So Brian had kept an eye out on the pitch dark of the overcast night. He sat, but an excess of agitation pushed him back to his feet. He looked out over the black water. He strained to hear anything at all that would tell him if Jade was too close or not. What if she had decided to paddle in by hand?
“Shit…shit, shit, shit…” His agitation increased and he told himself he was just spooking himself–but it wouldn’t go away. But it also wasn’t enough to sound an alarm. Deciding, he bent to take up the slack rope and he pulled it in, hand over hand. He would see for himself if Jade was still in the boat.
The more he coiled, the more uneasy he became. Finally, the entire line was curled wetly at his feet and he considered the frayed end of the rope in his hand. Why would Jade cut herself free? Brian shook his head, his stomach tied in a tight, uneasy knot.
“Carl? Yo…Carl! Wake up, dude!” Brian shouted in a whisper back to the salon. He didn’t want to wake everyone. Not yet.
After a minute, Carl ambled out looking like a disoriented bear fresh from hibernation. Then he saw the frayed end of the rope in Brian’s hand and his eyes focused.
“She’s gone?” Carl asked and Brian nodded. Carl turned and hurried back into the boat.
Brian stood dumfounded, wondering what could have happened to Jade and then Steve and Maggie were on the deck, followed by Carl.
They all stared at the rope in Brian’s hand.
“Why would she cut herself free?” Brian asked, and Maggie shook her head. The clouds covering the moon broke apart and the moon bathed everyone in its blue glow. They all looked pale and ghostly, their eyes deeply shadowed.
“She wouldn’t–or, couldn’t–actually. She didn’t have a knife.”
Brian was opening his mouth to ask if a fish could have bitten the line apart when they were all startled by a muffled gunshot from Flyboy. They turned in unison just in time to see as something fell over the rail. Had it been a person? Did someone just go overboard?
Then a low, ululating scream travelled across the water.
“What the fuck–” Steve said and then the gun went off again, making them flinch.
“Jade,” Maggie said, her voice flat, almost a question but not quite.
Steve turned to her, confused, his thoughts a racing jumble. He fumbled for the walkie-talkie. “Jade? What are you saying?”
She held up the frayed end of the rope.
Steve shook his head once and then looked back to Flyboy.
It made no sense; but he believed it one hundred percent all the same.
Somehow, Jade had gotten onto Flyboy.
Shakily, Steve opened the line on the walkie-talkie.
“Adam, what’s going on over there? Over.”
“Adam, this is Steve, we’re concerned about you guys. Over.”
“Are you having trouble? Over.”
“Adam?”
~ ~ ~
John Smith was having a tough time. He’d nearly lost Jade already.
As he’d sat and contemplated life as an undead, she’d struggled up before he was ready and swayed side to side in the unsteadily rocking boat that still floated fifteen feet from the back of Flyboy. Luckily, she did not face his direction, but rather the empty ocean.
She would have stepped out and sunk, had she been aware of him. He’d seen them do it before. They were blinded by their hunger, made stupid with need.
He scanned the area around him and saw a line curled on the deck. He pulled it down and then began to ease the rowboat forward. He pulled slowly so as not to cause her to tip right out of it. He also had to remain very quiet. After a tense minute, the rowboat was almost within his grasp. He leaned out to grip the leading edge, but his foot slipped on the wet step and his leg went in.
He righted himself, but Jade had already turned toward him at the sound. She took a step. Then another. She clambered clumsily over the seat. A low moan had begun in the back of her throat. Her arms rose. It was the hunger.
John steadied the rowboat and pulled it closer. The tension had drained from his body and now he was only cold. Only calculating. He gathered the other rope in his free hand. He had to wrangle her quickly, before she fell but also before she got too close. If he did decide to become an undead, he’d do it on his own terms.
She got to the front of the rowboat and walked right into the v, then stumbled, her ankle turning. She fell toward the water, arms still reaching for John.
He was ready with the rope and he snaked a looped a section around her neck as she pitched to the side. He kicked her hip, twisting her as she fell, and the line formed a rough noose. Then she sank.
Sinkers were heavy. John’s arms strained and he pulled, stepping up and back onto the deck and finally, she slid from the water, moaning. Immediately, her arms reached for John standing above her. The line had cut into her neck and a blackish gel oozed out and fell in small clumps to the deck. She struggled to hands and knees and then stood, swaying.
She would have fallen off the back of Flyboy if John didn’t jerk her roughly forward, playing out the line as he walked backward. She followed. She walked to the step first and then struggled a foot up onto it. With her next step, she was unbalanced and she almost tumbled sideways. John yanked again, pulling her forward onto the deck and onto her knees. One of her kneecaps dislocated with a pop.
She reached for him and struggled up again.
John stepped back, playing out more line. His mind was still coldly calculating. He watched as she lurched, nearly falling. This one was so weak, so small…how was she going to unleash hell?
She won’t, John thought, not without help.
He let her get close, his eyes half lidded and predatory. When she was close enough that John could feel the cold that came off her in waves, he stepped around, kicked her feet out from under her and pushed her from behind. She toppled to her hands and knees. John grabbed her under both arms, bringing his hands up to either side of her head, effectively locking both her head and arms in place. Then he lifted her from the deck, bringing her back against his chest. She flailed and kicked and her strength was more than it should have been for such a tiny person, but she was still no match for John.
He knew right where he wanted to go with her: Adam’s room. You always start with the leader because the fastest way to kill a snake was to cut off its head. John had been cheated on ThreeBees. The big kid–Danny? Denny?–had swaggered around saying that he was in charge and so John had killed him, waiting to see the explosion of disorientation when they found their leader dead–but there had been none. So he’d watched and waited and then he’d been taken to Flyboy and found out who was really in charge. Adam was IN CHARGE.
Once Adam was a sinker, the rest would react like panicked sheep and one by one, they’d become sinkers themselves. If they weren’t eaten too quickly.
John struggled his skinny sinker through the narrow hallways of Flyboy. She fought, but had become slightly more sluggish. The longer the dead were undead, the slower they became. Their bodies deteriorated, but not nearly as quickly as non-reanimated human bodies. Something to do with the lack of heat in them, John surmised. Heat caused accelerated decomposition and the undead were cold, almost supernaturally so.
The boat was quiet; the loudest sound the thin moans of the sinker in his arms. Her vocal cords vibrated and it was almost like the reedy trill of a cricket. Her thin limbs twisted and turned coldly–almost mechanically–and another person might have dropped her through sheer revulsion, but not John.
He made his way to Adam’s door and when he reached it, he realized he had no way to open it, his hands were locked on either side of the sinker’s head. He couldn’t put her down; couldn’t let her twist her snapping mouth toward him. Using his elbow, he knocked on the door.
No answer.
He knocked again.
“The fuck?” Adam’s voice came muzzily from the room and John knocked again. The sinker’s feet trailed against the door and her toenails made minute scratching so
unds, like cats requesting to be let in. “Hold on, hold on, Christ.” There was a hiss as a gas lantern was lit within the room.
John braced himself and as the door swung open, revealing Adam’s face full of sleepy disgruntlement. John whispered, “For you!” and pushed the former Jade inside.
Adam’s eyes were more confused than alarmed at the cold and stumbling figure filling his doorway. His first startled thought was, there’s a chick in my room! and as Jade fell forward onto him, twining her thin, cold arms around his neck, Adam’s second (jubilant) thought was, a slut! But as Jade’s teeth sank into the side of his soft, vulnerable neck and he stared in astonishment past his assailant and saw John Smith in the doorway, his third thought was, what the fuck?
Jade’s head snapped back and she had a large chunk of ragged flash in her teeth. Adam watched as her face was suddenly bathed in a gout of dark red blood. He felt a simultaneous pulling sensation in his neck, as though someone were hauling rope out of it, jerkily hand over hand. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
His eyes, now beginning to close, went back to the doorway where John still stood. John’s face was alight with warm and vivid interest and he seemed to search Adam’s face caressingly, almost lovingly. Adam’s last thought of all time was, dude’s gay for me.
And then he died as the blood intended for his body gushed out onto the floor.
John stepped forward and once again grabbed Jade under her arms; he didn’t want her to do too much damage to Adam’s body and the infection from her dirty mouth would already be well at work. He hauled her backward and in one quick move, tumbled her out into the hall. She began to crawl back to the warm corpse and John put one boot down on her head, pinning her in place as he pulled Adam’s door closed.
She struggled under his foot, arms swinging wildly, rejuvenated by the blood and the enticing meal so close by. John could hear people beginning to stir, the gas lanterns being lit and cautious footsteps in the hall. He reached down and grabbed his sinker by her hair and dragged her to the next door in the hallway: his room. Formerly Sami’s.
He opened the door and struggled Jade inside, avoiding her snapping red mouth. Controlling her now was like trying to control a bag of furious spider monkeys; her limbs acted independently of each other. She vibrated furiously, sounding like a small electric motor: a sewing machine or child’s toy. He pushed her face down and tried to step on her head again, but found he couldn’t keep his balance. He dropped down, one knee on her neck, the other at the small of her back. Still she struggled and buzzed.
The footsteps increased and now John could hear distant voices. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tones were only cautious; alarmed but ready to be assuaged.
He had to make his sinker stop buzzing. He pulled a small folding knife from his pocket and flicked the blade open. He reached down and grabbed her by the hair, shifted his weight and pulled her head back, exposing her neck. He felt her throat with his fingers, sliding them up and down her neck in the dark of the cabin. He sliced down and across to where her knew her voice box to be, severing it. Her sounds ended as though he’d flicked a switch.
With effort, he turned her face directly into the deep pile carpet, then he lay on top of her, his hands controlling the movement of her head and scissoring her legs between his, stilling most of her movement.
Then he listened again.
There were cautious footsteps in the hall outside his door, then three people whispering. “Do you think we should check on Adam?”
“What? Knock on his door? No fucking way, man.”
“Yeah, he’ll rip you a new asshole.”
“But I heard something…what if he fell? Had a heart attack or seizure or who knows what?”
There was a long considering silence and then the whispers began again. “Well, you do what you want, but no way am I gonna.”
“Yeah, me neither, fuck that guy.”
“You’re right, you’re right, never mind…I just thought…”
“Yeah, I hear you, but it’s Adam, dude. He’ll be a total dick if we wake him up. Everything is fine; let’s just go to bed. Fuck.”
They shuffled off, leaving the hallway in silence.
John let out a breath and Jade struggled groggily beneath him.
In the room next door, Adam’s room, something bumped.
In the flickering light of the gas lantern that still glowed on his bedside table, the former Adam opened his eyes.
John Smith sat on the upper deck, the captain’s observation deck, his eyes alight with strange emotion. He’d waited until he was sure that Adam had reanimated, then he’d lifted himself from the struggling Jade. He’d left his bedroom door open and opened Adam’s door and then gone fleetly through the hall, popping each door open by a few inches, giving the sinkers access to each room.
Then he’d climbed to the bridge, blocking access behind him, and listened as the fun began.
It had been about an hour, maybe slightly longer, since he’d brought Jade on board and now Flyboy was beginning to come alive around him. John felt that the boat was having a rebirth of sorts, a glorious rise from the mediocrity of mere survival to the visceral and literal fighting for its life.
Wasn’t it better to be fully alive and fighting than to be half alive and trudging through the day to day of boring human existence? Yes. It must be.
Like a sign, the clouds above cleared and the moon came into view, shining cold light onto the deck below. A woman ran, fleet footed across the deck and behind her trudged a man, heavily dragging his limbs as though they were extra baggage. She turned and fired on him, and above, John’s eyes lit with admiring surprise. His mouth dropped open and he panted briefly, adrenalin coursing through his system.
The woman dropped to her knees at the railing and for a moment John was awash in disappointment–was she giving up so easily? But with a scream of mingled rage and fear, she grabbed the approaching man around the knees and rose, lifting him up and over and he fell, moaning, into the water below.
The woman screamed again, in triumph this time, and turned to stare after the vanished sinker. She pulled the gun from where she’d stashed it at her waistline and shot into the air, her teeth gritted in a way too frightening to be called a smile.
Sitting on the deck above, John patted his hands together in excitement. Then the walkie-talkie by his foot burst into staticky life. “Adam, what’s going on over there? Over.”
“Adam, this is Steve, we’re concerned about you guys. Over.”
“Are you having trouble? Over.”
“Adam?”
John glanced at the walkie and then away, distracted. The woman had been magnificent! She was very strong, very much a survivor! If she got to a boat or the jet skis, she’d make it out for sure; John had no doubt of it.
He lifted the gun from his side and took careful aim and shot the woman in the leg, high up in her thigh. It was lucky the moon had finally decided to show her face; otherwise, he might have killed her by accident, and if she weren’t a carrier, she’d never rise. This one deserved to rise again, John thought.
She screamed and crumbled to her side, holding her leg. Adam appeared at the other side of the deck, swaying and hungry, one side of his body covered in the drying blood that Jade had let, plus a fresh glaze that was not his own. Behind Adam, down the corridor to the rooms, screams were starting up, one by one.
The woman looked up at John on the captain’s deck and he saw that her teeth were still gritted; she was angry! What an extraordinary woman! Her gaze went from the undead Adam, lurching toward her, back to John and before he knew what was happening, she’d pulled her gun up and had it trained on him.
He ducked sideways, laughing, throwing himself out of the chair just as the gun fired. He heard the glass of the cabin shatter behind him, bits of it bursting outward and peppering his back. He waited, panting and chuckling, but no more shots came.
He peeked with caution over the rail and saw that Adam had found the woman.
John felt a welling of disappointment but it was quickly assuaged as he watched Adam at work. The woman fought hard and John felt the heat in his stomach once again, the tingly warmth that went then to his penis and even to the ring of his anus, tightening it thrillingly.
Unaware that he was doing it, he curled his lip up, exposing his teeth. He looked feral in the moonlight, crazed with bloodlust.
The walkie-talkie crackled again.
“Adam? What the hell is going on over there? Over!”
Now the undead and alive alike were pouring up from the bowels of the ship, almost as though Steve’s voice had called them forth. The screams were exquisite, magnificent, music to John’s ears. The main deck was pandemonium, hellish in the unconcerned light of the too far distant moon. Blood shone black and ran like water, slicking every inch of the deck. Bones made the acquaintance of their owners in grossly unacceptable ways. And even as they died, most rose up again, their eyes shiny with silver and uncaring death.
Grinning crazily, John lifted the walkie-talkie and opened the line.
Let them listen.
They’d suffer the same fate soon enough.
On ThreeBees, the blood drained from Maggie’s face as the screams from Flyboy were broadcast to them via the walkie-talkie. In his surprised horror, Steve fumbled it, almost dropped it, and would have if Carl hadn’t stepped forward to steady his hand. Of them all, Carl looked the least shocked, the least shaken. He listened carefully, head cocked.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve said, choking on the words. “What do you–”
Carl put his hand up in a ‘stop’ gesture that would have been insulting if Carl’s hand hadn’t been shaking.
Under the screams and the noise of general panic, Carl could hear breathing, a faint panting. Probably whoever was holding the walkie-talkie. Was it Adam? Trying to let them know what was happening without being able to speak? Yes, most likely, Carl thought. He told the huddled group what he was thinking.
With the line held open, they couldn’t get a message to him. They could only sit and listen helplessly.
The Boat Page 17