“Speak up, quickly then. The others are going to get suspicious.”
Porlock looked calm, but Clive knew the guy was coming unraveled. “Kyler’s taken command. He can’t have the Speaker usurp him. She has to die. Probably the newsman and his cameraman too.”
“But you were going to let me live, right? Right?”
Porlock didn’t have an answer for that.
Which was unfortunate.
88. Julie/Lassiter/Booth
“He’s gone,” Lassiter said.
Julie and Booth, led by an exuberant George, were coming down the stairs into the lobby.
“You mean Hicks?” Booth asked.
“Yeah, he left a few hours ago. He didn’t say goodbye.”
Booth looked thoughtful. “I overheard him saying once that he knew this area well, but at the time I wasn’t curious enough to ask him about it.”
“Think he’d leave us for good?” Julie asked.
Booth answered with a question of his own, directed at Lassiter, “Did he leave a note?”
Lassiter thought that one over. “I didn’t see anything on the exit door, but he was in the bar and—”
“He was in the bar?” Booth cut in, sounding exasperated.
“Yes, and he was drinking the hard stuff. I had one drink with him, and when he turned argumentative, I left.”
“I can just imagine what you argued about if he was drunk enough.”
Lassiter shrugged. Julie looked intrigued, but she didn’t say anything. George was dancing around the lobby, filled with energy, and oblivious to the conversation.
“He’s not coming back,” Booth announced.
“Are we staying here, then?” Julie asked.
“Maybe we should wait for a while,” Lassiter suggested, “and see if he comes back.”
“Let’s see if he left a note. That will decide it for me,” Julie said.
“I agree,” Booth said. “And while we wait, I’ll climb up on the roof and see what’s going on around here.”
89. Jacobs/Natalie/Troy
Jacobs woke to a woman’s voice crooning something to him. It made him think of his mom, and being a sick little boy. Then he realized that he was lying flat on his back in the street, and that the beautiful teenaged girl leaning over him looked nothing like his mother. She was very easy on the eyes, a Mediterranean beauty with wavy, dark brown hair, an oval face, and piercing green eyes.
And a gun. She wasn’t pointing it at him, exactly. It looked like one of those Taurus revolvers that were easy to conceal. Fired a .45 round, or a .410 shotgun shell, either one of which would end his sojourn here on Earth quickly.
“Who are you?” Jacobs asked.
“I’m Natalie,” she answered. “Are you okay?”
He considered his answer. To admit to being bitten would probably get him shot. “I’m very beat up, and I’ve been shot.”
“Maybe my friend and I can help you out.”
“I’d be grateful,” he said.
“Can you get up, or do you need help?” she asked, extending her hand.
“To be honest, I could use some help,” Jacobs said with a smile, and took her hand, surprised when she brought him quickly to his feet without letting him do most of the work.
“You’re stronger than you look,” he said and meant it.
“I was a cheerleader, and I spend a lot of time in the gym.”
Her body was spectacular, and he was trying hard not to be obviously appreciative. He settled for saying, “Well, thank you. All that exercise paid off. I’m not sure what happened, but someone was trying to kill me.”
She knelt down and examined his injured leg. Her expression turned serious. “Looks like he nearly succeeded,” she said, “but trust me he won’t be bothering you anymore.”
“How do you know?”
“I just killed him, that’s why.”
Jacobs didn’t reply to that, and instead watched a young Asian man emerge from the yard of the house across the street. The man was walking his way carrying a scoped rifle and a few other things.
Natalie introduced the two men and then said, “We heard you killed a lot of Sid’s men.”
Jacobs blinked but otherwise made no acknowledgement of what she’d said.
“And you were trying to kill him,” Troy added.
“If you know this, why are you asking me about it?” Jacobs asked.
“Because we want to help you,” Natalie said. “He’s off recruiting more followers, but we expect him back here soon. We intend to kill him.”
“It’s probably going to be hard. I’m pretty sure he has a few henchmen left, and I’m not at my best right now.”
Natalie nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. It would be easier just to walk away.”
Jacobs raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say no,” he said. “I just said it would be hard. If you’re good with that, then let’s do this.”
“Any ideas where we should go or how to do this?”
“Yeah, show me where the sniper was,” Jacobs answered.
90. Trish/Mills/Keller/Amy/Ben
The kid, Ben, wouldn’t shut up. He reminded Trish of her long-lost younger brother, down to the buzz-cut hair, and something about his attitude. She’d always been able to shut him out, and she found that she could shut Ben out too.
Her awareness narrowed down to the road, and she following the cars in front of her. These kids seemed to know every back road and shortcut.
“Doreen dated a drug dealer. She drove for him. If she was trying to lose us, we’d be lost,” Ben said, and Trish tuned back in.
When her husband, Dennis, died, Trish drifted into quite a few diverse jobs. Getaway driver had been one of them. In truth, it had been over ten years, so Trish was probably losing her driving edge. The thought of surrendering the wheel was repugnant, even if driving in the city was no longer fun. There were wrecks and debris everywhere to avoid. And the dead, both mobile and static.
Trish needed to feel in control of something. Something to hold onto that wasn’t going to slip through her fingers. She knew that there were no guarantees, but that point was being pressed home upon her so often and so forcefully that she was near a panic attack. How much could even a lifelong survivor cope with?
“How you feeling, champ?” Keller asked, talking to Mills.
She could see Mills out of the corner of her eye but couldn’t watch him. It looked like he was pressing something against what remained of his wounded ear.
“I feel fuzzy. Might be shock, but I’m not focusing real well,” Mills answered.
Trish could only drive as fast as the cars in front of her, and they didn’t appear to be in a hurry. It was amazing—careful teen drivers?
“Your friends are pretty cautious behind the wheel for teenagers,” Trish said to Ben, glancing sideways at him.
Ben reached over and turned the air conditioning down. “Hot in here,” he said, “and, yes, we’re all cautious now. We lost four friends last night when they took a turn too fast. Wasn’t even because zombies were chasing us. I was in the car and my friend Evan was driving. When we wrecked, I was the only survivor. I was trapped, upside down, held in place by my seatbelt, when the others revived.”
Trish could see him reliving the grief and terror each time she glanced his way. The silence drew out.
“The guy sitting behind me was named Tommy. He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. He came after me, and I had to shoot him. Had to shoot all of them.”
The line of cars was bunching up. Doreen’s car turned left into the southbound lanes, and then slowed to a stop. They were about even with the 3600 block south of U.S.19 and it looked like the road was jammed on either side. A large Wal-Mart was on the left. The parking lot was full of cars and zombies. As the cars idled, Trish heard shots from the direction of the parking lot.
“Anyone over there is dead,” Amy remarked.
“Damn place is always busy,” Mills added.
They all laughed. “There must
be some drop dead deals, today. Save more and live better, right?” Trish said.
She laughed along with the others, but she wondered who was fighting for their life over there. There was nothing they could do to help. Doreen drove back over the center median. The other cars, including Trish, followed.
Keller said, “There’s someone on the roof of that Wal-Mart shooting down at the crowd!”
“We’d never make it through all that, and whoever it is, is probably trapped up there,” Ben said.
Trish flinched when their front left bumper clipped a fat white man who was naked except for a Rays baseball cap. The leg gave out, and for a moment, the man’s bloated, blackened torso sprawled on their hood before sliding off and being left behind.
“Guess they get sun burned after death,” Amy said.
“I see a helicopter!” Mills said. “Look!”
Trish craned her head, and saw that, indeed, a black helicopter was approaching the Wal-Mart’s roof. It reminded her of the helicopters she’d seen that were killing everyone before. Her foot eased off the gas, and they coasted while she slowed to watch the chopper.
Two people staggered toward them and almost fell on the hood. One look was enough for her to realize that they didn’t need help: both were walking monstrosities.
Mills seemed to snap. “For God’s sake Trish, floor it!” he shouted.
He reached for the wheel, and she had to slap his hand away. The whole convoy had slowed to a crawl, and if she listened to him, she would have rear-ended the Ranger.
Doreen must have finally had enough. Her car tires squealed, and the Altima shot forward and braked hard around a pileup of wrecked vehicles. The Nova and Ranger followed, and Trish brought up the rear.
The next hour was a nightmare of dead-ends and blocked roads, all caused by panicked or desperate drivers. There were massive pileups, downed electrical poles and trees. At least twice, they saw buildings that had been reduced to rubble, and were big enough to block intersections. They saw no one living, but Trish imagined that there were survivors out there, people too afraid to trust someone else or maybe even too paralyzed with fear to come out of their hiding places.
When they finally reached Martin Luther King Street, Trish was weary and struggling to stay awake.
“About a block to go,” Ben said beside her.
“Looks like other survivors are here too,” Keller said.
Trish looked, and saw another small convoy pulling in front of theirs from a side street.
Twenty or thirty people were standing around outside of vehicles. It was the biggest gathering of living people she’d seen in the last few days. The other three cars in the convoy were stopped, and the passengers were already mingling with the other survivors.
A tall Asian man was talking to Doreen and her friend.
“I think that’s Sid,” Ben said. “Let’s go meet him.”
Trish held back and watched the others. For some reason she had the feeling of being watched and of impending doom.
The others reached the edge of the crowd, and Mills struck up a conversation with a Hispanic guy who stayed near the man Ben called Sid.
The crowd was starting to break up, and Sid was leading them toward a house with a six foot concrete fence surrounding it. People were disappearing into the enclosure fast, and Trish finally decided to join them.
“Wait!” a female voice called.
Trish turned to see a pretty young brunette in her late teens, who was standing with one hand on her hip, and the other holding a gun.
“Who are you?” Trish asked.
“I’m Natalie,” the younger woman answered.
Trish smiled and replied, “I’m Trish. Pleasure to meet you.”
91. Bronte/Janicea/Daric/Beth
Bronte was thirsty, but he had nothing to drink. The sun was broiling him.
“They looked like a bunch of people on vacation with bodyguards,” Daric said.
Bronte agreed. A lot of relaxed people were now standing near the seawall. All of them were being transported from the yacht to the dock by a small motorboat. Many of them had drinks in hand.
Bronte sighted in the rifle, his finger hovering over the safety. Janicea was doing the same, albeit with less confidence.
“Are we going to kill these people too?” Daric asked.
“I hope not,” Bronte answered, “but to keep you all safe, I will if need be.”
A big man wearing a white uniform was leading the way up from the dock. He had a big machinegun hanging from a strap across his chest, but at the moment he was only carrying a pistol. Another yacht crewman, this guy smaller but in better shape, had his rifle slung from his shoulder and was carrying luggage.
These people were coming to stay on the island.
Bronte gathered his nerve. He couldn’t let these people take the island from them. The worst part of it was that he had no idea of their intent. All he knew was that they were probably enemies of the guy he’d just killed.
The woman in the orange kimono was there, behind the men, with two children holding onto her hands.
“I can’t do it, Janicea. I have no idea if they’re good people or not, but I can’t just shoot them.”
Janicea was smiling at him. “I understand, my love,” she said. She looked completely at peace. “Do the right thing.”
Bronte loved her more at that moment than ever before. Their separate journeys and the mutually shared misery since this disaster began had brought them together and made their bond stronger. This was all the woman and partner he’d ever need.
“I will stand up and talk to them. I want you to stay here with the kids, and be ready. If things go badly, just run for the boats and never look back.”
She nodded. He could see tears brimming in her eyes, but her eyes were steady on his, and her smile never faltered.
He handed his rifle to Daric, and stood up with his hands in the air. With a smile, he stepped out from behind the hedge and stood in full view of the approaching people. His hands were palm out, raised in the air as if surrendering.
“Hello,” he said. “I mean no harm.”
The big guy reacted almost immediately, raising the pistol. The second sailor dropped the luggage and reached for his rifle. The woman in the kimono screamed. The rest of the people following came to a halt and stared at him.
“Who are you?” the man asked. He wore a blue bandanna on his head, and as far as Bronte could tell, he was probably bald under the bandanna. The man raised his arm up aiming the pistol right at him.
“My name’s Bronte. Who are you, and what are your intentions?”
The hand holding the pistol didn’t lower or waver. “I’m Paul, and we intend to live here.”
“Well, Paul, my group has just cleared this island of the dead, and we intend to live here.”
Paul had a boyish face, but his expression was as grim as death as he told Bronte, “I’m afraid that isn’t going to work for us.”
Bronte wanted to ask why, but he wasn’t going to beg. He said without humor, “It won’t take you long to get back on those boats then, will it, Paul?”
“That’s not in the cards, Bronte. It’s you and your people who’ll be leaving. And you’re the one with a gun in your face.”
“What makes you so sure you have the upper hand?”
Paul nodded with his chin, eyes on something behind Bronte. Bronte turned and looked to the spot where he’d left the only people in the world he cared about.
Two men stood behind Janicea and the kids. One was the soldier he’d seen earlier with the bald head and pressed tan uniform. The other was the man who wore high-waisted slacks of dove gray, a snow-white long-sleeved shirt, and a straw hat.
Janicea and the kids had their hands up; their guns were on the ground.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Janicea said. “We never heard them coming.”
Bronte shrugged.
“If they are all your people, you were going to lose anyway,” Paul remarked.
Bronte looked back his way, and saw the smirk on his face. For a moment, he actually thought the guy was sympathetic.
“You gonna kill us, then?” Bronte asked.
“If you swear not to come back or trouble us, you’ll all be free to go. Just unfasten that equipment harness you’re wearing.”
“You’re taking our weapons, too?”
Paul nodded. “But we’re letting you live.”
Those words hit home. It was more mercy than he’d given to Kincaid and his family, but that had been a fight to the death. Blood had been spilled, and there was no way to go back.
“I can see that you’re too proud to ask why we won’t let you stay,” Paul said. “Am I right?” Bronte bit back the bitter words that rose within him. This man and the people with him didn’t care. Paul was right. He was too proud to beg, or ask why.
“The truth is,” Paul continued, “we don’t need any more servants, or any more mouths to feed.”
Bronte closed his eyes and clenched his fists. There was no answer to such a callous admission. It made him wonder why the other man had even bothered.
92. Johnny/Marcel/Anna/Ike
“Ike is nuts, Johnny,” Marcel said. “Can’t we just go somewhere else?”
Johnny didn’t answer, and Marcel was getting used to that. He kept talking anyway.
“I mean, I know Ike just wants us to stay below, but all we have is one gun, and he has it!”
Johnny was focusing on Ike. Before anyone could react, he’d bashed Huff a few more times in the head. There was no question that Huff was dead, and he wasn’t coming back. The other survivors looked like they were in shock. None of them appeared athletic or particularly capable of defending themselves. Only Ike, Marcel, Anna, and Johnny seemed capable of defending themselves.
The others were game. Johnny dismissed them, for now. Ike was the current problem or opportunity.
Ike tied the boat up to a wooden dock.
“Hey, Ike!” Marcel called.
Ike held up a hand. “Give it a rest, kid. Listen up, everyone!”
Johnny hadn’t really been aware of it, but the other people had been talking. They quieted now.
“As you know,” Ike went on, “I discussed going after Gretchen and her friends for exiling us. I’m not sure that’s gonna be possible, but we have some alternatives.”
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