by A. M. Geever
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Connor muttered.
Doug continued. “We’re going to use Jeremiah to help out the folks here, and then we’ll leave. If we don’t have to sneak past the Navy, it’ll be easier for us, too.”
Connor began to laugh, but it was almost unhinged. “Seffie hasn’t been dead twelve hours and now you want to pull some Moses routine? Have you not been paying attention? Half the people we started with are dead. We’ll be lucky if any of us survive long enough to get out of here, never mind anything else! You have lost your fucking mind.”
“It’s my call. I don’t care if you don’t like it,” Doug said. He turned to Philip. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”
55
Miranda shifted her weight off her injured knee as she dry-swallowed a Percocet and three more ibuprofen.
Doug said, “The pill popping doesn’t inspire confidence.”
“I’m fine.”
Fifteen minutes of helping Doug herd zombies had taken a toll, but she would never admit it. She could do it. It was just going to hurt.
Miranda, Doug, and Jeremiah, the latter gagged with hands bound, stood close together where Raymond Street ended in a “T” intersection at Beach Street. Raymond was one of those roads that didn’t have normal blocks because of the curve of the San Lorenzo River, which emptied into Monterey Bay at the east end of the boardwalk beach less than half a mile away. Behind them, a hundred zombies were contained behind a hastily erected temporary barricade of chain-link. More zombies arrived every minute. Ahead of them, another barrier stretched across the four lanes and grassy divider of Beach Street. On the other side of Beach Street, across from where they waited, the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk wafted in and out of view in the patchy early morning fog.
The boardwalk hugged the coast for half a mile along the wide beach. The main entrance to its rides, games, and attractions welcomed visitors one block west of their location and was where they figured the invaders would try to enter town. The buildings that blocked any view of Raymond Street from the boardwalk’s westerly entrances made it ideal for staging the first part of Doug’s plan.
They were hiding by a restaurant with large picture windows that wrapped around the building’s front corners. They could peer through to Beach Street without exposure.
“D’you think the trucks blocking the boardwalk’s main entrance will be enough to get them to move down to the next one?”
Doug shrugged. “We’re about to find out.”
Miranda looked to the boardwalk building across the street. Its bright-orange paint popped against the leaden sky. Scattered zombies, in ones and twos, wandered along Beach Street. A few had approached the trio but were always repelled by Jeremiah. Their captive sat on the ground near Doug’s feet, a mutinous gleam in his eyes.
“Here we go,” Doug said. He ducked low, his head eye-level high with the bottom of the picture window.
Miranda edged closer, peeking past the edge of the window from where she stood. She wasn’t going to bend her knee to crouch unless her life depended on it and right now, it didn’t. Below the towering skeleton of the roller coaster she saw flickers of movement, heard the ebb and flow of soft voices near the vehicles that blocked the main boardwalk entrance a block away.
Then nothing.
For five long minutes, nothing seemed to happen. She was beginning to worry when a helmeted, black-clad figure appeared at the next entrance, five hundred feet down the boardwalk. He was joined by three more figures, similarly armed and wearing body armor. Miranda watched as they began to scope out their surroundings, moving forward, slow and methodical.
Jeremiah lunged toward the corner of the building, attempting to crawl away on his elbows and knees. He tried to yell through his gag, but only managed muffled moans similar to the zombie he believed he had once been. The sound he made wasn’t a problem because of the zombies wandering around, but any movement that caught the eye of an invader might give them away.
Doug scrambled after him. He pulled Jeremiah back so fast that all Miranda saw was a blur, followed by a thud. Jeremiah’s head snapped back from Doug’s receding fist. He shoved Jeremiah to the ground against the building, his knee on the madman’s chest.
Adrenaline flooded Miranda’s system. About thirty men were now in the street. Half of them wore body armor, which might drag things out. They began to fan out. Most headed up Pacific Avenue which paralleled Raymond a few blocks west. Miranda still thought it was dangerous to try and repel these attackers when they could have slipped out of town, but it was too late now. All she could do was help Doug’s plan succeed.
Five armed men started down Beach Street toward their location. Miranda and Doug grabbed Jeremiah and fell back to the fence, holding back the zombies.
Doug looked up at the sky. “What are they waiting for?”
The moans of the zombies behind the fence grew louder, their movements more agitated with food nearby. Miranda shifted her weight off her injured knee, trying to ignore the feeling of hundreds of spiders creeping over her bare skin. Picking zombies off because you had to did not phase her. Standing still just inches away while they hissed and moaned, straining against the fence, set her nerves jangling, even with Jeremiah as a shield.
Doug looked at the sky again. Miranda watched the end of the street. She could hear voices now. In another minute the enemy would be in sight and they’d have to go, whether the others were ready or not. She heard a hollow pop and looked up. A bright-red flare hung suspended against the gunmetal sky. A voice from Beach Street, its owner still out of sight, called for others to hold up. The zombies, hearing the voice, moaned even louder.
Miranda looked at Doug, then slipped one of her arms through Jeremiah’s. Doug did likewise. The metal of the chain-link barrier burned cold against her fingers. She and Doug tugged the edge of the section of chain-link loose. Hugging Jeremiah between them they walked backward, pulling the fence with them. It opened like a door on a hinge. The zombies, their forward movement no longer frustrated, spilled out, staggering and limping past them toward the voices coming from Beach Street.
As soon as the pack of zombies reached the end of the block, Miranda heard the order to fall back. She, Doug, and Jeremiah sidled out from behind the chain-link and hurried back to the restaurant at the end of the street. There were more men along Beach Street than before, but they were falling back. When gunfire started a few blocks west, the retreating men all looked that direction.
“There’s Pacific Avenue,” Doug whispered.
Miranda saw a flicker of movement on the roof of the boardwalk’s arcade. “Here we go.”
Bright flashes of muzzle fire winked along the roof of the arcade. Armed men in the street began to fall, then dived for cover once they realized they were taking fire from behind. The zombies that Miranda and Doug had released still bore down on the men, some dropping as bullets hit their mark, but now Miranda could see the leading edge of a wave of zombies coming from the other end of Beach Street, on the far side of the besieged invaders. The pincer began to close on the pinned down unit as more of their comrades suddenly appeared, falling back down Pacific from where they had been ambushed by Philip’s squad.
From a strategic standpoint, Doug’s plan had executed flawlessly. Zombies were overwhelming the enemy from two sides. Hostile gunfire from the boardwalk arcade prevented them from falling back to the beach to escape, and they could not move forward up Pacific Avenue for the same reason. They were trapped.
From a human standpoint, the scene that played out before Miranda should have been sickening. Men were being ripped apart, blowing their own brains out rather than become the monsters that were attacking them. But she did not, she would not, allow herself to feel sorry for them. The men dying down the block had picked this fight. Now they were losing it.
56
They were almost to the rally point at the bridge when Miranda’s knee started giving out. She began to hop on her good leg, blatantly us
ing Jeremiah as a crutch.
“I’m fine,” Doug said, his voice pitched high.
Miranda looked around Jeremiah to Doug’s smirking face.
“I was fine,” she insisted, but she couldn’t help smiling.
They had gotten rid of the Navy and would soon be on their way. The thrill of victory hummed inside her, along with cautious relief. As soon as she saw the pickup truck ahead, the relief evaporated. Mario leaned against the open tailgate beside Connor. Both of them had guns drawn on Philip, the guy who was supposed to be helping them. Four men stood around the truck, their rifles trained on Mario and Connor. In the bed of the truck behind Mario and Connor, Delilah growled, the ruff of fur along her spine standing on edge.
“What the fuck?” Doug said, quickening the pace.
Miranda couldn’t keep up so was dragged the entire length of the block. Eyes flicked their direction and just as quickly away as everyone in the standoff noted their approach. Doug handed his .38 to Miranda. She pressed the muzzle against Jeremiah’s rib cage, thankful for the lethal threat that would keep him from running off. She was in no condition to keep him compliant without it.
“Liley, quiet!” Miranda hissed, afraid that Delilah’s menacing behavior might trigger a shoot-out.
Doug held his empty hands up as he approached the standoff. When he was ten feet away from Philip, he stopped.
“What’s the problem, guys?”
“Your friend here got bit, Doug. We need to take care of it.”
Miranda’s heart lurched. She scanned Mario and Connor, trying to figure out who it was. Her stomach plunged when she saw the dark, oily-looking patch on Mario’s ripped pant leg just above his boot.
“It’s me,” he said.
“He’s vaccinated, Philip,” Doug said, turning to address him. “There’s no need for this.”
“He needs antibiotics to keep from going septic,” Miranda said, surprised at how even her voice sounded.
“He doesn’t have the tattoo,” Philip countered.
Mario raised one hand. The flicker of rifles being gripped tighter stopped him.
“I’m just going to pull back my collar.”
He unbuttoned the first button on his shirt and tugged at the material to reveal a bright-green triangle at the base of his neck above his shoulder.
“It’s not in the right place,” said Philip. “It should be up near his jaw.”
“He was one of the first people to be vaccinated,” Doug said. “They were moved higher later. He’s well known enough at home that people know he’s okay.”
Philip lowered his gun, motioning for his men to do likewise. “Well, all right,” he said. “But we don’t have antibiotics to spare.”
Miranda’s heart contracted. Without antibiotics, Mario would die. He wouldn’t turn into a zombie, but zombie bites always went septic without treatment. Either way, they were always fatal.
“Listen, Philip,” Doug said, but now his voice was hard. Now, Miranda knew, he was dangerous. Dangerous Doug genuinely frightened her. “We had an agreement. You would get us out of town with whatever we need. We need antibiotics.”
“Maybe we can make a deal,” Philip said. He motioned to Jeremiah. “That fella would come in handy, being able to do what he does. How about a trade?”
Miranda’s heart began to beat faster. She gripped the .38 tighter. Doug nodded at her. She waited a moment, imploring him with her eyes, but he shook his head.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure.”
Miranda raised the gun to Jeremiah’s temple, not sure if she’d be able to shoot him. Doug was willing to do it; she could tell from the look on his face. Jeremiah began to shake. Terrified pleas for his life were lost in the muffle of the gag. Two of Philip’s men trained their guns on Miranda as Philip and Doug attempted to stare one another down.
This better fucking work, she thought, her heart hammering against her rib cage. Otherwise, she was going to die. They all were. The mission would fail, and zombies would overrun the Earth. It was a simple numbers game and humans did not have them. Without a cause to rally around, without the hope of protection for all, they never would.
Miranda looked at Mario and Connor, suddenly unable to swallow around the lump in her throat. She couldn’t let not breaking Connor’s heart be what mattered. She could not help how she felt. She had known for days now, for years. When it would have been wiser and easier not to, her feelings had never changed. She loved Mario. If she was going to die, it was not going to be without telling him.
“Mario,” she said, voice quavering. “I— I love you.”
Mario and Connor stared at her. Mario’s eyes suddenly glistened with tears. Connor’s face filled with stunned disbelief.
“This is what it takes for you to admit it?” Doug said, shooting her an incredulous look. “Jesus, Miri…”
He shook his head as he looked back at Philip, as if her declaration was more than he could take.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Doug said to Philip. “We just helped defend this place, which we did not have to do, so you’re going to give us antibiotics and take us to the boat as agreed. If you don’t, and if you survive the shoot-out that’s gonna happen any second now, they’ll send someone to find out what happened. I just helped slaughter thirty men, so do not make the mistake of thinking that priests are different than anyone else. When my brothers find out what you’ve done, they’ll forgive you. And they will hunt you down to the last man. We can all walk away from this, or we can all die. Your choice.”
Miranda watched Doug and Philip. Her life and everyone else’s hung in the balance but in a way she didn’t care. If she died now, it would not be with one more regret. And if she lived—
“Fine,” Philip muttered. “Drawdown, fellas.” His men lowered their weapons, but the tense atmosphere remained. “Let’s get them what they want and get them out of here.”
Miranda lowered the .38. Jeremiah crumpled to the ground in relief. She handed the .38 and her captive off to Doug and limped to the truck, to Mario.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine.”
“What happened to your chain mail?”
“New Jerusalem.”
He looked at her like he wanted to say more, but Delilah wriggled up to Miranda and began licking her face with unbridled enthusiasm.
“I know, I love you, too,” Miranda said, trying to both pet and fend off the dog. When Mario shifted closer, Delilah began to growl.
“She knows you’ve been bitten.”
Mario smiled. He looked exhausted. Battered. Hopeful.
“I’ll be better soon enough.”
Miranda slipped her hand in his.
“Me too.”
57
An hour later they were in Davenport. Miranda limped down the dock, Delilah padding alongside her. Anticipatory nausea swelled in her stomach. Why does it have to be a boat, she thought miserably. It was a bigger sailboat than she had expected but it would not make a difference… She would be sick the whole time. Doug and Mario scurried around the deck, preparing to depart. When Miranda saw Connor approaching the swim platform to help her on board, her heart sank.
“Take my hand.” His brown eyes were flat, his manner and tone impersonal, as if they were strangers.
“Connor, I’m sorry.”
His pale face turned toward her. He looked more tired than before, the rings under his eyes like bruises. His entire body telegraphed pained impatience.
“I don’t want to do this, Miri. Okay?”
Miranda stood there, flummoxed. She wanted to explain, even though she knew it wouldn’t make him feel better. It wouldn’t make her feel better, either. When Delilah began to growl, she shushed her.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I can’t help how I feel.”
“You can help how you act,” Connor snapped. He extended his hand. “Are you getting on or not?”
“Go on, Liley,” she said, us
ing the dog as a buffer against Connor’s anger.
Delilah sat down on the dock.
“For Pete’s sake,” Miranda said, annoyed. Delilah had been on any number of boats and leaped over obstacles like a gazelle. Miranda turned back to Connor and took his extended hand. He pulled as she pushed off with her good leg. When she was safely on board, she turned back and called Delilah to her.
Delilah took a tentative step forward, then began to whine.
“Goddammit, Delilah, get on the fucking boat!”
Miranda immediately felt terrible when Delilah began to cower. She wasn’t mad at Delilah. She was frustrated with Connor, with the anger and pain that radiated off him like a storm cloud, one that she had caused. What if he was right? What if she was making the wrong choice again?
“I’m sorry, Liley,” she tried again. With the slightest touch of iron, she said, “Let’s go.”
The dog inched forward, whining with every step. When she was within reach, Miranda gave her collar a tug. Delilah hopped onto the swim platform, then scurried by.
When Miranda turned to follow, Connor looked at her with such pain that she cringed.
“Connor, I didn’t—”
“He’s only going to hurt you. This time you’ll have only yourself to blame.”
Miranda woke to a boot pressed against her face. The gentle rise and fall of the bed brought her back to reality with an unpleasant lurch of her stomach. Doug lay on the double berth next to her, his head by her feet and limbs sprawled everywhere. Why is he sleeping in here, she thought, then decided it did not matter. If she could blow her nose on his shirt, he could hog the bed and put his boots on her pillow.
She exited the cabin at the aft end of the sailboat and limped into the galley. Beyond the galley was a sitting area. Jeremiah was tied to a cushioned couch, snoring to beat the band. The Mystery of Doug In Her Bed: Solved.
This was easily the swankiest boat Miranda had ever set foot on, with honey-colored wood and tasteful upholstered cushions. This kitchen is nicer than in most houses. Must’ve been a dot.commer’s yacht. Beyond Jeremiah was a tiny cabin at the fore of the ship. Delilah had curled up near its door. Miranda approved of her choice. It was a good spot to guard Jeremiah.