Flesh Eaters (28 page)

“That’s good to hear,” Jim said. “Because I think we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

The sky was ribbed with lightning, and thunder echoed over the desolate ruins. Behind the wheel of the bass boat, Anthony Shaw stared into a drizzling rain, into the dark, and was worried. The rain would cover the noise of splashes, which the zombies couldn’t seem to avoid making, and it cut visibility down to almost nothing. They were moving through uncertain waters now, surrounded by countless ruined buildings, weighed down by the knowledge they were being watched from every busted window, every darkened doorway.

Anthony had slowed the boat to a crawl. There was no sense in blindly racing around a corner and finding themselves in the middle of a crowd of zombies, something that had come dangerously close to happening twice already. But with the money so close, it took every bit of self-control he could muster. He fought down the urge to dig into the throttle and instead coasted forward through the rain, tense and watchful. Soon all this would be behind them.

He glanced forward to where Brent was sitting. He was no longer rocking back and forth in that oddly disturbing way that made him look like an autistic child in the middle of a meltdown, and from the dull light in his eyes Anthony guessed that some of the shine was wearing off his drink, but he still seemed too scared and too fragile for a man his size.

Behind Anthony, Jesse was quietly watching the ruins on either side of the boat, ready to fire if needed. It had been on Anthony’s mind a lot lately about what would happen to the three of them after this was all over, and while he was worried about Brent, he had no doubt that Jesse would come out on top. Jesse was a cat. He’d land on his feet no matter what.

Anthony was still contemplating their future when, a few minutes later, a boat resolved itself out of the rainy gloom ahead. Instantly, the hairs went up on the back of Anthony’s neck. The boat was floating silently on the current, drifting towards them, while a figure staggered around by the controls.

Anthony resisted the urge to hail him. They’d seen far too many of the infected in these buildings, and with the tide at its lowest, those zombies could conceivably wade out to them and climb into the boat.

As the other boat drew closer Anthony saw that his instincts had been correct. The man on board was a zombie. Had to be. Anthony didn’t need to see the blood oozing from where the man’s left ear had been to see that. The vacant, yet insatiably hungry, look in the man’s eyes told him all he needed to know.

The zombie saw them at the same time Anthony spotted him, and for a moment, the zombie seemed uncertain of what to do. Then he climbed over the seats, stood as far up in the bow as he could get, and extended his hands outward as he began to moan.

The sound carried quickly, and as Anthony sat there behind the wheel, he could see heads popping up in the windows all around them. Soon moan was answering unto moan as the cries echoed back and forth.

“Shit,” Jesse said, “they’re calling each other out.”

“Yeah,” Anthony said, turning around slowly. He could see about twenty of the infected making their way into the flooded street, and what had been nothing but empty ruins moments before did not feel so empty anymore.

“We got to shut him up,” Jesse said, and before Anthony could stop him, Jesse raised his AR-15 and fired a single round at the zombie on the boat. The shot hit the man square in the forehead and threw him back against the pilot’s windscreen, his head falling back over his shoulders in a posture that made him look like an exhausted man finally at rest.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Anthony said, wheeling around on Jesse and pulling the gun from his hand.

“He was calling to them,” Jesse said.

“So you thought you’d fire a shot?” Anthony shook his head in dismay. “What the fuck, man?”

From the front of the boat, Brent let out another groan.

“Will you
please
be quiet?” Anthony said. “Jesus.”

But when Anthony looked back at Jesse, he froze. Jesse’s eyes had gone wide, and his gaze was focused on the distance over Anthony’s left shoulder.

Slowly, Anthony turned around.

The flooded street ahead of them was filling with zombies. They were pouring out of the buildings on either side of the street. Anthony watched them, mouth agape, and as he wondered where in the hell they were all coming from, the dead zombie’s boat glided by to port.

Anthony turned to watch the dead man floating past, and as he did, saw even more of the infected coming down a side street.

He and Jesse both turned and scanned their surroundings.

“Oh shit,” Jesse said. “They’re everywhere.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Anthony?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I have my gun back, please?”

“Yeah,” Anthony said, and pushed the AR-15 into Jesse’s hand. “I’d better get mine, too.”

Anthony’s AR was leaning against the pilot’s seat. He scooped it up, ejected the magazine, checked it, and then jammed it back into the receiver.

“What do we do?” Jesse said.

“Get the ammo cans.”

“Okay, sure.”

“Better get all three.”

Anthony watched the zombies getting closer while Jesse removed three large ammo canisters from underneath a waterproof tarp. He put them on the center seat and flipped open the lids. Inside each can were twenty fully loaded magazines of thirty rounds each. In addition to that, both men wore tactical vests with twelve thirty-round magazines mounted to their chest. As Anthony scanned the crowds of zombies closing in on them, silently estimating the number of rounds this was going to take, he figured it was going to be close.

“One shot, one kill,” Anthony said to Jesse. “Make ’em count.”

Jesse only nodded.

“Set up in the stern there. I’ll take the bow. Holler out if you need help.”

Anthony met Jesse’s gaze.

His friend looked ill. His Adam’s apple was working up and down in his throat like a piston.

“You okay?” Anthony asked.

Jesse closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he met Anthony’s gaze and nodded.

“Good. Let’s go to work.”

Eleanor waited with Jim and Madison and the Red Cross volunteers just inside the doorway. Nobody spoke, nobody moved. The distant sound of thunder shook something inside Eleanor’s chest, and the occasional flashes of lightning lit the doorway with a bluish-white light.

More rain
, Eleanor thought darkly.
Just what we need
.

Her nose wrinkled at the stale, lived-in smell of a roomful of unwashed bodies and filthy clothes. Somebody coughed. And then, moving very quietly, Madison squeezed her way between Jim and Eleanor and took Eleanor’s hand in hers.

Eleanor looked down in surprise.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Madison said. “What I said earlier, that was mean.”

Eleanor put an arm around her and pulled her close, aware that Madison was trembling. She felt so small, so scared in that oversized T-shirt.

“Oh, baby,” Eleanor whispered, her chest swelling with emotion. “I love you, Madison. I’m gonna get us through this. I promise.”

But if Madison answered, her voice was lost in the commotion that followed. From outside on the balcony they heard Hank shouting. The next instant there was another loud, rolling crash—not lightning this time, but the heavy clanking sound of metal falling down a staircase—followed by at least ten rifle shots. Eleanor pulled her pistol and held it at the low ready, her eyes on the doorway.

“Sergeant Norton!” Hank shouted.

Eleanor glanced at Jim, and then at Madison. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and ran out the door.

“Mommy!”

“It’ll be all right, Madison. Stay with Daddy.”

She sprinted outside, but came to abrupt stop just outside the doorway.

A drizzling rain fell on her face and her arms.

Below her, the water had gone down considerably, and in the flash of a lightning bolt, she saw that it had exposed a number of cars in the parking lot. They looked like hippos in an African river, only the humps of their backs cresting the surface. A huge crowd of zombies was filtering between the cars, moving as quickly as their ruined bodies would allow.

Glancing down the balcony, she saw that a small group of them had managed to pull down the barricade of furniture that Hank had assembled across the staircase. All but two of the zombies were dead now, their bodies draped over the furniture and the staircase railing like marionettes with their strings cut. But the two of them that were still alive thrashed around in the water, churning it into a oily foam. Hank leaned over the railing and shot both, and the rifle’s report made Eleanor jump.

“Get everybody out of there,” Hank said, “then get down here and help me throw these canoes over the side. Hurry!”

He didn’t wait for a response. She outranked him by a considerable margin, but this was combat, and it was his game. He was trained for battle; she wasn’t. Eleanor’s job was support. Stay out of his way and do as she was told.

As Hank fired out the remaining rounds in his magazine Eleanor ran inside the building and ordered everyone out.

“Down the stairs,” she yelled. “Come on, everybody. Hustle!”

The Red Cross volunteers formed a ragged line and started toward the stairs. Eleanor, who had to yell at the top of her voice to be heard over the moaning of the zombies and the nearly constant bark of Hank’s AR-15, reassured when she could, pushed when she had to, but eventually got them moving down the stairs.

Jim and Madison remained at the top of the staircase, waiting on her.

“Go,” she said to Jim. “I’ve got to help him get the boats in the water.”

Then Jim put an arm around her waist and kissed her. Eleanor was so shocked she could barely respond. He broke contact and, with Madison’s hand in his, sprinted down the stairs.

“I love you,” she muttered, watching him go down to the water level.

Eleanor had just enough time to scan the crowd of zombies that was closing in around them when the first canoe went over the side, hitting the water with a dull
thwack
.

“Sergeant Norton, I sure could use a hand, ma’am.”

“Coming,” she said, and helped him toss the rest of the boats over the side.

The others were already climbing into the canoes when Eleanor and Hank jumped into the water.

Jim paddled the boat over to her and helped pull her in.

Then he turned the boat around and pointed them to the north.

All the others were doing the same except for Hank. He was all by himself and paddling hard, his canoe pointed straight for the thickest part of the approaching zombie crowd.

“What are you doing?” Eleanor asked.

“Getting your backpacks, ma’am. And maybe thinning out this herd a bit. You get up front and help get these people going. I’ll be right there with you.”

Before Eleanor could protest Hank dropped his paddle into the canoe and came up with his rifle. He started firing at a frightening speed. Eleanor, who was a pretty good shot with an AR-15, though certainly not a pro, wondered how he even had time to aim. But aiming he most certainly was, for he was dropping zombies one after the other, every shot landing on target. It was a sickening, but almost beautiful display of fighting prowess, and Eleanor watched it in rapt fascination before that voice in her head ordered her to get moving.

“Let’s go,” she said to Jim, and the two of them started paddling.

Lightning flashed overhead, and in that moment Eleanor could see the other canoes moving out ahead of her in a crooked line between battered buildings and ruined cars, a bluish-white glow on the water, almost like moonlight.

And then the drizzle turned to rain.

They saw the wreckage of the Coast Guard helicopter first. In the darkness it resembled the busted exoskeleton of some enormous insect, a praying mantis maybe, that had slid down the face of the building and was now trying to crawl back up. Anthony stared at it, unaware he was holding his breath. While he’d seen this before, during the crash and after, things had happened so fast he never had a chance to absorb the sight of it. But now, all that twisted wreckage, the half-eaten body of one of the pilots hanging out the starboard-side window, the enormity of it caught up with him. When helicopters started dropping from the sky, the shit was really bad.