Elements of the Undead - Omnibus Edition (Books One - Three)

by William Esmont

  “I don’t know about that unit,” Hines said in a worried voice as Chris sealed the door shut behind them. “The damned thing keeps on shutting off.”

  “Do we have parts?”

  Hines frowned. “Yeah. We’ve got spares.”

  “Let’s deal with it after the storm.”

  Hines gave an exasperated sigh. Chris understood his frustration with malfunctioning machinery. It was their lifeline. It had to last.

  “I assume the storm is still heading our way?” Hines asked.

  Chris nodded. “Yeah. No change. Listen. Someone called from shore. I missed it; I was sleeping, but the light on the radio was blinking.”

  Hines straightened to his full six-foot-four height. A drop of water ran from the hood of his jacket, splashing onto his cheek. He gave it an annoyed swipe with the back of his hand. “Did you call back?”

  “Yeah. No answer.”

  “Shit,” Hines muttered, his gaze boring into Chis like a searchlight. “This is the last thing we need right now.” He drew in a deep breath. “What’s your gut say?”

  Chis held Hines’s gaze. “If we leave right now, we can get in and out before the weather gets too much worse.”

  Hines guffawed dismissively. “Maybe you haven’t noticed the seas.”

  Chris had. They were impossible to ignore. Waves like living mountains rolled beneath the platform, sinuous monsters with no regard for the puny humans perched above, and even less for those who dared venture into their midst. Still, they were navigable, if only for a short while. It was only a little over a mile to shore.

  He swallowed. “It’s manageable.”

  Hines didn’t look convinced. “Can you send someone else?”

  Chris shook his head.

  “It’s not Dave, you know. Not after all this time.”

  Chris bit back a flash of anger. “Yeah, I know.”

  Hines gave his chin a thoughtful scratch. “It could be the station was compromised. Maybe one of those things got inside and triggered the radio. That would explain why there was no answer when you called back.”

  Chris sighed inwardly. Hines was playing devil’s advocate, trying to evaluate all sides of the situation before committing irreplaceable resources to a risky rescue attempt. Chris appreciated his friend’s thoroughness, but he had already had the same thought. The odds of a zombie figuring out the radio controls, even by accident, were astronomical.

  “Someone’s alive over there,” Chris said. “I know it.” His gaze slid in the direction of the door, impatience gnawing at his gut.

  Hines cinched his hood tight and motioned at the door. “Damn it, Chris. Go. Take Ben and Justin with you. They just finished securing the garden. Take boat two; we haven’t pulled it in yet.” In preparation for the storm, they were using the platform cranes to raise their two precious Coast Guard RB-Ms onto mid-deck, where they would secure them in the same manner as the helicopter. The RB-Ms, forty-five-foot Coast Guard boats that were the equivalent of a tank on water, were the last of their kind, and Chris had no intention of losing one on his watch.

  “Okay,” Chris said, feeling a mixture of relief and dread at Hines’s response. While he was confident in his ability to pilot the RB-M in rough seas—he’d had plenty of experience in his years on the Gulf Star—he wasn’t nearly as certain of Ben’s or Justin’s abilities.

  Hines opened the door, bracing it with his foot so it wouldn’t be torn from his grasp. “And Chris,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

  He looked up. “Yeah?”

  “Be careful. If it looks bad, turn around. We can’t afford to lose you.”

  Chris nodded, and Hines disappeared through the door, dragging it closed behind him. Alone in the maintenance room, Chris did a quick mental inventory of what he would need for his shore mission: radios, guns, and ammunition. It was a good thing he hadn’t eaten anything, what with the rough seas ahead. He hoped Ben and Justin were as fortunate.

  He opened the door leading to the interior stairwell. Ben and Justin would likely be in their cabins, winding down after their shift. Chris didn’t look forward to breaking the bad news to them.

  Twenty-Seven

  Aboard Coast Guard RB-M #2

  Gulf of Mexico

  “Hold on!” Chris screamed. “Here we go again!” He stole a quick glance over his shoulder at Ben Samuelson and Justin Richards and did a double take.

  Ben, a former roughneck from Mobile, was frantically wiping at a viscous rope of vomit stretching from his mouth to the front of his shirt, and by the gray tint of his face, he appeared as if he were about to let loose again at any moment. Justin, on the other hand, sported a huge grin, as if he were riding his favorite roller coaster at Six Flags.

  Justin caught Chris’s eye and gave him a thumbs-up with his free hand, then let out a rousing, “Yee-haw!”

  Chris smiled and returned his attention to the task at hand. They crested the top of a monstrous swell, a slow-moving beast that seemed to have no beginning and no end, and began to slide down the other side. Faster and faster they went, the boat accelerating as gravity and inertia sucked them deep into growing maw of the gulf.

  The bottom of the trough, the low point where the surrounding waves towered above, was the most dangerous part. If he didn’t keep on the correct course, the water would come thundering down, snuffing them out in the blink of an eye. He checked his GPS, gave the control stick a sharp nudge to starboard, then goosed the throttle. They were close to the shallows, the point where the waves would decrease in size while simultaneously becoming choppier. That presented a different sort of danger, one for which he was far less prepared. Wreckage from the end of the world was a constant threat near shore. Anything from marine vessels to abandoned drilling rigs could appear unannounced in their path. He had heard stories of one crew who had encountered a minivan full of the undead bobbing in the gulf. Not that he entirely believed the story, but he understood the message. Going ashore was dangerous.

  The sound of repeated retching filled the cabin.

  “You guys okay?” he asked.

  “Pussy here can’t handle a little sea,” Justin said, booming with laughter.

  “Fuck you, Justin,” Ben said between gasps. “Fuck you both.”

  Chris laughed. “We’re almost there. Maybe another ten minutes.”

  Ben groaned and bent over again, wracked by a spell of backbreaking dry heaves.

  They raced from the trough, rocketing toward the top of the next wave. This has to be the last one, Chris thought. We’ll see shore from here. A self-satisfied grin broke out on his face when lightning painted the sky an electric white, and he caught his first glimpse of the fractured horizon of downtown Galveston.

  And then he saw it.

  As long as a football field, the derelict oil tanker rolled dangerously at the bottom of the trough, the very same trough they had already entered. Listing hard to port, the behemoth was directly in their path, its towering hull perpendicular to their track, an immovable object in direct opposition to their irresistible force.

  Chris gulped and jammed the control stick to the left, searching in vain to carve a path past the tanker, or at least to change their course to a parallel track in which he would have room to maneuver.

  “Holy shit!” Justin yelled, his earlier bravado lost in a primal, childish squeal of fear. “Look at the size of that thing!”

  “I see it,” Chris muttered under his breath.

  The RB-M pitched forward violently, and Chris braced himself. He felt his stomach coming up. Any further, and we’ll go ass over end. The boat was designed for rough seas, but he found it almost impossible to fight what his body was telling him. He had to focus on the controls and not succumb to his fear.

  They slid inexorably into the trough, slowly at first, then their speed mounted with each passing second.

  Chris tensed, gripping the joystick until his knuckles turned the color of a cold corpse. “We’re going to hit!”

  The impact
was beyond anything he could have imagined. The RB-M rang like a bell, deforming for an interminable moment, shrinking on itself as if squeezed by the hands of a giant. A skull-splitting roar filled the air as they scraped along the rusty hull of the tanker, pressed tighter and tighter by the power of the sea, locked in a deadly hydraulic embrace, their mass a tiny fraction of their adversary, a gnat on the ass of the biggest elephant in history.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Chris screamed. They were being dragged toward the rear of the tanker, towed toward the giant beast’s exposed propeller. If they reached it, they would be shredded, torn to pieces like chum. He reversed the throttles, and the engines roared in protest. Yet they still continued forward, drawn inexorably toward the propeller. Through the cabin window, Chris saw sparks fly as the thin metal skin of his little boat was flayed away inch by inch, foot by foot. He jammed the engine into neutral.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Justin screamed. “Get us out of here!”

  Chris didn’t respond. There wasn’t time. He sucked in his breath and watched the prop grow closer, the curved steel blades rising out of the water as if to welcome them to their fates.

  He counted. Three. Two. One.

  The propeller was less than a dozen yards ahead and closing fast when Chris jammed the throttle forward with all of his might and recited the only prayer he knew.

  He thought he had miscalculated. They continued forward, out of control, all hope lost. Chris closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable collision that would mark the end of his too-short life.

  The impact never came. He opened his eyes and saw they were once again in open water, racing away from the tanker, tracking in a parallel course across the bottom of the trough.

  He told himself to check his pants when they got into the shallows. With a flick of his wrist, he nudged the control stick, and they began the arduous climb to the top of the next mountain. They would live. For the moment.

  Sensing a presence behind him, he turned to find Justin. The oversized man shook like a tree in a spring storm, but he was regaining his color.

  “Good job, man,” Justin said, clapping him on the back. “I thought we were dead.”

  Chris gave him a tight nod. “Me, too.”

  As they reached the summit of the enormous crest, Chris saw they had reached the harbor.

  Twenty-Eight

  Galveston Coast Guard Station

  Galveston, Texas

  Megan twisted the lid off a half-liter bottle of water and handed the container to Jack. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he drank. When he was done, he wiped his lips and passed the bottle back to her.

  She touched the back of her hand to his forehead and gasped. “You’re burning up.”

  “I know,” Jack said. “I feel like shit.”

  She poured the remaining water into a fistful of paper towels and placed them on his forehead. “You should rest.”

  Jack lay down and closed his eyes. “Thanks.”

  A few feet away, Archie paced, his hands clasped behind his back, muttering to himself.

  Megan snapped, “Archie. Can you stop pacing? Please?”

  He stopped in his tracks. “Sorry. I do it when I’m nervous.”

  Megan instantly regretted chastising him. “It’s okay. I’m just on edge.”

  Archie waved her off. “Don’t worry about it.” He took a seat.

  She cast a glance at the window. Beyond were the stairs, which led to ground level, to the undead, who had surrounded the building. It was only a matter of time until one of the creatures discovered the way up. And once that happened…

  Try as she might, she found it impossible to focus on anything other than Jack’s deteriorating condition. His fever was growing worse. Either the antibiotics weren’t working, or he really did have the zombie virus. She racked her brain trying to think of a solution. He wasn’t due for more pills for another two hours. All she could do was wait.

  Luke picked up his pistol and sighted it on the window at the spot where the zombies would enter the room if—no, when—they discovered their prey was close at hand. “I wonder,” he said, cocking his head, “if this place has an attic…”

  Thunder crashed, rocking the building on its foundation.

  “I don’t know,” Megan said, her thoughts a million miles away. “Maybe. Why?”

  Luke pushed his fingers through his damp hair, making it stand on end. “Well, if we can get up there, maybe we can buy ourselves a little time.”

  She grimaced. She didn’t have the heart to tell him it wouldn’t make a difference, that it would buy them a few minutes at most, maybe a few hours.

  “I guess it’s worth looking,” she said, humoring him. “You never know.”

  Luke stood up, a determined grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m going to go look.” He turned to Archie. “Want to help?”

  “Absolutely!” Archie struggled to his feet. “There’s got to be one in an old building like this.”

  Starting with the nearest hallway, they set off on their quest.

  ***

  Luke and Archie were somewhere in the rear of the facility when Megan first heard the sound of feet ascending wooden stairs. Clomp. Drag. Clomp. Drag.

  “Luke!” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Archie!”

  There was no response.

  She remained still, trying her best to squelch her mounting fear and instead focus on where she had last seen Archie and Luke heading. The building was a maze of hallways, and they were conducting a thorough search of every room.

  A rusty squeal split the air, the sound so loud that Megan thought the wind was peeling the roof from the building, stealing away their last remaining protection from the elements.

  Luke appeared at the mouth of a nearby hallway, a triumphant grin on his face. “We found it!”

  A wet thump rang out from the plate glass window on the far side of the room. The zombies had arrived.

  Luke’s gaze jumped to the window. “Holy shit!”

  Megan grabbed Jack by the shoulder and shook. “Wake up!”

  Jack’s eyes popped open, and he raised up on his elbows. “What? What is it?”

  She was already on her feet. “We need to go! They’re almost inside!”

  Jack held out a hand, and Megan helped him to his feet.

  “This way!” Luke shouted.

  Glass shattered behind them as they dashed down the hallway. Megan pushed Jack ahead of her, hoping he didn’t trip and take them all down.

  “In here,” Luke said, turning left.

  Jack and Megan followed. Through the gloom, she saw Archie waiting beside a ladder that extended from the ceiling to the floor. Nearly vertical, the rickety, folding contraption didn’t look strong enough to support a grown man. Megan kicked the door closed with her heel and fumbled for the thumb lock. The flimsy hollow core door wouldn’t be enough to stop their pursuers, but it would slow them down for a few seconds.

  “You first,” Archie said, gesturing to Megan.

  Megan shook her head violently. “No! Luke goes first.”

  Luke didn’t argue as he scrambled up the ladder and disappeared into the void above.

  Jack went next, leaving Megan and Archie alone.

  The door bulged, and the soft wood around the doorknob fractured as a zombie tried to bull his way through. Laminated wood chips sprayed across the concrete floor like confetti. The creature roared in frustration.

  “Go!” Megan screamed.

  Grabbing her by her upper arm, Archie shoved her toward the ladder. Before Megan could protest, the door burst open, and a crush of zombies spilled into the room. The scent of soaking, putrefied flesh made her eyes burn. The time for arguing was over. Megan grasped the rungs of the ladder and climbed for her life.

  Archie’s gun boomed twice as her fingers touched the top rung. The sound made her ears ring. She turned to look for him and instantly wished she hadn’t.

  A seething mass of zombies swarmed over the old
man, dragging him to the floor kicking and screaming. He got one more shot off before he fell silent.

  A pair of slim hands hooked under Megan’s armpits, and she felt herself being guided up the last few steps. She burst into the attic, launching herself away from the open door and landing on her back in a scratchy nest of insulation. As she watched through teary eyes, Luke reached down into the opening and yanked on something. The ladder screamed in protest, and then drew up, folding closed on itself with a metallic crunch.

  Megan sucked in great gasps of musty, humid air. Her chest burned as if she had swallowed a glassful of molten iron. “No!” she wailed. “We have to—”

  “It’s too late.” Jack shook his head. “He’s gone.”

  Megan sobbed and threw her arms across her face. Below them, the zombies feasted on Archie’s remains, their grunts and moans and the sounds of rending flesh carrying through the thin floor as if it were made of paper. Above, rain hammered the steel roof.

  After a muted click, weak yellow light filled the attic. Megan squinted at the sudden brilliance and turned her head. Luke sat a few feet away, holding a small black flashlight. He shone the beam around the space, illuminating their new prison.

  “Can I see that?” Jack asked.

  Luke passed him the flashlight.

  Light reflected off of glass as Jack played the beam along the far end of the room. “Looks like a window.”

  Megan sat up and looked. The sounds of feasting had faded, replaced by an incessant moaning as the undead searched for more food. For them.

  “Let me see the light,” she said. Luke handed it to her.

  Taking care to stay on the rafters so she wouldn’t fall through the floor, Megan set off for the window. There may be a way out, after all.

  Twenty-Nine