As they had moved forward, Evan couldn’t help but be impressed not only with the size of the carrier but with the attention to detail and the facilities put in place to make the ship a true community. There was a general store, a gym, a large rec room with books and Ping-Pong and TVs with video games hooked to them, a barbershop, and a library. The librarian was a rotting sailor in his thirties still wearing wire-rimmed glasses, and Stone blew his head off. There were restrooms and water fountains, private quarters for the ship’s senior officers and department heads, and larger berthing spaces for the enlisted men. It was one of these spaces that they had chosen as their place to hole up for the night.
The enlisted berthing accommodated sixty sailors, the bunks arranged in stacks of three, each with a privacy curtain, a reading lamp, and a storage locker nearly identical to those issued in high school. There was a large head with showers and rows of toilets and urinals, and a small common area with a table, chairs, and a wall-mounted TV. From all that Evan had seen on board Nimitz, each berthing was a cookie-cutter replica of the next.
Sleep wasn’t coming, so Evan sat on the edge of his bunk instead. He wondered how the other groups were doing, who had been lost, and if anyone was even left alive. Was coming here worth the price? He still believed it was. The concept of an unreachable island fortress was sound, and just from what he had seen so far, the many amenities and the presence of power, made the aircraft carrier a prize worth fighting for. They weren’t soldiers, as someone had pointed out, and how long could they expect to live if they were constantly running and scavenging? There were children, people with disabilities, and even those strong enough to run would tire. They were already tired, running out of everything, including hope.
Evan looked around at the berthing compartment. Even something as simple as a bed in a safe room was a dream for most of them. The ship would provide safety, food, and shelter from both the elements and the new species of predator hunting them at every turn. And to Evan, the aircraft carrier represented more than a defensive position and satisfying their basic needs. It represented the chance at life.
He thought of the people in Calvin’s Family, of the new people they had met and joined with. He thought of Maya. Life. A chance to close your eyes and sleep without fear, to laugh without attracting monsters, to make plans for tomorrow. The chance to raise children out of reach of the horrors, and to love again.
Nimitz had to be cleared, he thought. There was no other option, and no price too high. In that moment he decided that he was no longer hopeful, that was a weak word. He was resolved.
Evan rose and joined Stone at the hatch, the only way in and out of the berthing space. A handful of light bars cast the sleeping compartment in gloom, and beyond the hatch was a long, dark corridor leading to a lit intersection. A sentry would see danger coming well before it arrived.
“Can’t sleep?” Stone asked.
“I’m tired, but I’m having trouble settling down,” Evan said. “Doesn’t make much sense just to lie there.” He looked at the boy. “How are you doing? Want to grab some sleep? I’ll take over.”
Stone shook his head. “I’m good. I figure I’ll let everyone sleep for another couple of hours.”
Evan smiled, remembering what it was to be seventeen: tireless and indestructible. He also knew that when the kid finally did sleep, he would drop into a ten-hour coma from which nothing could stir him.
“How are you holding up with all this?” Evan asked.
Stone shrugged the strap of the assault rifle higher onto his shoulder. “I’m cool with it. I’ve been killing them since this all started, so it’s no big deal.”
Evan had heard that Stone was one of the best shots in the Family, and calm under pressure. He would probably have made an excellent soldier, and was about the right age for it.
“What was your first one?” Stone asked. “The first drifter you killed, I mean.”
Evan looked down at his scuffed motorcycle boots. “A little girl in Napa Valley. I threw up afterward.”
Stone chuckled. “Mine was a park ranger. It looked like a bear had been at him, and his skin was all gray. At first I thought it would feel kind of good, what with the way rangers always used to hassle us for camping, always moving us on. It didn’t, though.” He looked out the hatch. “Then I was waiting to feel bad about shooting him, but that didn’t happen either.” He shrugged. “They’re just things. It doesn’t bother me.”
Evan wished he could be as pragmatic as this boy, and at the same time he felt sorry for a childhood that had been snatched away so abruptly.
“Where are your parents?” Evan asked. The Family was large, and even after all the time he had spent with them, he still didn’t know everybody.
“They died when I was thirteen,” Stone said, not taking his eyes off the corridor. “Drunk driver got them. I was lucky I wasn’t in the car.”
“I’m sorry,” Evan said. God, how disingenuous that sounded. And yet it was an automatic when you heard something like that.
Stone didn’t acknowledge it. “Cal and Faith pretty much took me in, everyone did, but especially them.” He was quiet for a while. “Faith was a nice lady. I feel bad for Calvin; he’s lost so much.”
Evan said nothing.
Stone’s mood suddenly brightened. “You’re a lucky guy, you know it? With Maya, I mean. She’s terrific, and beautiful too.”
Evan saw the little crush, and it made him smile.
“You guys got into a fight about who was coming to the ship, huh?”
“How do you know about that?” Evan said, frowning.
Stone laughed softly. “Man, there are no secrets in the Family. It was the right thing to do, though, having her stay back with the others, look out for her brothers and sisters.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Evan said. “I’m scared for her back there. I wish she had come.”
“No, you don’t really want her in this place.” It wasn’t a question. “She’ll be okay. She’s tougher than she looks.”
“I know it,” said Evan.
The younger man looked at him. “Why did you come? You could have stayed back there. Hell, you and Maya could have split at any time.”
The writer sighed. “It’s hard to explain. I used to think being on my own was the best way, but now I feel differently. It’s like I belong to something now, like I actually matter.”
“You do,” said Stone. “Everyone likes you, and everyone trusts you. Plus it’s really obvious that you and Maya should be together.”
“If she ever stops being mad at me,” Evan said.
“She’s got a temper like Faith did,” Stone said, “but she’ll get over it. You two will be fine.”
They watched the corridor in silence for a while.
“Mostly I think I came along for Calvin,” Evan said at last. “He’s lost so much, like you said, and he’s willing to risk his life to make a sanctuary for the people who love him. How can you not follow someone like that?”
Stone looked at Evan and nodded. “That’s why I came.”
“Calvin’s a good leader.”
“I didn’t follow him, Evan,” said the seventeen-year-old. “I came for you.”
Evan started to slowly shake his head.
“You’re part of the Family,” the boy said, “and as much a leader as Calvin. If anything ever happened to him, you’d be the man.”
“How can you say that? You’ve all been together for so long, and I just wandered in from nowhere. Like you said, I could take off at any moment. That’s not a leader.”
“But you didn’t take off,” said Stone, “even when a lot of people would. You’ve stuck your neck out how many times, always on the front lines, never hiding. You think things through, you make good decisions. Sounds like a leader to me.”
Evan shook his head. “Calvin is a leader. He cares ab
out people to the point he’s willing to die to keep them safe.”
The corner of Stone’s mouth lifted in a little smile. “And you’re not? Then why are you here?”
Evan didn’t have a response.
Stone leaned against the bulkhead, watching out the corridor. “Calvin is like a father to everyone, certainly to me. But sometimes fathers die. Sometimes they just get too old or too tired to carry on. I get that, but I think a lot of people just assumed he would be around forever.” He crossed his arms. “The Family never really had a number two. Dane was cool, but he was too flaky. Faith could have probably stepped up, and Little Bear too, but you could tell they wouldn’t have wanted the responsibility.” He shrugged. “I don’t think any of us noticed there was no one to take over the Family until you showed up and made us realize it was you.”
Evan began to protest, but Stone shook his head. “People trust you, man. They listen to you. Ask anyone,” he said. “Ask Calvin.”
They stood watch and spoke no more, Evan thinking about what the young man had said, less frightened about the responsibility of leadership than he thought he would be. He had told Stone the truth; he felt like he finally belonged somewhere, and it was that which gave him an odd sense of calm.
The rest of the group began to stir around 5:00 A.M. People took advantage of the nearby head, ate a light breakfast, and counted their rounds of ammunition. Nervous looks were exchanged when the final count came in.
Ten minutes later, Calvin led them back out into the ship.
TWENTY-NINE
Angie sat huddled against the bulkhead near the starboard hatch, the aircraft carrier’s bridge silent around her. She had shut all the doorways and moved from her spot only once, when she could no longer stand the reek of the quartermaster and the presence of the officer who had bitten Skye. She dragged the bodies out to the catwalk and flipped them over the railing, sending them plunging to the flight deck.
Now her only company was the muted starlight beyond the windows.
She sat with the Galil standing upright between her knees, head resting against the front stock, trying to clear her thoughts. It didn’t help. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, she felt drained and everything seemed to be catching up. She was finally able to cry: for Skye, hiding on the deck above, alone with her bite and waiting for the change; for her uncle Bud, a man whose life and death couldn’t possibly be balanced out by her murder of Maxie; for her husband, Dean, and daughter, Leah.
Her husband and daughter were never far from her thoughts. They were like water in a pool, momentarily displaced by a large object, such as when she was shooting. When the object was removed, the water rushed back in to fill the space. How long had it been since she had seen them? More than a month. Could it be two? Days and dates had become confused, blurring together.
As always, she told herself that Dean had gotten them out of Sacramento and safely to the ranch outside Chico, that her mother was looking after Leah the way only a woman could, that they were all alive. She had to tell herself that, or she would go mad. But it was sounding more and more like a lie.
Are they so sure that you’re alive? Has Dean reconciled himself to being a widower?
She clenched her teeth at the hateful thought. Dean would never give up on her. If he didn’t have Leah to worry about, he would be looking for her already, but Angie wanted them to stay right where they were. She would find a way to get home.
But if that was her priority, why was she here on this suicide mission? She barely knew these people, and most not at all. Was it because the Russian had promised to fly her north when this was over? No, she had been pushing for this assault even before the offer. So why?
Bud Franks, that was the reason, and damn him for affecting her life the way he had. Bud had been a man of right and wrong, of simple beliefs, and one of them was that you don’t run out on the people who depend on you, not once you’ve taken responsibility for them. He was a good and honest man.
And where did Skye fit in? Again, Angie hardly knew her, in fact knew nothing about her life before the airfield hangar. And there was no arguing with the fact that Skye was distant and could be outright unpleasant. Most of the time. Yet Angie felt connected to her. She grieved for what the girl had gone through, the changes attacking her body. And now for the bite, a death sentence.
Somewhere in all this she grieved for herself, and for her family, so alone and far away. Angie cried a bit longer, and those tears carried her into a fitful sleep.
• • •
Skye finished bandaging her arm with the supplies from her small first-aid kit. The bite was deep but hadn’t taken as much flesh as she originally thought. Not that it mattered. It had broken the skin. She treated the wound first with alcohol wipes—the burn of the moisture on the tender flesh was almost as bad as the bite—and then loaded it up with a painkilling, antiseptic cream that would also help with clotting. She covered it in clean gauze pads and wrapped it tightly.
It helped, and both the bleeding and the sharp edges of the pain subsided. At least she would be a bit more comfortable when the fever came for her.
Skye was on the uppermost deck of the Nimitz, in an area that a sign designated as PRIMARY FLIGHT CONTROL. It was a small room ringed with windows and parked atop the ship’s bridge, the only thing above it an antenna farm and clusters of radar and communication dishes. As with the decks immediately below, the room was surrounded by a catwalk. Some sailor had hand-painted the words Vulture’s Row on the metal piping of the catwalk’s handrail, and Skye imagined a row of those birds looking down on something of interest. The nickname made sense to her. The catwalk commanded an all-encompassing view of the flight deck.
There had been no zombies in here when Skye came bolting up the stairs. Now, as she sat in the open air on Vulture’s Row with her legs dangling out over the side, there was only one in the making. Fever, sweating, delirium. That was what she knew about the onset of symptoms. The speed with which it hit was different from person to person—her own symptoms had come on very quickly after her exposure to the blood outside that Oakland church—and somewhere along the way the virus took hold and began the change.
She looked at her left hand in the starlight, trembling slightly. The smooth skin of that hand was the color of ash, the same hue that was overtaking the rest of her body. Her left eye was fully blind now, unable to detect light of any kind. Mercifully, the headaches were gone, at least for now. It was bad enough to have to wait for your own execution without the added suffering of a crippling migraine.
Skye didn’t remember much of her first duel with the virus. The big man named TC had called her a bitch, and somehow she had gotten into the blue truck. She remembered being afraid of TC, of the way he looked at her, hungry and sly. And then there was a foggy span of dreams and nightmares. Crystal had been there, alive and whole. Mom had stalked toward her, dead and losing her insides onto her shoes, stepping on them. There were teachers and boyfriends, all of them dead, miles of the dead. She thought she remembered someone touching her, not in the way a person touched someone who was sick, with gentle hair strokes and soothing wet rags on the forehead. This was different touching, the kind not allowed without consent. Someone said something about having a party.
And then there was a moment of clarity. She saw herself bound and gagged, helpless on her back, partially undressed. TC crouched above her with his broad face covered in sweat, stroking himself with one hand and crooning as he guided his member to her . . .
“Motherfucker,” she whispered.
He hadn’t raped her, she knew that, but he was masturbating. And had he been moving as if he would do more? She thought he had, though it remained hazy. There was also a vague memory of someone else being present, maybe even interrupting the man before he could go further. Had it been Carney? The fogginess frustrated her.
What was clear, however, was that he had preyed up
on her while she was in the grip of the fever, fighting for her life, and she hadn’t known until this very moment. Oh, if only she could have remembered earlier, when they were together! She would have shoved the muzzle of her M4 in his mouth, said, “How do you like it?” and blown his diseased brain out the back of his head.
She sighed. The opportunity was gone. TC was somewhere deep in the ship, probably dead by now, and Skye would never get a shot at revenge. Even if she started hunting now, the fever would claim her before she could get very far. And if he was already a zombie, killing him wouldn’t really mean anything. She sighed again, a deep, cleansing breath, and let the anger go.
Skye looked up at the stars and breathed in the salty night air, enjoying the quiet, the calmness in her body. Even knowing what was to come, she found that she was at peace. Not with the world or what had become of it; she would weep for that deep inside, as long as she held on to conscious thought. It was peace with herself. The final, bitter irony was that she should finally come to terms with who Skye Dennison was just as Death was calling her number.
She slipped the nine-millimeter out of her shoulder holster and set it on the catwalk beside her. There was no way she would allow herself to become that which she despised, and it would be wrong to inflict this upon Angie, to put her at risk or force her to fire the final bullet. Angie was a friend, and Skye hadn’t had one of those in a long time.
Skye decided she would wait for the symptoms to start, and then she would do it herself. But not yet. She would watch the stars a bit longer.
THIRTY
“I think I went up too far,” said Brother Peter, comfortable now that the heathens could not hear him speaking. He was seated on the small leather sofa, watching the priest and the medic sleep on the other couch across the room. As Rosa had predicted, he had no idea who she was. “Up to go down, that was the rule. You can only get down there by starting above, but I went too high. I need to get back down to the hangar deck. That’s where they arm planes, I think. That’s the place to start.”
Omega Days (Book 2): Ship of the Dead Page 22