“Well done!” shouts Jacobs. “Booth, go check it out!”
Before Booth can move, another van rounds the corner and runs over the guy still lying in the road. This time none of the soldiers wait
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for the order to fire. Tracers crisscross the road and one blows out the van’s left rear tire. The driver fights for control but fails and the front of the van crashes through a plate glass storefront.
The soldiers continue to fire for a minute or two until the voice of Jacobs yells, “Cease fire! Hold your fire!”
T HE SOUND OF THE SHOTS ARE LOUD. Too loud. Hopefully, despite the risk of attracting more zombies, someone will show him the same courtesy someday. At least he has saved a few people from coming back.
Just making sure that dead means dead. He wants nothing to do with this sort of afterlife.
He does take the time to gather up three pistols he finds among the bodies. Kurt, Fugi and their female friend are somewhere beyond worrying about that now. I need every edge I can get.
The voice of his Korean Tae Kwon Do instructor is still with him, merely requiring the most ludicrous of triggers to activate. Graham hears the word ‘edge,’ and shortly thereafter, “You must use the edgy Chad. The edgy! A closed fist is slow. The edgy is swift and hard.”
I wish you were here with me now.
He pushes the dock gate open and steps out onto the dock itself, his footsteps loud and clunky. Most of the gunfire has faded now and the rain has stopped. The boat is the last one on the slip and fortunately it looks like it will be easy to get out. Just release the moorings, start the engine and motor off.
Easy.
He walks down the dock between all the still moored, unclaimed boats and stops at the end. The thing must be at least forty feet long. Every detail impresses him, from the two big outboard engines on the back to the mast towering overhead.
When he climbs aboard and his feet thump on the deck, he hears a noise. He’s standing in the stern and can see some stacked boxes, tables and chairs, but not much else. There is a ladder going up to an open air
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bridge, and a covered living area. He decides to go deeper into the covered area, and turns his flashlight on.
He hears another strange noise and swings the light toward it.
There, pinned in the light behind a set of closed French doors is a little puff ball of white fur with black button eyes and nose. The little dog, hardly more than a puppy, barks again and brushes his paws on the glass.
I’m actually smiling. Not going to be completely lonely anymore.
Graham unburdens himself. He can’t really get rid of all this stuff quick enough.
Once done with that he opens the door and the little dog sits back on his haunches and looks up at him.
Tears in his eyes, Graham hugs the little animal to his chest, and tries not to come completely unglued. “Glad to meet you little guy.”
THE CREATURES SHAMBLE CLOSER, but something is restraining him and his right arm is throbbing terribly. Can’t move! They got me now! Got to run! Can’t… He wakes with a start, terrified and disoriented with no clue where he is. The panic is complete but short-lived. Darkness, the smell of damp mops and bleach all serve as triggers. I’m just in a closet.
Hiding.
“Only cowards hide. I just needed someplace safe to sleep. No big deal,” he says, whispering to himself. He cradles his injured arm a moment. It really is throbbing.
“Nobody cares about me. I can’t trust anyone. No matter what I do, they turn on me. I’ll have to show these bastards that you might fool James Dodd once, but that’s all. The balance comes due. Then I come to collect.”
With all that being said, he reaches down to his ankle and the comforting weight that’s been there all along. My little Black Widow. The pistol should be more than enough to take down anything in a close quarters situation. He releases the clasp and pulls the gun free. He can’t see it in the pitch black room, but just holding it gives him an edge.
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Okay. Now I’m going to stand up . He leans over, turning to his side and gathers himself on his hands and knees, then pushes himself upright amid a clatter of brooms and mops.
That’s over with. Now, what’s next hero?
“Now I get out of this closet and I go downstairs for better weapons or I find a place to hide and ambush the others.” He pauses a moment, considering. “Well, I could always use a few painkillers also. Truth be told.”
He holds the gun in his left hand, pointing it straight ahead. With his right hand, he reaches out and grasps the door handle. It doesn’t budge. He tries a firmer grip, twists and releases. “I can’t be locked in. Try the other hand.”
Gun barely clasped in his right hand, he takes a firm grip on the door handle and twists. The handle goes further than he could manage with the other hand and the door opens. He steps outside quickly, transferring the gun yet again so he holds it with his strong hand.
A hurried glance left and right reveals an empty hallway full of shadows and more closed doors. No creatures.
I’m on the third floor. Did they say zombies were on the third? Can’t remember.
Seems quiet.
He takes a step or two toward the stairs.
HOW LONG DO WE HAVE UNTIL HE GETS BACK UP? Seconds? It seems incredible
that those guys could be sloppy, but apparently luck is running with me for a change. Mills forces himself to wait another ten seconds, then he stands up and sprints toward the soldier still lying in the road where his companions left him. He turns on his flashlight and plays it over the corpse. The guy is spread-eagled on his back, eyes open, with a contorted terrified expression frozen on his face. There is also a bullet hole between his eyes.
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“Nice,” mutters Trish from beside him.
“Yeah, he’s a real treat. One of his buddies must’ve given him a mercy shot.” Mills squats down and pulls the microphone headset from the guy’s head. “If only they are still working…” He makes a few adjustments to the earpiece and adjusts the mic, makes sure it is turned off and then puts them on. He has a vague awareness of Trish stripping the corpse, first of its weapon, then equipment. The sound of a whispered voice takes him away.
“I can see a large crowd, Jacobs. Most of them are clustered near the south entrance and the parking garage doors.”
“Okay Lepski. I want you to provide cover fire. Booth and Hicks will secure the entrance.”
“I’m getting a lot of interference on my end, Jacobs. I hear you still right now, but you may have to shout commands to me if I fail to respond.”
“Okay Lepski, just hold on. We’re almost in position.”
“The little fires still burning around here are also messing up my Infra-red vision.”
“Give me a chance to catch up, Lepski. I can’t see any of this yet.”
Mills turns his attention back to his companion. He is just in time to see her strapping herself into the dead guy’s body armor. “Little big on you, but not bad,” he says.
“Thanks sport. Wait’ll you see my sleepwear.”
Mills looks up, but now she’s reaching for the guy’s equipment and ammo harness. There is a holstered pistol on the belt portion of the harness, but she doesn’t examine it.
What do I say to that?
He gives up. “I can hear everything they’re saying. Sounds like they’re about to attack a bunch of zombies in front of the Police Station.”
“Good,” she says, finally picking up the guy’s main weapon: a nastylooking shotgun with a pistol grip and a drum magazine. “I don’t mind if the zombies kill a few of them for us.”
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“I DON’T THINK THEY CAN SENSE US OUTRIGHT, do you?” Keller asks. Talaski rubs his temple and looks around. “We’re pretty close and none of them have yet.”
Talaski shifts a bit to get into a more comfortable position. They managed with no trouble to make it to the ditch and even to cross one of th
e bridges. Right now both men are lying in the dirt, looking across the street at the Police HQ.
“Do you think that’s an argument against these things being supernatural?”
“I don’t know Matt, you’re still alive and you don’t notice much.”
“Bastard,” Keller mutters, choking on a laugh.
Ever since the vans rocketed out, the mass of zombies has congregated more toward the still open garage door. At the moment, five or six pose a serious threat to anyone trying the normal entryway for people on this side of the building.
“Hmm, what to do?” Talaski ponders.
“Do you think we can make it inside?”
“Is Dirty Sanchez a man?” Talaski retorts.
Keller smacks himself in the forehead. “Oh man, I was trying to forget that part.”
“Don’t let him know that.”
Talaski reaches down to his belt and pulls his ASP. Keller notices and does the same.
“Remember Matt, we only use the pistols as a last resort.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, we don’t want to attract any more of them.”
“Let’s go then,” Talaski says sharply. He propels himself up and off the ground straight at the nearest bunch of walking dead. He doesn’t bother to look but hears Keller right behind him.
The first zombie in their way is facing away from them. He’s a big, fat blob of a man dressed in the remnants of a suit. Talaski swings the
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ASP against the guy’s head that sends his victim staggering one or two steps to the right and into an old homeless guy in a trench coat. A young, long-haired punk spins around and clumsily falls to his knees. He makes a grab for Talaski’s leg and almost trips him. Talaski is forced to grab the punk’s shoulder to keep from falling. For a moment, he’s almost cheek to cheek with a dead white face with shredded lips, a gaping hole where a nose should be, and a single staring milky eye. Talaski thrusts himself backward, just as the thing goes for his throat. Someone grabs the back of his shirt, and then Keller swings his ASP like a baseball bat against the punk’s skull.
Talaski gets his balance and Keller releases his one-handed grasp on his collar.
The punk’s face is no longer recognizable as such. It’s just a lump of bloody cookie dough wrapped around a metal pole. Talaski risks a look at his friend and sees something else instead. Keller snarls, sounding like some primordial beast, puts a foot on the punk’s chest and jerks his weapon free.
“Come on,” Talaski says, hoping enough of his friend’s sanity is left to understand. He runs five or six feet, seeing the creatures closing in on either side. Two more stand before the door and its key slide. Talaski kicks one in the knee cap, shattering it with his boot, then slams his ASP onto and through the thing’s head as it goes down. The other, once an attractive young woman in a brown dress, launches herself at him, one hand trying to get a grip on his buzz-cut head, while the other reaches for his face. He reaches out and gets a hand around her neck, just enough to keep her mouth away. The ASP is tangled in something.
She’s too close. Can’t break free. The thing’s hand is now around his neck trying to pull him toward her mouth while he desperately dances around in a circle with her, trying to break free. Talaski lets the ASP go, and it clatters to the ground between them. He reaches up with both hands and grabs hold of her head.
“Bitch!” he screams, and twists with his hands. He hears a gruesome snap and her body is suddenly limp. Lets her go. Keller is behind him with a length of pipe, swinging it like it’s nothing. The crowd is closing in, but so far Keller is keeping them back, cracking limbs and skulls, still screaming, but hoarsely now.
Talaski feels for the I.D. card, and looks at the scanner. The LED is lit. Presumably, there is power to it. He slides the card.
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H E KEEPS HIS SPEED DOWN. The water is choked with ‘objects,’ mostly wreckage and bodies. This boat is also a little harder to steer in the enclosed area of the marina. Until he can find the way out and get past the Pier, his stress level will stay high. Good thing, Fugi and his friends had everything ready. Otherwise, he might still be messing around.
The moon has gone behind some clouds and is visible only as a sickly yellow stain.
The rain has almost stopped. He thinks about the cabins below. I could have a shower and be sleeping like a baby in minutes. Just need to find a hiding place where the helicopters won’t find me so easy. Maybe over near Weedon Isle, among the mangroves. After that, God knows.
Most of the boats still moored are damaged or destroyed. He can see people walking around on the docks occasionally but he’s pretty sure they aren’t alive.
This really sucks. I thought I had it bad before… And the last thing I want to do is think about the Ex. Who knows whether she, the kids and their ‘new’ daddy are still alive.
Everything is quiet up on the Pier. Just people strolling around as usual. That’s the trick. Maybe it always has been. From a distance you can imagine a wonderful world out there. Those people up there aren’t dead people trolling or strolling around looking for a bite—They’re just out for an early morning walk. Don’t look too close. Up close, things get ugly.
He shrugs. I must be tired. Really tired.
Just before the bulk of the Pier blocks it off, he sees a glow. Maybe a light on the water? Wonder who would have a light on and why? He is in the channel now and feels reasonably sure he can go a little faster and still be safe.
Many of the Pier’s glass panels are shattered. Who knows how? The top floor is the fifth floor if he remembers correctly. There’s one
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inside bar and one outside, and lots of outdoor tables to take the sea breeze and the night sky. One floor beneath the top, probably the fourth, also has a light, maybe a lantern. Some kind of Spanish restaurant on that level, he thinks.
Sorry I can’t help you up there, whoever you are .
A moment or two later, he exits the marina and passes around the Pier’s bulk into the open water of Tampa Bay. If he were to follow the Pier around, he would end up in the Vinoy Basin. He makes a slow, leisurely turn, doing exactly that, turning to his left. Almost immediately he spots the light he saw earlier; probably a high-powered flashlight. Someone is sweeping its beam over the water.
People looking for survivors I bet.
He looks to his right, maybe a hundred or so yards further out in the bay. The bulk of the cruise ship is there, motionless and probably lifeless, grounded on a sand bar. Small fires are still burning in and around the gaping hole that used to be its stern. He is a little amazed that the whole thing didn’t blow sky high. A good portion of the rear of the ship simply vaporized.
Voices from the small rescue operation draw his attention back to the small motor boat ahead. He looks down at the lighted console beside the wheel. There is a microphone and a switch next to it that is labeled ‘Loudspeaker.’
He throttles his speed down to a crawl and flicks the switch on.
“Attention small craft. Please hold your fire. I can help you if you wish. I’ll anchor and await your reply.”
There is a series of little tugs on his shoes. He smiles. The little white puppy is playing with his laces.
“A little aggressive hospitality, as they say,” he mutters to himself. He looks up at the sky and its blanket of disturbed clouds. “Hopefully where I’m needed most.”
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THE PAIN FROM HIS BROKEN ARM STILL THROBS, and every now and then he has to stop and take several deep breaths. The only light comes from the red-tinged emergency lights on each landing in the stairwell. Am I descending into Hell? “No air down here either, that’s for sure,” he says and wipes his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. Just walking around is bringing on a serious sweat.
As far as he could tell, there were no zombies on the third floor. There is a difference though between searching room by room and just peeking through the window of a fire exit door into a single hallway.
So, who really
knows?
“The bastards are definitely all over the first and second floors, though,” he murmurs to himself and giggles a little. “Might be a little punchy.” He’s standing on the last landing before the final flight of stairs to the basement—and more importantly, the armory. A bulletin board runs the length of the wall closest to him. On it are various gun safety warnings and rules.
All he has to do is walk two or three steps to his right and the final flight of stairs will take him directly to a hallway. The first door in that hallway goes to the armory. There are also several other rooms, mostly full of supplies of various types.
“Never told you that, did I, Mitch? Ha-ha, you dumb bastard. All the food and water you need right here.” He claps a hand over his mouth briefly. “Oops, talking out loud may not be the best idea, James old buddy.”
He hears a metallic clank, and what sounds like shuffling feet. All trace of exhausted hilarity leaves him. He clutches the gun a little tighter in his left hand, and lets his finger curl around the trigger.
Something metal, maybe a pipe, slides across the floor down there.
Officially now, he makes himself face the fact that he isn’t alone.
“Got to save the last one, no matter what,” he says, whispering this time.
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He takes the three steps and turns to look down the stairs. Two men are standing at the bottom of the stairs. He recognizes one right away due to his massive bulky body and his mutilated ears: Sergeant Gransky! The other guy is on the slim side. Can’t be Gransky’s sidekick, Dennis. He’s still on the first floor somewhere. Why are both these guys just standing there?
Might as well find out and get it over with.
“Sergeant Gransky?” he says, heart fluttering.
The man’s huge head turns up toward his voice. Why is he grinning? Is he dead or not? Both men suddenly stagger into motion and promptly trip on the stairs. Gransky lurches to his feet and musters enough motor control to climb the stairs. Finally, Dodd gets a good look at the cratered ruin of Gransky’s chest.
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