to follow a bunch of armed strangers blindly across the planet.

  “I’ve been better,” Bishop Bronson said. “I’m tired,” he added.

  Trey nodded. He took a small bite of food, wishing he’d thought to grab something to help wash it all down. “May I have a drink of your…” he looked. Seeing something vaguely orange and silty resting in a glass, he wondered if it were orange juice. When his wife nodded, he took the beverage and sipped it. He pursed his lips and squinted, scrunching up his nose. Handing back the juice, he ignored his wife and daughter’s laughter as he tried to get the sour taste out of his mouth. “That did not help AT ALL,” he said.

  “Well, Bishop…” Trey looked at the man. He wanted to think of something profoundly eloquent, something that might adequately reflect the depths of his gratitude. Nonetheless, such mellifluousness refused to come. So, he decided to settle on the second-best option, which was the truth. “You know, we probably wouldn’t be here without you,” he said.

  “Probably,” Harry asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “Good point. We definitely wouldn’t be here without you. So, I wanted to say thank you. Again?” Trey asked, trying to remember if he’d even expressed his gratitude in words prior to that point. “Either way, thanks,” he said.

  “Well, don’t thank me, Trey. Thank the Lord,” Bishop Bronson said. “I am merely an imperfect vessel for His will,” he said.

  Harry coughed.

  Trey turned and issued a stern rebuke with his eyes. He allowed his angry, withering gaze to linger as he waited for some sign of contrition from his father. When none came, Trey settled for the unspoken agreement to abide by the undeclared truce that he saw in Harry’s face.

  Nodding, he returned his attention back to the Mormon Bishop. “Maybe we’ll get a chance to discuss what all went on during your little trip to rendezvous with the other frigate,” Trey said, smiling. However, he observed the quick change in the man’s demeanor. Something about the mention of the other frigate caught the religious figure’s attention. “What?” Trey asked.

  “Well, I had a dream…” Bishop Bronson said.

  Harry stood up abruptly. “I’m going for seconds. Anyone want anything?” he asked brusquely.

  Trey shook his head. He couldn’t quite understand why his stubborn father couldn’t just set aside his doctrinal differences for a little while. The Bishop was a kind, good man. And he’d literally been instrumental in saving their very lives. “I’ll take some yogurt. And… some water. Or coffee, if I must,” he said.

  Then he returned his attention back to the Bishop. Trey tried to keep from dwelling on his dissatisfaction with his dad. It was beginning to bother him, that Harry seemed willing to risk their very lives simply to… Trey didn’t even know what the man was trying to accomplish.

  Deciding to ignore the pestering, festering anger he felt toward his dad, Trey redirected his attention back to the Bishop. “I’m sorry…” he said. He’d managed to lose track of what they’d been talking about.

  The Bishop cleared his throat. He glanced around. His complexion became noticeably more pale. As he sat there, fidgeting, sweat forming on his upper lip, he bore testimony to the inner struggle he was experiencing. Finally, he broke his silence. “I had a dream they crashed,” he said. “More of a nightmare, really,” he said.

  Trey stared at the man. He didn’t know what to say. At first blush, it seemed silly. To think that dreams could have such importance and meaning. But, after surviving the first leg of the zombie apocalypse, he didn’t know that he should so easily discount the possibility that the Mormon Bishop might actually have some special connection with the invisible world existing on some simultaneous plane of existence. Everything that’d transpired had conspired to conscript his sanity into the army of the surreal.

  After what seemed a long time, Trey spoke. “You actually believe it’ll happen?” he asked. “Have you had such… I don’t know… premonitions? Have you had these types of dreams before?” he asked.

  The Bishop simply nodded.

  And then he went back to his breakfast.

  Chapter 13

  Trey shrieked.

  Jumping up, he confronted the first attacker.

  However, unlike the night before, this time, Trey’s nemesis possessed a knife.

  Instinctively raising one forearm up above his head, he grimaced as the tall male figure sliced into him. Blood instantly spilled out of the open wound. The attacker slipped in it as he thrust forward with the blade.

  Sofia screamed. She got up, scampering away toward the back of the small room, where the lockers were located.

  Trying not to pay attention to anything other than the armed enemy in front of him, Trey watched as his dad and Melody took on the second assailant. He smiled. Pain and anger mixed in his heart to form a volatile cocktail that could only precipitate extreme violence. Satisfied that the knife-wielding ambusher’s compatriot would soon be subdued, Trey took a step backward. He needed just the slightest bit of space between himself and the attacker.

  Removing his shirt, Trey quickly wrapped it around his forearm. Tying it off, he grunted as a wave of pain surged through his consciousness. He wanted to stop. He desperately desired to pause and try and reason with the character who’d forced Trey into such a compromising position. But he knew he couldn’t.

  He knew he needed to eliminate the threat. Trey understood that this meant killing the man.

  As the French soldier moved forward to meet Trey once again, breathing heavily, his movements a little more uncertain now that his elaborately constructed ambush had failed to adequately capture the most essential element of surprise, he held the serrated black blade off to one side. He feinted. He seemed to know how to handle a knife, moving with a certain practiced ease. Even grace.

  However, Trey’s inexperience and desperation could only work to his advantage. He intuited that the figure would react according to the ing
rained knowledge he possessed. In the dangerous sport of combat, life and death could be measured in mere fractions of a second. And when one’s mind defaulted to training and one began predicting what should occur, there could be a short time where they weren’t focusing on what was actually in front of them.

  He waited. Trey wanted the man to attack.

  Because that would give Trey the opportunity to set his trap.

  Glancing to the side, he calculated the slight distance between himself and the bottom bunk. Trey didn’t know whose the bed was. Though it seemed that no particular bed had been assigned to any one individual, but, rather, the only thing that was given was the designated area. Trey’d heard rumors that all of the French soldiers would actually be swapping beds as they rotated their shifts.

  As the attacked lunged, Trey quickly darted to the side. He leaped into the bottom bunk and then immediately sprang forward. Smiling, he laughed as he saw the attacker turn around.

  The man blinked in confusion. It took him a full second or two to realize that he’d been successfully flanked by his inferior. Grunting, the attacker did the only thing he knew how in such instances: he went back on the offensive.

  As the man rushed Trey, he gripped the knife with his right hand, holding it low and off to one side. He sliced and slashed the air as he moved closer, trying to keep some distance and maneuver his foe.

  However, Trey had other plans.

  Absorbing a blow with his covered, already wounded left arm, Trey immediately followed with a swift kick to the knee. He smiled as he heard the blow connect. Trey kicked the man again, this time in the ribs. After having used a small blade in a shoe to kick the shit out of a horde previously, it seemed easy, now. Delivering such strategically placed strikes.

  Finishing the round, Trey kicked the French soldier in the groin.

  As the man collapsed onto the ground, assuming a fetal position, Trey first went for the knife. He was careful to approach from the side, as the figure could still manage a thrust up into his body or face. Securing the guy’s wrist, he strained and struggled to pry the lethal instrument from the soldier’s grasp.