He elbowed his friend in the ribs. Hicks sat up straight and muttered something. He wore mirrored sunglasses, so it was impossible to tell whether his eyes were open or not.
Booth noticed that the first lady’s kid was watching them. The little rug rat had a shy smile on his face. It was sort of unreal to think that he was the president’s son. Just a kid, like any other kid. The first lady wasn’t any different. She looked like a frazzled soccer mom.
What made these people so special anymore? If they ever were? Why all this effort? He wondered what Hicks’s excuse would be. It might amount to nothing more than having nothing else to do. His squad mate and friend wasn’t an overly deep thinker.
The engine changed pitch as they moved onto what he knew was a northwesterly heading. He could see Tierra Verde below them, out the window to the left. One of the large condominiums was on fire.
Good joke that, the island’s name! Not much green earth on that island, unless you count the golf course.
It was mostly high rise condos and mansions down there. Booth remembered being in ROTC many years ago and doing a ten mile road march from a 7-Eleven somewhere down there, all the way out to the tip of Ft. Desoto. Was it really ten miles? Certainly felt like it all those years ago. Ten miles was nothing for him now.
He turned his attention back into the cabin. The kid was asleep. The first lady was stroking his hair. Her face was haggard. She looked exhausted and he was willing to bet she hadn’t slept recently.
Her eyes met his, and she nodded at him. When he didn’t react, she flushed and looked away.
She wasn’t half bad looking, depending on what you liked…or how desperate you were. She was attractive in a way. Had a nice body.
Booth knew he should have smiled or nodded back, but the headache was making him angry. He was slightly pissed off about being asked to be a hero, too, and decided he might do a quick fade once they landed at the airport. Jacobs may have been the smart one by walking away. Booth didn’t owe these people anything now that all bets were off.
Moments later, as he was drowsing off, the crew chief, Lassiter, commented, “Good Lord, those things are everywhere.”
Booth didn’t even open his eyes. Lassiter was merely stating the obvious.
Nothing to see here.
Move right along.
14. Trish
“Are you going to let me go?”
The guy laughed.
“Which do you mean? Let you go, or let you go? Here, I’ll let you go, right now.”
He broke the embrace he’d been holding her in for several long minutes, and stepped back a pace.
“There, how is that?” he asked. The gun and the knife were still in his hands.
Trish didn’t answer, but began to back away toward the dining room. “I’m leaving now. Please don’t try to stop me.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get my clothes.” Her unspoken answer was: and get the fuck out of here!
She felt her back touch one of the dining room chairs.
“Why bother now?” he asked. “No need for modesty. I’ve seen you at your best, haven’t I?”
Trish’s skin was crawling. It was taking everything she had not to let fear and disgust manifest itself in her expression. It was bad enough to put up with this behavior working in a bar, but now? She edged her way around the table with him following her.
The expression on his face was unreadable. She wasn’t about to wait to find out what he was thinking. If she had a gun right now, she’d just shoot him. She didn’t ever have to put up with this bullshit again.
Creepy old fucker.
The table was between them now. So far he hadn’t raised the gun, but her eyes kept drifting down to where he held it against his leg. Her back brushed against the glass door. His eyes were riveted between her legs. That answered the question in her mind as to his intent. He wasn’t even pretending to look elsewhere. Somehow, he made her feel dirty, despite several years of other men doing the same thing. Men complained about being a paycheck. Was that worse than being treated as an object?
None of them had ever looked at her like this. Wait…was that true? Maybe it was knowing that no one was coming to help her. Just her alone with a creep. She could feel anger overtaking her fear now that she was so close to getting away.
“Want me to wait while you go get a camera?” she asked.
He blinked, then raised his eyes slowly up and over her body before stopping at her eyes.
“You’ve got a smart mouth,” he said and came around the table in a rush.
Trish pulled the handle, relieved that it slid open without much resistance, and darted out onto the pool deck. The old guy followed her, but he stopped beside the door. He raised the gun when she reached her clothing and began to gather it up.
“Drop the stuff, and raise your hands, bitch!” he snarled.
Trish straightened up, but kept her clothes, shoes, and the flashlight in her hands.
“You won’t shoot me,” she said.
“Looks like you plan to find out,” he replied, and she could tell he was winded.
She pulled her still-wet clothes on, panties first, then shirt and shorts.
He didn’t react.
She sat down to put her shoes on.
Still nothing, so she quit watching him and focused on tying her shoes.
The gun was hanging down by his side again when she stood.
“Where will you go?” he wanted to know.
She shrugged. Her clothes were wet, but at least they weren’t stiff with salt now.
Her only thought was to get away from him. She opened the screen door, and plunged outside at a run. Morning light was bathing the sky to the east in a rosy glow as she ran around the side of the house. She passed a large portable grill, a big black trashcan, and finally crossed onto the front yard of the house. There was an immense oak with a trunk about four feet thick, and a lot of golf-course quality grass.
For a moment she stopped there in a patch of sunlight and stared at what almost looked like a peaceful neighborhood.
It was peaceful if you could ignore the dead bodies laying scattered in the street and in the yards, and if you could pretend not to see the animated corpses wandering the neighborhood.
Trish just stood there, looking at the zombies. Disgust welled up. They were mockeries of real humans, and she remembered what had probably been her first encounter with one.
Dead fucks and perverts, was that all that was left in the world?
While she still had time, she looked carefully around. There was an RV, a big one, in the driveway of the house she’d just left. Parked across the street in front of a three-story house with a half circle drive and a fountain was a Mazda 3 and what was probably an Acura. She sniffed, smelling something burning, but tried not to let it distract her. There was a body lying face down near the Mazda and she wondered if there was any chance that person would have the car keys.
Two zombies were heading her way down a sidewalk that passed in front of the yard she was standing in now. The other two were further down the street to the left, and were stumbling around aimlessly. It didn’t appear as if the two headed her way had seen her. No purpose was motivating them that she could see. That didn’t mean that they wouldn’t spot her or smell her soon. She contemplated her next move, wondering what the odds were that they wouldn’t see her.
Trish waited a moment more, then sprinted across the street. She heard the old freak shout. So he was following her after all. She didn’t even break stride.
Her still sodden shoes were squelching with each footfall, and she hated the sound and the nasty feeling. Hunger pangs picked that particular moment to strike, and she slowed to a quick walk, feeling queasy and weak as she neared the Mazda and the corpse of a young woman lying beside it.
She flinched when a loud gunshot blasted somewhere behind her, followed by another. Then another.
Was the old man shooting the nearby zombies for her, or w
as he shooting at her? Trish decided she was not waiting around to find out.
The young dead woman was a brunette wearing a light blue mini-dress. She was sprawled face down on the grass with her left arm outstretched, her right still clutching a purse. The back of her dress was stained nearly black with dried blood, and it looked like she was starting to bloat in the heat. Trish gagged— the stench was awful.
She really had to get out of here. She went for the purse and tried to yank it free while still walking, sort of like a thief trying to snatch a purse and keep going. She grabbed the strap, took a step, and pulled the purse toward her, up and off an arm that was slick or greasy or…
The corpse screamed!
Trish stumbled and nearly fell in shock, but the purse was free.
The woman isn’t dead?
The woman looked up at her and said something that sounded like “Bitch!” It was hard to tell for sure, though, because she still shrieked in pain.
Trish leaned her back against the car. She could see the old man crossing the street toward her, and began to panic. He was still shirtless, and the gun and knife were in his hands. She opened the purse and dug through the various items, but it was taking too long. In desperation, she turned the purse over and emptied the whole thing onto the driveway.
The keys, the keys, where were they?
She knelt down, scrambled frantically through a jumbled mess of tissue, tampons, a checkbook, gum, a brush and finally found a small key ring with a key fob and several keys. She grasped the fob in her left hand, and frantically pushed the unlock button, saw the signal lights flash at the front of the Mazda, and grabbed the driver’s door handle.
She heard the old creep wheeze behind her.
“For Christ’s sake, she’s still alive! Look what you’ve done!”
Trish was sliding into the driver’s seat. She didn’t know that woman, and judging by the amount of blood on her dress, she was a goner for sure.
“You gonna just leave her like this?” the old man shouted, leaning over and staring at her through the window glass.
She pushed the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine cranked up smoothly, and she was loving the car.
“You can’t just leave her like this!” the creep shouted.
Trish looked over and saw him put the pistol to the girl’s head and pull the trigger.
She shifted into drive and floored the small car straight for about fifteen feet, then took a sharp right turn onto the street. In the rear view mirror, the old guy was standing there and pointing the gun after her, but nothing happened. He ran for the Acura and she hoped that it wasn’t his.
The Mazda’s engine roared and she thought: Zoom Zoom! Trish was laughing, but wasn’t aware that she was doing it. Moments later she powered out of the neighborhood and back toward the boat basin, hoping that the street was no longer clogged with the dead.
15. Jacobs
Jacobs lowered the tarp back over the motorcycle and approached the back door to the house. It was at the end of the carport on his right. Straight ahead was a door to what was probably a laundry room. On a whim, he tried that door first, and found it unlocked. Inside, he saw what he expected: a washer and dryer, a water heater, shelves built into the wall loaded with detergent and cleaning supplies, and some clothes on hangers.
When he closed the door, he heard car engines turning over and revving, followed by two gunshots or backfires. Someone shouted. Another shot rang out. Probably a pistol. His best guess was a 9mm. He decided to wait and see if the vehicle headed his way. He walked around the left side of the house toward the front yard. A neglected hedge-type bush gave him some cover with a view of the street. He knelt down, just in case. No need to become a target.
He didn’t see anything moving. Two bodies were visible. One was slumped over in the driver’s seat of a red Chevy Impala parked on the street, and the other facedown beside the car. One house across the street was burning, and the roof had collapsed, leaving only the concrete block shell. The front door to another house was hanging wide open. Debris was everywhere.
The dog licked his cheek, and he put his left arm around her. The engine noise grew louder—at least two vehicles.
A couple of minutes passed before he saw two trucks driving slowly down the street: a burgundy Dodge Ram, and an older, gray Ford Ranger. He heard laughter and another shout. Men or, more likely, teenaged boys were walking alongside the trucks armed with shovels, axes, baseball bats and guns.
Jacobs’ stomach gurgled.
The dog perked her ears, then looked up at him.
“I’m hungry. Bet you are too.”
A youthful voice yelled, “Hey Leo, there’s one coming out of Old Lady Hatcher’s place!”
Jacobs identified the speaker as a weightlifter-type white kid wearing a green football jersey on the back of the first truck. A typical jock with a buzz-cut and a lantern jaw. He was standing behind the cab, pointing a brawny arm at the house with the open door.
Sure enough, an old lady staggered through the doorway. Her blue dress was about three sizes too big for her, and her spindly legs were a stark white in contrast. Her long gray hair was unbound and hanging over her face.
She stepped off the porch and fell face first into the grass.
Raucous laughter erupted from the kids in and around the trucks.
Jacobs’ mouth turned down in a grimace, although he didn’t realize it. Bastards!
The unthinking cruelty of youth was no surprise to him, but it was always disappointing. He’d witnessed it from one extreme to another all over the world. Teenage kids or younger with no respect for life. Stone killers at ten years old. The woman was probably someone’s grandmother.
Leo, another big guy in a green jersey, sauntered her way from the other side of the first truck. His jersey number—53—and his name— Franzetti—were printed on the back, and he was wearing his football helmet. He swung the baseball bat in his hands around a few times as he approached the fallen woman.
She struggled to her knees as the teenager got closer. Her mouth was open wide in what looked like a toothy snarl.
Leo braced his legs, stood before her, and swung the bat directly over her head. A strand of her hair lifted and blew in the backdraft.
More laughter from the onlookers.
Someone shouted, “Strike one!”
Jacobs had time to wonder briefly whether the woman was a zombie or not before the kid switched his stance, swung from the hip and connected the bat to her head with a solid thwack. She dropped back to the grass and didn’t move.
“One old bitch is out!” Leo shouted.
Jacobs fingered the safety on his rifle, debating what to do. Flicked it off. Charged the handle. A round was ready in the chamber. He had the fleeting thought that he should forget about safeties now. It was probably best to always have a round ready.
He stood up, squeezed in between the hedge and house, and walked into the front yard.
A skinny kid wearing jeans, army boots, and a blue plaid shirt noticed him immediately, and said, “Heads up, Kyle! We got a soldier or something over here!” The skinny kid then raised the shovel in his hands to the on guard position as if he thought it could block a bullet.
The burly kid on the truck who must be Kyle turned his way. His jersey number was 55.
“Who are you?” Kyle shouted.
Jacobs didn’t answer, but continued walking toward them. The skinny kid backed away, eyes huge behind a pair of cheap, bottle-thick glasses. Jacobs could feel the eyes of all the kids on him as he passed the truck and walked up to Leo.
Leo faced him with the bat held in his right hand. Blood and gore dripped from the bat, smearing the wood. Behind the helmet’s face mask, there was a smile on the kid’s face, and black grease paint under his eyes. If he was afraid, Jacobs couldn’t tell.
“Should I have played, baseball, you think?” the kid asked. “That was a home run for sure!”
Jacobs stared at the kid, finally awa
re that he was frowning. His face didn’t alter expression when he asked in a soft voice, “Was she dead, kid?”
Leo looked at him with a now blank expression.
“You hear me, kid?”
“I heard you, mister. She wanted to bite me.”
“That so? Show me a bite on her.”
The kid looked over Jacobs’ shoulder, probably at Kyle.
Jacobs pointed the rifle at the kid’s belly. “Start checking.”
The kid’s legs were trembling now, but he knelt down and began to examine the old woman. Jacobs stepped to the side and half turned so that he could see the other teens and the trucks.
Leo placed the bat on the grass and then lifted each of the woman’s emaciated arms, looking over each with obvious distaste. He paused a moment, and raised his hand to his face.
“Keep looking,” Jacobs said.
The kid shifted position on his knees to get closer to the woman’s legs. He pulled her dress up, exposing her birdlike limbs in all their pale, blue-veined, knobby glory. One leg was covered with dried, flaky blood. There were no marks on her feet or calves, but there was the smell of urine, and excrement. The smell was nothing new to Jacobs, but Leo gagged and retched a little, then gamely pulled the dress up further.
There, high up on her thigh, was a festering, blackened wound from a bite. The stringy meat of her thigh appeared chewed.
Leo looked up at Jacobs and let the dress fall back over the corpse.
“Okay kid, you did the right thing.”
The teen picked up his bat and stood up. “What would you have done if I did kill an uninfected person?”
Jacobs gave him a dead-eyed stare.
“You would have killed me?”
Jacobs didn’t reply. He turned away and with the dog in tow, walked back toward the house with the hedge.
“Will you help us, mister?”
The question was asked in a desperate tone, and Jacobs thought that, now, the kid looked scared. Alone, how much chance did that bunch of kids have? It would be easier to have a dog to worry about. No question of their loyalty.
“What are you trying to do, Leo?” Jacobs asked. He knew it was equivalent to a tentative yes.
“We just want to find someplace safe and take care of each other. Can you help us?”
Dead Tide Surge Page 6