Dead Tide Rising Read online

  Dead Tide: Rising

  By Stephen A. North

  Published by Library of the Living Dead

  Also by Stephen North

  Beneath the Mask

  Dead Tide

  Barren Earth (with Eric S. Brown)

  A Library of the Living Dead Book

  Published by arrangement with the author.

  Dead Tide: Rising

  By Stephen A. North

  Copyright 2010. All Rights reserved

  ISBN10 - 1453731423

  ISBN13 - 9781453731420

  Cover art by Dan Galli

  Interior formatting by Kody Boye (with special thanks to Travis Adkins)

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of both the copyright owner and “Library of the Living Dead Press,” except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situation are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  This one is for my dear friend, Dr. Michael West. (also known as Dr. Pus)

  Many people have helped me along with my writing career. Here, I’d like to thank a few of them by name: My wife Lisa, and daughter Lindsey; Tom and CeCe Boyles; Sheri Gambino; Nancy Alloy; Ray Hinst; Patrick D’Orazio; Cece Sawyer; David Wawrzynski; Bob and Judy Wawrzynski; David and Diane Lynch; Tim Long; Rhiannon Frater; Robert and Laura Best; David Dunwoody; Robert Adams; Pam Briar; Mac Wells; Zombie Zak; Zombie Farmer; The Funky Werepig Podcast; Lee “Goatboy” Hartnup; Martha Cantor; Sue Edgerly; Aaron Alper; Dan Galli; Kody Boye; Steve Stodden; Colleen Wanglund; Scott Johnson; Erik Smith; Bob Hutson; Scott C. Clough; Dale Spalding; Raven Corwin; Siobahnn Allen; Susanna Parish; the associates and shoppers of Store 1536; Mike and Jennifer Rebane; Leon and Arlene Faust; and last but certainly not least, my parents David and Joyce, and my in-laws Judy and Ron.

  Prologue

  How old is he? Two? Three maybe?

  At least two front teeth are missing, as the child looks up at him with his chin masked in a bloody froth. The shopping cart is on its side and groceries are everywhere.

  Where are the parents?

  “You fucking monster! Get away from my child!”

  The man’s voice has a drunken slur, and there is no doubting the tone or unspoken context of the message. It comes from his blind side: the right. Fear, loathing, ignorance are all there and maybe rightly so.

  Johnny, whether he wants to or not, looks the part.

  For a moment, he closes his eye. The wave of self-hate and pity that follows is almost unbearable, even after countless repetition.

  Something jabs him, and he blinks.

  The drunken father is in front of him now, poking a finger into his chest, still ranting, but now his pale face is flushed. Probably about to stroke out. A toothpick dangles from his lips.

  “Get away from my boy.”

  Johnny wants to answer, but it would only make things worse. So instead, he stands there, hands at his sides, wearing his bright yellow safety vest and name badge that says: “Hi, I’m Johnny. How can I help you?”

  Have to shut down. Can’t take much more from this guy. Not my fault the boy fell out of the shopping cart seat.

  The father must have been an aisle or two over, when the son decided he wanted out of the shopping cart. The kid fell long before Johnny could even think to catch him.

  Now, here he stands trying to endure the tirade, wondering why the father finds it more important to chew him out over nothing, than attending to his child.

  Shift the guilt. Blame me.

  “Why don’t you speak?” The man squints up at him. In addition to his flushed cheeks, Johnny notices the top of the man’s face and neck are a flushed. He also has some sort of faded tattoo visible beneath the thinning hair on his head. Johnny gives the man his best smile, but knows it appears lopsided, and maybe insincere. Maybe dopey.

  “You some sort of retard, or something?” the man asks.

  Johnny shrugs, and holds onto the smile. Focuses on the toothpick.

  “Gonna have your job, dumbass, just keep smiling at me like that!”

  Johnny is aware that people are gathering. A young brunette woman, wearing blue jeans and a black t-shirt, approaches the still squalling kid, and cradles him. “Aren’t you going to do something for your son?” the woman wants to know. She has her hair in a ponytail that bobs with each indignant shake of her head.

  “Piss off lady. He’ll calm down.”

  “His teeth are knocked out!”

  The man turns away from Johnny, grabs the woman by the throat with his left hand, and goes for a knife in a sheath at his waist with the other.

  Chaos ensues. The woman screams and Johnny steps forward and grabs the hand holding the knife. One-eyed or not, Johnny is fast and strong. He twists the man’s arm down and behind his back, then presses it up, forcing him up on his toes, then slams him headlong to the floor. Something gives, the knife drops, and the man screams beneath him. The scream is tortured, and no resistance is offered as the arm goes limp and lifeless.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Johnny looks up, as full awareness returns, and realizes he is straddling the man’s back and holding an arm that has been pulled free of the socket.

  The hoarse voice of his boss, “Jesus Johnny, what have you done?”

  A large circle of people surround him, all gaping, some slack-jawed with shock. Blood is spattered on the floor, smeared on his skin, and the scent of copper in the air.

  How to answer the questions?

  He gapes at his boss, Harry Ferrell, a small-hearted weasel of a man with gray-streaked hair and an enormous ego.

  “What the hell are you doing, Johnny?” Ferrell shouts. “Get off that man, right now!”

  Johnny lets the man’s arm go, and gets to his feet on trembling legs. The injured man rolls over, and sits up, still screaming, and tries to cradle his arm. “I’m going to sue you! You people saw it all! That one-eyed freak broke my arm! Hurt my kid and broke my arm!”

  Have to get out of here! Get away from the shouting. Away from the words.

  Johnny pushes Ferrell out of his way, and lurches toward the front of the store.

  Behind him, a chorus of shouts and exclamations cause him to pause and look back.

  The woman with the ponytail is chewing out Ferrell as he stands over her, looking shocked. Maybe ten other customers are just watching. “That man saved my life. This asshole wasn’t watching his kid.”

  Johnny steps on something. A little plastic figurine. Was this why the kid tried to climb out of the cart?

  More people are coming. Johnny steps to the side, letting the security guy and the store manager brush past him. He continues toward the front of the store and the exit. Get away and go do my job. Let them sort this out.

  Almost against his will, Johnny looks back once again. A lot more people are heading toward the scene. The security guy, Rick, has the drunk guy standing up, while Ernie, the store manager asks questions. Johnny shakes his head. Better not to know anymore. He turns away and glances over at the shopping car corral. It is nearly empty. The other stockman, Bill, is probably taking another smoke break. Bill is in his fifties and thinks he’s entitled to frequent smoke breaks.

  “I’ve been here almost twenty years,” he’d often say, “the bastards owe me.”

  Nothing for it, but to get to work: Johnny walks outside into the sunshi
ne.

  The heat beats down on the asphalt parking lot and blankets everyone daring to move in a layer of perspiration. Johnny feels sweat roll down his face, gather at his armpits, and soak his underwear. He holds the remote control and pushes the forward button. The cart pusher machine mashes the two line of shopping carts together, and another wedge of twenty-five is ready. While holding down the button with one hand, and the first, front most cart with the other, he begins walking back toward the front of the store.

  The parking lot is full. Probably three hundred cars, at least. Also out by the edge, there is a blood mobile set up advertising free restaurant coupons for a donation. Not many people go in, but Johnny is thinking about it. There is air conditioning, and they will give you whatever you want to drink, and maybe even some fruit. Then, there is the coupon. Will it be for Chick-fil-a? That is his favorite. I’ll give blood today for sure!

  This time of day, probably thirty people are scattered around walking in or out of the store at any given time. Sometimes a pan handler. The newest swindle they use on people is “My car ran out of gas, can you help me out?” He pays attention. It isn’t good to be surprised by people out here. Better to be alert.

  Five minutes later, a police car pulls up to the front of the door and parks, lights still flashing. A tall, female St. Pete police officer wearing their light green uniform shirt and dark pants climbs out. She pauses a moment to shift her gun belt then heads right in through the exit doors.

  Johnny is now near the pond and the exit road that goes to Thirty Eighth Avenue North. Ducks are everywhere. For the moment, he is in the shade and glad for it. Roughly a hundred feet away he watches a derelict come up out of the ditch bordering the Pinellas Trail, and cross over to the Blood Mobile bus. The guy looks like he is wearing a burlap sack for a shirt, and khaki shorts. Johnny squints. Looks like maroon stains on the shirt and shorts.

  A well-dressed brunette, in a black suit and high heels, starts to exit the bus, but she spots the bum and steps back inside. The derelict bangs on the bus’s door, and pries at the edges. Is he too drunk to pull the handle? They don’t ever lock people out.

  A moment or two passes while the man continues to pound on the bus. Johnny begins to drift closer, grabbing carts as he goes. Suddenly the door opens, and clips the derelict guy, and sends him sprawling onto his back.

  Johnny grabs another cart, but struggles with this one due to a bad wheel. A tall, clean-cut black man steps out of the bus and shouts something. Johnny can’t make out what. The derelict is slow to get back up.

  Someone else is climbing out of the ditch to the concrete path of the Trail. Looks like a young woman in a pale yellow jogging outfit, a t-top and shorts. One of her long tanned legs is streaked with blood, and her blonde hair is loose and tangled. Normally, Johnny would have a hard time not watching a woman like her, but even from a distance, he can tell something is wrong. Maybe how she is favoring the bloody leg?

  The tall black man, probably a nurse, is helping the derelict to his feet. Johnny grabs another cart–This one full of empty quarts of oil and a beer can or two. Watches the nurse fall backwards as the other man claws at his face.

  Both collapse against the bus, and as Johnny watches, the woman joins the derelict man in assaulting the fallen nurse.

  Someone screams and Johnny looks back toward the front of the store and the police car. Several people are struggling not far from the entrance. He hears a gunshot. Sees a man holding a pistol in two hands, and sighting it toward a teenager with blood on his face. The man fires five more shots, then turns and runs. The teenager seems unaffected. Maybe the man missed?

  Turns back toward the bus. The nurse is almost stripped bare and the two people are sitting next to him–Eating! The woman digs into his intestinal cavity and pulls outs something that flops in her hand.

  Johnny can’t look. He runs toward the bike rack in front of the store. Never makes it. More people are fighting all around the entrance. Little kids are running and screaming. He feels the adrenalin kick in, and for lack of anything better to do, he runs toward the pond and 38th Ave N beyond. Home is that way. Where else can he go?

  Juliet

  The earplugs help with the noise, but there is nothing to do about the ride. She can feel sweat at her temples and someone’s deodorant has failed. Her once pristine white pantsuit is dirty and rumpled. I’ve never wanted a shower more in my life.

  “Mom, where’s Daddy? Why is it taking so long?”

  Beside her, sitting on either side, the children cling to her waist, and cry. The bench seating is uncomfortable and soldiers are wedged in all around them. There is nothing she can do to comfort the children beyond a hug. The motion of the helicopter’s twin rotors is rough. For the last three minutes since take-off, she’s felt a tension headache building. Might even be a migraine.

  The soldier sitting behind her grunts, “Is something burning?”

  Before anyone can reply, the engine whines, coughs then dies. The craft begins to spin.

  “Hold on ma’am,” the man behind her says.

  The children are screaming.

  Then everything blurs…

  Ralls

  He awakens to sirens and smoke. Other less savory smells lie underneath the smoke. How long have I been out? Glances at his watch. Ten minutes at least. And we are hard aground. Must’ve drifted out of the channel when the missile hit.

  The cruise ship’s bridge is full of smoke. Shattered glass litters the floor. Yeoman Banks is sprawled against the far wall, gray-faced and motionless. Might be dead. Schroder, the helmsman, is definitely dead. Still sitting at his station, but with two or three inches of the top of his skull missing.

  “Wonder what happened to the Colonel?” he asks, raising a hand to his cheek. I’m bleeding. Just some cuts. Notices he has bled quite a bit on his white uniform, too.

  His vision blurs a moment as he stands up, but it passes. Walks over toward the starboard, or right side of the room. A little breeze plays across his skin from the broken windows. He hits the switch that kills the emergency siren, and feels better.

  Got a big bump on my head too.

  Guess the Government was serious when they quarantined the city. He almost smiles at this inanity, but the sight that awaits him out on the exposed decks squashes any humor.

  The deck has been literally chewed by bullets and the dead are all over. Soldiers lay in clumps, mixed in with civilians. The words wholesale slaughter come to mind. Someone high up in government panicked on this one. Just imagining this happening all around the country is tough to take.

  I better get a section report before I do another thing.

  He grabs the microphone to the ship’s intercom and keys to talk.

  “Chief Nast, this is Captain Ralls, I need a sitrep for engineering. Are we completely dead? Over?”

  “Crewman Bailov here, Captain. The Chief is fighting the fires. Almost all of engine crew personnel are dead or severely wounded. We need help down here, sir. Over!”

  “Affirmative Bailov! I’ll see what I can do. Out!”

  Someone moans behind him. He wants to turn and confront whoever or whatever is behind him, but his terror is so great that he stands paralyzed. The moan comes again, and his bladder lets go adding the reek of his urine to the other smells.

  Think man. Do something!

  Nothing in the last twenty years has prepared him for this.

  Am I going to abandon my bridge?

  Weapons aren’t far away. In his duty cabin, just feet away, he has his personal sidearm in a safe. Maybe enough ammunition to get him to the arms room below.

  He spins around. Yeoman Banks is even now climbing to his feet. Not a scratch on him that he can see, but he looks dead. Ludicrous! The dead don’t come back to life. Still can’t believe it.

  Dead or not, Yeoman Banks doesn’t look to be in a conversational mood. He is moaning, and as he stands up, he appears to notice Ralls for the first time. He snarls and shambles toward him.
<
br />   “Stay back Banks,” Ralls says. Just behind the man is the door to his duty cabin. Too far. I could run around the outside of the bridge on the catwalk… Might work, but others may notice.

  Banks steps closer, gathering momentum, and clumsy or not, the man has some long arms. Ralls swings a fist that connects with Banks? nose. The man staggers with the impact, but comes on. Ralls ducks under his arms and comes out behind him. Banks slips on the broken glass, crashes into the wall, and slides toward the floor.

  Ralls jumps on his back and grabs Banks by the hair and ears. Pulls with all his might. Feels the hair coming free, and then an awful crack.

  The body beneath him goes limp.

  But the head still groans.

  How can the head still be alive? Oh, sweet Lord, what did I do? I’m in hell.

  Jacobs

  He runs, feeling every pound of his equipment holding him back, slowing him down. His M-4 rifle is slung around his neck and held at port arms as he runs down the sidewalk of a three lane road. Two and three story buildings line the road on either side. He hugs the buildings on the right side. The chopper is hovering in an intersection a half block away.

  His men are climbing aboard even now, as he watches. Everybody makes it back, except for Watson. Poor Watson. Bastards ran him over twice. Booth, Hicks and Lepski wave to him from the rear seats of the Blackhawk. The crew chief, Lassiter, is leaning out, with one foot on the runner, and waving at him to hurry.

  With thirty feet to go, three of the things stumble out of a doorway practically on top of him. He tries to shift the rifle to the right, but is too slow. A hand grabs his chinstrap and yanks with a strength that surprises him. His helmet actually comes right off, as he stumbles to his knees on the road. There went the radio. Even as he draws his pistol, his attacker, a very large man, wearing a baseball cap backwards, is reaching for him, mouth open wide. The guy’s lower lip bulges, as if he still might have some chew in there.

  Jacobs aims and squeezes the trigger. Once.

  The bullet enters the guy’s mouth and blows the cap off the top of his head. The body stumbles backwards and slumps to the ground, taking one of the others down with him, but the third, a wiry black teenager, lunges at him.