by Jay Brenham
“You’re telling me you couldn’t have knocked this man out or shot him in the leg?” Quinn asked.
Matt spoke up before Sam could say anything. “Shoot him in the leg? I’m not John fucking Wayne, Quinn, and neither is Sam. Do you want to know my weapons experience before I got this rifle? I played some paint ball when I was a teenager, and I played a fuck load of Halo when I was in college. That was more than ten years ago, by the way. I’m a normal guy and when I think an infected is about to charge me, I’m gonna aim for the chest and shoot to kill every single time.”
“Matt’s right,” Sam said. “Shooting someone in the leg is a level of convenience we don’t have. Leg shots are Hollywood bullshit and if you want Raft City to survive, you can’t risk acting like I did in the first days of the infection.”
Quinn rocked back in his chair, mulling over what Sam and Matt had just told him. “If what you’re saying is correct—and you didn’t kill an innocent man, but someone who was laying a trap for you—what does that mean for Raft City?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “I really don’t know.”
Quinn seemed to be changing his line of thinking, at least out loud. Matt sat back down, visibly relaxing. It was like watching someone take their foot off the accelerator.
After a moment Quinn spoke again. “You guys make some good points. Matt, Raft City will always owe you a debt for cutting the West Wing loose. The least I can do is give you two the benefit of the doubt.” He sighed. “I’m not like the two of you. I‘ve been protected and the only reason I’ve stayed alive is because I helped create order. The ideas behind the quarantine and all of the rules to keep Raft City safe have worked, but they’ve also insulated me.”
Now that cooler heads had prevailed the three of them discussed possible methods for dealing with the security of Raft City. They already had watches at set intervals but more details needed to be established; a common protocol needed to be spread among the city for dealing with infected if they were spotted. If the infected were seen coming towards Raft City on a boat should the watch fire a warning shot into the air? They quickly decided against that. The watch might as well shoot at the infected rather than waste a bullet. Did the infected have the cognitive ability to use a boat? Sam had seen them use crude weapons but even chimpanzees did that.
There was so much that he and Matt didn’t know about the infected, yet both of them were seen as the people with the most experience. Or maybe, Sam thought, maybe the others with experience were smart enough to keep their mouths shut.
They talked well into the night about what to do. In the end, they decided to add people to the watch—more eyes meant more of a chance to see something coming. Tomorrow Quinn would talk to the four leaders of Raft City and have them spread the word among the people. The new protocols would be passed out about what to do if an infected was seen. Sam and Matt’s experience would be shared as well. The hope was that people would start to understand the danger.
Sam excused himself and headed into the starboard pontoon of the catamaran. The starboard pontoon held a second bathroom and a small bedroom. Matt would be sleeping upstairs on a bench that converted into a bed.
Sam set his shotgun next to the bed, wiped the sweat, dirt, and salt off of himself with a wet wash cloth and lay down. His mind immediately slid back to the scene on Potato Neck Road and he shuddered. The idea that the infected were capable of complex thought was…disturbing. It was hard enough to see them as mindless killing machines. Thinking of them as regular people who’d been so warped by a disease that they actually enjoyed torture was even worse.
Was this an isolated incident or was that how infected were behaving across the country? And what was his family doing during this? He thought of Grant’s little hand, its plump flesh peeled away like the child’s hand he’d seen on Potato Neck Road.
Sam pulled his pillow over his face. His sobs were so deep that his chest hurt, but he didn’t care if he was overheard. He’d gone from praying that his family was alive to just hoping they’d died without suffering.
The last thought to enter his mind before he drifted off to a shallow sleep was that if he became infected he needed to take his own life and if Matt became infected he would do it for him if necessary.
#
Sam awoke the next morning to Matt shaking him.
“Rise and shine, morning glory.”
Leaving the shotgun and bandoleer by his bed, Sam got dressed and walked up to the catamaran’s central cabin. A large bowl of steaming mussels and oysters sat on the table.
“Is this our take?” he asked.
“Only a portion of it. The rest are hanging off the side of the Carver in a five gallon bucket to keep them fresh.”
Sam sat down at the table and pulled an empty plate toward him. Across the table was a stack of shotgun shells and a second pile of 5.56mm ammunition.
“What’s that from?” Sam asked as he popped a mussel into his mouth. The vacant shell dropped into the discard pot with a clang.
“That’s our replacement ammo. We had two five gallon buckets full of mussels and oysters. That’s more than either of us could eat, so I made some trades while you were getting your beauty rest.”
“Nice. Where’s Quinn?”
“Meeting with the four and telling them about the changes in security we talked about last night.”
Sam nodded, but his attention was really on the fresh seafood in front of him and the growing feeling of satisfaction in his belly. He was accustomed to eating mussels with butter and lemon, but these were tasty, even served plain. He wondered what the price of something like butter or lemon would be in Raft City.
“Word has spread,” Matt said, flopping into a chair beside him. “A lot of people want to go on gathering expeditions with us. I was approached by three separate groups just this morning. What do you think?”
Sam swallowed another mussel and put the shell in the pot. He wondered if Matt had heard his sobbing last night. “I think we need to be careful,” he said. “And very selective about who we take with us. I thought everyone in Raft City was too afraid to go ashore?”
“Everyone is talking about how we went into an infected subdivision, killed a decent sized group and came back with fresh food. Other people want that. They want supplies, not just shellfish. One guy even gave me a list.”
Sam sat back in his chair, wiping his hands on a towel. “This is a nightmare.”
“Why? Looks like an opportunity to me.” Matt slid Sam a piece of paper over the table.
Sam glanced at the list, then looked back up at Matt. “Toilet paper? Do you see this shit?”
“I saw it. What’s the problem?”
“We’re lucky to be alive after yesterday’s run in. Yeah, we did some things right. We practiced loading, manipulating, and dry firing our weapons but it wasn’t all skill. When it comes down to it, we were lucky. We were lucky we noticed them. We were lucky they didn’t swarm us at once. And we were lucky we hit most of our shots.”
Matt shrugged one shoulder. “Luck was with us yesterday. But today we know what to watch out for. We know the infected can set a trap.”
Sam rubbed a hand across his face. “I’m not that good, Matt. Back in Norfolk I was point blank with the shotgun and I missed. I’m not willing to risk my life so someone else can wipe his ass.”
“Toilet paper can be valuable, Sam,” Matt said with a smirk. “Just because the world’s a mess doesn’t mean you have to be.”
Sam rolled his eyes but laughed anyway. “I’m fine with taking risks for things we need. And if we happen to see something that someone else wants, there’s no harm in grabbing it. But, God, can you imagine if we get killed on a toilet paper run?”
“That would be embarrassing.”
“What would I say when I got to heaven? They’ll ask how I died and I’ll have to say it was on a toilet paper run. I can’t spend eternity as the guy who died for TP.”
Matt laughed. “You make a good point.
But that still leaves us with the problem of deciding who to take with us. Our crew is good for now but the line of people is going to keep growing. People won’t be happy if the same group is allowed to go on supply trips over and over again. We’ll be the only ones with fresh food to trade.”
“Maybe some sort of lottery system? We can take one or two other people with guns on each run. Train them up, you know?”
Matt frowned. “If we do that, we’re less valuable. Soon everyone will be venturing out, getting food and trading it.” He nodded toward the stack of ammo on the table. “If Raft City is suddenly flooded with shellfish, we might get half that next time—maybe less.”
The point was a valid one. Sam’s purpose, his intention when coming to Raft City, was to get what he needed and keep moving: forward progress, not lateral. So far, he’d done just that. His plan was to find a boat and head north. Every day Jill and Grant didn’t have him to protect them was one more day they could become infected. Not that his presence guaranteed their safety, but it’d be nice to try to stop it, to sacrifice himself if the need presented itself.
“Then I suggest we go on as many food runs as possible before people catch on,” Sam said. “Soon they’ll realize everyone is coming back in one piece and they’ll want in on the easy supplies.”
“We’ll keep it simple,” Matt agreed. “Stick to the outer islands that don’t have road access. We’ll trade as much as we can until others start pushing to go more forcefully.”
“And we need to be careful who we go with—our weapons are commodities out here. We need to watch our backs,” Sam added.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The bay water sprayed Sam’s face but did little to cool him off. His hips and back ached from the constant hammering of the Zodiac on the white caps. The sun still blazed overhead but the wind had picked up, making the formerly calm bay churn with unseasonal ferocity.
As usual, Rodrigo manned the tiller, navigating the crests and valleys of the waves while keeping them pointed in the direction of a local marina.
Franklin, a new addition to the team but not an unknown, was crouched in the center seat of Matt’s Zodiac. He came with his own gun, a Russian-made Mosin Nagant. The rifle was older but Franklin said it carried a powerful round capable of taking down most big game animals in North America.
Sam hoped that outweighed the gun’s disadvantages: it only held five rounds and was a bolt action, so after each shot the bolt had to be racked back and pushed forward. That might prove problematic if Franklin needed to get off many shots at close range.
This was not a food gathering mission; today, they were in search of fuel. With a dozen shellfish gathering expeditions under his belt—and more than two weeks at Raft City—Sam had been rendered superfluous to the task of acquiring food. The people of Raft City were venturing out on their own, just as he and Matt had predicted. They’d been cautious at first; Carl’s death had kept others at bay for several days. But as Sam and Matt returned each day with buckets of food and no more losses, the people of Raft City grew bolder. Now that people knew where to safely gather food, more of them were willing to venture to the surrounding islands. Shellfish could be had aplenty; fuel was now the most rare—and valuable—commodity in Raft City.
Still, those first few shellfish missions had been lucrative. They’d been able to trade mussels for almost anything they wanted. One of the first things Sam had bartered for was a back-up weapon: a Smith & Wesson J Frame revolver and a box of twenty-five shells.
Sam was happy with the weapon, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little jealous of the back-up weapon Matt had gotten: a Glock 19 and two magazines that held fifteen rounds—Sam’s new gun only held five—plus a holster that fit on his belt. In contrast Sam had a pocket holster for his revolver. Matt’s weapon held more rounds, could be reloaded faster, shot faster, and was easier to draw.
They continued to dry fire their weapons and they’d even started practicing with each other’s guns as well, just in case they had to swap in a pinch. Matt was turning out to be a great partner. If Sam couldn’t have the Glock for himself, he figured Matt having it was the next best thing.
Matt’s Zodiac, like Sam’s, currently held three people. Matt sat in the bow. Megan, who’d been on the first mission with them, sat in the middle seat with the quiet confidence of someone who knew what she was doing. Like the rest of the crew, she carried a gun she’d gotten through trade—a side by side double-barreled shotgun—in a black trash bag to protect it from salt water corrosion. Once they got closer to the marina the trash bags would come off.
Behind Megan, Evan manned the tiller. Sam had steered clear of Evan since their first encounter at the market. His demeanor left something to be desired but he was still trusted by the others and Sam had to deal with that. Both Evan and Rodrigo carried handguns.
As they entered the inlet, the marina came into sight and the waves calmed. Sam pulled his shotgun out of its protective trash bag and slung the strap over one shoulder. The others did the same, no longer fearing corrosive salt spray in the calm inlet.
The marina had a long wooden pier and a sign out front, which proclaimed “Our Gas Contains No Ethanol.” The main marina building was a large rectangle: tan and prefabricated. Outside, boats were stacked on a rack like shoes in a cubby, waiting for a forklift to remove them for use. A few cars were parked outside the building and the flower bed in front was weed-free and bright with life. The marina reminded Sam of Old Dominion University: pristine, untouched by infection.
The rotten smell suggested a different story.
The tiller men switched the engines to neutral and the Zodiacs glided to a stop at the end of the pier. They’d decided to leave the Zodiacs idling. The risk of unnecessary noise was outweighed by their desire for a quick escape. They didn’t tie the boats to the cleats for the same reason. Instead, Evan stayed with the Zodiacs, ready to shove off the moment trouble came.
Sam hauled himself onto the pier, carefully scanning for signs of infected. They planned to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Gas wasn’t worth dying for and there were always other marinas.
Despite the smell of rot, there was no movement and, other than the flowers and a few seagulls, no signs of life. He took a step forward, easing his boot onto the sun-bleached wood so it didn’t squeak. Nail heads popped up in places and he avoided those as well, not wanting to end up sprawled on the decking.
Sam reached the end of the pier. He signaled for Megan and Franklin to take up positions along the front of the building while Rodrigo hurried to the main gas access. Megan and Franklin each carried a gun in one hand and an empty red gas can in the other. Rodrigo had two in each hand. He wouldn’t be able to carry four full cans, of course, but if everything went smoothly they’d be able to make multiple trips.
Franklin and Megan each took up a position on the cleared side of the building. Meanwhile, Sam and Matt stationed themselves at the far side where the odor seemed to be coming from.
Rodrigo knelt in front of the ground tank cover and inserted a long rotary hand pump into the opening. He pulled the crank out to check the gas level, using it like a large dipstick. Rodrigo gave the rest of the crew a thumbs up and began turning the crank. Gas sloshed into the empty cans.
Sam caught Matt’s eye and jerked his head toward the corner of the marina building. “Let’s make sure there aren’t any infected lurking around the corner.”
Leaving Franklin and Megan to watch Rodrigo’s back, Sam and Matt crept toward the end of the wall and peered around the corner.
Sam inhaled sharply; he couldn’t help it. The front of the building was just a facade, hiding the carnage that had taken place at the marina.
The fork lift, normally used for pulling boats from storage was parked to their right, its raised tines transformed into a chandelier of death. Half a dozen men and women hung from the forks, suspended by heavy chains wrapped around their wrists and ankles. Dried blood lay in a black halo beneath them.
> Their bodies, though naked, bore no fatal wounds. Instead, they’d been afflicted with smaller wounds, things that would cause pain but not immediate death. Strips of flesh were carved from their bodies. Some of the victims were missing lengths of their abdomen and face. Others were missing swaths of skin and muscle from their legs and backs. The effect was haphazard, but no less cruel.
More bodies were strewn across the concrete in varying states of dismemberment. In the middle of the road lay a small, naked bald man sprawled on the concrete. A gunshot had exploded his head, leaving one side open with brain matter scattered in a pattern around his skull. His body was covered in bloody hand prints. A second man, also stripped naked and covered in hand prints, had been pinned between an SUV and the back wall of the marina building.
“What the fuuuck,” Matt whispered, drawing the word out.
“This is just like Potato Neck Road. It wasn’t an isolated event,” Sam murmured, unsure whether he was talking to Matt or to himself. “This must be happening everywhere.” His mind immediately tried to stray to Jill and Grant, but he forced himself to concentrate on the threat in front of him.
“This is like some kind of sick dream,” Matt said. “A…a circus of horror.”
“I know. The city was bad enough, but at least death would have been fast. Out here, they have time to play.”
Sam couldn’t help but be reminded of a dog he’d had when he was young—a Welsh Terrier named Montgomery. On the surface the dog was friendly and well-behaved, but ferocity had been bred into the breed for generations. Montgomery would go into the woods, hunting for raccoons and possums and whatever else was unlucky enough to get in his way. The grown animals he’d kill immediately; Sam supposed it was because they might actually have been able to fight back. It was the babies the dog really enjoyed.
Whenever he caught a young animal, Montgomery would prance into the yard, throwing it into the air. The animal would hit the grass, dazed and scared, and immediately try to dart away. Montgomery would let it get a few steps away and then grab it by the back of the neck and toss it again until eventually the poor animal died of exhaustion. Only when his prey was dead or nearly dead did Montgomery give the animal a shake and break its neck.