The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise

by Hegarty, W. J.

  The Roaming

  The Roaming

  Haven’s Promise

  W. J. Hegarty

  The Roaming is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, events, and locations

  are either products of the authors imagination

  or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual locales or persons.

  living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Edward J. Moran

  Copyright © 2020 W. J. Hegarty

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2020

  ISBN-13: 9781678935818

  For updates on the world of The Roaming, mailing list sign up and exclusive content visit wjhegarty.com

  Other books in The Roaming series can be found here.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Title Page

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Copyright

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  Poseidon’s Rest

  Miller awoke to a light dusting of snow lying on the deck, the first of the season. Captain Kayembe had been pushing Haven south for weeks now, and Miller was none the wiser regarding the ship’s destination. Out at sea, everything looked the same to him. One beach town in the distance was no different from the next. Poseidon’s Rest had a thin covering of snow blanketing the beaches and roads. Destroyed buildings and decaying corpses almost appeared peaceful, hiding beneath the fine powder. Burnt, charred edges of ruined vehicles poked through the white covering. The wind had whipped the snow up in circles, revealing portions of scorched blacktop beneath. The snowfall—as light as it was—made tracking the undead and avoiding them far easier. If Soraya was still here, he hoped to stumble across her tracks.

  Poseidon’s Rest, North Carolina, was devastated, a once-booming resort now reduced to a barren wasteland. Miller could afford a much better assessment on his second trip, though the place was much the same as the last time he passed through here 147 days ago. A swath of what looked like a dozen or more blocks had been taken by fire. The destruction was most likely the result of an accident caused by the dead or a lightning strike, or so he assumed. What kept Miller and his new group of scavengers on edge was the more likely scenario that the blaze was intentionally set. If so, by whom and why? But more important was the potential of raiders still lurking here in the shadows.

  His mind drifted to a cabin in the woods and the arson that claimed Tobias and his son so long ago. He wondered if that night was truly the catalyst that led him here on the backs of so many dead. Some of that number counted as friends; most, though, he barely knew. Of those souls lost along the way, one had become much more than a friend. Soraya sacrificed herself for the group by drawing away a horde of carriers. She disappeared, swallowed up by this decaying city for the people they were charged with saving. The memory played over and over in his mind nightly as he tried in vain to rest aboard the safety of Haven, his new home.

  Miller sported a thick beard and his hair hung down near his chin when he let it run wild. On excursions, he always wore it pulled up. It was a style he copied from people he met in a previous life. During his time overseas, his unit would occasionally work with operators, private contractors who worked closely with the armed forces stationed in the area. They had the military discipline but sometimes lacked the same grooming standards. Miller hadn’t trimmed either his hair or his beard since he left Soraya alone in the streets of Poseidon’s Rest. Every look in the mirror now was an instant reminder of how long it had been since he let her go.

  One hundred forty-seven days. It had been five months since that fateful afternoon in this very city. He watched her disappear behind a dumpster on the backside of the Blue Oasis just beyond that huge dune up ahead. This fucking place, he thought. The return trip filled him with emotion he thought he had under control. He didn’t. It took all of his willpower to not break ranks and sprint to the hotel in a desperate search for Soraya.

  Desires aside, he remained calm; time was not a luxury afforded to him this day. He would have one chance at this, and it needed to be done right, methodically. He and Cortez and the excursion team would retrace the steps the Pepperbush survivors took so long ago, starting from the inlet and making their way down to the Blue Oasis. From there, it was anyone’s guess as to where she would have gone.

  Over the months, Miller had lost track of how many times he nearly abandoned ship or stayed behind on an excursion to begin a solo journey right to this very spot. But pragmatism always won the day; had he jumped ship, chances were that he would still be en route. Captain Kayembe was stern but not without empathy. He had a course laid out for Haven that would need to be addressed before any notion of a return to Poseidon’s Rest could be considered. Miller wasn’t any sort of navigator. In fact, geography was never his strong suit, so when the captain told him that Haven was only a day away from Poseidon’s Rest, it nearly took the breath from him. He never thought the captain would purposefully avoid coming back; he just didn’t expect that it would ever really happen.

  Winter solstice. The shortest day of the year just happened to be the day Miller was given the chance to search for Soraya. Some cruel cosmic joke to be sure, but he wouldn’t waste the time. It was only a day ago that Captain Kayembe held Miller behind after the close of a meeting to determine the fate of an exile from the ship. He had a surprise for him—a thank-you for months of service. It was the captain’s way of letting Miller know that he truly appreciated his efforts.

  The captain knew Miller well enough to realize that some bauble or fancier living quarters or amenities wouldn’t do for the ex-army captain. Miller would simply shrug off such advances as needless excess. Captain Kayembe had kept his planned return secret for as long as he was able. Haven would be passing by Poseidon’s Rest for a final time, and it was unknown how long it would be before the ship would sail these waters again—if it ever would. The captain was making a detour from his itinerary to give Miller a day to search for Soraya. He could only spare the one; Kayembe felt the ship needed to winter in more temperature-friendly waters and they were still more north than he would prefer. Every day the distance between them grew, but Soraya remained at the forefront of Miller’s thoughts. Captain Kayembe had gifted him with the chance he dreamed of for five months.

  The excursion team’s single boat was left tied to the moorings at the end of the same pier they used for escaping the last time they were here. A rope ladder was still in place from their previous visit; a nearly t
wenty-foot climb awaited them from the sea to the top of the pier. Under normal circumstances, they would have been dropped off and then called the ship when it was time for evac. Risking the loss of a boat by leaving it tied up was frowned upon, but time was of the essence. A few hours max, and they’d be gone.

  Cortez led his team down the dock connecting the resort of Poseidon’s Rest to the ocean. His history in the Mexican Army and a knack for getting out of tight situations made him an ideal candidate to lead an excursion team. His unit was well-versed in efficiency; safety was always paramount. They would scavenge in two-man teams; one person looted while the other covered the scavenger. It might not have been the quickest method, but Cortez never lost a man. The same could not be said for Haven’s other excursion teams. The other units were largely composed of sloppy risk-takers, the sort of men Cortez refused to work with. An ideal he stuck with now more than ever.

  The bulk of Cortez’s unit consisted of former ship staff and guests. Ahole was a rugby player on holiday from Australia. The same for the Scandinavian miner, Ulrich. Genevieve was a French police officer, and Petrova was the translator for a rich Russian diplomat—her father. The two of them were on vacation as well. Simon previously worked on the ship as a concierge; he was the only American in Cortez’s group prior to Miller and Alex signing up. The latter was the newest member of the team. She was found wandering the road not long after Miller came aboard, but she certainly wasn’t lost.

  The pier creaked under their footfalls as they approached a large black stain. Miller knew instinctively what it was. They were at the spot where Rachel made her last stand in a desperate attempt to reach the lifeboats. There was no saving her; she was already bitten and near death from blood loss. Still, though, the memory hung on Miller like a weight dragging him down with grief and regret. He went down to one knee and touched the black stain. Bitten or not, that’s no way to end. Anguish washed over him as he reflected on Rachel’s warm smile and unshakable kindness.

  This was no ordinary excursion. There would be no call for pickup and no real scavenging; it was a rescue mission, plain and simple. Against all hope, it was a rescue mission for a woman who went missing five months ago in a city overrun by the dead and, by the looks of it, half burned down. Everything about this trip did not sit well with Cortez. Normally he would have been against this and adamant that his team not take on such a waste of time. This task was different. Five months was a long time to get to know someone, especially under the circumstances in which they worked. Watching each other’s backs and depending on your teammates for survival built a camaraderie that was not easily matched. Over the months, Miller proved his worth time and again; he was worth the effort. Soraya, on the other hand, was a stranger—a nonentity, really. Cortez couldn’t remember if the two of them had even spoken in their brief encounter, but if Miller needed to look for her, he would have his back.

  “Ahole, Genevieve, get on it,” Cortez ordered as they approached the pier’s halfway point.

  Genevieve dropped a satchel filled with tools on the deck. Ahole quickly used a small battery-operated circular saw to cut through the deck boards along the width of the pier. Once finished, he tossed the saw to Genevieve twelve feet away, who did the same on her end. As Genevieve leaned over to stack her newly cut boards, a necklace bearing a large silver locket slipped from her shirt. The jewelry glistened in the morning sun as it dangled from her neck. She quickly tucked it back in place without losing a step.

  Their work revealed a four-foot-wide gap in the pier. The span was a simple jump to reach either side but an obstacle that the dead would be unable to pass should the return trip be as dangerous as the last time they were here. The pile of discarded boards could be placed on the framing of the pier if necessary. The lumber could act as support to transport any wounded if a makeshift bridge was in order on the return trip.

  Along with the group was a single non-excursion team member: Jacob. He was being exiled for crimes against the people of the ship. The man was a safety risk, and he had to go. The alternative was death, and though the captain was stern, execution was not something he would consider. Jacob had a small bag containing a few days’ rations and the clothes on his back. He didn’t plead or beg; he accepted that the price for his crimes was high. Miller didn’t give the man’s plight much thought; his priorities lay elsewhere. The team parted ways with the exile without so much as a goodbye. Jacob disappeared into the abandoned city while Miller and the others began their trek.

  The team trudged eastward up the beach, skipping the Blue Oasis, the location of their final stand. Their first stop was a cursory observation of Deertongue Banks. The small island, not much more than an oversized sand bar, provided relative security so there was always the chance that Soraya had made her way back there. Unfortunately, the current was very strong between it and the mainland, so it was unlikely she would have risked such an endeavor alone.

  Miller had to be sure. The state of the island was as he feared. The small camp they had set up had been washed out and there was no indication their humble settlement ever existed. Any trace they were ever there had completely vanished; the small island appeared to have been scoured by a hurricane. The sole structure on the island—the solar-powered shower house, was destroyed as well. Not even the horses remained; everything was just gone.

  Miller, Cortez, and the rest of the excursion team continued their tour of the resort. They mimicked Miller’s group’s own footsteps until at last they reached the Blue Oasis, the hotel where Miller and his group met Cortez. Sand blown in from the nearby dunes filled the lobby, pinning the main doors open. Two-man teams efficiently searched each floor of the hotel, but to no avail. There was no indication that Soraya had ever returned to the place.

  Petrova used her time in the hotel to check the roof for a better vantage point of the surrounding city. Once in place, she called her team leader over the radio.

  “Cortez, I’m on the roof. I need you to see something. Use the employee stairs behind the kitchen to get up here.”

  “On our way.” Cortez sounded hopeful.

  Dozens of city blocks in either direction were burned out. Blackened, charred corpses littered the streets; bodies hung from windows and cars. It was impossible to tell how many were still human before the inferno. Petrova’s demeanor spoke for the group. Prospects for a happy ending were bleak—the city was devastated. It looked to have suffered a bombing run. There were craters where buildings used to stand. Beyond that, melted cars and light posts pockmarked the surrounding blocks. What buildings remained standing in the vicinity had all their windows blown out.

  “Jesus,” Ahole whispered.

  “Miller, I…” Cortez started, careful not to overstep as Miller surveyed the destruction.

  “The damage doesn’t look as heavy to the west.” Miller handed Cortez the binoculars. “Let’s go.”

  Petrova lowered her head. She and Cortez shared a troubled gaze.

  ~~~

  Hours passed as they fruitlessly searched burnt-out husks for any signs of life. Nothing. Not even the dead roamed these streets. The sun was high in the sky before blackened pavement and melted asphalt gave way to wisps of grass poking through the scorched earth.

  “That’s the one.” Miller pointed at a towering hotel in the distance; the building was mostly intact but for a gaping hole in the corner of the twenty-first through the twenty-fourth floors. The bottom-most floors—six of them—were burned black, but the rest of the building was remarkably intact, all things considered. Commingled with the debris, a few dozen undead clawed at the hotel walls. Cortez fixed his binoculars on the structure; in a far window of the uppermost floor, he swore he saw movement.

  “There’s something in there, alright,” said Cortez. “Let’s move.”

  The group continued. Behind them, still looming in the distance, the Blue Oasis remained a cautionary tale. The hotel stood as a reminder that death was always close in this place. Even as Miller’s heart ached—
he lamented what that place had cost him—hope and a possible future for those in his charge was what that terrible price purchased. Beyond even that landmark, closer to the inlet, a fire still raged, keeping countless infected preoccupied while Miller and his new companions searched Poseidon’s Rest for a final time. It wasn’t clear if the smoke or the fire itself dulled whatever senses these creatures still possessed, but they were attracted to it nonetheless.

  As the team approached the hotel, a slow-moving group of about twenty reanimated corpses was spotted a block over. They were congregating in front of a pizza shop. The group could have easily passed undetected, and chances were good that they would have made the return trip without being seen, but the consensus was, why risk it?

  They hugged an alley wall as they crept toward a better vantage point on the gathering dead.

  “Damn, that’s a lot of cunts,” Ahole commented.

  “What are you going on about?” Miller asked.

  Ahole just laughed and crawled back out of sight.

  “He thinks he’s funny,” Petrova said through a curled lip. “He calls them cannibalistic undead nonresponsive threats. He’s a clown.”

  The acronym brought a much-needed smile to Miller’s face. “Clever.”

  “Someone’s been here recently,” Simon suggested. “Like in the past day or two.”

  “You sure?” Miller was skeptical.

  “That window is broken, but everything on the inside looks dry. None of those things are in there, so someone was trying to get in, not out.”

  “That means we could be right behind whoever it was.”

  “Or someone is leading us.”

  “The way I see it, we have two choices,” Cortez suggested. “We can easily bypass them—they’ll never notice us—or we put that group of them down now just in case they block our path on the way out of here. We don’t know what’s waiting for us in that hotel. If it gets loud in there, these things will probably hear and complicate our exit. Thoughts?”