by J. W. Vohs
Brittany thumped him on the shoulder. “Hey, what are you thinking about? I know that look on your face right now.”
Michael looked in the direction that had temporarily transfixed O’Brien and squinted.
Father O’Brien spoke quietly. “Anybody notice that tug down at the end of the channel when we pulled in here tonight?”
“No,” Brittany explained, “and the entire marina is crawling with infected even if we wanted to grab another boat. Besides, what good—“
Michael interrupted, “You’re talking about the tug boat?”
O’Brien nodded as Michael scratched his chin. “You might just be on to something, Father. It’s possible that we could use the tug boat to push the freighter out of the way.”
Robbie sounded skeptical. “I know you’re an engineer and all, but do you really think a tug could push that monster out of the mud?”
Michael shrugged. “I can’t say for sure, but we don’t need to move it too far, and being in water offers certain advantages. Still, we don’t know if the tug is even operational. It’s also still docked, so those creatures have access to it.”
“Why don’t we just try to pilot the freighter out of our way since that’s the only boat we really need to move?” Brittany suggested.
“That, my dear, is easier said than done. I know that neither Bruce nor I have any idea about how to run one of those modern monstrosities, but maybe Michael . . .” O’Brien looked up hopefully.
“Don’t look at me,” Michael objected, “I’d have bet that a ship that size was too big for the Great Lakes, and I have no idea how that one ended up here. It says ‘China Shipping Line’ for Christ’s sake—“
“Don’t be disrespectful, Major Mike,” Robbie cut in. “We’re in the company of a priest you know.”
“Sorry, Father,” Michael apologized, “but I think your first idea is our best bet. If we can get the old tug going, I believe we can nudge that freighter out of our way. My main concern is how many of the infected have found their way onto the tug.”
Father O’Brien nodded his agreement. “My hope is that any creatures that were on board originally left a long time ago in search of food. I don’t know why any of the new arrivals would be attracted to a lifeless boat, but who knows? The thing we need to remember is we’re still smarter than they are. We just need a plan to get on that tug and figure out if we can use it. If not, we think of something else.”
The plan was simple but dangerous: create a distraction in the opposite direction, then have Roberto quietly escort Father O’Brien and Bruce to the tug. Robbie and Brittany would man a lifeboat and move to position themselves midway between the two hot spots once the old pilots were on their way. Michael would start the action by piloting the Canadian yacht to the pier nearest to the grounded ferry, where he and the others would open up on the infected with firearms. The goal was to take the boat close enough to the pier that the flesh-eaters believed food was at hand, while not actually drifting into the beasts’ leaping range. Everyone agreed that the plan would work best at night, using the cover of darkness to their advantage.
In less than an hour they were ready to proceed. Every light on the Canadians’ vessel was lit as it slowly approached the shore. Carolyn added her mix tape to the spectacle, and as soon as the first monsters ran in their direction the gunners opened fire.
Good head-shots were still the most reliable method of killing the infected, but as their numbers increased on the pier, any wound that caused one of the monsters to jump around a bit usually led to several others falling into the water. By the time Robbie and Brittany were slipping off the back of the yacht into the inflatable lifeboat, Carolyn had mastered what to the zombies was clearly a tantalizing display—she pranced about, yelped, feigned injury, fired a few deadly rounds, and repeated the process while Michael concentrated on trying to make consistent head shots. A few of the crazed beasts actually tried to jump onto the yacht, falling short by at least twenty feet. All of the creatures that went into the river immediately sank out of sight, but ten more came running for every one that fell. Half a minute into the fight, Roberto signaled Father O’Brien and Bruce to make their move on the abandoned tug.
Bruce cut the lights on their boat and tried to keep the noise of his approach as low as possible. Roberto was stationed at the bow with NVG’s, doing his best to communicate with the pilot through hand signals that could be seen with optics. As the smaller boat approached its destination, there were four or five infected loitering around the tug, apparently disinterested in the sounds and sights of the gun battle taking place a hundred meters away. O’Brien hoped the creatures were deaf and nearly blind; he theorized that if they were fully evolved hunters, they’d have quickly run to the noise of combat.
Bruce and Father O’Brien held their breath as they drifted to within a few feet of the pier. Roberto jumped out and temporarily tied the craft to one of the ancient iron-moorings. Brittany and Robbie appeared out of the darkness and swiftly dispatched the creatures O’Brien had noticed moments earlier, tossing them off the pier. The splashes from their bodies hitting the water caused a few more monsters to appear. These interlopers were put down in a matter of seconds, with mortal blows to their heads. It was clear that O’Brien’s suspicion that these infected were of low ability was true, but there was no guarantee that their next encounter would be so easily dealt with.
Now the two pilots had to make their move so that Roberto could navigate the yacht back to a position of safety. If the tug wasn’t operational, he would have to pick up the two men without drawing the attention of the infected.
O’Brien was elderly, still slightly overweight, and slow. Bruce wasn’t much younger, but he was wiry and strong. The priest carried a silenced .22 pistol that David Smith had given him a few months earlier; he’d rarely practiced with it, but he knew that it had proven to be devastatingly effective in other hands since the outbreak began. Bruce had his own .22, and a short sword strapped to his side. As they made their way to the tug, they could see Robbie and Brittany standing guard at the end of the pier, between their boats and the mainland. Their silhouettes were illuminated by the lights from the Canadian yacht, and beyond them O’Brien noticed a number of infected limping their way. Just as one dropped to the ground, the priest keyed in on the music wafting across the water from Carolyn’s boom-box. Another one bites the dust. He stifled a laugh, and picked up his pace.
By the time Father O’Brien made it to the short ladder leading up onto the tug, Bruce was already on board waiting for him. The priest accepted his friend’s outstretched hand, and Bruce grunted slightly as he pulled O’Brien on to the deck of the unfamiliar ship.
Bruce tipped his head toward shore. “Look. We need to hurry.”
At the end of the pier, Robbie and Brittany were engaged in furious fighting with what appeared to be at least half a dozen flesh-eaters. These creatures were howling as they attacked, perhaps calling to others that could now be seen making their way toward the base of the pier. Some members of the new group looked as if they were moving much better than the first monsters they’d encountered upon landing, and O’Brien silently prayed for the safety of the brave young warriors.
The priest was familiar with the tugs used in the 1960s and 70s, and thankfully, this boat was an older model. A brief glance around the vessel revealed a well-kept ship, which immediately improved his hopes that he could get the engine started and move it away from the pier. Bruce led the way toward the ship’s bridge, obviously trying to move as quickly as possible. Without saying anything to his partner, O’Brien stopped to remove his NVG’s so he could rely upon the powerful flashlight he’d included in the kit he’d packed for this mission. He set the optics on the metal lid of a box on the deck, and fumbled with the light in his pocket. In the brief moment he was momentarily blind, he heard movement to his right. “Bruce?”
A relatively clumsy, but large infected male had somehow made its way onto the vessel, and just happened to b
e shuffling around the outside edge of the cabin wall when it saw Father O’Brien standing a few feet away. The creature was hungry, starving, and here was food waiting to be taken. With a snarling howl, the flesh-eater lunged for the shocked priest, who was briefly immobilized by the fear rushing through his body as he heard the noise of a large predator bearing down on him. O’Brien instinctively raised his hands to try to ward off the attack, but the weight of the monster, as well as the momentum of its charge, knocked both man and beast to the hard surface of the deck.
With the breath violently forced from his lungs, Father O’Brien couldn’t call for help, and, as the frenzied beast clamped its jaws down on the priest’s gloved left hand, he felt several fingers break. The pain that washed over him almost made him pass out, but the sharp wave of agony also brought a bit of clarity to his panicking mind, and he frantically thought about what he could do to save himself. He remembered that the small pistol was holstered on his right side. Even as he felt the monster rip the glove off by shaking his head like a wolf or dog might do when sinking teeth into prey, O’Brien was reaching for the gun with his free hand.
As the beleaguered priest struggled to bring the weapon into action, he experienced a new level of pain when the ravenous creature finally found exposed skin with the glove removed. The monster began to savage the unprotected hand, tearing away at the fingers with a fury that seemed to be fueled by more than just hunger. Father O’Brien realized with a jolt that this creature was driven by evil; the beast wanted to kill him as well as eat his flesh. With the realization came a primal rage that immediately overwhelmed every other emotion the priest was feeling, including fear and panic. He was being eaten alive, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something close to hatred course through his soul. He was now determined that this abomination wasn’t going to have the satisfaction of killing and consuming him. He would prove that he could fight this battle physically as well as spiritually. His hand finally closed around the pistol grip and he yanked the weapon from the holster. Then, he stuck the barrel in the flesh-eater’s face and began pulling the trigger.
Bruce heard the shots and came running. He saw the monster slowly slide off of O’Brien and lay moaning on the deck. The priest climbed unsteadily to his feet, then shot the creature three more times in the head, holding his fire when the beast finally stopped moving. Bruce saw O’Brien’s bloodied, mangled hand and felt a lump rise in his throat. “What . . . how did you . . . what can I . . .?”
The intense pain radiating out from his injured hand reminded O’Brien that he was a dead man walking, but in a strange way that thought didn’t bother him. He wanted to console his friend. “I don’t want you to worry about me; we still have a job to do. I’ll be fine.”
Bruce picked up the flashlight and illuminated O’Brien’s wound in a bright beam of light. Three fingers were missing near the palm, and his thumb was chewed in half. The only word that came to mind as he viewed the damage was gruesome. They both knew the truth. “Well, you won’t be fine if I have to carry you out of here with my bad back.”
Father O’Brien had never known that so much blood could pour out of severed fingers. In spite of his lightheadedness from either the horrible sight or blood-loss, he tried to rip a piece of cloth from his undershirt to wrap his damaged hand.
“Let me do that, before you pass out.” Bruce was much more efficient at creating a tourniquet. Once done, he gently asked, “Can you go on?”
In spite of the nauseating pain that made O’Brien want to lay down and curl up into a fetal position, he grabbed Bruce’s arm with his good hand. “Help me up.” Bruce complied; then he guided his doomed friend toward the tug’s bridge, keeping an especially watchful eye out for any other flesh-eaters along the way.
They reached their destination without further incident. Perhaps due to some cosmic recompense for the horrible luck he’d just experienced, Father O’Brien quickly found his way to the pilot’s chair and discovered that the vessel had been left ready to depart at a moment’s notice. Whatever the fate of the crew, and it probably hadn’t been good, their careful preparation proved to be the trapped islanders’ salvation. The tug started almost immediately, and with the noise of the old engine loud enough to attract any infected in the marina not trying to reach Michael’s yacht, there was no reason to keep the lights off. The priest flipped the switches that operated the running lights and saw that Brittany and Robbie were engaged in a desperate struggle with the leaders of what appeared to be a score of hungry monsters on the pier. A trail of corpses marked the lethal fighters’ retreat, but they were obviously weakening and in imminent danger of being overrun.
Bruce turned on the loud-speaker and practically shouted, “Jump into the water and grab the mooring lines if you can’t make it to the lifeboat . . .” he turned to O’Brien and lowered his voice, “if they don’t get off that pier now they won’t make it off at all.”
Robbie hesitated for a brief second as he considered making a dash for the lifeboat secured off the far end of the pier by two meters of rope. The danger of drowning with the weight of all his gear dragging him down was an issue no matter which option he chose—he wouldn’t have time to stop and pull in the lifeboat, but he liked the idea of being as far from the pier as possible when he hit the ice-cold water. Brittany, on the other hand, literally jumped at the opportunity to abandon the pier instantly. She grabbed Robbie’s hand and pulled him into the channel with her. Several infected followed the humans into the water, but after a few seconds of flailing about, they disappeared into the murk with only a series of rising air bubbles to mark their descent.
As she leapt from the pier, Brittany saw that Roberto was coming in for the rescue. She and Robbie both kicked their way to the surface with some difficulty, painfully aware of the dangers posed by the frigid waters. After a few strong strokes, Brittany grabbed on to a life preserver and shouted for Robbie to join her. Bruce watched from the deck of the tug as Roberto pulled the two fighters to safety. He then headed back to the bridge to share the good news with Father O’Brien just as the mortally-wounded priest managed to find the lever for the foghorn. The long blast let Michael know that he and his team could stop their diversionary attack and return to the safety of the channel, and it reassured Bruce that he hadn’t yet lost his friend.
Now that the adrenaline of the fight was wearing away, Father O’Brien was having a hard time keeping his focus on piloting the tug. Seeing the Canadian yacht heading his way, he decided to cut the motor, drop anchor, and wait for help to arrive.
Bruce drew a quivering breath. “I should have had your back, even boy scouts know that the buddy system means you stick together.”
Father O’Brien shook his head. “No, I’m the one who stopped. You had no idea that I wasn’t still behind you. And think about what could have happened if that thing had surprised both of us. I know it may sound crazy to you, but my soul needed this penance. Sometimes only blood can wash away our sins.”
A tear slid down Bruce’s cheek. “You’re the best man I know. I don’t believe for a second that your soul needed any cleansing.”
“You’re a good man, Bruce. Take care of the youngsters; they’ll need you when I’m gone. And I hate to ask you, but I need to settle things—after I pass, will you make sure it’s final? And I think a water burial would be fitting. I can ask Michael or Robbie if you’re not up to it.“
“I’ll handle it,” Bruce promised. “And I’ll see to it that Brittany and Roberto get home safely.”
After a few minutes the two yachts and the tug boat were anchored together in the middle of the channel. Bruce went back out on the deck, and Father O’Brien listened as Carolyn shouted for Michael to bring her towels and blankets as soon as possible. Finally, he heard his sultry radio-friend asking Bruce where her priest was. Then there was a long moment of silence. O’Brien knew it was time to start saying his goodbyes, and he stumbled out to the deck with his injured hand cradled protectively against his stoma
ch.
Carolyn had already managed to find a way on to the tug, and she guided him over to the edge of the boat where he could see Brittney and Roberto gazing at him with mournful sorrow. Carolyn gently lifted his arm and studied the blood-soaked bandage. “Does it hurt much?” she asked in a soothing voice. “I can get you some painkillers if you need them.”
O’Brien smiled weakly, “Actually, dear, I can’t feel a thing. If I need the painkillers later I’ll let you know.”
“Can I do anything for you?” she asked.
“First, I’d like to talk to Michael, then I have some things I’d like to say to Roberto and Brittany.”
Carolyn gently ran her fingers through the old priest’s thin hair. “Whatever you need. I’ll get Michael.”
Twenty minutes later, Michael was briefing Robbie and Carolyn about the next phase of their escape plan. He’d left Father O’Brien talking quietly with Brittany, while Roberto and Bruce were trying to brainstorm all the things that could possibly go wrong, and what could be done to prepare for each contingency. Michael had confidence in the plan, but he was feeling a bit unsettled after his private conversation with the priest.
“You don’t think this is gonna work, do you, Michael?” Carolyn sounded anxious.
“What? No, I mean yes, we should be able to move the freighter enough to get the yachts through to the river.”
Robbie squinted at his friend. “Dude, what aren’t you telling us?”
Michael sighed. “It’s not what you think, it’s . . . it’s . . . personal.”
“It’s about your uncle, isn’t it?” Carolyn prodded.