Time of Death Book 2: Asylum (A Zombie Novel)

by Shana Festa

"Where are we?"

  "South, away from land. That was way too close for comfort today."

  "Look, I don't want to come off like a major bitch, but I have to ask. What the hell happened back there, Jake?"

  His posture went stiff and the set of his jaw rose up just enough to be noticeable. "You aren't putting that shit on me, Emma. I wasn't the only one that failed to notice we were drifting right into them. Back off," he warned.

  "Whoa, I wasn't blaming you." I raised my hands to ward off his increasingly bad mood. "I don't know. Maybe I was…fuck. I know, rationally, it wasn't your fault. I'm sorry."

  "No, I'm sorry for being defensive. I know it wasn't my fault, too, but it doesn't make me feel any less guilty."

  "Have you slept?"

  "Nope, I'm too wired."

  "Do you want to try and lie down for a bit? I can keep watch up here and make sure nothing happens."

  "It won't do any good; I'm too tense."

  I put my hand on his leg and smiled coyly at him. "Tense, you say? I might be able to help with that a bit." My hand slid up his thigh a few inches and he leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head.

  "Who am I to deny you the pleasure of helping me relax? Maybe I'll even return the favor." He waggled his eyebrows at me and closed his eyes as I unzipped his jeans.

  * * *

  For someone who was too wired to fall asleep, he sure zonked out. I didn't bother to wake him; he was wrecked and needed to get some shuteye. I sat with my head resting on his chest as the sun crested the horizon.

  Daphne pawed at my hand and started to whine. I looked down at her tiny form and scratched her head. "What?" I asked. She whined again and stood up on the vinyl seating. "What do you want?"

  A yap escaped her, and her tail began to wag, at first tentatively, but when I sat up, her entire backside got into it. I knew what she wanted, she wanted to poop. Unfortunately for me, she was codependent and even though her potty area was a few yards away, she wouldn't use it unless I stood there with her.

  "Fine," I surrendered, "let's do this."

  I stood over her, urging her onward and providing the moral support she needed to take a peaceful dump. It always felt weird though, watching her poop, so I averted my eyes and looked everywhere but down. In the daytime, the shore was much easier to see. From this distance, it looked like any other day before the apocalypse. The few milling figures on the beach could have been early risers out for a walk, though no amount of imagination would lead me to believe they were anything but the dead.

  The sight of an empty, dead wasteland bummed me out, and I turned away from the scene, choosing instead to look out at the ocean. A boat floated about a half-mile out. It was the only other craft we'd seen since Mel and Dave. This far off, is was difficult to tell its size—twenty, maybe thirty, feet long, the sailboat look deserted with its empty deck and downed sail.

  "Jake," I blurted excitedly, "Jake, wake up!"

  "Just a little longer," he begged.

  "Get up. There's another boat out there."

  He was up on his feet in an instant, eyes searching for the craft.

  "What's going on?" Vinny asked, coming up the stairs.

  "A boat!"

  Meg appeared behind him, trying to squeeze by his large stature. "A boat? Oh, my God, where?" She shoved past Vinny's bulk and followed our gazes.

  "Now what?" I asked. We all looked to Jake for the answer.

  "Let's vote, all in favor—" he was cut off by a chorus of ayes from the three of us.

  "Well, I guess that settles that," he said and made for the captain's seat.

  Chapter 04: Walk Her to the Door

  We coasted at a slow speed toward the sailboat. From the closer vantage point, I could make out more details. The boat was white, with gold trim and, as the low waves rolled beneath it, I could see the bottom half was painted a dark orange. On the side, a cartoon Bob Marley portrait welcomed onlookers with open arms and under him was the boat's name, Island Bound.

  Three portholes into a dark cabin were visible and, as we circled, a closed hatch came into view. While Jake manned the helm, the rest of us moved along the deck, poles at the ready in case anything dead was aboard. The lack of bloodstains struck me as a good sign, and the deck appeared clean and orderly.

  Meg gasped, startled by a face appearing in one of the portholes, and Vinny and I rushed to her side. Looking back at us was a man, whether he was dead or alive remained a mystery, because as fast as the face had appeared, it was gone.

  "What do you see?" shouted Jake from above.

  "There's someone in there," I yelled back, not taking my eyes from the small window.

  "Alive?"

  "I can't tell."

  The hatch slid open with a creak and a disheveled man's head popped up, taking in our vessel with fear and apprehension. I didn't need to convey the new revelation to Jake, who was peering over the railing and into the new opening.

  Apprehension disappeared from the man's face, replaced with hope. I waved tentatively and the man collapsed to his knees, bursting into tears and crying openly for his salvation. I stared, uncomfortable by the display of emotion and not knowing how to react.

  "Peter?" I heard a course voice call out from within the darkness behind the kneeling man. The gravelly sound made it difficult to know if the voice was male or female, and it was strained, as if just uttering the word took great effort.

  "It's okay, Lydia," he called back. "We're saved." The man, Peter, choked out the last words in something that resembled a half-cry, half-laugh. The declaration made me uneasy. We weren't in a position to save ourselves, much less anyone else.

  Meg and I exchanged a glance, and I knew she was thinking the same thing. There was a pregnant pause as we faced our indecision and the tide drew us closer to the sailboat, seeming to make the decision for us.

  Peter picked up on our reservation and spoke. "Please, we mean you no harm. My friend is ill, and we have no food or water." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "It's Lydia, she's dying."

  His words sounded our alarms. While dying was common nowadays, it usually meant turning into a zombie.

  "Cancer," he stage whispered in explanation.

  "Peter, is it?" I asked. "I'm Emma Rossi. This is my family, Meg, Vinny, and Jake."

  He nodded. "Family," he uttered the word with amazement, and he had a wistful expression, no doubt shocked that we'd survived as a whole unit.

  My usually easy-going brother-in-law was all business. He'd slipped back into soldier mode and was inspecting the boat and the hatch entrance with a critical eye.

  "Is it just the two of you?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Have either of you come into contact with the infected recently?"

  "Not since the first day," Peter replied.

  "You've been on this boat for two months?" I asked, shocked at their ability to have survived this long.

  Peter laughed, a mournful sound. "Has it been two months already? I stopped counting the days after the third week."

  "Do you mind if we come aboard? I'm sure you can understand our reluctance to take your word at face value."

  Peter sighed. "Do what you need to do. We've got nothing to hide. Hell, we've got nothing to show either."

  His attempt at gallows humor hit closer to home than he knew.

  Vinny lifted his M16, not pointing it at the man, but ready to shoot if need be. Jake pushed on the throttle enough to coast us into the other boat and the hulls made a screeching sound as they rubbed together. I caught the rope Peter flung over and tied it off on the nearest deck mooring, connecting the two vessels together.

  Jake made eye contact with Vinny and nodded almost imperceptibly. He had his brother's back, and if Peter tried anything, he wouldn't live to regret it. Just before crossing over to the smaller boat, Vinny asked if he had any weapons on him, and was answered with a no.

  The boat itself wasn't large, and there were no nooks and crannies for a person to hide on deck. Vinny
did a quick sweep and continued to the hatch, calling out to the occupant before descending into the dark cabin. I heard muffled voices from within, nothing I could make out, and Vinny returned a moment later, his face ashen and grim.

  "Clear," he called up to Jake. "Emma, I think you need to come over here."

  I was never good at math, but I could easily put two and two together; this was a medical issue. He held out his hands to help me over, and putting the pole down, I hopped the short distance to the sailboat.

  The cabin was lit only by the small portholes and open hatch, bathing the small room in an almost ethereal light. A frail, emaciated woman lay on the bed, sheets stained with urine and feces. Pillows propped her body into an upright position, and she looked to be in the end stage of the disease. The sickly odor in the confined space reminded me of my rotation at Hospice, not quite the smell of death, but the dying.

  I fell into nursing mode, visually assessing Lydia the instant I stepped down into the cabin. A variety of pill bottles were atop a small vanity—all of them empty.

  "Hi, Lydia, I'm Emma. I'm a nurse. Do you mind if I sit with you for a bit?" I smiled at her, not one of those fake smiles, a genuine I'm-happy-to-meet-you smile. She returned the gesture and made a slight motion for me to join her. The little movement from my sitting on the edge of her bed caused her to wince.

  "It's lovely to meet you, Emma," Lydia said with great effort. She was having difficulty breathing, even at rest, and her accessory muscles flared with each labored intake of air. When she spoke, she did so in broken speech, stopping after each word for a breath. As she wheezed out the last word, she choked and began to cough. There was nothing I could do for her but show her compassion; all that was left for Lydia was the best palliative care I could offer.

  "Save your strength. I can do enough talking for the both of us." I blinked back the tears that welled in my eyes and put on a strong front. The last thing this woman needed from me was pity. She didn't have much time left, days at most, and I would do my best to allow her to die with dignity. Something I'd been unable to do for anyone in a long time.

  "Lydia, would you mind if I did a physical assessment on you? I'd like to see if there's anything I can do to help." She nodded her head, indicating her permission. To make her more comfortable, I closed the hatch enough to provide her some privacy should anyone walk by, and began to look her over.

  Nursing school can't teach someone how to interact with people; either you've got it or you don't. This was the skill in which I prided myself. I talked with patients—not at them—and created a human connection. The smell of infection wafted up from the sheets as I turned her on her side. Immobility had caused pressure ulcers to form on her underside, and necrosis of the tissue around her coccyx was evident.

  Pressure ulcers, more commonly known as bed sores, were diagnosed in stages. A stage one ulcer happens after being in the same position for only a few hours. The easiest way to describe that so people understand is to look at the redness left after uncrossing your legs. That's the beginning of a pressure ulcer. A stage four ulcer is an open wound, caused from skin not getting oxygen for an extended period of time. Lydia had several stage four ulcers on her backside.

  "I know you're in a lot of pain, but I'm going to help you shift positions every two hours to let your skin breathe. I don't want these to get any worse." I didn't feel comfortable lowering her head for fear she would aspirate, so I grabbed the crumpled comforter and stuffed it under her so she was tilted to one side.

  Telling her I would be back shortly, I went to the group, my lungs desperate for fresh air. Peter was talking when I approached, pausing only to ask me how Lydia was.

  "I'm not a doctor, Peter. Hell, I'm barely a nurse. But it doesn't look good. If I were to make a guess, I don't think she's got much time left."

  His shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I didn't think so either."

  "The best thing we can do for her is keep her comfortable and treat her like a human being. She doesn't need to fight alone."

  "Thank you," he said, taking my hands in his.

  Jake interrupted. "Peter was waiting for you to come back outside. He's going to share their story."

  * * *

  "Lydia and I worked together for twelve years, selling real estate for the largest firm in Cape Coral. About a year ago, she got sick, lung cancer. It's been an uphill battle for her, and a few months before things fell apart we thought she had it beat. As you can see," he motioned to the cabin, "we were wrong. The disease had progressed and the doctors told us it had metastasized. They did another round of chemo, but weren't very optimistic. At that point, we knew it was just prolonging the inevitable."

  Peter paused, taking a long gulp of water from the bottle someone must have given him while I was in the cabin. He savored the refreshing liquid as it slid down his esophagus, his eyes closed in contentment.

  He cleared his throat, still scratchy from lack of hydration, and continued. "She doesn't have any family; she buried her mother a few years back. She's my best friend, and I did everything I could to help her. When she got too sick to drive, I took her to chemo and made sure she always had food in the house. Essentially, I moved into her house when she got too bad to handle even basic daily activities.

  The day the bees showed up, we'd just left her last round of chemo. The television had been on during her treatment, and the news showed an unedited video of the city in chaos. They came right out and said the Z word. Lydia had spent her savings on the Island Bound," he patted the captain's chair, "and we drove straight to the marina and boarded. We hadn't planned for the end of the world, only the end of her world, and we didn't have supplies on board. I left her down in the cabin and drove to the closest mini-mart. It was abandoned, not locked up, just empty of people. So I loaded as much food and water as I could, along with the measly stock of personal products they stocked on a single shelf, and made it back to the boat."

  Peter shuddered, remembering whatever it was that haunted him from that day. I thought he was finished talking and opened my mouth to ask a question, but he beat me to it, answering it before I had a chance to ask.

  "The streets were like a horror movie come to life; people were eating each other as I drove by. I made it back to the boat unscathed; I wasn't the only one who'd had the foresight to take to the water. While I was gone, the marina had emptied of all but a few boats, and the few that remained had grisly scenes playing out on them. I fought a man trying to take our boat." He left it at that. We all caught the meaning, and the outcome was obvious considering we stood before Peter, not someone else.

  "We've been at sea ever since. Lydia ran out of meds over a month ago. I guess that's when I stopped counting the days. That is, until two days ago, when the last of our food and water ran out."

  I looked at Peter, I mean really looked at him. Judging by his withered body, it was evident that he'd been malnourished for quite some time. So much so, that from a distance he may have been mistaken for one of the walking dead. Dark circles surrounded his eyes, and his shirtless torso was caved in from starvation, each rib outlined on his thin frame. Jake and I took a cruise a few years ago and toured Belize City on a port day. Dogs ran free, starving and surviving on scraps. Peter looked like one of those neglected animals.

  "Peter?" Lydia called from below deck, dissolving into a fit of coughs. I started toward the opening, concerned, but Peter stopped me.

  "I've got it."

  He disappeared into the cabin, leaving the four of us alone on deck. Before anyone could say otherwise, Meg took a firm stance.

  "I'm not leaving them." There was, no discussion needed; we would not abandon these people. My respect and admiration for Meg grew exponentially with those four words. She'd been through so much that it was difficult to remember she was only twenty-one years old.

  "I agree," I added. "Leaving them now would be the same as killing them. Peter is about to be alone. I'd be surprised if Lydia makes it through the night."

 
; Meg and I looked to Jake and Vinny, who seemed to be thinking things through. A knowing glance passed between them, one of those powers that only brother's possessed; they could have entire conversations without uttering a single word. We spoke in hushed tones, not wanting the newcomers to hear.

  "We can't move her," I whispered. "She's not stable."

  Jake sighed, not happy about this new complication. "Why is it the simplest things, like finding another survivor, turns into such a hurdle, every time?"

  "Because zombies walk the earth, life as we knew it is over, and everything is fucked," answered Vinny.

  Peter returned, looking sadder than one man should. The weight of his best friend's impending doom was a heavy burden to bear.

  "Peter," I said, "why don't you relax for a bit with the boys? Meg and I will go spend some time with Lydia, and if her condition worsens, we'll call you." He looked grateful, and then guilty, for being relieved of his arduous duty of sitting vigil at her bedside.

  Out of fear that his guilt would force him to decline the offer of respite, I added, "It will give us a chance to help her bathe, and Meg is a whiz at braiding hair."

  "Okay," he replied, the rationalization working to ease his mind.

  Meg and I put on our happy faces and joined Lydia in the cabin. We carried the conversation, determined to keep the mood light and as pleasant as possible, and provide Lydia with some final moments of joy. The two of us worked as a team to clean the weeks of grime and infection from the surface of her body, knowing no amount of scrubbing would help the disease ravaging her insides.

  Jake anticipated our needs, and brought us some clean towels, slipping a delicate sundress between the folds. Lydia fingered the soft gauze as I dried her now clean skin, and Meg worked her hair into an intricate pattern atop her head.

  "It's beautiful," she choked out, a single tear falling down her cheek as I slid the dress over her head and adjusted the spaghetti straps on her bony shoulders. Daphne sat on her lap, doing what dogs do best, providing joy.