Dead Sea (15 page)

    "You too, Tony."

    I watched him go, shoulders slumped, head to the deck. He didn't look at anyone as he passed them, especially the kids. I felt sorry for the guy. Sorry for us all. We'd survived. We'd beat the odds. We were still alive. But was it worth it?

    I watched Tasha and Malik as they played and decided that it was; if only for them.

    I closed my eyes and leaned back against the rail, letting the ocean breeze cool my skin. I listened to the roar of the waves. Listened to the screeching birds. Listened to the kid's laughter. It all blended together.

    With my eyes shut, it sounded like screams.

    

    

    Stephanie died in the middle of the night. Weak and dehydrated, she'd slipped into a diabetic coma shortly before sundown. Wasn't much any of us could do for her. Joan kept her warm and wiped her forehead with a cool washcloth. Held her hand and talked to her. Watched her go and made sure she didn't do it alone. Sometimes, that's the best you can hope for in this world.

    Stephanie Pollack had lived in an apartment in Baltimore and was diabetic. That was all any of us knew about her. Joan said that before she'd slipped into the coma, Stephanie had whispered some names. But those names had died with her. No tears were shed. We hadn't known her long enough. It was sad. Demoralizing and depressing. We were still human after all, and another human's passing, even a stranger's, was cause for reflection. But what was there to reflect on, except our own fucked-up situation? How to remember her? Stephanie had no purse, no identification, nothing that would give us a deeper glimpse into her life and who she'd been. Her locker was empty, as was the storage space beneath her rack. Was she married? There was no ring on her ringer, so probably not. Divorced, then? Widowed? Gay? Did she have children, and if so, were they still alive somewhere out there, or had they joined the ranks of the others? Brothers or sisters? She must have had parents, at least. Were they alive or dead? We would never know.

    Again, I found myself wondering what the fucking point was. Why continue fighting, continue struggling to survive? In the end, you died with a bunch of strangers who couldn't even eulogize you properly because they didn't know shit about you. When you died, you were supposed to live on in the memories of others. That's what I'd always been told. Didn't matter what you believed, which religion you subscribed to, what god you worshipped. The simple fact was that none of us knew what lies beyond. Immortality and eternal life? The only sure shot at that was the memories of those you left behind-your friends and family. But if you had no one, if you were alone in this world, who would remember you when you were gone? If memories were your only shot at eternal life, and there was no one to remember you, what then? If there was such a thing as a soul, what happened to it? Maybe death was all there really was. Maybe there was no such thing as eternal life. But now, even death wasn't the end, thanks to Hamelin's Revenge. Did the zombies still have their souls or were they just hollow shells? Could the person who'd once inhabited their bodies still be alive inside, conscious even after death, and if so, did they scream?

    Why not just go outside, climb over the rail, let go, and fall into the ocean? After all we'd seen and done in life, and all that had happened to us, both good and bad, all the triumphs and tragedies and everything associated with them, what was the fucking point? Was it all just to die among a bunch of strangers who barely knew your name? Or to end up inside a zombie's stomach or worse yet, to walk around like one of them, putrefying on the go?

    Word of Stephanie's death spread quickly through the ship. Murphy woke Mitch and me to tell us. He'd stood in the passageway, leaning through our hatch, silhouetted in red light. His breath smelled like cough syrup and his voice was slurred. If he was down to drinking cough syrup already, what would he do when he ran out of that? I wondered if there was any rubbing alcohol onboard.

    After Murphy left, Mitch and I didn't talk. The kids hadn't woken up and we didn't want to disturb them. Soon I heard Mitch softly snoring again. It amazed me, how quickly he'd fallen asleep. I lay there in the darkness, hands behind my head, and stared at the ceiling. My rack swayed with the ship, but I wasn't queasy. Tony's suggestion had worked. During dinner, I'd wolfed down a bunch of saltine crackers. They'd done the trick. No more seasickness.

    Heartsickness-there was no cure.

    I didn't fall back asleep.

    The others slept like the dead. I wondered if they dreamed and wished that I could, if only to escape this world for a little while. Even a nightmare would have been welcome. It certainly couldn't have been as bad as reality.

    The next morning, we buried Stephanie at sea. She'd died of natural causes, so she didn't come back. No worries there. She did what dead people were supposed to do. Old school. Just slipped beneath the waves and passed from this world.

    She was the lucky one.

    Before we committed her body to the sea, Chief Maxey asked if anybody would like to say anything. Perhaps a prayer or a Bible verse. Everyone looked at Mitch. Embarrassed, he explained that he only sold Bibles and didn't actually know much about them. Cliff eventually volunteered.

    After it was all over and she'd sunk beneath the surface, Cliff approached Mitch and I. He touched Mitch's shoulder.

    "I don't mean to be rude, Mr. Bollinger, but you should get in touch with God again. It's obvious you believed at one point in your life." Mitch brushed him away. "How's it
obvious?"
"Well, you're probably a very good salesman, and a good salesman always knows his product. Try reconnecting with the Lord. It might bring you comfort, with all that's happened. It does for me. He can be a mighty pillar of strength."

    Mitch exhaled. "Let me get this straight. With all that's happened you still believe in God?" "Of course. Now more than ever." "Well good for you, kid. Now fuck off." Cliff flinched as if Mitch had slapped him. "I'm sorry?"

    "You should be. Congratulations." "Look, exactly what is your problem?" Mitch's smile held no humor. "You've still got your faith. Meanwhile, I got nothing. So get the fuck away from me before I throw you over the rail and we find out once and for all if the Lord is watching over you."

    Cliff stomped away in a huff. When he was gone, I nudged Mitch.

    "You think you, were a little too hard on that kid?" Mitch shrugged. "Hell with him. Look, I don't care if he's a Christian. Seriously, I'm cool with everyone. Good for him. There's nothing wrong with that. But he's got no right to try proselytizing me. I hate that shit. Just because he's still a believer, doesn't mean I've got to be one, too."

    "Maybe it's his faith that keeps him going."

    "I'm sure it is. And you know what else? I'll admit it-I'm jealous as fuck."

    I nodded in understanding. "Yeah, I know what you mean. What keeps you going, Mitch?"

    He stared out at the water, smoking his cigarette down to the filter. It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did, I had to strain to hear him over the seagulls and the waves.

    "I don't know, Lamar. I don't know what keeps me going. And sometimes, I wish that whatever it is would just stop."

    I nodded again. Once more, I empathized all too well.

    

    

    

    "Norfolk is definitely out," Chief Maxey muttered around the stub of his cigar. "You have any idea how many personnel were assigned to that base?"

    "No," Mitch said. "How many?"

    "Well, I'm not sure exactly. But it was a lot. Thousands. The naval base is the size of a small city."

    "Damn straight it is," said Hooper. "Hell, the base
is
Norfolk. Everything else in the city is just there to support the base. It'll be crawling with zombies."

    We were standing inside a shack on the ship's signal bridge, planning our excursion to the mainland; me, Mitch, Chief Maxey, Turn, Officer Runkle, Basil, Tony, and Hooper. Chief Maxey had given Chuck a crash course on how to pilot the ship and put him in charge of the pilothouse while we met.

    "Just steer it straight," he'd said. "There shouldn't be any other vessels out here for you to hit. And if an alarm goes off, call us."

    The chief and Turn were there because they knew the coastline and could read the maps and charts. The others were there because they had military or law enforcement experience and knew guns. I was there only because Mitch had insisted I come with him. I was cool with that. Fish weren't biting anyway, and Tasha and Malik were busy with their studies-something they'd warmed up to after a few days. I think they liked having something to do, a challenge to occupy their minds, even if it was just school. Carol had found some paper and pens and had created study guides, since we had no books onboard. The kids took to her right away, and Tasha seemed especially fond of Alicia-and Alicia of Tasha as well. The night before, Joan had commented that the only time the teen seemed to open up was when she was with the kids. After three days at sea, things had begun to gel for all of us. One dysfunctional little family.

    Runkle sipped water from a plastic bottle. "Before everything went to shit, FEMA had set up an aid station in South Point. I remember hearing about it on the radio. It was supposed to provide food, water, and medical assistance. South Point is pretty rural, so maybe it didn't get overrun. Could we try for that?"

    Chief Maxey shook his head. "South Point is in the Chingoteague Bay. I'd have to circle all the way around Assateague Island. That puts us close to Ocean City, which would have been packed with tourists this time of year. Too many potential zombies, especially given the way they roam. Plus, if the wild horses on Assateague got the disease, we'd have zombies on both sides. The horses were used to crossing the bay-chances are they'd do the same after death. I'd rather not risk it."

    "But horses are immune to Hamelin's Revenge," I said. "I saw it on the news, before we lost power. Sheep caught it, but not pigs. Horses were immune, but cattle were not."

    "Perhaps they were," the chief said. "But the disease must have adapted later on because I saw a dead horse running around downtown. It was one of those police horses and it was chasing a live dog."

    "Are you sure it was a zombie?"

    "It’s broken ribs were sticking out of its flesh and its tail had been torn out by the roots."

    "Something else to consider," Turn said. "Wherever we dock, even if there are relatively few zombies, we might want to wear gloves and some type of face mask to breathe through. Maybe we can make something up with what we have on hand. One of the museum displays has cheesecloth. We could make a mask out of that."

    Basil, who had only been paying half-attention, sat up. "Why would we need to do that?"

    "Disease," Turn answered. "Think about it. Even if the army or somebody had killed all the zombies, they wouldn't have been able to burn all the bodies. There's simply too many of them. The fire pits worked early on, but once the situation got out of control, those failed, too. So now you've got thousands, maybe millions, of dead bodies lying around-or walking around. Corpses carry disease. Every zombie is nothing more than a walking biohazard."

    "Good point," I said. "But if that were the case, then why aren't any of us sick yet? We've survived this long. Wouldn't we have caught whatever disease they're carrying by now?"

    "Not necessarily. I don't know for sure because I wasn't on deck when you guys shared your stories. But I'll bet almost all of us survived by staying holed up somewhere and avoiding the zombies whenever possible. The fires were what forced us out of hiding, and we had limited contact with the dead before boarding the
Spratling."

    Basil still wasn't convinced. "You guys remember Hurricane Katrina, right? In New Orleans, people waded through the floodwaters, and there were bodies floating in the streets. There wasn't a massive outbreak after that."

    "Lot's of people got sick in New Orleans," Turn said. "But the difference was that there were aid stations and medical help on hand soon after."

    Tony lit a cigarette. "Maybe we're immune to Hamelin's Revenge. Maybe we've already been exposed and it just didn't take."

    "Maybe," Hooper said, "your ass should go first when we land. Let one of them fuckers take a bite out of you and then we'll see if you're immune."

    "No thanks."

    "I think we should keep an eye on each other," Mitch suggested. "Make sure nobody is getting sick."

    "I agree," Runkle said. "And if they do show signs of disease, we should quarantine them."

    None of us argued with him. Runkle may have been a prick, but he was right. No way could we risk everyone onboard the ship coming down with hepatitis or the bubonic fucking plague.

    Chief Maxey tapped the laminated map. "That's all the more reason why we need to find a place to resupply ourselves soon. In addition to food and water, we need medicine and first aid supplies. If we'd had insulin, maybe that poor woman would still be alive."

    "No sense beating yourself up over that, Chief," Tony said. "It was just bad fucking luck on Stephanie's part. There wasn't anything we could have done."

    "I suppose not," the chief admitted, "but I'll be damned if we're going to lose anyone else because of something like that. We've got one little bottle of aspirin and Murphy's cough syrup supply-and he's drinking through that like it's a bottle of Knob Creek. If somebody does get sick or hurt, we're going to need a lot more than those."

    "Okay," Mitch said. "So Norfolk and Portsmouth are out. Same with Virginia Beach, Hampton Roads, Little Creek, and Ocean City."