Extinction Level Event (Book 2): Holding Ground, page 2
part #2 of Extinction Level Event Series
“Yes.”
“Why’d he do that? He has done nothing but be hateful towards me. Why’d he save my life?”
Matt said, “He’s a complex man.”
She didn’t believe that for a second. “Chris Higgins only cares about food, beer, guns, and chubby redneck girls with large breasts.”
“That’s only the surface layer of him.”
“Whatever.” Syanna dismissed this falsity. “Next question. Where are we? I don’t recognize this room at all.”
“Sully’s boat. The Molly. You’re in his bed.”
“I’m in Peter Sullivan’s bed?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Matt smirked, ready for her response.
“I always suspected he wanted to get me in his bed.”
“Really?” asked Phebe. “Like when? When he threatened to pitch you over the side?”
“I was unachievable for him. You know men.” Syanna looked her up and down as if Phebe had slapped baby poo diapers to herself. “Well, maybe you don’t.”
“Oh,” said Matt. “You are definitely feeling better.” He turned to Phebe. “I think she’s out of the danger zone.”
“Yeah. Back to herself.”
4.
Leaving before Syanna flung another insult, Phebe found her way to the room containing bunkbeds. It looked to be the original crew quarters of the crab trawler. The end of the room slanted inwards. The bow. A hatch let in some light to only that area. Not too much help for the rest of the tight room. No furniture except the two bunkbeds.
Dock Cat curled up in the bed Mullen vacated. Sitting on the opposite bed, Mazy cried.
Realizing someone had entered the room, the former Marine Corps officer tried to clear off her tears. She did so in vain. Her eyes filled again. “Shit. Stop crying.”
“It’s alright.”
Phebe sat and put her arm around her. Mazy wept. Phebe held her, rubbing her back
“I have nothing of Jim’s.” Mazy blew her nose into a paper towel. “Unless I can get back to my apartment in Wilmington, or his apartment, then I have nothing of his. Like he never existed.”
“I’m sorry.” Phebe didn’t know what else to say.
Death was so huge. So final. Many twenty-first century civilian Americans didn’t face death often. Old people. Pets. Very sick people with cancer. Their death seemed to be a relief from suffering. Some young people could go decades without facing a loss. While other young people faced death constantly, through their friends overdosing or committing suicide or the victims of car accidents. Phebe hadn’t traveled in those circles. She had heard of overdoses and suicides in high school, but she hadn’t first-hand known any of them. Her longest relationship in high school was with a guy in the chess club. Phebe’s world had kept the older generation’s rules: only the old died. Grandparents. The fourteen-year-old family dog.
The young did not die. Under fifty was except from death.
But Rebecca had died.
Phebe pushed the fact out of her mind. She did not want to feel the loss. There was nothing to do with it. A twenty-five-year-old dieing, and under such circumstances, sat in her mind like an undetonated bomb. She ignored it and hoped it wouldn't go off.
“We don’t even have his body.” Mazy sniffled and wiped at the remaining tears. “There will be a funeral later. The guys told me. A memorial or whatever.”
“Well, that’s good, right?”
Mazy looked into her eyes. “You ready for it? They’ll talk about your roommate, too.”
“Oh.”
She hadn’t known Jimbo Conway. Until yesterday, he stood at the periphery of her world, merely mentioned by Matt and Syanna. But yesterday was hardly a get-to-know-you experience. She felt gratitude towards him, helping her survive, and his sacrifice at the end. Nothing, though, that tugged heart strings.
Rebecca Hightower, her late roommate, on the other hand.
“Do we really have to have funerals?” Phebe asked.
“I doubt it would be much. But the guys feel they need to do something to mark the passing of friends. I agree.”
5.
The sun told it was still early morning. Without her cell phone, she didn’t know the time. From somewhere deeper in the marina, a ting-ting sound from ropes as they hit sailboat masts. Seagulls squawked, flew around, and perched atop covered boats, where they pooed. A brown pelican stood on a piling and groomed its feathers. Dock Cat walked beneath. The pelican watched her. She looked up at it. The pelican flapped its wings and Dock Cat ran.
They lined up on the starboard side of the boat. The water below. Syanna insisted on attending. Matt carried her out and sat her in a camping chair. Her right leg in a cast from toe to hip propped on the seat of another camping chair.
They bowed their heads.
Julio said a funeral prayer in Spanish. Most did not understand it, but when he reached, “Amen,” the Catholics crossed themselves and everyone repeated, “Amen.”
Phebe closed her arms tight over her chest, a barrier against the feelings attached to a funeral. She expected eulogies.
Peter raised a bottle of Jim Beam whiskey and said, “Jimbo Conway, we’ll always remember you, brother.”
The ex-military people took a sip of either whiskey or beer and poured some into the water for their lost brother.
With that done, they looked at Chris.
“No. We ain’t doing that. Move on, y’all.”
Phebe glanced at him. His face unemotional. It revealed nothing. Her gaze shifted back to staring down at the water.
Matt cleared his throat as if this would be a long speech. “My roommates, Tom and Jeremiah, may the struggle be over for you both, if you’re still alive. And you find peace in Heaven. God bless you. Amen.”
“Amen,” they all said. They sipped and poured out.
Mullen backed away when they looked at him. “I’m not doing it.”
“Phebe,” Syanna said from her chair. “Are you doing?”
“Uhm.” Her heartbeat raced. She felt sick to her stomach. The bomb ticked.
“Well, hell, girl. I’m the one who killed her, so I guess it should be me.” She looked up at the sky. “Becks, I am deeply sorry for killing you.”
Somebody chuckled.
She continued, “But you were dead anyway. I just cut it a little short. I forgive you for trying to bite and kill me. For beating the daylights outta me. We’re good, sugar. I’ll miss you.” Emotion struck her. She repeated, choking on a sob. “I will miss you, girl. But maybe … maybe you are one of the lucky ones.” Tears fell from her yellow-brown eyes. “You are in Heaven, with your mama. You missed her so much and now you are reunited and I am so happy for you. And, sugar, you don’t have to face all this that’s happening. You are home.” She wiped at her tears with broken manicured nails. “You’d sure hate all this that’s going on. My Lord, you hated guns. You were a liberal pacifist type. Worse than Phebe.”
Phebe scowled. News to her she had any such philosophies.
“You were a real one, Becks, with an ACLU card and everything. This would kill you by inches, girl. But you are safe and you are home with your mama, in our Lord and Saviors kingdom. Even though you never believed in Jesus, He’ll forgive you, because He’s like that, now that you found out you’re wrong about everything.”
Peter laughed.
Syanna raised a shot glass filled with tequila. “To Rebecca Susan Hightower. I’ll always remember you.”
“Hear hear,” somebody said.
Phebe stared at the water. Ripples lapped at the hull. The others took a swig and poured out. She feared she’d vomit over the side. Or jump overboard, submerging herself in the water's coolness to sooth the electrified cells. Drift downwards in the silence. Stay there until her lungs burned. Let the physical be the biggest pain, replacing the pain in her chest.
Whenever she blinked too long, the face of an infected jumped out of the dark. Horrors indelibly burned on the inside of her eyelids. Monsters stalked at the periphery of her conscious mind. They built homes in the recesses and lurked at the perimeter, ready to pounce and rip her apart.
She jumped when a hand touched her.
“Easy there,” said Peter. “Nerves jangled?”
“Something like that.”
She looked around. Everyone was gone. The funeral over.
“You looked a thousand miles away,” he said. “Do you wanna be left alone?”
She hugged herself. “I’m not sure what I want right now.”
“I recommend drinking heavily. Always worked for me.” He swigged off his beer. “Sorry about the clothes.”
She hoisted up the sweatpants. “It’s at least something.”
“Girls look cute as hell in men’s shirts. Not so much in the pants area.”
“I’ll fail in the catastrophe fashion show.”
“So will Miss Syanna Lynn. See what she was wearing?”
“I don’t think she’s noticed she’s wearing men’s cargo shorts. She’s too stoned on painkillers.”
“We’ll have to loot for clothes before she does notice. Or we’re all doomed.”
She tried to smile, seeing he was trying to cheer her up, but it came out barely a smirk.
“Aw crap.”
Her head whipped around to see what caused his remark. She expected infected to charge down the gangway to the floating dock. Gollum-barking and drooling with homicide in their overly pupil dilated eyes.
Instead, it was a portly old man in a floppy fisherman’s hat. His face ruddy. His hair white. He spat tobacco chew into the water as he made his way along the floating dock.
“Bubba’s here,” said Peter. “The marina owner.” He cringed. “The Suburban’s owner. Hope he doesn’t mention that again.”
“The SUV shot by the helicopter?”
“That one.”
“Is he angry at you?”
“He’s confused by me. Hope he’s not here for clarification.”
Bubba climbed the steps to the side of the boat and walked the walkway. He took a long, hard look at a garden hose stuck in a hole of the Molly. Water flowed through it. Peter filled the water tank.
“I should charge you for every damn ounce of that there water, Sullivan.” Bubba then looked at Phebe. “Excuse my French, ma’am.”
She obligatorily nodded that it was okay. Although, she was confused on where the French came in—or even where the cursing came in—and what middle-aged woman was he addressing as ma’am.
“Bubba,” Peter said. “Am I sensing some hostility?”
Bubba looked at him, flabbergasted. His face turned beet red. He pointed a finger at Peter. “Don’t you ever ask to borrow nothing from me no more. All the favors dried up, boy. You hear?”
“I did not shoot up the Suburban, Bubba.”
“You got her shot.”
Insufferable Peter seemed to think about it. “No, can’t see how I did that. Ask the others.” He gestured to the cabin. “They’ll tell you. But I’ll warn you, we just had a funeral for the people we lost. Our friends died, Bubba.”
The old man looked confused on what to do with this information. He huffed. To Phebe, he said, “I am sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
“Go on inside, Bubba. Coffee and beer are up.”
He glared with a shake of his head. “You a pain in the ass, Sullivan.” He went into the cabin.
Peter looked at Phebe. “Ever feel like you’re trapped in Gone With the Wind in this place?”
“I live with Syanna Lynn Claiborne from Savannah, Georgia.” She tried to smile, but her face felt heavy.
“Yeah. You got a worse Scarlet.” He chuckled. “Does that make Matt that wimp Ashley guy?”
“Does that make you Rhett Butler?”
“Oh God! I’m not having a thing with Syanna. I don’t care. Sherman, zombies. I don’t care, no. I’ll run into Sherman’s flames carrying zombies.”
“Does that mean you frankly don’t give a damn.”
“Ah! You got it. The rest of these people can’t do movie quotes. They’re so lame.” He stopped and looked at the cabin door. “I feel a disturbance in the Force.”
Despite her mood, she chuckled.
“A woman not offended by Star Wars quotes, cool.”
“I’ve made some of my own.”
“Tell me about you after I deal with these morons. I’m probably going to be yelled at by somebody.”
“You feel that in the Force?”
“No. It’s just what normally happens. See you in a bit.”
She remained on the deck, alone, staring.
After a while, she looked up at the sky. “Why’d you do this? Whatever you are.”
Chapter Two
Fallout / Fall Down
1.
In the saloon, Bubba sat at the table with a beer, though it was a little early for him. Julio and Matt kept their distance. Last night, they argued with him about letting people into the marina. He grew so furious, they feared he’d have a heart attack or stroke out. He went to the old hippie Kenny’s boat and got high to calm down.
Peter slid his butt onto the galley counter.
“Where that little guy?” Bubba asked.
“You mean Jimbo?” Peter asked.
“The cop.”
“He’s dead, Bubba.”
“Dang. He was alright.”
“We thought so.”
“I don’t like that big redneck and some Mexican guy up on my parking lot with big guns. Today, people gonna be let in.”
“First, that Mexican would be a Native American.”
Bubba shrugged, as if to say same difference. Political correctness wasn’t the old man’s strong suits.
“What’s second?” Bubba asked. An ornery look on his face. A deep frown. His small blue eyes flamed with anger. "You said first."
“You gotta stop letting people into the marina.”
“That bullshit again.” His fist balled. “That ain’t right!”
“Bubba, they cannot leave. The Atlantic Fleet is out there to sink boats.”
“They pay good dang money to keep their boats here, Sullivan. Who am I to say they can’t gain themselves access to their own boats? And who the hell are y’all to say it neither?”
“This is not normal times, old man. We are quarantined. Do you understand what that means?”
Bubba scoffed and sipped off his beer.
“Jesus Christ, Bubba.”
“Hey! Watch your language, boy.”
“Then let Jesus come down and slap me. These people cannot leave and we do not know if they are infected.”
“They leaving. You ain’t seen all them boats going out last night?”
“How many have returned?”
“Huh?”
“Bubba, the Coast Guard and Navy are out there. Their job is to prevent people from leaving the quarantined zone. We are in that quarantined zone.” He used his hands to emphasize. “This marina is in it. They will sink even ritzy-titzy cruisers for breaking the quarantine. You are helping these people to die.”
“You don’t know that.”
Peter laughed. “I do.” He gestured to the other guys. “We do.”
Matt and Julio nodded.
“We were out there last night,” said Julio. “We were turned back at gunpoint by the Coast Guard and given a warning that if we tried again, we’d be sunk.”
Bubba swigged on the bottle, until it ran dry.
“I’ll get you another one.” Peter slid off the counter and went to the fridge.
The refrigerator ran on the boat’s battery, which recharged by the boat’s engines. That required fuel. He figured as long as perishables were in the fridge, it was worth a little fuel.
The marina had a fuel pump dock. It was old and required minimum electricity to operate. A car battery would suffice. They had plenty of those available in the parking lot.
Bubba drank halfway through the next bottle before he spoke.
“What the hell are we supposed to do then?”
“Lock down the marina,” said Peter. “My men are posted guard.” Guard sounded like gua’d.
“Yeah, I got that. Seen them out there, scaring people.”
“Chris can’t help that he’s scary looking.”
“That ain’t what I mean, boy. This ain’t no time for your joking. You need to ask Jesus for forgiveness.”
He finished the bottle. Peter got him another, noting beer needed to be a priority on the looting shopping list.
“Why is Jesus doing this to us?” the old Baptist asked. His voice lost and plaintiff.
Peter kept his mouth shut and let the other two vastly more religious guys handle comforting him. They talked of sin and repentance.
Phebe walked into the saloon from the outside deck.
Bubba said, “Everyone here needs to pray. It’s them atheists and homosexuals that caused this wrath to come down on us.”
She froze, eyes widening. Peter struggled not to laugh. The jokes blossomed. But he had to be good—Bubba’s cooperation necessary. She looked trapped and indecisive. She turned back and forth between the saloon and the cabin door.
It hurt to hold in the laughter. “Quick.” His voice choked and face reddened. “Scurry past before they burn you at the stake.”
She dashed through the saloon.
Julio gave him a paternally reprimanding look. Then gestured his head to leave.
And Peter did.
In his bedroom, he fell on the floor, laughing.
Phebe stood over him.
Once he recovered himself, he sat up. “Oh, I thought I’d die.”
“You done?”
“Think so.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “Did you see your life flash before your eyes in there?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe we should give them books to burn.”
“No. Book burning always leads to people burning.”
“That is so true. Even the Nazis did it.”
“Hmm. Wasn’t there a game of Nazi zombies?”
“Indeed, there was. Is. Whatever.” He sat back on his butt, long legs stretched out before him.
From the bed, Syanna said, “What’s going on? Why were you laughing like a hyena?”
“Run,” said Peter. “It’s another Southern Baptist. They got us flanked.”
