Z Children (Book 2): The Surge (26 page)

SUSAN FIELDS

The
dinghy was small and not terribly agile as I slowly rowed towards the long
dock.

It
swayed from side to side in a way that made me fear it would tip over. I was
using the
Nancy-Grace
as a reference point, trying to keep myself going
in the right direction, trying to stay balanced. I only looked behind me occasionally.
Dad had brought me close, closer than I’d wanted him to, but he’d insisted.
They were safe, though, out in the water and so far from shore.

Or…I
guessed they were safe. I had no idea if these monsters could swim. When we’d
fled Corpus, leaving Sherry and whoever she was with to face a pack of those
monsters, none had tried to pursue us out into the ocean. Had they even seen us
leaving? Maybe if they had…

God,
that was unsettling. My eyes found Marcel and Sophia standing
shoulder-to-shoulder on the boat deck. Still close enough to see their faces,
to see the worry in their eyes.

Dad
was standing rigidly, binoculars glued to his face. I knew he’d warn me if
there was any trouble behind me.
Behind me. I wish this whole thing was
already behind me. I want to be tucking Marcel and Sophia into bed tonight; I
want to read them a story. I want gallons and gallons of water for them to
drink.

The
distance I had to row wasn’t very far, not really, but it seemed like an eternity
before I gently bumped into the rubber guards in an open space on the dock. As
quietly as I could, I stepped out of the small boat and tied the thick rope attached
to its bow onto a large t-shaped metal protrusion on the dock. I had no idea
what it was called; I didn’t know about boats really, just the few things I’d
picked up from dad recently. Thankfully, one of those things was a decent
figure-8 knot.

Tugging
on the rope several times to ensure it was secure, I leaned over the water and
pulled the dinghy back closer to the dock so I could get my pack. It was
awkward, kneeling down against the wood with the holster on, and I realized it
would have been smarter to put the pack on the dock before I got out to tie off
the rope.

This
is starting out well
,
I mentally grumbled.
At this rate, I’ll be
Z kid chow for sure.
Standing up, I threaded my arms through the pack’s
narrow straps, I told my brain to shut up. No one was going to eat me. Not
today.

Oh,
so tomorrow it would be okay? Idiot.

Seriously,
brain. I’ve had enough from you.

And,
praise God, my mind went quiet. Even if it was a fleeting moment of peace, I
was grateful for it. Taking a deep breath, I turned toward the
Nancy-Grace
and
gave my dad a double thumbs-up. He raised the binoculars from his face and
above his head as a response. The kids waved. I wanted to wave back energetically,
let them see their mother acting positive and heroic. But I couldn’t. I simply
turned my two thumbs in their direction, and then let my hands fall.

And
to think, not to long ago, I was worried about doctor’s visits, vaccines, the
rumor mill. I’d take those worries back in a heartbeat to be at home instead of
here.

Walking
down the length of the dock towards shore and what I assumed was a small marina
guard building; I was struck by the lack of sound around me.

Nothing.

Absolute
quiet, as if God had come down and swept away all the living creatures.

That
was terrifying in a way that an absolute cacophony would not be.

After
being on the boat with the kids—with all the natural fling and clanging from
the waves and the ropes and the sails—to be dropped into this environment was
unsettling. There wasn’t even the cawing of a seabird flying overhead or the
rustle of a breeze through leaves to numb the silence. It sent a chill down my
spine and I wondered if New Orleans was truly dead, become its iconic
graveyards in truth.

 I
pushed the rising fear back down where it belonged and un-holstered the Colt.
Despite my unseasoned nature, the weight of it made me think of my father so it
provided tangible comfort and chased the ghosts of New Orleans out of my soul.
Dad had said the gun would knock a man off his feet at close range. I wondered
how it would do against the already-dead—both Z’s and spirits.

I
continued walking, knowing my father was watching for any monsters, that he had
my back and would likely make use of the foghorn if I needed to hightail it
back to the boat. But I wouldn’t be in his line of sight forever.

Once I
was on my own, then…well, I was on my own.

But hell,
I’d made it on my own before. I’d made a life for myself, a life for my kids.
I’d continue to make a life for them.

The
small building I’d assumed was a guard shack was in fact a bait shop. A bait
shop that sold refreshments. The advertisement on the small window set my heart
beating fast. Could it be possible that I’d luck out, find water and food and
maybe even some over-the-counter medicine here? I couldn’t help but glance back
at the Nancy-Grace. I wanted so badly for this to be easy.

I
should know better by now. My life has always been brought to you courtesy of
the Hard Knocks University.

But
there was a 24-pack of bottled water, a travel-sized container of the ‘pink
stuff’ as Marcel coined it, and several single-dose packets of ibuprofen. I
took out a single bottle of clear, life-giving fluid. I wanted to take another…
or maybe three more… but my desire to sate my childrens’ thirst overrode my
selfishness.

No
matter what, my trip couldn’t have stopped here
, I thought as I gently
dropped the water into the rowboat.
A bait shop wasn’t going to have Dad’s
blood pressure medicine or his anti-inflammatory pills.
It was logic,
rational thinking—I wasn’t in the mood for that noise.

Standing
next to the boat, I had to pep-talk myself back into walking down the length of
the dock and towards land again.
Woman-up, coward.

Right
as I began moving, I heard bells. Church bells. They were ringing in an odd
pattern, as if someone was stopping and starting them at will, but they were
ringing. And who else would ring church bells but humans? Maybe it was a signal?
New Orleans was clear, safe. Perhaps the sound would lead me to more survivors.

Looking
one more time at the boat, I saw Dad waving like a maniac. His right hand was
motioning forward and backwards toward his body. He wanted me to come back. The
ringing sound had had the opposite effect on him. They’d given me hope; they’d
made him nervous. But neither of us knew what was at the end of that sound. We
needed to find out. Maybe, if the bells meant safety and help, our journey
could end here.

Wishful
thinking maybe. But I had always been a glass-half-full kind of person.

I had
never been to New Orleans before, but I quickly discovered that it was an
absolute maze. A confusing, twisty-turny maze.

On top
of that, it was a rotting, stinking graveyard. Bodies in numerous states of
decomposition were everywhere and to make matters worse, there were hundreds of
carrion birds hopping around, picking and chewing at the bodies. But the noise
was welcome; almost relaxing after the tomb-like quiet of the dock.

Rounding
a corner, I was so busy staring at one particularly fat bird eating an obese
man’s eyeball, that I did not see the overturned trashcan. The yell as I fell
was involuntary. The sound of it rose into the air, tunneled down the street by
the surrounding buildings. The echo of it sent the birds flying skyward in a
great balloon of blackness. If I didn’t want anyone to know where I was, I’d
just screwed the pooch.

Picking
myself up took a moment—one of the pouches holding a quick loader was caught
against the lip of the can—once I was upright, I swiped quickly at my pants,
trying to dislodge some of the sidewalk filth. I’m not sure why I did this,
force of habit perhaps. The few clothes I had were all desperate for a wash. A
little bit of street dirt wasn’t going to make much difference.

Moving
more carefully now, I cautiously peeked through windows and doors to see what
each store could offer. They were all similar—the contents strewn about,
victims of ransacking by opportunistic leeches. The homes weren’t much
different—ruined and rifled through, some even burned…some still keeping their
dead occupants protected from the elements.

One
thing became more and more clear as I made my way through the city toward the church
bells—it had been a different level of violence here. Full and unfiltered. No
one had been safe. Not the vendor, gutted and faceless. Not the child, legless
and fingerless. Not the old woman or her overturned wheelchair. This death,
these monsters, they did not discriminate.

Yet
here I was, in the middle of New Orleans surrounded by the deceased, and I was
safe so far. That, more than the bells ringing—their sound so close now—gave me
hope.

As I
came to my thirtieth street corner, night was beginning to fall. I had to be
close now to the source of the musical sound. They had only rung once in the
past thirty minutes, but they had been so loud that I felt I should already see
the church.

Looking
left, I saw only another line of similar buildings and patches of trees and
flowers and unmoving bodies. Looking to my right, I smiled.

A
large and breathtaking church surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Its steeple
rose well above the beautiful, moss-covered oaks. As I took in the stained
glass surrounding the wooden double doors, the peeling of chimes stretched my
smile into a full-toothed grin. I had to be miles from the dock now, but I
didn’t care. I wasn’t worried. This building was all I needed. We would all be
safe. We had to be. Again in my head, I rationalized my feelings. No one would
just ring the bells for no reason—not with everything going on, not with the
worry that the monsters might hear them and come running. So it had to be safe.

It had
to be.

The
sun was nearly gone now and I felt lucky that I’d found the building before
full dark. Right before leaving, Dad had given me an earful of advice, but it
seemed to all be unnecessary chatter. He’d said:
‘Night is your friend. I’d
bet good money that it’ll be as hard on them as it is on you. Pretty full moon
tonight, so light won’t be an issue. You’ll see well enough outside, even if
the street lamps are down. Indoors, use the mini light I put in your pack, but
keep your thumb over it so you won’t give yourself away. If you get scared,
find somewhere and bunker down. A small place, somewhere inconspicuous. I know
most the bastards are kids, but they’re not thinking like kids. You see an overturned
truck—the bed becomes your fort. They won’t see a fort, not like a real child
would.’
Dad had run his hands through his hair then and mumbled, ‘
Maybe
that’s the key here. Think like a human kid would, outsmart them that way.’

I was
more than glad that I could forgo hiding and relying on the moon.

The
musical sound had died away again. It was even more sporadic now. I wondered
what the reason for that was. Rolling my shoulders to release some tension, I
headed for the entrance of the church.

Then I
saw it, across the street, the side with the church…where I had just started
walking.

A lone
adult, dragging an arm behind it—the bone and flesh held to its shoulder by one
thick strand of muscle. Its mouth gaped open in an unseemly way, broken teeth
lolling against the lower lip. I was frozen, unable to take my eyes off of it.
I hadn’t been this close to one since the convenience store. And that felt a
lifetime ago.

Strangely,
my car Bessie came into my head. I loved that car. I missed that car.

I was
going to die if I didn’t get my mind off of that damn car.

It had
seen me; I saw awareness in its eyes, something that, if all things were right
and holy, should have died along with its body. A painful moan filled the air
between us.

And I
ran. I ran and I didn’t look back. I prayed that it was a lone monster. I
prayed that no others would come out of the alleyways and shadows so very dark
now that night was fully upon me. I prayed that the stench of stress sweat
wafting off my skin would dissipate too quickly for any hunting nostrils to
smell.

The
building I chose for refuge was an arts and crafts shop—one which hosted wine
and paint functions every Wednesday. It was oddly two full stories higher than
the surrounding structures, which didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t choose it
on purpose, though, I chose it because it was the first door I could muscle
open. As soon as I was inside—safely, I hoped because I had not taken the
precaution of glancing through the windows before falling into the building,
full of adrenaline and terror—I locked the knob and threw the upper and lower
deadbolts.

Please
let me be the only thing in this place.
Fighting the urge to close my eyes,
I turned from the door. Empty. At least this room was. Like all the rest of the
structures I’d peeked into, it looked like Sherman’s army had gone through it,
uncaring of what it left behind. Broken painted clay littered the stone floor,
but the canvases along the walls were nearly perfect. Not that anyone would
walk in and steal a poorly-painted bowl of fruit during an apocalypse.

I was
not being slow and cautious now; my heart was still beating like it belonged to
a race horse in the final stretch of the Kentucky Derby.

At the
back of the shop was a windowless door. Dad would have walked through it; he
would have checked that he was truly safe. But I wasn’t Dad. I was Susan. I was
scared shitless Susan, and Susan’s solution was to drag the large wingback
chair loudly across the floor and block the door. And then the large drying
rack full of paintings that would likely never be retrieved by the painters.
And lastly, the large Victorian fainting sofa that—despite its oriental floral
upholstery and vomit-worthy gold tassels—somehow fit well in the hip
furnishings of the arts store.