The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise

by Hegarty, W. J.

Miller stood. “Sir, maybe we could talk about this for a moment. There has to be another way.”

  “In your place, Mr. Miller!” Kayembe shouted. “Keep your mouth shut!”

  Miller said no more, but he remained standing.

  Kayembe continued. “Jacob, you will be ferried to land with the next excursion. Cortez will see that you have a week’s supply of provisions. You are hereby banished to wander the wastes for the rest of your days. May God show you the mercy that I cannot.” Captain Kayembe waved a pair of guards over. “Put him in a cell. Get this man out of my sight.” He scanned the room of mostly dour faces. “I trust there are no further issues?” The room was silent. “Then that will be all. Dismissed.” Captain Kayembe turned to take in the vast sea outside of his window. “Miller, I would like to have words with you.”

  The ship’s officers and section heads gathered their belongings and filed out of the conference room. Mensa haphazardly rounded up his stack of papers; they clung to his chest in a heap. He muttered something unintelligible regarding carriers on his way out.

  “Sir, I apologize if I overstepped. I didn’t mean to—” Miller was cut short.

  “I will speak. You will listen.” Kayembe motioned for Miller to take his side. “Tell me what you see out there.”

  “Sir?”

  “Where you see roiling waves, the open sea, I see nothing but uncertainty, the unknown. Every single day out here is uncertainty. We could be sailing toward ruin and none of us would be the wiser until it is upon us. That man put his own selfish needs over the well-being of this ship, and I cannot—I will not—tolerate such folly. More than three hundred souls depend on me for stability. They look to me for safety, for structure. If they view me as a lesser man, as someone who is easily influenced or lets his emotions dictate his every move, they will judge me as weak. This ship represents the very best and in some unfortunate cases the very worst of what humanity has to offer. If we hope to someday rebuild this world better than we found it, I must do all in my power to make certain it begins with this ship. And if that means exiling Jacob as an example, then so be it.”

  “Sir, I understand why Jacob has to go. I don’t like it—I don’t agree with it—but I won’t fight you on it. I won’t speak on it again, to you or to anyone else. What you’ve accomplished here in light of what is happening out there on the mainland is nothing short of miraculous. I may not agree with all of it, but it is working. There’s no denying that.”

  “On that, at least, I’m pleased that we can agree.” Kayembe extended his arm toward the door on the other side of the room. “Walk with me.”

  The meeting room was only a few short steps from the wheelhouse. Captain Kayembe led Miller inside for an addendum to the meeting. Miller assumed the captain wanted to go over strategies regarding the latest set of excursions: how long they’d stay docked off the coast of some beaten-down village or town, or maybe the captain sought some perspective from Miller’s point of view. The wheelhouse was unusually quiet; normally, in the mid-afternoon, the place was booming. Survey stations should have been scanning the horizon for threats. Radar technicians searching for ships was a constant; you never knew who, friend or foe, was out here. There was none of that today

  “Miller, please, join me outside.”

  “Sir?” Miller was a little confused when Kayembe marched past the navigator’s station where maps were always spread out; planning was a constant. Instead, the captain led Miller to the wheelhouse deck.

  “I’m sure you are aware of how highly regarded you have become in the few short months you’ve been among us.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m trying my best to contribute without stepping on any toes.”

  “And that is commendable. Your deeds have not gone unnoticed, but praise is not why I called you here today.” Kayembe looked to the horizon. “I have a surprise for you, Mr. Miller, one that I believe you will be quite eager to see through.”

  Miller hadn’t known Kayembe to show anyone favoritism, no matter how much he appreciated someone. This “surprise” would be a first, at least in Miller’s experience.

  “Here, take these.” Kayembe handed him a pair of binoculars. “Look to the horizon. Tell me what you see.”

  Miller’s legs nearly buckled as he did as he was asked. “Is that…”

  “It is. I asked you to stay behind not because I felt the need to reprimand you but because I have a gift for you. I won’t keep you in suspense, Mr. Miller. We are returning to Poseidon’s Rest, but not for a full-on excursion. I want this ship in a warmer climate as soon as possible, and we are already behind schedule. I don’t want to risk any sort of mechanical failure in these colder northern waters when winter really sets in. We are returning to Poseidon’s Rest for one day. Cortez agreed with me that you’ve earned it. His excursion team is at your disposal for this endeavor. I truly hope you find what you seek out there, and if you don’t, I can’t make you return to us, but I hope that you do.”

  Miller was in shock; he had no idea where the ship was in relation to Poseidon’s Rest. Haven had been sailing south since they pulled up anchor off the coast of Hale’s Wharf; he knew that much. They made the turn while he and the team were in de-cons, but as far as landmarks or geography were concerned, he was lost. For him, these coastal towns all looked the same, especially from a distance.

  “Sir, I… I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Your deeds are thanks enough. This was the least I could do.”

  Only a few miles away and growing on the horizon, Poseidon’s Rest neared.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Winter Solstice

  Miller leaned against the wall of some unknown floor of this latest hotel, and it seemed that they had searched yet another spot in vain. He, Cortez, and the others had been at it for hours—since dawn. It was clear for him; Poseidon’s Rest would hold onto her secrets, and Soraya’s whereabouts would remain a mystery. The sun was growing low in the sky, and by this point, he had two, maybe three hours of daylight left if he was lucky. They would soon be forced to return to Haven.

  It can’t end like this. He sighed. He was at that crossroads again. A decision he’d pondered for months lay before him, and now was the time to commit. Would he return to Haven emptyhanded or stay at Poseidon’s Rest to continue his search alone? The decision came easy for him; his mind was made up before they put boots on the ground at the resort. He would send Cortez and the others on their way. Miller would thank them for their help and all that they had done for him and his friends these past months. He would have one final request for Cortez: to please say goodbye to Jeremiah and Sam and Vanessa and the rest and tell them that he was sorry but that he had to stay.

  He had wandered to a south-facing window where he had a clear line of sight to Haven far off in the distance. Miller smiled at the thought of Kayembe going out of his way to give him this chance. He knew the captain held him in high regard, and he didn’t want to disappoint the man, but it was time for Miller to put his own desires first for a change. It was time to gather the team; they should head back.

  Miller was reaching for his radio when the device roared to life. Cortez was on the other end. “Miller, get up here, hombre,” he said. “Top floor. You’re going to need to see this.”

  Miller dashed through unfamiliar halls, over scattered debris, and up countless stairs until he burst through into the uppermost levels of the hotel and the penthouse suites.

  “Take a breath, amigo.” Cortez greeted him at the suite’s lobby just outside of the elevator banks and the stairwell.

  The top floor of the hotel was divided into four enormous luxury suites. Those penthouses came together at a common waiting room that doubled as an exclusive bar and lounge area for the hotel’s more affluent clientele. The centerpiece of the lounge was a recessed floor that featured a fireplace at its center; that was surrounded with sofas, end tables, and serving carts. Large pillows and blankets were neatly arranged beside the fireplace. The area wasn’t in d
isarray like much of the rest of the hotel. It looked as if someone lived here.

  “Is she alive?” Miller demanded.

  “This way.” Genevieve waved from farther down the hall at the entrance to the southernmost suite.

  The room was in the direct line of sight of the far-off Haven and by happenstance directly above where Miller had made his decision to stay only moments ago. Genevieve leaned on her rifle butt; the weapon was strapped to her chest and pointed at the ground. She was all smiles. Miller palmed her shoulder, and as he passed, he handed off his own rifle.

  Miller was full of trepidation as he inched into the room. He was taking stock of his surroundings when Soraya tackled him; she nearly leapt from across the suite. The reunited couple held each other tight as they slowly spun in circles while trying to gain their balance. Soraya had her arms in a vise-like grip around his upper body. She cradled his head with one of her hands as she buried her face in his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist. Miller’s arms were locked around her small frame; he held her as closely and as tightly as he was able. They floated around the center of the room in a shared embrace without saying a word. After a time, they loosened their grips just enough to longingly gaze into each other’s eyes, both of them beginning to tear up.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” Miller began.

  “Shut up.” Soraya held him tight; she kissed him hard.

  Soraya’s suite was beyond spacious. It boasted a cathedral ceiling with a central chandelier that hung above a recessed conversation pit lined with high-end furniture. One area of the suite featured a massive kitchen and dining room area that upon cursory examination appeared to be well-stocked. Clean dishes and cooking utensils were drying on a rack beside two plates and two sets of silverware. Another wing of the suite featured three massive bedrooms; two were perfectly clean, but the last was filthy.

  As with all the other rooms on the penthouse floor, this suite was a corner room, though what set this one apart and why Soraya no doubt chose it was for its vantage point. One sprawling balcony overlooked the sea to the south and the other balcony offered an unrestricted view of the city all the way back to the inlet Miller and the survivors of Pepperbush crossed five months ago, though you needed binoculars to just barely make it out, and even then, it was only visible on a clear day. Half that distance but still just visible to the naked eye was the Blue Oasis and the pier the excursion team used twice now to enter Poseidon’s Rest.

  Miller was overjoyed, but he had questions. So many questions. “You’ve been here alone, all this time?”

  “I have been in this hotel most of the time, yes, but I am not alone.”

  Isabelle stood on the southern balcony, watching the ocean. She wasn’t at all concerned with the reunion or their apparent rescue. Isabelle glared at the distant ship in silence. She still wore her tattered gray spaghetti-strap dress; its frayed and ripped skirt blew in the breeze. When the wind blew just right, the flowing fabric revealed a hidden blade strapped to the woman’s thigh.

  Cortez and his team joined Miller and Soraya in the conversation pit. For nearly an hour, Miller regaled Soraya with tales of life aboard Haven: from the strange dichotomy of class separation to life as an excursion team member and how their fellow Pepperbush survivors were coping with their new lives aboard a cruise ship. Soraya was happy to find that most of her road-mates had made it safely aboard and that it sounded like they were doing well. Miller would save the details of the losses they suffered while getting there for another time.

  “There’s room on the team for one more, if you’re interested,” Cortez offered. “I can already tell you’ll fit in perfectly.”

  “I think I would like that,” Soraya answered.

  “Enough about the ship and what I’ve been up to,” said Miller. “I want to know what you’ve been doing. How did you find this place? And Isabelle… We all thought she was dead.”

  “It is a long story.” Soraya’s eyes lowered briefly before she peered out toward Isabelle. “My last glimpse of you was when I ran down the alley. I looked up one final time and saw your rifle aiming at the carriers chasing me. I only prayed you did not fire.”

  “We all did,” Genevieve teased.

  Miller slowly nodded in agreement; a tinge of embarrassment was apparent.

  Soraya continued. “When I did not hear the shot, I thought you guys had a real chance of making it.”

  147 Days Ago

  Soraya didn’t look back as she put as much distance between herself and the Blue Oasis as she could manage while keeping the horde of carriers in sight. If she lost them and for some inexplicable reason they returned to the hotel, then this would all be for nothing. She ran—two blocks, four, eight, twelve. She was putting a good distance between herself and Miller and the others as they escaped. The dead still followed, but the plan had worked—hundreds, maybe even thousands of carriers pursued the lone Israeli through the unfamiliar streets of Poseidon’s Rest.

  But now she was tiring; she would need to lose the horde and find a place to hide so she could regain her bearings and plan her next move. Soraya wedged herself between a solid brick wall and a wheeled dumpster. She pushed first with her arms. Then she worked her knees up and finally she got her legs in front of her chest. She used the leverage to roll the oversized trash receptacle into the path of her pursuers. She hoped the obstacle would slow the carriers just enough so she could put some distance between her and them.

  There was no time to rest. She continued her flight, rounded another dank corner, but ran right into the arms of a group of dead. Her momentum barreled her straight into the lead monster, whom she grabbed by the shirt. She spun and flung her into its brethren, knocking them back just enough for her to mount another dumpster and hop a fence. Conserve ammo, she repeated as she stuck another creature with her blade. Her kukri felled the dead easily enough, but it wasn’t as fast as her simple combat knife. On top of that, she was getting winded. She needed to find a place to hide—and fast.

  A roadside drain would have to do. It was small, but so was she; the opening was only about ten or twelve inches high and maybe double that wide. A few months ago, she likely wouldn’t have been able to force herself through. Soraya managed to get her head and chest in as she dangled upside down in the sewer; her hips were stuck, and the dead were closing. One grabbed her foot. Another took hold of a leg, and the growing swarm threatened to yank her right back out. She felt teeth on her pants, and she thrashed wildly; if the beast found skin, it was over. She kicked one of her attackers loose, but it took her boot and sock with it.

  The sudden jerk did it and she fell the rest of the way into the sewer. When she rose, she was waist-deep in filth. Above her, the dead converged on the small opening. They flailed about, trying desperately to reach their prey. Some of their arms brushed past her head, but the mass gathered at the hole was piling up too fast for any of them to squeeze their way through.

  Soraya wiped the mess from her face as best as she could and continued on. She knew that eventually—when their numbers thinned—some of the dead would no doubt slide right into the hole behind her. She wanted to be out of there before that happened. Soraya trudged through the blackened tunnel. She led with her remaining booted foot, feeling for any submerged carriers. It was slow going in the pitch-black confines, but she could hear the cries of the dead growing quieter as she put block after block between them.

  She took one step forward with her booted foot, then poked her smaller combat knife into the darkness and crept forward. She repeated this process countless times. The stench was unbearable; she tried not to touch the muck-encrusted walls, but every surface was impossibly slippery. After a few more blocks of very slow progress, she threw up again. She tried to muffle the sound with her forearm but only managed to spray the stuff all over. Her vomit no doubt hung from the ceiling just above her, if she could see. Her chest ached from hacking and wheezing. Please do not throw up again. There is nothing left.

  A trickl
ing gave way to a flow of water, and there was a slight incline in the pipe ahead. Inch by inch, she made her way farther into the pipe until she reached a square chamber. She had two directions to choose from, and if she wasn’t careful—if she got herself turned around—she would inadvertently head right back where she came from. She chose the larger of the two tunnels if for no other reason than a degree of comfort.

  The incline increased and she slipped a bit; her bare foot offered little traction against the sewer floor. A few more feet and she slipped again. This time she lost her smaller knife. I better turn around, she thought. The other tunnel would have to do. She just needed to make a hard left when she hit the square chamber so she didn’t wind up back where she started. Soraya couldn’t gain purchase on the slick walls and floor; she was frozen in place. The slight incline might as well have been a mountainside. She would have to use her kukri as a makeshift pick. She put pressure against the wall with her back and her booted foot. Now, if she could just reach her blade…

  She slipped. The incline was more than she anticipated, and she slid; she slid fast.

  Soraya braced for an impact that never came. She found herself completely submerged in a pool of human filth and months of untreated sewage. She swam up and up until she at last broke the surface. Soraya gasped a mouthful of foul air, but she could finally breathe and see. Even the dim light hurt her eyes after so long in the darkness. She was in a large room and swimming in a lidless tank. She made her way to the side for a handhold and willed herself up onto its edge. From there, Soraya reached a grated metal walkway and was at last free of the filth. She collapsed onto the hard metal surface.

  Light shone in through cracked and broken warehouse windows. Long-dormant machinery sat useless; she was in an abandoned sewage treatment plant. A facility like this would have had dozens of employees, and the nature of the work would require a locker room—and a locker room meant showers. Soraya discarded her one useless boot; it would only slow her down now that she was out of the sewer. She wrapped her one remaining sock around her hand for a last-ditch defense should she encounter any wandering dead.