Dead Tide Surge

by Stephen A. North

  Clive knew Mathers casually from his interviews and encounters with the president, and he couldn’t resist asking, “You switch to stogies, Lance?”

  Mathers grinned, showing off his mouth full of pearly whites. “I smoke whatever I can find, Clive. Always liked a nice cigar anyway. You want one?”

  Clive glanced at Candace, and asked her, “Do you mind?”

  “Only if I can have one, too,” she answered with a saucy grin.

  Both men laughed. Mathers didn’t wait to be officially asked, and he simply handed them both a cigar.

  “Those are Tampa’s finest,” Mathers said. “Need a light?”

  “What we need, Lance,” said Candace, “is a ride. Where you guys headed?”

  Mathers’ calm, cool persona faded. “Is that you, Madam Speaker? I didn’t realize. Been a tough day, hasn’t it? I have some news for you, and Clive.” Clive could see that Candace had no idea what the man was about to say, and neither did he.

  “What is it, Lance?” Candace asked, beating Clive to the punch.

  “I have news concerning the president, but let me settle something for you first. Vice President Edwards is missing, right?”

  “As far as we know, he never made it out of Washington.”

  Mathers nodded. “That’s what I thought. Well, you should know that the president is dead back there. Ritchie and I went in the bunker, hoping for one last interview with him, and found him chewed up and walking around with the people. I know it sounds like I’m trying to be funny, but I’m not. Ritchie got a few pictures of him, and we got the hell out of there.”

  “So you’re trying to tell me that I’m the president now, right, Lance?” Candace asked.

  “That’s what I’m saying, Madame President. All you need is a swearing in to make it official. I’m not sure who can do the deed for you, but congratulations on making history!”

  Clive could see that Candace was struggling to make sense of this. A few hours ago, she was a refugee like any other American, and just like that, she was now the first female president.

  One thing Clive knew was that he was glad it was her and not him. Also, he approved of her in the job more than either of the other choices. If there was a government left, she might be the one best suited to guide the country out of this disaster.

  “The next thing we need to do is get you to a secure facility where you can take control of whatever assets are left and see if we can avert complete disaster,” Clive said.

  “I concur, for what it’s worth,” Mathers said.

  “Me too,” said Ritchie.

  “I guess it’s settled then,” Candace said.

  63. Lassiter

  Lassiter entered the clubhouse’s bar and found the soldier, Hicks, standing behind the bar top. It was a large room with booths, tables, and a long line of stools. There was a large square-cut glass already on the bar, about half full, sitting next to bottles of Pepsi and rum. Rum and Pepsi. One of those would suit Lassiter just fine, he was no Coke fan.

  “Drink?” Hicks asked. Without waiting for Lassiter to answer, he selected another glass and began to pour from the bottle of rum. When the glass was nearly full, he added a splash of Pepsi.

  Lassiter reached out gratefully and took a nice long pull. It was warm, but still went down well. Hicks lifted his own glass and drained it, then grinned, and began to make another drink.

  “Too bad there aren’t enough women to go around, eh?” Hicks commented.

  When Lassiter looked up, the other man was leaning on the bar and staring into space. It made Lassiter wonder if Hicks was jealous of Booth, or was he simply looking for some sympathy? Since he wasn’t sure of the other’s man’s intent, he thought it best to play it safe.

  “I’m sure we’ll find other survivors, Private Hicks,” Lassiter replied.

  “What if they’re all men?” Hicks said. His persistence was bordering on creepy. “Why worry?” Lassiter answered, and drained his own glass. Hicks refilled it and handed it back.

  “Good point,” Hicks said. “No shortage of booze at least.”

  Lassiter allowed himself to smile at that comment and took another big swallow. He could feel warmth spreading throughout his body. He was actually relaxing for the first time since this whole mess started.

  “You ever think about…” Hicks started to say, but Lassiter cut him off.

  “No, never have, and never will. Thanks for the drink,” Lassiter said with all the authority that over fifteen years as a senior NCO could muster.

  Hicks’ expression didn’t change; he sat there, like he was shut off. His face was dirty, unshaven for days, and he stunk. It was hard to guess his age, but he was probably in his late twenties. Beneath the dirt, Lassiter was startled to notice a long, bloody scab on the other man’s neck.

  “You really that cold?” Hicks asked. “You aren’t even gonna let me finish the question?”

  Lassiter forced a small smile. “Yeah, I’m not interested. Thanks for the drink.” He could guess what Hicks had been about to ask. He’d never been comfortable discussing women as objects, and he wasn’t about to have a discussion about homosexual activity with a guy who’d just mentioned that there were no women around. It scared him to think where it would lead and how it might end.

  “I could kill you right now, and no one would care,” Hicks said. “I’m drunk, my filter is gone as they say, and I’m just trying to have a conversation.”

  “I’d rather die then, Private Hicks. Make a move.” Lassiter knew his own face was as empty as the other man’s.

  Hicks smile finally appeared. It was more like the leer of a predator that has cornered its game. “Good one, old man,” he said.

  Lassiter stood from the stool, kept his glass in hand, and walked out of the room. He managed to get through the door and out of sight before the shakes hit him. He had to put the glass down and hug himself.

  Close call.

  He wasn’t ever going to be able to trust that guy; that was sure. He wondered if Booth knew what his friend was. It wouldn’t be a problem if Hicks wasn’t so creepy. Lassiter could have brushed everything away, but Lassiter thought Hicks had crossed the line.

  What if he hadn’t though? Had he overreacted? God knew he was an old man, and he wasn’t open-minded at all. Hell, just watching Booth and the president’s wife flirt had nauseated him. Infidelity was a line Lassiter would never cross, but he didn’t need to worry. He was a childless widower putting in time until he could retire.

  He wondered what he’d do if he had to live here.

  It was another subject to avoid. Best for everyone.

  The trembling was finally abating. Lassiter picked the glass back up and took two quick swallows. It burned all the way down his gullet and he closed his eyes, savoring the sting. It was a sensation that was becoming an obsession. No use denying it. It wasn’t like anyone was going to complain. He was still getting the job done, so why worry? There’s plenty of time to worry when you’re dead.

  64. Talaski

  Survivors weighed the odds, and made hard choices when they had to. Sometimes that meant someone was going to die, especially if the continued survival of the group would be threatened.

  Talaski knew, even if the others didn’t, that this was probably his swan song. The child was going to die, and so was he, but he had to try to rescue the kid. There wasn’t time to consider what Amy and Keller thought. All three adults could take care of themselves. A child couldn’t.

  He got as close as he could, aimed chest high, and squeezed the trigger. The way he was firing the shotgun was wasteful beyond measure, but all he could think about was clearing them from the door. The noise was mind-numbing as he fired away. The cluster of people parted and staggered. He was literally blowing them to bits, scattering blobs of flesh—arms, legs, and shattered heads—in a gory spray all over the porch. The glass patio doors were gone too. None of the corpses were moving when he fired the last round. He’d laid them to rest. They were sleeping on a bed of
glass. That made him think about lead paint, or painting with lead. This type of lead-based paint would kill you for sure! More gallows humor. He was laughing and didn’t know it. Until he stopped.

  Amy and Keller never fired a shot.

  Talaski stepped over the door’s lintel and into the house, his feet crunching over broken glass and slipping on gore covering the vinyl tiled floor. He was in a small kitchen, and in front of him was a dividing wall, to his right a dinette table with four chairs. He brushed past the table and entered a good-sized living room. Still no more people in the house, but people were outside. They hammered fists on the front door and windows, pressing hideous, hungry mouths against the glass. He had to force himself to ignore them.

  The layout of the house reminded him too much of his old house, and his own long-lost daughter.

  He saw his face reflected in a mirror by the front door and didn’t recognize himself. He looked ten years older, and his eyes were haunted. That isn’t me. He heard the voice of his daughter call to him across the years. Daddy.

  He choked back a sob. He knew he was breaking. The adrenaline high was fading, too. Fatigue turned his legs into stone, and he felt every bruise and ache come awake, but he kept going. He turned to the right, in the direction where he’d seen the girl’s face at the window. He entered a family room, and saw a closed door to the right. He tried the handle and found it locked.

  He kicked the door in, a master bedroom with a queen size bed. On the other side of the room, Talaski saw the girl standing by the window. He knelt down, putting his empty weapon on the floor.

  The girl, about eight years old, turned toward him, face in shadow, framed by the light in the window. Would she even let him get near her? Where was he going to take her to make her safe? He’d failed before—and in a much less dangerous world than this one.

  “Come with me, honey,” he said. “I’ll help you.”

  She came to him, shuffling with wooden steps. She had to be in shock and was likely terrified.

  Daddy. Not her voice, but hers, his daughter.

  He held out his arms, and she came to him. Close, in a sudden rush. Too close. Her teeth closed on his neck, and he couldn’t react. Not in time. Talaski felt his skin rip, and he jerked away too late. He fell backwards, no longer embracing her.

  He heard Keller shout a drawn out, “Nooooooo!” Then, a crescendo of blazing light and terrible noise. The girl was gone. Talaski felt his life surging out, draining away like a tide retreating. The last movement before he drowned.

  The pain crested and, as his awareness faded, all feeling dwindled to a distraction. He closed his eyes and relaxed.

  Feels like floating, Matt! he wanted to shout. I’m floating, and free. It’s so beautiful.

  Don’t let me come back.

  65. Jacobs

  Closing the gate was bad. Three more of them were inside, but they weren’t a threat to him. Three live people wouldn’t be much of a threat either, but they were near the gate.

  The problem made him pause a moment. Did it matter if they got in at this point? It might be better to hide somewhere nearby and let Sid take care of the problem.

  Jacobs couldn’t find a flaw in that argument. He set off at a near sprint, taking a shortcut across the street, not worried that it would be a problem.

  He ran, passing a beat-up Chevy Malibu. He was almost up to his normal gait when he felt the blow. A bullet smacked into his right thigh and punched out the back. Jacobs staggered another step and fell, plowing face first into the pavement. The carbine clattered beneath the Malibu, and he was too stunned to move. His self-protective urge was screaming at him to do something, but he had no idea what would be better: moving or lying where he was.

  The right side of his face, he suspected, was hamburger, scraped raw. He didn’t even want to move. At the very least, his forehead and his right cheekbone were abraded and bleeding. He decided it was better to lay there, take stock of his condition, and play dead for now. Jacobs poked a finger into the wound in the back of his thigh. Bad, but in and out. Not mortal if he acted soon. His right eye wouldn’t open, and he was probably blind in that eye, if only temporarily, by blood. Finally, there was an assortment of cuts on his forehead, cheek and chin. He wasn’t healed from his crash through the hedge. Patchwork man.

  He was also making mistakes due to exhaustion. Why had he assumed that all Sid’s henchmen were gone? There was nothing to suggest that. One more mistake like that was probably going to be his last, provided he survived this one.

  Slowly, carefully, he rolled over, and felt around in the front pocket of his pants for his med kit. He took some minutes using an antiseptic spray, bandages for both sides of the wound, and his belt for a tourniquet before he was ready to try anything.

  He knew the gunman could be coming for him right now, but he was past caring. After closing his eyes, he thought about—of all things—the two people who’d always loved him: his parents. He remembered his last time with them, how he’d seen them still cuddling together that night, holding hands. More often than not, his dad would be asleep with his head in his mom’s lap, snoring.

  The memory of them and how much he missed them brought tears from his eyes, warm and wet on his cheeks. Why couldn’t he find that kind of love? Was there too much blood on his hands? Too much death? These thoughts circled him back around to being the Grim Reaper.

  There was a sound. Something about it alarmed him, but he was too far out of it to react or recognize the source quickly. Then he had it. Shuffling feet, not the gunman.

  He propped himself up with his left hand and wished he could open his right eye. Three dead people were nearly on top of him. He had no time to grab the carbine, especially with a wounded leg. He’d have to leave the weapon behind.

  Jacobs had to get up. One of the freaks was falling to its knees beside him. He pulled his pistol. Sighted down the barrel at a grinning ghoul whose mouth was twisted into a permanent sneer. It was probably the expression he’d died wearing, and it had stayed with him, like a burned-in afterimage on a plasma TV. His teeth were yellow and jagged, and he was snapping them together, irrespective of whether his tongue was in the way or not; a good inch of it was flapping, nearly severed. Jacobs aimed, using his left eye, and squeezed the trigger. The thing stopped, and toppled over with a ponderous, almost majestic slide toward the street, landing with a thud.

  The other two were women, one large, one small, both dressed in some type of uniform, likely nurses. He took aim at the smaller of the two. She walked funny, and he noticed that she was missing some of her thigh. When she stepped off the curb, he was squeezing the trigger. His shot missed, and she fell on top of him. His left arm gave out, and his back hit the ground. And the thing was still on top of him.

  Jacobs felt something go, almost like a rubber band stretched too far. He was screaming, and she was biting. The gun went off. He wasn’t going to die like this! His scream was a vocalized, incoherent denial.

  The bigger one joined the smaller one, and suddenly he was running out of options. Both were biting him whenever they could. This was mostly on his uniform where their teeth couldn’t penetrate, but some bites were getting through.

  He could have, probably should have, given up then, but he didn’t. Instead, he fought harder and focused on not losing the gun, no matter what.

  The other zombies had to be almost on top of them. He forced the gun up between the arms of the smaller woman and was bitten again by the larger one. But he got the barrel up under the little one’s chin and pulled the trigger. All the fight and life went out of her. She collapsed onto his chest. He shifted aim, put the gun against the bigger one’s nose, and pulled the trigger.

  He was covered with gore as the second one also settled onto his chest.

  Hey, he thought, finally got two girls at a time!

  66. Kincaid

  When he had both men tied up securely, Kincaid allowed himself to consider his next move. Dragging both of them upstairs was quite an o
rdeal, almost not worth the revenge he planned. He was standing over the two prone shapes, gun in hand, when he heard a woman gasp, and say, “Run, children, run!”

  Kincaid looked behind him and saw a woman standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was elegant looking, a bit heavy, fiftyish, with long, silky brown hair. At a glance he took in the fact that she was wearing a short, orange-colored, kimono-type robe and thong sandals. A lot of prime, tanned flesh was on display. He wondered where she had been all this time. Sleeping in one of the cabins? Maybe she was drunk.

  She didn’t look particularly afraid. Curious thing, that she wasn’t afraid.

  Her hands were empty, and she didn’t flinch away when he looked her in the eye. There were no signs of any children; they must have listened to her.

  “You the wife?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Name’s Velicity. Are you the guy who’s supposed to have the antidote?” she asked.

  “I’m the guy,” Kincaid said, “but I’m not here to share the antidote.”

  “Francis probably double-crossed you, right?”

  Kincaid laughed. “What he did to me is nothing. His crimes to others, including yourself, far surpass anything he’s done to me.”

  She looked away. “So is there a cure, or is that a cruel joke?”

  “It worked for me.”

  That was a lie. He didn’t know for sure that he was immune now.

  Her face turned toward him, and her blue-eyed gaze met his. She didn’t speak and, after a moment, he realized she was waiting. Waiting for whatever.

  Killing a woman and two kids was never in his plan. She was probably imagining all sorts of things and steeling herself to react.

  He thought quickly. “I’ll give the immunization to you and your two kids, but not the men.”

  “So, they aren’t dead yet?”

  Kincaid shook his head.

  “The children are ten and fourteen,” she declared. There was an unspoken plea in that sentence. She was obviously hoping he’d spare the men.

  “Deal or no deal?” he asked.

  “Deal,” she replied, “but will you take us with you?”