Did I just hear a thud?
The skin on her arms broke out in goose flesh. She clicked off the flashlight. Her hand was on the knob when it turned.
The door flew open.
She took a step sideways.
A massive figure barreled through the doorway past her and into the living room.
Trish flattened her back to the wall.
The man stopped a few feet away but was turned in the opposite direction. He was sobbing. Each time his chest hitched, she heard little wails.
She didn’t think he’d seen her, but all he had to do was turn his head slightly to the left.
Every nerve was screaming to her to run, hide, or fight. Any action right then would be better than watching a tall, obviously distraught man, wearing only a pair of dirty tan slacks stand and cry.
She didn’t see any bites, but there was blood on him: on his hands, his arms, the back of his head, and on his feet. His whole naked torso racked with sobs, and some sort of pistol was held loosely in his left hand.
What to do?
A little voice in her head, answered: Nothing isn’t working. Any moment, he will turn my way, and then what? Things get ugly for me, is what.
The guy’s back was a wedge-shape that had probably once been carefully sculpted muscle, marred now by age. Sweat rolled off his body, and his gray, spiky, crew cut was damp with perspiration. It was hard to guess his age from behind. He could be as young as sixty, but he might be well preserved and much older.
She inhaled slowly, half expecting to smell him, but didn’t. She exhaled, feeling the tension build as sweat sluiced down her body. Surely he would pick up on her fear? It seemed incredible that he could stand there, sobbing or not, and have no idea someone was behind him.
Trish couldn’t stand it. One way or the other, she had to do something. Her palms were damp with sweat and the knife was getting slippery. She hesitated only a moment more, and said softly, “Hello.”
The man straightened up, and turned toward her. Now the gun was aimed at her belly.
“Who are you?” he asked, his gravelly voice breaking a bit. His eyes were in shadow, and there was no chance to read his expression. Even in the near darkness, she knew he must be able to see that she was completely naked. Her only clue as to his reaction was the adolescent squeak he made when his voice broke.
She fought the urge to switch the flashlight back on.
What happened to my composure? It wasn’t like she hadn’t confronted a nut holding a gun before, and it wasn’t the first time she’d been naked when it happened. She couldn’t control the quiver in her voice when she answered.
“Name’s Trish. My clothes were wet. I came in hoping to find something to eat, and some dry clothes. Thought I should check the house first to make sure none of them were in here.”
“So, you come into my house, and just think you can help yourself?”
She shrugged.
“Nothing to say then?” he asked, taking a step in her direction and lowering his gun. He wasn’t crying anymore, and there was a menacing tone to his words.
His age was closer to the high end of the scale. Probably over seventy. She could see a slight jowl beneath his chin and lines around his mouth and forehead.
Pretty good muscle tone for an old guy, though.
He took a deliberate step forward, planting the foot firmly, then took another.
Will he get into stabbing range? She gathered her courage.
“Nothing to say, then?” he repeated.
“Ask me something worth answering, and we’ll see,” she replied.
“This some kind of joke? What kind of woman enters a strange house completely naked, brandishing a knife? You the Naked Intruder or something?”
He laughed briefly and took another step.
“Stop. Don’t come any closer!”
Her voice was shrill, and she held the knife in both hands in front of her.
He stopped and shuffled forward an inch or so until the point gouged into his left pectoral muscle. A bead of blood appeared and rolled down his chest, painting a black line across the mostly smooth, hairless alabaster skin.
“I just had to kill my family, lady. You think I care if you shove that fucking knife into my heart?” He still held the gun limply at his side as if he’d forgotten it was there.
“Probably not,” she said. She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“That’s right! Just killed my little girl, my grandson, and my wife.”
“Were they changed or still dead?”
She cursed herself inwardly. Dumb ass question. What does it matter?
His smile was gradual. Like something that has to be built. First he raised one side of his mouth, then the other…
“Ah, that, my naked little beauty, is a good question.”
What the fuck? Naked little beauty?
He lifted his free arm and wrapped his fingers around her hands. His hand was enormous, and engulfed hers.
“Don’t,” she said, feeling truly helpless and not understanding why.
“Either stab me, or give me the knife,” he rasped.
She let him take the knife, then lowered her arms to her sides, making no attempt to cover herself. She trembled. Caught herself looking up into his face, searching his eyes, and made a connection at last. Moonlight shone through the front windows now, and she saw him looking at her body. Both of his hands were at his sides. The gun barrel and the knife blade were pointed toward the ground.
Trish took a deep breath, saw his chest rise and fall. She looked downward. There was a big lump at the front of his pants.
Nothing new there. More often than not men got erections around her. A lot of them were drunk or high on something—sometimes both at the same time. She looked back up. A tear rolled down his cheek.
“They were all about to come back,” he said, nearly whispering the words. “I shot them in the head, one at a time.”
When? I didn’t hear any shots.
She couldn’t decide whether the guy was a freak or a victim.
She was leaning toward freak. Still, what should she do? This still may get ugly and she had to be careful, very careful. Trish nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He stepped forward, wrapping both arms around her body, and settled his hands at the top of her ass. Hugged her close. She wrapped her fingers tighter around the flashlight. Her posture remained stiff but he didn’t seem to notice.
A voice in her head whispered: He probably doesn’t care, Trish.
She stood there in the dark, waiting for something to happen. Told herself to disconnect. It was time to check out and be detached. Observant, but detached. Wait for the right moment.
His fingers slid lower, roughly caressing her buttocks.
Let go. Drift. He can’t touch me. Not the real me.
Neither of them said anything for a long time.
5. Jacobs
Her eyes were cloudy and blue. Like one of his marbles when he was a kid. Not at all like one of his favorites, the kind that were clear down to the center. Mesmerizing all the same, though, but for a different reason.
The girl zombie was near enough to touch, close enough to embrace. The hunger in her expression was undeniable. She wanted him for one thing.
This is as honest as it gets, Jacobs thought.
The dog, Sussu, was whining and cringing away.
Indecision gripped him. He held the pistol near the dog’s head, and was surprised at how upset he was. He even considered shooting the dog.
The dog wanted to live.
Should he shoot the dog and himself, or choose to live?
It was a hard choice.
Jacobs backed up and grabbed the dog’s collar, dragging her with him. The girl followed, and he got a whiff of rot and excrement as the dead girl closed in.
The urge to put the gun to his own head was almost unbearable.
Her hand clutched his left shoulder and yanked. His strength was such that he barely moved. He raised the pistol,
aimed briefly, and shot her in the head above her cloudy left eye. She pirouetted a half step backward and fell to the floor.
She didn’t move.
Sussu whimpered.
“Good girl,” he said, caressing behind her ear. “Good girl.”
If someone asked, he wouldn’t be sure whether he was praising the dog or the dead girl.
He knelt down, feeling infinitely tired, and beat-up. The dog put a paw on his leg and he hugged her.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said into her ear.
He stood back up and gathered his equipment, leaving only the pile of expended brass. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and holstered the pistol, carefully cradling the dog in his arms. Then he began the distasteful, laborious process of stepping on, or sliding over the dead.
He figured it was the only way he could get her downstairs.
The dog was truly well behaved. Other than some whining, she didn’t voice a protest or try to break free. When they reached the bottom, he set her down and took the rifle back into his hands. Better not to take any chances.
Nothing moved, but the smell was awful.
He wondered where the old man kept her leash. He had to have one, right?
He checked by the front door and in the kitchen and found nothing. In the closet under the stairs he found several. He selected a sturdy one that was about six feet long and attached it to her collar.
The dog looked up at him with her ears perked up, wagging her hips and tail in apparent eagerness.
He smiled with genuine pleasure.
“You up for a walk, girl? Let’s go find another place to sleep.”
He decided the back door was the way to go. They walked back past the corpse of the old man, and he paused a moment to look out the back window to see if anyone was there. All he could see was a battered old pickup truck and wondered if the keys were in it.
He wasn’t even sure it would be worth taking. Where would they go?
They stepped outside together, and the yard was empty. The only light he could see came from the moon, the stars, and the glow of fires in the distance. He kept the dog close to his side by choking up on the leash, and walked out into the alley behind the house.
He turned right, or to the west, walking carefully along the rutted asphalt surface. Each house had a driveway. He could see a couple of detached garages, but carports were more common on this block. The yards to either side of the alley were fenced, creating a six-foot, mostly wooden, wall along either side, broken only by the driveways. A lot of weeds were growing up against the fences, and huge black plastic trashcans were behind every other house on his left.
Drawing even with the first house on his left, he glanced down the driveway and saw an empty carport. The dog wanted to sniff a palmetto bush. Jacobs gave her a gentle tug and they kept walking.
He had no idea what he was looking for.
He was a killer. He’d killed kids. Who was going to judge him now?
I’ll do it again if someone gets in my way. His eyes were welling, but he wouldn’t cry.
Nobody’s crying for me.
The dog whined softly and put her paws up on his thigh.
He rubbed her head. “Let’s go girl. We need a new place to stay.”
He glanced again at the carport. It wasn’t quite empty. He turned down the driveway, feet crunching on small chunks of asphalt. Something smaller than a car was covered by an oil-stained canvas tarp.
Sussu sniffed at the tarp as they drew near. Jacobs grabbed the tarp and lifted it up and away. He drew in a breath.
Well, I’ll be damned, Sussu! Looks like you and I are going to travel in style.”
The dog perked up her ears with mild interest and appeared to grin.
Jacobs was standing before a large, luxury cruiser-type motorcycle with a sidecar.
6. Julie
There was something funny about her mouth. Funny strange.
The female Coast Guard officer said her name was Matthews before helping Julie into the olive drab flight suit. She pursed her lips and frowned. She had an under bite, and clamped her teeth whenever she spoke.
“Afraid this is the best I can do for you, ma’am.”
Julie smiled. The suit fit her like a second skin, and when combined with the combat boots, a knife, and a holstered pistol, she felt tough. It was a strange feeling to have when she’d never felt that way before in her life. Well, she’d tried to be tough, once, but that was as a teen, years ago.
“This will do, Ensign Matthews. I’m happy.”
“Very good, ma’am. If you go through this door and climb the ladder to the right, you’ll be on the pad.”
Julie thanked her and followed her instructions. When she arrived on the small helipad, two sailors were busy putting equipment and supplies into the helicopter. A group of men standing off to the side were waiting for her. The helicopter’s engine was still turned off.
All the men facing her were grim of face. There were the same two pilots, the crew chief, and the two soldiers that had rescued her. A sixth man was a grizzled looking army officer. Julie recognized the eagle rank emblem on his collar as that of a colonel. His pale face was blotchy, and he talked out of the side of his mouth.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we have lost contact with the president’s bunker.”
Julie listened to the words, but felt disconnected.
“So what are you saying, Colonel?”
“I don’t know a different way to say it, ma’am. Your husband may be dead. Trying to get back to him could be a fool’s errand, and anything could happen. Why not stay here where you and your child are safe?”
She closed her eyes. The tears were there, ready to spill out. She inhaled sharply, exhaled slowly, and turned away.
The silence stretched out.
“Ma’am?” a voice asked. Probably the army officer. “My name is Colonel Jerome Bolger, and I’ll accompany you to your husband.”
Julie opened her eyes and turned toward the man. The colonel leaned forward, his expression one of disapproval. “We will do this, but only if you are willing to trust in us and listen to what you are told to do.”
She kept her voice pitched low, and answered, “Thank you, Colonel Bolger. My son George and I will be grateful for whatever help can be provided.”
The colonel nodded curtly. “Let’s get moving then!”
Julie picked up George and crossed over to the helicopter. She paused a moment near the door when the crew chief reached out to help her son aboard. She saw his name on his flight suit: Lassiter. “I’ll take him, ma’am,” the chief said.
“Thanks, Chief Lassiter,” she replied with a smile.
“You can sit by me, George,” Lassiter said. He set the boy down and buckled him in, while Julie took her seat on George’s other side. Colonel Bolger took the seat near the window beside the chief.
“Is that your gun?” George asked Lassiter, pointing at a wicked-looking machine gun on a swivel mount.
“Sure is, son!”
George smiled brightly. “Can I shoot it?”
Julie watched Lassiter closely. He showed no visible reaction to the boy’s question. A heartbeat or two went by. Was he waiting for her to answer the question?
“Hopefully we won’t have to, honey. We’re just taking a little trip,” she said.
“Where, Mommy? Where are we going?”
Julie had to work hard not to frown. This isn’t the right time! “We’re going to find, Daddy, George.”
George beamed.
The engine turned over, and the rotors began to rotate. Julie found herself watching closely.
The two soldiers were sitting across from them, behind the pilots. Both of them buckled in quickly and looked bored. The one she thought of as the leader was eating cookies from a resealable container, while the second guy wiped down his unassembled pistol with a dirty rag.
“Here’s a head set for you and ear plugs for your boy, ma’am,” the crew chief said.
> Julie nodded, knowing she was distracted and unfocused, but trying her best.
George whined a bit, but didn’t give her much trouble as she put the plugs in his ears. He looked sleepy. “Okay, honey,” she said, “we’ll be on our way any minute!”
She ran her fingers through his curls. Kissed his forehead. Tried not to think about her daughter. Most of the lights were out in the cabin, and it was hard to see.
When they took off, George was fast asleep.
The helicopter banked around and she quickly lost her sense of direction. She knew they should be on a northeasterly heading, but couldn’t see much.
She heard the pilot say, “Looks like Thompson found some survivors over on that fishing pier. Somebody spotted a flare.”
Lassiter leaned forward and spoke into his mike. “They have instructions for us, Captain?”
“Yeah, that Navy captain, Fletcher, wants us to rescue them,” The pilot said flatly.
Julie held her breath.
“What do you think, Colonel?” the pilot asked.
“I think we tell those survivors to sit tight,” Colonel Bolger answered, “and we let the Coasties send a boat for them.”
Julie exhaled, and took air in slowly.
“You got it, Colonel! I’ll get on the horn and tell them that, and then we’re on our way.”
The colonel was looking at Julie. “Good plan, Captain! Do that and let’s get out of here!”
Some of the tension went out of Julie’s shoulders and she breathed out. She heard someone, probably the captain, talking over a loudspeaker, but couldn’t hear what he said.
She eased her head back. The motion and sound of the helicopter blades was soothing to her.
Each minute that goes by brings me that much closer to my husband. Which is what I want, right?
Some doubts could never be voiced.
7. Daric
Night fell as the sound of the jet ski’s engine faded away. Daric let the gun fall from his hand, closed his eyes, and dropped to his knees in the sand beside Beth. Grief welled up in his throat, and he heard someone sob.
What if she’s dead?
Without a doubt, the dog was.
Peripherally, he was aware that Janicea and Sinclair were behind him somewhere over near Nast and Ozzie.
He placed his left hand on Beth’s back, and to his joy, discovered she was the one who was crying. He cradled her in his arms.
Dead Tide Surge Page 3