Love in an Undead Age - A.M. Geever (love story novels in english .TXT) 📗

all she knew. The growing noise did not mean squat. Not yet.

Sure it doesn’t… Just keep on telling yourself that.

She strained to see beyond the condos, standing on tiptoe as if it would help her catch a glimpse of the streets between or see through the tall buildings that climbed the steep hills of Seattle. Improvised bridges—ladders, fire escapes, scraps of metal, rope, or combinations thereof—connected clusters of buildings. People had lived there at some point, but she had not seen any signs of life so far.

Farther up the hill, walls snaked out of sight. Most seemed intact, but one had a section that had collapsed a long time ago if the weeds and saplings growing among the jumble of fallen concrete blocks were any indication. Along the waterfront some buildings were intact while others, like the aquarium, had caught fire at some point. The aquarium wall facing Puget Sound had fallen in. The roof was gone. The steel beams that had supported its weight sagged despite being relieved of their burden. Seattle oozed emptiness and decay. Without people to maintain them, the artifacts of civilization that had seemed so permanent when humanity fell almost eleven years ago had begun to fall apart almost immediately. Miranda’s knee twinged as she set her foot flat again. She looked up the mast. Another fifty feet of elevation might let her see enough to make the difference between—what? She had no idea. But she knew she had to hurry or she would lose the light.

She limped to the other side of the yacht and stepped into the mast-climber harness, securing it around her hips. She shoved her feet into the foot straps, then bent her knees and straightened them.

“Son of a bitch,” she hissed, tears springing to her eyes at the sharp slice of pain that bisected her kneecap and shot down her shin. She winched her way up the static line attached to the mast, opening and closing the top line clutch, the pain worse every time she pushed against her body weight. It still beat how old-time sailors had done it: free-climbing hand over hand with their bare feet shimmying along the ropes.

Midway to the top of the mast the wind picked up, threading its way through the fibers of her clothes. She thought she saw movement beyond the harbor-front condos. The setting sun behind her cast long orange and pink shadows between the buildings. The wind gusted, and the harness twisted right, away from the city.

She fought the swiveling harness as she cursed everything: this boat, the unknown city, staying behind to watch Jeremiah, Mario and Doug being gone so long, and the fucking zombies that had made all of this happen. Finally, two more pushes up the static line and she was sure. A dark shadow of zombies, a tidal wave of putrefaction, staggered toward Puget Sound. They weaved and reeled, stumbled and shuffled, unsteady yet determined like a group of drunk revelers intent upon reaching the dilapidated Ferris wheel at the south end of Waterfront Park.

Then Doug and Mario burst into the open from the shadows below the elevated freeway, hauling ass, the dipping sun illuminating them with a translucent pink glow. Miranda nearly choked as they slowed when they saw what lay ahead. They glanced at one another before they turned northwest on Alaskan Way, toward the marina, and picked up the pace.

They had emerged on the roadway just a few seconds ahead of the great mass of zombies descending on the Ferris wheel at Waterfront Park. Retreat to the south was cut off. On the path to the marina, from every street that tumbled down the hillsides of Seattle, zombies spilled onto the road the two men sprinted along. When they disappeared from view behind the aquarium, Miranda released the top rope clutch and worked her way back down the static line. If she cast off and got the boat moving toward them, maybe she could get close enough to make a difference, to help them make it.

I should never have stayed behind!

She wriggled out of the mast-climber harness and released the docking rope, knowing the sentiment was ridiculous. She just hated how helpless watching them made her feel. Jeremiah’s zombie repellant effect would have let them move safely through the infested city, but Doug had not been willing to risk Jeremiah’s escape. Doug had made the right call. Besides, she would not be able to run for her life the way they were now.

She cast off the mooring ropes keeping the yacht at the dock and hurried back to the cockpit. She looked at the controls, her hands slick with sweat.

You can do this.

Since she always got seasick, Miranda avoided boats, which made her the least experienced piloting watercraft. She pumped the shift lever and made sure the boat was in neutral. She turned the key to the on position.

Nothing happened.

“What the fuck!”

She looked up at the shore. Zombies began to stumble up Piers 62 and 63, one pier down from the marina. With a city’s worth of the undead coming from three sides, Piers 62 and 63 were the closest, most direct route for Mario and Doug to get to the water. She fought against panic as the moans grew louder and more excited.

If you panic, you cannot help them.

She checked again. The motor was in neutral; she had pumped the shift lever. She pumped it again and turned the key.

Nothing.

Then she remembered the kill switch.

She almost laughed out loud with relief when she saw it was in the off position. She turned it on. This time the motor began to power up. By rights she should wait half a minute to let the engine power up all the way. Instead, she applied a little choke, then some gas, and let out the throttle out in five seconds. The sputtering from the motor sounded awful because she had rushed it, but it did not stall. She depressed the button on the shift lever and pushed it forward. The motor’s hum gained strength, and the yacht slid through the water.

When she looked up, she felt the blow to her stomach as if she had taken a punch. At least fifty zombies were on the pier, sniffing the air, trying to locate the men. She turned the wheel away from the dock as Mario and Doug came into view. At least as many zombies were on Alaskan Way, between the two men and the pier.

It was the most helpless moment of her life, being consigned to the role of spectator while Doug and Mario fought for their lives. With that many zombies, the fact that both of them were vaccinated against the ZBZ-1 virus did not matter. If they stopped for anything, if they even slowed down, they would be ripped limb from limb.

Blurs of motion.

Decomposed figures lurching and swaying.

Flashes of metal that glinted in the setting sun.

Doug and Mario were trying to push, duck, and deflect rather than stop and fight. A knot of zombies stopped, churning together like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Was one of them down? She gaped at the pier, struck dumb at the idea that one or both of them might be gone. Then a sudden burst of movement, black blood spurting in all directions, and both men surged into view. They hurtled down the long pier with the zombies swarming close behind.

They’ll follow like lemmings, she thought, impotent anger rising at the relentlessness with which the zombies pursued them. They’re both wearing chain mail, she remembered, her heart sinking even more. She did not think Doug would have a problem with the extra weight. Normally Mario would not either, but he was recovering from a gunshot wound to his arm, and his shoulder on that same side had almost dislocated. That had been almost two months ago, but he was still not back to normal.

She jammed the shift lever forward, and the yacht sped up, eating the distance to the pier. She eased off thirty seconds later, not wanting to get too close to the zombies that would soon be in the water.

Doug and Mario jumped. As they splashed into the water, the first zombie fell off the pier. A torrent of the undead followed, churning the water, but she still had not seen Mario or Doug surface.

“Where the fuck are you?”

Miranda kicked off her boots and grabbed a life ring. She hurled it over the side, climbed over the handrail, and dove into the dark, choppy water. Every muscle in her body contracted from the shock of cold, but by the time she surfaced, her limbs were cooperating with her brain. She stuck her arm through the life ring and looked toward the pier.

The water churned with the zombies’ flailing limbs. They lacked the coordination to do anything besides splash, but they could still bite, or depending on how waterlogged, drag a person under. Lack of mobility never stopped them being dangerous.

Just as she was starting to panic because she still had not seen anyone break the surface, Doug’s head bobbed into view. His dark clothes blended into the water, making him hard to see.

“Over here,” she shouted, waving the life ring over her head. She swam toward him.

Doug shouted back. “Where’s Mario?”

She was now close enough to shove the life ring at him. He latched on to it.

“I can’t see him!”

“There,” Doug said, pointing.

She saw Mario’s head slip beneath the choppy water. She dove for him, unable to see in the dark water. Then a light flickered, descending beneath her.

His flashlight!

It was him, had to be. She swam after the light, lungs burning, kicking harder, and caught an arm. She held it tight and pumped her legs hard, but with his pack and the chain mail, it wasn’t enough. She flipped back and caught him under both arms, then kicked her rigid legs to propel them up, toward the fading light above. The weight of Mario’s body got heavier the higher they climbed. Her lungs pushed against the inside of her rib cage, the instinct to breathe impossible to resist. Her head broke the surface. Icy water rushed down her windpipe as she opened her mouth