“Yeah, I’m sure. We’re near the mini-golf course. Tell me the fastest way to get to you,” I beg. “I’d rather not spend another minute on the Zombie Titanic.”
“Let me think for a second.” Dad covers the mouthpiece and says something garbled to Muriel.
“Uh, Donna…” he returns to the line.
“Yeah?”
“You’re not going to like this, but we’ve decided you and Deke should leave the ship.”
“I know. But those crazies are blocking the exits. Once we reach you—”
“No, don’t try to get to the bridge. Just get off the ship. Fast.”
“What? No way, Dad. Not happening.”
“Look, Muriel only has a few Taser cartridges left. It might take us a while to get out of here. And you can’t reach this end of the boat without fighting hundreds of sick people. There’s an exit near you, only two levels above where you’re standing now. Wait for us at the car. Get the spare from the hide-a-key box under the bumper.”
I bite my lip, trying not to cry. “But I don’t want to get separated from you.”
“Donna, it’ll just be for a few minutes. You can lock yourselves in the car. Even drive over here to get us from the dock. I’m sure Muriel and I will think of some—”
“What if you can’t? What if they break down the doors?” My voice thickens in my throat. I only have one parent left. What if my father turns into one of those things?
Deke wrestles the phone away before I completely lose it. He talks with my dad in frantic whispers while I flick tears from my eyes. I will not be a wimp. I will not be a wimp.
I force myself to pay attention. That’s what the voices told me to do, right? Listen to Deke? It sounds like he and Dad are mapping our escape route. I catch the gist of what they’re planning—two main exit ramps are inside the ship, right in the heart of zombie central. But there’s a third way off the boat: a retractable metal gangway, mainly used for moving supplies. Open, it stretches from the Skydeck to the terminal. If we can reach this gangplank, and muscle it on the dock, we’ll make it ashore.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” Deke tells my dad, “but I don’t see any sick people outside.” He leans over the banister, craning his neck to see the decks above and below.
“Maybe they’re inside, biting each other?” I suggest, wrapping my arms around myself.
“That still doesn’t explain why they aren’t coming out here.”
“You’re a little slow on the uptake,” I tell him, glancing at the sky. “The sun is up now. Duh. Zombies don’t like light.”
Deke scowls at me like I’m a total idiot. “It’s vampires that don’t like light.”
I shoot him an equally fierce gaze. “I don’t care what you think. They’re zombies, Deke.”
He shakes his head and goes back to talking with my dad about the mechanism that unlatches the gangway. Another minute of hushed conversation and Deke snaps the phone shut.
“We need to get to the top level. Pronto.”
Noiselessly, we cross the Promenade deck. Deke hands me an undersized pink golf club as we pass the mini-golf course. What does he expect me to do—incapacitate zombies with my mini-golf skills? I clutch the club tightly, as if I know the first thing about killing zombies.
We creep up the stairs, seeing signs of the attack everywhere. No bodies, but lots of blood. Instead of washing the gore away, the rain collects in spots, covering the deck in blood-colored polka dots. I become slightly nauseous. Sweat beads across my forehead.
Lurking underneath.
Oh great. And now we add my lovely voices to the mix.
Lurking underneath.
What does that mean? Lurking underneath? Are the voices talking about the zombie-filled decks below us?
To reach the Skydeck, we trek up an outside stairway, cross the tennis court, open a wooden door, and pass through a short hallway--more like a thruway. As soon as we hit the dark of the passage, a goon stalks toward us. Deke spots it first.
“Don’t move,” he whispers, pushing me behind him protectively. “I’ve got her.”
Gah. It’s that blond chick again. As Deke advances, she moans and sticks out her arms to grab him. Deke takes one last look at her gorgeous body, admiring her from head to toe, and then bonks her in the head. Unconscious and stiff as a board, she falls backward onto the floor.
“Go, go, go,” he hisses, pressing his hand into the small of my back, propelling me through the hallway before any more monsters notice that we’re inside.
It’s pure relief to be outdoors again. The rain has stopped, and now the sun’s returning to its typical Florida glow. Other than the two of us, nothing moves on deck.
I don’t even realize we’ve reached the Skydeck until Deke seizes one end of the service gangway. I help him maneuver it over the hull and crank it onto the docks. As soon as it’s solidly anchored, we race across to the shore. Normally, I’m disappointed when a cruise ends and I step back on dry land. This is not the case today.
The docks are quiet. Eerily quiet. I don’t know what I expected. Panic, maybe? Rioting in the streets? Gunshots and fire engines and mass chaos? Instead, the only noise comes from a flock of seabirds, fishing along the waves. Even my voices are silent.
“Where is everybody?” I ask in a shaking voice.
The terminal building appears deserted. No luggage porters. No taxi drivers. No one.
“You don’t want me to answer that question,” Deke whispers.
We rush to the concrete dock, sprinting away from the ship as though our lives depend on it—and maybe they do. We bypass the terminal building, carefully staying in the daylight.
I steal a quick glance back at the ship. A shadow disappears behind the terminal. Was it my imagination or did someone follow us across the gangplank?
“Deke.” I point. “Somebody just came ashore. Behind us. I think.”
“Dammit,” Deke squints in the brightening sun. “I should have raised that gangway after we came across.”
“It wasn’t one of them. It was too fast. Maybe it was my dad? Or Muriel?”
He shakes his head and takes my hand, pulling me away from the terminal. “If it was, then they’ll meet us at the car.” His voice is firm.
Part of me wants to slip into the familiar pattern and argue with him, but that would be stupid and pig-headed. Deke is right. We need to wait in a safe place. A place where we can lock doors. Plus…now that I think about it…there had been something stealthy about the figure on the gangplank. Like it was scurrying to get out of sight.
Deke and I hustle along the sidewalk in front of the terminal. Luggage is strewn across the road. A pair of boxers dangle from the sign that reads “Welcome to Fort Lauderdale.” Blood is smeared across the word “Welcome.” Still no people.
An abandoned police car—doors open and lights flashing—sits in the center of the road. I release Deke’s hand and he reaches inside the vehicle, grabs the handheld radio, and presses buttons. Static blasts from the speaker.
“Hello,” he says into the microphone. More static.
“Hold the button down,” I tell him. “That’s what cops do on TV.”
He tries again. “Hello. Can anyone hear me? This is Deke Greenberg. I’m at the port. Port Everglades. In Fort Lauderdale. Anyone?”
More static.
“Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s get out of here. Out of sight.” A whisper scratches along the base of my skull. Not a voice yet. But getting closer.
Whoever ran across that gangplank can’t be far behind us. We’re not safe here, out in the open.
We skirt a group of taxis, duck behind a bus, and make the last sprint toward the parking lots.
And then, we spot something that stops us dead in our tracks.
“Oh great,” I say. “We left our car in the parking garage, didn’t we?”
Chapter Five
I look at Deke and he looks at me. I can tell we’re thinking the same thing.
�
��How many movies have we watched where zombies attack people in a parking garage?” I ask conversationally.
“I can think of several off the top of my head,” he replies, matching my tone.
We stand on the paved road, peering into the quiet, concrete cavern of the garage. My pulse pounds in my ears. For a moment, the fear is so strong, I’m afraid I’ll pass out.
I will not be a wimp, I will not be a wimp.
Deke crouches low and moves to the half-wall running alongside the first level of the garage. I mimic his actions, following behind. We’re absolutely silent as we climb the ramp to the second story where we parked the Toyota. The garage’s upper floors are shaded and quiet. The infected weirdos could find a million places to hide here.
Deke points across the garage to a sign—Orange, Level 2. That’s where we left the car. Good thing we didn’t park in the basement.
Lurking underneath.
I roll my eyes. Thank you, voices, for always being so specific. Why can’t you say something helpful, like, “There’s a zombie under that red Volvo.” What kind of hint is “lurking underneath?” With my luck, this probably means the goons are hiding in the worst place imaginable.
My dad’s Toyota is parked on the left, twenty-six spaces from the end. I consider kissing the hood, but instead I peek under the car, making sure nothing’s lurking underneath. I remove the magnetic box with the spare key and hold it up triumphantly. Then I take the first deep breath I’ve had in an hour.
Deke grins. “Let’s pick up your dad and Gran. They don’t need to wander around the docks if someone followed us off the ship.”
I toss him the box. “Okay, Mr. Action Hero, but you drive.”
“Uh, stick.” He reminds me, lobbing it back.
I groan. Deke may be a genius, but he can only drive an automatic. Technically, I’m not supposed to drive at all—I just turned sixteen last month and my dad hasn’t gotten around to taking me for my test at the—
LURKING UNDERNEATH!
I jump. Time to get our butts in the car. I fumble with the metal box, pulling the key from inside.
That’s when the growling begins. It’s inside the parking garage, one level below us, echoing off the concrete walls as if an entire gang of monsters is creepy-crawling out of the basement.
“They’re coming!” I scream, dropping the key.
Deke scrambles to pick it up and thrusts it at me. “Hurry,” he commands evenly, bolting toward the passenger side.
I cram my key in the door, cursing the cheapo car for not having automatic locks. Deke hops up and down on the balls of his feet as I lean over to unlatch his door.
“Rawwwrrrr….”
The zombies limp into view. A bunch of them—between twenty and thirty. They’re slow, but they don’t have far to go. They reach the ramp on our level just as I gun the engine, and Deke locks his door.
“Take it easy, Donna, you can do this,” Deke says as I reverse out of the parking spot.
“Do what? What am I doing?” I pant, gaping at the squadron of walking corpses. They’re forming a line…blocking the exit ramp…and moving steadily toward our car. There’s no way around them.
My throat goes dry. “Uh, any chance they’re just practicing the routine from ‘Thriller?’”
“I doubt that’s what they have in mind.”
“Am I supposed to run over them?” I fight to keep my voice flat, but it squeaks on the last syllable.
“Might be the best idea.” Deke’s face is set with fear and determination.
I pop the clutch, and promptly stall the car. Deke swears and bounces nervously in his seat.
“Sorry,” I cringe, restarting the engine.
This time, I hold my foot steady, and the car jumps into first gear. I accelerate toward the army of undead.
“Too slow, Donna. Work up some speed.”
I shift into second, and realize I’m making a high-pitched noise in the back of my throat as I stomp on the accelerator.
“Eeeeee!” I squeal, plowing full tilt into the mass of monsters on the ramp. One body knocks against the hood, and Deke puts a hand on the steering wheel to help me hold it steady. Thunk. Another goon bounces off the bumper. I’m so fricking scared, I can barely keep my eyes open.
Lurking underneath lurking underneath lurking underneath.
Shut it, voices. By now, the only place the zombies are “lurking underneath” is my car tires.
I zoom across the last floor, desperate to get back in the open. Only problem: I’m flying too fast to manage the sharp turn out of the parking garage.
“Whoa!” we yell, taking the curve on two wheels. Deke loses his grip on the steering wheel and falls back into his seat. I fight for control of the car. For a second, the Toyota teeters on two tires, threatening to flip on its side.
Gravity knocks us back on four wheels. The ramp ends. We’re clear of the garage and the zombie mob.
Beside me, Deke lets out an enormous, relieved laugh. “Holy crap!” He squeezes my shoulder. “Nice job.” He sounds legitimately impressed. “You’re like a…a stunt car driver.”
“Ha.” I find myself grinning, too. “No more stunts, please.” I straighten my seat belt. “Let’s just get outta here.”
For a second, I slow for the ticket booth. I’m not sure why—habit, I guess. Like an infected guard’s gonna stick his head out of the booth and ask for my parking ticket. I slam through the wooden gate-arm and steer the Toyota along the pier. I must’ve panicked when we fled the ship because now I can’t remember where our boat docked.
“Uh, weren’t we over—”
“Where the heck?” Deke mutters, twisting his head from side to side.
I’m staring at a row of empty concrete pilings.
The ship. Our ship.
Gone.
“There.” He points to the horizon.
We only left the boat a few minutes ago, so it hasn’t gotten far. But still. Our ship is drifting away.
“Dad!” I scream at the retreating boat.
Deke’s mouth falls open. “What the h-heck is he doing?”
“Give me the phone.”
Deke hands me my cell and I speed dial my dad. No answer.
I snap the phone shut. “What should we do n—”
A horrible, high-pitched wail comes from the roof of the car. Directly in front of me, on the other side of the glass, a zombie smashes his ashen face against the windshield. He’s foaming at the mouth. Ewww. Slobber streaks along the glass as he wiggles his face, trying unsuccessfully to get closer to me.
“Deke, get it off.” I hide my face behind my hands.
“Get it off?” He barks out a humorless laugh. “What do you expect me to do? Go out there with a fly swatter?”
“I don’t know! Just think of something!” I peek at the monster between my fingers.
“Um, try driving crazy?” Deke instructs. “Maybe he’ll loosen his grasp!”
“Try driving crazy?” I lower my hands from my face and throw the car into gear. “I’m a sixteen-year-old unlicensed, inexperienced driver with a reanimated corpse blocking my view. Crazy is the only way I can drive.”
I hit the gas, and the car flies forward. I jerk the wheel from side to side. We careen down the port access road, swerving dangerously close to the water. The dead dude gets thrown around, but doesn’t loosen his grip.
I turn on the windshield wipers and the water-squirter thingie. The zombie sputters on a mouthful of washer fluid, then breaks off a wiper and tosses it to the ground.
“Oh, that was helpful,” Deke says.
“Now he’s a clean zombie.”
“Try hitting your brakes.”
“Worth a shot.” I slam the pedal. The momentum from the sudden stop launches the infected guy off our hood and into the middle of the road.
The infected man regains his footing, and I have a sudden urge to test my zombie theory.
“I’m going to run this jerk over,” I conclude aloud.
“NO,” Deke tells me, “go around him.”
“You weren’t saying that a minute ago, when they were lined up in the garage,” I bicker.
“There was no other way out of there. Look,” he gestures at the street. “You have plenty of room to drive around him. He’s a person; he’s still alive. He’s just infected.”
“It is not alive. It’s a zombie!” I yell.
Deke scowls at me. “There’s no such thing as zombies.”
“Watch!”
I launch the car into first gear, stomp on the gas, and mow down the monster-man. There’s a sickening, satisfying crunch as his bones shatter beneath the tires, and he falls lifeless on the pavement behind us.
“Crap! You’ve killed him!” Deke shouts, thrusting his fingers into his hair.
“No, watch,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “It’s just like the goons on the ship. The ones you hit in the head.”
The dude lies motionless—a corpse in the middle of the road.
“They get stunned for a bit, and then recover,” I tell him, trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about.
Deke pounds the dashboard in frustration. “No they don’t. Getting knocked unconscious with a bat is different than being squashed by a car. It’s a—”
“Wait for it…” I order, holding up my hand, “wait for it…”
I endure a few tense seconds, wondering if I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. And then, in one sharp motion, the roadkill-man sits up.
“Voila,” I say, gesturing at the figure behind us. “The walking dead.”
Deke levels his gaze at me, and sighs in a long-suffering way.
“Okay,” he admits, “maybe you’re right. Maybe they are zombies.”
I smirk.
“I said maybe,” he reminds me, pointing his finger in my face.
There’s no time to gloat. We need to figure out a plan, instead of driving down random beach streets with undead people as hood ornaments.
“We gotta get out of here before more things jump on the car,” Deke says.
“We’re supposed to wait for my dad.”
“Uh, hello,” he gestures toward the empty boat dock. “I think there’s been a change of plans.”
“Okay, fine. Then where am I going?” I shift the car into gear and drive away from the coast. And my dad.
Donna of the Dead Page 4