Planet of the Dead (Book 3): Escape From The Planet of The Dead

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  “Ready?” he asked Romero.

  Romero shook his head. “Nah, man. Its Elias’s turn. Let him go in.”

  Morsett rolled his eyes and looked at Elias.

  Elias shrugged. “Sure,” he said, his Swedish accent slurring. He cradled his AK5 rifle in the cusp of his armpit and shoulder. Aiming at the ready.

  “Pussy,” Morsett hissed at Romero with a sly grin before turning back to the open cabin.

  “Whatever. I can still taste that lady,” Romero called after him. He watched as Morsett and the Swede entered through the door. The cabin seemed abnormally dark, as if they were stepping into a void. Out in the hallway, the silence crept around him, eating at his nerves.

  Come on...

  Come on...

  Hurry up!

  What’s taking so long? he kept thinking.

  The soft floor under his boots swayed with the motion of the ship on the water. Even in a vessel the size of this Viking Cruise ship, he could still feel the ebb and flow of the sea. Walls grew closer. Creaking sounds were louder. And something else, a strange drawing sound infused in the ringing silence, like a moan or a cry of some sinister hungry thing.

  “This one was clear,” came Morsett’s voice, snapping Romero from his thoughts with a jump.

  Morsett giggled. “You scared, private?”

  “Kiss my ass, man,” Romero snorted, looking away. He didn’t want them seeing the sweat streaking on his face. The wideness of his eyes. The paleness of his skin.

  Laughing now, Morsett said, “Fucking pussy!”

  He was the only one.

  Romero refused to look at him.

  Elias glanced around uncomfortably.

  Settling down, Morsett said, “Look, this will take all night. Lets split this up. Two can clear while one keeps an eye on the hallway. Take the rooms two at a time. Cool?”

  Romero turned back and nodded. “I’m fine with that.” He hoped his friend would stop busting his balls. In a world in which the dead walked the earth, excuse him for getting a little creeped out being alone in a quiet hallway—on unfamiliar ground no less.

  Elias nodded too.

  “Good,” Morsett said. “Romero and I will clear this side of the hall. And if you need too,” he chuckled again, “Elias can switch out with you on the other side.”

  “Whatever,” Romero huffed, pumping up his chest, adjusting his rifle.

  The two American soldiers split and started down the hall. Morsett taking cabin 5104. Romero took 5102. Next Morsett cleared 5100 and Romero 5098. And so on.

  Stopping at Suite 5000 at the bow of the ship, Romero asked, “You want to do these together? They’re like executive suites.”

  Morsett grinned. “You nervous?”

  Romero waved him off. “Whatever, man,” and stepped into the suite. He could hear Morsett chuckling as he went further into the cabin. The foyer was dark, but it opened into a dimly lit living area. Though faint, there was enough light to see his surroundings. Couches and lounge chairs were set up, family style, in front of a large flat screen TV mounted on the wall. Beside this space a small dining area was lined up with a circular table facing a kitchenette. Further along soft rays of grey sun filtered through a sliding door. Outside he could hear the rattle of sleeting ice pelting against the glass.

  Starting for the bedroom, Romero prayed, “No one’s in there. Its empty. Nobody dead or undead.” He swallowed hard and turned the doorknob. The door creaked open. The air was stale, but otherwise normal.

  Exhaling, Romero checked the corners and dark-shadowed spaces. Turning to the bathroom he stopped. Something thumped hard against the wall. Using his surefire light and keeping his rifle up, he peeked into the bathroom.

  Empty.

  He frowned. What could that have been?

  Something hard thumped against the wall, rattling the mirror.

  Romero crept toward it, gazing at his reflected self, past the glass, through the wall. What was on the other side?

  The wall shook.

  And now there was a scream. Not a shout of anger, but of fear—pure, unfiltered terror, coagulated with pain.

  “Morsett?” he called. “You fucking with me?”

  Romero waited for a response.

  None came.

  Shit!

  Romero turned from the room and started for the exit. Out in the hallway, Elias was peeking through Suite 5001, his rifle raised.

  “What the hell is going on?” Romero hissed.

  Elias glanced at him, not wanting to take his eyes off of the open cabin.

  “Is Morsett still in there?” Romero asked.

  “Yes. I heard something,” the Swede answered.

  “Do you think he’s messing with us?” he asked, now standing beside him.

  “I don’t think so,” the other answered, still glaring into the dark foyer.

  “MORSETT? YOU OKAY?” Romero called.

  Something thumped.

  “DUDE, YOU BETTER NOT BE FUCKING WITH US!” Romero yelled.

  Another thump and then Morsett appeared in the foyer, sliding up against the wall as he stumbled toward them.

  Both Elias and Romero stepped away.

  On wobbly legs, Morsett came out into the hall, slamming the door shut behind him. He clutched at his neck. Crimson seeped out between his fingers. With his back against the door, he slid to the floor, panting.

  “Jesus, dude! What happened?” Romero asked, still keeping his distance.

  “Fucking dead yuppy asshole. Jumped me in the bathroom. Didn’t see him. He was in the shower. Looked like he hanged himself, but the rope must have rotted away.” Morsett spoke between gulps of air.

  “You’re bitten,” Elias said matter-of-factly.

  “Yeah. He nicked me. But I think I’ll be alright. Just need to patch it up.”

  Elias aimed his rifle at Morsett.

  “Hey, man, I said I was alright!” Morsett held his other hand out in front of him, as if he could ward off the gunshot.

  “Only way,” Elias whispered.

  Romero glanced at him, dumbstruck.

  “Don’t do it. I’ll be—” Morsett started.

  Elias squeezed the trigger.

  The report silenced whatever Morsett had to say. His head snapped back hard against the door, painting the brown wood with red bits of mass. He slumped over and lay motionless on the floor.

  “What the fuck!” Romero snapped out of his daze. He aimed his rifle at Elias.

  Elias lowered his and glanced over his shoulder. “Had to be done.”

  “He said he was okay!”

  Elias shook his head. “Bite, nick, scratch—it all ends the same way. Better to end it now instead of drawing it out, no?”

  Breathing heavily, his body shaking, Romero looked from Elias to Morsett’s corpse. With his hand removed, he could see the nick on his neck. Blood continued to seep from the wound, soaking into the collar of his dirty ACU uniform.

  “Dammit,” Romero whispered, lowering his rifle.

  ***

  They stood along the deck of the promenade on deck two. In times past before the dead walked, passengers could run laps here. Now, the remnants of the Renegades gazed down at the body of Morsett. Romero had wrapped him in a white bed sheet. He looked almost like a mummy. One difference being that Morsett wasn’t coming back. Not with a head shot. The proof of which soaked red. All for the better, they knew. Their biggest fear wasn’t just dying; it was coming back and hurting someone close, a friend or loved one. At least this way, Morsett was at peace.

  “Does anyone have any words they want to say?” Staff Sergeant Quinata asked.

  No one said anything.

  After a moment of silence, Sergeant Martin and Quinata hoisted the stretcher they found in the small infirmary on deck seven.

  Morsett’s body slid out and plunged into the dark sea.

  Romero gazed overboard. Ice pelted and stung his face. The wind had a bite to it. He wondered if they were going to make it back home. And if
they did, would there be anything left? If home was as bad as what they’d seen here...

  “Romero?” Martin called.

  Romero turned and followed them back inside the atrium.

  Jelks

  Part II

  Bethlehem,

  Florida

  “This snow is relentless,” Jelks grunted. He leaned forward in the driver’s seat, squinting through the windshield of Bernie’s fully stocked Chieftain Winnebago.

  Collins shifted his map, shaking his head. “This would have been easier if we could have stayed on I-10. Could have cruised all the way to the coast and huffed it north from there.”

  Jelks reached for the pack of Marlboros on the dash. Using the Bic they had miraculously found in the glove compartment, he lit his cigarette and exhaled through the small crack he made in the window.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Wouldn’t have gotten very far. Tallahassee is not small. It would have been gridlocked. Hell, most of I-10, all the way back to Houston, has been gridlocked. I’m shocked we even made it through Pensacola without any trouble.”

  Collins didn’t answer. He kept reading his map.

  “Got to stay on the smaller highways,” Jelks kept on. “We’ll be past Albany by nightfall—given this snow doesn’t kill us first.”

  Collins hummed.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Jelks could see Bernie was still laying down in the sleeping area. Polk was at the dining cubical, going through Doctor Ahuja’s things. Reading over his notes and journals he’d kept. Jelks was certain most of what the good doctor had written had been about Ashley Polk.

  Keeping his voice low, Jelks asked, “What do you think?”

  Collins folded the map. “About?”

  “This so-called Paradise Bernie was talking about.”

  Shrugging, Collins said, “Might be too good to be true.”

  “Right, that’s what I—”

  “Or it might not.”

  “Really? Some magical paradise island off the coast of Georgia?”

  “Stranger things have happened. Couldn’t hurt to have hope. Besides,” Collin said as he reached for the smokes, “this is what we’ve hoped for. Some island free of those nasties, you dig?”

  Jelks offered him the Bic. “I guess. Just...something’s off, you know.”

  Collins exhaled smoke. “Kinda nuts they’re broadcasting the way they are—sending out folks to spread the news. But maybe they’re just trying to do the right thing. Save who they can. I can admire that, even if it is naïve.”

  Nodding, Jelks added, “Lot of bad people out there.”

  “This virus, this disease, whatever it is—it turned a lot of people bad.” Collins snuggled into the plush passenger seat. “Turn off the internet. Turn off the power. Turn off the routine of daily life and people will panic.”

  Jelks switched lanes. Bright lights flooded the side mirrors and then disappeared as a station wagon packed to the gills with suitcases and boxes passed them on the right. Watching the car disappear into the snow, he said, “We were screwed from the start. Everything fell apart as if there was no resistance, no fight, no preparation.”

  Collins flicked ashes out the crack in the window. He glanced at Jelks and said, “And how does one prepare for something like this? I’m not saying something couldn’t have been done. But the way things are—excuse me—the way things used to be; people stopped cooperating a long time ago. No one listens unless you agreed with whatever they have to say.”

  They drove for several hours in silence. The only sounds were of the snow howling outside, the random squeaking of the shocks, and Bernie’s snores from the back.

  “Where we at?” Collins asked, yawning. Apparently, he had dozed off.

  Jelks cleared his throat. He was starting to feel the miles. “Just outside of Albany, according to the last sign I was able to spot.”

  Collins pulled out his map. Tracing the route with his finger, he said, “Not that much longer to Shellman Bluff—that’s close to Blackbeard’s Creek.” He looked up and out the window. “Maybe we should find a place to park for the night, huh?”

  Jelks took a drink from his water bottle, splashing some on his face. “Sounds good to me. What route are we taking?”

  Again, Collins referred to the map. “If we want to stick to the highways, 82 will take us all the way to Brunswick. From there we can head north on I-95.”

  Jelks glanced at him.

  “What?” Collins snickered. “I seriously doubt the interstate in rural Georgia will be clogged with abandoned cars. We should be good.”

  Jelks started to say something but stopped. He didn’t feel like arguing. Hell, maybe Collins was right. They hadn’t seen that many of the dead walking around—not in these parts. Not much of the living either. Staring through the front windshield as the snow pelted against the glass, he didn’t like not seeing them. It was like a calm before the storm.

  Eerie.

  ***

  Closer to Albany, he exited toward Sylvester, marked Highway-82. There were a few cars—forever parked near the ramp. No more than fifteen minutes later, he turned down a bumpy road called Old State Route 50 and then into a somewhat secluded driveway a little way off the road not far from a Coca-Cola bottling facility. That night, no one felt much like talking. Polk checked on the perimeter. Bernie cooked a pot of what she claimed was her famous chili—straight from a Hormel can with an added dash of secret spice. Cigarettes were smoked. Drinks were shared. Blankets were passed around as the temperatures dropped below freezing.

  At morning, with a few prayerful cranks on the Winnebago, they pulled out of the dirt-road drive and started for the highway. They drove for another hour or so but again, Jelks couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Leaning forward, peering through the storm past the front windshield, he asked Collins, “You see anything?”

  Collins snorted. “What? Just a bunch of snow.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Huh?”

  Jelks gestured around them.

  Collins followed his hand, gazing out at the sides of the road, of what he could see with all the white coming down. And on the roads, the scattered, abandoned cars—but nothing else.

  “What’s the problem?” Polk asked, kneeling between the driver and passenger seat.

  Collins smiled. “I think he’s been driving too long—starting to see things.”

  “No,” Jelks said, “I’m not seeing anything. That’s the problem.”

  “What do you mean?” Polk asked.

  Again, Jelks gestured with his hand. “Take a look. Tell me what you see.”

  Polk gazed through the windshield; eyes narrowed. “I just see snow and road.”

  “Right! Nothing else, no other survivors. Not even the dead.” Jelks shook his head and reached for the leftover Marlboro pack on the dash. He lit one of the cigarettes and exhaled smoke. “It’s just bugging me. You’d think we’d at least see more of those nasty, rotting, walking corpses—something for Christ’s sake.”

  Polk watched the road. “Look, there’s one,” she said.

  “And another,” added Collins. He gave Jelks a look.

  Jelks cleared his throat but said nothing.

  More and more of the walking dead appeared on the road, forcing Jelks to swerve once and then twice. Pots and pans and various boxes of supplies shifted and fell to the floor inside the Winnebago.

  “What the hell is going on up there? Trying to wreck us?” Bernie yelled from the dining cubicle table. Her game of solitaire scattered.

  “Sorry!” Jelks shouted over his shoulder. Again, he dodged more of the dead that seemed to be grouping in herds along the highway, appearing suddenly in the swirling clouds of snow, forcing him to slow to a near crawl. “None of these bastards for miles and now this?” he whispered. “I don’t know what we’re driving into, but it feels like the road is getting thicker with these damn things.”

  Polk braced herself against his seat. “Is there another route?”
>
  Jelks looked at Collins.

  Collins unfolded his map, humming again to himself. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “I think we just passed Willacoochee,” Jelks offered.

  After a few moments, Collins said, “We can take 135 through Douglas. Jump on a roundabout to 32. That’ll take us east all the way to...” he traced the line with his finger, “Brunswick.”

  More of the dead stumbled out into the road, forcing them into the emergency lane. The Winnebago leaned to the side, threatening to tilt but settle with a hard jostle, spilling more of the supplies. Jelks gritted his teeth and pulled the RV back on to the road. He spotted the exit and took it, trying not to jerk the wheel in his haste. Cutting north, the road was bad but passable. Less of the dead that seemed to come in endless droves from the fields to the north.

  “What is that?” Collins asked, pointing ahead of them.

  They squinted through the storm. A silhouette darkened on the horizon.

  “Is that—?” Jelks started to say.

  “The dead,” Polk answered.

  “No. Can’t be...” Jelks whispered.

  “Here! Take the exit for the roundabout!” Collins shouted.

  “What’s going on?” Bernie shouted from the back.

  Jelks pulled the Winnebago hard to make the exit. They clipped two men whose rotting forms were mercifully hidden by the snow. The tires thumped over their already ruined bodies, jostling the RV.

  They followed the ramp upward, rising high above, up into a grey sleeting mist. The RV grumbled in protest. The tires skidded once or twice.

  Jelks came to a stop at the cusp of the ramp.

  “What are you stopping for?” Polk asked.

  “Look.” Jelks pointed past his driver’s side window. Now sitting a couple hundred feet above ground level, visibility was clear enough to see for miles. The snow stopped falling as a rare beam of sun broke through the dark circling grey clouds, shining down on the surroundings.

  “How is this possible?” Collins asked no one in particular. He sat high in his passenger seat, craning his neck to gaze out of Jelks’s window.