DEAD RAIN: A Tale of the Zombie Apocalypse (25 page)

64

Trembling from his recent brush with death, Sheriff Leeds hoisted his butt over a low chain-link fence and rolled across it into the yard. He landed in a loose crouch, with briny floodwater lapping at his chin. Despite the numbing cold water his leg was still hot where Bronski’s bullet had settled above the knee. It felt like someone had jabbed a burning hot poker into his leg and broken off the iron tip.

He took a deep breath and looked around, sorting out his situation. The adjacent yards were vacant. The houses around him were dark. Nothing moved behind their rain-splattered windows. Any Resurrecteds in the area were probably half a block away, layi
ng siege to the boathouse pier.

His racing heart slowed just a little. For the moment he felt safe.
Relax
, he told himself.
You’re alive. But you need to get your ass out of this water and get your head together.

Forcing himself to his feet he limped to the wooden steps at the back of the home and took a seat, lightheaded and shivering. The wound on his leg was serious and he knew it. The bullet had hit him inches above the knee and was lodged in the front of his femur. He was afraid if he put too much weight on it, the bone might snap.

A second shot had struck him in the belly, but didn’t make it through his belt. The hollow-point bullet was deflected by a formidable chrome snap on the belt and lodged in the thick black leather. Leeds breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it, jutting from his heavy steer-hide belt like a copper-clad mushroom. Its impact had felt like a mule kick and he’d been sure it had been a gut shot. His leg was badly hurt, but even if he lost it, he’d ultimately survive. Under the current circumstances, with no hope of timely medical treatment, a gut shot would have been fatal.

Digging into his shirt pocket he pulled out a small plastic container. With quivering fingers he snapped it open. Inside were a dozen pain pills, oxycodone he’d co
nfiscated from a stupid teenage addict who made the mistake of speeding through Lenape Creek on his way to the shore. Leeds kept the pills handy for an emergency—like needing some convenient incriminating evidence to plant on a suspect.

Digging out a pill he popped it into his mouth, then he sank against the back door of the house, content to rest until the powerful med took effect. For the first time since he’d learned of the
Resurrected outbreak he had time to reflect. A small nagging voice emerged from the depths of his conscience, admonishing him for his years of service to the dead. Years of feeding them… prolonging their unnatural existence.
You’re to blame. You’re a sinner. This is your penance. Pain and suffering. Death.

But he quickly suppressed such thoughts, conditioned by decades of denial
and years of Fundamentalist indoctrination.
No. Stop being a baby. Think of Job. You can’t lose your faith after one little setback. Even Jesus suffered. This is your personal crucifixion. Man up. You’ll get through this.

His thoughts turned to his own survival. He’d screwed up by letting the trooper and the boy get the best of him. But he still had hope that they might not get away—he might have already delivered the coup de grace by luring the Resurrecteds to the pier. If the pair took refuge in the boathouse they were no doubt trapped inside, with no safe way out and no viable means of communication. He’d made sure of that when he destroyed the radio.

Or they might have escaped in the state police boat. But Leeds knew boats, and he knew the ocean well. The particular model of Sea-Ark docked at that boathouse was designed to cruise along the coast, but not in such brutal weather. Not in the open sea in the midst of a howling nor’easter. Taking it out in this storm would be suicide, even for a master seaman.

Leeds
felt the pain easing in his leg and relaxed. The oxy was already taking effect. He smiled as he thought of his best hope of all. Maybe the trooper and the boy and the unlucky ladies in the funhouse were all dead at this very moment, with the Resurrecteds feeding on their flesh.

He sank back and closed his eyes, enjoying a moment of peace. He thought of his wife and his kids and the members of his church and wondered how they were faring.

Whatever will be, will be,
he decided.
We’re all in God’s hands now… as we’ve always been.

65

The wind was unrelenting, whipping the hem of Cat’s poncho about, pelting Emma’s face with needles of rain. The trooper was out cold, in a deep merciful sleep, leaving Emma alone to ponder their fate. Physically exhausted and emotionally drained, she wished she’d been able to get them to a higher rise on the roller coaster. The next slope over was twice as high and a thousand times safer, but to get there now would be impossible.

Just a few meters below their meager perch, hundreds of stinking cadavers stood swarming like bees around
a queen, groping at the slippery metal rails and crossties, jostling against the uprights supporting the track. Thankfully the massive structure had been built to withstand great forces from all directions, and reinforced after Superstorm Sandy.

Emma
inventoried the contents of the troopers’ tac bag. Besides Cat’s pistol and ammo there were a handful of protein bars, a stainless steel multi-tool, a folding knife, a small plastic plunger device that she didn’t have a clue about, and a soft yellow cloth. Feeling hungry but guilty about eating while Cat was unconscious, she allowed herself half a protein bar, then checked to make sure the pistol was loaded. She removed the magazine and pushed bullets in until it was full, a task that grew tougher with each round, then she carefully replaced the mag in the gun and cocked the slide like she’d seen in the movies.

Knowing that the gun was fully loaded gave her a reason to feel better—that she was doing all she could to protect Cat and herself. But with so many hungry zombies surrounding them, she knew in her heart
that one round each was all they’d ever really need. She slipped the gun carefully into the tac bag and secured it shut, then laid back on the tracks and pulled her hoodie tight, turning her head sideways away from the peppering rain. The stench from the corpses was horrendous, drawn up into the damp atmosphere. Emma couldn’t imagine how much worse it would be without the powerful wind that was whipping over them, carrying most of the odor away.

Confident that she and Cat were reasonably safe, she started drifting off
to sleep. There was a chance they’d be struck by lightning, but that was beyond her control. She had done everything she could possibly do to save them. If a bolt of lightning had their names on it, so be it. It would sure beat joining the monsters below. She nodded off and on, her consciousness slipping from snatches of dreams to disjointed half-awake thoughts.

She thought of her mother,
and how much she loved and missed her already. She regretted the spats they’d had, which had sometimes seemed all they had to share. She realized now that her mother was simply protecting her. Now she was the protector, with a surrogate daughter lying on the tracks at her feet.

She thought back to the monumental task of saving Cat… the Herculean effort she’d made to drag her through the maze, across the pier, and up the slippery incline. It all seemed a crazy dream now. Could she really have pulled it off like she remembered?

She wondered if her mother was watching her now. She hoped that she was… and that she was proud of her daughter. And she hoped that if lightning struck, that they’d soon be together.

66

“Shh, it’s okay, Marissa. You’re safe now.” Ryan stroked the little girl’s hair and pulled her collar tight. He’d draped her in a dry trooper’s shirt from the duffel bag he’d loaded in the boathouse and topped it with a lifejacket. “What a pretty name you have, Marissa. And it fits you. You’re a pretty little girl.”

Bronski glanced over to check on them. “Make sure she’s buckled up tight. And put your lifejacket on. It’s going to get rough once we hit the open sea.”

Get rough?
Ryan thought, as the boat teetered up and down like a seesaw on steroids. His stomach was already churning. 
How much rougher can it get?

“There’s only one lifejacket left,” he replied, trying to be noble. “You should have it. You’re more important to this mission.”

“It’s not up for debate,” said Bronski gruffly. “Put your lifejacket on now. That’s an order. And strap yourself in. You can hold the girl on your lap.”

Ryan complied, seemingly reluctant but inwardly grateful. With the lifejacket on he took Marissa’s place on the mate’s chair and cuddled her on his lap.

“I’m counting on you to protect that precious cargo,” Bronski continued, “I’ll be too busy trying to keep this tub afloat in that open water.”

The little girl’s presence had a profound effect on the trooper. Although his marriage had been childless, Marissa reminded him of his niece, who he loved like a daughter. She was about the same size and complexion, and had the same pretty eyes. He had yet to hear the girl utter a single sound, other than a sporadic terrified whimper. But the boy had done wonders calming her. She wasn’t exactly smiling yet, but at least she was quiet and relatively calm.

His determination to rescue her from Leeds’ nefarious clutches had heightened his senses and given him the impetus to act swiftly and decisively. Without it he might have hesitated, which could have been a fatal blunder in the heat of a hectic duel.

With the danger from Leeds and the zombies behind them, Bronski focused on the task at hand—steering them safely out to sea. The channel was a seething maelstrom in its own right, with foaming crosscurrents swirling into mini-whirlpools
. He knew it was merely a taste of what lay ahead.

The prow of the boat rose and fell on eight foot swells.
Sheets of rain pummeled the roof of the cabin and streamed down the windshield like a waterfall. Visibility was a chore, but as long as they stayed in the center of the waterway he felt they were relatively safe.

As the wipers cleared the murky water Bronski caught a glimpse of the Beach Creek Bridge, a hundred yards ahead. It wouldn’t be long before they passed beneath it and chugged out into the ocean. Then the real fun would begin.

The lights of the boat and the sputtering of its engines didn’t go unnoticed on the bridge. Clinically dead eardrums vibrated and vacant eyes turned to stare. Stiff muscles twitched and limbs started moving. Frayed synapses fired impulses in slowly rotting or long dead brains—brains controlled by colonies of alien microorganisms.

Soon the side of the bridge was lined with cold
dead bodies, standing in silent turmoil.

Bronski grew uneasy as he saw them gathering along the railing. He shifted his gaze down to the docks lining the creek side of the island and sa
w clusters of shadowy movement there as well. A flash of lightning revealed dozens of zombies huddled on each of the docks, drawn to the lights of the boat.

The trooper told himself to relax. The boat was safe in the water, far from the shoreline. The dead were no threat now. Even if they could swim like Olympians, they’d have no chance to fight the powerful current or climb aboard
a moving vessel in such turbulent waters.

A chill ran up his spine as the boat chugged closer to the overpass and the lifeless spectators jockeyed for position at the rail. It was clear they were growing more agitated, responding to the sight and sound of the approaching Sea-Ark.

Bronski pushed the throttle, eager to pass under the bridge. But the incoming tide was strong, and the boat seemed stuck in a glutinous backwater nightmare.

The first thud came as a shock. A corpse hit the edge of the foredeck and slid
off into the drink. Then another slammed down… and a third—landing with a sickening mixture of splatting organs and cracking bones, loud enough to be heard above the howling storm. The broken bodies lay on the foredeck, trying to rise, coiling their mangled torsos in macabre frustration.

“What the hell—?” Ryan started to ask but choked on his words. Quickly realizing it was raining zombies. He wrapped his arms around Marissa, like a scared little boy clutching his teddy bear.

A deafening bang rocked the cabin as a zombie hit the aluminum roof, forceful as a cannonball, punching a dent in the ceiling. Rain poured in through the damaged roof and a fury of boisterous pounding followed as the traumatized brain of the corpse sent it into wild seizures.

Dozens of shadows hurtled past the windows, splashing into the channel around them. More loud thumps rocked the boat as a trio of bodies landed on the rear deck.

“Jesus. Ryan, take the wheel!” Bronski drew his handgun and headed to the deck to investigate. He paused at the cabin door, amazed to see bodies dropping by the dozen all around them. Thankfully most missed the boat and it slipped beneath the bridge, so the trio of broken bodies he was facing were all he’d have to contend with at the moment. But he needed to act fast. The boat would be passing back into the open channel in seconds and another airborne assault might be headed their way from the other side of the bridge when they emerged.

He dispatched all three of the shattered bodies with head shots, starting with the closest one. Despite the close range it took a full magazine, due to the rocking of the boat and the writhing of the atrocities. He wasn’t even sure the last one was truly dead—its head had rocked sideways but his bullet may only have grazed it—but the boat was already passing from under the bridge and he needed to take the wheel.

A thunderous crash drew his attention to the cabin. He dashed back inside to find Ryan flat on the floor, semi-conscious and confused. The left windshield was gone and the shattered body of a uniformed policeman lay nearby, between Ryan and the dazed little girl.

The zombie policeman raised hi
s head. Bronski took aim with his Sig—and saw that the slide was locked open. “Shit!” He quickly ejected the empty magazine and fumbled in his pocket for another—then dropped the unloaded gun and leaped forward as the policeman slithered across the floor towards Marissa. He was almost on it when the crawling zombie kicked his leg out from under him, sending him back across the slippery floor.

“Move, Marissa!” he screamed. But the little girl lay paralyzed, near catatonic with fear.

Ryan sat up, starting to comprehend what was going on. “Oh my God.”

The policeman opened his mouth and lunged for Marissa’s throat—but was stopped in mid-air. Bronski had a hand on his collar, struggling to hold him at bay.

“Help me, Ryan! Get the girl! Quickly! Pull her to safety!”

Ryan
scrambled towards her as Bronski fought to restrain the ravenous policeman. He managed to grab her ankle and started dragging her across the floor—but the policeman grabbed her arm as it slid by. The little girl shrieked. He bit through her tender flesh.

“No!”
Bronski screamed, as a surge of angry heat flooded his body. Enraged by his failure to protect the innocent child, he leaped to his feet and attacked the monstrous policeman with a vengeance, twisting his head and slamming it violently into the floor until the monster dropped still and didn’t move.

Ryan rose dizzily, gazing in horror at the policeman’s froggy face, recognizable despite its missing nose. A clash of emotions bombarded his mind. Every horror he’d experienced in the past twelve hours seemed encapsulated in the unholy thing lying dead at his feet.

Bronski ran to the little girl’s side. She gazed at him silently, trying to speak. Tears welled in his eyes as he gazed at her beautiful doe-like eyes and knew they would soon be cold blank slates. A shuffling sound drew his attention to the door. “Ryan, look out!”

Ryan turned to see a broken body crawling through the doorway, dragging its shattered legs like a mangled tail. It opened its mouth and hissed—Ryan raised his pistol and fired.

The corpse fell dead.

The boat dipped and
rose and spun on the current. Lightning flashed through the windows and when it passed the air was gloomier than ever. An eerie pall fell over the cabin. It called to Ryan’s mind the River Styx he’d read about in English class.
It must have felt like this,
he thought,
sailing into hell.

He looked at Marissa, then averted his eyes and started weeping.

Bronski squeezed his shoulder. “Keep your head on, son, I need you. She still might make it through this. If we stop the infection from spreading and get her to a doctor in time we might be able to save her. But I need you to help. Wrap a tourniquet on her arm. Tie it tight.”

Ryan looked up at him. Wanting to believe there was hope, but not
really buying it.

“Just do it,” Bronski said coldly. “I need to get control of the boat.” He slipped into the captain’s seat and focused on the storm-tossed waters ahead. Rain pelted him through the broken window. Mingling with his tears. Quietly washing them away.