Carlie Simmons (Book 3): The Way Back (7 page)

Chapter 15

As Alejandro moored the boat beside the
rear of the cruise ship, Shane and Matias stood at the back of the sailboat
with their AK-47s pointing up at the deck, twenty feet above.

Jared was standing with a coiled rope in
his hand that had a large steel gaffing hook attached to one end. He waited for
a nod from Shane to begin swinging the caltrop and then propelled his arm
upward in one swift thrust. The steel hook landed on the deck with a loud clank
and it lodged against the guardrail as Jared slowly retracted the rope.

 “Remember, we don’t have suppressed
rifles this time so don’t take a shot unless there’s no other option,”
whispered Carlie, who had stepped forward to hold on to the rope as Jared began
his climb. His sinewy frame clambered up the thick manila rope. Reaching the
top, he swung his body over the white guardrail, making sure the rifle slung
off his back didn’t slide down and clatter against the metal uprights.

Carlie craned her neck skyward, watching
him disappear onto the deck. A few minutes later, she saw a rotting corpse with
a freshly cleaved head flop over the edge and plunk into the ocean. In the
moments that followed two more creatures clad in bathing suits plunked down
into the water. Jared reappeared over the guardrail with his soiled machete in
his hand and a white-brimmed captain’s hat with gold trim adorning his head.

“The deck is secure. Permission to come
aboard,” he said with a two-fingered salute.

****

Once they were up on the deck, Alejandro
led them down the narrow left walkway towards a gift shop next to the galley.

He slowly opened the door and peeked
inside for any movement. A second later, he nodded for everyone to follow him.
As they stood in the middle of the room surrounded by racks of t-shirts, straw
hats, and assorted tourist trinkets, Alejandro turned back and smiled at them.
“Before we get our supplies of food and I go any further with you, you
seriously need to acquire some fresh clothing.”

The motley bunch looked at each other in
their tattered garments and chuckled. “Hadn’t even thought about it until you
mentioned it,” said Matias. Then he quickly removed his soiled shirt and flung
it behind the checkout counter and rifled through the Hawaiian shirt rack next
to him. The others followed in earnest, with the two women going over to the
corner to try on some floral-print summer blouses.

After donning a button-up shirt with green
parrots on it, Shane walked over to a postcard rack and began rummaging through
a shelf full of water shoes. “Make sure to get some new footwear,” he said,
pulling down a size twelve and sliding them on. Then he leaned over and grabbed
a pair of mirror sunglasses.

Jared was pawing through the plastic bins
of candy by the counter, stuffing the pockets in his new beach shorts with bite-sized
packets of M&Ms, Twix, and Swedish Fish. Then he tore open a goopy Snickers
bar and rammed it into his mouth, letting a thread of caramel hang off his lip
while immediately tearing into another packet. Amy came over to him, tilting
her oversized red Fedora hat and running her fingers along the sparkling silver
earrings resting against her tan neckline. “Do you approve, good sir?”

“Most definitely, my good lady. I would be
as a fumbling child in the presence of such a cultured woman.”

Carlie came over with a purple woven hat
and thrust her arms out, revealing gold chain-link bracelets on either wrist.
“I’m looking to make a purchase and not sure which one is of finer quality.”

Before he could answer, Shane pushed his
way into the group, wearing a herringbone derby hat. “Is this a black-market
operation here or is this guy legit, ladies?”

“Oh my…well…sir,” smiled Carlie. “I hadn’t
thought about it. I mean he looks like an honest fellow but he could be one of
those swarthy types who preys upon unsuspecting women.”

“I doubt you have to ever worry about
anyone preying upon you,” said Jared, pointing to the gold bracelet on her left
wrist and flinging the other one on the floor.

 Matias whistled from the left corner,
motioning to a glass cabinet full of mini liquor bottles. He reached in and grabbed
a bottle of Tres Agaves Tequila and lustily unscrewed the cap. “Alright, we’ve
got all we need right here.”

“Figures you’d reach for that child’s
drink,” said Jared, who grabbed a bottle of Tito’s Vodka and then reached for the
shot glasses on a wooden rack.

Both men began pouring their respective bottles
into their mouths, splashing fluid liberally over their chins.

“Did we come for the food or the drink—you
guys do remember that this is a vessel full of flesh-eaters?” said Amy.

“Just one more swig,” said Matias,
slamming down his vodka and then offering her a bottle. She pushed it away and
reached for the bourbon instead, taking a sip and then laughing in a hoarse
voice.

Pavel stepped forward with a small bottle
of Bell’s Scotch and hastily removed the cap. He took a hearty drink and then
tilted his chin up while exhaling deeply before imbibing again.

“You’re a Scotch man—no shit?” said Jared.

“It’s a stereotype that we Russians only
drink vodka. I can’t stand that peasant water. Scotch is for real men.”

Jared laughed and lifted his glass to
toast the older man. Carlie came up alongside them and grabbed a bottle of
tequila. As she raised it up to her lips, a rattling noise outside the door
caused everyone to freeze.

Carlie moved to the door, palming the
pistol on her hip. She peered through a crack in the door and then looked back
at the group with two fingers raised.

“Psst,” whispered Alejandro, nodding his
head to the rear door behind the register that led out into a hallway along the
other side of the gift shop.

While Carlie stayed at the door, the
others backpedaled out the other way. Once they were clear she retreated from
the entrance and snuck along the checkout counter, grabbing a handful of soft
Milky Way bars and stuffing them in her back pocket.

Once they were in the hallway, Alejandro
escorted them to the galley next to the gift shop. Stopping at the faux-wood
door, he untied a knot securing the bronze door handle to a railing on the wall
next to the entrance while peering into the porthole.

“I secured this room when I was last here
so no creatures would venture inside. The place should be secure.” He slowly swung
the door open and proceeded inside as everyone fell in behind the wiry man.

Spread along the almond-colored tiles was
a dried swath of blood that led from the central food prep table to another
door opposite them. “Don’t worry, that was from the maître d’ I had to dispatch
on my first trip,” said Alejandro.

Everyone stood gazing in wonder at the
voluminous supplies lining the shelves along all four walls. Row upon row of
canned corn, peanut butter, peas, powdered milk, beans, sugar, and jelly. On a
stainless-steel table to the left were boxes of Irish oatmeal, brown rice,
pasta, wheat, and graham crackers along with a neat row of mustard, ketchup,
Tabasco sauce and assorted spices.

The sink, stove, grill, and prep table were
in an island in the middle, framed by dozens of pots and kettles which hung
from the ceiling. Two walk-in freezer units were off to the right but were
padlocked shut.

“I usually stuff as much as I can fit into
those heavy-duty trash bags under the sink and then lower them down into my
boat or attach ’em to inner tubes and toss them overboard.”

Shane moved up alongside Carlie. “Jared
and I will head topside and recon the mainland from there while the rest of you
load up on supplies,” he said.

“Copy that,” she said, tapping him on the
shoulder and then joining the rest of the group, who were busy grabbing
armloads of supplies.

Chapter 16

Shane and Jared moved along the green-carpeted
hallway until they reached a veranda that opened up to a swimming pool one
level below. Milling aimlessly around the soupy red pool were close to sixty
zombies, each one clad in either swimsuits or black t-shirts with pictures of guitarist
Jerry Garcia on the front.

The two men squatted down beside a blue suede
couch and studied the bizarre scene. “What the hell is with those shirts—they’re
all the same,” whispered Shane.

“You know cruises are oriented around a
particular theme. This one must have been a Dead Head theme.”

Shane goggled at Jared and hunched his shoulders
up. “What the hell is that?”

“Grateful Dead, man—jeez, just how
uncultured are you?”

“I never listened to that hippy music.”

Jared raised a hand over his mouth to
restrain his laughter. “Shut up,” said Shane. “Before I crack you in your jaw.”

“I ain’t laughing at you—or not entirely
at you anyway. It’s just we’re on a cruise ship dodging zombies that are a
bunch of Dead Heads. I could slice through this irony with my machete, man.”

Shane looked down below at the crowd and
then at Jared, quickly repositioning his eyes past Jared’s shoulder. “Right
now, it’s not irony you need to hack through, my man,” he said, thrusting his
chin up at the approaching creature lumbering down a walkway to their right.

The two men stood and simultaneously ran
forward, slamming their machetes into either shoulder.

“Why don’t you call it next time? I had
this one,” Jared said, removing his blade. As Shane yanked his machete out, Jared
kicked the beast in the chest, knocking it backwards over the railing into the stagnant
swimming pool.

“You and your splashy entrances,” said Shane
as they looked aghast at the ravenous crowd below staring up at them. “We
better get to high ground before they get up the stairs.

Both men darted up the metal steps leading
to the upper levels until they crested an open-air observation deck which was
lined with lounge chairs and a kiosk with a pseudo-thatched roof.

“You safeguard the stairs and let me know
how we’re doing on time. I’m gonna scope things out on the beach and try to
locate the helo,” Shane said, withdrawing a pair of binoculars from his
daypack.

Jared stood by the stairwell, peering over
the edge with his machete in one hand. “I’ve got movement.”

“Just stay calm. We’ve got a few minutes
before they get up here and we make our escape.”

Jared looked nervously around the
observation deck. “You see another set of stairs I’m missing?”

Shane began laughing in between glassing
the distant shoreline. “You’re a shit-hot professional thief and you didn’t
already plan your exfil route?”

“This ain’t funny, Shane. These things are
one level away and we don’t have that much ammo to blast our way outta here.”

“You grew up on the ocean. You must have done
your share of high-diving, right?”

Jared stepped back from the stairs and
leaned over the railing, looking at the distant waters beside the ship. His
face went pale and he staggered back on his feet. “The only time I ever dealt
with heights was when something went wrong on a heist, so in other words,
never. You sure about this?”

“Don’t sweat it. If you’re not man enough
to jump, I can always push your sorry ass off the edge.”

Jared ran back to the stairwell and could
hear the sickening groans of hungry flesh-eaters ambling up the metal steps. He
saw the first creature with a scraggly gray beard and long greasy hair waddling
forward. It was clad in a t-shirt with a guitar-playing skeleton smoking a
cigar. Jared reached back and grabbed a lounge chair and flung it over the railing,
causing the staggering line of freaks to halt temporarily.

“You done eyeballing the coast yet,
because we got about two more minutes before the undead Dead Heads arrive for
brunch.”

“Yep, I’m all set,” Shane said, tucking
the binoculars back in the pack and walking to the side of the deck by Jared.

“So what’s it gonna be—you following me
over or do I have to carry you like some pathetic bride across the threshold?”

“I got this, Mr. Navy Polliwog. I can do
this just as well as you, if not better,” Jared said, nervously scanning the
waters a hundred-twenty feet below and swallowing hard.

Shane cinched the straps on his pack and tucked
his mirror sunglasses in a zippered shirt pocket. Then he smiled at Jared and leapt
off the edge. Jared watched him plummet into the blue-green waves below then he
turned and saw the group of unDead Heads bobbling towards him on the deck. He
looked straight at the horizon and squeezed his eyes closed. “Navy SEALs my
ass, you were probably in the fucking Coast Guard,” he muttered, jumping with a
war cry, his arms flailing in the wind as he slammed into the frothy waters
below.

Chapter 17

During the next two weeks while they
stayed at the small but well-stocked farmhouse, riding out several snowstorms,
Willis put Eliza through the same combatives training that he and the other
Secret Service agents went through on a regular basis. Nothing elaborate, but
rather a focus on simple, primal skills that could be utilized at a moment’s
notice under the duress of hand-to-hand combat which required raw, brutal
fightstoppers using elbows, knees, headbutts, eye jabs, groin kicks, and throat
strikes to subdue or kill an attacker. After the basics were learned, he taught
her three knife-fighting moves and had her apply her blade skills on cardboard
boxes, tree branches, and any other objects that would improve her slashing and
thrusting skills. He had to remind himself not to focus on her athletic figure
and instead to treat her as a student—one that was still under his protection.

They practiced in the evenings, starting
out with half-speed moves and progressing to fullblown strikes on padded
clothing followed by endless simulation drills against Willis.

Eliza proved to be an eager student and
her years of prior dance training made her moves seem more graceful than most
of the men he was used to working with. Willis knew that he was only teaching
her the physical moves involved in being combat efficient. The will and desire
to actually kill another human being was something that either she had or she
didn’t. That trait, he worried, would only reveal itself in the chaos of
fighting and his admonitions and mindset training could only take her so far.
Given how stark the world had become, he knew she wouldn’t have long before she
would be graded on the battlefield. He had to push her harder and increase her
training tempo over this next week for their push north. They had decided to
stay put in the well-stocked farmhouse until the weather cleared from its
blustery snowstorms and they could procure a suitable vehicle.

“I don’t expect you to be a master fighter
but I do expect that you be a master of 2-3 moves. These can save your ass one
day. The best fighters I ever trained with were guys who were awesome at
delivering a couple of key strikes rather than the dude who sucked at a
thousand moves. So, I want you to practice the straight knife thrust and the
side slash until your arms hurt. Then do the same with a stick—all of the
skills that I teach you with the blade will carry across other weapon
platforms. This whole system of fighting is largely based around the Filipino
Martial Arts and those guys have combat down to a fine science.”

Willis had tied several swaths of old rags
around the wooden upright that ran from the floor to the ceiling. He
demonstrated the moves first and then had Eliza mimic him. Then he set her
loose on the rag training dummy, circling her and yelling out instructions
while she struck and stabbed the post.

“Remember, small circular moves when
slashing and sharp jabs when thrusting. The longer you have your weapon away
from you, the more your body is opened up to a possible attack. Get in and get
out fast while sidestepping and setting up for another round of strikes.”

After she had done a hundred thrusts, she
paused to rest, lowering the blade by her side and grinning. “Whew, that is
some workout.”

Willis stepped forward and slapped her on
the arm with the butt of his blade. “You think those things out there are gonna
let you catch your breath when you’re battling on the streets?”

“Shit, you didn’t have to smack me like
that.”

He stepped into her space and looked her
in the eye. “This isn’t a Zumba session with your friends. You’ve been slipping
these past few days. Your goal is to destroy your opponent at any cost. There
is no place for mercy on the streets. Do you understand?”

Eliza backed up, palming the blade in her
hand while resting her other hand on her hip. “Look, I’m trying my best. I know
the alternative to not having fighting skills in this world is to meet a
horrible death. I’m not slacking off—I’m just not sure I can do what I did to
that zombie to another person.” She blew a strand of hair off her nose with an
impatient breath. “I took jazz and ballet lessons my entire childhood—I’m just
not sure I can be a soldier when the time comes.” She turned and jabbed the
blade into the post and then walked away.

Willis pondered her words for a moment and
then resheathed his blade. “Eliza, between us and Fort Lewis are hundreds of
miles of open road filled with the undead and desperate survivors who will slit
your throat just for your jacket.”

She moved away and stood looking out the
window at the immense fields of brown grass blowing in the wind.

Willis moved up next to her. “Do you
remember the plaque that was in the Oval Office behind your father’s desk? The
one that he placed there himself?”

“Yes, I remember. It was by Eisenhower.”

“What did it say?”

She looked away and tried to move around
Willis but he sidestepped and blocked her way. “Tell me what it said. I know
you memorized it when you were younger. Your father was always so proud of
that.”

Eliza folded her arms and tilted her head
slightly as tears welled up in her eyes. “‘
We succeed only as we identify in
life, or in war, or in anything else, a single overriding objective, and make
all other considerations bend to that one objective.’
”

“Yes, that’s it. Now Eisenhower wasn’t
facing what we’re up against but he had his dark days of chaos and horror as
others had before him. His words are timeless and apply just as much now as
when he held the reins.”

She balled her hands and placed them on
the wall, tapping the concrete as if hoping it would respond. “I just miss him.
I never thought things would end this way. We should be back at Ft. Lewis now.”

“This isn’t an ending, not for you. You’re
a fighter, Eliza,” he said, moving next to her.

“I am tired of thinking about fighting and
shooting and running away.” She turned and relaxed her fists and let her arm
fall down beside his. Eliza slowly stroked his hand and then interlaced her
fingers with his. She felt him return her grip and then she slid her other hand
onto his waist. Running her fingers along the top of his service belt, she
looked up at him. “Can’t we put aside all of this for now? I don’t want to
fight against you right now.” She pushed her lips up to his. He moved closer
and pulled her into his embrace as the glowing image of the sun in the window
behind him faded below the trees.