The first two men had their backs to Foster and Green, but the redhead was swiveling around, searching, pointing where he looked with the gun barrel. Foster was watching when the guy spotted them.
Foster stood up and shot the redhead three times: once in the stomach, then the chest, then the neck. The guy toppled, falling backwards, and sprawled near the door. Foster advanced, and shot the second guy in the back twice. The first guy ran, dodging into the close-set trees.
For a few seconds, Foster debated chasing and shooting him, too. The thought lost appeal quickly when the man disappeared among the trunks, and he knew there was no way he would catch him.
Foster turned back to Green. “Think we got them all, Lieutenant? Well, except for that one, right?”
Green looked shocked and didn’t respond.
“I’m going back in. There’s nothing for us out here. You coming?”
Green nodded.
“Close and lock the door behind us.”
Foster paused a moment on the steps, waiting while Green closed the door.
“Door’s locked. Never would have pegged you for a stone cold killer, sir,” Green said.
Foster’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Keep an open mind, Lieutenant. Sometimes, I even surprise myself.”
11. Natalie
Natalie’s sleep was restless. In her dream, she kept seeing Liz’s face. They were in Tyrone Mall just before everything happened. At that precise moment, things were crazy and getting out of hand. Sam was down at that video game store near Dillards. She could never remember the name of it. Gamestop, or something like that. It should have been the perfect opportunity for hashing things out with Liz.
She remembered the two of them standing in front of the Dairy Queen, not far from the entrance to Penney’s. Both of them were wearing their cheerleader uniforms, and somewhere behind them, an old Middle-Eastern guy was having a heart attack or something.
Liz flipped her long blond hair and looked over her shoulder. “Think that guy is okay?” she asked.
Natalie paused a moment. The guy was heavy, with an enormous bowling ball gut. He was leaning over, gasping, and his face was turning purple. His right arm was around the shoulders of a small, dark-skinned woman with henna in her hair. Natalie thought the woman was holding him up.
Someone in line behind them jostled Natalie’s arm and instantly her patience was over for distractions.
“So, are you going to dump Sam, or what?”
The question appeared to jolt Liz. She widened her eyes. Natalie knew then that any pretense of them being friends was over.
“You are unbelievable,” Liz told her. “Stay the fuck away from me and Sam!”
Natalie glared at her and clenched her fists. “So, I guess that answers my question,” she said.
Liz waved her away with a dismissive gesture of her hand.
A woman shrieked behind them in abject misery, “He’s dead! He’s dead!”
Natalie was still staring at Liz, but the other girl wouldn’t meet her eyes. She turned away and stepped up to the counter. A familiar, pimply-faced kid smiled at the two of them.
“Can I help you?” he asked Liz, and let his eyes fall to her chest. He didn’t seem to realize how obvious his stare was, or he just didn’t care. Probably had a stiffy too.
“I’ll have a large twist cone, Harry,” Liz said.
She didn’t even seem to notice the pervert kid’s stare. That bitch is always nice to everyone, no matter how deserving, Natalie thought.
“Right away, Liz,” Harry replied.
“Somebody call the paramedics!” a voice shouted. Someone else said, “Make room, everybody!
Natalie refused to look around. What could she do? No one else seemed to be doing anything either. There was a big crowd around the dead guy, but no one was helping him. The woman who was still screaming was cradling him in her arms, rocking.
Harry took Liz’s money and a girl behind the counter handed her the ice cream.
“Keep eating like that, Liz, and you’ll be big as a house,” Natalie said with a nasty smile.
“Fuck off, bitch,” Liz said.
Several people gasped behind them, and a kid screamed.
“He’s not dead!” someone shrieked. Natalie couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman.
“Jesus, look at him,” said another voice, this one roughened by cigarettes and booze.
“Watch out!”
It was like watching one of those horror movies. The big dead guy was biting the red-haired woman’s neck, spraying blood everywhere. Natalie remembered thinking Did that guy eat bath salts or something?
Two people, one a security guard, and the other a burly weightlifter, were struggling with the dead man. They’d managed to pull him off, but not without the security guard getting bitten, also. He was yelling into his walkie-talkie while the weightlifter tried to pin the guy down.
Natalie remembered Liz screaming. She was pretty sure that the dumb blonde’s mind had snapped, then realized that the henna-haired woman was up and was busy tearing the weightlifter’s ear off with her teeth! How was she standing up? Her throat was torn out, leaving a gaping hole. So much blood covered the woman’s front that there was no way she could be moving, no way she could be alive.
It couldn’t be real.
The weightlifter had to let the fat guy go. He spun around and back-fisted the woman, knocking her back to the ground several feet away. A small girl, probably around six or seven years old, ran forward shouting “Daddy, she hurt you!”
The fat guy got to his feet. The weightlifter didn’t see him as his daughter ran into his arms.
Liz shouted, “Watch out!” and rushed forward, pushing the two people out of the way. She was the portrait of athleticism, beauty and grace; her smooth limbs coordinated as she dodged away from the big, dead guy, when he changed his focus onto her.
People were running everywhere. It was pandemonium.
How easy it would be to shove her from behind into the guy’s arms! Natalie thought wickedly.
The thought came, Natalie shoved, and the deed was done. The big man fell on top of Liz, and as they fell, the back of Liz’s head hit the floor. She offered no resistance when the guy brought one of her slim, tanned thighs up and chomped down.
Liz’s scream was awful, and it went on and on.
The weightlifter ran into the crowd clutching his little girl to his chest, blood pouring down his neck.
Natalie stood paralyzed, horrified, but exhilarated. She turned to run…and woke, knowing that only a few hours had passed. The sounds of the world outside were strange. From a great distance, she heard the rumble of a chain of full-bodied explosions, one almost on top of the other. Closer, the wail of a siren. She couldn’t tell the difference, if there was any, between a police car, fire truck, or ambulance siren. Nearer still, there was a feminine scream.
The scream was what got to her, echoing the scream.
She couldn’t close her eyes, and there was no question of further sleep. Could she ignore it? Live with it? Like before? Should she throw her life away for a stranger?
She hefted the pistol, slung the bag, and took out the car keys. She wiggled out of the hollow between the banyan trunks and stood up, feeling old as the wind rustled the leaves and a light rain fell.
The scream came again, then a man’s hoarse shout. It had come from down near the lake.
She couldn’t see anyone, zombie or otherwise, but there were trees between her and the lake. She stopped by the car as she hurried forward and put the bag in the back seat, pocketed the keys, and then with gun in hand, she jogged in the direction of the scream.
The ground was mostly level and the grass wet beneath her sneakers. She splashed through some puddles. A branch snagged the left sleeve of her shirt, almost turning her sideways before springing free. She saw the moon reflected in the lake; then she heard someone breathing heavily and stumbling.
Natalie waited, holding the gun ready, but pointed a
t the ground. Someone was running her way! A vague, slim shape appeared from the dark, out of breath, and jerked to a stop mere feet away. It was a tall young Asian woman, probably her age, with long, straight brown or nearly black hair. Was that the girl she heard scream? She looked familiar too…
“Get out of my way!” the girl shrieked, and pushed past her.
The gun must not have scared her.
A man’s voice shouted, “She went this way!”
The voice was close. With no time to think it over, Natalie ducked behind a big oak tree trunk. She held her breath, her heart pounding.
A moment later, a man appeared, running hard. He paused, breathing labored, and turned on a battery-powered lantern.
Natalie flinched back, worried that she would be spotted. She felt her left shoe sink into and squelch in the muddy ground.
The sudden flare of light revealed more details. He was a middle-aged Asian guy with a hard face, short buzz-cut hair, wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, and boots. Maybe mean was a better description than hard-faced. Is there a difference? The axe in his left hand emphasized that appraisal. The t-shirt was torn, and a long gash at his shoulder covered his arm with blood down to his fingers.
She wasn’t sure why she was assuming he was bad, but in her gut she knew.
He was looking at the ground.
“Turn that fucking lantern off, dumbass!” another man shouted, skidding to a stop beside the first. This guy was younger, also Asian, with a wispy beard, but in better shape than the first man. He was dressed almost the same, but had a wooden baseball bat clenched in his fists.
Buzz Cut snarled right back, “I’m looking for her footprints!”
“And now neither of us can see a fucking thing without a light!” Beard replied.
Buzz Cut said, “It’s almost dawn anyway.”
“You’re right,” Beard agreed.
Natalie closed her eyes, a moment, then made herself look back at the two men. She wasn’t sure why the men were chasing the girl, but it didn’t sound good.
“Maybe we should give up?” Buzz Cut suggested.
Beard shook his head. “You think Sid will go for that? Do you, Jimmy?”
Jimmy’s face looked, if anything, angrier for a moment, then softened into something like remorse.
Beard answered his own question.”No. No he won’t. We’re fucked. And I don’t see any tracks, do you?”
“Better get on the walkie and tell him.”
Beard shook his head. “Are you fucking crazy? We have to find her!”
“Okay, then, Troy,” Jimmy said, “let’s split up. Call me on channel six if you see her, and I’ll come running. I’ll go right toward Fourth Street. You head toward Seventh Avenue.”
Troy, the bearded guy, said, “She’s gone I bet. We’re not going to find her. What are the odds, really?”
“The odds are good. She’s tired. She can’t have got very far.”
The two stood there a moment more, as if listening, then both took off at a jog in different directions.
Natalie stood up but had to brace herself with a hand on the oak’s trunk. Her legs trembled. She had to fight the urge to close her eyes as fatigue set in. With gun still in hand, she walked back toward the car. Within moments she spotted it in the darkness, still parked where she left it. The woman, whoever she was, was about to try the door handle of the left passenger door.
Natalie stopped, realizing that either the woman didn’t see her, or she was ignoring her.
“That’s my car,” Natalie said, “and I have the keys.”
The woman turned around fast, face twisted with rage, and took a step toward her. Natalie backpedaled a step and aimed the gun at her face. “Go ahead, bitch,” she said, “try me.”
12. Janicea
The darkness was all around her, but it didn’t soothe her. It just was. She was part of it, and it was part of her. It would be so easy to let it rule her again. Too easy. Janicea’s eyes were closed, but what had happened kept replaying in her mind. She wanted to lean against something, but there was nothing.
Ralls flicked on a flashlight. Bronte and Tracks were lifting the bodies of their friends onto the deck of the Sea Hummer. She needed comfort, but the others didn’t know her well enough. The others might not even know what had happened.
Right now she was numb. She could feel the outrage pent up inside her, building. It was below the surface, but she knew that sometime soon it would boil out.
“That guy on the jet ski…” she heard Ralls say. He was standing nearby, and she knew he was talking to her, but he trailed off. The grief on his face was hard to look upon.
Janicea nodded. “He was one of the killers. Daric may have shot him.”
She wanted to add: and he tried to rape me! but couldn’t bring herself to admit it. Other people had paid a higher price than she did today. Unspoken, too, was the idea that somehow she deserved everything bad that happened to her now.
The voice in her head said: Hate begets hate. Giving in to hate hadn’t brought her any peace, of either the mental or spiritual varieties.
Ralls said something else but she let his voice fade into the background. She walked to the edge of the sand and stared back through the dark toward the island the men had just left.
When will this end? she thought. When will people stop killing each other over nothing?
Stupid, senseless killing.
Janicea watched Tracks enter the surf a foot or so away to the left. Someone’s shoe floated in the water. It probably belonged to one of the killers. Tracks picked it up, along with the cast net Ozzie or Nast was using when all this began.
Mustn’t allow myself to think. Time will go by. We will find someplace safe to live.
“We going back?” Tracks asked, looking at Bronte.
“To the island? I don’t know,” Bronte answered. “We have some hard decisions to make.”
Tracks frowned, or was it a smile? It was hard to tell. He didn’t smile often, and when Janicea thought about it, she couldn’t remember him ever laughing or making a joke.
“Nowhere to go, Bronte,” Tracks said.
“True, my friend. There is nowhere better. At least no place that I know of.”
Tracks made a strangled sound that ended in a cough. “So, we going back?”
“Yes,” Bronte said, with a face like stone. Janicea had no idea what he was thinking. She wondered whether or not she should tell him everything that had happened. Not here though. Not now. She knew he was looking at her. His eyes were moving up and down her body. Normally, this would give her butterflies.
“More of us will die,” Ralls said.
“Well,” Bronte replied, “that may be so, but we’ll find out what this prisoner knows before we go.” He gestured toward Sinclair and the man sitting in front of her.
Sinclair was still holding a gun on the prisoner, but she stepped to the side when Bronte came near.
The prisoner, a bald guy with a goatee, looked up when Bronte stopped and stood over him. He sat cross-legged on the sand, his left eye puffed up, bruised, and weeping. His expression was fierce, though, and he didn’t look away when Bronte stopped a few feet short of him.
“You have anything to say?” Bronte asked.
The guy smirked. “Get fucked, nigger.”
Bronte’s face remained expressionless. “Last chance,” he said.
The prisoner made a hocking noise, and spit on Bronte’s shoe.
Janicea saw a faint, almost sad smile come and go on Bronte’s lips as he pulled his pistol out from the small of his back. “So if I kill you, now, I’m reacting to your racist remark and hateful gestures?”
“You think?” the guy asked.
Bronte sighted down the pistol, focusing his aim between the guy’s eyes.
“You’re no better than me!”
Bronte squeezed the trigger. The guy fell backward with the bullet’s impact. Janicea watched without feeling anything as the corpse twitched once then relaxed.
“So be it,” Bronte said, and holstered the gun.
Janicea stepped over to him and wrapped an arm around his waist. He slid the gun back into the waistband of his pants and hugged her. For a moment, nothing else mattered.
13. Booth
He wished they would shut up, but they wouldn’t.
The co-pilot, Lot, said, “Rescue is staging, Mrs. Foster, we don’t have room to take those people with us.”
“I understand, Lieutenant. You are saying someone else is coming to get them,” she replied.
“That’s right, ma’am,” the other pilot, Duncan, answered.
Booth closed his eyes and waited for the Tylenol to work. Seemingly in time with the rotors, pain streaked and throbbed through his head. He felt nauseous. Headphones were over his ears, and they helped with the noise, but nothing was helping his hangover.
Lot said, “We are continuing on to our first objective.”
Lassiter turned the overhead light on, and was looking in a backpack. Booth could feel his mood getting out of hand. He wasn’t usually short-tempered, but as the helicopter made a slow turn, thinking about what he had allowed himself to be drafted into began to piss him off. The hangover wasn’t helping. Here he was still part of a machine, even though it was dead. Only all the parts didn’t realize it yet. How long, he wondered, until those ship crews mutinied and they all went their separate ways in the hopes of finding their families? He was amazed that it hadn’t happened yet.
He forced those thoughts to the back of his mind. It wasn’t productive to worry about what might happen. It was good to have contingency plans in case circumstances changed, but he needed to think about what was coming in the next few minutes now.
The plan was to top the chopper’s fuel off and add long distance tanks if possible, over at the St. Pete/Clearwater Airport. The Coast Guard guys thought some were stored there.
He heard a faint, strange noise over the headphones and felt Hicks’ head on his shoulder. He realized that the other surviving member of his team was asleep.
Fucker is snoring!
Dead Tide Surge Page 5