Dead Tide Rising

by Stephen North

  His balance isn’t good.

  Maybe I can make my way back to the exit. I only made it up one flight of stairs. Just down, and then twenty steps maybe, and I’m in the doorway. Fire a shot if I have too to get Ozzie’s attention.

  The pain is doubling him over. He can almost feel it magnifying. He takes a step down, and his legs nearly buckle. Takes another, then another, almost stumbling downstairs, knowing he is out of control. At the last moment, he reaches over with his left hand and manages to stop his plunge. Both legs are trembling, and the pain keeps coming in waves.

  I’m about to fall. No strength left. He can hear his own breathing, heavy and labored. Coughs. Feels his fingers let go. Brief sensation of falling. A dark wave overtakes him, rending and tearing. A tether snaps, the pain ends. He soars.

  Graham’s lifeless body falls headfirst and is still.

  Foster

  He sits in front of the computer screen, trying to concentrate on the report in front of him. Finally pushed myself too far. No amount of coffee is going to keep me awake now. The report is entitled, “Overseas Assets and the Status of Our Allies.”

  Three or four smudges mar the computer screen, and the keyboard is filthy. Long way from home Burt.

  He licks his lips. Thirsty. A nice big Scotch would probably hit the spot right now.

  No contact with South Korea, Japan and Philippines. Australia under martial law, but much of the continent in upheaval. The words mean nothing. His eyelids droop. He lays his head on the desk, slips away without even knowing it. Remembers stepping outside, feeling the brisk wind on his face, the drift of fallen leaves rustling, tumbling images of the last day in the White House.

  He remembers grubby hands reaching through the fence bars and a man’s pale face, mouth open and gasping like a fish out of water, and his fingers with their half-circles of grime beneath the nails.

  Images of burning vehicles and buildings, barely coherent sounds, a short burst of gunfire. “Mr. President,” shouted from thirty voices. The brilliant, perfectly coiffed grass of the lawn beneath his feet. Bloody bullet-riddled corpses sprawled around a helicopter. Smoke pouring from the White House’s upper windows.

  “Run sir, for God’s sake, run!” shouted one of his agents, one of the two of his secret servicemen about to be left behind. They stood side by side shooting into a horde of the things.

  He turned away, refusing to see the servicemen die for him. Leaned his head back in the headrest, mumbling to himself.

  “What’s that sir?” asked Clive, the head of his detail. Foster wondered. So far, the dream has replayed the whole incident.

  What did I say?

  It wasn’t good. Clive kept his face neutral, but he blinked. It wasn’t a Kodak moment.

  Then it comes, just a few muttered words, but once said…

  “They’re dirty. They’re all so fucking dirty. Why is that Clive?”

  Clive took him seriously, “Because They’re beasts? sir, nothing more.”

  Keller

  “What is wrong with you?” Amy asks, leaning toward him.

  He closes his eyes briefly, forcing himself to compose an answer, rather than just blurt out something crazy. Feels her hand, cool on his cheek, apparently unmindful of the two-day stubble.

  Seemingly in the background, he hears Mills say, “That’s it, I’m through with fucking around. We’re going to try 34th Street.”

  Talaski replies, “Like hell! Let’s talk this through. We made it beneath the interstate. We got a four lane road for several miles now.”

  He opens his eyes, and finds a concerned look on her face, only inches from his own. “Guess I was close to the edge there. Wasn’t thinking.”

  “You’re not alone, Matt.”

  “This mean you’ll go out with me?”

  A smile flickers at the edge of her mouth. “What do you think, silly man? Haven’t you noticed how close my lips are to yours? And nobody is even looking.”

  Keller grins, leans forward and kisses her. He raises a hand to the back of her neck, but is otherwise completely lost in the moment.

  Trish

  She tries to think about all the sweaty, stinky men she’s encountered in the last couple years. None of them ever got closer than a lap dance, but she does feel a bit of shame, remembering. “This is really horrible,” she says, without thinking.

  Morgan looks up, “Just let me do it Trish. I’ve been around corpses and shit all my adult life.”

  “You were a janitor or something, weren’t you?” she asks, looking at the burned and bloody coveralls he’s wearing.

  “Something like that,” he replies. “I worked for the Coroner’s office, and I was a janitor. It was a dirty fucking job, but I only had a few assholes to deal with.”

  “Funny, your job doesn’t sound much different than mine.”

  He laughs, “Oh? Never did hear what you did before…”

  “Well, I could say I was a featured entertainer, but really I was a nude dancer.”

  He’s actually blushing. So red! You’d think I said something explicit. Guess the words took him right there.

  He doesn’t say anything, but rolls a corpse over and fishes in the guy’s front right pocket. He pulls out a roll of money and a bunch of keys.

  “Did I surprise you?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure,” he answers, keeping his head down. He crawls on his knees over to a woman’s body, sprawled with her dress around her waist, and reaches for her purse. The dress is a shell white, and her thong is pink. Both colors contrast nicely with her creamy chocolate skin. She can’t tell whether Morgan is staring at the woman or not.

  “You a prude?” she asks.

  “Does it matter, Trish? You already told me you weren’t interested.”

  “It matters if it’s a problem for you. Am I a slut now?”

  He doesn’t answer, but empties the woman’s purse onto the floor. Change clatters, along with lipstick and a cell phone. A big wallet also falls out.

  “Look Morgan, I really don’t need this shit. Tell me what your problem is, or I’m out of here.”

  “My mom was a dancer too. Mostly a hooker, but she’d try to tell me all she did was dance. I didn’t even know where. I grew up with my grandma for the most part. Mom was never home. God knows who my dad was. The two of them, my grandma and my mom, would argue about who my dad was, but I never found out. Somehow, hearing that you did the same thing is just a little too much.”

  “I never hooked Morgan.”

  “Go tell it to someone who cares, Trish. Let’s just get a wheelchair, find some keys and get the hell out of here, ok?”

  She stops and makes herself take a deep breath. Change the subject. Nothing more needs to be said.

  “Wait, why don’t we make this easy?” she asks.

  “How?”

  “Let’s look for employees and get their keys. All their cars should be far out on the lot right? They park out there, so the customers can park up close. That way, we won’t spend as much time looking? We’ll have fewer sets of keys.”

  “Ok,” he says, but doesn’t sound convinced.

  Booth

  “We couldn’t get him free, and I didn’t know it but he was bleeding to death.”

  Booth looks into her eyes, and what he sees makes him want to look away. “It’s okay, ma’am. We’re here now. Sorry it took so long.”

  “He died and came back, just like my little girl.” The woman’s face is tough to look at, bruised and one eye is nearly scarlet with blood. She must still be able to see.

  “Who ma’am?” he asks, not really wanting to know.

  “The agent, I had to kill him. I had to kill them all. They all came back. I think I’m out of bullets, too.”

  Why can’t Jacobs be here, dealing with this?

  “That must have been tough, but we’re here with you now. All we have to do is take you back to the LZ and wait for the chopper to come back.”

  “Thank God you are here,” she says
and presses her body against his, hugging him. The move is so unexpected; it takes him a moment to put his gloved hand on her back.

  I’m hugging the president’s wife.

  Her other child, a boy comes over and hugs his mother’s leg.

  Never hear the end of this from Hicks. Still, it is probably the best thing I’ve done in days.

  “You ready to leave ma’am?” he asks.

  “Oh Dear God!” she shrieks.

  “What the…” he says, angry that she shouted in his ear. He turns to see what is behind him.

  “Fuck me!” shouts Hicks.

  Hundreds of people are pouring out of the tangle of mangroves–Straight toward them. “Where the hell they coming from?”

  “Probably was a big night over at Derby Lane last night. It Ain’t far away,” says Lepski. “Bunch of subdivisions close by too. They probably heard all the shooting before we got here.”

  “Water’s shallow a long way out,” Booth says, letting go, and almost shaking himself loose of the president’s wife. “Maybe we can go around them and get back into the power plant compound.”

  He can see the woman giving him a dirty look, but she doesn’t say anything. She just scoops her son into her arms.

  If we all go together, it will be damn close. They might cut us off.

  Lepski steps up beside him. “I’ll stay here and play sniper. The shooting will probably draw them toward me, and I’ll just wait until I see you make it, then I’ll shuck everything and swim for it.”

  “Nah. That’s what I’ll do. Get a move on.”

  Lepski gives him his serious hangdog look. “I’m expendable Booth. You know I don’t have anybody. Besides Hicks will never listen to me. Now get out of here.”

  Booth allows himself to hesitate, and That’s all it takes. Lepski slings his rifle and swings himself up and onto the wreckage of the helicopter. “Better get going,” is all he says.

  The woman is looking at him, holding her son pressed to her chest. “Okay lady, lets get out of here. This way! Hicks on me!”

  Booth stays close to the woman, while Hicks ranges out ahead. The sound of the first shot wakes the boy up. He almost jerks free of his mother’s arms. More shots follow. Normally, he would count them, but already small details are distracting him. All three of them wade back out, but this time the water doesn’t come up as far.

  The tide is going out.

  Those things will be able to go faster.

  “Hurry lady!”

  Natalie

  She watches him out of the corner of her eye. He sits next to her in the passenger seat, with the window down, and the barrel of his rifle pointed outside. He seems to be keeping an eye on their surroundings. At least once she caught him keeping an eye on her thighs. Poor boy, and if he only knew. I’m taking a long, hot shower when I get home. Get him some food first, but then I’m getting cleaned up.

  “So you’re a cheerleader, huh?”

  “Ah, yes I am, Mister Leonard. St. Pete High,” she says, while turning left into an alleyway. There’s only room for one car, and the alley itself is made of badly pitted asphalt. Puddles from last night still fill most of the holes.

  “I went to Northeast, and call me Mark. Just graduated last year.”

  “I won’t hold it against you,” she says. His eyes are back on her legs. Despite all that has happened, she still feels a little tingle. I’m made of tough stuff.

  “Why are you smiling?” he asks.

  “No reason.” She cuts the wheel hard to the right and they turn onto a short concrete driveway. A detached two-story, two car garage apartment stands just to their left with one door open. Oh-oh, mom’s car isn’t there. She shuts off the engine.

  “My mom’s car is gone.”

  “You got a cell phone to call her?” he asks.

  “I lost it with my purse at the mall.”

  “I’d offer you mine, but it needs a charge.”

  She lets her forehead rest on the steering wheel. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “No?”

  “No, she doesn’t have a cell phone. If she isn’t at home, then God knows where she is.”

  “Could she be out looking for you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, why don’t we go inside and see if she’s there first. No sense panicking until we know.”

  “I’m not panicking, but I was hoping.”

  He opens the door on his side and steps out. “Let’s go.” She can see the barrel of his rifle swinging around. Just in case, she picks up the big revolver and opens her door.

  “I wonder if our renter, Odin is home?” she says have to herself, looking up at the apartment above the garage.

  “Odin huh? Some name…”

  “Let’s check for my mom first. If she really is gone, then we’ll check with him.”

  “Good plan,” he says over his shoulder. He steps in front of her and goes up the two steps to the porch on the back of the house. Curtains in the back door window shift in a freshening breeze. She feels the back of her skirt fly up around her waist, and her cheeks go hot, thinking about Mark. Good thing he took the lead.

  “Can’t see anyone inside,” he says, and with his left hand, he tries the door knob. The door opens out and he steps slightly to the side and slips in, once again with the barrel first. She follows right on his heels.

  They stand in the laundry room. The peel and stick tile on the floor isn’t anymore stained than usual, and the dirty clothes hamper looks full.

  Mark passes through quickly, and considering he’s wearing combat boots, she is surprised how quietly he moves.

  Her mom is lying facedown on the kitchen floor with a broken bottle of vodka clutched in her right hand. Her nightgown is a shredded bloody ruin and a pool of red surrounds the body. One of the kitchenette chairs is knocked over and some newspapers are scattered around the room. Someone is standing at the sink.

  Mark puts his arm in front of her, right across her chest. One handed, he swings the rifle around, his finger already on the trigger. The figure turns–Odin, their tenant, gives them a bloody grin. He is a huge, hulking older man from Norway or Sweden, she can’t remember. One of his ears, the left one, is missing, and his throat looks chewed.

  His accent always sounded singsong, but his voice was deep. He’d say, “Call me Odin, little girl,” and then he would squint one eye closed and laugh.

  Bastard killed my mom.

  “Let’s just try to back out of here, without…”

  Odin lunges at that very moment, and his feet cross the floor in one or two giant strides. Mark’s rifle spits fire in what amounts to a very loud burp. The big man jerks with the first two or three bullets, but most of the rest go over his shoulder and up into the ceiling.

  Firing a rifle one-handed apparently isn’t a good idea. Odin’s huge hands grab Mark by his shirt and left arm, as the barrel of his rifle clatters off his huge square teeth and on deeper into his mouth. Mark screams a string of obscenities, but somehow manages to hold onto the rifle, while Natalie stumbles backwards, trying to aim her pistol.

  Natalie can hear the thing actually trying to bite the metal barrel.

  She aims for his left eye, holding the gun with both hands.

  Mark pulls the trigger again. Odin’s body jerks, while bloody bits of brain and bone spray across the oven and countertop. He stumbles back against the oven and then slides to the floor, mouth still gaping open.

  Mark leans back against the doorway, and takes a long ragged breath, “Holy shit, that almost got real ugly.”

  Natalie sinks to her knees and lowers the gun to the floor.

  Her voice catches, but the words come spilling out of her. “I tried so hard to get home. I just couldn’t get here. I’m sorry.” No tears Mom. I’m all cried out, but I’m really sorry.

  Mark’s hands touch her shoulders, and she lets him pull her up and into his arms. “Sorry we didn’t get here in time,” he murmurs into her ear.

  “It was too late a long tim
e ago, Mark.” She hugs him tighter.

  They stand there for several minutes, until she looks up into his eyes.

  He holds her a bit closer, rubbing her back, and asks, “How long have you been running around without shoes?”

  Lassiter

  Need to stay awake, and focused. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and instantly falls asleep. Wakes a moment or two later with a jerk. Just to the right, he can see the cruise boat below. A barge full of dead bodies is tied up to the immense ship, with a tug boat hovering nearby. Must’ve had an outbreak onboard or something. So many bodies.

  Lotta bodies and wreckage in the water too. Nobody is safe anywhere.

  “Comet Two inbound to target. Estimate arrival time in six minutes.”

  Jacobs

  Stomach pain nearly doubles him over. Where is that coming from? Know I haven’t ate, but I’m used to that. The floor creaks as he pauses a moment and leans on the stair rail.

  They are down there, more zombies, right on the next level. Sounds like lots of them. Dead people like roaches skittering around in the dark. He grabs the other grenade. Hopefully this will thin them out. Pulls the pin, counts to two and bounces it right off the wall below and onto the next landing. The explosion is huge and a cloud of dust swirls up, filling the air with smoke.

  He takes the first step down and a door bursts open behind him, unleashing a flood of people. Dead, awkward people who shouldn’t be upright. He nearly stumbles down several stairs, only just stopping on the landing. The laser pauses on a woman’s temple and he squeezes the rifle’s trigger. Flicker of the red dot across arms and grasping hands and just between someone’s eyes. Another trigger squeeze, but they are closing in from above and below. The dot centers on the white of an eye and he fires. Someone grabs his sleeve. He lashes out with the butt of the rifle and momentarily he is free, but now his back is against the wall. Several of the things are closing in on him, with more behind.

  Sweet Jesus, don’t let me die this way!

  The ones coming up the stairs aren’t the trouble. It’s the ones coming down. They could bury him with sheer weight of numbers if they just fell down the stairs.

  Gotta keep pushing forward and down.