The Infected Dead (Book 6): Buried For Now

by Howard, Bob

  The final security test was the camera system that was laced throughout the miles of pipes on the rig. They weren’t like the lights on a Christmas tree that would all go out if one decided to quit, but Maybank had told Titus when he did his last upgrade that it would look like Christmas if every camera had a light on it. In fact, there were so many cameras that there were literally no hiding places on the rig.

  An added bonus of the last camera upgrade was the motion sensors. If something moved anywhere on the rig, he would get a text message that told him where the motion had happened. It was a nuisance at first because birds actually managed to reach the rig from time to time, but the advantage outweighed the nuisance. It became a real-time test of the motion sensors that was better than a scheduled test by two people.

  There was one more security measure in place that Maybank couldn’t imagine ever using, but when he flipped the switch that activated the system, it occurred to him that until this morning he never imagined seeing cannibalism on network news. Throughout the maze of steps, ladders, platforms, and pipes there was an ever-present hum. When the switch was off, power was supplied to thousands of different systems. When the switch was on, there were very few safe places to walk as the oil rig became a big electric chair.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Molly and Sam

  Six Years After the Decline

  It was Molly’s idea to start a journal, but she thought I should write it. She felt like one day everyone would want to read the words of Ed Jackson, the man who saved so many people because he had a shelter.

  When she suggested it to me, she said I should be the one to do it because I knew how everyone had survived. It had been my shelter that had kept everyone alive, and I knew how all of them had lived long enough to find me. She said she also wanted to read about herself rather than to tell her story. Telling it would be too painful. I never suspected at the time that I would be writing about how we lost her. The very idea of life without Molly was too foreign to consider.

  I had told her that everyone was a survivor because they made it past those first days, and those days were the worst. I had never really spoken with her about the things I had seen at the beginning because she had always been a little girl to me. Now, almost five years since the trip to Columbus, Ohio, she had grown into a teenager who was less like a little girl every day. She had also become restless and bored with her life in the company of the soldiers at Fort Sumter. I imagine I had grown a bit, too.

  I was seeing the same behavior from Sam. Both of them used to be about as polite as kids could be, but more than once in the last year I had seen them giving an attitude to someone older than them. Whether it was a soldier on guard duty or a member of the original Mud Island Family, Sam and Molly didn’t give them the respect they used to show adults. The sad reality was there weren’t other kids their age living in the shelter, and they felt left out. Whitney was closer to the ages of the soldiers and her friendships with adults had pulled her away from the younger girl. Sam was a little older than Molly, but he was still younger than the youngest of the soldiers. They were protected, given menial jobs to perform around the fort, and they felt like they were being looked down on. Maybe they were.

  I guess it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when they vanished at the beginning of summer. One day they were sitting on the wall that surrounded Fort Sumter just talking and watching the sun go down on the other side of Charleston. The next day Tom was searching every level of the shelter. Of course the rest of us were helping, but none of us held the same amount of hope as Tom. The note she had left for him was short and simple. She and Sam wanted to find a place of their own. Tom was devastated, and Kathy was at a loss for how to console him.

  As we searched the shelter, the helicopters were loaded with provisions for an extended search and rescue mission. On the off chance that they managed to avoid being spotted quickly, the Chief wanted the helicopters to be able to cover a large area without having to return to Fort Sumter for anything except fuel.

  Once all rooms in the shelter had been checked, everyone used the elevators to ascend to the top floor. We didn’t waste any time getting to the ladders and the surface where the waiting choppers were bringing their operating temperatures to optimal levels. The crews were ready for us as we climbed aboard.

  Only two of the Navy VH92A’s were warming up alongside the executive model Sikorsky S76D. Captain Miller had made it a standing order that one would always remain behind on standby because Fort Sumter was not as well defended when they were gone. If our friends across the harbor at Patriots Point saw all of them leave, it might make them feel bold enough to attack the fort.

  That was our other problem. Someone had converted the Yorktown, a World War II aircraft carrier, into a fortress of their own, and they had rejected all friendly attempts to establish contact. Over the last five years we had watched as they expanded from the carrier all the way to the middle of the massive Arthur C. Ravenel bridge that spanned Charleston harbor.

  The bridge had been like every other bridge in the country after the first days of the apocalypse. It was a graveyard with cars and trucks as the grave markers. People escaping from downtown Charleston toward Mt. Pleasant had probably wondered why so many people were on the other side of the bridge trying to escape in the opposite direction, and the same was likely to be true for people over on the other side. No matter which way they were going, they were driving toward death, and just like other bridges, traffic came to a stop. People abandoned their cars and left the worldly goods they had snatched up to take with them. They ran for their lives back the way they had come, being chased by the infected and running straight into the arms of the dead that waited for them.

  For weeks after that first day, the dead had wandered among the twisted wreckage on the bridge. They would occasionally find someone who had managed to remain hidden, but eventually there were no more desperate screams. There were no more pleas for mercy.

  At some point in time, the only infected dead on the bridge were those that were trapped in that endless, tangled maze of vehicles. They were exposed to the elements, and over the years they had either decayed or had become food for other predators. The rats and birds had picked the bones clean. The soldiers on watch at Fort Sumter reported seeing swarms of rats running along the railings of the bridge, and we knew anything moving on that bridge would be gone before long.

  A long period of quiet fell over the bridge graveyard. For over a year there were no changes we could see from Fort Sumter. Then we noticed a few of the cars were in different places. The changes were so subtle that we didn’t spot them at first, but some of the vehicles were more obvious than others, and when they were moved, we started watching more closely.

  Under the cover of darkness, someone was rearranging the graveyard. Sounds carried across the water at night as metal was bent and twisted free from the wreckage. Smaller vehicles near the top of the highest span were pushed down toward Charleston, and from what we could tell, a lane had been opened from Mt. Pleasant all the way to the top of the bridge. Trucks towed containers to the crest of the highest span, and somehow they managed to stack them on top of each other. First they were stacked across the width of the bridge, then they were stacked along the sides in an attempt to keep prying eyes from seeing what was happening behind them.

  Satellites were no longer providing imagery for us, so Captain Miller sent up helicopters to take a look from safe distances. Pictures taken during those flights told us all we needed to know. Someone had organized the survivors into a safe zone that included the bridge, the entire maritime museum at Patriots Point, and a corridor of roads that ran all the way to the docks on the Wando River. The fact that they were organized might have been good news if not for their unwillingness to meet their neighbors at Fort Sumter. They ignored radio hails, and would shoot across the bow when approached by water. All we could do was watch the bridge take on the appearance of a rusty red and yellow, rectangular fortress as container
after container was raised into position.

  We had been spending a lot of time speculating about how to establish a good relationship with the bridge people, but so far there was no solid plan. As we lifted off from Fort Sumter in the helicopters, all eyes were pointed in that direction, and we silently hoped that we were right in our guess that Molly and Sam wouldn’t have gone that way.

  Our best guess was that they had crossed the marshes toward Fort Johnson and then gone inland across James Island. The marshes were still treacherous, but if they were cautious enough, Sam and Molly could have navigated the quicksand-like spots and reached dry land. The thick woods where they could have left the marshes would provide excellent cover during the first hours of their disappearance.

  We didn’t believe there was much chance they had gone along the coast of Morris Island in an attempt to cross over to Folly Beach. They knew as well as we did that Folly Beach had remained heavily populated by the infected. Limited access to Folly Beach made it difficult for anyone to leave the coast, and that included the infected. Molly and Sam also knew that they would be easily spotted from the air, and it would take them longer to reach cover because they would have to travel in the open.

  The same was true of them leaving by water. If they went up the Ashley River, they would have needed to row against the current of the river, and they would have taken hours to reach the first place they could abandon the boat. There was also the likelihood of being seen by the infected dead that tended to wander into the boat landings.

  So, that left Fort Johnson. The three helicopters fanned out on a course that would take all of us in that general direction, but the two on the left and right of us would also be able to at least scan the less likely escape routes. With Tom in the copilot’s seat, we went straight down the middle of the best path.

  Although it was difficult to see anything useful in the mud flats that sat temporarily above the tide, Tom spotted footprints that could only have been made by two people. One person was walking behind the other, which was how they would have done it. They would also have tied a rope around their waists, and if one got stuck in the mud, the other would have freed them. The tandem footprints made their path easier to see from above.

  The Chief steered the sleek Sikorsky along that path, and Tom aimed his binoculars ahead in the same direction. There was a heart stopping moment when he leaned forward out of reflex and shouted that he could see something moving in a place where the water was pooled around the marsh grass.

  We all thought it was Molly and Sam as soon as we located the spot where Tom frantically pointed, but as we drew closer we knew that it wouldn’t be good news if it was one of them. The green, shiny body of an alligator was twisting and turning as it dragged its prey toward the water. Its powerful jaws were closed around the upper torso and shoulder of someone with black hair. Hair the color of Molly’s.

  The Chief poured on the speed, knowing that we had to get there before the alligator went under the surface. We had to at least know whether or not it was Molly. The only thing worse than seeing her die would be wondering if it had been her.

  The prey was wearing a red flannel shirt and jeans, and as we sped past the horrible scene, the Chief put the helicopter in a steep bank to give everyone on the right side a longer look. The face that was turned toward us by the twisting alligator was a mass of torn flesh, but it had obviously been a man. He had been heavier than Sam when alive, but the sheer number of old injuries was what identified him as an infected dead.

  The rivers along the coast had become a breeding ground for the alligators. They had found food to become plentiful in the early days of the apocalypse, but the number of bodies falling into the water had decreased with time. Now the alligators attacked quickly because there were so many of them that they were competing for food. They were also competing against the hordes of blue crabs that would steal the victims of the alligators from the underwater lairs where their bodies were hidden.

  As the Chief completed his steep bank and brought us back on our original course, we saw the alligator and its prey slipping below the surface. If the infected dead could be described as having one last expression on its face, it would have been indifference.

  The footprints disappeared when they reached a narrow tidal creek where the water had begun to get deeper, but then they resumed on the softer sand closer to the trees. From this point on it would become even more difficult to find the kids because there was plenty of cover.

  The Chief brought the chopper into position hovering just above the trees and panned the nose from left to right. In front of them was only a small island of trees covering a few acres of land. Beyond that was more marshland and mud flats, but a small gravel road had been built along the edge of the marshes, and it went almost all the way to Fort Johnson. If they had made it to that road far enough ahead of the search party, there would be very little chance of spotting them from the air.

  I leaned forward from the crew cabin and got the Chief’s attention. I didn’t have to shout because the executive Sikorsky was built for comfort and was much quieter than military helicopters.

  “We need to land and search this wooded area. We’ll never spot them from the air.”

  The Chief shook his head in my direction and then said something over his radio. He gestured in the direction of the helicopter that was flying on our left side. I followed his hand and saw it was already getting lower as it descended toward the gravel road.

  The Chief’s voice came over the internal speakers.

  “If they made it past these woods, then they are already at Fort Johnson or somewhere beyond. We would lose valuable time searching for them. We’re going to go ahead to a spot they couldn’t have reached yet and then work our way back. The crew that landed will search those trees and then begin searching along their trail if they don’t find them.”

  The Chief told everyone to wait a moment as he received a radio call. He gave some instructions to the crew on the ground and then came back to us.

  “New footprints were found in the mud near the gravel road. They’re deep and going in the right direction, and they’re in tandem. They must’ve been running, and the prints may be fresh.”

  We could feel the tilt of the Sikorsky as the Chief increased his forward speed. Fort Johnson flashed by beneath us, and we were all surprised to see how many of the infected still wandered out from the trees surrounding the buildings. The Chief didn’t bring our helicopter in for a landing as we expected. Instead, he raced inland and began to descend toward an unpaved bare patch that was cut in a perfect square surrounded by trees. Judging by the rows of boats along one side, it appeared to be a boat parking lot.

  A sign at the entrance of the lot sat next to a building, and it confirmed my thinking.

  It said, “South Carolina Department of Natural Resources, Boat Titling and Registration.”

  “We’ll work our way back from here,” said the Chief. “Chopper three is flying ahead to set up chokepoints where they would have to pass if they get by us. These woods are thick, but there are so many infected stumbling around that I can’t imagine they could be making good time.”

  The side door opened and we piled out onto the packed sand of the parking lot. Besides the Chief and Tom who sat up front, the passenger cabin could comfortably seat over a half dozen people. I handed my rifle out to Cassandra and climbed out with my wife, Jean. She had been a mother to Molly since our first day with the little girl, and I could tell by the grim expression on her face that she was focused on finding her, but she was afraid. Jean was so petite that we called her “Pixie” sometimes, but she could be formidable in a weapons fight. If it came down to rescuing Molly, Jean was good to have along on the trip.

  Cassandra Gibbs was a former Army soldier who had been working as a security officer on a Mercy Mission ship. She was fearless and had stayed alive on a harrowing journey at sea while everyone else on her ship had died. She was a quick thinker who would take on an army of the
infected if she had to.

  Her companion was a former member of the crew of Executive One. Terrance Simmons, Sim as he liked to be called, had been the navigator on the plane that had gotten the President out of Washington. He had chosen to come south with the Mud Island survivors when the rest of his crew had chosen to go north where the cold lasted most of the year. They reasoned that the infected wouldn’t survive there, and they could live peacefully. Sim and Cassandra had taken to each other over a glass of iced tea, and it was no surprise to any of us that they were still together.

  Colleen and Hampton were exchanging whispers privately. Two of the kindest people I had ever known and perfect for each other, they were probably talking about where the young boy and girl were hiding. They had survived in a suburban neighborhood near Charlotte and had some experience with house to house combat. Behind Colleen’s little Irish nose, freckles, and red hair was a keen mind and a sharp wit. Together with Hampton’s knowledge of the coastal regions, they were a skillful pair. Hampton had only left the coast when his home town had been overrun by the infection that caused people to die and then begin eating their neighbors.

  Bus, our doctor for the group, was talking with Kathy, Tom’s girlfriend and one of the survivors from a cruise ship who had landed virtually at the front door of my shelter on Mud Island. Kathy, along with Jean and the Chief had spotted me off shore when I had gone out in a boat to do some target practice. We had been family ever since.

  Bus had known Molly her whole life and had been a close friend of Tom and his wife Allison. When Allison had died while trying to escape from the infected city of Charleston, Kathy had become close to Tom, and Bus was quick to accept her. He knew she was good for Molly and for Tom.