“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.”
“Virginia Beach is a possibility” Chief Maxey corrected. “Down from the tourist area, there’s a stretch of national forest. There’s a small station there we could try.”
“What’s up north?” Runkle asked.
“The Isle of Wight.” Chief Maxey traced the coastline with his finger. “And up in Delaware, there’s Rehobeth Beach, Bethany Beach, and South Bethany—all of them are going to be packed with zombies.”
Turn said, “What about the lighthouse at Fenwick Island? That should be fairly deserted. I think the lighthouse itself is on automatic, so there’d only be a maintenance man, if anyone.”
“That’s a long way to go,” Chief Maxey sighed. “We’re closer to North Carolina and points south. I think we should consider one of those or the station near Virginia Beach—keep Fenwick as a last resort. Maybe we could try one of the islands off the Carolina coast.”
“I don’t know, Chief,” Turn said. “Those islands are all inhabited, and they had regular contact with the mainland, which increases the chances of infection. I think Fenwick Island is our best shot.”
While they were talking, I noticed a little red dot on the map, positioned farther out in the Atlantic Ocean. It looked like it had been drawn with a dry-erase marker.
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to it.
“Oil rig,” Chief Maxey grunted.
I was surprised. “There are oil rigs off the East Coast?”
“Sure,” Turn said. “There wasn’t a lot of drilling going on off Florida because of political stuff, but there are lots of operations elsewhere in the Atlantic. Most of them are way off shore. The one you’re pointing at is a jack-up. It’s mobile, which is why we drew it on the map in erasable marker. That was its last known location.”