Dead Tide Rising

by Stephen North

She steers them past two large dumpsters, then takes a right turn, following the building. Five or six zombies are heading for the front of the store, right in front of them.

  At fifteen miles an hour she plows into and over them, then turns left to the exit to Fiftieth Avenue South. Takes another left heading into a neighborhood, rather than a right onto U.S. 19. Hundreds more zombies are wandering in a massive traffic jam on the highway.

  Wouldn’t make it far that way.

  They pass a big bank on the right, and see a roundabout up ahead. What’s wrong with four way stops? She turns left driving the wrong way and onto the first road exiting the roundabout, Thirty Seventh Street South. They are now passing behind the Publix shopping center, which is on their left, and a row of nice, newer homes on their right.

  “Lots of trees in this neighborhood,” Debbie says.

  Anton rolls down his window halfway, “I love the oaks. Those trees have to be a hundred years old or more.”

  A half block ahead on the left, Trish can see a CVS on the corner of Thirty Seventh and Fifty Fourth Ave South. She can also see the Interstate ramp that goes to Tierra Verde and St. Pete Beach. Beyond the ramp is a large waste treatment plant.

  “Do we still believe the army is rescuing us if we make it to the Skyway Bridge or Tierra Verde?” Trish asks, while braking at the stop sign.

  “I’m terrified of either choice,” Debbie says.

  “And I’m along for the ride, Trish,” Anton adds.

  Trish flips them both the bird and says, “You both need to grow a pair. I like sailors, so I guess we’re heading for the Skyway.”

  When no one says anything, she tries once more.

  “A bunch of rich people live around here. We could just try holding up in a house, maybe on the water…maybe find a boat?”

  “Sounds less chancey, to me,” Anton answers.

  Debbie shrugs.

  Trish takes her foot off the brake, and makes a wide looping turn. They turn back the way they came.

  A terrible burned smell grows stronger as they travel north along Thirty Seventh Street South. On the right are condos and apartment complexes, and on the left are covered moorings. Trees and sidewalks are on both sides of the street.

  “Is it something that burned in the neighborhood, or is it the truck?” Debbie asks.

  “Not sure,” says Trish. At that moment, the gas pedal goes mushy and the engine seizes up and dies. Trish shifts into neutral, letting the truck coast, and tries the starter.

  Nothing.

  Again and again it is the same. Despairing, she pumps the gas pedal while turning the ignition. The truck comes to a stop in the middle of the road.

  “Oh my God,” says Anton, “look at all those people.”

  Trish looks over. People are wandering from all over toward them from a nearby condo building.

  “Might be a hundred of them,” Debbie says.

  “We have to run. Can’t count on the truck starting back up. Debbie get Anton’s wheelchair!”

  “Just leave me.”

  Debbie opens the truck’s backdoor and exits the truck. She pulls the chair out with her. Meanwhile, Trish runs around the corner, joining her, while slinging a gym bag over her shoulder. The two women unfold the chair and run with it around to Anton’s already open door.

  His seatbelt is undone, and he is lowering himself, mostly through the strength of his arms, out of the cab. Debbie gets the chair in position and Trish helps ease him into it.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  The leading group of dead people is less than thirty feet away. At least ten of them.

  “Follow me,” Trish says, glancing around and continuing to go north as they were in the truck. Ahead are two buildings extending into the water, connected by slender walkways to the land.

  One of the buildings is burned to the waterline, and little more than rubble remains. Probably part of the smell. The second building has people on the walkways.

  Deathtraps!

  “Can either of you swim?” Trish asks.

  “I used to,” Anton answers, “but God knows now.”

  Debbie shakes her head, “Never learned.”

  “Stay with me,” she says, jogging slowly, breathing easy.

  Debbie already sounds winded, but Anton is rolling right along, deftly avoiding garbage and potholes in the street.

  A hundred yards ahead, Thirty Seventh joins Forty Sixth Avenue South. Trish is trying to overcome the panic that is screaming at her to just run away, anywhere, and forget the others. She knows that a turn to the left and the housing developments on the two finger peninsulas that way is probably the safer choice.

  She turns them left when they draw even, and her already aching knees hurt more.

  Debbie gives up. “I had to force myself to run to this corner, Trish. I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything left.”

  “You giving up? Please Debbie don’t quit. We’ll find safety soon.”

  Debbie stops and bends over, hands on her knees, with her breath wheezing in and out.

  Two zombies are within twenty feet.

  “One of you, please, just shoot me,” Debbie says, voice choked. She looks up at them. Trish thinks of a deer, crippled and helpless. She reaches into her bag.

  Anton shoots her. A drop of blood or two splatters Trish’s shoes. Debbie falls over onto her back, blood pouring from a hole in her temple. Anton shoots again.

  “Just making sure.”

  Trish doesn’t trust herself to say anything. She just nods, and follows him as he tucks the gun between his left thigh and the chair side. Anton is pushing hard, and for another fifty or so yards, she actually has to apply herself to keep up.

  After that, he slows down a lot, but he doesn’t quit. They manage to keep a pace that doesn’t let the zombies get any closer.

  “I’m good Trish, don’t worry,” he says, smiling, but barely breathing. “Too much time getting spoiled by those motorized chairs.”

  Bronte

  A misty rain is falling on the southern tip of Googe Island as they anchor the catamaran and the life boat. The island is little more than mangroves, sand and some pines inland. At low tide it is connected to Weedon Island further north.

  Janicea, Sinclair, the kids, Nast and Ozzie go ashore, carrying cast nets, fishing poles and buckets. All the adults have rifles slung over their shoulders.

  From the cockpit bridge of the Sea Hummer, Ralls leans out the door and says, “Hopefully they will be okay. Shouldn’t be any zombies out here.”

  “They should be okay,” Bronte replies. “We’ll just check out the bridge and do a bit of scouting. Make sure this is the place we want to call home.”

  Tracks stands a few feet away, taking a swig out of a small jug-type cooler. Sweat is standing out at his temples.

  He offers the jug to Bronte, while using his sleeve to wipe his mouth: A cranberry-colored stain marks the spot on his t-shirt sleeve. “Like drinking juice, Bronte.”

  Ralls laughs, “Sangria goes down easy, but don’t drink too much or it’ll hit you.”

  Bronte takes a pull, “Definitely drinkable.”

  “That’s Tanglewood Island,” Tracks says, pointing north.

  A canal divides the land as they approach closer. The shore to their right is all seawalled with houses of varying sizes and degrees of grandeur. Almost every house has a dock. They spot only a few boats, and most of those are canoes or small johnboats. The big stuff has all disappeared.

  Ralls starts angling to the left, and soon after a small two lane bridge about thirty feet long appears, connecting the mainland to the island.

  A fence has already been constructed across the mainland side. Cars, chain link fence and stakes have all been used to render the structure impassable to even an agile person. No one is visibly guarding it, however.

  “Shall we try the big dock over to the right of the bridge, a couple houses?” asks Ralls.

  Bronte nods, “Sounds good.”

  Tracks makes hi
s way forward, as they angle in toward a huge dock. There is an empty slip for a yacht fifty feet or more in length, and several smaller spots for boats larger than the Hummer. Ralls cuts the motor, and as they drift in, Tracks steps off onto the dock and expertly ties them off. Bronte does the same, albeit with less skill at the stern as they drift closer. Ralls tosses some bumpers over the side to protect the boat.

  Moments later, Tracks is slinging two belts of ammunition over his shoulders in a criss-cross pattern like a hulking Pancho Villa. He then picks up his machine gun like it is a toy and strides across the dock. Bronte has an M-16, and a pistol.

  He checks the rifle to make sure he is locked and loaded, then slips the safety off.

  Ralls has his sword slung over his back, a pistol in a holster at his waist, and an M-16.

  We should be ready for anything. But Ralls isn’t much of a soldier. Probably should have left him with the others.

  Bronte fits his sunglasses over his eyes, watching the pool go from a brilliant blue to a turquoise green. It looks so inviting, but he controls himself. There is an in-water bar, complete with Tiki hut, marble bar top and in-water stools to sit on. An inflatable lounge floats in the pool, along with a chlorinator. There is no hum of a pump motor though, and everything is too quiet.

  Not even any birds around. The sun has broken through a small space in the clouds, but raindrops are already falling again. A gust of wind rattles through a stand of palms in the yard.

  One of the sliding glass doors is open. There are at least four sets of the doors, but the others are all closed. The vertical blinds are all closed, except where the door is open.

  Ralls steps inside, without waiting for Tracks or Bronte to catch up. Bronte feels an immediate rush of anger at the man’s stupidity. He can feel it add to the flush he can already feel in his face from the sangria.

  When Bronte follows the other two men inside, he sees that someone has bled all over most of the living room, and that the front door is open.

  Tracks and Ralls stand on either side of the door, and then suddenly Tracks is running full bore out of the living room and out the door.

  Ralls follows a moment later, and Bronte is on his heels.

  The front patio has huge orange red tiles, wicker chairs, and fluted black metal railings. The lawn is lush and overhung by a huge oak.

  Two bodies wrapped in sheets wait at the foot of the driveway. Tracks stands beside a metallic blue SUV drinking from a canteen. Ralls isn’t far away, crouched behind a hedge, rifle held ready.

  Bronte takes a careful look down both sides of the street. More bodies, wrapped in sheets, are piled outside several houses, both to their left and right. He moves up beside Tracks and motions for him to kneel behind the SUV.

  “People already cleaning the place up,” Tracks says.

  “We need to find out, what kind of people they are.”

  Ralls joins them. “Won’t be hard.”

  Bronte raises an eyebrow.

  “A bunch of people are coming this way. They’re loading the bodies on the back of a pick-up truck.”

  Talaski

  The Corvette peels out, accelerating up the ramp at a speed that causes Keller to comment: “Wouldn’t want to be in that car.” They watch the car reach the interstate and take a hard left turn, nearly spinning out on the wet road.

  Mills catches up to them, and they all, Keller, Amy and Talaski climb up into the truck’s cab. The dead are crowding up along either side as Mills turns the key, already in the ignition, and shifts into Drive. They aren’t moving fast, but still plow over one or two of the creatures as they pass between the sandbagged emplacements.

  They are in fact going up the ramp meant for northbound traffic, but as long as the way is clear, none of them care. They reach the top without a problem and make the same hard left turn, but take it at about twenty miles an hour. The interstate is three lanes wide at this point, and Mills manages to make it without going into the median.

  Mills turns the wipers and lights on as the rain comes down harder.

  Up ahead, a double row of orange cones appears, angling off to the right, while straight ahead a massive tangle of wrecked vehicles and corpses emerges. “Follow the cones!” Amy snaps, grabbing Mills arm and leaning close from the backseat.

  Mills obeys without comment, and sees the cones cut directly across all three traffic lanes and down into the median. “Might get stuck, but here goes,” he says, giving some more gas. The truck crosses the highway and leaves the road onto a muddy, rutted path through the grassy median.

  A zombie appears in the headlights, turns toward them, snarling and goes down under the bumper. Mills corrects their path by steering more to the left and the wheels slip a moment as they pass back onto the southbound lanes. The cones end, and with the exception of a large group of people over by the interstate’s border fence, for at least a mile or more the highway looks clear.

  The group is far enough away from the truck, that Mills actually slows as they draw even. “Here Ski,” he says, “take this and let’s see what they are up to.”

  Talaski takes the big flashlight without comment, rolls down his window and shines it over the people.

  “Guess De Roma’s group didn’t get far,” Mills says.

  “Talk about roadside picnics,” says Keller.

  No one laughs.

  Talaski shuts the light off, and Mills accelerates away.

  Foster

  He is passed out, drunk on his cot, when Green shakes him awake.

  “Mister President, sir, wake up!”

  He comes to only partially, and a splitting headache causes him to snap out with: “What is it, goddamn it! Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep!”

  “Sir, the choppers from the rescue mission are back, and the men…”

  Foster sits, up, rubbing at his gummed over eyelids.

  “The survivors…”

  “The survivors what, Lieutenant?”

  “There aren’t many, sir, and they are angry.”

  “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “All of my men and the survivors have mutinied sir–That is what it means! They gang-raped The Speaker, and killed all three of your agents! I barely got away!”

  Foster comes fully awake, enraged by his headache, but terrified by the lieutenant’s words. He notices that Green is wearing a pistol belt, flak jacket, ammo pouches, a helmet and has a rifle.

  “For god’s sake, why wasn’t I told before it got this bad?”

  Green doesn’t flinch away for once. “It was the woman, the Speaker. I think she was trying to replace you, but things backfired on her. The mission was a total failure.

  When one of the marines grabbed her, your man Clive, tried to intervene. A marine named Reedy killed shot all three of them. They threw the Speaker on a pool table after that, and I ran.”

  Foster closes his eyes a moment, while thinking things over.

  “Is there a back way out of here?”

  “Yes sir! I think it is our only option.”

  Foster puts his shoes on, and thinks: Too bad they aren’t running shoes.

  Green crosses over to the locker he’s never used. “Put these on, sir,” he says, handing over a bulky bullet proof vest, and a Kevlar helmet. “And take this too.”

  The last item is a pistol belt with a canteen and ammo pouches.

  “Make sure the gun is loaded, sir.”

  Janicea

  She sits by Sinclair on a towel, and watches the men and children fish. Both women are wearing their pants, but are far enough away from the men to have only their bras on.

  The sun isn’t out, and rain is still falling, but the humidity is horrible. Sinclair mops her face with a wet hand towel. “The rain almost feels good.”

  Sinclair is very pale, but her nose has a sprinkling of freckles. With her red hair she is quite striking. Janicea picks up a brown Coppertone bottle and nudges the other woman with it.

  “You should use this suntan
lotion, or you will burn despite the clouds.”

  “Thanks.”

  While the other woman gets busy with the lotion, Janicea lets her gaze drift back to the men and children. They are about fifty feet away. Ozzie is in the middle of tossing a cast net in the shallows, while Daric watches. Nast is sitting in a fold-out chair and reeling in something that is bending his rod considerably. Beth is chasing fiddler crabs.

  The sound of a racing boat engine echoes of the water.

  “Sounds like it’s coming from the bayside,” says Sinclair, nodding to their east.

  The sound grows in intensity. Something is without doubt coming toward them, but their sight is blocked by mangroves.

  “Might be more than one engine. Sort-of sounds like…what do you call those things? Waverunners?” Sinclair asks.

  “Jetskis, I think.”

  Moments later, a man appears from behind the screen of mangroves, on a jetski. Shortly after, a second one follows, but this one, with two people. Something about the first man’s approach bothers Janicea. He steers right in, not twenty feet from Beth, who has forgotten the crabs and is staring at the man.

  He throws an anchor up on shore and starts to pull his vehicle out of the water–All without a word of greeting.

  The second jetski comes close also, ignoring its proximity to Nast’s fishing line.

  Janicea reaches for her rifle, but isn’t really sure you can hit anything five feet away, let alone roughly a hundred feet away.

  The first man finally straightens up, looks over and waves.

  All her attention is on him, when suddenly someone on the second jetski opens fire on the others. The sound, horrifically loud as it is, is nothing compared to what her eyes witness.

  One quick burst lays open Nast’s chest and flattens him. The second catches Ozzie in the legs. He drops the cast net and falls into the water. The beach sand all around Daric explodes as he runs for the nearby mangroves.

  Beside her, Sinclair fumbles to grab her rifle, as shots begin to kick up the sand ten yards short of them. Janicea is already on her knees clicking the safety off, and trying to aim. The voices in her head are screaming at her to bring her knee up to steady her aim, to get the children, and to run.

  Rather than just hold the trigger down, Janicea squeezes the trigger three times quickly. She has no idea where the bullets go after the first hits the water two or three feet to the right of the second jetski.