by Jones, K. J.
“Leave?”
“No one’s coming to help us, Bubba. We’re on our own.”
Bubba spat. “Yeah, that always the way. Rednecks known that for a long time.”
“Bet you have. I’ll be at my boat, getting ready to bug out.”
Peter walked towards the dock gate.
“Hey, Sul.”
He was so close. “Yeah, Bubba?”
“Where the hell’s my Suburban?”
Peter pivoted around and put on his most charming smile. “You’ll love the story.”
“Story?”
“It was awesome. So wicked cool.”
“What happened to my Suburban you borrowed, Sullivan?”
“You know those chain guns on Apache attack helicopters?”
“I guess.”
“You know what it can do to a vehicle?”
“What the hell happened to my Suburban, Sullivan?”
“Bad guys were in it and an Apache shot it into swiss cheese.” He smiled. “But the good news is the bad guys, who were bitten rogue National Guardsmen, were stopped from putting bullets into our heads.” He figured if he just rapidly talked about the extraordinary event they just went through, it would confuse Bubba so much that the questions would stop. “They were seconds away from executing us, and they made it known they would gang rape the girls and one guy, who’s young. The Apache and a Little Bird with Delta snipers stopped all of that and totally saved us, because they were hunting these AWOL basta’ds, who were probably running from the Army because they were bitten and they’d probably be executed as a result, because it’s the military and you turn into a homicidal, violent zombie when you’re infected, which happens from a bite by the infected.” He stopped and waited.
Bubba blinked. “Y’all go and I’ll be down in a while.”
“Fantastic.”
“Don’t think you off the hook about this, Sully.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
“You git now. I’ll be down.”
“Looking forward to it, sir.”
Peter kicked open the gate, a cocky smile on his face. Down the ramp gangway. The floating dock rocked to his footfalls.
Everyone who lived on boats at the dock stood on their decks, watching the parade of survivors. Mouths agape. Except for Kenny, a hippie pothead who never recovered from the ‘70s. The owner of the beat-up white Toyota pickup. He lived on a rundown wooden boat named Orca, after the boat in Jaws. He sat on a turned over bucket, rolling a joint on a folding table. A tie-dyed curtain hung over his cabin doorway.
“Hey, Sul, what’s up, man?” Kenny called.
“The world is ending,” Peter said.
“About time, man.”
“There are zombies. It’s the zombie apocalypse.”
“All right, man. Should be good.”
“Does your boat actually run?”
Kenny thought a long time about it. “Dude, I’m not really sure. It’s been so long. Why? You wanna go out? Do some fishing?”
“We need to leave here, Kenny.”
“Why?”
“Zombies.”
“For real?”
When most people asked ‘for real’ following the word ‘zombie,’ it would mean something different from when Kenny asked it.
“You need to pack your shit, your bongs and tie-dye and that deodorant I bought you and get over to my boat.”
“Cool. There a party? I saw some girls pass by here.”
“We’re leaving here.”
“Cool, man.”
“I’m going to shoot you.”
“Righteous, man.”
“Pete,” Mrs. Sawatsky called as she came up the dock. “What’s going on?”
“Hey, Helen,” said Kenny. “You coming to the party? Sully’s got a party on his boat.”
She scowled at Kenny.
“Ignore him,” Peter said.
“I usually do. What’s happening? Your friends look like hell.”
“It’s bad.”
“How bad?”
“Bad as in we need to leave and head out to the Atlantic. Get outside the hot zone.”
“Hot zone?” Mr. Sawatsky repeated as he walked up. “Isn’t that a term they use for a viral outbreak?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what they’re saying on the CB is true then.” His eyes showed worry.
“We need to leave. It’s bound to come here to the island. I don’t know what the government plans on doing about this.”
“Nothing to benefit us, I’m sure.” Mr. Sawatsky had been drafted into the Vietnam War. He wasn’t the biggest cheerleader for the military and wars. And then his son enlisted in the Marine Corps and went to Iraq. “We’ll tell the others. We’ll follow you out, follow the Molly out?”
“Yes, sir. Convoy out. Back up North, I’m thinking.”
“We can go to the kids,” said Mrs. Sawatsky.
“Everyone else has family up North,” said her husband. “I’m sure they’ll agree with the plan.”
The other houseboat people awaited on their decks for news.
“What about Kenny?” Peter asked.
“I’ll take care of him,” said Mr. Sawatsky. “You take care of your people.”
3.
An upset gray cat yelled at them as they entered the salon. Phebe looked around, her first time here. She had been all eyes since getting on the Molly. It was like nothing she had ever seen before.
Dock Cat decided Julio was the one to yell out, since her normal human wasn’t present. Julio, until recent, lived on the boat.
He dropped his gear and attended to the cat’s feeding and watering needs. And gave her attention. A heavily tattooed former sniper nuzzled with the fuzzy cat he held. He used baby talk voice to her, sympathizing with her trauma of abandonment all day in a cold boat.
Matt carried Syanna through the salon and down the steps. “Somebody get me flour and water,” he yelled.
“Julio,” Ben said. “You’re up. I got no idea where anything is.”
“I got it. Hold her.”
“Put the cat down, Julio. It’s not a baby.”
He gently placed her on the couch. She proceeded to groom.
“Where’s the bar?” asked Mazy.
“That cabinet there.” Julio pointed.
“Anybody else?” she asked.
“There’s beer in the fridge,” said Julio.
“I’ll have a beer,” said Ben.
“It’s self-serve, amigo.”
“Want something?” Mazy asked Phebe.
“Is there rum or vodka?” responded Phebe.
“All of it,” said Mazy, investigating the drinks cupboard. “This Irishman likes to drink.”
“Whichever. Whatever’s easiest.”
“Maybe start off with a shot?”
Peter came in. Dock Cat jumped down and zoomed to him. He picked her up.
“You look weirdly happy,” said Mazy.
“My bullshit amazes me. Ooh, fix me a whiskey, cher?”
“Aren’t you driving the boat?” Mazy responded.
“I got two hands.”
Mazy presented Phebe with a shot of something in a shot glass.
“I should probably eat first. I can’t remember the last time I ate.”
“Are you hungry?” Mazy asked her.
“Not really.”
“Then shoot up. We’ll put an icepack on that eye.”
“All right.” Peter put down the cat. “I’m going up to start the engines.”
“Could we have some heat then?” asked Mullen.
“Maybe. I could use a copilot.” He looked at Julio.
“I’m helping Matt.” Julio had a bowl of water and a bag of flour.
“I’ll go with you,” said Ben. He looked antsy, as if there were too many people in the space.
3.
It took two hours before all the boats were ready. It was nightfall by then. Phebe and Mazy joined Peter and Ben in the wheelhouse.
Peter sat in the captain’s chair at the steering wheel. The console was filled with electronic toys. And a few actual toys. A Bumble Bee Transformer. A Bobble-head doll of George Bush Jr. And a dancing Hulu girl who held a GI Joe rifle she pointed at Bush. Ben sat in the copilot seat. Their faces glowed from the electronics on the console.
Ropes untied from the dock cleats. The Molly’s running lights on. Her powerful, loud engine chugged along. She cruised through the marina.
Behind, houseboats fell into line. Their running lights outlined their boxy shapes. Cabin cruisers fell in beyond them. The great escape from the hot zone had begun.
Once clear of the marina, next came a bay. Darkened houses ran on a spit of land separating bay from ocean.
Wind blew in their faces through open windows. Mazy wore an oversized sweatshirt emblazed with Harvard across the chest. Phebe wore an army jacket that looked like it had escaped the Vietnam War. It was army green and lacked any digitalized print. Both women had to roll up the sleeves of their men’s clothes, just to pull the sleeves down over their hands for warmth. Neither man, Peter nor Ben, seemed to feel the cold.
The bay opened to the mighty Atlantic Ocean. The moon’s reflection shimmered on the glistening blackness.
The boat picked up speed. Peter kept pushing the throttle forward. He talked on the boat’s CB radio to the houseboats. “I’ll go ahead to check the way,” he told the other boat captains.
The bow lifted as the full power of the Molly’s engine exerted itself. She didn’t look like a boat that could manage such speed. Everyone held on as the boat rocked when the bow smashed through waves. Behind the stern, she left big V-shaped wake.
Peter smiled. Loving this. “Want music?” He had to yell over the engine.
“We’re good,” yelled Ben.
“Ben, you gotta lighten up. We’re on the ocean, brother. As free as a man can get.”
“Yeah. I’ll lighten up when all this shit is done and I’m sleeping in my bed at my mother’s house, more worried about res bullshit than infected.”
“Good point. I hear ya. I, for one, would prefer the zoms over being in my mother’s house.” He laughed. “The res, huh, man? You really come from a reservation?”
“Why do you think I joined the Marines?”
“Fair enough. I can kind of relate to that.”
Peter’s happy face began to fade. His hand slowly drew the throttle down. Speed decreased. The bow lowered.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ben.
“What are all those lights?” Throttle further down.
They looked out the open windows. Running lights on various sized ships. Very large ships further out. A smaller boat began speeding towards them.
“Aw, shit,” Peter said. Throttle further down until the boat barely moved.
“What is it?” asked Ben.
“If I am not mistaken, that’s a Coast Guard cutter. And, trust me, I know what they look like at night.”
“What do we do?”
“Somebody get downstairs and tell everyone to stow weapons. Stow them very well. Absolutely no weapons or anything illegal visible.”
Mazy hurried down the ladder.
Peter got on the CB radio and warned the other boats. He told them to stop where they were and wait for his next update.
The cutter closed in. A voice boomed, “United States Coast Guard. You are violating federal quarantine. Cut your engines and prepare to be boarded.”
“For real?” Phebe asked.
“Sorry, doll.” Peter cut off the engines. The boat gently rocked with waves.
Ben headed down the ladder.
“All we’ve been through and now what?” complained Phebe.
“I don’t know,” Peter said.
“I can’t deal with all this shit. It’s too fucking much.” She looked up at the ceiling, “What the fuck do you want from us!”
“Hey hey hey.” He stood in front of her. “It’ll be all right.”
“It won’t.” She lightly hit his chest with the cuff of the jacket.
“Yes. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll get us out of this. I’ll get us through this. Trust me, Phebe. It’ll be all right. I promise.”
“What, by magical superpowers?”
“I’ve been known to pull some magic out of my ass. Come here.”
He hugged her. She rested her head against him, feeling safe for a moment.
“Prepare to be boarded,” the voice announced from the dark.
“Here we go,” said Peter. “Let the fun and games resume.”
4.
More rifles pointed. Phebe had an urge to smack people. She was done. Over this catastrophe nonsense. Going home felt snatched from her.
The Coast Guardsmen wanted to see hands. But at least they didn’t make everyone go on their knees. They demanded everyone to show ID. They recorded the licenses and took pictures of everyone.
Phebe had no driver’s license. They asked for her full legal name, her address, birth date, and social security number. She didn’t know her driver’s license number. They took her picture.
She knew Syanna didn’t have a wallet either, so she told them about her roommate. She knew the birth date, but not the social security number and certainly not the driver’s license number. “I think she still has a Georgia license,” Phoebe told them. “That’s where she’s from.”
Peter asked, “Are all those ships Coast Guard?”
“No,” the petty officer in charge said. “Some are Navy.”
Peter laughed—a laugh that had a slightly crazy edge to it.
“Look,” he said. “We’ll just turn around and go back to port. We don’t want any trouble. We just thought we could leave. Wouldn’t you want to if you could? We could be at our parents’ houses, sipping margaritas. Better than what’s happening back there. No electricity. No TV. No Internet. I haven’t lived without those things since I was in the wars in the Army.”
He hoped the dropping he was a war vet would help. It often did.
“We need to check everyone on board for a fever. Do you have any pets?”
“A cat. But she doesn’t leave my boat.” He lied.
“She needs to be examined too.”
“Sure. Can I get her?”
“Please do, sir. And everyone else below deck.”
“Uhm, we have an injured girl. Broken leg. She can’t walk.”
Meanwhile, the other Guardsmen pulled out digital ear thermometers. They did not ask permission. It wasn’t required during martial law. They stuck the thermometers in each person’s ear. Looked at the read out. Moved on to the next person.
When it came Phebe’s turn, she held her breath. It beeped, and he moved onto Mazy. Phebe sighed relief. She didn’t have a fever, one of the first symptoms of R140.
Peter went into the cabin with a Coast Guard man following him. He scanned around. All weapons were out of sight. Of course, a little searching and he’d be thrown in the brig. A multitude of unregistered assault rifles. A sniper rifle with no paperwork. Pills and marijuana—he wasn’t sure what the laws were for marijuana out at sea. And maybe a little heroine which he was positive was still illegal. All the Coast Guard would have to do would be to look him and his boat up, and they’d learn he was a person of interest to them, and the ATF. Possibly even the FBI—guys he knew. Probably not the CIA, because they didn’t care. They offered him a job, if he felt his leg was up for it. The Coast Guard would seize the Molly right here and now. He debated whether that would get the rest out of the hot zone.
He deduced probably not. The government would probably ship them right back into the quarantine zone, because rules were rules. They may even put them somewhere unfamiliar, making survival even harder. They’d be unarmed. He could just hear Chris cursing his name.
He decided he wouldn’t turn himself in.
One by one, the Coast Guardsmen checked ears for temperatures.
Mullen had Dock Cat. They looked to have become fast friends.
“Let them examine her,” Peter said.
Dock Cat wanted nothing to do with any of this. Not like anyone else wanted to. But she acted it out. Mullen seemed highly capable of handling a small, willful animal. The man used the thermometer. Her paw tried to get the thing out of her ear. She mewed in protest.
Dock Cat was one thing. Syanna Lynn Claiborne was a whole other. In the salon, they heard her yelling from the bedroom.
They heard Matt’s voice say, “She’s really not infected. She acts like this normally.”
“Strange men coming in here, with me looking like this. How could you let that happen, Matty?”
The Guardsman came up, shaking his head. “Are they married?”
“No,” Peter said. “He made me promise to kill him if that happened.”
“Yeah, I can understand that.” Another shake of his head. “Well, no one is running a fever. That girl doesn’t appear to be sick, despite behavior. The cat’s good. No fever and she looks healthy. Keep her inside at all times. For everyone’s sake. You’re the captain of this vessel?”
“Yes, sir.”
He checked his chunky, government issue tablet. “Peter T Sullivan?”
“Yes, sir.” Peter’s stomach clenched. Could that tablet run his name through the database?
“We have everyone’s names and pictures. And this vessel. We see any of you again or this vessel in these waters, trying to run the quarantine, you’ll be arrested at best.”
“And at worst?”
“Sunk.”
“Oh.” The laugh with the crazy edge again. “Good to know. We’ll just mosey on back to our marina then, if that’s okay?”
“Do so. Quickly.”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. Immediately.
Once the Coast Guard got off his boat, Peter said, “I hate people in uniform. They make me nervous nowadays.”
“Are they going to follow us?” asked Chris.
“Oh, you bet, big man. Probably right to my dock.”
“We have to go back?” asked plaintiff Mullen.
“Yeah. Sorry, kid.”
He held Dock Cat closer, sadness wracking his young face.
His reaction resonated throughout the group.
“Look, ah, people,” Peter said, seeing their downcast demeanors. “Uhm, somebody start up dinner. Get a shower roster going. Julio, show them where the hold is. There’s stuff there. And some clothes. Men’s clothes. I’ll figure out something for you ladies.”