Zombie Ocean (Book 3): The Least

by Michael John Grist

  Cerulean gave a scrappy laugh.

  "What are you talking about?" Amo asked, plainly overwhelmed. "Cerulean?"

  He steadied himself, because there was lots more to come. This was the first of the big revelations. "Amo, I'm cured too." He paused a moment to let that sink in. "The twinges are gone and I'm thinking clearly. I'm not a zombie, but everyone else is. You said everyone you saw in New York is a zombie? They're all zombies, as far as I can tell. Now you need to survive."

  "Sure, but-" Amo began then trailed off. His low panting filled the line. "What about you?"

  Cerulean laughed. "My brain got better but I'm still a cripple, buddy. Where do you think I'm going to go? I'm busting for a piss but is my mom going to come down and take me to the toilet? More likely she'll come down and tear out my throat. She's banging on the basement door even now, she's been at it all night, her and a few dozen others. It sounds like they're pulling up the floor overhead, actually."

  "What the-" Amo started. "She's a zombie?"

  Cerulean smiled. Amo was such a kind, unassuming guy. He saw the best in people. Any minute he was going to offer to come save him. That genius, hopeful, decent bastard. Cerulean had to bull through the catch of emotion in his throat. "Of course she is, and it's not to bring me a batch of midnight cookies."

  The line rustled as Amo moved, probably getting to his feet en route to Tennessee. "Where are you? I have your address here somewhere. I'll come get you. I'll get you out."

  Cerulean laughed softly. He had never seen Amo, but imagined him now standing in his New York apartment with maybe a small soul-patch goatee on his chin and a deep and soulful look in his eyes, a sweet-souled hipster in skinny jeans looking around for something to do and crying because it wasn't there.

  "Don't be silly, Amo," he said. "You'll never get here in time. The basement door's been iffy for years; it won't take much longer for them to get down here. They'll come through the floor in a day or two anyway. Don't worry about me, I've got a syringe here and I know what to do with it."

  "What do you mean, you've got a syringe?"

  Cerulean looked at the side table. For a long time his mother had only left him a few pills at a time, in case he tried to kill himself again. But recently things had changed. He didn't want to die and she'd seen that. So she'd left the syringe, trusting him to self-administer his methadone when the pain got to be too much.

  Maybe also it had been an offer. If he really needed to die, she wasn't going to stand in his way any more. He'd loved her all the more for that.

  "It's all right," he said, clearing the emotion with a cough. Other things were more important now. "Sit down. Are you somewhere safe, Amo? Are you in your room, are you barricaded in?"

  "I don't-" Amo began. "I'm in the tenement. I blocked up the front door, but there's probably hundreds of them out there now. I don't-"

  "Block up your room," Cerulean said. "Do it now. Wedge the bed against the door, wedge something against that if you can. They're not smart but they're persistent, and you're in no state to take to the streets again. You need to lie low and get your head straight, Amo, if you're going to get through this. Do you hear me?"

  "I-"

  "Deadbolt the door and wedge it in. Use everything you've got. Do it right now. I'll still be here. Put the phone on speaker and do it now. I want to hear it happening."

  A long moment passed with no answer and no movement.

  "Amo!"

  The line clicked then went even tinnier, and Cerulean guessed it was on speaker. The distant sound of New York zombies thumping came through the fuzz, falling into a strange synchrony with his mother and her friends up above. He looked at the door. It was battered and bent with one of the hinges torn off. The other wouldn't take long.

  Then there was the sound of scraping and movement as Amo made himself safe, and Cerulean felt the relief.

  "I've done the bed," came a shout. "I'm getting the desk."

  "Good. Don't damage your computer, you're going to need that."

  More rustling and movement. Cerulean looked up the stairs. In the dim light cast by the basement's halogen bulb he could see an arm pushing through the gap at the bottom of the door. It looked like a dead tentacle snaking through. They'd be on him soon.

  "I've done it," Amo's voice came, clear again as the speaker clicked off. He sounded wavery and weak.

  Cerulean looked away from the door. "Good, good. Now you need to relax. We can talk about something that really matters." He grinned beside himself. "How did your date with the Tomb Raider girl go?"

  Amo laughed.

  "It went fine. It went great. She came back here, but she's gone now. The note she left, Cerulean, it's mad."

  Cerulean smiled. It was good to help Amo in these final moments, doing it together. It brought purpose and re-made him as something that mattered. But who was he, now? The answer came easily. He was whatever he wanted to be. He was his mother's son, Zane's best friend, an Olympic diver, a paraplegic man about to die. The choice was his. "Call me Robert," he said. "That's my name."

  The sound of Amo crying grew louder. "I know. OK, Robert."

  "Are you crying? Come on old buddy. Pull yourself together. It's not the end of the world. Just the end of most of it. You said she's gone?"

  Amo laughed. "I don't know. I think so, yes she's gone. She left a note, it said 'Good luck with the zombies'. She was talking about the comic, but Christ, look at this shit Cerulean. I mean Robert. Where the hell is she now?"

  Robert laughed too. "Probably running halfway down Manhattan, if she's not already infected. Calm your ass down, Amo. What are you going to do for her now? She'll either get safe or she won't, on her own. You're lucky you're alive. You know how many people out there who're immune? Do you have any idea?"

  "No idea. I didn't see any. Maybe her?"

  "Maybe her. On top of that there's me and there's you. I've not seen any others, Amo, not any at all. Every live video feed I saw got corrupted in seconds, because the people filming it were infected. It's the most virulent thing ever. It's like that cat in the box, the second you open the box to see if it's alive or not, it drags you in so you're inside the box too. There's no time to report out."

  Amo laughed through his tears. "Schrodinger's cat. I don't think that's how it works."

  "Whatever. Listen Amo, it can't be a coincidence that it's me and you, and maybe her. Did she have the same condition as us, did she have a coma then recover like us?"

  "She said she burned out. I don't think she was twingeing though. I don't think so."

  "Well maybe you'll find out," Robert said, running the possibilities through his head. "Perhaps proximity to you conferred immunity. I'm pretty sure we're immune, Amo, because whatever is hitting them now hit us a year ago. Do you follow? Some lesser strain hit us, but it acted like a vaccine, so now we're safe. We went blank, we died multiple times, but they brought us back. Maybe if we hadn't been brought back, we'd be like these others out on the streets now. We got saved."

  He could feel Amo trying to swallow this, in the silence.

  "You're alive," he said.

  Robert laughed. It felt good, in these final moments. "I am."

  They sat in silence for a while. The thumping of his mother above seemed to fade away, though she and her friends were very nearly through. Surely the door was only held together by a screw or two now. When that popped they'd pour through like holy hellfire.

  "I can come for you," Amo said softly. "I'll get a nice car and make it there in a day. I'll drive all night."

  Robert smiled. "That's a lyric from a song isn't it?"

  "Stop it! Tell me your address and I'll come."

  This was denial. Maybe bargaining. Neither one would do Amo any good in the days to come. He had to get through, and for that he needed the fast track to acceptance. "No you won't. Why in hell would you come here Amo, to see my bitten-out corpse laid up in a bloody cradle stinking of methadone and shit? I'll not have that. I won't be alive by then, Amo.
Understand that. Accept that, and we can move on. I've downloaded everything I can think of to your computer, plus a few extras I've had the time to come up with. The fulfillment center will be a bit different. I think it's going to be pretty important to you, going forward, or for a while at least. There are some new routines. You'll figure it out. Until then we can talk."

  Amo answered in a small voice. "I want to come."

  "I want you to come too. Don't you think I'd love that, if you could come charging in now and rescue me from this mess? But you can't. It's not going to happen, so let's move on. We've never even spoken before, have we? Hi, Amo, I'm Robert. I'm a freak just like you. We might be the last two people alive in the world."

  Amo laughed. "Hi Robert, I'm Amo. It's good to meet you. I don't want you to die."

  "So tell me about the date," Robert said. "Tell me everything."

  Amo did. It started off jerky and unclear, but soon he was rolling. Robert laughed as he pulled off a pick-up move lifted straight from the pick-up guy in the Yangtze, reading her palm with colors. He listened attentively when he brought the girl, Lara, back to his place. He recoiled while Amo described accidentally pulling a zombie apart on the street outside, believing he was a survivor trapped in a burning car.

  It was unbelievable. But then he'd already seen it all on the news. The key was to focus on the good stuff, the things to live for.

  "It's a good memory, on the whole," he said, thinking of Lara. "You'll need to hang on to that, Amo. You will, won't you? She might be alive out there. You might be able to find her. Hold on to that. You'll put out some flags and let her now where you are. You'll figure this thing out and make it right. I know you will. You've always been resourceful, and smart, and so damn charming."

  Amo laughed.

  "It's good you can laugh. Don't forget that Amo. Don't you dare feel guilty. I want it to be you, not me. You're a good man. You're the best friend I've ever had. I want you to get good things out of this and become better for it. There's always room to grow. When I lost my legs and I knew I could never dive anymore, I just about gave up. Then I found this weird guy who'd built a weird mod on Deepcraft, and he welcomed me in. He loaned me a diviner and we fulfilled stupid orders together. I saw the world through him, and I'm still seeing the world through him now. Amo, you're going to be OK."

  Amo gulped back tears on the other end. Robert kept pushing, because this was important. It had to be intense for Amo to accept it, and he had to accept it to make himself strong.

  "Get yourself solid. Research the stuff I sent. Find a safer place than your apartment, a bank or something downtown, something this girl Lara can find, and start clearing the streets around. Make a base and she'll be drawn to you, Amo, if you're offering safety and something worth having. That way you'll find the others too, the ones like us who are lost somewhere across the country and don't have each other like we've had each other. I know you will. You'll make good things out of this."

  Amo wept harder. All the while Robert kept his gaze on the door at the top of the steps, where his mother was wriggling head and shoulders through the gap at the bottom. She looked different with zombified white eyes, like a kind of rare fish. The thumping of the others was so loud.

  The methadone syringe was already in his hand.

  "She's almost through the door isn't she?" Amo asked.

  "She is. It's all right. I've got the syringe loaded with my methadone, enough of a dose to knock me right out. I won't feel a thing. It's better this way Amo. I wouldn't stand a chance on the road. I was never good in a wheelchair."

  She was almost through. Her hips were out and now she was crawling down the stairs. This was his mother and he loved her. He tried to smile for her. Soon she'd be by his side and digging in.

  He plugged the syringe needle into the tappet plugged into his forearm and opened the valve. One deep breath, then he pushed the syringe plunger home. The liquid rushed into his bloodstream and hit him with numbness in seconds.

  "How long?" Amo asked. His voice sounded like it was coming from very far away.

  "I don't know," Robert mumbled. "A minute, maybe five? I've already injected it." He felt himself start to drift away. He wasn't sure anymore who he was talking to. Was it Zane? "You'll stay on the line won't you? You'll wait with me."

  "Of course I will. Robert, I'm sorry."

  He remembered briefly where he was. "Don't be sorry. You're here with me. We're in the fulfillment center, running it together. I've got legs again, Amo. We're keeping up with the orders. We're one step ahead."

  Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. His mother was so close, clawing her way down the steps. Others were following and the door was bulging inward. He laughed without sound.

  "Goodbye, Amo," he said fuzzily. Then the door burst open with a crash and the flood of them poured bodily down the stairs.

  "Robert," Amo called urgently, so distant now. "Robert."

  "She's coming," he said, watching as they rushed down the stairs like the edge of the pool rising up to meet him, with his mother at the front. She looked so young. "I won't feel a thing. The darkness is so close. I'm going to turn the phone off now Amo. I don't want you to hear this. Goodbye."

  He clicked the Skype call off then let the phone drop from his hand. His eyes were so heavy. He was diving again and this time he wasn't scared. Everybody was watching, and at last it was his big chance to reach the Olympics.

  "I'm coming, Zane," he whispered, as his mother drew near.

  8. WHEELS

  In the darkness Green-O was dancing.

  The three of them were standing at the edge of the 7-11 parking lot off Denver Road Park; Zane, Green-O and Bobby, moments before the forest behind Denver Elementary that would bring so many changes. They were all fifteen and giddy with the night to come.

  The parking lot lay like an alien landscape before them, flat and mostly empty with only a few lonely cars resting like forgotten UFOs. Sterile white light beamed down in conical haloes from the security lamps, like half-opened umbrellas against the dark. The air smelled of cigarette smoke and potential.

  It was the night of the big game. The Tigers had just won and the whole school was out celebrating and now they needed beer. The girls were waiting, one for each of them, even one for Green-O, probably several for Zane, and Sandra Rey for Bobby. She was the cute Latino who was quiet in class. Everyone said she was celibate as a nun, but not according to the note she'd passed him at the game, with a shy but knowing smile.

  Tonight.

  He'd almost blasted right through his pants when he read that. Who wrote notes like that? He'd folded it and given her a nod, trying to play it cool. Even now she was waiting behind the elementary school with the others for the beer run to come back.

  And now Green-O was dancing.

  "You go," Green-O said, nudging into Zane in the middle of his bobbling dance. "It's your turn."

  Zane laughed and sucked on a cigarette. "You go, you little bitch. I went last time."

  "And I went the time before," Bobby heard himself say. "Everyone's waiting."

  "They know me in there," Green-O moaned. "You go and I'll pay you in dance. I'll dance for my supper and my beer."

  "Nobody told you to dance," Zane said. "Stop being an idiot."

  "He's drunk already," Bobby said, "or high."

  "Dad's gone out, back room third drawer down on the left, whiskey," Green-O panted, still hopping and jigging. "Swig, replace with barley water and medicinal alcohol, repeat."

  Zane snorted. "He'll whup the dancing out of you, I'll say that."

  "Whup some of the fat might help too," Bobby muttered.

  Green-O bumped into him accidentally-on-purpose, mid-dance. "You should be filming this shit," he said. "I'm going for the record."

  "Record for being the biggest dick in Frayser?"

  "I have the biggest dick," Green-O grinned. "Care to see?"

  Zane looked at Bobby and Bobby nodded, and that was all the communication they needed.
They stepped in together and tackled Green-O, crunching their shoulders into his hips and lifting him up.

  Green-O squealed as he rose into the air. "What the-? I'm dancing here."

  "Dance on, sugar plum fairy," Zane grunted. Green-O really was a fat little bastard. "Dance all the way down the beer aisle to the cash register."

  They lurched out across the asphalt lot with him squashed between them, still dancing. To make matters worse he started to sing too: the Supremes' Stop! In the Name of Love. He played their backs as drums and hit his falsetto so hard they had to put him down in the middle of the dark lot and stop to laugh.

  "You fat little bastard," Zane laughed.

  "I'm in no shape to go in there," Green-O mewled. "Bobby, you go Bobby, please Bobby."

  Bobby looked at this ridiculous, hilarious version of Green-O. He couldn't know then that in just an hour's time Green-O would be shot in the gut, Zane would be dead and Bobby would be left panting in the midst of bloody Orandelles with his future falling apart.

  All he knew was that these were his friends. Green-O squashed his face up for another falsetto, looking a little like an aged Diana Ross. Such a tempting target. Bobby pulled his hand back then slapped Green-O's face so hard it sounded like a pistol shot. Zane erupted in laughter. Green-O yelled, "Son of a bitch!"

  "Do you want beer or not?"

  "You shit, of course I want beer!" Green-O stopped his song and dance to rub his cheek, then looked at his hand as if there might be blood there. Zane laughed harder.