“Hey,” Malik said, “I know how to use a gun. Grenades, too. I blew up a whole bunch of zombies last night.”
A few people in the crowd laughed, and that just made Malik angry. Glaring at them, he leaned against the rail and scowled.
“I’m sure you’re very brave, son,” Chief Maxey said. “And if you used a grenade last night, then I think it’s safe to assume it was your father or Mr. Bollinger who brought them onboard?”
I started to tell them that I wasn’t his father, but before I could, Mitch spoke up.
“I did,” Mitch said. “And I’m not too happy on the idea of giving them up, even temporarily. Like you said, we don’t know each other that well. And what if we do get attacked by marauders? How would we defend ourselves if we got boarded?”
“If we were attacked,” Runkle said, “we’d know in advance. The chief has a key to the armory. He could distribute the weapons.”
Mitch didn’t seem assured. “Is it the only key?”
“Yes.” Chief Maxey nodded. “I have a complete set of keys for the ship. The duplicates are back at the Maritime Museum offices.”
“So, no offense, Chief, but if something happened to you—if you fell overboard or lost the keys or something, and we were attacked, what would we do then? Cut through the armory door with a torch?”
“Well,” the chief admitted, “that wouldn’t be very feasible.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Mitch said. “And we don’t have the means to copy your key. Look, I don’t like the idea of all of us roaming around with guns either, but the simple fact is I’d feel more comfortable holding onto mine.”
I noticed that Officer Runkle was eyeing Mitch’s holster, as if he were contemplating making a grab for Mitch’s pistol. I tried to stay inconspicuous, but slid between the two of them, just in case. Runkle glared at me, but stepped backward. I smiled. He didn’t smile back. Must have been straight. Shame. He was a good-looking guy. I would have enjoyed getting to know him better, but the vibe he gave off was definitely a warning. Plus, I never dated cops. The world may have ended, but I still had my standards.
Runkle spoke up. “With all due respect to Mr. Bollinger, I don’t think we can—”
“He’s right,” Chief Maxey interrupted. “I hate to admit it, but he’s absolutely correct. What if something does happen to me or to the key? You’d all be shit out of luck if we really were attacked. But it doesn’t sit well letting everyone carry them around, either.”
“If I could make a suggestion,”—the professor stepped forward—“why don’t we agree to confine our personal weapons to our private quarters, and not carry them at any time while onboard ship, unless of course it’s during a general quarters situation.”
“What is general quarters?” the redheaded woman asked.
“An emergency,” the chief explained. “If we were attacked, you would hear an alarm bell over the PA system. That’s called general quarters.”
“I like the professor’s idea,” Mitch said. “How about the rest of you?”
“Sounds fair to me,” Murphy agreed. “I’ve only got a little twenty-two pistol, but I’d hate to give it up. It’s kept me alive so far.”
“Ditto,” said Basil.
Officer Runkle looked unhappy with the decision, but all of the others agreed.
The chief finally nodded with obvious reluctance. “Okay,” he said. “I guess that’s fair. A ship isn’t exactly a democracy, but then again, you folks really didn’t have much of a choice but to come aboard. If you want to store them in your compartments, that’s fine. However, I think we need to agree that there will be penalties for anyone who breaks that rule.”
Mitch frowned. “Such as?”
“The Spratling is also equipped with a stockade. It’s down on the lower level, right between the ship’s laundry and the boiler room.”
“And who’s in charge of that?”
Smiling, Officer Runkle stepped forward. “I am. Unless anyone has a problem with that? It makes sense. I was a cop, after all.”
He was going to be trouble—an inferiority complex with a badge, desperate for others to recognize his authority. I knew his type well. Had seen it before and hated motherfuckers like him. I’d been exposed to them all my life.
The conversation continued. We discussed the ship’s routine and schedule, and Chief Maxey gave everyone some tips about how to cope with things like seasickness, the proper way to stow our belongings, surviving inclement weather, what to do if someone fell over the side or if we had to abandon ship, and other factors of life at sea. He said that he and Turn would look over the maps and charts and try to pick a port with a minimal surrounding population. That way, there was less chance of it being overrun with the dead when we conducted our supply raid.
After answering more questions, the chief wanted to know more about each of us and any specific skills or abilities we might be able to offer. We already knew that Runkle was a cop, and he didn’t offer any other personal details. Basil Martin was a Web designer. He refused to tell us anything about his personal life, other than he’d been in the National Guard before going to college. Professor Williams told us that his fields of specialty were English literature and mythology. He was a widower—his wife had passed two years before, and his children were grown. His son lived in Thailand and his daughter in California. He hadn’t heard from either since the nation’s communication grid went down. Our new friend Joan Barnett went next. She was a dental hygienist. Turned out her spouse had passed away, too-dying from lung cancer in a room at Greater Baltimore Medical Center as the dead first began to stalk the streets. He’d died alone. She’d been unable to get to him because of martial law. The hospital had confirmed his passing. She never made arrangements because soon after, arrangements no longer mattered. Murphy’s first name was Ollie. He was a boiler operator. Chief Maxey got excited by that news. He’d spent the last few weeks holed up in a bar on Pratt Street, which was no surprise, judging by the telltale alcoholic veins in his nose. Cleveland Hooper had been a cook at a diner. Twice divorced, he’d been hiding out from deputies looking to serve a warrant for non-payment of child support, and hadn’t even been aware of the zombies at first. Hooper had also served a four-year stint in the navy. Nobody knew anything about Tran, and even if he hadn’t been washing dishes, he wouldn’t have been able to tell us about himself. Mitch told everyone he was a Bible salesman and firearms enthusiast. Then it was my turn. I introduced myself and then the kids.
After that, we met the other passengers. The redheaded woman was Carol Beck. She was a quality control manager at an injection molding plant and had been trying to flee the city. Stuck in a traffic jam on Interstate Eighty-three, she’d gotten out of her car to get a better cell phone signal. As she stood there, zombies had swarmed the on-ramp, forcing drivers to flee. She’d hid inside a factory. Next was Cliff Shatner, a young kid in his early twenties. He’d been a student at Towson University, majoring in journalism, and was partying in Fells Point when everything fell apart. He’d been trapped downtown, hiding inside the basement of the Soundgarden music shop. Stephanie Pollack didn’t look so well when she introduced herself. Her skin was pale and dripping sweat. Her pupils were dilated. At first I thought it was the heat, but we soon learned that she was diabetic and had run out of insulin. The fires had forced her to flee quickly, and her supply of insulin had burned up with her apartment. We were concerned for her, but there wasn’t much we could do. It was a hopeless, demoralizing feeling. It seemed so unfair—to survive the fires and the zombies, only to have your own body turn against you. And yet she was a trooper. She’d stood on the flight deck the whole time, baking in the heat, listening patiently as we talked and debated, and not once had she complained. Basil and Hooper, on the other hand, had done nothing but bitch since we’d got there. The chief told Stephanie to go lie down, promised he’d do anything he could to make her more comfortable, and had Joan escort her back to her compartment. He promised that if we could get to a port quickly, the first thing he’d look for was insulin. I thought the chances of that were pretty slim, but I kept that to myself.