Dead Tide

by Stephen A. North

  reddish-blonde hair in a bun and small-framed glasses, wearing a white tank top, black jeans and hiking boots. A black denim jacket is thrown over her shoulder and a holstered revolver is on her right hip. Heavens! Smoking in public buildings and unconcealed weapons back in fashion?

  “So what happens here exactly?” Graham asks, looking at the line of people that are ahead of him. He is fifth and last.

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  She shrugs. “From what I’ve been told, they make us strip over in the kitchen there and then some doctors look us over to make sure we haven’t been bit. After that, you are free to join the other refugees over at the Pier.”

  “What if you have been bit?” he asks. She takes a half step away from him and her hand reaches for her gun.

  “I’m fine,” he says, rushing the words out. “I’m just curious what happens to people…”

  She doesn’t exactly relax. “Well, be careful how you phrase things, okay? I heard a shot out back near the boat basin a few minutes ago. Maybe they take people out there and shoot them?”

  “I’m not too sure about this,” he says, but his gut says that he is sure. Where else would he go?

  “My Dad always said, shit or get off the pot.” Her voice gets a little raspy.

  Graham laughs despite his unease. “Good one, Miss…”

  “I’m Shaunna,” she says.

  “Nice to meet you Shaunna, I’m…”

  She interrupts, “…probably not going to know me long. I’m here to see if any of my family is here. If not, I have to go back to my neighborhood to find them.”

  “Oh, sorry,” he says, feeling deflated. The voice in his head starts right in on him. Don’t even try to make friends, you idiot. Do you really want someone to depend on you right now?

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m just wound too tight. I had to fight down the urge to just go in here guns blazing. My patience is worn thin.”

  “If you need any help, I’d be willing,” he says and gives his best sincere look. Her eyes are dark brown, with some kind of golden highlight.

  She cups a hand to her ear, and leans toward him. “I’m deaf in my right ear. What did you say?”

  He leans toward her, but not into her space. Feels flattered when she doesn’t back away. “I’ll help you if you’ll let me.”

  “Why?” she asks, and looks at him as if really seeing him for the first time.

  He starts to shrug, but forces himself to stay still. “No one should be out there alone. Helping you and your family is better than sitting around here.”

  She tilts her head. “That’s honest. If my family isn’t here, I may take you up on your offer.”

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  He smiles, deciding to let her have the last word. Anything else he might say could ruin things. I’m a nice guy, just give me a chance… I just need one more chance.

  She turns back around, managing to take a puff or two off the cigarette before it burns down to the butt. She crushes it out on the floor, not far from where he once sat with his wife, one day long ago on an anniversary, back when he still had it all.

  EVERY TIME THE SUN BREAKS FREE from the clouds, Bronte can not only see, but feel the difference. The sun is like a blazing torch, and if they weren’t about to leave, he’d strip down just for comfort. But here, up on the store’s roof, he must endure it, at least for a few more minutes. Tracks is lying next to him, looking every bit as miserable as he feels.

  “My guess is forty,” Bronte says, looking down and over the small parapet that rims the flat roof of the food store. Dead people are still milling around the wrecked convoy and the store’s parking lot. Five or six more are banging on the doors of the store. “But I can see more coming this way.”

  Tracks lifts his head slowly and looks around without moving. “Careful,” says Bronte, “If they see you up here…”

  “It may be for the best, Bronte,” says Tracks. If they are all looking

  up here, you and the others will have a better chance when we make a break for it.” Seven glass bottles with rags protruding from the tops are lined up within reach of either man. The rags are oily and the bottles now contain lighter fluid or gas. Janicea found a gas can in the back room and there was a section of shelves downstairs with charcoal, lighter fluid, grilling tools and just out back of the receiving door, a propane tank. There were also a few stacks of old soda bottles and some cleaning rags. Suddenly they had the distraction they’d need to make it to the truck and hopefully get out of here.

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  Janicea hands another bottle up to Tracks through the open door in the ceiling and he puts it with the others. “About time the bitch be useful,” he says. “Them haters know how to blow things up.” If Bronte hears him he is ignoring him. It’s certain that Janicea heard, but she never talks to him. Her face doesn’t change expression as she bends down from her perch on the ladder and takes the last bottle from Daric.

  “I hear you Tracks, and I know what you think of me,” says Janicea, looking up at him. “Maybe I agree.”

  “You always been bad news Janicea,” he replies. “Just most men can’t see past a fine ass…”

  Bronte looks down and sees Janicea giving Tracks a long cool stare. “That’s enough, both of you. In just a few minutes we’ll be trying to get out of here alive. I’m going to toss some of the food bags into the back of the truck. I want to see what those things do, whether they react or not. Janice, can you watch the windows and see if any of them leave?”

  She lowers her head. “Sure Bronte.”

  Bronte immediately turns away and crawls over to the two sacks of food just a foot or two away. Just below, on this side of the building is the parked truck. He takes a quick look.

  No one.

  He grabs a bag, lowers it over the side and tosses it. There is a soft thud as it strikes the back of the cab and falls into the back of the truck. That bag contained mostly bread. He waits.

  Nothing happens. Tracks is watching him, laying flat near the bottles. Bronte shrugs and slides back over to the hole. “Anything happen?”

  Janicea is crouched not far from the doors. “They didn’t move. Just banging on the doors and trying to look in,” she answers. Daric is sitting calmly beside her, trying to read a comic in the dim light of the coolers nearby. The overhead lights are off, just in case. If the things knew for sure they are inside, God knows what they’d do.

  “I’ll try the one with the canned goods then.”

  He slithers back the short distance. Meanwhile Tracks slides a little closer to the edge. Bronte hefts the sack, lowers his arm and tries to drop it right in the bed. The sack lands squarely in the middle and bursts throwing cans everywhere and making a loud racket.

  “That did it, Bronte,” says Tracks. “Look!”

  Five or six of the things abandon poking around the convoy and head straight toward the store. “Let’s go over things one more time, downstairs.”

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  Tracks follows him down the ladder and all of them duck into the back room, away from the creepy pounding. Someone has covered up poor Willie with a blanket, but he’s starting to smell. Near the door is a pile of food and water to take with them.

  When all of them crowd into the room, Bronte begins: “Tracks will start us off. He’ll begin lobbing the gas bombs at the creatures. We wait fifteen seconds and then we go out the back door. Janicea will have the keys and she will unlock both doors of the truck, and try to start it. Daric, you and I will carry all the food and water we can and dump them in the back of the truck. Then you climb in beside Janicea. Tracks, all you need to do is wait until the truck starts, then throw your last two gas bombs, then lower yourself to the bed of the truck and we’ll get out of here. Janicea, once you get the truck started, move over so I can drive. Everyone got it?”

  Daric raises his hand. “What if the truck won’t start?” “We leave everything and run for the canal, honey,” says Janicea. Bronte and Tracks nod as he looks at them.

  “Even if they try
to follow us, I think we can go faster in the water

  than them,” says Bronte.

  Daric smiles faintly, then gets a solemn look. “Well, I better put my

  bear, Mr. Tibbs in my backpack then. I don’t think he can swim.” “Good idea Daric,” says Bronte, and reaches down and pats the boy’s

  back.

  “PITTS, Pitts, wake up,” says the mayor, Ritchie Mayes.

  Talaski watches in the rear view mirror.

  The guy must be a heavy sleeper. Or maybe he used a sleep aide.

  Rumor has it that he has an alcohol problem. Finally, Mayes catches a pretty good slap to the guy’s chin and he wakes up. “Sorry sir,” mumbles Pitts, obviously very much out of it, only half awake. His nose is like a beak, but very thin and delicate looking. A thatch of hair protrudes from either nostril and Pitts has the decidedly unfortunate and disgusting habit of pulling on the hairs whenever he’s nervous.

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  “Listen Duane, you and Nick here are going to go meet with the guy over there. See.” The mayor points with his right hand. Talaski notices a very heavy looking gold ring.

  Pitts looks up, squints. “What do you want me to tell him?” “Tell him you have me and the police chief in this car and to let us through. Tell him about Lionel also.”

  “What if he tells me to fuck off… sir?”

  “Well then,” says the mayor, apparently unperturbed, “you point over at Corporal Ramos and his machine gun.”

  Pitts smirks. “That’ll work, I bet. Come on, Ski, let’s go.”

  Talaski opens his door and palms his pistol as they get out. He holds it down against his right leg. There is a slight breeze, but the air is so heavy with humidity and heat that he feels sweat break out on his back right away.

  Pitts gives Talaski a quick glance, top to bottom. “Let me do all the talking, Ski. If you fuck this up for me, I’ll bury you.”

  “If you fuck up Pitts, it’ll be your fault, not mine,” Talaski says without a smile. “I’m actually surprised no one has buried you.”

  Pitts’ jaw actually drops. They walk alongside each other a half dozen steps or so in silence. “You got some mouth on ya, don’t ya?”

  Talaski watches Pitts’ hand drift upward inside his coat.

  “Got itchy armpits, Duane?” Talaski asks, and shows Pitts his gun. “A bullet to the head will fix that for you.”

  Pitts shakes his head, steps sideways a bit further away from him. “I understand, Ski. I don’t want trouble. Just let me do the talking okay?”

  “You need to re-think things, Duane. I don’t like being on the outside of things, unless they are dirty things—Those types I clean up. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on, or that I don’t know what position I’m in. My ass is hanging in the breeze right now and that makes me short tempered. What’s worse for you is that I’d actually like to shoot you right now. You need to be working real hard to convince me that I’d be making a mistake.”

  They continue forward. Pitts keeps shaking his head, looking as if he wants to say something but can’t figure out how. A moment later they stop in front of the man from the barricaded bridge. He’s got a full, but well-trimmed brown beard that hides a round face. Big build with just a little gut wearing khaki slacks, a safari-type shirt and some hiking boots. He has a big revolver in a flap style holster on his left side, reversed for a cross draw and a big scabbarded knife, probably a Bowie on his right hip.

  “Lose your pith helmet hunting Jumbo?” Talaski asks. “You smart-mouthed cops are all the same,” the guy answers.

  Pitts is beside himself. “No, please, don’t listen to this jackass! My name is Detective Duane Pitts and I’m the one who’s supposed to do the talking.”

  The guy stands still, eyes back on Pitts. “Very well, Detective, my name’s Gerry Cleaver. We’re keeping Snell Isle a safe haven. What can we do for you?”

  Cleaver—Like Beaver?

  “I represent the mayor. He and the chief of police are in the police cruiser behind me. Lionel Burgosi is in the other cruiser. They just want to go to the Burgosi residence.”

  “That’s out of the question, I’m afraid.”

  “What?!” shouts Pitts. “You know Mr. Burgosi?”

  “Yes, quite well. Well enough to tell him to fuck off, along with the mayor.”

  “You must be crazy. Don’t you see the Humvee with the machine gun? That thing will make mincemeat of you and your men. Be reasonable and let us through and I’ll forget what you just said.”

  “Mr. Burgosi, Mr. Mayes and Mr. Hadley are persona non gratis. I warn you, there is more to our defenses than meets the eye.”

  “So what about Mr. Burgosi’s boat?”

  “What boat?” asks Cleaver with a grin.

  “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Cleaver, but I’ll give them the message. Think about whether the loss of life is worth it while I’m gone.”

  “When it comes down to it, Burgosi might have the balls to try, but Hadley and Mayes are a couple of cowards who follow which way the wind blows.”

  “What about Councilman List?” asks Talaski, out of the blue.

  “Funny that you’d ask, Officer… Talaski.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes, he is our leader.”

  THE MAN’S FACE IS FLUSHED and he is out-of-breath and bloodied, wearing a torn t-shirt, blue jeans and boots. “I’m telling you. One more time,” he says, and pauses a moment. “Forget Wal-Mart, forget going to Clearwater. That gas station explosion a block or two away has started a major fire and the U.S. 19 is blocked anyway. I know the radio and TV are saying it’s a safe place, but you’ll die trying to get there.”

  “So,” says Jerry, “How do you know all this?”

  “I’m the traffic guy for a TV station and five radio stations in the area. I’m Chuck McMurray.”

  Jerry looks blank. “I don’t like music Mister. I don’t listen to the radio. You some kind of DJ?”

  McMurray blusters, “I’m on talk radio also. And no, I’m a traffic reporter. Oh well… Anyway, I was on with a local TV anchor. We had a camera feed and we’ve been crisscrossing the St. Pete, Clearwater area for hours. Denise, that’s the TV anchor, convinced my producer that we needed to set down at the Pinellas Park Wal-Mart.”

  “Why would she do that?” asks Trish.

  “She’s a bitch. Anything for ratings, eh? Next thing I know my ass is flapping in the breeze. The parking lot was packed with those… what do you want to call them? Zombies? I don’t read SciFi, but I’m pretty sure that’s what they are. I tried to get Tony to lift off, but—”

  “Zombies aren’t SciFi mister—they’re Horror,” says Budd. “They go around eating people.”

  “Thanks kid, I’ve had a graphic example of that continuously all day. You haven’t seen one yet, have you? Thanks to that bitch, Denise, I got a first-hand, up close and personal experience,” says McMurray, sounding bitter and tired. “What time is it, anyway,” he asks, and squints at his wrist. “I lost my glasses and my watch getting away from those things.”

  “What happened exactly?” Budd asks.

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  “Well, I’ll tell you, Tony and I had been up there all morning. We did the best job we could trying to re-route traffic around pile-ups and spills. What gets me is how long we maintained the charade that we still had jobs, and that things would be better in the morning. There really is nothing to compare with watching someone get eaten alive. If you have family, the stress of worrying about them is unending. I haven’t been able to get a hold of my wife and kids all day. We live in a condo just over the Gandy Bridge in Tampa.”

  The circle of people around McMurray is growing. From four or five it has grown to at least twenty. The neighbors must be waking up. Trish looks at her own watch and thinks: About time! She sees that Marco guy step forward. “So where do you recommend we go, Mister?” he asks.

  “The next closest place I can think of is Northeast High School over on 16th Street and 54th Ave.�
�

  “How long since you’ve been there?”

  McMurray shrugs. “I haven’t. I can’t be everywhere. They just gave me a list of places to send people.”

  “So it could be a deathtrap?” asks an elderly woman in a shrill voice.

  Shut up, old crow! Can’t help thinking that, but it was a good question.

  “Yes ma’am, it might be,” replies McMurray.

  Marco steps closer. “I’d like to see that list if I may?”

  I just want to know what happened to the helicopter and the pilot. The questions are there, but other people are crowding around McMurray now. Someone starts to fight with Marco, presumably over the list. Trish finds herself backing away.

  Maybe it’s time to do a fade, and disappear? She can’t shake the feeling that McMurray is up to something, but it’s crazy. She has nothing to base the suspicion on but a twisting in her gut. But, there he is, and he’s looking at her. He makes his way past the people fighting over the list and for the moment, the crowd all melts into a background murmur, easily ignored.

  “I know you,” says McMurray. Up close, he towers over her. He must be over six feet tall with wide shoulders. There is evidence of a slight gut and there are red spots up high on his cheeks—A boozer maybe?

  “Is that so?” she replies. Her first reaction is to thrust a hip out and put her hands on her waist, but she fights it down. I’m not working.

  “I’ve seen you somewhere. Just not sure where.”

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  She laughs. “I get that a lot. Can’t imagine why, though.” “Maybe it’s your enchanting laugh, madam?”

  “Don’t try that stuff on me Mister. I’ve heard it all before. Say, I was

  watching you on TV just a couple hours ago. What’s the rest of your story?” “It’s not a happy story. I was trying to update the status on local safe places. So many of the safe places have been destroyed. I only know of a handful that aren’t. When the anchor Denise told me the producers had O.K.’d setting down at Pinellas Park’s Wally World, I almost shit a brick.”

  “Go on,” she says, watching his eyes. The truth might save her life. “Tony decided it would be better to try to set down at the Highway Patrol compound that’s near Wal-Mart rather than at Wal-Mart itself. That parking lot was loaded with those things. They’re pounding on the doors. I don’t know if they’re inside or not, but the parking lot’s loaded with cars. It looks like the survivors tried to circle them like a wagon train in front of one of the entrances. There’s dead bodies piled up. At first we were gonna try to land on the roof, but we weren’t too sure that it would support the chopper. Then Tony says, ‘The Staties have a station near here. We can land there.’ I said, ‘What the hell is a Statie?’ Tony laughed, a harsh, braying laugh like a donkey, then told me: ‘You know, the State Troopers, the Highway Patrol. Don’t you Irish know anything?’ We always messed with each other, so I came back with, ‘If you Dagoes would just say what you mean, instead of making up words maybe I would know something.’ He just smiled, while with one hand he fumbled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. I turned back to my window. We were about a hundred feet up and past the edge of Wal-Mart’s parking lot, over U.S. 19. He took us past a furniture store and some other buildings. I noticed that for the most part you could negotiate the highway in a car, but not very quickly. A motorcycle or bike would be better. I saw some more people, but they could have been those things. Hard to be sure. Tony was like, ‘Damn. A car is blocking part of the landing pad.’ I looked out the front and saw that somebody had left a car, a police cruiser on the edge of the pad. I said, ‘Must have been in a hurry, huh?’ And Tony said, ‘Sure is strange, but strange is normal now Chuck. I’d say you’re right, but where would they go?’ And I wondered if they’d have any fuel left, you know, mostly talking to myself. And Tony was like, ‘I’m sure they do, amigo. Now we’re thinking alike!’ He had a fierce grin on his face and an unlit cigarette hanging from his lip. He said, ‘Let’s set this baby down and see what’s happening. At least the pad is in a secured, fenced area.”