Dead Tide Surge

by Stephen A. North

  She headed for the kitchen with Nella close behind her.

  From the doorway, she could see part of a countertop and a breakfast nook with table and chairs. The blood trail led that way. Further in, she could see a large window with gauzy white curtains swaying gently in a breeze, and the countertop that wrapped around like a bar.

  Someone must have tried to clean their wounds at the sink and didn’t bother to clean up afterwards. Bloodied towels, a big knife, and first aid supplies were scattered across the counter.

  “This is bad,” Nella said.

  “It is,” Natalie agreed, “but beneath it all, there’s still beauty, too.” In truth, the kitchen was beautiful. The countertops were marble and the cabinets cherry wood. She saw two sinks, refrigerator, an oven, a large dishwasher, a work island behind the counter, and pots and pans hanging on hooks over the island. All the appliances had a silvered finish. A door on the far wall near the refrigerator stood open revealing a pantry.

  “Are you kidding? This place looks like a murder scene,” Nella said.

  Natalie’s stomach was growling. She imagined that opening the refrigerator would be a mistake after nearly three days with no power. She stepped further into the room.

  No bodies were on the floor behind the counter. To the left was a doorway, and another expanse of bar countertop, exposing a large dining room beyond. Three bar stools were lined up on the other side of the bar.

  “Aren’t you scared?” Nella asked. She was looking at the trail of blood that continued into the dining room.

  “Nope.”

  Natalie went into the dining room. Seating for eight around a cherry wood table. The end chairs had armrests. There was a large glassed cabinet with dishes and beer glasses. The kind you drank Guinness out of. Somebody had left dirty dishes for two on the table. Two glasses, two plates, silverware, and various covered bowls were scattered, their contents spilling across the wood. A meal interrupted.

  “My mom would have loved having a dining room like this,” Natalie commented.

  “Too antiquey for me,” Nella replied.

  “It is sort of dark…”

  Nella frowned. “’Course it is! There’s hardly any light in here.” Her back was to the kitchen doorway when a man appeared behind her.

  “Watch out!’ Natalie yelled.

  The man made no move, but was holding an axe in hand.

  Nella whirled, gasped. “Jimmy?”

  He was one of Nella’s pursuers. The Asian guy, the one with the buzz cut hair.

  “You know what, Nella?” he said. “You caused me a lot of trouble. Too much really.”

  “I can’t go back to him! I just can’t! You know how controlling he is.”

  Jimmy shrugged, and winced as if in pain. “That’s the least of your worries now, bitch.”

  “What do you mean?” Nella asked.

  Natalie had a bad feeling. She still had the gun in her hand, but wasn’t confident that she could hit anything with it. And the axe was scaring her.

  “Well, you see, it’s like this, Nella,” he said. “I’m dead because of you. Dead in a bad way.”

  Nella laughed. It was a brief, joyless sound. “What do you mean?”

  Jimmy’s eyes bugged out, and he screamed, “Means I fucking got bit, bitch! I’m not going to get to go back to my sugar daddy’s yacht, or get to lounge around in the sun drinking cocktails!”

  “Is that what you are running away from?” Natalie asked incredulously.

  Nella ignored her. “Please, Jimmy, I just wanted to be free. Can’t you understand that?”

  “All I know is that you’re one stupid bitch, and you’re about to die.”

  Nella dropped to her knees, her own axe slipping to the floor. “Please, Jimmy, he’s my stepfather, and you know what he did to me!”

  “None of that matters, especially not once I got bit chasing your crazy ass down.”

  “What about me?” Natalie asked.

  Jimmy’s eyes flicked toward her, and he noticed the gun. “You helped her get away.”

  “So, whether I knew what was going on our not, you are going to kill me too?”

  “Sounds about right,” Jimmy answered, with a tight-lipped grin.

  “Just because she hitched a ride in my car?”

  “You think that’s the only reason I want to kill you? She’s just another bitch, just like you. Neither one of you would even talk to me, or pay attention to me in the old world.”

  Natalie couldn’t hold back any longer after that pronouncement. She laughed. “I’m sure you’re right. I’d never talk to a nutcase like you.” Then she pulled the trigger. The gunshot blast was terrible in the enclosed room, and plaster behind Jimmy puffed and exploded, and then she fired it again. She must have missed. Jimmy was moving fast, the axe raised, and swinging toward Nella. The blade appeared to miss her, and Nella dodged back, knocking over a chair. Jimmy reversed his grip and resumed his single-minded rush forward. It was almost as if he didn’t care if Natalie shot him.

  For a moment, Nella seemed frozen in place. She sighed, staggered backwards a step, and with her back against the wall, slid to the floor, clutching her stomach. Natalie aimed carefully, sighting along the barrel. Jimmy raised the axe high overhead. Natalie fired.

  The bullet’s impact jerked his right arm sideways, and sprayed blood across the floor. Jimmy turned to her, still holding the axe in his left hand. She caught a glimpse of his haunted eyes burning into hers before she pulled the trigger again. The axe dropped from his hand and he swayed as if the ground was bubbling beneath his feet. Blood jetted from a hole in his neck as he fell backwards.

  Natalie felt nauseous and sat in one of the dining room chairs before her legs gave out. She realized that she was maxed out, and that her mind was overloaded. Too much had happened. She was removed, observing, but distant. Was she going into shock?

  Nothing seemed real. Nella was making a mewling noise and looking at the red smeared all over her hand. One of Jimmy’s feet was twitching while blood pooled around his body. Natalie could hear footsteps in the hall from the garage also. None of it fazed her. Something banged on the window outside. Faces and bodies were pressed up against the glass.

  “Help me,” Nella said, but Natalie wasn’t listening. She was looking at the gun, wondering how many bullets were left.

  She’d never reloaded it. She didn’t know how.

  “How do I reload this thing, Nella?” she asked, looking over at the other woman.

  Nella didn’t answer, and Natalie wondered if she had passed out.

  Natalie heard shuffling feet. Someone or something bumped into a wall. They were coming for her, whoever or whatever they were. And then, in the doorway she hadn’t tried yet, a hulking shape appeared. A ragged outline of a man so torn and bloody that he barely resembled a human. One eye focused on her, and his teeth clicked.

  Nella was screaming.

  Natalie backed up a step, and felt the back of her thighs brush the chair. There was nowhere to go, and the sudden realization: No more bullets! I left everything in the car!

  More shambling shapes, some as nightmarish as the man before her, entered the room via the kitchen doorway.

  No way there were enough bullets left.

  She climbed up on the table. Choked on acid from her throat. Was there at least one bullet left for her? She raised the pistol’s barrel up to her temple as she’d seen so many people do in movies, and whispered a prayer as one of the things fell on Nella, fastening its teeth on one of her long legs.

  Natalie hesitated a moment more. There was a small chance she could dodge the big, chewed up guy coming from the living room. Having to make the decision to try to escape versus just ending all the misery was paralyzing her. Everyone around her kept dying. What hope was there in continuing?

  With nothing to lose, she took the gun from her mouth and put the barrel in the face of the big zombie as he lurched at her. Several of the creatures were gnawing on Nella now, and the girl’s stru
ggles and screams were growing weaker. Grotesque visual overload. Natalie pulled the trigger, squinting and flinching as the gun boomed and blood and flesh spattered. The zombie fell with a big hole, slightly left of center, in its forehead. Natalie pushed past. Still clutching the now empty gun, she felt fingers snatch at her shirt but broke free and found herself in the living room.

  Much of the large room was dark and cluttered with big, bulky furniture. She spotted an arched doorway at the room’s far side and ran through it.

  34. Tracks

  He didn’t want to move. At that moment, his senses were overwhelmed by physical sensation: ears still ringing from the gunfire; massive pain radiating from his chest from being shot; and burning heat scalding his palms from the hot street.

  With the last of his strength, Tracks crawled, then dragged his body over the pavement. He felt small relief as he crossed over the curb, pulled himself through some lush turf grass, and finally leaned his back against a large oak tree. He knew he was dying; it felt like he couldn’t get enough air. He also knew that nobody could, or was, going to save him.

  It seemed pointless to go on trying to keep his eyes open after Bronte and Janicea left to try to save the kids. He wished that he could help, but everything was coming to a close now. No more watching out for Bronte, or Daric. Sunlight dappled the grass here and there in front of him. He closed his eyes, felt every bump of the uneven surface of the tree’s trunk against the back of his head. The sun was bright, even through his eyelids. A slight breeze was blowing. The underlying stink of blood, sweat, and urine was still present, but now the salt-tinged air of the bay was stronger.

  He had the thought that he’d better be ready to shoot himself soon. No way did he want Bronte or one of the others to have to do it. He felt the lump of his pistol, still shoved into his pants, in the middle of his back. He almost passed out trying to pull it free, but at last, did so. There was no need to even open his eyes. It was an old .45 auto, a gun he knew intimately from his time in the army. He released the safety, pulled the pistol’s slide back, and released it. The gun was now ready to fire.

  He heard the muffled sound of gunfire close by, probably within a block. He knew it only sounded muffled because his ears were still ringing.

  Seven shots. All he needed was one, and he wouldn’t be getting back up.

  Someone moaned.

  Too close! He opened his eyes. Right in front of him, almost every one of the corpses were getting to their feet. One headed for him.

  He was bleeding out. Fading away. Not much time left for anything. Tracks wasn’t even sure he had the strength to hold the gun up long or aim to shoot them all. It was better to be practical. Was he really going to kill four of them with seven bullets? Not a chance. Within moments they were going to be eating him.

  The one thing he could control was whether he was alive when they took that first bite.

  The one in the front had a bad complexion. Her skin was oily and yellow. She had her teeth bared in what he could only term fierce hunger.

  He put the pistol’s barrel in his mouth.

  She was close now. Her teeth were large, tinged with brown, and he could see plaque between each tooth. Was this the last thing he was ever going to see?

  He lifted his free hand, trying to block out the awful sight, and she bit down, clamping her teeth together over one of his large fingers, and began to chew. He didn’t have the energy to fight her off, and everything was getting dark anyway.

  As his vision dimmed down and his breath rattled in his throat, Tracks’ finger jerked on the trigger.

  35. Booth

  Booth looked back briefly and saw the two pilots walking toward another hangar. Neither of them had a gun out, and they could have been on a Sunday stroll at the park.

  Lassiter said, “Maybe they’ll check that one out for us.”

  Hicks snorted. “Not fucking likely. Those two haven’t impressed me much.”

  “You’re talking about leaving those people on the roof, right?” Lassiter asked.

  “You got it. I don’t know how you stand it.”

  “Back off, Hicks,” Booth said. “Jacobs was one of ours, and he was no prize either. Better to know where you stand with people, right?”

  “True,” Hicks agreed.

  Booth gave Lassiter a once over and decided that he liked him for the most part. “I like you, Lassiter. You seem like a straight up guy. When and if the time comes, remember that. Got me?”

  Lassiter nodded. He looked like a man making a grave decision. “I’m with you. Not convinced that they’d leave us, but who knows now, when all bets are off.”

  “Damn straight,” Hicks said.

  “So, how about we check the hangar to the right. It’s closer to the helipads.”

  “Sure thing, Chief,” Booth said. “Hicks, take point.”

  Hicks didn’t reply, but he did turn in that direction and start walking, waiting to see if they followed. Booth drifted off to the right of Hicks, about twenty paces to the side, and the same back. Lassiter mirrored Booth on Hicks’ left.

  The glare of the sun off the bleached concrete was bright enough to make Booth squint.

  Hicks called over his shoulder, “Hey, Lassiter, you still on Safe?”

  Booth was curious, and he waited to see what Lassiter would do.

  Lassiter didn’t check his weapon and didn’t even break stride. “No, it’s not,” he answered without looking. “I’m ready for whatever, Hicks, are you?”

  Hicks laughed. “That’s the spirit!”

  Maybe Hicks was getting himself back together. That little exchange broke the tension that was steadily building. Booth raised his opinion of Lassiter also, unless he was bluffing.

  The hangar they picked had one large bay door open, and what looked like a pile of rags lying nearby. As they drew closer, Booth could smell rotting flesh, and determined by smell alone that the rags were what remained of a body. A seagull took flight from the pile when they were within ten feet.

  Lassiter stopped in the open doorway and pulled a small, tubular flashlight in camouflage green off his harness and clicked it on. Hicks passed him by and entered the immense space beyond. Booth followed, but he stopped in the doorway and turned back to face the helicopter.

  “Go ahead and go in with him, Hicks. I’ll stay here, and keep watch. Call me if you need me.”

  “Sure thing,” Hicks answered. Both men then entered and began to explore the gloomy interior. All Booth could see was a midsize Coast Guard plane about fifty feet further in to the left. A ramp was extended from the door near the cockpit. Tools and parts lay scattered on an oilcloth nearby. Something that looked like hydraulic fluid was pooled underneath an engine on the nearest wing.

  Booth glanced back at the helicopter. The two pilots were strolling toward the aircraft, while the army officer paced around. Booth had reservations about all three of them. Duncan and Day were both opportunists without a doubt, and Colonel Bolger had some sort of self-serving agenda.

  Bolger, for one, was baggage. Weighty baggage. He was a pogue of some sort. Booth was sure he knew his way with weapons, but he lacked composure, which was a problem. Panicked people made poor choices. Even the president’s wife was holding it together better than Bolger was. It would probably be best to ditch Bolger right here. Nip this problem in the bud right now. The only thing left to resolve was how to get rid of him. What would be more effective at keeping the pilots in line—an accident or an example? An accident might not make a strong enough statement to the pilots. An example would eliminate all doubt on whether Booth was going to put up with bullshit or not.

  Of course, there was still the chance, no matter what happened, that it would be misunderstood. That wasn’t acceptable. Booth wasn’t one for wasted effort. You needed to do it right, make sure you were clear, and emphasize that what was expected wasn’t up for debate.

  Bolger was about to die. Booth was sure Hicks would side with him. He was sure that Lassiter knew the score,
too.

  “We found the tanks, Booth,” Hicks said.

  “Good,” Booth replied, his eyes still on Bolger.

  Hope you enjoy that last cigar, Colonel.

  36. Mills

  “I should’ve asked them to get some beer or wine,” Mills said, while staring at the cars scattered all over U.S. 19. Since their arrival, two or three zombies appeared among the wrecks, and wandered. A couple of minutes ago, he saw a big black dog out there.

  “You drink beer warm?” Talaski asked.

  “Sure. Like it better cold, though. You?”

  Talaski was facing the grocery store’s entrance. “Not really. Drink mixed drinks mostly. Sangria’s nice.”

  “You know what’s strange to me?” Mills asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “To hear gunfire, or see smoke from a fire, and just stand here. One of those downtown skyscrapers is still burning, and over there, somewhere near 54th Avenue, something else is burning like a torch.”

  Talaski looked like he was thinking that one over. “It is bizarre. I don’t feel the pull, anymore. We need to find someplace safe to retreat to first, I think, before we just go around poking our necks into trouble. We’ll be lucky if we get out of here with nothing going wrong. “

  “So, you don’t feel the obligation, anymore?”

  “We were always fighting a losing battle. I never acknowledged it, but I’m not much different than one of those things. Dead and still walking around. And, here they come.”

  Mills looked back toward 34th Street, and saw a mass of the undead, a hundred strong or more, coming out from the cars and heading their way.

  Then they heard an engine roar, and a little green Mazda appeared on 34th Street, heading northbound in the southbound lanes. The brakes squealed and the tires smoked as the car made a left hand turn toward the parking lot and clipped three or four of the things.

  Mills was running at the approaching car, and the horde coming behind it. A second car, an Acura was hard on the heels of the first, but it took the turn better. The Acura was following so close, Mills first thought was that it was chasing the other car.