"Drop down, now!"The command came from the Spratling, the speaker's stern and impatient voice magnified through either a bullhorn or public address system. Whoever he was, the guy was in no mood to mess around. We did as he said and dropped to the ground, flat against the concrete pier. A volley of shots rang out as the ship's crew opened fire. The entire harbor echoed with gunshots. Bullets slammed into the cement and blew out the windows of the nearby buildings as the shooters found their range. Behind us, we heard wet meat slap against concrete as the dead fell.
When the volley ended, the voice boomed, "Get up and run. Quickly. We can't wait for you."
Each of us found our second wind, and we sped toward the ship. I spared one quick glance over my shoulder. The next wave of creatures was clambering over the ones on the ground, but it was slowing them down. Although the human zombies had trouble getting around their fallen comrades, the animals were quicker. The dead rats scampered over their bodies and swarmed after us. The tiger charged forward, faster than the others.
We reached the pier's edge and dashed up the gangplank. Steel banged beneath our feet. As we crossed the threshold, Mitch saluted a pudgy older man in a coast guard uniform. The man had a pistol holstered on his hip.
Mitch grinned. "Permission to come aboard, sir?"
"Permission granted. Now get the hell out of the way."
I recognized the man's voice as the one who'd given us the warning. I stuck out my hand. "Thanks for saving us. My name is-"
"Mister, I suggest you find a safe place for yourself and these kids and stay there. There'll be plenty of time for introductions later, if we survive this.
And if we don't, then I don't need to know your name anyway."
He brushed past me and began shouting orders.
Malik and Tasha glanced around the ship in amazement. People ran all over the decks, some of them armed and shooting at the zombies, others helping get the ship underway. I noticed that except for the man who'd spoken to us, none of them wore uniforms, but instead were dressed in civilian clothes. Many of them seemed unsure what to do, and kept shouting questions.
"This isn't a crew," I whispered to Mitch. "They're just like us-survivors."
"Maybe they're all reservists," he said.
"No. They're confused. And look at the hair lengths on some of them. That ain't military regulation."
"Well, get the kids to a safe spot. I'm gonna see if I can help. Find out what's going on and who exactly our saviors are."
"Be careful."
"You too."
I guided the kids over to a wall-what sailors call a bulkhead. There was another walkway above us and it provided a sort of roof over our heads. We leaned up against the steel bulkhead and watched as the people around us prepared to cast off. There were two ropes left and a swarm of undead rats climbed up them. Mitch and another man leaned out over the railing, shooting the rats off the ropes one by one. One of them reached the top and scurried over the railing. A third person stepped forward and pushed it back into the water with a mop. Before the rest of the creatures could reach the deck, the ropes were loosened and dropped into the black, dirty water. The rats fell with them.
And then we began to move.
"Full ahead," the man in the uniform bellowed. "Take us out, just like I showed you. I'm on my way up."
It was a really weird sensation. Felt like we were standing still and the land was moving. We cruised farther out into the bay, leaving the harbor and the city behind us. The zombies stood on the pier watching us go. Some of them stepped forward, plummeting over the side and sinking beneath the surface. The others simply stared, their faces expressionless-except for that look of constant hunger. I wondered about the ones that had fallen into the water. Zombies didn't need to breathe. Didn't require oxygen. They were dead. So what was to stop them from hunting along the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay the same way they hunted through the city's streets? Couldn't they just walk along the bottom, feeding off fish and crabs until they reached the ocean itself? And then what? Sharks versus zombies? The image was ridiculous, but what if? What if…
What if Hamelin's Revenge spread to the sea life?
"They can't reach us now," Malik shouted. "Nothing can get us out here!"
Tasha hugged him and he hugged her back. Both of them smiled. I turned back toward the land and watched the city burning. Stared at the orange-and-red skyline. By morning, there would be nothing left. Baltimore would be a smoldering pile of ashes. Port Discovery and the section of the city that housed popular bars like Ramshead and Howl at the Moon were obscured by smoke. The trade center and the Harbor Place shops belched flames. Yesterday, the skyline had been made up of tall buildings: offices, parking garages, banks, muse urns and apartment complexes. Now, it was composed of towering torches, each of them a blazing inferno. The city skyline looked like a row of Roman candles. And below them, growing smaller with every minute as the Spratling picked up speed, were the dead. The people onboard the ship cheered as we left the harbor. There was lots of hugging and clapping and fists in the air-a real celebration. And when the Domino Sugar factory exploded a few minutes later, we even had our own fireworks. Flaming debris rained down from the sky, splashing into the water.
"I'll tell you one thing, kids."
Tasha looked up at me. "What's that, Mr. Reed?"
"Lamar. Call me Lamar."
"Okay. What are you thinking, Lamar?"
"That this was the longest getaway I've ever seen."
"Doesn't matter," Tasha said. "We're safe now. Like Malik said, they can't get us out here."
The dead watched us leave. More of them tumbled into the water. Birds squawked above us. The sky was full of smoke, obscuring the moon and the stars. The ocean itself seemed lifeless. No fish leaping from the water or dolphins following the boat. Just the waves, and even those seemed small. The ship's engines throbbed as we picked up speed. The bay's surface was black, but the full moon lit a silvery path for us. The flames reflected off the waves. Then a cloud passed over the moon and the gradually lights vanished. Under the cover of darkness, we sailed out onto a dead sea.
Chapter Five
I don't remember much about that first night onboard the Spratling. We were all dehydrated, exhausted, and stressed from our ordeal, and after a while, things just kind of blurred together. When the ship was safely away from the city, and far enough out into the Chesapeake Bay that the fires were just a dim glow on the horizon, everyone relaxed a little more. But there was still a lot to do. Mitch and I had to find sleeping quarters for the kids-the older man in the coast guard uniform called them "berthing areas"-and a place for ourselves as well. We ended up together in a room with six racks- bunk beds-three on each side. The mattress on each rack lifted up to reveal a small, narrow storage space. Each of us also had a small footlocker to store things in. We didn't have many belongings. I pulled out my wallet and my keys and put them inside a locker. It seemed weird. Might as well have tossed them over the side for all the good they'd do me now. The keys were all for a life I'd left behind, a life I'd never return to. And the wallet was empty- no pictures, no money. I'd never had much use for snapshots. And money? Well, I'd never had much of that, either. And now, I didn't need them. What good was money when there was nothing to buy? What good were photographs of friends and family when all of them were dead? I didn't have many people that I cared about, but those I did I could remember in my head. If I looked at their pictures now, I'd just see them as zombies.
Mitch pulled a small rifle cleaning kit out of his backpack and went to work on the guns, using long cotton swabs to get the debris and residue out of the barrels, and then oiling them down. He explained each step to the three of us as he went along, so that we'd be able to do it, too. When he was finished, he stowed our weapons beneath his mattress and slid one pistol under his pillow. He didn't unload his backpack; instead, he stuffed it between his rack and the bulkhead. Then he took off his boots and lay down. We all did the same. Each bed had a tiny
feather pillow, one sheet, and a thin gray blanket that felt like it was made out of horse hair-very rough and scratchy. They smelled musty and mildewed.
"This pillow stinks," I complained.
"Mine does, too." Tasha wrinkled her nose. "Smells like a zombie."
"They should," Mitch said. "They've probably been sitting on this boat for the last twenty years."
I propped myself up on one elbow. "What do you mean?"
"This is a museum ship," he explained. "The Spratling is a piece of American history, so rather than sending it to the scrap yard to be cut up into razor blades, the maritime museum preserved it and turned it into a floating tourist trap, just like all the other ships at Inner Harbor."
"Okay," I said, "but what's that got to do with why these pillows smell funky?"
"Think about it, Lamar. This is a museum. A tourist attraction. How long have you lived in Baltimore?"
I shrugged. "All my life."
"And in all that time you never took a tour of the ships? Not even when the Taney was here?"
"No. I mean, I knew about them. Knew a little of their history. But I never toured one."
"Damn. Well, I guess I can't say anything. All the years I lived in Towson, I never came downtown and visited Edgar Allan Foe's grave."
That told me something about him. Towson was the suburbs, way out on the edge of the city. I wondered what had brought Mitch down into Fells Point.
"Were you a fan of Foe's?" I asked.
"Sure. Read the shit out of him when I was in the ninth grade. My grandfather gave me a big collection of all his stories. My favorite was always "The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.'" He chuckled. "It takes place on a boat, now that I think about it-a ship sailing to the South Pole."
"So if you dug the man's work, why not visit his grave?"
"Didn't feel like getting shot. That's a bad area of town, isn't it?"
I shrugged again. "When you actually live down here in the city, all of it's a bad area, Mitch. That's just how things are. You get used to it."
"Yeah," he said. "I guess I can see that."
But I knew he'd never really understand it. He couldn't. He had no frame of reference; only what he'd watched on episodes of Homicide or The Wire. Tasha and Malik knew it, too. They didn't say anything. Didn't have to. The expressions on their faces said enough. Mitch was from a different world.
"Well," Mitch continued, "the Spratling has always been a pretty popular attraction. Not just with tourists, either. They do weddings and stuff onboard, too. So there are a lot of people that have tromped through here over the years. When people come aboard this thing, they want to experience exactly what it was like for the men who served. They'd board via the gangplank, just like we did. Then, the tour guide would take them around above deck and show them everything. Answer all their questions. Then they'd go below, down the original stairways- except on a ship they're called ladders-just like the crew would. And just like any other museum, there'd be stuff all around on the tour: old photos, the captain's log, shit like that. And of course, they'd keep the racks made up just as they would have been when the Spratling was still on active duty."
"You mean-"
"That's right. Your pillow stinks because thousands of tourists have walked through here over the years and got their funk on it. Housewives from Illinois saying, 'Hey, George, lay down on the bed just like a sailor would and I'll take your picture with the kids.' Think about it."
My nose wrinkled. "That's gross."
Exhausted from our ordeal, Tasha and Malik fell asleep soon after. Mitch and I lay there in the darkness, not speaking, not wanting to disturb them. The kids had the top racks on each side. Mitch and I had taken the bottom bunks. The other two beds remained empty, and I figured there must be enough berthing areas that we wouldn't have to share our quarters with two more strangers. Tasha snored softly, and Malik cried out once, and then was still. I wondered what they were dreaming about. Were they reliving the day or creating zombies out of loved ones in their sleep? I'd done that in the past-pondered the dreams of various partners as they slept beside me, presuming to know and understand their dreams and nightmares since I didn't have any of my own.
Eventually, Mitch crawled out of his bunk and flashed a pack of cigarettes, indicating that he was going outside for a smoke. I nodded, and he tiptoed to the door and opened the hatch. Despite his efforts to be quiet, the steel door clanged when he shut it behind him. The kids didn't stir.
The ship rocked gently back and forth. You didn't really notice it unless you tried to walk around or if you were lying on your back. That was when the sensation became strongest. It was a constant, steady swaying. My stomach lurched each time it rolled. Sour bile burned the back of my throat. My eardrums throbbed. I wondered if it was just seasickness or some kind of delayed shock from the night's events. I was exhausted, but didn't think I'd be able to sleep. And then I did. Fell asleep thinking about Alan and the supermarket and the bitch I'd shot in the head.
If I dreamed, I don't remember it.
I never did.
The next day, I saw for myself what Mitch had meant. The Spratling really was nothing more than a floating museum. All of the ship's original interior features had been restored, but much of the equipment was inactivated. I wondered what worked and what didn't. Luckily for us, it was still able to sail. Throughout the ship were framed mementos of its years of service: uniforms, replicas of weaponry, old photographs, pages from the ship's logs, menus, and other things. Many of these were set up behind glass displays complete with recorded sound effects and narration, and red velvet ropes to keep the tourists from getting too close.
We found the showers easily enough, but they weren't working. A white guy named Murphy was standing at the sink, peering into a cracked mirror as he shaved with no soap, water, or shaving cream. He winced with each scrape of the dry razor. His big nose was lined with the red veins of alcoholism. After introducing himself, he gave us a bottle of spring water so that we could at least brush our teeth. Mitch had a tube of toothpaste in his backpack. Tasha, Malik, and I used our fingers for toothbrushes. We didn't have any clean clothes, either. My pants felt crusty and stiff. If I'd leaned them up in the corner, they could have stood by themselves. A middle-aged white woman in the next berthing compartment, who introduced herself as Joan Bar-nett, lent Tasha a T-shirt, but Malik and I were shit out of luck. Mitch had one spare pair of clean underwear in his backpack, but that was all. I noticed that after he'd washed up and dressed, he holstered a pistol at his side. The other weapons were still stashed in our berthing compartment.
Most of the people onboard the ship had gathered in the galley. A guy named Cleveland Hooper and an Asian dude named Tran were serving breakfast-little boxes of cereal, canned pineapple, granola bars, and Jell-O. No bacon or eggs or pancakes or fresh fruit; that would have all spoiled by now. There was coffee but no milk; just the little packets of sugar and powdered creamer. They had plenty of bottled water, though, and concentrated orange juice, which tasted better than anything I'd ever drunk in my life. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had orange juice.
"Good to see you, brother," Hooper said as he put some pineapple chunks on my tray.
"Why's that?" I asked.
"'Cause we the only two niggas onboard this ship. Everyone else is white, except for Tran here, and he don't speak no English. It's just you and me, player. We can divide up the women. Show them some good dick."
"Yeah?" I feigned heterosexuality and tried to sound interested, but all I really wanted to do was eat. The sooner I could get out of this conversation, the better.
"Hell, yeah, man. It's pussy central, brother. There's some honeys onboard. Just hope half of 'em ain't dykes. Know what I'm saying?"
My expression hardened. "No, I don't know what you're saying. And I'm not your brother. Don't call me that again."
Hooper put down his ladle. "What's your problem, dog?"
"You. You're my fucking problem."
I
walked away, rather than let it turn into a fight. Behind me, I heard him muttering that I was an Uncle Tom. I sat down next to Mitch. Tasha and Malik sat on the other side of us. My shoulders felt tense, my jaw tight. The ship continued to roll.
"All the people left alive, and that homophobic asshole had to be one of them. We should have left him behind."
Malik stopped chewing and looked up at me. "What'd that word he used mean? Dyke. What is that?"
"It's a bad word," I said. "People use it when talking about women who are gay, but it's not very nice."
"Gay?" Malik nibbled his granola bar. "So a dyke is like a girl fag?"
"Malik, don't say that."
"Say what?"
"Fag. Faggot. It's not a nice word. Do you know what it means?"
He shrugged. "Yeah. It's when two guys is kissing and hugging on each other."
"That's one way to describe it, I guess." I shook my head. "In any case, you shouldn't say it."
"Why not? All my friends say it."
I sighed. "Remember when we were at your apartment last night?"
Both of the kids' faces grew sullen for a moment. I immediately felt guilty for stirring up bad memories.
"Yeah," Malik said. "I remember."
"Do you remember when you said nigga and I told you not to? Told you what it really meant?"
"Uh-huh. I felt bad after it. You ain't ignorant, and that's what it meant. I ain't gonna say it no more."
"I bet your friends called you nigga, right? But they probably didn't know what it meant, either. But has anyone ever called you a nigger?"
"With an 'r' on the end?"
I nodded.
His expression hardened. "Once, a long time ago. There was this white dude on the light rail when we was coming back from the grocery store. Tasha and me and our momma was all in the same seat and he couldn't find one. Had to stand and hang on to the rail. He said under his breath, 'No seats except for the niggers.' I don't think he meant for us to hear it, but we did. It pissed me off. I wanted to kick his behind, but Momma and Tasha said not to."
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