Dead Sea (19 page)

    "Well, it wasn't easy. I'm not as young or as strong as I used to be. But the Lord is my strength. My sword and my shield. He gives me the power to do his will."

    We approached the chapel door. The preacher reached for the handle, but Runkle stopped him, motioning with his pistol for the man to step aside.

    "I'll go first."

    Reverend Ortega smiled. "As you wish, young man. This is the Lord's house. All may enter freely. I told your friend the same thing before I administered Communion."

    ' This was the second time Ortega had mentioned giving Turn Communion. I didn't know Turn very well, but he hadn't seemed like a religious sort. The statement didn't ring true to me.

    "What do you mean?" I asked, stepping forward. "What's this Communion shit?"

    Ortega frowned. "You aren't familiar with the rite of Holy Communion? It symbolizes Christ's pact with man. He gave us his flesh and shed his blood. It is through his blood that we are born again. It is his blood that's responsible for what you have seen. That's why the dead return to life-because of his blood."

    "They're zombies," Tony shouted. "You and your God didn't have anything to do with it. Everybody is coming back from the dead because of a fucking disease. Don't you know that?"

    The preacher's expression darkened. "The Lord has shown you proof. He has shown you miracles- the miracle of the resurrection. And still you don't believe. You're just like the first one I crucified. 1 removed his eyes and tongue before I nailed him to the cross. 'If thy eye offends thee, pluck it out. If thy tongue offends thee, cut it out.' Those aren't my words. They're God's. Who am I to disagree?"

    Flinching, Runkle shoved the chapel door open. Mitch ran after him. They both shouted for Turn. Meanwhile, Tony and I held Ortega at gunpoint and warned him not to move.

    "I'm not going anywhere," the preacher said. "Not until I die. Then I will-"

    "Would you shut the fuck up?"

    Tony slapped him with the back of his hand. Ortega collapsed to his knees. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes narrowed, and when he spoke again, his kind tone had vanished.

    "You struck me. I came to you in peace, ready to share the glory of God, and you greeted me with violence. But you will see that I'm right. Even now, your friend is undergoing the transformation. Christ's blood moves through his veins."

    "What are you talking about?" I raised my hand as if to hit him again, and Ortega scuttled backward, whimpering.

    "I told you," he whined. "I administered Communion. I gave him the flesh to eat and the blood to drink. The flesh and blood of our Lord. The sacrament. He didn't want to partake, of course. They never do. So I had to force him. 1 clubbed him over the head and then forced it down his throat before he regained consciousness."

    I reached down and ripped the collar from around his neck. "Who's blood? Who's flesh? What the hell are you saying?"

    "That's where the power comes from-the flesh and the blood of Christ."

    Runkle and Mitch came back outside, supporting Turn between them. He looked weak and pale.

    "Something's wrong with Turn," Mitch said, sounding worried. "He's really sick."

    I flung Ortega to the ground and stood over him, pistol pointed at his face. "Where did you get
the blood?'

    "What blood?" Runkle asked. "What's he talking about?"

    Between them, Turn groaned. Mitch let Runkle take all of the weight and stepped forward.

    "Lamar, what's going on?"

    "Tell us, Ortega, or I swear to God I'll blow your fucking head off. Where did you get the blood?"

    "From the dead," Ortega whined. "1 took the body and blood of Christ from those he had already touched. Then I fed it to your friend. Fed it to them all, one by one. I'm doing the Lord's work, just like it says in the book."

    "You fuck…"

    I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut. My finger tightened on the trigger. The gun felt heavy in my hand. My breathing seemed very loud. But then my finger eased. I couldn't do it. Even now, after we'd learned exactly what he'd done, I couldn't kill him in cold blood. I didn't have it in me. It pissed me off-this schism inside. When that bitch took a bite out of Alan, I'd had no problem shooting him. I hadn't balked yet when it came to wasting a zombie. Yet Ortega was just as bad, if not worse than them, and I couldn't do it. When that woman had been slaughtered right outside my house, I'd felt no remorse for not helping her. But I felt something now. I felt sorry for this crazy old man who'd butchered people in the name of some insane, murderous God.

    "The dead walk," Ortega babbled, clawing at the dirt. "Ye must be born again. The dead are God's children-the chosen ones. They shall inherit the earth. This is not the end. There are many doors. Death is just another doorway that we all must pass through. This is my blood, which has been shed for thee. This is my flesh. Eat of it and have eternal life."

    I stepped away from him. "I can't do it. He deserves to fucking die, guys, but I can't do it."

    "Ain't no shame in that," Mitch said.

    Then he shot him. He didn't flinch; didn't hesitate. He did it mechanically and without emotion, just like he'd done with Hooper. The first round hit Ortega in the neck. The second tore his head apart. Mitch ejected his magazine and loaded a fresh one into the pistol.

    Tony whispered, "Fuck…"

    "When I sold Bibles," Mitch said, "it was fuckers like him that made my job hard. Nobody wants to buy one if they think everyone who reads it is bat-shit crazy."

    "Is he awake?" I asked Runkle, nodding at Turn.

    "On and off. He's really sick. You want to tell us what the hell is happening?"

    "He's infected," Tony told them. "The preacher fed Turn infected blood and flesh that he got from the zombies."

    Runkle looked sick. "Oh, God…"

    Sighing, Mitch stared into the distance.

    Runkle leaned the half-conscious Turn against the chapel's wall and quickly moved away from him. He turned back to us.

    "Maybe we could induce vomiting? Get it out of his system."

    'That's not going to work," Mitch said softly. "It wouldn't have helped Hooper and it won't help him."

    "Guys," Turn whimpered. "I feel like shit. What's wrong with me?"

    Mitch stared down at him. "You guys go ahead and get the boat loaded. I'll stay here with Turn. That infection is quick as lightning. It won't be long now."

    None of us spoke. If Turn understood what was happening, he gave no indication.

    "My guts feel like they're on fire." Sweat poured down Turn's face. His fingers kept clenching up and his legs jittered. "And my muscles and joints hurt. I got a killer headache, too. What the hell is wrong with me? Did that preacher poison me?"

    "You'll be okay, buddy," Mitch said. "Just something you ate. I'm gonna stay here with you until you feel better."

    Runkle turned to Tony and me. "Come on. Let's get it over with. Our shipmates are counting on us."

    Turn sagged lower, his legs and arms sprawled. "I'm just gonna rest for a little bit. Just close my eyes."

    Runkle looked away. "You do that, Turn."

    "Tell Chief Maxey that I might be late to relieve him on the bridge. Tell him I'm sorry."

    "Sshhh." Mitch put his finger to Turn's lips. "No more talking, man. Lay back and try to get some sleep. You'll feel better in a little bit."

    "Yeah, man," Tony whispered. "You just rest up. Mitch will take good care of you."

    "I can't feel the sun," Turn whispered. "Where did * the sun go?"

    Runkle walked away. Without looking back, we followed him to the infirmary and began packing boxes of medicine and carrying them down to the lifeboat. On our second trip, a single gunshot rang out. We flinched, paused in our work, and then continued.

    "Fuck," Tony said.

    "One more trip and then we'll start on the food," Runkle said. "We'll get as much as we can, but I want to be back to the
Spratling
before sundown."

    Then there was another gunshot. Then a third. Then a barrage. They echoed across the rescue station, bouncing off the buildings and scattering the birds roosted in the trees.

    Runkle looked back at the chapel. "What the hell?"

    Four more shots sounded in rapid succession, and then Mitch ran around the corner. His eyes were wide and terrified. His hair fluttered in the wind.

    "Zombies," he gasped. "Came out of the woods. Bunch of them."

    Runkle dropped the box he was carrying and pulled his weapon. "The ones on the crosses?"

    "No." he took a deep breath. "Different ones- from farther inland. They're much more mobile than the ones in the clearing. Hundreds of them. They must have been hunting in the forest and heard all the commotion."

    "Well, let's take up positions and-"

    "There's no time," Mitch shouted. "And we don't have enough bullets. I'm telling you, there's too many of them. Just fucking run!"

    The wind shifted again and brought their scent. I turned around and glanced back at the chapel, and the dead swarmed into view. Mitch hadn't been exaggerating. Their numbers reminded me of the hordes back on the pier at Inner Harbor. They advanced on us, slow but determined. I wondered when they'd last eaten. They looked very hungry.

    "Shit." Tony tossed his box aside and fled.

    Runkle raised his gun and took aim. The weapon leaped in his hands. With one squeeze of the trigger, he dropped one of the lead zombies. Five more took its place.

    "Come on, Runkle." Mitch tugged on his arm. "Don't make us leave you here."

    We ran for the dock. Tony reached the boat first. By the time we leapt into it, he'd already started the motor. It choked and sputtered and for one terrifying moment I thought it was going to stall, but it didn't. The zombies lurched after us, outstretched arms waving, dead mouths drooling. Mitch and Runkle laid down cover fire while I cast us off. More and more of the creatures collapsed, minus their heads. I untied the rope. Tony didn't even wait for me to sit back down. He hit the throttle and I almost toppled overboard. Mitch reached out and grabbed my belt loop, pulling me to safety. We rocketed away from the dock and out into the bay, leaving the zombies-and the much needed supplies- behind. We'd only managed to get two crates of oranges and a carton of batteries loaded into the lifeboat. Runkle played with the radio until he figured out how to make it work. Then he called back to the
Spratling
and advised Chief Maxey of what had happened.

    Tony released the throttle long enough to pull out his crumpled pack of cigarettes and light one. He inhaled, and then exhaled with a sigh. After he'd stuffed his lighter back in his pocket, he balled up the empty pack and tossed it into the water. It bobbed on top of the waves. We watched it float away.

    "Well," Tony said. "That was my last pack of smokes. I guess it's all downhill from here."

    "Maybe we'll find some at the next stop," I said.

    "No." Tony shook his head. "I don't think there's gonna be any more stops, Lamar."

    I didn't respond. Mitch stared out at the ocean. Runkle was still talking to the chief.

    "Yep," Tony sighed, "things are going to get a lot worse."

    He smoked his last cigarette down to the filter, and after he flicked the butt into the water, he began to cry.

    

    

    

    We drifted along the coast for the next two days. The chief said he wanted to look for survivors, but in truth, I think he didn't have a clue what to do next, and was just buying some time while he figured it out. Turn's unexpected death had hit him pretty hard. He'd relied on Turn's expertise more than any of us had realized. Chuck became Turn's replacement, and Chief Maxey trained him further on how to pilot the ship so that Chuck could relieve him for short periods. Chuck filled in when the chief slept, but otherwise, Maxey spent his time on the bridge. Nick and Tran took over the galley, dividing up Hooper's duties, and even though we didn't understand him, Tran seemed happier with the arrangement. I think he liked Nick a hell of a lot more than he had Hooper. We all did.

    The rest of us all pulled watch duty. We worked in shifts around the clock, standing fore and aft and watching the shoreline with binoculars. The chief was adamant that we remain vigilant. We stayed alert for lights or vehicular movement on the shore, or even a big help sign painted on somebody's roof, but the only things moving on the ground were the dead. It was like spying on hell. Only the sea retained life, as evidenced by the fish we pulled out of it. Mitch hooked a big blue marlin the morning after the disaster at the rescue station, and it was cause for celebration-if only for a moment. The skies were full of birds. They'd grown fat from the easy pickings on land.

    We encountered one other vessel drifting on the open water. The chief tried raising them on the radio but there was no answer. Chuck hailed them with a battery-operated bullhorn as we drew closer, but there was still no reply. As the
Spratling
pulled alongside the smaller craft, we saw why. There was nobody left alive onboard. A lone zombie blundered about the deck. Its eyes were missing, probably stolen by birds. Exposure to the elements had sped up its decomposition. Mitch shot it from the signal bridge. Its head didn't so much explode as
implode.
After much debate, the chief vetoed boarding the other craft. Basil and Murphy were adamant that we send a party aboard, even though they didn't volunteer to go themselves. Tony was hopeful that there might be cigarettes somewhere on the ship. But the fact remained that none of us knew what lay below decks, and the boat was small enough that any supplies it may have had wouldn't have lasted us very long anyway. The dangers outweighed the benefits, so we sailed on and left the ghost ship to its fate.