Zombie Ocean (Book 2): The Lost (21 page)

In the lounge she dug out the first aid kit and inspected her right hand. The middle finger was broken in two places and cut almost through. It must have happened when the yacht bucked while she was trying to unclip the carabiner. Snap, bye bye finger. The tip of it was already turning gray.

"We'll all be zombies soon," she muttered.

She picked up the surgical scissors, unwieldy in her left hand, and set them round the edge of the wound where the skin was still pink and enflamed, just below the knuckle. There was nothing else for it. She knew all about blood poisoning, couldn't operate on herself, and knew the former would happen before she ever got back to LA in time for someone else to do the latter.

She barely felt the cut. Her ruined finger dropped off to the deck and she bandaged the remnant stub. The pain immediately dipped. She splashed alcohol over the bandage and taped it up.

In the narrow hull bathroom she studied her face. Two teeth were loose, her lips were hideously puffed up like big purple slugs, her eyes were black and worst of all her nose was crumpled to the side.

She took a swig of the medicinal alcohol. It burned but she swallowed. She'd seen this done once before, after Ravi fell through a rotten car roof and smashed his face on the frame. With her left hand she took her nose and almost fainted. She had another swig, poured a glug over her nose, and while it was distracted with the biting pain of that she took hold and pulled it back to approximately the correct position.

Gristle crunched in her face, the sound made her sick, and she barely got the toilet lid up before dark bile spewed out of her. When it was done she drank a liter of water and staggered back to her bed in the lounge. The covers were tight. She stripped off all her clinging wet clothes and slipped in.

16. 5 YEARS OLD

Things were different when she woke.

The sense in the catamaran had changed. It was light, probably around midday, and the bridge rocked gently on the waves, but the quality of light was altered somehow. The sound of the wind whistling through her outriggers was familiar but shifted, like a song heard in the wrong key.

They were anchored. She could detect as much from the tug through the floor. That was part of it, but not all. Had she set the anchor? She couldn't remember.

She pushed back the covers and rolled her legs out of bed. Her hand burned. Her finger really was gone. She'd have to change the bandaging soon. Her head ached. She needed water. Through the open porthole at the front she saw guy lines that she didn't recognize.

It took a long moment for her to realize that they weren't wreckage from the storm. She rubbed her eyes and worked on that thought like a rock hard gumball, until finally it came.

They were the lines of another ship.

Excitement leapt up and fought with caution. Another survivor? Perhaps many survivors?

"Hello?" she called tentatively. Her voice was a croak. She was dehydrated and weak. Nobody replied.

She got on her feet and walked slowly to the open hatch leading out. She didn't remember leaving it open. She leaned out into a cool breeze, beneath a brilliant sky of stark blue ozone and white clouds, to see another yacht moored alongside her own.

It was a trimaran, with three hulls each painted a different shade of brown, and three green masts rising up. Green and brown sails were furled roughly around them like teepees, while the outrigger lines seemed to have been painted brown. The decks and main bridge looked weirdly organic. Where her catamaran was all sleek and efficient industrial design, the trimaran looked like a giant clod of earth. In fact earth was everywhere. There were piles of it on the hulls and scattered across the bridge-top. Growing in neat rows were what looked to be tomato plants, with cheery red button-sized tomatoes glimmering out from bright foliage.

There was also strong smell rising off the deck. Her nose didn't work well, too stuffed up with blood or cartilage, but she could taste it in her mouth. It tasted like fertilizer, like the Chino Hills farms in LA after a fresh spreading of human manure. The ammonia in the air made her eyes water.

It was some kind of weird boat-farm.

"Hello?" she called, "anybody home?"

No response came from the trimaran. Anna stood in her lounge doorway, calculating possible outcomes. Obviously this yacht represented another survivor, or perhaps several. They had organization of a kind. If they'd wanted to hurt her, they could easily have done so while she was asleep.

Atop the bridge she surveyed the trimaran from stem to stern, waiting for someone to emerge through one of its grotto-like deck hatches. They were round holes like hobbit homes, as though they'd been plastered to look more organic.

She padded to the starboard hull to inspect the line tethering the yachts together. It was a simple cross-hitch, one she could slice through in a few seconds with her knife. She touched her hip. Of course the knife was gone, battered away in the storm.

"Shit," she muttered. The words came stifled by her stuffed-up nose. She was in no condition for anything, certainly not a fight if it came to that. Maybe the best course was just to cut loose and get on. That's what she was in this for anyway, not to find crazy survivors on shit-boat farms.

But...

Curiosity got the better of her. In the lounge she tooled up, trying to ignore the tweaks in her ribs and hips and the hurt in her face and hand. She slotted two fresh knives into her waist belt and slipped a Colt 45 into the back, angled for her left hand to draw. She was a passable shot with her left hand; Cerulean had encouraged her to become ambidextrous.

"You lose a few limbs, and you get awful concerned about the use of the others," he'd said more than once.

Back up top, she moved cautiously along the bridge to the hull. Taking the step from her yacht to this alien island made her heart skip a beat. This person had surely watched her sleep. This person had been waiting for her to wake up.

The trimaran bridge took her weight. Something in the soil crunched underfoot. She looked down and saw eggshells mixed in.

Eggshells? That meant chickens, maybe a proper farm. Perhaps Amo had been right. Perhaps this crazy boat was good news for LA.

Five steps in, padding through soil and approaching one of the round hobbit holes from the side, she heard the low fuzz of screaming. For a moment it startled her, but the sounds were far too small to be actual people screaming anywhere nearby. She imagined a horde of miniature people trapped beneath the decks; some weird side effect of the zombie infection. Then the screaming stopped and the news reports began, and she realized what it was.

Amo's video.

Near the hole she called out again. "Hello there?"

Still no response came. Maybe this was the trap? She'd walk in and be stuck in a torture lair. She eased the Colt free and edged closer. She pulled a knife, angled it carefully, then held it out across the opening like she'd seen done in movies.

Nope. All the steel blade reflected was a dark interior with a square of fizzing light in the middle; a computer screen running. It was too small to see anything else.

"I'm coming in," she called, and slid round the opening's edge.

Inside was worse than outside. It was full of junk, and the stink that had been fresh and windswept before was now acrid and stale. The lounge was dark, dingy and crammed with garbage; at her feet was a stack of lobster or crab cages, tangled with frayed red and plastic rope and interspersed with dull plastic toys; muscular hero dolls and transforming cars and a large red and blue yard slide. Beyond that were masses of bleached driftwood, some suspended from hooks in the ceiling by blue fishing net, plus jumbles of old wooden furniture, a metal fire hydrant and a grandfather clock with the face missing and the clockwork brains spilling out. Car license plates decorated the walls haphazardly like family portraits, outsized top hats hung from hooks, and everywhere there was rigging of Christmas fairy lights, some of them glowing dimly.

"Oh man," Anna breathed, and tightened her grip on the pistol. This was worse than any of the hoarders she'd glimpsed in awful old-world DVDs. This was real crazy.

The computer screen was a small oblong of light in the middle, like a pearl in an oyster. The video was through the apocalypse montage now, up to Amo partying with his zombie flock.

"This bit gets me the most," came a voice from somewhere in the dim garbage. Anna flinched. It was reedy and hoarse, like an old engine turning over after many years lying fallow. It was a woman's voice. "All the hope. I piss myself when I see his face like that."

Anna frowned. Piss myself? "Uh, yeah," she said awkwardly, "that bit gets me too. I'm Anna. What's your name?"

"He thinks he's had a revelation," the voice went on, "when all he's really done is look the other way. But maybe that's better than to look on the truth. If only we could all stay in Eden."

Anna knew all about Eden, as in the garden of. It was the old-style religion, a god and a heaven and a set of rules to follow. A few of their survivors in LA had held to such beliefs in spite of the dead rising up and walking into the ocean. Some of them explained it as a second flood, with LA a second Ark and Amo as their Noah.

Anna had never bought into it. If anything, the apocalypse had been the rapture, summoning the zombies to heaven while the rest of them were doomed to endless purgatory. It was a nice thing to think about for her father, but it was all most likely a fantasy.

"Um, yeah," Anna said, peering into the dark, trying to resolve the woman's frame. "Eden, you might be right about that. Amo's a nice enough guy, but a bit trusting really."

No reply came.

"I'm Anna," she said again. "I'm from a community based in LA. I'm supposed to be telling all survivors to go there. You'd be welcome."

The woman laughed. It sounded raucous and unpleasant, like cats fighting in an alley. Anna scanned the darkness for movement. Perhaps that was her, lying prone before the screen, or her head at least. It looked like a head.

"Is that why you called me here?" the woman asked. "To preach his word? Are you his missionary?"

"Ha, no. I got caught in a storm. The signal you heard must've been the automatic SOS. You've seen the damage to my yacht. I'm not trying to convert anyone."

"So you say," said the woman. "I've been hunted before. Why don't you come in, Anna? I've got tea."

Tea! It just got better and better.

"How would I even come in? You've got this place pretty well crammed up."

The woman laughed again. "There's a path. Or just shove things out of the way. It's what I do. We have so much to talk about."

That sounded reasonable. Still, it was weird. Anna thought back to Amo and Don, getting up close and personal in the battle tank. She thought about Julio in the theater, and how things had gone for them. Trust had to be earned.

"I don't think I will, actually. Thanks. Why don't you come chat out here?"

More cackling laughter followed, this time really witch-like. Anna started to back away. So she'd met a mad survivor, well, she wouldn't be the first. Cerulean had come across one in Wichita and the guy had been drunk or high or both, dressed in rags with zombie make-up on, and he'd just barked. They'd tried to catch him, to help him, but he'd bounded off like a March Hare.

If this hole-dweller wanted to stay in her hole, let her.

"I know where you're going," the woman called after her. "I've read the comic book too. I've been there. I can help you."

Anna stopped. That gave her pause. "You've been to Mongolia?"

"I've been to Japan. It amounts to the same thing."

"So what did you see?"

"Come in."

Anna weighed it again. Crazies were always crazy, lurking in their lairs. She didn't need the candy. Japan was just out there a ways, and she'd be there in a month. This calculation hadn't changed.

She took another step away, and

BANG

The blast focused harshly out of the interior, along with the bullet, which whizzed by her head, whipping at her hair.

"You really want me to come in, hey?" Anna asked.

"I do. The next shot will go through your heart. I've been polite. Now leave whatever guns and knives you've got outside and come on in."

Anna looked at her yacht. She looked at the sky. This was ridiculous.

She did as the woman asked.

Pushing inside was a stumbling, awkward battle with heaps of flotsam trash. Here were packing crates full of puffy packing balls, here was a solid bench with a glinting saw blade rising through the middle, here were heaps of costumes from a kid's theme park. It was like a maze.

At the center was the monitor, with the woman nearby. She was sitting on a simple chair in a small open clearing, wearing loose-fitting khaki yoga pants and a jacket that was several layers at once, or several layered scarves. Her face was a filthy oval framed by a dark hood, with glimpses of red hair. Perhaps she was attractive underneath all that muck. Maybe she wasn't even that old. She held the rifle pointed at Anna's chest.

It didn't scare her. She was too annoyed, too impatient and in too much pain already to be scared. Instead she stood by the computer screen as Amo's video played out. Had he anticipated this too?

"So what do you want?" Anna asked.

The rifle discharged once, twice, three times, thunderously loud in the lounge. The final bullet nicked her thigh. Smoke puffed in her face and swirled around. A line of blood trickled down her leg.

She coughed. She rubbed her eyes. Her ears rang.

"A little respect to begin with," the woman said. "I've seen things that would burn out your eyes."

Anna sneered. "Your eyes look fine. And if you want to shoot me, do it. You think I care? I wouldn't be out here on the water alone if I cared."

The rifle clicked.

"That was the safety going on," the woman said. The rifle clicked again. "That was it going off."

Anna laughed. "Is that why you brought me in, to show me that? You've been alone too long. It's really not that impressive."