"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
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.
