Lassiter
“Whiskey Three Two Zero, are we clear to land, over?”
Lassiter listens with half an ear to the pilot negotiating where to land, while taking in what there is to see. Apparently a barge directly below them is the agreed upon spot, because they are already descending. The Skyway Bridge is the major feature in the area, but the line of ships anchored in the shipping channel is of more interest. He spots three large Coast Guard Cutters, a cruise ship, an oil tanker and a freighter. Even further out he notices the sleek shape of what looks like a submarine. The target barge is one of six, all lashed together and anchored just south of the eastbound span of the Skyway. Two tugboats are tied up with the barges.
The pilot, Duncan, sets them down gently, while his copilot, Lot is already giving Lassiter orders: “Listen Chief,” he says with a faint Carolina accent, “we need coffee and some snacks, anything you can get a hold off. Notice any problems with our bird from your end?”
“Negative Lieutenant to problems.”
Lassiter looks up to see a whole team of blue-uniformed, Coast Guard mechanics are converging on the chopper. Best of all, a petite woman hurries forward, hunched over beneath the still turning rotors carrying two bags. With a smile she holds up the first bag, and he sees the word coffee scrawled on it. The second bag says donuts. She hands them both over.
He holds both bags for a moment and watches two guardsmen hook them up to a fuel hose. When he’s sure they know what They’re doing, he steps over to the cockpit and hands the bags through to Lot.
“Hey! This is great Chief!” exclaims Duncan. “There’s a coffee in here for you to and plenty of donuts. This day might get better yet.”
Duncan passes the coffee bag back to him. Lassiter waves off the bag a donuts, sits down and opens the bag. Reaches in and closes his hand around a large Styrofoam cup. Creamers and sugar are in the bag too, but black sounds real good right now. He takes off the lid and takes a careful sip. Just the right temperature. Closes his eyes, takes a large swallow and has a thought: This is probably as good a time as it’s ever going to get again.
I just need to see this through and then we’ll see about tomorrow.
“You ready Chief?” comes through the headset. “We’ve got full tanks.”
See it through.
The guardsmen are disconnecting the hose. “Wait one!” he says, watching for all of them to get clear. “We’re clear, sir!”
Natalie
One lane on Thirty Eighth Avenue, under the Interstate 275 overpass, is clear. Newspapers float and flutter everywhere in the tangled mess of cars and sprawled dead bodies.
Somebody must’ve unblocked it.
The car has drifted to a complete stop and she is sitting there, foot now on the brake, gathering her courage. No zombies or people around. Just bodies.
The pistol is in her lap. Just in case. The whole thing might be a trap.
I can’t sit here forever.
Nothing moving up on the interstate, that she can see.
I don’t think I could go through there slow. No way. Like a rocket is the only way. And the longer I sit here, the less likely I’ll ever go.
Her foot eases onto the gas and floors it. The car leaps forward, tires squealing, and engine roaring as she fights to keep aimed at the opening. The way through narrows and for a second or two she is sure she’ll sure the car won’t fit–But then the car is in the clear, back in the sunshine with not a single car in front of her at least until 16th Street North, several blocks away.
Off to the right side, she drives right past two blurred figures, standing beside a tow truck. There is a muffled shout, and then she is fifty yards away, and already beginning to stand on the brakes a bit in order to make the turn safely onto 16th Street North. Things shift in the seat beside her and in the midst of the right turn the gun slides from her lap and falls down between her legs.
Sixteenth Street North looks clear all the way south into the downtown area, and the police station. The only problem is the Allendale neighborhood east, to Natalie’s left, is full of burning houses. Smoke is drifting west across the road, but is dispersing fast.
Bodies are in the street sprawled in puddles of blood. Some have been driven over. Road kill. Human road kill. Who could ever imagine this? Good Lord is that someone’s leg on that car’s roof? And the blood…
She weaves in and out, and is pretty sure her tires only rolled over two of the bodies. Even that left her shuddering.
The stoplights are all out. The streets are deserted. Lines are down, and some of them must have been hot. Around one downed line alone, she spots five blackened corpses. More houses are either burning or still smoldering.
At the intersection of 22nd Avenue North and 16th Street North, she sees two army vehicles: a Humvee with a big gun on its roof, and a big six-wheeled truck. Sunlight glints off countless spent brass cartridges lying on the street. More bodies sprawl with abandon, but many of these are missing wholes chunks of flesh. Probably victims of the big gun. She laughs. Not victims. Anything but.
She catches herself slowing down. Her nerves are on a razor’s edge, and the big menacing gun is intimidating. No reason to be afraid. The wheels of her car are jolting and rolling over bodies now. Too many to avoid. With each one, she can hear herself moaning and crying at the horror. Trying not to hear the morbid sounds of bodies and limbs being run over.
No one appears to be in the vehicles. The car is almost down to a crawl. Her eyes are still drawn to the gun. The barrel is long and full of holes. A belt of immense bullets ribbons out from a box to a slot in the side of the gun.
Movement behind the vehicle draws her attention as she draws even with it. A lean, young guy in an army uniform is sitting on the ground, leaning against the driver’s door. His hair is a sandy brown, and he has a reddish five o’clock growth on his cheeks.
She actually puts her foot on the brake, and the car rocks briefly then stops.
“You ok?” she asks.
The guy looks up, and she sees his eyes are a steely blue. For a moment, she was worried they’d be milky white. That he’d be one of them.
He shakes his head. “The last attack…all my friends are dead. Nobody answers down at the command post near the Pier.”
She debates in her head. “Want to come with me?” The words are out before she can stop them.
“I’m supposed to stay here, but I’m all alone. Sergeant Creek took the rest of the platoon and left me here with my friend, Frances and Corporal Hunt. Corporal Hunt is dead over by the Deuce and a half, and Frances…”
“What’s your name?” she asks softly, realizing that he has been crying.
“I’m Mark Leonard. Private First Class Leonard.”
“Well, Mark, I could really use your help. I doubt your sergeant would mind.”
“If he comes back and I’m gone, he probably would raise hell if he knew the truth. For all he knows, though I’m missing and dead. We haven’t heard from them in hours.”
“So you’ll help me then?”
“What are we doing?”
“Going to check on my mom. I’m not too good with guns. Maybe you wouldn’t mind protecting me while we go to my house?”
He stands up, grabbing a helmet and his rifle while doing so. “If you’ll feed me when we get there, you have a deal,” he says, giving her a little grin.
“You have a deal, Mark.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Natalie.”
Jacobs
Jacobs plants both feet, inhales deeply, and puts his first bullet right between an older man’s eyes. The man falls backwards. Another is coming. Shift aim. Fire again. The corpse tumbles back down the stairs.
More of them are pressing forward, up the stairs, out of the darkness. He takes a grenade from one of the loops alongside his ammo pouch. Pulls the pin, counts to three and tosses it into the stairwell. Hears it hit the floor over the moans, then a second or two later it goes off. The explosion is loud. The things on
the stairs stumble and lose their balance. Three of them press on.
Laser right between the eyes. Easy squeeze. The head disappears in a gout of blood and tissue matter. Shift aim again. Forehead just above a tattooed eyebrow. Close enough. Fires. Shift aim. This one getting too close. Inadvertently, he squeezes off a short burst. The bullets stitch the corpse from neck to cheek to temple, and slam into the wall behind. Deep breath. Magazine is more than half full. Advance a step or two.
Pans with the flashlight, from left to right. Bodies jumbled together at the landing below. None moving. Advance further, stepping over twisted limbs, spilled guts, staring eyes…Stops briefly on the landing. Making sure all are truly dead. Thinks, at least there is no patience or cunning to these things.
One more turning and the dark will be total. The light is very faint. The next landing is just visible. There is a door, and the stairs continue downward.
He stands completely still, but keeps his knees flexed, and just listens.
Nothing.
A carpet runner runs down the middle of the stairs. In the light of the flashlight it looks slick and slimy with something. The urge to just hurtle down the steps is almost overwhelming. Get away from the stench of death and shit. What I wouldn’t do for fresh air, right now.
He forces his right boot down the next step. Pauses. What if more of them are just waiting behind the door? Shakes his head. Lifts his left leg and lowers himself another step. The laser jiggles, then steadies in the center of the door. His right hand holds the pistol grip of his rifle, and the left holds the flashlight with a strap around his wrist.
Surely the gunfire and the grenade would have drawn any of the things lurking down here?
Takes another step, and nearly slips.
Hears his own heavy breathing. Getting too worked up. Worst thing happens is that I die here. And wouldn’t that just be a bitch? He forces himself into stillness once again, waiting until his breathing evens out and his pulse goes down.
The last steps go by while he tries to hold back against the urge to panic. There is blood on this landing too, but it is dry and flaky.
Without testing the door, he continues downward.
Hadley
One last time Marge. I’m a dead man now for sure. Cheated death too many times. Just let me help these good people.
He holds the M-4 carbine up, marveling that the U.S. Army could still be using a variant of the M-16. This particular model even has the grenade launcher attachment. As the elevator ascends, he figures out how to load a grenade. The whole thing now is whether he’ll have to use it when the elevator reaches the top deck.
There is a slight jerk as the elevator comes to a halt. A moment later, the doors slide open. Mother of God… Four of the dead are standing in the doorway. A dozen or more stand in front of the other bank of elevators.
His finger jerks on the grenade trigger and the round shoots just over the head of a small, bald Asian man. The grenade hits the other elevators and explodes. While bodies fly in the background, the four creatures in front of him are unfazed and turn toward him immediately. Panicking a bit, he hoses all four until the magazine runs dry. Three of the things are down, but the fourth is untouched. It, what used to be a hulking soldier, only has to shamble forward a step or two to be on top of him, and yank the rifle right out of his hands. Hadley is still a big, strong man, and he steps forward and hammers the thing with a combination of left and right jabs. The rifle clatters to the floor and spins away.
Time is catching up to me Marge. Time was I’d knock this bastard on his ass, zombie or not. Hadley bends over wheezing, reaching for the pistol holstered on his belt.
The pistol comes free, but the dead soldier is right back on top of him, a hand at his throat and the other grappling with Hadley’s free hand. The fingers contract remorselessly and everything begins to go dark around the edges. The snarling face comes forward, teeth bared, and Hadley feels the things teeth close over his nose and into his flesh, tearing…
Blood sprays as the thing tears with clenched teeth. The pain is unbelievable, but some shred of Hadley refuses to simply give in. He shifts his body and is able to get the revolver up under the thing’s chin. Pulls the trigger once, twice.
The two big men stand together for a moment more, until one let’s go of the other.
Tracks
They can all hear the explosion and shots while still in the stairwell.
Tracks takes the stairs right behind Bronte. “Should’ve rode with him,” he says, breath huffing.
“Let it be, Tracks. He knew what he was doing.”
Bronte crashes through the door without stopping, betraying his concern for the old police chief. Tracks is on his heels, followed closely by the others.
Hadley’s corpse is already being consumed by four or five of the things. More are coming through a doorway off to the right. Bronte aims his rifle and begins to fire single shots. Tracks runs past him lugging the machine gun. The safety is already off and ready. He fires short bursts from the hip into the creatures coming through the doorway. The bodies jerk with the impacts in a macabre dance, while any that aren’t hit in the head remain upright, or climb back to their feet. The redheaded woman, Sinclair stops beside him, picking her targets, knocking zombies down for good by aiming with her rifle’s laser sight.
To his left, Tracks can see the opposite bank of elevators has been destroyed, two of the three, anyway. Probably the large explosion they heard. A small fire still smolders among the twisted metal doors and body parts.
“Cover me, while I re-load,” Sinclair shouts in his ear. He nods, still a bit winded from running up the stairs. Bodies continue to twist and fall with each squeeze of the trigger. The tide of them is slowing, and he takes more time to try for head shots.
The machine gun runs dry, and Tracks hurries to re-load. Sinclair is back up alongside him, but she only fires twice. “Got them all for the moment,” she says.
The others are already busy pulling the dolly carts out of the elevator. “Right this way,” yells Chief Nast. He and the crewman are pulling the dollies, and the captain is standing nearby covering them. Bronte is looking back down the stairwell.
“What happened to Graham?” Bronte asks.
“Don’t know,” says Sinclair, while moving toward the captain’s group.
“Hurry!” shouts the captain. “We need to hurry!”
“We can’t leave him, Tracks,” Bronte says, waving him over.
“He dead, Bronte.”
Bronte watches his eyes, searching his face, wondering whether to believe, or disbelieve. Hard to tell if he preferred one to the other.
Gunfire erupts behind them, and so the decision is made.
Both men turn away from the stairs and run to join the others.
Daric
“Don’t go Daric, please.”
The look on her face is so heartrendingly sad that his resolve nearly crumbles.
“I’ll be back Beth.” he says, and shuts the door in her face, leaving her with the little dog.
She might have said something else, but he is already moving away. No sign of Ozzie or Janicea. They must be over on the smaller boat.
He doesn’t allow himself to stop. Stopping will give him too much time to think about what he’s doing. As it is, he can feel himself shaking. I’m not the best swimmer in the world.
The catamaran is swaying a bit with the waves. He sits down on the transom at the rear of the boat, slides his sneaker into the water, then swings his other leg over. Still holding on with both arms, he turns around and lets the warm water close over his chest. He holds a small plastic cooler and pushes himself away from the boat. The cooler keeps a good portion of him out of the water and allows him to kick his way toward the cruise ship.
Can’t swim very good, but I’m good as long as I don’t panic. At the back of his mind, just out of sight, a small fear niggles at him. No. Don’t go there. Can’t think about it, all control will be lost. Still, can’t be
ignored. A lot of dead people in the water and a lot of blood.
Sharks are out there. Probably all around.
Just can’t see them.
He holds onto the cooler and keeps kicking, aiming for the doorway. Feels something brush his right thigh. Almost a 122 tugging sensation. Keeps kicking, but he can hear himself sob. What else could it be but a shark?
Please Jesus, let me make it and help my friend.
“Daric, you come back here!” shouts a voice. Janicea.
Keeps kicking without looking back.
“You heard me, I said come back this instant!”
“Daric!” this, the voice of Beth.
He pushes the cooler up and onto the edge of the doorway. The sound of the waves slapping against the ship’s hull echo in the space beyond. He slings his leg over the edge and hauls himself aboard. There is a long tear in his pants. The skin looks abraded, almost stippled with tiny cuts. Looks like he brushed up against something abrasive. The pain is little more than a sting, so he pushes the thought from his mind.
“Gotta find Tracks,” he says, and bends over slightly to open the cooler. The pistol is high and dry inside. Right next to it is a knife that must be for scaling fish or something. It has a hooked point and one side is serrated.
He pulls both weapons out along with one last item: a boxy, 6-cell flashlight. The knife has a clip-on sheath that he hooks to his belt on the left side. Holding the flashlight in his left hand, and the pistol in his right, he advances into the shadowy room beyond the doorway.
Graham
He hears himself sigh in the dark. The pain radiating across his chest and his left arm is enormous and it is all that he can do to stay upright on his knees. He draws a shallow breath, and feels very weak.
Running anywhere is out of the question.
I can kneel here in the dark for a while. I think this is it. Everything ends here. I failed at everything. Now, I’m going to die alone in the dark.
Tears come to his eyes. Using the rifle with one hand, and the other on the railing, he manages to rise to his feet.
Can’t believe none of them have come for me. No friends or zombies. Course, calling them friends might be stretching the truth. They barely know me.
Dead Tide Rising Page 9