Dead Tide Surge

by Stephen A. North

  Blood sprayed when the razor sharp blade sliced through and pulled free with only a last gentle tug. The man’s feet drummed on the driveway, his whole body stiffened, and then relaxed. Just to be sure, Jacobs leaned over the body and plunged the knife into the guy’s eye to the hilt. Covered in the other man’s blood and weary beyond words, the soldier climbed to his feet and scanned the area for more threats, and for Sid.

  Sid was gone. Jacobs didn’t expect him to stick around. The henchman was supposed to delay him. He’d served that purpose well, but the game wasn’t over yet.

  Jacobs set off in a fast but lopsided run toward the wheeled gate and exited onto the road outside in time to hear a car door slam, see the car rocket away, and find himself face to face with another of Sid’s henchmen.

  The other man must have heard him coming and looked back. He turned with pistol in hand, fired once, then twice more, while Jacobs threw himself to the side and fell to the grass.

  The henchman, a guy with his left arm in a sling, wasn’t through. He assumed a shooter’s stance, feet apart, gun hand cupped in the other hand, and aimed. From the ground, Jacobs fired a quick burst from his carbine. The man jerked, ducked around through the driveway entrance gate, and disappeared around the wall.

  Jacobs thought he’d winged him but he was like a cockroach slipping into a dark crack. Jacobs raced after him. Kyle was as good as dead if he didn’t catch Sid. He spotted movement to his right; a second henchman, or, if he was counting the dead guy, a third henchman, stuck his head around the other side of the driveway gate. Jacobs had the brief impression of a black man with paint or something on his face, aiming a revolver. Jacobs reacted immediately, and shot from the hip, the sound of it harsh and too loud in the afternoon stillness. Jacobs’ aim was sure, the result of years of training. Most of the short burst took the guy in the face.

  At least that one wouldn’t be getting back up. Just one of the things he did best. He neared the gate and another man, a tall, skinny Asian with a long ponytail, appeared in his sights. Another short burst fired without hesitation or doubt. Another quick, easy kill. Jacobs stepped outside and looked left. The guy with the sling was there, reloading his gun.

  “No!” the man exclaimed, and Jacobs shot him through the head with a single squeeze of the carbine’s trigger.

  Jacobs was in his groove. “Grim Reaper, baby,” he murmured, and stalked down the street, his shadow stretched before him. The shadow, long and distorted, seemed a fitting companion on this errand of death. Maybe the Grim Reaper was with him, personified in the shadow.

  It was then that he saw the horde of undead within half a block of him, heading his way. Hundreds of them, maybe more.

  “Pied Piper is more like it, Jacobs, my man,” he said to himself.

  He retreated back to the Alamo’s gate. It would be better to wait for Sid and company to come back. He could plan a little surprise or two in the meantime.

  First, he had to secure the gate.

  57. Kincaid

  Kincaid climbed aboard the larger boat by using a ladder built onto the back, heaving his bulk up and over the transom. Not a silent entrance. He found himself face to face with a short, squat man in a dark suit with a red tie. He was probably a little over five and half feet tall on a good day, and his brown hair was buzzed close to his skull. The man’s neck was so thick that the top button of his shirt wasn’t buttoned. He looks really strong, Kincaid thought, but lighter than me. He could take him like he’d taken that big cabbie. One cheap shot was all he needed. It was all Kincaid ever needed. His punch was legendary, but he didn’t have the stuff to make it to the highest level of boxing, a sport that required more than a big punch.

  It made him think of that Hawaiian Punch guy on the commercial from his childhood.

  “You’re Kincaid?” the man asked.

  Kincaid nodded, with a slight smile.

  “About time you got here,” the man said crossly.

  “You and your boss in a hurry?” Kincaid replied.

  “You know we are, you bastard,” the short man muttered.

  “Yes, I know,” Kincaid said. He almost added, And that’s angry, vengeful bastard to you, but thought better of it. No sense provoking these people.

  “Follow me,” the man said, and turned away. He walked toward the small deckhouse, which was festooned with nets, life jackets, and a life preserver. A long metal gaff and an axe were beside the open doorway. The man stepped over the transom and into the cabin.

  “What’s your name?” Kincaid asked.

  “I’m Joseph. What’s it matter to you?”

  “Everything matters,” Kincaid answered.

  There was a narrow stair with worn, wooden steps. Dark tongue and groove paneling lined the short passage down and extended into the kitchen galley room beyond. There was a stove, a refrigerator, and a booth-type table with benches. Light came from a small hexagon lamp made of glass. This was mounted on the ceiling. Francis was there, sitting at the table, pale-skinned. He was puffed up at the moment—face, chest, and arms.. Another weightlifter type like his pal, Joseph.

  “Scared yet, Francis?” Kincaid asked, while Joseph leaned against the wall beside the door with his arms crossed.

  Francis scowled. “You shouldn’t fuck with me, Kincaid. I told you that before.”

  “I’m the one being fucked with. Now do you want the antidote or not?” Kincaid asked.

  “Yes, but I know you didn’t bring it all with you on that jet ski,” Francis said.

  Kincaid smiled. “I have people securing it now. I have enough with me for three people.”

  “I have a wife, and two kids, Kincaid.”

  Kincaid held the smile, kept eye contact, and said, “Guess you better be real careful in your dealings with me then, Francis.”

  “You promised me I’d get it, too, boss,” Joseph said with a snarl.

  Francis nodded. “So I did, Joe. Guess you and I are going to have to wait for Mr. Kincaid’s delivery.”

  Joseph blanched. Loyalty only went so far with most people.

  “This wasn’t the deal, Mr. Kincaid,” Francis said, and without looking at his face, Kincaid knew he wasn’t smiling.

  Nor was he.

  “Well, here’s what you get, for now, Francis,” Kincaid said, stepping deeper into the room and setting the small box on the table in front of the other man.

  “And with that, you think we will just let you walk out of here?” Francis demanded.

  Kincaid felt Joseph behind him. He knew the other man was close. He had a moment’s doubt as to whether he should stick to his plan or not, but then kicked backwards, pivoted a little awkwardly, a hundred and eighty degrees, and threw everything he had into a punch at the shorter man’s face. He felt the shock of impact travel from his hand and wrist all the way up his arm as his fist struck the man in the mouth and part of the nose.

  Joseph fell backward, mouth bloodied, and spat out teeth. He coughed, choked and slammed against the wall beside the stair.

  Kincaid spun toward Francis in time to block a punch to his head with his right forearm, and follow up with a right jab. The jab went past Francis’ head, and Kincaid stepped inside Francis’ guard. He followed with a left uppercut to Francis’ jaw.

  Francis went down, hard, and sprawled across the galley table. He didn’t move.

  Still got it, Kincaid thought, looking back at Joseph, who was slumped beside the stair with his legs sprawled out in front of him, blood pouring from his mouth and nose.

  Now all he had to do was check with Sid and find out if Gretchen’s expedition to Tampa was successful or not.

  Well, that, and the small matter of whether to let his two sleeping pals wake up again or not.

  58. Foster

  The darkness was near total until he turned on the flashlight. The two women stayed at his back, Barb with her fingers laced through a belt loop. He could sense her arousal, or was he imagining it? He’d always been confident, and self-assured. Barb was his,
ripe for the taking, and if he could, he’d take her up against the wall right now.

  Even facing death, he was aroused and hard, almost throbbing at the thought of taking what he wanted. The signals were there. She was likely unaware she was sending them.

  What a mess, he thought. Here I am, like some caveman from a million years ago, fighting to secure my right as chieftain. He certainly was in a cave, and with the way things were breaking down, he may want to stake his claim on these two women soon.

  They were certainly suitable companions for surviving the end of the world. If he could trust them.

  He wasn’t sure if this was a tunnel he’d been down before. He didn’t want to voice doubt to the women, and he had no idea how big the complex was. He sure could use Green now. A steady, slightly moist breeze wafted over them from behind. The flashlight revealed rough rock walls and a smooth concrete path. There was also a large, eight inch conduit pipe running at knee height along the length of the wall on the right side and a vinyl gutter beneath it on the floor. The water in the gutter looked clean; the floor sloped downward.

  Foster smelled something bad. The smell of death. Something was behind them.

  Barb whimpered. “I smell them. They’re behind us.”

  Foster knew then what it was to be a preyed upon animal when it caught scent of the hunter. Only these hunters carried the smell of death, excrement, and carrion. Scavenger was a better description for them. He’d read somewhere how filthy a lion’s teeth and claws were from eating rotting meat. They were opportunists that would even steal a hyena’s kill.

  Something nearby moaned, and he heard shuffling feet. More than one pursuer.

  “We have to keep going,” Foster said, and he resumed walking with Barb trailing him, fingers still looped around his belt.

  April said, “Faster!”

  Foster didn’t want to look back. He picked up the pace. He noticed that the conduit vanished into the wall beside a door to the right, and then the passage opened into an immense cavern. They stood on the rocky shore of a vast underground lake that stretched into the darkness farther than his flashlight could reach. The water rippled where the vinyl gutter drained into the lake like the sound of a faucet pouring into a sink. The small roar of it echoed.

  There was no visible sign that gave purpose to this lake, but it was probably a reservoir that supplied the complex.

  “I’m not swimming in that,” April declared.

  “Me either,” said Barb.

  “I wonder where that door led to?” April asked. “You think it’s a way out?”

  Now moans of the pursuing dead echoed through the cavern, competing with the sound of falling water.

  “What do we do, Burt?” Barb asked.

  Thinking of Monty Hall, Foster answered, “I’ll take the door, Barb. Let’s go, before it’s too late.”

  The two women pressed close to him as they retraced their last few steps back to the door, and came face to face with the dead. The stench was overwhelming at close range. Dead soldiers, none of whom he recognized by name, were walking straight toward them.

  April yanked on the door, and when it didn’t open, she screeched like a dying, panicked animal. The sound brought to mind a fiery chamber in Hell full of tortured souls.

  Foster grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her to the side. He knew the dead soldiers were too close. He felt April claw his arm and try to force her way past him as he put his shoulder to the door. Her fingernails gouged into his flesh, and with a powerful, adrenaline-fueled shrug, he tried to fling her away.

  Barb was screaming, “No, no, no!” somewhere in the background. A few seconds later, the screams turned into shrieks of pain. A gun went off, then three shots more right after the first with quick flashes of terrible light and noise. Something tore through Foster’s right arm even as he struggled with the little crazed blonde. Pain. The crazy bitch shot him. He turned and clubbed April with the flashlight right across the temple. The soldiers were right on top of them, too many to fight and kill. The blond crumpled right into their arms. Foster put his back against the door. He saw Barb put her own gun in her mouth beside him and pull the trigger, then watched the dead close around him and the dying women. He fumbled for his own gun, tried to aim, but then his flashlight died. Bodies pinned him to the floor, his limbs spread-eagled.

  In the dark, he felt hands grip him and mouths close on his flesh in multiple places. He fired the gun until the slide locked back, then screamed and screamed as they tore his clothes and flesh. Agony reached a volcanic peak from which he couldn’t come down.

  Then he knew no more.

  59. Julie

  Julie sat cross-legged in the shade of an immense oak, George asleep with his head in her lap. Lassiter stood guard and was leaning against the gnarled trunk of the huge oak tree. He was lost in his own world, far from her, so she turned back to her boy.

  Julie ran her fingers through her son’s hair. Life was so hard, and it was going to get much harder from now on. She knew now that her husband, Burt, might as well be on the dark side of the moon. Her practical side was in control now. She’d been in tight spots before and hadn’t been sheltered her entire life.

  Just most of it.

  Fifteen year old runaways quickly learn what it takes to survive. That was what she’d been once, a rich, pampered daughter of a Boca Raton socialite who ran away and ended up hooking on the streets of Tampa. No one knew, of course. A private detective hired by her stepfather found her within a month or so of being on her own, but not before she got a taste of the seedier side of life.

  She still remembered it all in vivid detail, being hungry and scared, abandoned by her boyfriend on Interstate 275 at the Fowler Avenue Exit. She was a tall, willowy blonde with a black eye, wearing a mini-dress and three-inch heels at two in the morning. She didn’t even have her purse. She thought she knew it all, until that moment. Her forty-two year old boyfriend was going to take care of her. Always.

  Until they got into the argument.

  She wasn’t going home, even if she’d had her cell phone. Her mother ignored a lot. Pretended to be oblivious to what her stepfather did at night. Her mother was a submissive drunk with no backbone. No one was coming to rescue her.

  Julie raised her eyes and pushed the memories aside when she heard muffled shots from the clubhouse. Booth and Hicks were in there making it safe.

  George stirred at the shots, groaned, and opened his eyes. “When are we going home, Mommy?” His sleepy look was angelic as he squinted up at her.

  It was better to be honest, she thought, as much as possible.

  “We’re going to find a new home, George,” she answered.

  “Can we get a dog, too?”

  “I don’t know, honey. We’ll have to see.”

  “What about Daddy? Is he coming too?”

  “Not now, he isn’t. We have to find somewhere safe first, sweetheart.”

  “We’re going to hide from the bad people?”

  She felt a tear slide down her cheek. “Yes, George, we have to hide for a while.”

  “You won’t let them get me and eat me up, will you, Mommy?”

  Julie felt herself choke up.

  “Will you, Mommy?”

  “No, George, no one is ever going to eat you. Mommy promises.”

  “Okay,” he said, and closed his eyes. He shifted his head in her lap. She could hear cicadas singing in the branches nearby. A little breeze blew across them, a temporary reprieve.

  “I think they’re coming back,” Lassiter said, nodding at the clubhouse. Julie looked up and saw Booth striding toward them. He was looking down at her as he walked up.

  Julie twirled a finger in her hair and looked into his eyes. He had an impish look to him. Ornery was a better description. Hungry too.

  What woman didn’t like a little challenge?

  She caught his eye and smiled.

  Lassiter spoke up, “Is it what we hoped for?”

  “And more,” Booth
answered, and still looking into her eyes, added, “Here, let me carry the boy.” He stooped down and lifted George into his arms.

  “Thank you,” she said in his ear as he rose up.

  “Food, drink, and more are waiting for us. Let’s go,” Booth replied.

  Lassiter was walking toward the clubhouse out of earshot.

  “I’m ready for more,” she said, with downcast eyes.

  “Me too,” he replied and she felt butterflies in her stomach.

  The butterflies stayed with her as she walked close to him and they traveled across the vivid green of the lawn. They stepped onto a clay paver sidewalk that was flanked by elaborate flowerbeds and led to the club’s entrance. Booth held open the sturdy glass-paneled door for her, and she entered a white marble-tiled foyer. She could see double doors set in each of the walls to her left and right, and bloodstains on the tile in front of the staircase behind the reservation desk. A skylight provided light, and the room had a welcoming feel.

  If you ignored the bloodstains.

  Hicks had likely dragged a body away from there, she figured.

  “How many were in here?” Lassiter asked.

  “Two,” Booth answered. “Wish we could’ve used knives to dispatch them, but there wasn’t time.”

  “The shots weren’t that loud,” Lassiter replied, “but let me go lock those doors, just in case.”

  “We had to break the lock. We’ll have to put the desk in front of them, or something,” Booth said.

  “That’s unfortunate, but never mind, I’ll do it,” Lassiter offered. “Why don’t you two go get cleaned up and put the boy down for a rest?”

  Julie didn’t look at him, but she could feel a flush on her chest, neck, and cheeks. Lassiter wasn’t dumb. He’d guessed what was going on.

  “Thanks,” she heard Booth say as she followed him up the stairs. She admired the breadth of his shoulders, his narrow hips, and the tight ass in front of her.