Convergence: The Zombie War Chronicles - Vol. 2

by Damon Novak

  “Why is that funny?” she asked, smilin’.

  “Scared him but good, actually,” I said, eyin’ Georgie, who was already shakin’ her head at me. I guess she’d gotten to know me over the last few days. Had a feel for when I’d been up to somethin’.

  Made me feel a little exposed, or somethin’. It’d been a while since I’d really cared too much what anyone thought of me. I sure did care when it came to her.

  “He’s fine, promise,” I said. “I’ll let him tell ya the rest. He might even laugh about it later, but I doubt it.”

  We finished ransackin’ the store. Everybody got a good hat to protect ‘em from the sun, and we stocked up on everything from batteries to sunblock. We took the best rods, both for inshore and offshore fishin’, and dozens of lures.

  They had flatbed carts for coolers and stuff, so we loaded everything onto three of ‘em and rolled ‘em back to the boat, satisfied we’d gotten enough.

  We got to the boat and the black-red muck still remained on the deck of the boat where we’d killed the deadhead.

  “My God!” said Roxy. “Terry!” she called.

  “I said he’s fine!” I said, jumpin’ onto the boat and takin’ the stuff as they passed it to me. In five minutes, our booty was on board, and I was helpin’ the others on, keepin’ an eye out for more stinkers.

  Danny bypassed me and helped Lilly get on. “CB, start talking,” she said. “Now. What happened here?”

  I knew I was in trouble then. “We killed a goddamned zombie, Lilly, that’s all. Nobody’s hurt. Hell, Roxy, you should thank me for savin’ the kid.”

  “He’s right, sorta,” said Danny, a smirk on his face. “And Terry’s fine.”

  “I’m damned right. Just step past the sticky shit and I’ll hose it down once we get underway.”

  “He ain’t that right,” said Danny, laughin’.

  “You get the hose, old pal. I did the killin’, so you do the cleanup. We’ll talk about your duties as my best friend in the whole goddamned world later on.”

  “Hopefully over tequila shots,” he said.

  Danny helped Lilly, Georgie, and Roxy around the gummy shit on the boat deck, and Liam just cleared it in a standin’ broad jump.

  I was somewhat impressed. I used to be able to jump like that.

  As Danny passed me, he punched me in the arm and laughed. “You don’t get away with nothin’.”

  “Never have,” I said. “Especially when my best buddy tosses me under the bus.”

  Ω

  True to his word, while I hauled all our supplies into the salon for the others to stow, Danny cleaned the dead zombie’s bloody chunks from the Sea Ray’s deck. Afterward, he said, “Now hold on. In case you forgot my other job here, I didn’t.”

  “What?”

  “The fuckin’ skiff, man. I saw a cool wood boat with an outboard back there. I can get it started for sure.”

  “Okay, don’t dick around,” I said. “We’ll drift out to the middle and wait to make sure you get it goin’.”

  “Good enough,” he said.

  He jumped off and we threw the lines. Once I got back to the flybridge, I bumped the motor to float us just between the docks and the mangroves to the south.

  Floaters clawed at the bow of the Sea Ray near the waterline, but none made purchase. There were a couple of highly polished oars mounted on the wall of the salon – very retro stuff a rich boater probably loved – and Lilly unscrewed one from the wall and took it to the back of the boat. Until we got into deeper water, she was there to hammer the floaters off the swim step.

  I heard two thumps before I realized the skiff was approachin’, Danny wavin’ from behind the center console. It was a weird-lookin’ little 15-footer with an electric motor, but it was movin’ pretty good.

  He flipped the dock line and pushed off with an oar of his own, and next thing I knew, he gave me a finger in the air, tellin’ me, “Let’s go!”

  I would’ve gone, but with all the bodies in the water, I wasn’t sure he’d be able to plow through, so I waited.

  Sure enough, he zigged and zagged, shoved some of them away with his oar, and finally gave it enough juice to lift the bow up a bit and slide into open water.

  I pushed my throttle forward and followed.

  The water was crystal clear, so I guess he had a better view than me, because before I knew it, he was out of the channel and back in Deadman’s Bay. I opened it up and started plowin’ half-steam through all the floaters in the Steinhatchee River.

  We entered Deadman’s Bay behind Danny, continuin’ on for another half mile before I pulled back on the throttle. As I stood on the flybridge, watching Danny at the center console helm of the little skiff, I took note that the wind was calm, the sun was fully visible, and the water was mostly flat.

  I motioned to him that I was droppin’ anchor. He threw me a thumbs-up. The man had a smile on his face, and I knew he was in his element. He preferred boats that put him right down low on the water; he liked to feel saltwater spray in his face.

  I called Georgie up to help with the anchor, then asked her to hang up on the flybridge while I went down for a few minutes.

  I made my way down the short staircase and turned into the salon. I spotted Terry, storing away canned goods. The store had mostly pull-top cans of Vienna sausages, pork-n-beans, and other low-end stuff fishermen could open easily and eat cold.

  I spotted the Coors Light on the counter and got a little twinge. There’d be time for that later. I looked at Terry. “Hey, man. You got a minute?”

  He looked worried. “What did I do now?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “Nothin’, man. It’s me needs to apologize to you.”

  “Hey, it’s okay –”

  “No, it’s not,” I interrupted. “It’ll just take a minute.”

  I glanced over and saw all three ladies had smiles on their mouths. I guessed he’d told ‘em all what happened.

  We got outside. “Have a seat,” I said.

  We sat together on the stern bench seats.

  “Terry, you know what I did for a livin’ before all this started, right?”

  He nodded. “You ran an airboat tour company.”

  “Yep,” I said. “In the Everglades. You know what we got a lot of in the Everglades?”

  “I know,” he said. “Alligators.”

  “Yep. The ones with the big teeth and powerful jaws. You know the only thing that kept me alive out there?”

  He sighed, and I knew he already got it. But I’d spent so much time workin’ it over in my head, he was gonna hear every goddamned word.

  “You were careful,” he said.

  “That, plus I was properly scared of ‘em. That’s what it takes. The bein’ scared part is the respect part. You gotta respect what they can do to you. And you gotta know they’ll do it anytime they get the chance. Anytime you let your guard down it can be all over.”

  Terry nodded, and I knew he felt stupid. Good. I needed the kid to feel stupid. That way I could get to know him better, ‘cause he’d be around a good long time.

  “I get it, and you’re right,” he said. “When it all started, we were in that house, safe on the second floor. Yes, it was frightening, but I didn’t have to face any of them. Never had to kill any.”

  “Still haven’t, right?”

  “Right.”

  “We gotta pop your zombie cherry.”

  The kid nodded. A smile touched his lips. “I wasn’t aware I had one.”

  I smiled back. “Neither was I, until recently. Just remember, Terry. Respect what they can do and what drives ‘em, and it’ll keep you alive. Roxy’s gonna feel a whole lot better about this world if you’re still in it.”

  “Thanks, CB. I plan to learn a lot from you.”

  “I’ve got a feelin’ we’re all gonna learn a lot from each other over the comin’ days. Come on up to the flybridge. First lesson is drivin’ the boat.”

  His face went white.

 
I turned to hide my smirk and climbed the steps back up top. “Don’t worry. For now, we’ll just get you familiar with the controls.”

  Ω

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Micky Rode

  The road’s either clogged with the new monsters of the earth, or it’s empty. I haven’t seen any other conditions since we took off from Buckingham.

  The glass is either full to overflowing, or it’s got calcium deposits on the bottom, bone dry.

  This is Micky Rode. I figured I should start documenting this and writing things down on this journey, rather than just broadcasting. I don’t know how many people are hearing me, but it’s cathartic for me anyway. If I’m up and around, it’s question after question from a lot of people who’ve come along with us, but the only problem is, I know as much as anyone else.

  Or as little. Yeah, they think I know more because I’m the one who first raised suspicions about the Indian, Wattana.

  I have good reason. It’s not just what I saw. It’s more than that; it’s a feeling, really. He was lying. He is alive.

  To recap what’s going on, I was a DJ, working at a classic rock radio station on the FM dial. The call letters were WJAM, and they let me play pretty much whatever I wanted.

  The last day, all I did was play warnings. The boss was dead-but-not-dead by that time, and I wasn’t listening to him anymore. Especially when I saw his wife eating him through the glass in his office. Imagine my relief when I realized she no longer had the mental capacity to remember how to get out.

  My producer, Glenn Hewitt, was stuck in the building with me, but everyone else had abandoned the studio. Earlier, when the rain had started, he’d been outside having a smoke while I played Green Grass and High Tides by The Outlaws. Since it’s almost a ten-minute song, he had plenty of time to get doused by that black rain.

  Seems smokers will do almost anything to get in those last couple of hits. I remember him coming back in, his white tee shirt peppered with black spots, and him wiping the crap off his head with black-stained paper towels.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” I asked, when he came back in.

  “It’s weird, man! It’s raining! Out of the blue – and I mean totally out of the blue!”

  “Wasn’t in the forecast,” I said. “I mean, it’s always in the forecast, but not until tonight.”

  “Smells, too,” he said. “And it’s black.”

  “Black?”

  “Like ink.”

  I pulled out my cell phone and dialed my wife’s cell number. It rang, and I drummed my fingers on the desk until she answered.

  “Hello?” she said. “Mick?”

  “Hey, Heather,” I said. “Everything okay there? Is Pete in the house?”

  “Not yet,” she said. She seemed out of breath. “He’s still over at Matt’s house. Honey, did you see that rain? Petey said he and Matt were outside when it started, running around in it, jumping in those black puddles. They ran to his house afterward.”

  “It smells, right? That’s what Glenn said.”

  “Yeah, like industrial waste or something.”

  “Get him home and make him take a shower right away,” I said. “You too, if you got it on you.”

  “I did. Honey, you coming home?”

  “No, why?”

  “The news is saying stuff. Weird stuff. Can you come home?”

  “Baby, I don’t know what’s up yet. You two get cleaned up. You both feel okay?”

  “Yes, so far. Okay. We’ll call you when we’re done.”

  “The minute you’re cleaned up, okay?”

  “Yeah. Love you, Mick.”

  “You too, H.”

  I hung up and reached over to grab the remote, turning on the television mounted on the wall.

  “She alright?” asked Glenn.

  “Yeah,” I said, flipping channels. “Sounds okay. Let’s find something about this rain shit.”

  “It’s gotta be there,” said Glenn. “People were stopping their cars in the street. That was the last thing I saw before I couldn’t see anything. Shit turned day into night.”

  There were no windows in my studio, and the insulation was effective, by design. I couldn’t see outside or hear a damned thing in there.

  As I flipped the TV stations around, Glenn pulled off his shirt, wiping his underarms.

  “You mind, man?” I asked.

  “Fuck off,” he said. “Gotta get this shit off me. I smell like a sludgebucket.”

  “You’re telling me,” I said. I hit a station where they were showing a reporter standing outside in the black rain, a yellow raincoat covering her. Her hands were exposed, and the ebony water ran off of them in rivulets.

  The picture then cut to an anchor in the studio and I put the sound up. Glenn dropped down in the chair in front of my desk, and the chair groaned in protest.

  Now, if I were to describe Glenn, you’d probably think I was drawing a picture of John Candy. He’s almost a body double for him, and his hair’s never been much tamer than Candy’s.

  I’d gotten him to come down from North Dakota when I took the job at WJAM. I’d taken radio broadcasting and communications courses at the University of Central Florida, and Glenn was in most of my classes. After we both graduated, he headed back to Grand Forks, North Dakota to try to get a job in the third largest radio market in the state. It was a tough market, and he never found anything.

  We’d kept in touch, though. That’s why he jumped when I called him to come work with me at WJAM.

  I don’t need to get into what we saw on those first few news broadcasts. They announced they were going to show Wattana’s video, and I had the wherewithal to hit the record button.

  I had an odd feeling I’d want to see it again. People were already coughing in the background of the news report. I knew that meant the fits came on suddenly, because in broadcasting, there’s always a button marked COUGH beside it. If you’ve got some throat-clearing or farting to do, that’s the button you hit before you do it.

  I watched that recording with Glenn the first time, and he’s the one who looked at the screen and said, “Hey! There’s a cut!”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I thought I saw something.”

  “Not just thought. That thing was edited. They bill it as live?”

  “They said it was broadcast live, so unless they clipped it for some reason, it should’ve been exactly what Wattana put out.”

  “Back it up.”

  I did. I played it again.

  “Stop!” yelled Glenn.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The clo- ”

  He was interrupted by a fit of coughing. “Jesus, Micky. Give me your trash can,” he choked.

  I did, but I didn’t want to.

  He cleared his throat – I mean, he worked up a man-sized lugey – and coughed it into my trashcan.

  “Shit. Blood,” he said.

  “You sure, man?”

  Glenn nodded. “Kinda black, but I see blood.”

  I picked up the phone.

  “What’re you doin’?” he protested.

  “Calling 911, you idiot. You’re coughing blood and … whatever that is. You need –” I stopped talking when it started ringing. “Hold on.”

  I waited. And waited.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, wiping at his mouth with his bare arm.

  I pulled the phone from my ear, then hung it up. “Can you drive?” I asked.

  “I’m fine, man. Put your attention back on the video. Look at the clock behind his head.”

  I shook my head but did as Glenn suggested.

  “Definitely a splice,” he said. “Can’t see the minute hand, so it could only be several seconds, or it could be a whole minute or more.”

  “I see that now. What are you thinking?”

  “No idea. I’d need more time to review it on my Roland Vidmixer to see what’s been done.”

  I was still obligated to play music, so I stuck on the live version of Freebird b
y Lynyrd Skynyrd to burn another thirteen-plus minutes.

  “If I weren’t sittin’ here with you, I’d rip on you for playin’ two ridiculously long songs in a row.”

  “Shh,” I said, pointing up at the screen. “It’s the governor.” I turned it up.

  “Wonder what that dick’s got to sa- –”

  Glenn doubled over in another coughing fit before he finished his smart-assed comment.

  Governor Watkins began: “I’m asking that everyone, all Floridians within the sound of my voice, stay in your homes and let emergency services carry out their responsibilities on roads that are as clear as possible. If you were out in the black rain, we suggest you get to a shower and rinse it off you as quickly as possible, but do not leave your current location.”

  I was relieved I asked Heather to get Petey rinsed and clean herself up. They were heavily on my mind, though.

  “If all you have at your disposal is a garden hose, then use that. If you have neither option, use moist towelettes, anything. The doctors with whom we’ve consulted have advised us that the element that turned the water black has not been identified and is not a known toxin. This means that whatever it may be, it is potentially poisonous, so we don’t recommend any of you take any chances.”

  “Hose me off,” said Glenn. “Outside, okay?” When he turned to me, his eyes looked partially clouded.

  “You feel okay?” I asked.

  “Little lightheaded,” he said.

  “Your eyes are … I don’t know.” I tried 911 again, only to get a constant, sharp beeping. I’d never gotten that on my phone before. It was like it wasn’t even connected to any service.

  Suddenly, Glenn stood up, teetered side-to-side, and fell hard to his right. I was on my feet, but too late. His head smacked my desk so hard my computer monitor jumped.

  I ran around, kneeling beside him. “Glenn! You okay, man?”

  “Fuck no,” he groaned.

  A crash came from the other room that shook the walls of my studio.

  “What the hell is going on around here?” I yelled, but nobody came over the intercom to answer my inquiry. There were still about five minutes remaining on Freebird, and the second I logged that in my head I wondered what the hell was wrong with me.