Inception_The Bern Project

by M James Conway

  Like Seattle and Chicago, a light haze of smoke or fog was hovering on the south end of the park, and people were running to the north and east into lower Manhattan, and, like Seattle and Chicago, a boat was seen leaving to the south at a high speed. The view was too far to make out the specifics of its passengers, but John was willing to bet those occupants were wearing masks and dark gray camouflage.

  “Oh, man, this is crazy,” Frankie said from the kitchen as he made his way out, carrying a small bowl of pre-rolled joints. He set it down on the table and took one for himself, lighting it. Boogie held his hand out to Frankie, who yelled, “Get your own!”

  Boogie laughed, picked one up, lit it and took a large toke, letting the smoke roll out of his mouth. “Water.”

  John looked over. “What?”

  Boogie nodded to the television. “Water. All those locations they’re showing on TV? Those parks and whatnot? Those parks are all on the water in each city.” He took another hit. “Just like Seattle. Buckingham Fountain in Chicago? Lake Michigan. Battery Park in Manhattan? Hudson and the East River. National Mall in DC? Potomac River. Santa Monica Beach? Pacific Ocean.”

  “Why does that matter?” Frankie asked.

  “It’s just a coincidence, is all,” Boogie said. After a few seconds he continued, “But if I was a terrorist that was going to attack, and that’s a big if…why would I not attack from the water? It’s all about access and egress, right?”

  “I’m not following,” Frankie said.

  Boogie stood up, clutching the joint between his fingertips. “Look at this way. If you wanted to cause damage, yet get away, what’s the best way to do it? Have a way to escape, right? Nobody really patrols waterways. It’s usually cops on foot and cars and all that shit. If you attacked by boat, you could easily get away. I mean, you have, what, three hundred and sixty degrees of movement, right? Even if they did see you, you’d be long gone by the time they figured out where you docked. But that’s if, of course.”

  John wanted to get away from assumptions. He wanted proof, and that was something they didn’t have right now. It was best to plan for survival and safety, observe, then respond. He was about to interrupt, when Helen did it for him.

  She stood up and grabbed Cindy by the hand. “Well, while you guys decide what it is we are to do, we are going to make the spare bedroom up. It’s getting late anyways, so I’m thinking the best thing we can all do is get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

  John said, “Helen’s right. Not much we can do right now.”

  Cindy looked at Boogie and asked, “We’re not getting home, are we?”

  “We’ll get home, baby! Just not this week.”

  “You saved John’s life, which means you are our guests until you guys decide to leave. We’re very accommodating and have plenty of room, food, and things to do. You’ll have to earn your keep and trust, of course, which means we’ll all be pitching in. This is not negotiable, either.”

  “We really appreciate it,” Boogie said. To John, he said, “We still need to think about tonight. Those zombies are on foot and I know we’re a good thirty or so miles away, but who knows how long it’ll take to spread this way? I mean, if you think about it, anyone in those vehicles on the freeway could have come from Seattle and had an infected person with them that we just didn’t see. They could be here sooner than we think. Could be while we’re sleeping or not at all. Maybe we should take turns standing watch?”

  John nodded and said, “Good idea. I took that cat nap in the car on the way here. Morgan, why don’t you get some sleep, then I’ll come wake you?”

  “Count me in for the first watch!” Frankie said, as walked into the living room carrying a twelve-gauge shotgun.

  “Fine. Frankie and I will stand watch. We’ll brainstorm ideas on what to do from here on out. Now, all of you get some sleep,” John said. To Boogie, he said, “Morgan will stay with me, and you and Cindy can crash in Helen and Frankie’s spare room.” He walked toward the door, with Morgan following.

  “What about me?” Boogie asked. “Want me to stand watch later? I’ll need a gun, of course.”

  “No,” Morgan said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” Morgan walked outside, and, before closing the door, he turned around and continued, “It’s like Helen said. You got to earn our trust.” He closed the door and followed John to the house.

  * * *

  “Any room you want, Morg. Mi casa and all that.” John said this almost as a formality. He knew that Morgan would take the couch like he always did. Ever since his tours in Afghanistan, Morgan had gone from preferring Egyptian cotton sheets pulled over a California King to sleeping on the floor or the couch, fully clothed.

  “Never know when you’ll need to drop everything and leave,” he would always say.

  “Sounds good.” Morgan plopped down on the couch, threw his feet over the armrest and lay down. “So, what do you think of Boogie and Cindy?”

  John sat down on his grandfather’s old leather recliner, resting his elbows on his knees. “They saved my life, basically. Gave me a ride home. Dude ran over those infected zombies and did it without giving a shit. I’m good with them, for now.”

  “Yes.” Morgan sighed, then in a sarcastic tone said, “That was sure nice of Helen to let them stay, no?”

  “Well, they will have to earn our trust if they want to stay. One night isn’t going to kill anyone.”

  “Interesting choice of words, considering.”

  John laughed.

  “John, we have to be careful about the people we let in, especially now. This country is full of people with their hand out, looking for help, any kind of help, and though we are resourceful, we can’t help everyone. Christ, we rid this world of some of them.”

  “You don’t trust them?”

  “I don’t trust anyone.”

  Which was true. Coming from a broken home, Morgan had always had a disdain for members of society, seeing their stupidity on full display day in and day out. Now with texting, social media, news outlets, political correctness…that antipathy towards society had intensified.

  Morgan had decided, and especially after 9/11, that his time could be better served engaging with like-minded individuals who wanted to make real change and live a more organic lifestyle.

  While John was a hang-around with his grandfather’s club, The Crush MC, Morgan had enlisted in the United States Army in 2003 through Option 18x, which was a way to fast-track to Special Forces right after enlistment. After boot camp, he had gone to their Special Forces Qualification Course and had impressed his superiors by scoring high marks. He served as a Green Beret Weapons Sergeant and earned the respect of his brothers, due to his born leadership skills and calm demeanor during battle.

  Unfortunately, those same men had ratted him out for killing a civilian in 2009. Fearing the media fallout of an already unpopular war, the army had decided to brush it under the rug by issuing Morgan an administrative discharge and loss of pension and benefits.

  Since then, Morgan’s disdain for people in society, and especially the government, had grown.

  “Times have changed, obviously.”

  Morgan just smiled, staring at the ceiling.

  John headed to his den, grabbed one of his AR-15s from the above-ground safe, and a few protein bars, which he put in his pocket. He also picked up a pair of portable radios so he and Frankie could communicate if problems were found. As he was leaving, he glanced down at the wastebasket and saw Morgan’s old cast resting inside, an acknowledgement of the seriousness of the situation.

  “Try to relax and get some sleep,” John said as he walked to the front door, but Morgan had already fallen asleep, the remnants of a smile still on his face.

  Chapter 19

  “Quietly, now,” Russell said.

  They moved in relative darkness to the fence on the south side of the house, well away from the advancing horde. The fence was about eight feet in height and made
of alternating slabs of thick treated cedar, painted a dark gray color, with matching gate. There was no handle, and in its place was an electronic keypad.

  “We’re going to have to climb,” Russell said. He started feeling around the fence with his hands, letting the AR-15 hang by the single-point sling. The wood was smooth and consistent, with no creases or ledges. A burglar’s nightmare. Climbing it would be a challenge. Russell stepped back, faced the fence and bounded toward the gate, using his strength and momentum to climb to the top. He straddled the fence and looked toward the water. He saw a white mini-yacht docked off the shore.

  “Kat, give me your hand.” Kat walked up and held her right hand up. “Now, when I pull, I want you to jump up and grab the fence with your left hand. Use your feet to try and climb.” Kat jumped, grabbed the fence with her left hand and was able to straddle the fence, facing her father. Russell motioned with a nod of his head for Kat to jump over the other side, which she did.

  Kat pointed toward the lake and said, “Dad, there’s a boat.”

  “Hold up ‘till we’re all over.”

  She ignored him and started walking toward the dock.

  “Kat!” Russell whispered.

  She continued on, ignoring him. Russell looked back to Christina and Sims, and asked Christina if she was ready.

  “Yes,” Christina replied, fear and doubt etched on her face.

  “Sims.” Russell looked at Sims as he turned around and mimicked him pushing her up when she climbed. He nodded back and Russell reached out for Christina. She held up her arm and Russell grabbed it. “Jump as high as you can, grab the fence, and start to climb. Sims is going to push you up and I’ll be pulling. Piece of cake.”

  “Oh. Cake.” Christina grunted while jumping and managed to grab hold of the top with both hands. She was propelled upwards by Sims and landed on top, straddling the fence, facing Russell. She continued over, landed and started walking toward the dock.

  Screams came from the house to the north. Glass started breaking and Russell heard the sounds of splashing, but still had no visual.

  Time to move, he thought.

  “You got this?”

  Sims motioned with his hand for Russell to go ahead. Russell jumped over and ran toward the dock. Kat and Christina were standing in the rear of the boat. Russell reached them and climbed aboard.

  He walked to the cabin door and tried it. Locked. He debated kicking the door in, but thought it might make too much noise. He looked back toward the house and saw Sims walking on the dock, at the same time noticing a small shack on the edge of the lawn on the north side. The shack was the color of rich soil, the same as the house, and had an old school life preserver hanging from the front door. A boat house.

  Sims made it to the boat and all four had no problem standing freely. The boat was a forty or fifty-footer and had plenty of room for all of them.

  Russell said, “We need a key. This cabin door is locked and seems pretty thick and secure. I’m going to go check that boat house. Sims, take the AR-15 and cover me. Give me the handgun.” He unslung the AR-15 and gave it to Sims, and was given the Glock in return.

  He stepped off the boat and moved quickly and quietly across the dock. He made it to the front of the boat house and tried the door handle. Locked, of course. He pushed and pulled on it and felt it wasn’t that sturdy. It gave a bit, which told Russell that pushing his shoulder into it would break the lock. The question was, how loud would it be?

  The screams started increasing in volume and Russell heard glass shatter close by. He looked toward the house. It was a four-story house and the top floor was pure glass, giving the homeowner a great view of the lake. The lights were off, but Russell saw several shadows, though barely, moving throughout the interior. They had made it into the house and would no doubt be working their way toward them.

  No time.

  Russell threw himself at the door, the sound be damned. Small chunks of wood flew as the door started to give, but held. He tried again and heard more glass breaking coming from the house.

  He took a few steps back then lunged at the door, leading with his shoulder, and felt the pain as skin and bone met wood, the door crashing inward.

  Russell ran inside to darkness but managed to use the minimal amount of light coming from outside the boathouse to get a glimpse of what was inside. He saw several life preservers, oars, water skis, ropes, and tools hanging from the walls. The shelving was waist-high and had books and files cluttering the surface.

  No key.

  He kept looking for a safe or some wall-hanging box that looked like it held keys. Nothing. He was peering around the doorframe to look at the main house when the slight reflection of the moon glimmered off something shiny hanging on the wall.

  A set of keys was hanging from a rusty nail.

  Russell grabbed them and ran out the door. He heard Sims yell at him.

  “Russell!” Sims pointed toward the back of the house and brought the AR-15 up.

  Russell looked to the right and saw even more shadows moving inside. He heard glass break on the top floor and saw a figure jump out the window. The man landed about forty feet below on the ground with a loud slapping sound and stood up. It was a jump that would have seriously injured any human being. The man was six feet tall and was well built. He had jet black hair and a goatee, and was wearing red and black plaid pajamas. His skin was pale, the color of death. The man looked around, and saw Russell looking right at him. He let out a roar, threw his arms back and took off at a slow run toward the boat house, his speed picking up.

  Russell wasn’t going to wait around until the guy got there. He put the keys in his left hand, and, with his right, drew out the gun. He took off at a dead sprint toward the dock with pajama man changing direction in pursuit of him.

  There was a loud popping sound and a flash of light coming from the boat. Sims was taking a shot at the man. His growls and heavy breathing stopped. Russell was pretty sure Sims had dropped him, but he wasn’t going to stop and check. He continued running, reached the dock, and, in quick strides, ran and jumped up into the boat.

  He ran to the door of the cabin and fumbled around for the keys. Kat and Christina started screaming. More glass was breaking. He heard Sims firing single rounds from the AR-15 toward the house. The symphony of screams kept dying down with each shot Sims took, telling Russell he was on target.

  “Russell, hurry! Down to one more mag!”

  Thirty rounds.

  Russell tried all the keys. The first six didn’t work. He placed the seventh key into the slot and jiggled it back and forth. The handle turned and Russell threw the door open. “Girls, inside!”

  He sidestepped to let Kat and Christina in. “Sims, keeping covering!” He heard Sims changing out magazines, the last one slapping into place. Sims racked the gun and took aim again. Russell saw about thirty people on the lawn, all running towards the boat: men, women, children, various ages and builds, all with rage in their eyes, all screaming.

  He walked up to the steering wheel. He studied the key ring, trying to find a key that looked like one for a car or truck. He found one key that had a black rubber coating around it. He took that key and placed it in the starter and turned. It moved, but nothing happened.

  Russell looked around the control panel. Maybe there was a switch he had to use? He noticed several small levers and switches mixed in with a myriad of buttons and displays and saw that each one was labeled. He squinted, trying to see in the dark, and found one labeled “On.”

  Sims kept firing.

  He flicked the switch and the dashboard came to life. He turned the key and heard the boat start.

  “God damn it, Russell, hurry!” Sims was firing non-stop, soon to run out of ammo.

  “Sims, let’s move! Inside, now!”

  Russell heard big Sims running into the cabin, his weight causing the boat to shake.

  He saw two throttles. He had no idea which one moved the boat, so he pushed both of them as far as
they would go and heard the engines roar, but the boat wasn’t moving. He knew there was no emergency brake and the anchor wouldn’t be used this close to shore.

  Think.

  He looked out the back door and saw a rope from the boat connected to a metal hook on the dock.

  He brought the throttles back and ran out the door. He found a tie-off with a coil of rope around it. He took out his knife and started cutting.

  He heard a scream that felt like it came from twenty feet away. He saw a middle-aged woman running onto the boat, her left foot placed in the boat in mid-stride. The woman’s head disappeared in a cloud of red mist and brain matter. He looked to his left and saw Sims aiming from the cabin doorway toward the house and the zombies.

  He kept cutting. Sweat was beading on his forehead and the rope was giving a bit more with each movement. More footsteps hit the dock and Sims kept firing. Finally, Russell heard the dreaded click.

  The AR-15 was empty.

  “I’m out!” Sims yelled and threw the gun inside the cabin onto the ground.

  Russell reached down and grabbed the Glock. He tossed the gun to Sims, who took aim and started firing again.

  More footsteps and Russell saw three figures run onto the boat.

  The rope broke and he didn’t waste any time. He ran toward the cabin while Sims ran toward the back of the boat.

  Once inside, he launched himself toward the throttles and shoved them forward.

  The boat took off with a burst of acceleration, hurtling everyone on the boat towards the rear. He heard screams as Kat and Christina were thrown back, knocking whatever was in their way to the ground. Russell heard Sims yell, and, as he looked outside, saw Sims on top of a man while the other two infected were thrashing in the water, clawing for the boat that was now out of reach.

  “Sims, here!” Christina had found a foot-long cylindrical piece of wood. She tossed it to Sims, who was struggling with the man on the ground. Sims reached his right hand up and caught it. He gripped it and started bringing it down onto the man’s head.