“Where are they?”
“I’ll show you in a minute. I’m about to drop anchor near that island,” Kincaid said and glanced over his shoulder.
The wife had found a gun somewhere and was pointing it at him. She was still wearing that kimono, too. Her face looked ravaged and her eyes were red and weepy.
He grinned at her. “Go ahead, shoot me.”
No one was more surprised than he when she did a second later.
He saw his blood spray the cabin’s windscreen and control panel in front of him. A moment later, he was slouching, wincing at the pain radiating from his right shoulder, and cowering at the thought that she might do it again.
“Oops,” she said.
“Oops?” he shouted. “What the fuck? Think you can just shoot me and say oops, goddamnit?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” she said, sweetly, “I already did it.”
“Fuck!”
She smiled widely, probably hoping to be charming, but all he saw was a little girl trying too hard. “Pulling the trigger wasn’t that hard, either. Now drop the anchor, or whatever, before I shoot you again.”
He’d come too far and done too much to let some woman kill him. Gretchen should be arriving with the antidote anytime now. Everything was still in reach, and all could still end fairly well.
“Now look here,” he said. “Your husband is no angel, and I owed him some payback. I’m sure you know what he does.”
“All I know,” she answered, “is that he does right by me, and he takes care of the kids and his responsibilities. So take me to him, and make it quick. Remember, I’d rather shoot you than talk to you.”
Kincaid laughed. “I’m beginning to hope you’ll shoot me again, rather than make me talk to you.”
“Funny man. Now take me to my husband.”
“You aren’t going to like it.”
“No? Then you better hurry.”
Kincaid was going to pay the price for his bleeding heart.
77. Lassiter
Sleep didn’t come easily, and it was restless. The anxiety was always there, just under the surface. It didn’t matter that Lassiter had been divorced over ten years. He still wasn’t ready. Especially once he realized what the dating world was like for fifty-year old men. All he needed was confidence…and Viagra. Women in their forties were a surprise. A few months ago, he’d decided to try one of those dating services, Sunset Singles, or something like that. All he knew for sure was that the name alluded to people past their prime. That fit him to a tee. He was fit, but fading in his last year before retirement.
A whole new world opened up for him, and it sure beat picking up a hooker.
The funny thing was, so many of these women were after one thing, and many of them weren’t willing to wait for a second date to get it. Some of them were easily his match, kink for kink. There was no need to ever consider anything truly deviant. In fact, he wasn’t sure he wasn’t better off single.
He was in the middle of reliving a wild night in Vegas with a drunken, inventive woman when he woke with a start, not realizing where he was. It felt like every muscle in his body had been twisted. He was lying on a couch in someone’s office. There was a big skylight in the ceiling, and it still looked pitch black up there. He heard someone out in the hall. He wondered who it was and whether those dead things had found a way in.
A fraction of a second before he could reach the door of his room, he heard another door close in the hallway. By the time he pulled his pistol and crossed to the door, whoever was out there was gone. He was sure that it was Hicks, but what if it wasn’t? If he waited to put his boots on and get all his gear, he’d probably miss whoever it was.
Lassiter stepped barefoot into the hallway wearing only his flight suit and walked the short distance in the dark to the front door. All the stuff they’d piled in front of the doors was pushed to the side and the doors were unlocked. Whoever had done it didn’t care whether they died or not.
With the pistol held at his side, Lassiter approached the unsecured doors. It was too dark outside to see anything. Anxiety nearly paralyzed him. He had to force himself to look out. There was a light on the eastern horizon that heralded the coming day, but all else remained in deep shadow. Whoever had just exited the building was gone, leaving no visible clue as to what direction they’d taken.
He toyed with the idea of shouting Hicks’ name to see if the man would answer, but knew he probably wouldn’t respond anyway. It was better to simply close the door and rebuild the barricade for now, then go find out who had left.
With a deep sigh, Lassiter set about resecuring the door, and tried not to think about how flimsy the barricade really was.
78. Bronte
When he slowed to a fast walk in front of the house where he’d left Janicea and the kids, Bronte didn’t see anything different. He could, however, hear something different: the rumble of a big diesel engine echoing off the water.
He had mixed emotions. Engine noise implied fellow living, breathing humans. What it didn’t guarantee was what kind of people they were. He didn’t want any more surprises.
Janicea met him at the front door, her right hand held like a visor over her eyes, as if the sun were up at full strength. ‘“What’s that noise?”
“Boat engine,” Bronte replied. “I wanted to make sure everybody was awake and okay before I investigate it.”
“Kids are getting dressed. I was making them breakfast. There’s cereal or some slightly stale donuts if you—”
Bronte grimaced, not even trying to hide his annoyance. “Not now, woman! Just stay in the house and be ready for whatever. We might have to run for our boats if this is bad.”
Janicea blinked. “Sorry, Bronte. We’ll be ready.”
He didn’t bother to reply, and soon he was running toward the north end of the island. He was about fifty yards from a bend in the road and the line of houses that bordered the island’s outer edge when the heavy, throbbing engine noise grew louder, then ceased. He didn’t slack up on his pace, at all. At the moment, he’d taken for granted how good he felt after a good night’s rest. His head was clear, and he was sharp.
The morning air was heavy with humidity. He had a light sweat before he’d started running, and now he could feel it blossoming all over. His shirt stuck to his chest and back, and his jeans to his legs. He ran past four cars parked in the middle of the street. The doors were open on two of the cars. What might be dried blood was on the asphalt and the concrete gutter at the side of the road nearby. No bodies.
He hadn’t explored this side of the island at all. He passed overturned trash cans, and then several bodies. He angled to his right a bit as he ran, picking out a house without a fence that overlooked the water.
Far away, but getting nearer, came the sound of another boat engine. It wasn’t as heavy. The sky turned gloomy. The sun was hidden behind a massive thunderhead, but all was quiet up in heaven for the moment. A cool breeze blew softly over him, drying some of the sweat.
The house was shaped like an L, with a cluster of three palm trees bearing immense fanlike fronds. He ran up the half-circle, red brick driveway, and went around the left side of the house. The lawn’s grass was getting high. Whoever lived here must have skipped mowing the previous week. It would be a bitch to mow now, considering how thick and lush it was, if, that was, anyone was to ever mow it again.
There was no fence, just some lush plants set in a bed of cedar mulch along the side of the house, and a big air conditioner on a pedestal. He could see a large screened porch, and there was the water.
About a hundred feet away was an anchored boat with large winches and nets. Shrimp boat, was his guess, but Tracks would know for sure. That thought dragged him right back down.
As much as he treasured his reunion with Janicea, he missed his friend. The loss of his brother had been bad, but that wound wasn’t as fresh. Tracks was here just hours ago.
Movement on the boat pulled him back into the
present. He saw two people standing at the back: a big, beefy white man, almost the same size as Tracks, and a white woman in what looked like a kimono. The man was pulling on a rope that went down into the water.
Bronte knelt in some shrubs at the back of the house. He was pretty sure the people couldn’t see him. He wondered what they were doing. Then he noticed two men in life jackets floating about thirty feet behind the boat. They were attached to the rope by their jackets, and were being reeled in.
Were they rescuing those men? Neither of the men were moving. Bronte wished he had binoculars.
The two people on the boat were arguing. Their angry voices echoed out over the water, but weren’t decipherable. The woman gestured, and sunlight glinted on something in her hand. Bronte wasn’t sure if it was a gun, but the man backed away a few paces while holding onto the rope. Meanwhile, the two men in the water were floating about twenty feet away but were making no effort to close the distance, and that more than anything made Bronte think they were unconscious or dead.
The engine noise was getting louder; a boat was approaching from the east, which meant the Tampa side. He couldn’t see it yet, but he knew it was close.
Bronte checked his rifle. He ejected the magazine, saw it was full, and reinserted it, making sure the selector was set to fire.
In that short span, something must have happened on the boat, because the woman started screaming. Bronte looked up in time to see the man punch her. She dropped out of sight, below the level of the deck railing. The man stood over her, and it looked like his chest was heaving, but whether it was from exertion or emotion, Bronte couldn’t say.
To his surprise, the man took one look toward the other, as yet unseen boat, leapt overboard and started swimming for the island. Moments passed, and the man swam closer, laboring with a clumsy basic crawl. It looked like one of his arms wasn’t working right. He even rolled over on his back, as if he needed to rest. Bronte thought whoever was on the approaching boat would surely spot him.
At that moment, the other boat appeared from Bronte’s right, and the engine noise fell off almost to nothing as it idled closer to the shrimp boat. It was a big motor yacht, close to a fifty footer. Most of the upper structure was enclosed cabin with mirrored, solar-coated windows, and in the back was a large open deck. A man in a white uniform stood at the prow with rope in hand. When only a couple of feet separated the two watercrafts, he leapt aboard the shrimp boat and tied off the line.
Three women in bikinis were sunning themselves on the yacht’s open rear deck. They were all breathtaking, but Bronte forced his attention back to the deckhand. The man was lifting the fallen woman to her feet. He put one of her arms around his neck, got one of his arms beneath her legs at the knee, the other around her back, and lifted her.
Two more people appeared on the deck of the yacht. The bigger of the two was a soldier with a bald head wearing a pressed tan uniform. The other man wore high-waisted dove gray slacks, a snow-white long-sleeved shirt, and a straw hat.
The deckhand handed the woman over the rail to the soldier. They didn’t appear to be paying any attention to the swimming man. The guy in the straw hat barked an order, and the soldier set the woman down in a chair and climbed onto the shrimp boat, joining the deckhand. Both men then went to the back of the boat and began hauling on the rope that secured the two unconscious or dead men.
The swimmer reached the dock of the neighboring house directly to Bronte’s left and hauled himself out of the water. He’d been wearing a suit when he jumped in the water, but his jacket and shoes were missing now. He lay prostrate on the wood planks, and didn’t move for several minutes.
During that time, the soldier and deckhand pulled the first of the two men aboard the shrimp boat. Bronte still couldn’t tell whether the man was alive or not. He looked back at the dock and saw the swimmer grab the dock’s railing and pull himself to his feet. He was still wearing his socks. He looked like an overweight, over-aged, bedraggled nerd.
Over a three foot hedge and chain link fence that separated one property from the next, Bronte watched him cross the yard and open a gate less than five feet from where he hid. He seemed completely oblivious to Bronte’s presence. He wasn’t moving fast, and walked as though he were beat up and sore. His breathing was irregular, like he still couldn’t catch his breath, but that didn’t stop his progress from the side yard to the front of the house. Only Bronte’s voice did that.
“Where are you going?”
The man stopped, holding his arms out away from his body.
“You hear me, old man?” Bronte asked.
“I’m looking for my family,” the man answered. “It’s been a long day, and I just want to go home.”
“Home can wait,” Bronte said. “Why did you punch that woman?”
The man turned around. His voice was bitter. “Does it matter? You a cop or something? In case you haven’t noticed, the world is over.”
The man’s attitude was getting on Bronte’s nerves. “Yeah, I noticed, but what you don’t seem to understand is that I’m the one with a gun in this conversation. Now, what is your name?”
The man’s face lost expression, but finally, he answered. “At his point, I don’t care if you have a gun or not. My name is Gilbert Kincaid, and if you want to shoot me, then do it.”
“Well, Mr. Kincaid, why don’t we go visit your family and see if they’re okay? Seems the least I can do for you, especially since you don’t have a gun.”
Kincaid’s face gave nothing away, but Bronte knew he was thinking hard.
For a moment, Bronte considered shooting him. It was the simplest solution, after all. He remembered a Stalin quote: Death solves all problems. No man, no problem. Made a lot of sense. All that stayed Bronte’s finger on the trigger was a desire to find out whether other people were on the island that he wasn’t aware of.
Kincaid still wasn’t speaking. Bronte’s patience reached its limit. He gestured with the rifle.
“Let’s go, or I’ll leave you here for good.”
Kincaid shrugged. “Don’t I know you? You look familiar.”
“I don’t think so, Kincaid. I’ve never see you before.”
“I was hiding. You were one of the ones who killed people the other day, here on the island!”
Bronte’s mouth was dry. He fought back the urge to swallow. He could feel his finger caressing the rifle’s trigger.
“Maybe so. We had good reason. Turns out, real good reason. Some people from around here killed all my friends. Two on Googe Island and three more here.”
“You lost three people here? When, yesterday?”
“Yeah. Probably killed the rest of your people too. I haven’t checked all the houses, but a lot of people were killed.”
Kincaid lowered his head and stood motionless, then began to shake. Bronte waited.
“Let’s go see,” Kincaid said, at last. “Are the bodies still where you left ‘em?”
“Yes.”
“My house is across the street. That one,” Kincaid said, pointing at a beige two-story. His eyes were locked on Bronte’s and his expression was stony.
It was strange to know that less than three days ago this man had been his countryman. Not a friend, but someone he might be able to connect with. Certainly not a mortal enemy, or someone he was about to execute.
“If your people stayed home, then they are alive,” Bronte said. “We never made it to this side of the island.”
“We’ll go to my home first, then, if you don’t mind?”
“Smarter to start there,” Bronte agreed, “and get this over with.”
The other man didn’t answer, but his expression was now that of a condemned man on his way to judgment. Bronte realized then that condemnation was the more common bond between them. No mercy would be granted to either.
Then he heard the sound of another boat engine.
79. Natalie
“I don’t have any weapons to kill with, in case you haven’t noticed
,” Natalie said, sliding into the car and feeling the air conditioning flow across her sweaty face. A lock of her hair was plastered to her cheek and forehead. The cool air felt wonderful.
“Depends on what type of killing you mean,” Troy replied with a smart-ass grin. His eyes didn’t leave her face, but he might as well have leered at her chest.
She grinned back, and wiggled a little in her seat. “Well, Troy, I’m no femme fatale, but I’m in training. Want to help me practice?”
“Best offer I’ve had all day, baby,” he laughed, and pulled away from the curb. The car was facing south, and he steered them into the center of the road. For some distance, the road looked clear. There were wrecks or abandoned vehicles, but they wouldn’t have to leave the car behind.
They drove a block or so, and Troy said, “The house is just past those trees on the left. See it? The one with the wall surrounding it.”
“Oh shit,” Natalie said when she got a good look at the house. The gate, that was large enough for a car, was hanging wide open. Zombies were inside the enclosed area.
“I wonder if they got in the house,” Troy said. “Sid’s probably dead if it’s open like this.”
The dead were noticing them, and beginning to head toward their idling car. Natalie could hear them moan, whether in yearning for them or some sort of pain, she didn’t know. Then she heard, quite clearly, gunfire.
“I think anyone in that house is dead,” she said, “but someone is still alive somewhere not too far away.”
Troy gave the car a little gas, and they started to pull away. Someone shouted at them across the street from the house they were watching. Natalie turned and saw a mustached, middle-aged black man in a khaki uniform emerge from an overgrown yard. He had an assault rifle with a scope and was still shouting. Troy braked and the car drifted to a stop.
“Troy!” the man yelled. “Wait!”
“Gabe?” Troy responded.
The man was running at the car, but he stopped near the edge of the street, still standing in the knee-high undergrowth.
“Pull around the block, on the other side this house, and I’ll meet you there. Quick, before the stiffs catch up!”
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