The earth vibrated. Maureen turned to Tim who stared back at her with vacant eyes. The ground shook harder, and a low murmur, like the coming of a great swarm of bees, rose to a fever pitch. A whisper of wind returned, quickly growing in strength, and twisting and rattling the trees. The sound rose like a wave and became a deafening roar. Wind tore through the forest. Leaves were ripped from branches, and clouds of dirt billowed over them as a gale shredded the island.
Two helicopters glided by overhead, the roar of their rotors flattening everything, and ripping thin limbs from trees. The copters were flying low, but Maureen didn’t think they’d see her beneath the trees. She looked around for a clearing, but before she could react, the helicopters were gone. The woods settled, and one by one, the sounds of nature returned.
It was 1:39PM.
Chapter Nine
Don gave Tobi some water and a few pretzels, and the kid looked much better. He was a ray of sunshine through dark clouds, his innocence refreshing. There were the telltale white lines on his brown face where blood vessels had swollen, and dark patches beneath his eyes, but other than that, he looked alright. If the child was aware of the disease inside him, he didn’t let on. The red mark where Lester had slapped him was fading, and Don wondered if it would be as easy to wake him the next time he fell asleep.
They were back within the shade of the large tree where they’d found the boy. Even though the disease had retreated, the sunlight and heat still bothered him, but didn’t appear to hurt him in any way. Don took off his jacket, and exposed his arms to the sun’s rays, and felt nothing.
In the distance, they heard a dog barking hard, and the faint whomp whomp of a helicopter approaching. Don looked at Lester.
“Leave it be,” Lester said.
“It’s on the way. And we can’t bring Tobi with us without real weapons.” Don searched the area around him, the feeling that he’d been in one place too long making him nervous. “You’ll have to hide here with him while I check it out. Give me the address. I’ll go get the bike and weapons, and come get you. We’ve still got plenty of daylight left. I’ll move faster alone, and it’s safer for Tobi.” The boy watched them with a bemused look on his face, as if he instinctively knew that nothing they were discussing mattered at all.
“I’m not staying in one spot, got me? You said that’s how’d they’d get us,” Lester said. His shirt was drenched as he sweat buckets.
Don was surprised Lester had listened. “You woke him, so he is your responsibility. Step up your game. I will be back to get you both,” Don said.
“So, trust you. That’s all you got? That don’t work. Got me?”
Don said nothing.
“You want me to stay in one spot, while you run off? How about I go and you stay with Tobi?”
“Come on, Lester. Really? You think you can do this faster and more efficiently than an ex-SEAL federal agent?”
Lester’s eyes shifted to his feet. “How long should I wait?”
It was a fair question. He was only halfway to Lester’s friend’s house, so he’d need at least another half hour, and that assumed everything went perfect. Then he needed to break in, find the guns, and get the dirt bike going. All that would take another half hour. An hour in total. Don decided to double it. “Give me two hours. If I’m not back, hunker down somewhere and help him as long as you can.”
Lester nodded.
Without another word, Don strode across the yard, and exited out the front gate. He made a hard right, and wedged himself between two fences that separated the backyard he’d just been in, and the one to its north. The fences were only two feet apart. It was one of those lost spaces where neutral territory had somehow been established. He was able to travel two blocks in that way, only being exposed when he crossed a road. The barking was getting louder, and he heard the mumbles of walkers. The commotion was coming from his left, and he cut across a lawn and hid behind two large bushes in front of a six-foot stockade fence. He inched along the fence, looking for a knothole.
Two Seahawk helicopters thundered overhead, cruising low. They were Navy, getting advanced intelligence in the early hours of a major crisis. If this had happened years ago that might have been him up there, one of the lucky ones patrolling from the outside looking in. Unfortunately, promotion had its privileges.
As soon as copters appeared overhead, they were gone, the sound of their rotors receding. When he found a good-sized knothole, he knelt, looking around first to make sure nothing was sneaking up on him, and then put his eye to the hole.
The dog was trapped on a raised deck partially covered by a large awning. Two stainless steel bowls sat on the deck by the back door. The dog had gone for some food, and the walkers had trapped him under the awning. They were howling, and jumping forward, then pulling back. The dog barked and growled. Foam and saliva dripped from its mouth. It was their dog, no doubt about it.
Don sighed. Should he risk himself to help the animal? His training said no. His mind said no. His body said no. But they were all overruled by his heart, and Don just didn’t see the downside to having a big loyal animal at your side when you went to war. Damn the potential logistics. He’d worry about that when the time came.
He continued following the fence. When he came to its end, a white PVC fence picked up where the stockade left off. No gap in between. He quickly retraced his steps, and stopped at the point where the fence came closest to the deck stairs. He crouched as low as he could, coiling like a spring. He hurled his club over the fence, and leapt upward with all the strength he had.
His hands caught the top of the stockade fence, and he pulled himself up. One of the fence tops snapped off, and he fell. His pants leg caught on the broken picket, and he hung upside-down, pinned to the fence as he struggled to free himself. His pants ripped, and he landed on the thick turf.
One of the walkers jumped from the cover of the deck into the hot sunlight, and cringed with pain, but kept coming. It rushed forward with a snarl, teeth bared, black lines crisscrossing its face.
Don grabbed his club and pounded the walker’s head, and it went down, writhing on the ground as the disease retreated.
All the barking and wailing had stopped, and every creature on the deck was now looking down at him and the walker he’d just woken. He got up, and ran up the steps, screaming as loud as he could and hitting the railing with his club. The walkers were stunned, and thankfully, the dog was a smart one.
The animal bolted forward, through the stunned walkers, and past Don down the steps. Don jerked to a stop, and followed the animal. They ran down a brick walkway toward the gate that led to the front yard. The walkers didn’t appear to be coming after them.
They hid behind the same two bushes Don had prior, panting and catching their breath. Don poured some water into the dog’s mouth from a plastic bottle he kept in his jacket pocket. When the dog was done drinking, Don finished the bottle and dropped it to the ground.
He knelt, and took the dog’s head in his hands. “I’m going to call you Tank. You like that, Tank?” The dog lifted a paw, and its tongue wagged free. “I can’t see how we’ll be able to stay together. But what the hell.” He rose, and peeked through the shrubs, trying to get his bearings. He should be on Crist Street. The number on the house directly in front of them was nineteen. He had to get to fifty-seven.
They stayed on the same side of the street, creeping as close to the houses as possible. They were forced to cut through a backyard when the road curved, and they came out too far up the street, and had to backtrack to Jerry’s house. There was no sign of walkers. A few generators buzzed in the distance, but he heard no cars.
Tank padded beside Don as he mounted the steps to Jerry’s place, and peered through the thin glass windows beside the door. He didn’t see anyone, but he did see a dull red pulse in the reflection of a poster hanging on the foyer wall. An alarm. If he simply broke the glass and unlocked the door, an alarm would sound. And it would be loud.
The qu
estion was, did it really matter? Based on what he’d seen, he didn’t think walkers would go out in the full heat of the afternoon sun to chase a loud noise unless they had to. But he couldn’t be sure. When the creatures were in large groups they appeared fearless. He’d be in the house ten minutes, and he didn’t have time to try and disarm the alarm, which he didn’t think he could do. Any alarm worth its installation price has some battery backup, and would work for hours after a power loss.
Don broke the window next to the door with his club, then threw it in the bushes. No way there wasn’t a better weapon in a soldier’s house. As he reached around and undid the deadbolt, the alarm sounded. It was a thin, warbling squawk that didn’t sound right at all, like it wasn’t getting enough juice. Don and Tank entered the house, and Don locked the door behind him. Most people kept their guns near and dear to their heart, and what good was a gun if it was in the basement if you needed it quickly? It was Don’s experience that most people kept their guns in their bedroom closet, or in a dresser drawer.
They bounded up the steps, taking them two at a time. At the top, he ran down the hall, opening doors and looking for Jerry’s room. When he found it, he searched the closet, the dresser, under the bed, but he found no guns.
There was a private bathroom off the master suite, and he looked in the medicine cabinet. He found some aspirin, and a small bottle of pure caffeine powder. Soldiers got the stuff so they could put it in food, or drink. It was actually dangerous, and Don had heard stories about kids overdosing on the stuff.
He went to the toilet, flipped open the lid, and urinated. The sound of pee hitting the water was relaxing, made him feel normal for an instant. Normal was something he wasn’t used to. Life hits you when you least expect it. That had been a major part of SEAL training. You never knew what was outside your front door, or where the sidewalk might take you. Don’s mother had read The Hobbit to him when he was a young boy, and that message had never dissipated. You had to take moments of peace where you could find them, or else they might never come. Planning a trip or taking a bubble bath usually weren’t in the cards, so relaxation had become more of a state-of-mind than a reality. That was Don’s normal.
He flushed, zipped up, and went to find better clothing. The soldier didn’t disappoint. Don changed into camo fatigues, boots, and he grabbed a heavy Army jacket.
Tank sat and watched Don dress, his cool grey eyes never leaving him. It was amazing the connection people could make with canines. Don had encountered many service dogs over the years, and every one had been different, but they all had been efficient, thoughtful, and obedient. Tank looked like a mix between a Great Dane and black Labrador. His ears were overlarge, and he had boney hips. The dog swiveled its head and looked over his shoulder, as if to say, “Shouldn’t we be getting out of here?”
Don patted Tank on the head, and headed back into the hall. He searched the other upstairs rooms. The guns were under a single bed in one of the spare bedrooms. Jerry had a pump-action shotgun, and an old M16. Don lifted the old combat weapon, and racked its slide. He was thrilled until he saw that both weapons had trigger locks, and good ones. He ran his hand down the smooth length of the M16’s barrel, and caressed the stock. It looked to be in perfect working order. Jerry was deployed in Iraq, and was most likely using his newly issued M4 carbine. There was a box of ammo for each, and two large combat knives with notched backs.
He inspected both trigger locks, looking for their weakest points. As he did so, Tank started to whimper and run up and down the hall. Don called to the dog, and when he came, he did his best to silence the animal. Nothing moved in the house. He went to the window, and there were no walkers outside.
“Sit here and stay calm.” Don sat on the bed. The alarm still rang faintly, but it sounded like it would die at any moment. He was losing daylight. He didn’t really want to think about that, but he had to soon. Being out and about when darkness came would be problematic.
Don figured if he got a hacksaw he might be able to cut the trigger guards, and pry out the locks. He raced down the steps, jumping two at a time, Tank on his heels.
The basement door was in the kitchen. They went down slowly. It was dark, and though there was some light streaming through the basement windows, it was hard to see. Don went to the workbench and grabbed a flashlight. He clicked it on, and scanned the tools that hung on pegboard behind the bench. A hacksaw with a new blade hung from a metal bracket.
Don clamped the M16 into a large vise mounted on the workbench as carefully as he could. He didn’t want to bend or break anything that would make the gun unusable. Once he was assured the gun was steady, he started sawing at the thinnest part of the trigger guard. Ten minutes later, his arm was ready to fall off, the hacksaw blade was nothing but a butter knife, and he’d barely scratched the M16’s trigger guard.
Tank sat, and watched with his calm gray eyes, his tongue hanging out.
Don removed the M16 from the vice and locked down the shotgun. He fastened a new blade to the hacksaw, and started sawing. Twenty minutes later, the final two blades were burnt to useless metal, but he was half way through. He took down a hammer, and the largest chisel on the board. He positioned the chisel in the cut he’d made, and started hammering.
The shotgun’s trigger guard snapped after six swings of the hammer, and Don used needle nose pliers to pull the lock free. He made a sling from a piece of rope so the gun could hang from his shoulder as he rode, but still be accessible. When he was done, he loaded half the shells into the gun, and pumped one into the chamber. Then he strapped the M16 over his shoulder, and patted Tank on the head. He’d have to worry about the other gun later. There was an old watch on the workbench with no band, and it read 2:27PM. He pocketed the watch, and ran back up the stairs. He was running out of daylight, and he still needed to go back and pick up Lester and the kid.
The dirt bike was in the garage just like Lester had said it would be. He opened the garage door, put on his backpack, and made sure the M16 and shotgun were secure. The bike started on the second kick, and Don lifted the kickstand. He put it in gear, twisted the throttle, and the bike bolted from the garage into the mid-day heat, Tank hot on his tail.
Chapter Ten
Maureen stood dazed for several seconds, the whomp whomp of the helicopter fading as the sounds of the Glades rose. The mid-day sun poked through the tree canopy, and somewhere an egret cawed and a chorus of herons sang. Tim dropped to one knee, wiped his face with his arm, and then shook his head. Maureen was always the strong one, but recent events were beyond even her metal stomach and sturdy mind. She brought up the rifle and scanned the forest. Nothing moved. Whoever they’d been following was scared off by the copters.
They searched for any sign that would help Maureen decide what they should do next. Chasing whoever killed Geoff seemed like top priority back when she and Tim stood on the edge of the woods. Somehow she’d felt braver, more in control, with the steadiness of the Everglades supporting her. That courage had fled when she’d found Geoff’s head and the pile of legs and arms.
There was no rational explanation for what was happening. No matter how hard she tried, Maureen couldn’t come up with a scenario that explained everything that happened. Her initial instincts suggested animals as the attackers, but it was now clear they were dealing with a human. Perhaps a hermit who’d been living in the swamp for years. Or maybe the person was a fugitive from justice. These ideas made perfect sense until she factored in the head and pile of limbs.
Maureen opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again and bit her lip. Tim didn’t look good, and she wasn’t sure he could handle what she had to tell him. She needed what little was left of the man, and telling him they were most likely being hunted by some sicko cannibal wouldn’t improve his mental state.
“Let’s head back the way we came,” she said. “Finish going around of the island and join the others.” Tim wagged his head and cracked his knuckles. “Then we can figure out how to get out of h
ere.”
Tim’s mood shifted. “I’m glad you came around.” He looked like it was Christmas morning, and he was sitting in front of a mountain of gifts.
Maureen marveled at his self-delusionary skills, and wondered again what they ever saw in each other. Tim was the type of person who let others lead the way and let others take the risks and blaze the trail. She created the path, led others down it, and protected them. The problem was, the more she led Tim by the nose, the clearer it became that there were rough seas ahead for them.
As they backtracked, they came across the pile of limbs, and Maureen was unsure what to do. She knew leaving the arms and legs was akin to providing the animals a feast. Maureen was still a nurse, and she respected the human body, and the sanctity of one’s self. The idea of crocs and birds feasting on Hawk and Geoff’s body parts made her itch in all the wrong places, and her scar sting, but what could she do? Bring them with her? The ground was hard, and they had no tools to dig. There was no rope or anything to string the limbs into a tree the way they had Hawk’s body.
Reading her angst, Tim said, “Honey, you can’t be everything. You can’t solve every problem.”
She snickered. Honey? Then she caught herself again. He was trying to be kind, and she was being a bitch. Also, he had a point. Their lives were in danger and worrying about people who were already dead made little sense. Yet, something gnawed at her. “Is there no way to protect them so they don’t get eaten?”
Tim shrugged.
So it was that they left the head and limbs as they’d found them. Maureen didn’t like it, but the day was wearing on and she wanted to be off the island by nightfall. What would happen when darkness fell, she didn’t want to consider.
As they backtracked, the forest sang with life. Birds squeaked and chuffed in a cacophony of notes that sounded like fingernails being drawn across glass. Green and yellow frogs hid within the banded wildpine that grew on many of the lower tree branches, the airplants brown-striped spiked leaves crawling upward like tentacles. A gray fox darted into a thicket of brambles, and several squirrels fought for supremacy in the trees. Beetles buzzed Maureen as they tore through the trees, and as she brushed them aside, she almost missed the bone fragment.
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