Dead Tide

by Stephen A. North

  She knows ! He watches a lazy grin spread across her face and her eyes are half-closed as one of her feet immediately finds his hard length and the other waves around in the air in front of him.

  The whole car rocks as something crashes against Natalie’s window. Natalie screams. A corpse is sliding slowly down the glass. Sam feels his adrenaline surge, but he can’t think. Panic takes a hold of him. What do I do? The engine is running—Just throw the transmission into gear and drive away!

  At that moment, someone or thing opens his door. He tries to turn and—terrible pain explodes against his head. I’ve been hit hard. Slowly, so slowly, he manages to bring himself upright.

  My head is wet .

  Through blurring vision, he sees his hands still on the steering wheel. There is still a chance to get away. Then he is hit again and even Natalie’s screams fade down into nothing.

  166

  SOMETHING, either the pain or pangs wakes him. He is curled into a fetal ball lying down. I should be dead. Why aren’t I? Endure . There is hunger, headache, and the pain from his blistered hands, but it is thirst and fear that finally motivate him. I’ve got to get up. They want to eat me. Some small part of him is still aware and worried, but the rest just wants to stay down. The concrete of the sidewalk is warm on his skin and the feel of a light breeze and sunlight through his eyelids all mean that he is no longer trapped.

  A faint pattering sound comes to him, and something pelts him on the neck. Rain. He opens his left eye; the one that isn’t pressed against the concrete. The blocky outline of the police station is only a block away. More drops of rain fall.

  Have to move .

  Otherwise I’ll die here.

  Another thought emerges as the rain strengthens: I don’t want to

  be one of them. That thought galvanizes him. He rolls onto battered knees and manages to stand. Okay! I’m up. But good God am I stiff. Feel like Frankenstein. He takes a step, then another. He rubs at his other eye. It is gummed shut. Probably blood.

  An ambulance is just ahead of him, parked haphazardly over the curb and up on the sidewalk. The two front doors are open and he skirts around the driver’s. As he draws even with the hood, he sees a sign post beneath the vehicle. The front grille is caved in and shattered.

  Keep walking. If I stop, I may wake to find that I’m still in that room. Still there looking at the pack of cigarettes and the lighter that Joss left on the table. Maybe this time I won’t come up with a plan.

  He can feel dark, demented laughter welling up, but somehow, he fights it down. I burned them. I won. I was cleverer than they. Who is still not walking around? Certainly not Joss the Hoss. Nope. I settled his hash. Me, Morgan Blake.

  167

  A little whisper in his head asks, “What if the Doc is still walking around?”

  He chokes and tastes bile. Oh God, I need a drink. I need to wash this bad taste away.

  Distant thunder rumbles somewhere to the north. He closes his eyes a moment while continuing to stumble and stagger forward, then makes a wish.

  I know God. Thunder isn’t a falling star. She doesn’t even deserve any warm feelings from me, but I can’t help it. The hungry look on her face now wouldn’t be the one he always wanted to see.

  He opens his eyes just in time to see he has made it to the police station. He makes his way up the stairs to the entrance.

  THERE ARE NO WINDOWS IN HIS WORKSPACE, not of the normal type anyway. What Anton does have are a large number of video monitors. Twenty two of twenty four of them are working presently. There is room for two people, but at the moment he is alone in the small room offset from the dispatch center. The head dispatch clerk, Debbie, just brought him a cup of black coffee. It is very pleasant to wrap his fingers around the mug’s warmth. Especially when he looks at the row of exterior camera views and sees the rain slanting down and pelting the landscape.

  “Have you seen anything?” asks Debbie, leaning over his shoulder. For a moment he loses himself in the wonderful sensation of her breasts brushing his back and shoulder. Sometimes it is almost painful to him but he never complains. Even mentioning it might forever deprive him of a normal woman’s touch.

  Not many women interested in a cripple like me . The moment of self pity comes and goes and he remarks, “Not sure. Look at Camera Seven. Do you see?”

  “That’s a person all right,” she answers. “Wish we knew whether he’s one of them or not.”

  “I’m leaning toward a zombie. Look at the way he’s walking. The only other possibility is that he’s drunk or injured.”

  168

  If anything, the pressure on his shoulder increases. “He’s wearing a uniform of some kind. Looks like the one our janitors wear, doesn’t it?”

  “Debbie, we can’t keep letting people in here. You know Gransky is going to go ballistic on you soon. We’re not the flipping SPCA.”

  Debbie straightens up and steps around the wheel of his chair to confront him. “I wish you’d quit making jokes like that. If I didn’t know you better, mister…”

  Anton rests each elbow on an armrest and steeples his fingers together, then raises a bushy eyebrow. “So, what do you want me to do, then?”

  “I expect you to let him in—If I tell you to. What do you say?”

  “Okay. Does this mean you’re going downstairs to look him over?” He takes a quick sip of his coffee. Still too hot.

  “Yes, I’ll get a closer look and a second opinion. Amy is covering the phones and the radio if you need anything.”

  “Sure thing. I think Dennis is watching the door. At least he’s a decent guy. If the guy hasn’t been bit, he’ll probably let him in.”

  She makes a face, the kind you make when you bite into something sour. “Oh, he’s decent, I suppose, but he’s a pessimist through and through. Maybe he’s been around Gransky too long. Anyway, I should be back soon.”

  “Okay,” he says to her back as she walks away. His attention is already back to his monitors, particularly number seven.

  THE RAIN FALLS FROM A SKY OF SLATE AND GRAY. He shivers beneath the downpour. Someone is on the dock. They are trying to be quiet but the wood groans and complains. Something metal clatters. He wraps both hands around the ladder poles and takes his time with the steps. It must have been a mild heart attack. I’m going to be fine now. Just eat right and exercise and I’ll be fine. No more cigarettes or booze. The straight and narrow for me, Lord.

  One more step and he’ll be able to see over the edge of the dock, but something stops him.

  169

  A muffled voice speaks from almost directly above: “I paid off the guard. We can take the big Cat at the end of the dock, last slip on the left. It’s gassed up and loaded down with food and water. We just have to wait for dark and the moon to pass.”

  “Sure thing, Kurt. Everything is going to hell here. I don’t know where to go, but anywhere but here, eh?” Someone with an Asian accent.

  There is a rustle of cloth, and the muffled voice is a bit clearer over the rain. “You are correct Fugi-san. When did you say Riker and his friend would join us?”

  The voices begin to move off, but he thinks he hears the one called Fugi say, “At eight-thirty.” He forces himself to wait. Patience. There is no hurry.

  Graham glances down at his wrist. His watch is still there, and still working. Must wait another two minutes and give these guys time to move away. Who knows how they would react if he just popped in on them. Also, he isn’t sure how knowing that some men are planning to steal a boat might affect him, but knowledge is power. The phrase brings a small laugh.

  The backlit numerals on his watch say 5:22 pm.

  “DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH UNSIGHTLY OPEN WOUNDS? Then call this

  number now for—” He pushes the channel up button on the remote control and the balding guy with the big mustache disappears. A brief flicker. It is an old TV. Organ music fills the room. A camera is focused on a church pulpit and a middle-aged guy in a dazzling white suit
with swept-back gray hair. The view zooms a little too fast and forcefully and for a moment there is a close-up of the guy’s nostril hair and slightly yellowed teeth.

  “If you haven’t been bitten, it’s not too late my children… Come downtown near the Pier. We are accepting one and all in this time of darkness. Come down to Union of the Trinity and be saved! I am Pastor Cornelius Berg—”

  170

  Talaski pushes the off button and the picture snaps out of existence leaving a blank green curved screen. He sits in a plush leather recliner, right arm thrown over his forehead and the other with the remote, resting on his stomach. All he can hear in the sudden stillness is the patter of rain on the windows.

  “There’s people out on the street,” says Keller from his position in the next room. It’s a den or study with two windows overlooking the road. “Look like refugees.”

  “As long as they keep walking and don’t stop, I don’t care what they do,” says Talaski, reaching now with his right hand for a tall, insulated glass filled with ice and Pepsi.

  “I agree,” says Keller. “I think I’ll go put those steaks on. We should cook some fresh stuff while we still can, eh?”

  “Sure, and I’ll force myself to turn the TV back on.”

  “You have to be a dedicated son of a bitch to still be doing your job now,” Keller says, walking past the doorway to the living room.

  “Is that what we’re doing? Or should I say I’m doing?” Talaski pauses, an evil grin in place. “I mean you are just a ride-along and…”

  “Fuck you,” replies Keller. “In all seriousness, I don’t know what else to do. Your friend, Yates, could probably use our help down at the Pier.”

  That’s true. Almost forgot about you Jock. “Once we eat, we can be there in a half hour or so, depending on how many of them are inbetween.”

  “But what happens after that?” asks Keller.

  “You mean after we stop the mayor’s evil plan and save everyone?”

  “Yeah, Nick. What happens after that?”

  “Can’t see that far Matt. Maybe we won’t live that long.”

  Keller is still standing in the doorway. “I’d like to find out if that desk clerk down at the station is alive.”

  Talaski grin is downright demonical. “If not her, Dirty Sanchez seemed interested in you…”

  “Sometimes, I really do hate you,” Keller says and then disappears down the hallway.

  171

  FROM A DISTANCE they can see that the road is blocked at the next light, but whoever is in the lead vehicle continues on. The signal lights are out but within half a block details emerge: one overturned car, another on its side and five or six in a crushed pile-up involving a Semi. Trish wants to close her eyes and stay huddled against Bud Wellman’s chest. The whole situation is too much. The only thing left to decide really is whether life is still worth living. Joy has never come easily into her life; only after a great deal of struggle. Does that make me tougher… or just more vulnerable?

  Rain falls in a nearly solid sheet and pounds so hard it makes it difficult to hear. An early twilight descends as they reach the intersection of 16th St N and 62nd Avenue N and come to a dead stop. On their side of the street, the west, there is a middle school on the right and somebody’s house on the left. The SUV in front of them rolls forward a few feet.

  “Where the hell does he think he’s going?!” exclaims Hank, and pounds a hand on the steering wheel. “There’s no way through.”

  Jerry is up front beside him. “Maybe we could drive through the fence?”

  Hank looks to his right. “You mean around the middle school?” He pauses, considering. “It is only chain link… if I got up some speed maybe.”

  Trish sees movement around the SUV in front of them.

  People are emerging from the wrecks and surrounding the vehicle. Trish wants to cry out, but Bud reacts first. “Dad, look out! Marco’s being surrounded!”

  Hank looks forward again. Trish watches a wave of the dead rock and pound on the other SUV. “My God, how many are there?” Hank murmurs. He seems stunned into immobility. More of the creatures bypass Marco and head for them.

  There is a sudden engine roar and Marco’s SUV is upon them before anyone can react. Glass shatters and there is a terrible metal shriek as the whole world tilts with the impact of the two huge vehicles. Trish winds up on top of Bud and his mother as their SUV crashes over onto the driver’s side.

  None of us were wearing seat belts. She’s in a pile on top of Bud and his mother.

  “Mom! Mom!” Bud shouts. Trish tries to get a foot on Hank’s bucket seat so she can get some of her weight off the other two people. Nothing but silence from the front seat. Hank and Jerry are either dead or unconscious.

  “Oh God, Trish, she won’t wake up! And I smell gas. We’ve got to get out of here!”

  The stink reaches her nostrils. “I’ll try to get the door open, Bud, hang on.”

  She gets a hand on the handle and it turns, but she isn’t strong enough to shove it open with one hand. “I can’t…” The whole vehicle rocks one way, then the other. Trish barely holds on.

  “They’re on each side of us Trish.” She looks down and sees him trying to stand, without stepping on his mother. They rock again, but he manages to stand. “Here, let me boost you up so you can use both arms.” His big hands circle her waist and he lifts. She puts her hands above her and the door opens. He continues to lift her and she is half out.

  More rocking and shaking. Now the rain strikes her full force and soaks her in an instant. She is barely balanced on top and has to grip each side of the car to keep from slipping off. Bud lets go, and he grabs the door, holding it open as she pulls her feet free. She swings back around to face the open door. On either side of the vehicle she can see those things trying to push the vehicle over. Bud’s face is looking up at her with… is it just rain streaking down his face?

  “Goodbye Trish. I can’t leave them. I have a lighter.”

  She sobs. “They’d want you to come Bud, please…”

  “Can’t do it Trish. Now run while you can!”

  Somewhere overhead, the roar an engine and the thump of rotors. A light stabs out, makes its way around the intersection. She looks up and is fixed in the beam. Something slithers down through the dark: a rope! A magnified voice says: “Grab the rope and tie it around you Trish.”

  “Do it,” says Bud.

  She looks down and sees several zombies on their back or knees in the backwash.

  “Goodbye Bud.” A last look at a friend and she leaps up and out, knees flexed, lands on a corpse and rolls off and onto her feet. Up and

  173

  running to the right of the intersection. South. There is just room enough for a small woman between the fence and a wreck. Above her, the rotor and engine noise recede as the helicopter rises. She ducks and dodges three of the dead things and makes it right through the gap, running flat out now, trying to keep her breathing cadenced, barely wincing when a sudden bloom of light and expanding air overtake her, followed by a chain of explosions.

  She slows her headlong flight as it takes her into water over ankle high, but refuses to look back. She’s back to being just Trish, the one and only.

  The one and lonely.

  J ANICEA AND THE BOY are walking ahead, while he follows with Tracks. Daric is holding her hand in one hand and clasping his bear in the other. A comic book protrudes from the top of his backpack. Such a good kid. Even Janicea isn’t so bad anymore.

  The same thoughts chase each other around in his head with no answers or solutions forthcoming: Each time I open myself up to someone I get hurt. What if the boy has been bit? We really need to know the truth.

  “Gotta find us a doctor Bronte,” says Tracks in his hoarse nearwhisper.

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing, Tracks. The only problem is who can we trust?”

  “Maybe I can ask around? There are a lot of people up ahead in that line and near the Pier,�
�� says Janicea.

  “No,” says Tracks. “We stick together.”

  Janicea looks surprised. “You mean that, Tracks?”

  “We all need each other Janice,” Bronte says. “If we separate, we may never find each other later.”

  A tall, skinny young white guy is walking toward them. His arm is bandaged and he’s walking with a limp. Tracks steps over to him. “Excuse me sir,” he rasps through what sounds like a mouth full of gravel.

  “Yes sir, how can I help you?” The guy stops, and his eyes flicker over each of them briefly. He gives an encouraging nod at Tracks.

  “The boy, he hurt and we need some food.”

  “Let me take you there, just follow me,” he says, already turning around.

  “Oh no, just point. We don’t mean trouble Mister…”

  The man stops again, gives a broad smile. “You aren’t trouble. Seriously. I’ve been treated and I’ve already eaten. Let me help you. It’s a small enough request. There’s some tents over here. Right this way.” He barely finishes talking before he turns back away from them and takes a big stride.

  Tracks looks back and shrugs with a questioning look.

  “Let’s go and follow the nice man. Come on Daric,” says Bronte.

  H IS HEADLIGHTS PICK THEM OUT through the falling liquid shroud with maybe ten feet to spare: three people standing in a loose knot almost in the middle of the intersection. Dodd doesn’t even attempt to brake, but heads straight toward them at thirty or forty miles an hour. In the seat beside him Carlos cries out, “Cuidado! Los Muertos!” Then there is a near simultaneous concussive triple thump as they plow through and send the bodies flying. One body flies up and shatters the windshield and remains lodged with a near complete head and torso inside the cruiser. Dodd is screaming and barely aware of anything but the thing’s snapping teeth as it lunges for him. Fortunately both of its arms are severed and Dodd makes no effort to fight the slide as the car hydroplanes into a complete 360 and more. The world spins around, the outside a blur as they spin. Dodd is dimly aware of Carlos screaming, “Mi dia! Mi dia de muerte!” Then they clip something and the dead thing flies free and they slam to a stop on top of a mailbox. Dodd’s chest slams into the steering wheel and the car rolls off the nearly flattened box, engine still running.