She shook her head. “No, not any of these soups.”
29. Bronte
With every step he ran, Bronte sobbed. He’d seen people with similar wounds. His friend Tracks, the best friend he’d ever had, was going to die. Even if he’d stayed, it would take a skilled surgeon to save him.
There weren’t any medevac’s to call. No paramedics. No emergency rooms. All of that was gone now.
What was left were friends and loved ones. And it seemed as if every day, he had a smaller circle of people he cared about that made life worth living. Hell, he wasn’t even forty, and he’d lost almost everything that made life good.
The sound of renewed gunfire shook him out of near incapacitating grief. Janicea appeared before him, running from the backyard of the house where they’d docked the boats.
“They went that way, Bronte!” she shouted, pointing to his left and panting for breath.
He heard near continuous gunfire now, and shouts.
“Stick with me,” he said, “we’ll save the kids.”
“Ralls is dead!”
Bronte let the words go by him. She didn’t mention Sinclair or the kids, so hope continued to live within him. If they were dead, though, that would be a different story. Having their group whittled down to the two of them might be too much to bear.
A stray bullet whizzed nearby, but it didn’t slow either one of them. Then the shots stopped. He was about three houses from turning the corner where he thought the firefight was going on when all fire ceased.
“Oh dear lord, Bronte…” Janicea said, but he didn’t stop or wait to see what was going on. He rounded the corner at full speed, sprinting too fast for Janicea to keep up. She would have to take care of herself and follow him. He couldn’t let any more of their people die.
He saw a house on the right with a woman’s body sprawled beside an SUV, and a man standing over her. The door to the house was open.
The woman’s hair was long and red.
No! I’ve led everyone to their deaths! There was no denying it. Bronte was calling the shots.
Without realizing it, he was screaming the word, “No!” as he ran toward his fallen friend. The man looked up, raised his own rifle, then spun in the direction of the open door of the house. Two of the walking dead stumbled from the front porch; one of them knocked the man sprawling onto his back.
Bronte strained to run faster, knowing he was leaving Janicea behind, but he had no choice.
Sinclair still wasn’t moving. Bronte was closer. The man’s arm was in the zombie’s mouth. Half a block remained. Bronte’s breath rasped in and out as he subconsciously counted cadence in his head, trying his best to keep his wind. Too many nights of sitting around, drinking margaritas.
One hundred feet. The second zombie was chewing on the man’s other arm, and he was screaming to God.
A mantra played through Bronte’s mind, One, two, three, exhale. Inhale, one, two, three…
Mere feet separated them now. Bronte drew to a stop, raised the rifle, and shot the man through the head. He shifted aim, used one more shot each on the two zombies. He stood still, listening even as their bodies slowly slumped to the grass. Janicea’s footsteps approached. His own breathing. A heartbeat later, a little girl screamed from inside the house.
Bronte was off, running across a short stretch of lawn, across the walkway, onto the porch and into the house. Once inside, he knocked over a table and an umbrella stand, and collided with a tall, wiry, athletic white man wearing glasses. As they fell, he got an up close view of the man’s pocked skin and the raw pulpy flesh of his face and neck. Bronte was on top of the other man at the foot of a staircase. The thing— it was impossible to think of it as human— opened its mouth and with jaws opened wide, leaned up to bite him. Bronte threw himself backward with the thing’s hands scrabbling to hold onto him. He rolled free and back onto his knees, his shirt ripped all the way to his navel.
The little girl screamed again, and a pistol fired three times.
He had to save the kids. Tracks’ death couldn’t be for nothing.
He looked around for his rifle. He’d lost it when he fell. He spotted it right next to the thing as it climbed to its feet. He felt an umbrella underneath his fingertips. He decided not to bother with his pistol, and grasped the umbrella. He wanted to aim for an eye, but the thing was still wearing glasses, so he settled for thrusting it point first right into the thing’s mouth and releasing the catch. The result may have been funny to someone who didn’t know what was at stake.
Bronte stood up the rest of the way as the thing flailed at the umbrella, and pulled his pistol. He fired twice through the umbrella, into the thing’s head, then dashed up the stairs, nearly tripping on a bloody sneaker. Two more shots echoed through the house, one of them passing through a bedroom wall and past his right ear.
Bronte reached the landing and ran to the bedroom. The room was full of bodies. Beth and Daric stood across the room, with three bodies literally at their feet. Neither of the children reacted as he crossed the room and swept them into his arms.
A moment later Janicea joined them and they had a group hug.
Bronte’s eyes met Janicea’s over the kids’ heads. He mouthed the word, “Sinclair.”
Janicea shook her head, and a tear rolled down her cheek. He bowed his head, and closed his eyes.
“I have to go to Tracks,” he said. “Take the kids back to the house where the boats are. I’ll be there soon.”
“Okay, Bronte.”
When he turned to go, Daric asked, “Did something happen to Tracks?”
Bronte didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer that question.
He was nearly blind with tears as he went down the stairs.
30. Kincaid
Kincaid rode the jet ski out of the canal, following it out into the bay. The vehicle’s headlight illuminated a fairly wide swath of darkness to either side and out about twenty feet ahead of him. The ride was choppy, and that made the light do crazy things at times. Not every sandbar around there had mangroves to reveal it. That fact forced him to keep his speed down. There was no one to rescue him if he ran aground.
Just ahead, he made out the shape of a small sailboat. He thought it was anchored, but didn’t have time to look closely. It didn’t appear as if anyone was on board, but to be safe, he swerved around it in a wide circle that took him further into the bay.
Across the bay, there was the faint glow of lights, but whether it was from fires or a still functioning power grid he had no idea. St. Petersburg’s shoreline, which around here was mostly mangrove trees, was dark. Put him in a canoe or a rowboat, and the Pinellas County peninsula might have returned to pristine wilderness.
Make that savage wilderness, Kincaid thought, feeling the edges of his mouth turn down in a frown. He kept his speed uniform and stayed alert. The only sound was that of the engine of the watercraft as it sped across the waves. He thought about the manila envelope taped around his chest. Would it be enough to buy him and his family peace?
There was nothing to do but try and hope for the best.
Moments later, he saw a sudden flare of light about a hundred yards in front of him. It came from a fishing trawler. He could make out a man before another light stabbed toward him—a searchlight!
He kept on course, steering directly for the boat. It was the agreed upon signal, and the right kind of boat. As he got closer, he realized that the man was the big guy with sunglasses. He was still wearing them, and still had a holstered gun at his waist.
Kincaid almost smiled.
I’ve got a gun this time also, fucker!
The man was smiling.
He wouldn’t be smiling for long.
31. Johnny
Marcel wouldn’t stop talking, but that was okay, as long as he didn’t expect Johnny to answer. They were good for each other. Marcel was one of the first people Johnny had met in a long time who wasn’t bothered by his silence. His appearance didn’t seem to bother him eithe
r.
“You got an eye under there?” Marcel asked.
Johnny shrugged and grinned.
“Not going to tell me, huh? That’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked about your personal business. Maybe you are an alien hiding a bug eye under there!”
Johnny couldn’t help but smile. The joke amused Marcel so much, he couldn’t be angry. He realized that the kid was just curious, and that he might be a bit off.
The boat got under way. The motion wasn’t rough. Johnny knew that, most of the time, Tampa Bay was sheltered and calm. The only time to worry was when there were high winds, or a storm coming.
Most of the bay was shallow. At least that was what his mom used to tell him. Before they dredged the channel, you could almost walk the whole way across from St. Pete to Tampa. He never knew whether that was true or not.
“Do you know Tampa?” Marcel asked. “I haven’t been there much. Went to a few Buc games over at Raymond James, but that’s it.”
Johnny shrugged and lifted an eyebrow. He knew it fairly well, he supposed. Over the years he’d been there quite a bit. He knew his way around Interstate 275, Interstate 4, the airport, Bush Gardens, and all along Dale Mabry Highway.
“What I don’t get is what kind of ship or boat we’re loading,” Marcel said, with his brow furrowed. The crease in his forehead was deep. Sweat glistened at his temples. Johnny watched him mop his face with a dirty shirt sleeve.
Johnny wondered too what this was all about. He’d heard someone else saying that there was a whole cargo ship moored near their ship that was full of food.
“I have a theory about what we’re really doing, Johnny, but I’ll keep it to myself for now.”
Before Johnny could give any serious consideration to what they were going to do, Marcel launched onto another tangent.
“You think the whole world is like this?”
Johnny nodded. He was willing to bet that much of the world was worse, actually.
The rest of the ride went much in this vein, with Marcel asking questions, most of which Johnny answered with a simple nod or shake of the head, but some that went unanswered when they required actual words.
It was hard to gauge how long it took. The boat wasn’t going fast, and Johnny didn’t have a watch or a cell phone.
Of course, he could have asked someone, but that wasn’t going to happen.
When they finally reached a dock, Johnny and Marcel let the others crowd each other in their eagerness to get off. They waited until almost everyone was gone then joined the line, with only one person behind them. The boat was almost empty.
“Wait,” the last person said.
Johnny and Marcel turned around. A pale, brown-haired girl with a ponytail, and a small baby in one of those chest harnesses stood behind them.
“Do you guys mind if I hang with you? I’m scared, and I don’t know who to trust. You seem like nice guys…”
Johnny smiled at her. She was about average in looks, pretty, but nothing exotic. Girl next door. He doubted that he looked all that nice. Marcel looked kind, but he had no doubt about what most people thought of his appearance.
Marcel looked at Johnny briefly then turned back to her. “Sounds great! My name’s Marcel, and my silent friend here is Johnny. He doesn’t talk, but he’s nice anyway. The only thing you should know if you hang out with us is that we might not go back. Johnny and I might sneak off. I’m pretty sure we aren’t here for food supplies.”
“That would be fine with me. Where would we go?”
“I want to go back to St. Pete. I want to check on my cousin. She’s a St. Pete cop. I kept waiting for her, and she never showed. Her husband’s crazy, so who knows what happened. I’m not sure what Johnny wants to do.”
“I’m in. I want to go back to St. Pete, too!” she said.
Johnny didn’t know what to say, even if he wanted to speak. He didn’t remember Marcel mentioning anything about leaving the group, but he wasn’t going to argue. Getting away from the ship was gaining appeal.
Marcel said, “What’s your name?”
“I’m Anna, pleased to meet you.”
She shook hands with both of them.
Both she and Marcel almost immediately launched into a conversation. Johnny thought Anna would be a good addition. Marcel would have someone to talk to that wanted to answer him.
32. Clive
Hand in hand, Clive led Candace down the shadowed corridor.
“You sure you are alright with this?” she asked.
“I’m sure,” Clive answered. “When does my obligation to him end? No one is paying me anymore.”
“Well, I’m grateful that you’re helping me.”
The sign on the door read: Storeroom.
He tried the handle, and it opened. Candace was still holding his hand. He pulled her in behind him. The room was huge. It should read Warehouse, he thought randomly. There was room for forty pallets, although he could see only ten to fifteen full ones. They were lined up one by one on the left side of the room. On the right side was a cardboard baling machine, stacks of empty pallets, and two with bales of cardboard. At the far side of the room, starting from the left, was an industrial service elevator, a small invoicing desk with two chairs, and then a door that had an emergency exit sign. A big orange plastic Thermos-type cooler was sitting on the desk, along with a sleeve of disposable plastic cups, a clipboard, rolodex, and an old style wall phone. Under the desk was a small metal trashcan.
“Our dinner table awaits,” he said, and they walked toward the desk and chairs.
“I’m still not going to be able to relax, but this is better, thanks.”
They both took seats, and he ripped open an MRE for her. She removed the various packages and opened the entree first.
“What did you get?” he asked, unable to resist giving her a small, probably sadistic smile.
“I’m not sure, but it says dehydrated pork patty,” she replied, while holding up a small unappetizing lump that fit in her fist.
He laughed. These were old MREs. Of course, they were one of the few things still made to last. He decided that it was better not to share too many details about MREs with her. One detail that would probably upset her was that she was probably in high school or college when these were made.
“You have to put it in that little plastic bag with water and shake it up. Here let me get you some water.”
She handed it over in the bag.
“Have you ever tried one?” she asked.
“Yeah. Definitely don’t eat one dry. If you do, it will expand in your stomach. Not a pleasant experience.”
So much for keeping details to himself.
“But did you like it?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Clive handed the baggie back over to her after shaking it thoroughly.
She looked at him, then the bag. “Want me to trade you or get you another one?” he asked.
“No, I’ll man-up,” she answered. She used the fork to break off a piece while it was still in the bag. The fork quivered in mid-air.
“That sure is a dubious expression,” he said. “I’ve never used that word before.”
“I’ll bet if you had a piece of this on the end of your fork, you’d hesitate too.”
“Probably so.”
Candace put the hunk of meat into her mouth and chewed. He watched to see if her face changed expression.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
Candace shook her head. “Not very much, Clive, but it’s food. Sure beats some of the foreign food I’ve had to eat overseas.
He laughed. “No doubt.”
“So, what do you have?”
“Meatballs in barbeque sauce.”
She tossed her baggie, patty included, underhanded into the trashcan.
He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She shrugged. “It will be more romantic if we share.”
Then, the lights went out. Absolute silence surrounded them. It was funny how you never missed the s
ound of a generator until it was gone.
The only light left in the room came from the dim red exit light.
“That wasn’t what I had in mind,” she said.
33. Natalie
Nella stepped into the garage, and stopped by some tools in a corner right near the door. When she turned around, she had an axe. It was long-handled and had two heads. She held it up to show Natalie. It looked wickedly sharp.
“I could split some heads with this!”
Natalie thought so too.
“Better than nothing, till I can get a gun, right?” Nella said.
“That’s true.”
Natalie turned away and looked around the garage. There was light from windows on the side and in the back wall. One of the cars parked inside was a Mercedes convertible painted a fire engine red. The other was a large pickup truck. She couldn’t see the make from here, but it looked new. There were also quite a few boxes stacked along the back wall, along with a water heater and a washer and dryer. Quite a few clothes hung on a rack also, a bunch of men’s shirts.
Natalie spotted a door near the washer and dryer. She went over to it, and tried the handle. It opened.
“There’s little drops of blood on the floor,” Nella said, pointing them out.
“I see that.”
“You still wanna go in?”
“Why not? I do have a gun. What do I have to be paranoid about?”
“Are you good with it?”
Natalie rolled her eyes in exasperation.
“Shooting is an acquired skill, not just something you’re born knowing how to do!”
“I know how to shoot one. Just because I’m lonely for human companionship doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Fine. I see a teenage girl, who probably isn’t out of high school, and was skeptical that she knows how to shoot. Is it such a surprise that I would wonder?”
Natalie knew the girl was right, but wasn’t going to admit it.
“We have to go somewhere, Nella. This place is as good as any, right?”
“Don’t mind me, Natalie. Let’s go in. At least I have this axe now, too.”
Natalie opened the door and stepped in with her gun leading the way.
They saw more blood. A lot more, spattered on a beige tile floor and left to dry. There was more in the kitchen, to the right down a short stretch of hall. Nella gasped behind her, but Natalie didn’t look back. She stepped inside and looked to the left. Just a closet. The door was partway open and she saw cleaning supplies and a Swiffer.
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