Dead Tide

by Stephen A. North

  Steady. The sight lies just beneath the good doctor’s nose, right above his snarling upper lip. Squeeze the trigger gently. In a grotesque

  202

  tableau, a good chunk of the doctor’s face simply vanishes and his body falls backward. The old familiar smell of gunpowder sharpens even as the sound of the shot deadens Graham’s hearing.

  The sergeant stumbles over the body and goes down face first. Graham tracks him automatically; shoots him in the back of the head. Both corpses are still.

  Wonder what happened to them after I left? He shrugs, starts to turn away then stops. That sergeant had a holstered pistol. He might even have a rifle back in the kitchen. If I want to live, I’ m going to have to do things I don’t like. He extends his sneakered foot and rolls the sergeant over.

  To his relief, both guys are still dead.

  He kneels down and unbuckles the guy’s pistol belt. The gun is still in the holster and there are two ammo pouches. The belt is too tight, but that is easy to fix. The convenience of one-size-fits-all can be wonderful. He enlarges it by at least three inches and cinches it around his waist. The pistol is a comforting weight. One pouch is filled with .45 magazines, all loaded. The second pouch contains three M-16 magazines, also all loaded. There is also a flashlight. He unclips it, turns it on, and holds it in his left hand. He keeps the revolver in his right.

  “I don’t really want to go in there,” he murmurs. It’s a bad habit, but ever since he started driving the cab he’s talked to himself more often. He pushes the reluctance aside and goes through the door fast.

  The room is the same except for a gory mess on the floor. The sergeant’s corpse was in pretty bad shape. Maybe the doctor ‘woke up’ first?

  No sign of a rifle anywhere. He begins to search the room. The only likely place is what looks like a storage cabinet near the door. It isn’t locked. Inside he finds a loaded army-style backpack with a sleeping bag tied to the top and the missing rifle. There has to be some good stuff in the backpack. Pulls the backpack over his shoulders and then picks up the rifle. It’s already loaded and has a sling set up to hang around the neck. It should be perfect if he needs to simply reach down and fire. Goes ahead and pulls the sling over his head and lets the rifle dangle near his belt buckle.

  My luck must be changing.

  Without a backward glance he again takes up the flashlight and the partially loaded pistol.

  Guess I better go tell that kid, Louie, that his sergeant is dead. It’s time to get away from here.

  203

  JUST THE THOUGHT that all this striving might be for nothing lends him the strength he needs. He works the shotgun with the economy and skill of longtime mastery. The ratchet-booms come quick and close together and the bodies disintegrate and fall almost as one. The old killing skills are still there, even if the body is no longer perfect.

  He pauses by the tent’s entryway and reloads. All he can see is a milling crowd. My boy! My boy! The phrase runs through his head, although nothing escapes his lips but the harsh rasp of his labored breath. Can’t fall apart now. He still needs me.

  Three soldiers clatter by, rifles held at port arms running toward the approaching mass of walking dead. Just beyond them, a knot of people are struggling at the entrance to the floating dock down at the waterline. He spots a familiar mass of red hair and starts to run. A moment later, a smiling Janicea and Daric clutch him in a hug. Bronte hovers behind them.

  Daric holds up his arms and Tracks sweeps him up against his chest. “I was afraid Tracks,” says Daric.

  “Don’t be afraid boy,” he murmurs, then louder says, “Everyone

  okay?”

  The other two nod.

  “Good. I know a way out.”

  Bronte is looking at him strangely.

  “No time, just follow, okay?” Tracks doesn’t bother to wait for an

  answer and simply starts running toward the Pier’s main building, a massive inverted triangle. Here and there they pass panicked people. There are several shops clustered around the main entrance but they run right past these and see the main entrance double doors standing open. A flickering battery-powered lantern gives just enough light to reveal most of the immediate interior.

  The four of them stop briefly. Inside is a large lobby featuring two huge cylinder fish tanks and a lot of old pictures of St. Petersburg and

  204

  the previous piers. Several people are milling about but none pay them any attention. They enter a wide corridor and take a right at a sign that reads ‘Elevators.’ Light reflects dully off a pair of elevator doors and a stairwell door.

  “Power’s dead, Tracks. How are we—”

  Tracks points at the stairwell and pushes the door open. “We’re going down.”

  O NE FIST, then the other slam onto the door. It isn’t so much the danger that he will break in, but the relentless quantity of the guy’s pounding that is driving her crazy. More of them will come, maybe more than she can handle. She has the irrational urge to scream out at him to stop.

  “I’ll make you stop,” she mutters and feels her way toward a wall. “I don’t care how big, dumb or dead you are either, you bastard!” Her hand grips the edge of a table or shelf, then something metal. She reaches out with both hands and grabs the metal thing; it sloshes. Must be a can of something that’s half-full and heavy. What the hell is it? She feels for and finds a cap, the screw-on type.

  Gas.

  Wouldn’t gas in the eyes blind a dead guy? Why not, she wonders. The thing outside has begun to moan. She catches bits and pieces

  of it between the pounding. In response, she can feel her skin literally crawl.

  I have to do something now. The longer I wait, the less time I have.

  She carries the can over to the door. It’s easy to find even in nearly pitch darkness. At least I have enough to slosh over several people. I wonder if I should try to find a backup weapon? What if the gas doesn’t work and I can’t get out?

  “Some people put a flashlight near doorways just for times like this,” she says and gives a bitter laugh while reflecting on what she just said. “You never know when you’ll be trapped in a garage with zombies outside.”

  205

  She forces herself to feel all around the wall to the right of the door, starting high. The door does swing in, so it seems logical to put one there. Her fingers fumble over the light switch. There seems to be three of them lined up from left to right. One is a separate line, or at least a separate box. The urge to try them is too much.

  Three dry purposeless clicks.

  She forces herself into stillness although every muscle wants to strike out at something in frustration. Takes a deep breath and pauses. Eyes closed she lets it out.

  I won’t do that again.

  The search continues. Nothing else is within a foot of the doorway on the right. She tries the left. It is just a short stretch of wall, but there is a large stack of wooden moulding strips in a bundle; too flexible and flimsy to be of any use as a weapon.

  Back to the right, but further over she finds another table. Small objects on the table are rattling around with the vibration from the pounding. There is a little storage stacker, the type with all the little drawers containing screws, nuts, and nails. She trails her hands around the table top, about to move on, when she feels a handle. It’s a small metal sledge. She can barely lift it with one hand. Why couldn’t it be a hatchet? Oh well, with two hands I’ll still be deadly with this sucker!

  She makes her way back to the door. “Make a plan, Trish,” she says to herself. “How about this? Shower whoever is out there with a gas bath, then grab my sledge and brain anybody who tries to stop me.” Her voice sounds confident, unafraid.

  “What about afterward?” she hears herself say.

  When the seconds go by and the silence draws out too long, she realizes that no one is going to answer that question. Better to just get ready, then act. She rests the sledge against her right ankle and grabs t
he plastic gas can. It feels like one of the smaller ones, maybe a gallon or a gallon and a half container. Probably half-full. She unscrews the cap and the pungent smell carries faintly to her nose.

  Hold the can in your right hand, and open the door with your left.

  She unlocks the door, turns the handle and a bloodied hand smacks the door open. The creature takes an unbalanced step into the garage and Trish splashes the gas right into his face. His hands reach for his eyes momentarily; a reflex action maybe and Trish steps past him right into the yard trailing gas everywhere. The other creature is still down with the glowing landscape light inbedded in its face.

  The back door to the house opens and another man is there. This one is aiming a pistol just over her head. “Get down!” he screams.

  206

  Trish drops, heedless of where she is and a shot booms out over her head. The ground is muddy. Three more shots ring out, sounding somehow less fierce than some of the guns she’s heard lately.

  A male voice somewhere closeby says, “You can get up lady. We got coffee inside.”

  THE STAIRS END IN A KITCHEN complete with a booth big enough to seat four adults. There is a large refrigerator, a sink and even a small dishwasher. The kitchen cabinets are finished with a red mahogany stain and a glossy polyurethane finish. Lionel’s wife and two children are sitting at the booth with a pile of magazines and books. All of them appear to be afraid.

  “Where is everybody?” Hadley asks. Both kids look toward a short two-step stair that descends into a hallway. There is also a short passage forward, but the kids didn’t look that way. The wife nods down the stairs. “I have to protect my kids. I’d leave if I knew they’d be safer.”

  “Stay here and be quiet. I’ll be right back. Better yet, what is forward?” he asks.

  “Captain’s cabin,” the wife answers. Hadley realizes that he’s never been properly introduced. How the hell does this guy have a nice family?

  “Take the kids in there and hide if you can. I’ll come back for you if I can. You kids listen to your mother.”

  He turns away and doesn’t look back. Either they’ll listen or they won’t. At the bottom of the short stair he finds himself flanked by doors on either side. There is the distinctive hum of machinery coming from either side. Must be the engines.

  He finishes the beer and pauses to set the bottle on the floor.

  Another door is straight ahead and the passage jogs left around it. He eases the door open and looks with his gun. Just a little two-bed cabin, nicer than most but still a bit cramped for a guy pushing 330 lbs.

  207

  Another door on the left is open revealing a small bathroom with a toilet, sink and shower. Finally, there’s one more closed door at the end of the passage.

  Loud music spills out through the last door. He presumes it is the owner’s cabin.

  Plush carpet covers the floor. The door is locked.

  He pounds on the door with the butt of his pistol.

  The door opens a foot or so. Lionel, wearing a white terry cloth robe, is framed in the doorway.

  “Let me in Lionel. We got problems.”

  Lionel shakes his head. “Maybe you should come back later Jubal.”

  Hadley pushes him aside and sees a very over-the-top opulent bedroom. Everything matches and is tasteful. Obviously, Lionel’s wife had some influence here.

  The mayor and his girlfriend are on their knees in front of a glass coffee table. What looks like a bag of flour is spilled over most of the table. Ritchie and Marilee have little glass straws in their hands and some of the white powder dusting their noses and upper lips. Marilee is also topless. Her skin is tan and smooth, her breasts are perfect and her teeth are very white when she grins at him.

  “Chiefy-baby,” says Marilee. “I’m coping a lot better now. You really aren’t such a bad guy. But you sure can be tight-assed when you want to be.”

  Ritchie explodes with laughter, his face beet red. “You got that right, Sweetheart. He’s forgot more about having a good time than I—”

  “Better get dressed,” snaps Hadley. “We got bad guys on the boat.”

  “Bullshit,” snarls Lionel. “We’re underway aren’t we?”

  Hadley turns toward Lionel and sees that the guy is actually bouncing up and down lightly on his heels. Coked up, as they say. He also barely reacts when Hadley takes a handful of his bathrobe and pulls him close.

  “Better sober up for your family’s sake, dumbass. You got any guns down here?”

  “Now Jubal, for Christ’s sake…” says the mayor, but Lionel must see something in Hadley’s expression.

  Lionel very carefully takes Hadley’s hand from his robe. “I got the picture. Get on your feet Ritchie. The Chief’s serious. And I do have some guns down here. Let me show you.”

  “Just arm yourself and the others. I told your wife to lock herself and the kids in the captain’s cabin. I can’t sit down here like a rat.”

  208

  “That’s true,” says Ritchie with a smirk. “You don’t have the build for it.”

  Hadley shakes his head. “That some kind of joke? You better get your head on straight before someone rips it off.”

  Something big hammers the door behind Hadley. Marilee screams. “I don’t want to die Ritchie!”

  The mayor looks a little spaced. He drops back to his knees, glass straw in hand.

  “Ritchie! Ritchie I’m talking to you. What are you doing?”

  The mayor pinches one nostril closed, holds the straw to the other and dips into the white mound. He takes an extended snort, barely pauses for a breath and then inhales another. Hadley watches the guy’s eyes roll up in his head, while a weeping Marilee cradles him in her arms.

  “I need you Ritchie. Don’t leave me now. Bastard! You selfish bastard!”

  Tears slide down a near perfect cheek. She seems quite unaware of any irony to her words.

  And so it goes.

  A metallic click draws his attention back to Lionel. The guy has just lifted a painting, hinged on the top and locked it in the open position. He is now twirling the dial on a lock.

  “Better hurry Lionel. Remember, I had to leave your wife and kids.”

  Lionel reaches for a small handle and pulls. A two inch thick door opens out. Hadley can see three or four stacks of bundled cash, a pistol and four loaded magazines of ammo. “Nine millimeter Beretta,” Lionel says. “Fifteen rounds per mag.”

  “That all you got in there?” Hadley asks.

  “I consistently get all forty rounds into the target. If one is sufficiently skilled, you don’t need to carry a cannon like yours.” Lionel sounds a bit smug.

  “That so? Targets don’t shoot back.”

  “And to answer your question, the heavy duty stuff is upstairs in the galley. I don’t expect to fight a war in my bedroom, Mr. Hadley.”

  There is a terrible crash and out of the corner of his eye, Hadley sees the door burst open and a big man enters the room. “Hands up!” the man shouts.

  Hadley feels paralyzed, and only manages to turn halfway toward the door, with his gun still pointed at the ground. Shouldn’t have had that beer. Fuck it, someone was going to get the drop on me sooner or later.

  209

  “Don’t shoot me!” shouts Marilee. “I’ll do anything you want!” The middle-aged man is wearing an olive green short-sleeved pullover shirt and tan slacks. Brown deck shoes. A wet, apparently fresh, red stain is growing on the front of his shirt. He is holding two revolvers.

  Lionel says, “Councilman Truman List, welcome aboard.” The man has a large mouth full of capped teeth. There is something down home about his expression, even angry as it is at the moment. “Where’s the mayor?” he asks brusquely.

  “He’s taking a powder, you might say. See him over there lying on the floor?”

  List’s expression doesn’t waver. “You killed a lot of my friends, Burgosi—You and the mayor there.” List’s eyes are roving everywhere. Hadley watches him no
tice Marilee.

  “You didn’t give us much of a choice, Councilman. I’m not a nice guy in the best of times. Your man Cleaver told me that I wasn’t welcome and that you were taking my boat. What did you think I’d do?”

  “Guess I fucked up, eh Burgosi?” The councilman says this with an ironic smile. For the moment, he is the one with the advantage.

  Marilee decides to stretch. Still kneeling beside the unconscious mayor, she arches her back and thrusts out her chest. Hadley guesses she is still high as a kite. List’s eyes widen, then narrow. Hadley steels himself to spin around the rest of the way and try his luck.

  “Don’t try it, Chief,” says List. “I’ll blow your fat ass all over Lionel’s bed. In fact, it’s about time for everybody to drop their guns. Right now!”

  Hadley and Lionel drop their guns. List looks pleased. “Now we can have a little fun,” he says.

  Hadley has time to ponder List’s intent for only a moment when Ramos appears behind List and presses his pistol against his head.

  “Too late for that,” says Ramos. “Buenas sueno.”

  Ramos pulls the trigger. List’s head jerks with the close-range impact, and his body falls to the deep pile rug, nearly a soundless nonevent.

  No one protests.

  Hadley sits down on the bed with his back to the headboard, gun in his lap. He feels a bit light-headed.

  “Thanks, Corporal Ramos,” Hadley says, but Ramos has already exited the room.

  Marilee laughs a little hysterically and then climbs in beside him.

  His reaction is immediate and obvious, but he tries to remain nonchalant. Lionel watches the two of them for a moment. “I’m going

  210

  to check on my wife and kids. After that, look for me upstairs if you need anything.”

  When neither of them answers, Lionel leaves the room.

  Hadley closes his eyes. Marilee nuzzles against his neck. He can feel her hand roving and caressing.

  “Guess you like me, huh?” she asks. He can almost picture a smile on her face.

  “Part of me does.”

  She raises her open mouth to his, teeth parted.