Such terrible pain.
He knew that he was no longer alive, but he was not dead either. He was just a passenger trapped inside his own body. He sensed that the new presence in his mind with him had almost no understanding of the world that surrounded it. It was a newborn babe in the woods.
But it did have one savage desire—to feed.
~2~
CUTTER
Jackson Cutter opened his eyes. Then he closed them. The sunlight streaming through the round porthole window above his head was entirely too vivid. His head hurt. Really hurt. But that was nothing new, at least for the past year. Today, he just wanted to lie in bed, wanted very much to sleep for another score of hours—but nature, being something even he couldn’t ignore, begged to differ.
Damn.
Grunting, he fell out of bed and stumbled naked past piles of clothing littering the gritty fiberglass floor of his Catalina 445, stopping briefly to grab a white terrycloth robe he’d swiped from the nearby two-star hotel. As he continued to stoop to avoid bumping his head on the low ceiling, he searched for something else to wear. Through the blur, nothing other than a pair of slippers caught his eye, so he slid his feet into their fuzzy coolness and stumbled his way out of the forward stateroom.
What was that? In the narrow connecting hallway, he paused for a beat, closing his eyes and resting one hand on the bulkhead while running his fingers through his unruly hair. All wasn’t right with the world, and it took a moment for his foggy brain to work up enough steam to understand exactly what that was. There had been another shape on the bed beside him. One that was familiar, and yet not so familiar, all at the same time.
He returned to his bed and peeled the sheets away slowly, exposing a tanned, completely nude, well-proportioned woman.
And that was partly a problem. Who are you? He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, almost wishing he hadn’t inhaled so deeply. He placed a closed fist against his forehead. The competing drummers playing fills in his mind went into overdrive, playing cymbal after crashing cymbal. He rubbed his temples to relieve the nagging pressure while continuing to work on figuring out who in the hell the woman might be.
Still breathing. Good. She was his type. Maybe not his type a year ago. But, yes, based on her generous curves, she was definitely his type. In all honesty, though, he couldn’t remember a damn thing about the night he’d spent with her.
And that was a real shame.
With a sigh of resignation, he shuffled to his nightstand next to the bed and located a roll of twenties he kept hidden inside a fake beer can. Peeling off six bills, he grunted, then peeled off another three for good measure, folded them neatly, and stuck them between the woman’s fingers. She moaned and rolled over, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, yawning. She continued to turn until she was lying on her stomach with one arm dangling limply over the side of the bed and the money clamped professionally between her slender fingers.
For a moment, Cutter stared at the tattoo above her apple-shaped derrière. The inked lines seemed to have all bled together, and he couldn’t tell if it was his vision that had gone bad or the ink job had been subpar. He blinked to clear his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Ink. It had to be the ink job. He was still far too young for his vision to already be going.
“Great,” he whispered to himself. “Now, who the hell are you?”
Figuring the answer would come to him eventually, he let her sleep and headed topside, ascending the short ladder in fuzzy slippers while tying his robe closed. On deck, he grabbed his Marlboro Reds from a shelf next to the helm, tapped out a single soldier, and lit it in his cupped palm. He let the cigarette dangle from the corner of his mouth while blinking furiously and making his way forward along the deck. The sunlight was still entirely too vivid, and the ocean sparkled like a million tiny diamonds, or in his case, a million tiny shards of broken glass.
Arms up for balance, he stopped long enough to take a satisfying drag from the cigarette, savoring the way the hot smoke rolled on his tongue, then closed his eyes and waited for the quick burst of nicotine to jump start his alcohol-saturated system back to life. That burst never came. But he had committed himself already. He’d endure. It wasn’t as if he had a choice.
Once he made it to the bow, he lifted himself up on tiptoe and opened his robe. Leaning back, he relieved himself over the port side of the boat, watching as the dark yellow stream came out in an almost perfect laminar flow and arched gracefully through the air before splashing into the clear blue waters of the bay.
Vivid.
A tourist couple happened to pick that moment to stroll past on the docks. Both were dressed keenly in white cotton sailing outfits and ready for a daylong excursion on some of the very best waters in the entire world. Behind the couple was a small blond-haired kid. The little guy was quickly clutched closer as the trio scurried along a bit faster. Cigarette dangling from his lips, Cutter nodded his friendliest hello and good morning, and took another puff from one side of his mouth and blew it out the other.
The wife and husband ignored him, but the kid looked back and giggled.
Finished and feeling slightly better, he laced his robe shut and stumbled back to the bridge to begin one of his other daily rituals. After turning over bottle after bottle of rum and tequila—all empties—he swore a few choice words to anyone who would listen. But then he realized there was still hope. A half-filled beer bottle was sitting amongst the dead. He lifted it and shook it and heard sloshing liquid and didn’t see anything moving about through the cloudy brown glass, so he took a swig.
Other than warm beer, he tasted gritty cigarette ash. Nasty, gritty cigarette ash. With a flick of the wrist, he tossed the bottle over the side of the boat and looked for another as he worked to get the awful taste out of his mouth. Choking into his closed fist, he stuck his other hand in the pocket of his robe, and his fingers brushed against the roll of twenties. They were his only saving grace. But, with annoyance, he glanced at the path he would need to take to get to what his body required most.
Sighing, he remembered a song from childhood. Just put one foot in front of the other, and soon you’ll be walking out the door. And with a belabored groan, he tossed his nearly-to-filter cigarette and jumped from the boat to the dock. A bad landing forced him to his knees, and he had to grab a metal pole and recover against it for a couple of beats of the drummers in his head. Then he let go and set off on the long journey up the slatted pier to his ultimate destination.
Andy’s Bar & Grill.
He sidled up next to the NO SMOKING sign located beside the PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign and paused to light another cigarette before continuing into the outdoor seating area. As he went, his robe fell partially open, exposing him to the early morning crowd already there and breaking their fasts. With a grunt, he cinched his belt tight again just before reaching the bar under the eaves of the restaurant.
Dignity matters.
The man behind the six-stool bar was a native of the islands he liked to call “Kiki.” It probably wasn’t the guy’s real name, but it worked well enough. Kiki threw him a pained look, shaking his head from side to side while grinning with a huge set of perfectly white teeth. Cutter slid onto a barstool and took one more puff from his cigarette before stamping it out on the scratched wood of the outdoor bar. He blew a stream of smoke above his head and held up four fingers and pointed at the bottle of tequila just over Kiki’s left shoulder—the expensive stuff.
“No, sir, Mr. Cutter. It’s breakfast time, sir. Bar’s closed. Just like always.” Kiki wiped at the bar with a rag, concentrating on what he was doing.
Cutter spun on the barstool and eyed the crop of morning patrons, widening his legs a little to let in a cooling breeze. Plates of eggs and ham and bacon and sausage and pancakes were being consumed by fat tourists, which at the moment didn’t look very appetizing. Only a few of the locals were awake at this hour. They usually slept in late unless they had a charter to run, or a group
of beer-swilling fishermen to corral and snap pictures for. Among all the trappings of the hearty American-style breakfasts, Cutter picked out a few in the crowd daintily probing at fruit cups or slurping down oatmeal or granola or whatever the hell that crap was. He’d always figured that life was too short to spend it eating granola or fruit, or even vegetables. Not when God provided thick juicy steaks and good whiskey to all His blessed children.
He spun around and raised three fingers and pointed to the tequila bottle again, this time pulling his wad of crumpled twenties from his pocket and slapping them all on the bar, thereby igniting a new fire under Kiki and completing their daily dance.
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir, Mr. Cutter,” said a smiling Kiki.
Cutter downed the tequila in two swallows before wiping his mouth clean on the sleeve of his robe.
Kiki, bucking for his usual large tip, engaged, saying, “It’s going to be hot today, Mr. Cutter. Real hot. Need anything else, sir?”
Cutter ignored the man’s weather report and obvious pandering. Hot? It was always hot here. That’s why he had come to the God-forsaken place in the first place.
Barbados reminded him of Hell—but with a nicer view.
He glanced at Kiki and smiled. The man smiled back. Then Kiki’s eyes refocused on something just past Cutter’s shoulder.
“You look terrible, Jack,” a woman’s voice said.
~3~
AMERICAN BREAKFAST
Cutter swiveled on his barstool to face the new arrival. Morgan. The woman’s full name was Morgan Crow, and he had known her ever since she was twelve years old. She was the daughter of one of his best friends, Zen “Shouting Bear” Crow, who had been responsible for introducing Cutter to his wife, Sharon. Morgan also happened to be one of the co-owners of the search, recovery, and private security business he had all but abandoned a year ago, way back in the great state of Texas.
Cutter eyed her suspiciously. It was still difficult to focus on her, partly because she was backlit by the sun reflecting off the glassy waters of the bay and partly because his vision was still a bit blurred.
He squinted at her. “You cut your hair.”
“You like it?”
He considered for a brief moment. “Nope.”
She shook her head as he pivoted back to the drink Kiki had refilled. She then climbed onto the barstool to his left. A large man took the barstool to his right. That man was Kyle Gauge, another surviving member of Cutter’s company of thieves and miscreants. He glared at each in turn, then raised his glass to them both, drained it, and indicated to Kiki that he wanted another.
“Jesus, Jack,” Morgan said. “It’s eight o’clock in the morning. Go easy on that stuff.”
“You want one too?” he asked.
Morgan shook her head no.
“Coffee,” Gauge said from his right then grunted and set his meaty fists on the bar. LOVE was tattooed on his right set of knuckles and HATE on his left. The ink was a souvenir from a stretch he spent in prison for “accidentally” killing a guy in a bar fight.
Kiki returned with the half-empty bottle and started to refill Cutter’s glass, but Morgan put her hand over it to shield it before he could.
“Hey,” Cutter said.
“Hey, yourself, Jack. We came a long way to find you and…well, you should at least be a little happier to see us, don’t you think?”
Go away, Morgan, he thought, but said nothing.
“Still haven’t taken it off yet,” Gauge commented.
Cutter stared down at his glass, shifting his fingers to hide his white-gold wedding ring. He had a strong desire to strike the man. But he held back. He’d done so once before and had busted two of his knuckles on the granite rock that served as the man’s a jaw. And the bigger problem with Gauge was that the man liked to hit back. Hard. The guy had a right haymaker that tended to leave anyone in its wake feeling as though they’d been run down by a battleship—or dead.
He glanced back at the wedding band on his finger. No, of course I haven’t taken it off. They’ll have to cut it from my cold, dead finger.
Morgan cleared her throat. “It’s been what, Jack? A whole year?” She leaned forward and placed her elbows on the bar.
Cutter stabbed out his cigarette and tapped another free from the pack in his pocket. Morgan snatched the smoke from his lips before he could light it and crushed it between her fingers and let the flakes of tobacco fall away. “Don’t you know those things will kill you?” When he didn’t respond, she continued. “You are a hard man to track down, Jackson Cutter.”
Gauge let out a one breath grunt that could often be confused with a laugh.
Morgan shook her head. “It took me almost an hour this time to locate you, and then about four more for us to get down here. You are not very well hidden, Jack. Only slightly better than when you tried to play ostrich in the Keys. You’ve got to watch it, boss.”
“You’re slipping,” Cutter said. “And I’m not your boss. Not anymore.”
Morgan shrugged. “No forwarding address. No contact since the funeral. No nothing. Not even a postcard telling us what a great time you are having. We were all a little disappointed back at the shop. Gauge and I think you are…a real jerk.”
Cutter shrugged. “The word is ‘asshole,’ Morgan. Just say it.”
“No,” she replied with a trace of disgust.
“Another round, Kiki,” Cutter said as he pointed to his glass. Kiki glanced from Morgan to Gauge before shaking his head no and setting the bottle on the shelf behind the bar.
“Ok—ay then,” Cutter growled. “I’ll go somewhere that appreciates a real man like me and takes this.” He held up his roll of twenties and peeled one off and dropped it on the bar before getting up, intending to walk out.
Gauge slid from his barstool and blocked Cutter’s path.
“Out of my way, Schwarzenegger,” Cutter warned.
Gauge did not budge. He became an immovable object being met by an unstoppable force.
“Come on, Jack,” Morgan said. “We just want to talk to you. Be friendly about it. Don’t you want to know what we’ve been up to over this past year? After all, you are the one who abandoned us. We figured you could—at the very least—carve out maybe a few precious minutes from your busy laze-about schedule for us. It’s important.”
Pfffff. No way. But the way she was looking at him told him it would be better to just shut the hell up and listen. Then he changed his mind again.
“Out of my way,” he told Gauge and stepped around him.
Gauge pivoted, and Morgan ran interference, blocking his path yet again.
“No,” she said. “You will stay here and listen to me and hear what I have to say. Trust me when I tell you that it will be well worth your while.”
“Whatever,” he grumbled. The two drinks and cigarettes were already having the desired effect on the pounding in his head. The single drummer had backed into to a steady four-four beat and might even be willing to take a fiver soon. He raked his fingers through his hair to pull it back from where it had flopped over his eyes.
“I’m hungry,” Gauge said.
“You are always hungry,” Morgan quipped, taking Cutter by the arm. “Go find a waitress and order something. We’ll take that table over there.” She shook him lightly. “Can he get you anything to eat, Jack? Something healthy for a change?”
“No.”
“Fine,” she said right back to him, mimicking his childish tone. To Gauge, she said, “Get me an egg-white omelet with spinach, cheese, shallots, and a dash of rosemary. Got that?”
“Two eggs, scrambled,” Gauge replied. “Check.”
Shaking her head, Morgan led Cutter to a table set next to the railing separating the eating area from the lapping water of the bay. She checked the surrounding patrons. Morgan being Morgan—cautious to the extreme. He’d lived where he had long enough not to care that much anymore. No one was after him. Not anymore. He just wasn’t worth it.
Cutter
sat in one of the padded chairs by the railing. “What’s so goddamned important for you to ruin my vacation?”
“Normal people’s vacations don’t last a year, Jack.” She scanned the dock area. “I like your slippers, you know. But why bunnies?”
He lifted and glanced at his fuzzy, bunny-eared slippers then dug in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. He drew another smoke out, daring Morgan with his eyes before igniting it. She let it slide, so he inhaled and leaned back and blew out a stream of gray.
He displayed the cigarette to her, wrist bouncing. “You have until I finish this to tell me why in the hell you are down here bugging me.”
“Just wait,” she said, crossing her arms.
Cutter shook his head. “Whatever.”
Gauge arrived and scooted a chair out with his foot. The wooden legs clattered against the rough concrete flooring. He sat in the chair and folded his arms across his exceptionally large chest.
Eyeing him, Cutter wondered if the man had gotten even bigger since the last time he had seen him. Maybe. Gauge was an interesting specimen of humanity, and Cutter had always admired the guy. He was a series of odd contrasts. He’d come from Seattle, which usually didn’t produce such large examples of masculinity. And Gauge was no dummy either, though he often played one for effect.
Morgan sighed, unfolded her arms, and rested her forearm on the table. With her, half of what she said, she normally said with her hands doing half the talking. “Jack, we’ve been worried sick about you for a long time.”
Bullshit. He said nothing. It had been a year, which meant it must have been a very long sickness for them not to have attempted to contact him any sooner.
“When you left us,” she said. “No, when you abandoned us, all the good business dried up. Nothing has worked right ever since. It’s like the wheels fell off the bus and nobody wants to hire us anymore. Not for any sized job, no matter how small or insignificant, and certainly not without the great and wise Jackson Cutter in charge of the operation. You know how much that sucks for us? We may even need to go get jobs in the real world soon. Maybe that will lead to us having to push papers from one desk to another. Imagine the horror in that?”
Zombie Team Alpha Page 2