Mitch stared down at him. “You guys go ahead and get the boat loaded. I’ll stay here with Turn. That infection is quick as lightning. It won’t be long now.”
None of us spoke. If Turn understood what was happening, he gave no indication.
“My guts feel like they’re on fire.” Sweat poured down Turn’s face. His fingers kept clenching up and his legs jittered. “And my muscles and joints hurt. I got a killer headache, too. What the hell is wrong with me? Did that preacher poison me?”
“You’ll be okay, buddy,” Mitch said. “Just something you ate. I’m gonna stay here with you until you feel better.”
Runkle turned to Tony and me. “Come on. Let’s get it over with. Our shipmates are counting on us.”
Turn sagged lower, his legs and arms sprawled. “I’m just gonna rest for a little bit. Just close my eyes.”
Runkle looked away. “You do that, Turn.”
“Tell Chief Maxey that I might be late to relieve him on the bridge. Tell him I’m sorry.”
“Sshhh.” Mitch put his finger to Turn’s lips. “No more talking, man. Lay back and try to get some sleep. You’ll feel better in a little bit.”
“Yeah, man,” Tony whispered. “You just rest up. Mitch will take good care of you.”
“I can’t feel the sun,” Turn whispered. “Where did * the sun go?”
Runkle walked away. Without looking back, we followed him to the infirmary and began packing boxes of medicine and carrying them down to the lifeboat. On our second trip, a single gunshot rang out. We flinched, paused in our work, and then continued.
“Fuck,” Tony said.
“One more trip and then we’ll start on the food,” Runkle said. “We’ll get as much as we can, but I want to be back to the Spratling before sundown.”
Then there was another gunshot. Then a third. Then a barrage. They echoed across the rescue station, bouncing off the buildings and scattering the birds roosted in the trees.
Runkle looked back at the chapel. “What the hell?”
Four more shots sounded in rapid succession, and then Mitch ran around the corner. His eyes were wide and terrified. His hair fluttered in the wind.
“Zombies,” he gasped. “Came out of the woods. Bunch of them.”
Runkle dropped the box he was carrying and pulled his weapon. “The ones on the crosses?”
“No.” he took a deep breath. “Different ones—from farther inland. They’re much more mobile than the ones in the clearing. Hundreds of them. They must have been hunting in the forest and heard all the commotion.”
“Well, let’s take up positions and—”
“There’s no time,” Mitch shouted. “And we don’t have enough bullets. I’m telling you, there’s too many of them. Just fucking run!”
The wind shifted again and brought their scent. I turned around and glanced back at the chapel, and the dead swarmed into view. Mitch hadn’t been exaggerating. Their numbers reminded me of the hordes back on the pier at Inner Harbor. They advanced on us, slow but determined. I wondered when they’d last eaten. They looked very hungry.
“Shit.” Tony tossed his box aside and fled.
Runkle raised his gun and took aim. The weapon leaped in his hands. With one squeeze of the trigger, he dropped one of the lead zombies. Five more took its place.
“Come on, Runkle.” Mitch tugged on his arm. “Don’t make us leave you here.”
We ran for the dock. Tony reached the boat first. By the time we leapt into it, he’d already started the motor. It choked and sputtered and for one terrifying moment I thought it was going to stall, but it didn’t. The zombies lurched after us, outstretched arms waving, dead mouths drooling. Mitch and Runkle laid down cover fire while I cast us off. More and more of the creatures collapsed, minus their heads. I untied the rope. Tony didn’t even wait for me to sit back down. He hit the throttle and I almost toppled overboard. Mitch reached out and grabbed my belt loop, pulling me to safety. We rocketed away from the dock and out into the bay, leaving the zombies—and the much needed supplies—behind. We’d only managed to get two crates of oranges and a carton of batteries loaded into the lifeboat. Runkle played with the radio until he figured out how to make it work. Then he called back to the Spratling and advised Chief Maxey of what had happened.
Tony released the throttle long enough to pull out his crumpled pack of cigarettes and light one. He inhaled, and then exhaled with a sigh. After he’d stuffed his lighter back in his pocket, he balled up the empty pack and tossed it into the water. It bobbed on top of the waves. We watched it float away.
“Well,” Tony said. “That was my last pack of smokes. I guess it’s all downhill from here.”
“Maybe we’ll find some at the next stop,” I said.
“No.” Tony shook his head. “I don’t think there’s gonna be any more stops, Lamar.”
I didn’t respond. Mitch stared out at the ocean. Runkle was still talking to the chief.
“Yep,” Tony sighed, “things are going to get a lot worse.”
He smoked his last cigarette down to the filter, and after he flicked the butt into the water, he began to cry.
Chapter Eight
We drifted along the coast for the next two days. The chief said he wanted to look for survivors, but in truth, I think he didn’t have a clue what to do next, and was just buying some time while he figured it out. Turn’s unexpected death had hit him pretty hard. He’d relied on Turn’s expertise more than any of us had realized. Chuck became Turn’s replacement, and Chief Maxey trained him further on how to pilot the ship so that Chuck could relieve him for short periods. Chuck filled in when the chief slept, but otherwise, Maxey spent his time on the bridge. Nick and Tran took over the galley, dividing up Hooper’s duties, and even though we didn’t understand him, Tran seemed happier with the arrangement. I think he liked Nick a hell of a lot more than he had Hooper. We all did.
The rest of us all pulled watch duty. We worked in shifts around the clock, standing fore and aft and watching the shoreline with binoculars. The chief was adamant that we remain vigilant. We stayed alert for lights or vehicular movement on the shore, or even a big help sign painted on somebody’s roof, but the only things moving on the ground were the dead. It was like spying on hell. Only the sea retained life, as evidenced by the fish we pulled out of it. Mitch hooked a big blue marlin the morning after the disaster at the rescue station, and it was cause for celebration—if only for a moment. The skies were full of birds. They’d grown fat from the easy pickings on land.
We encountered one other vessel drifting on the open water. The chief tried raising them on the radio but there was no answer. Chuck hailed them with a battery-operated bullhorn as we drew closer, but there was still no reply. As the Spratling pulled alongside the smaller craft, we saw why. There was nobody left alive onboard. A lone zombie blundered about the deck. Its eyes were missing, probably stolen by birds. Exposure to the elements had sped up its decomposition. Mitch shot it from the signal bridge. Its head didn’t so much explode as implode. After much debate, the chief vetoed boarding the other craft. Basil and Murphy were adamant that we send a party aboard, even though they didn’t volunteer to go themselves. Tony was hopeful that there might be cigarettes somewhere on the ship. But the fact remained that none of us knew what lay below decks, and the boat was small enough that any supplies it may have had wouldn’t have lasted us very long anyway. The dangers outweighed the benefits, so we sailed on and left the ghost ship to its fate.
On the third day, Chief Maxey summoned us all to the flight deck again. Chuck remained in the pilothouse, and Carol and Alicia kept the kids occupied. They’d set up a makeshift classroom in one of the berthing areas. Tran stayed behind in the galley, cleaning up from breakfast. Everyone else onboard mustered on the flight deck after we’d finished eating. We moved slowly, the weight of the dead world bearing down on all our shoulders. Gone was the excitement and enthusiasm we’d had after the last meeting. Only Cliff was still optimistic. It seemed like the worse things got, the more he turned to the Lord. Everyone else was lethargic and depressed. Tony and Mitch needed nicotine. Murphy needed alcohol. The rest of us needed hope. None of them were in supply. We stood around without speaking. There wasn’t much to say. We’d survived Baltimore, escaped the zombies and the fires, found sanctuary… and already, three of our number were dead. It felt like it was just a matter of time for the rest of us. There was no safe harbor.