Dead Sea

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.

We encountered one other vessel drifting on the open water. The chief tried raising them on the radio but there was no answer. Chuck hailed them with a battery-operated bullhorn as we drew closer, but there was still no reply. As the Spratling pulled alongside the smaller craft, we saw why. There was nobody left alive onboard. A lone zombie blundered about the deck. Its eyes were missing, probably stolen by birds. Exposure to the elements had sped up its decomposition. Mitch shot it from the signal bridge. Its head didn’t so much explode as implode. After much debate, the chief vetoed boarding the other craft. Basil and Murphy were adamant that we send a party aboard, even though they didn’t volunteer to go themselves. Tony was hopeful that there might be cigarettes somewhere on the ship. But the fact remained that none of us knew what lay below decks, and the boat was small enough that any supplies it may have had wouldn’t have lasted us very long anyway. The dangers outweighed the benefits, so we sailed on and left the ghost ship to its fate.

On the third day, Chief Maxey summoned us all to the flight deck again. Chuck remained in the pilothouse, and Carol and Alicia kept the kids occupied. They’d set up a makeshift classroom in one of the berthing areas. Tran stayed behind in the galley, cleaning up from breakfast. Everyone else onboard mustered on the flight deck after we’d finished eating. We moved slowly, the weight of the dead world bearing down on all our shoulders. Gone was the excitement and enthusiasm we’d had after the last meeting. Only Cliff was still optimistic. It seemed like the worse things got, the more he turned to the Lord. Everyone else was lethargic and depressed. Tony and Mitch needed nicotine. Murphy needed alcohol. The rest of us needed hope. None of them were in supply. We stood around without speaking. There wasn’t much to say. We’d survived Baltimore, escaped the zombies and the fires, found sanctuary… and already, three of our number were dead. It felt like it was just a matter of time for the rest of us. There was no safe harbor.

Like the rest of us, Chief Maxey’s mood was sullen. He didn’t smile or say good morning. Instead, he got right down to business.

“I’ve decided to set course for an oil drilling operation farther out to sea. It’s approximately a two day trip from our present location. I’ve tried raising them on the radio, but have received no response. That means one of three things. Either the platform isn’t there anymore, which I very much doubt, or the crew is no longer onboard, which is a possibility. They could have been evacuated.”

“And the third option?” the professor asked.

“The crew are still onboard but unable to respond because they’re dead.”

“Wonderful,” Basil said. “Just what we fucking need—more of those things.”

“Regardless, until we reach their location and know for sure, I’m cutting back further on our rations. If we arrive and find that the rig is gone, I’m not sure where to go next. As you all know, the shore party met with disaster and were unable to replenish our supplies. So I want to double our fishing operations. From now until further notice, we’ll subsist mainly on what we can pull from the sea.”

Joan raised her hand. “But you said it was only a two day trip. Surely we have enough supplies to last us that long.”

“Yes.” The chief nodded. “But we don’t know if we’ll find supplies there or not, and our own stores won’t last us forever. We’re getting low, regardless. So we’re sticking with fish for the time being. All other rations will be used to supplement only one meal per day. No coffee or tea or anything that will diminish our water supplies. Nick, make sure Tran is clear on this as well.”

“I’ll try,” Nick said. “I think he understands more English than he speaks.”

The chief nodded again. “I hope that the rest of you will be patient and understanding about this.”

There was some grumbling among us, but in truth, we didn’t have much choice. He was right. On the mainland, we’d each done whatever we’d needed to stay alive on our own. Now, we did the same thing as a group. If the human race was to survive, we had to work as a team. Even if we no longer saw the point and even if we no longer believed.

I couldn’t sleep that night. The sheets stuck to me in the heat. Mitch wasn’t in his rack and I hadn’t seen him since dinner. Malik and Tasha had fallen asleep while reading their comic books. Despite the temperature, they looked cold. Both were curled into balls. I pulled their blankets up over them and turned off the light.

I stood there in the darkness, debating what to do. I felt wired, nervous. The ship came alive in the silence, groaning and clanging. The engines throbbed and the steam pipes clicked. I decided to take a walk outside. Maybe some fresh air would do me good. I felt guilty about leaving the kids alone, but at the same time, I was restless and didn’t want to wake them up if I stayed. I tiptoed out of the berthing compartment and carefully shut the hatch behind me. It banged into place anyway. I cringed, holding my breath, waiting to see if I’d woke the kids. There was no sound from within, so I continued down the passageway.

According to the chief, a storm was due sometime later in the night or early the next morning. It was certainly dark enough outside. A thick layer of clouds covered the sky, blocking out the moon and stars. There were no lights on the mainland, and none onboard ship, either. Chief Maxey insisted on running without them so we wouldn’t attract pirates or raiders. I held my hand up in front of my face and wiggled my fingers. I couldn’t see them. The night was black as tar. It was easy enough to imagine that the world no longer existed. In a way, I guess it didn’t.

I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. It had been warm inside the ship, but outside the wind was chilly and brisk. It felt good on my skin. Once I was able to see the railing and deck, I moved up to the signal bridge. A glowing orange ember bloomed in the darkness. A moment later, I smelled cherry tobacco smoke.

“Is that you, Lamar?” Professor Williams asked.

“It’s me. What’s up, Professor? You got pretty good night vision.”

“It’s the only biological function that hasn’t failed me yet in my old age. Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”

I carefully felt my way along the handrail until I’d reached him. Even though my eyes had adjusted, I could barely see him until he puffed on his pipe. Then the soft glow illuminated his features. The professor looked tired.

“What brings you out tonight?” he asked. “Bad dreams?”

“No, I don’t dream. Just couldn’t sleep. Too hot. How about you?”

The professor chuckled. “I’ve always enjoyed a good pipe before bed. If I don’t get one, I can’t sleep worth a damn. But Tony’s compartment is right across the passageway from mine. If he smells the tobacco, then he’ll want to borrow some, and I’m afraid that my reserves are nearly depleted.”

“We’re running out of everything,” I said. “Guess we’ve got to hoard where we can. You know what I’m saying?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Although it’s rather uncivilized, I suppose we do. I love my fellow man, but I love my tobacco more. Smacks of the old world, doesn’t it?”

I shrugged, staring out at the dark water. The horizon was just a shadow. The wind picked up speed and I shivered.

“What’s troubling you, Lamar? It’s not like you to be so laconic.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just have a lot on my mind. Ever since… what happened to Tum and Hooper, I just can’t seem to get my head together.”

“How so?”

I paused, gripping the rail tighter. “Well, I mean… what’s the point, you know? Growing up, I didn’t have a real good life, but I fought to make it better. Same thing as an adult. Lost my job a few months back, but still, I fought hard to make things better again. Fought to survive. And then everything went to shit. Everyone I’ve met since then is doing the same thing. They’re all fighting to survive, even when the odds are against them. My neighbor, Alan—he and I used to talk about it at night, while we watched those things outside. Neither one of us had an answer, but we went on fighting anyway. Didn’t matter in the end. We went on a supply run and he got bit. I had to… I had to shoot him before he turned. When we made it to the ship, I thought maybe that would be the end of it for a while. But then Stephanie went. She knew she was dying. She must have. But she never said a word. She was still anxious to help. Eager to hold on. And Turn—even after he’d been exposed, he was fighting it. I don’t think he was even aware, but he was fighting it just the same. You could see it in his eyes. Hear it in his voice. Kept saying that he just wanted to rest a minute. Like he’d be okay again if he could just do that.”

The professor nodded. “The human spirit is indeed strong.”

“Sure it is. Survival instinct is a motherfucker. But why? I mean, you saw what happened back in Baltimore. What’s the point? Don’t you think that maybe we’re all just biding our time? The zombies have to outnumber us by now.”

“If they don’t, they soon will.”

“So then why don’t we give up? Seems like it would be easier. I’m fucking tired, Professor. And so are you. Don’t bullshit me. I can see it in your eyes. I feel like I just want to give up. So why can’t I?”

“Well, there are a lot of reasons why someone would continue to fight even when there’s no chance of success. For some it’s an individual choice; an aspect of one’s core belief system that says ‘I’m going down swinging.’ That’s especially prevalent in the past few generations, who were exposed to such iconography in cowboy films and Stallone movies. Others may fight because they’ve been culturally conditioned to never give up, to believe that there is some kind of inherent nobility in raging against an unbeatable foe. I don’t know you very well, Lamar, but from what you’ve told me about yourself and your childhood, and from what I’ve observed about your character, I’d say that second one applies to you.”

“Yeah, maybe. I guess that’s fair. My mother always taught me to be proud and never surrender.”

“I thought as much. And that is a very fine and noble lesson.”

“Doesn’t apply to everybody, though.”

“No, it doesn’t. Others may be motivated to keep fighting because they simply don’t know what else to do.”

“How about you, Professor? What keeps you going?”

“Me?” He laughed softly. “I think I’m like many others. I think we continue to fight because an element of our collective unconscious demands that we do so. Even at my age.”

“What’s a collective unconscious?”

“The collective unconscious is a theory—one I happen to agree with. Basically, it says that people all over the world share a set of unconscious memories that have been passed down through the generations ever since mankind learned to walk upright. These aren’t regular memories like when you remember your high school prom or your first kiss or where you were on the morning of September Eleventh, but rather, unconscious memories that are hardwired into the brains of everyone who’s ever lived. They act as a sort of blueprint, influencing human behavior and making people naturally respond to certain situations in certain ways. For example, you can go to any spot on the planet and people with whom you don’t share a culture or a language will automatically understand that your smile is a sign of happiness, or a frown, displeasure. These are universal signals. If you are crying, they’ll know that you are sad or in pain. Ask yourself, why is that? How can people of different cultures all around the world interpret certain things exactly the same way?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because we’ve all been hardwired by the collective unconscious to respond to those stimuli that way. Sometimes for good. Sometimes for bad.”

“You mean like these gay-bashers who could never explain to me why they felt the way they did?”

“That’s certainly a valid example,” the professor said. “I’m sure you’ve dealt with individuals who were against homosexuality but didn’t understand why. They probably masked their bigotry with religious or moral beliefs, but deep down inside, their collective unconscious told them that homosexuality threatened mankind’s ability to procreate. Thus, they were repelled without truly understanding why.”

The professor’s pipe went out. Cupping his hand, he tried to relight it, but the breeze was too strong. I placed my hands around it as well. Once he got it going again, he continued.

“It’s not just our responses that are influenced, either. It’s also our behaviors. You see, the collective unconscious programs a set of figures into our brains, just like you’d program a computer. Psychologists call these figures, or characters, archetypes.

They act as role models for human behavior. Some of the most important of these archetypes are the ‘king,’ the ‘trickster,’ and the ‘warrior.’”

“You mentioned those before,” I said, thinking back to when I’d met him in the ship’s galley.

“I did, indeed. This happens to be a favorite topic of mine. I always enjoyed debating it at social gatherings—I even hosted a party once just so we could discuss it over dinner. Sadly, most of my colleagues are dead now.”

He was silent for a moment, puffing on his pipe. He seemed lost in thought.

“Its because of these archetypes,” he continued, “that everyone shares certain common conceptions about people; for example, in every culture that has ever existed, certain attributes like courage, strength, and fortitude have been attached to the ideal image of the warrior. All human beings, at an unconscious level, know that the figure of the warrior is part of our human makeup, and as such, we recognize the certain attributes that make up the warrior. A soldier on the news. A basketball player in the playoffs. We respond to these. And like it or not, it’s our job to either succeed or fail at living up to those attributes. Do you see?”

“When we first met, you said I was an archetype.”

“You are, indeed. You’re living up to those attributes—embarking on a journey of self-discovery. Even as the world falls into ruin, Lamar, you are being reborn. That’s a classic story; one that appeals to all mankind. You are the hero.”

“I’ve got to be honest, Professor. I don’t feel like much of a hero right now. I couldn’t even shoot the crazy fucker who killed Turn.”

“You may not feel like a hero. And yet, you are. Basically, the hero is a universal archetype that embodies the best and most revered qualities of a culture or society. However, the hero is not simply born. It is never that simple. The hero must be created, forged, if you will, in a fire of turmoil and trials. To do this he must go on a quest, which is what you’re doing right now.”

“A quest, huh? So, what am I looking for?”

“Well, my favorite authority on this subject, Joseph Campbell, referred to the quest as the hero’s journey. Different journeys have different treasures at the end. In your case, you are on a quest for self-discovery Campbell believed that, regardless of your culture or time frame, the basic structure of this journey is the same, and thus an archetype. He called it a monomyth. In its most basic form, during his or her quest, the hero experiences a call to adventure. They typically refuse or are hesitant about answering the call. They receive supernatural aid and cross the threshold, undergoing trials and tribulations before returning home bearing gifts or boons for their people.”

“That doesn’t sound like much of a self-discovery, Professor.”

“Well, perhaps not. But something that is very important to the formation of the hero is his journeying away from home and the ordinary—and entering a world of unfamiliarity, or what Campbell called ‘supernatural wonder.’ I think you’ll certainly agree that is what you’re currently experiencing. Wouldn’t you say? Think about it. You’ve left home, abandoned everything you ever knew. You’ve been thrust into a whole new world, left to care for a new family—”

“They’re not my family,” I interrupted. “I’m not the best person to be taking care of kids.”

“And yet you are, and they want you to be that person. And you haven’t shirked that responsibility, even though you could have done so very easily. You are here for them. You continue to exist for them, whether you even realize it or not. That’s a very selfless act, Lamar. And that’s an important aspect of the monomyth—the hero’s selflessness. He may first undergo his journey for his own self, but he returns and brings wisdom and order to his peo—ple. Thus the hero is a creation for all the people, not just the individual. Mythic heroes bring back large, worldly benefits. Things that affect everyone, not just the microcosm of a small community.”

“But you just said I’m only here for Tasha and Malik. They aren’t everyone.”

“Perhaps not.” He smiled, and then patted my hand. “But perhaps they are. The last two children left on earth? That’s a future generation, my friend. The last generation, if we’re not careful.”

“Last of a dying breed,” I muttered.

The wind shifted again, blowing his pipe smoke into my face. I breathed deep, savoring the aroma. I wasn’t a smoker, but the smell of the tobacco reminded me of when things had been normal—of a world without Hamelin’s Revenge.

“The important thing to remember,” Professor Williams continued, “is that the hero is created as an end result of the journey. He is a product of what happens on the quest. The events that shaped him, changed him, made him less concerned with himself and more concerned with those around him, the larger society. These are the important part. Heroes are not simply born, Lamar. They are forged! And how they are forged makes all the difference.”

I thought it over and shrugged. “I gotta be honest, Professor. I still don’t feel like much of a hero.”

“No? Then how do you see yourself?”

“I feel like a failure. A wimp.”

“Trust me, my friend, when I tell you that you are neither of those things.”

“I kind of see Mitch as the hero.”

“Mr. Bollinger is the warrior—another psychological archetype. The warrior is a representation of a pattern of behavior favoring physical confrontation and prowess to achieve one’s goals. The warrior can use his physical powers in a positive way to aid others and society. When you were in school, did you ever read the stories of Beowulf, Achilles, or elder Gilgamesh?”

“Professor, where I went to school, our most important concern was getting through the day without getting shot. We didn’t have many books. Books were like kryptonite to most of my classmates.”

The professor removed his pipe, tossed his head back, and laughed.

“Yes, that’s one of the reasons I was so looking forward to retirement. Trust me, Lamar, that particular loathing of literature is not confined to just inner-city schools. It seems to be present across the nation. Very sad.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Achilles and the others I mentioned all used their powers to aid their families and loved ones.”

“So you’re saying Mitch is part of our family? He’s the warrior to my hero, and we’re both looking out for the kids?”

“Exactly.” He put his pipe back in his mouth. “However, some warriors used their prowess for selfish reasons. Grendel and young Gilgamesh are cautionary examples of this. Luckily for you, Mitch doesn’t fall into that subarchetype.”

I shook my head. “I still think Mitch is the hero. I mean, he saved us all back in Baltimore. If it wasn’t for him, Tasha, Malik, and I would all be zombies now.”

“Well, I humbly disagree. However, if it eases your mind, the archetypes like warrior, king, and trickster are rather fluid. One can be warriorlike and tricksterlike, a king and a fool. Remember, they represent aspects of personality which individuals tap into or manifest in times of trouble. The hero manifests not aspects of personality, but a total person, the summation of all the qualities that have allowed him to successfully complete the hero journey and safeguard his people or bring back gifts. Going even further, I think the archetypes not only provide a guide for our personal behavior, but also role models for us, as humans, to live up to. At an unconscious level, when the time is appropriate, like right now, we strive to live up to the expectations of the warrior that have been instinctively passed down to us since the dawn of man. That’s why we fight when all hope is lost; to not fight would be to deny part of the collective memories that define humanity. We fight because that is who we are. We fight because we are human.”

“And what are they?” I cast my hand toward land, even though we couldn’t see it in the darkness.

“The dead?” Professor Williams frowned. “Road-kill that doesn’t have enough decency to lie down and rot in peace. The waste products of our souls. They’re walking toilets, Lamar. Nothing more.”

A smile crossed his face. After a second, we both began to snicker, and then laugh. I bent over and clutched my stomach. I couldn’t remember ‘the last time I’d laughed that hard. It felt good, like a release.

“Walking toilets,” I gasped, straightening up again. “That’s good, Professor.”

“I always end my dissertations with a joke. That way I can tell if I’ve put people to sleep.”

The ladder clanged. We both turned, and saw Murphy walking toward us. He was stumbling in the darkness, his eyes not yet adjusted.

“Good evening, Mr. Murphy,” the professor called.

Murphy jumped, his hand flailing for the rail. He peered toward us, blinking.

“Who’s there? Professor Williams? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Mr. Reed is here with me. He and I were just discussing mythology.”

Murphy crept closer. “Hey, Lamar.”

I nodded. “What’s up.”

Murphy stood beside us, his collar pulled up against the chill. Despite the summer heat, the ocean was cold at night.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “It’s hot and I got the shakes. I’d kill for a drink right now.”

The professor nodded. “I think each of us have something we’d kill for at this point.”

I thought about the kids. Yeah, maybe I couldn’t kill for Turn, but I’d damn sure kill for them.

’A few of us have been talking,” Murphy said, his voice low. “We’re not so sure about the chief’s plan for this oil rig.”

“How come?” I asked. “Seems like as safe a spot as any.”

“Sure, if there are no zombies onboard. But what if there are? Then what? Do we really want a repeat of what happened the other day?”

The professor tapped his pipe on the handrail. The ashes drifted away. “So where would you suggest we go, Mr. Murphy?”

The big man shrugged. “My plan all along was to head for the wilderness. Go down into Virginia or West Virginia. Get high up into the mountains, where there is snow all year, and live there.”

I frowned. “I may be a city boy and all, but I don’t think there’s mountains in Virginia that have snow all year long.”

“And even if there were,” the professor added, “the zombies would find you there, too. The mountains are just as dangerous as the cities—perhaps even more. We have no idea how many members of the animal kingdom are now infected.”

Murphy rubbed his grizzled cheeks and sighed. He placed his shaking hands on the railing and sighed. I could tell that he was jonesing bad.

“I don’t think they would find us,” he said. “What are zombies? They’re just mobile corpses and nothing more. Cut off an arm or a leg, and they keep coming. They’re dead, but they can move and function and take a hell of a lot of damage. My theory is this—if I get to someplace where the temperature is below freezing, the zombies can’t move. Think about it for a second. They’re dead, so they have no body heat. There’s nothing to keep their bodies from freezing. If they tried to attack us there, they’d literally freeze in their tracks before they could ever reach us. That’s a lot more convenient than having to shoot them all in the head or setting them on fire.”

The professor looked thoughtful. “Well, biology and science aren’t my specialty, but I agree that makes sense. In theory, at least. If their blood and tissue freezes, then they would indeed become immobile. But you must consider something. Could we sail to such a location?”

“Basil had an idea,” Murphy said. “There are ski resorts in Pennsylvania and Virginia. We could pull into port and make for one of them.”

I shook my head. “That’s no good. First of all, we’d never make it there.”

“Why not?”

“A group this size? Come on, Murphy! Those things would slaughter us before we made it five miles. We’d have to find reliable transport, gas, more weapons, all that shit. But let’s say we did make it to a ski resort. What you gonna do then? Get the artificial snow machine running? Maybe. But that ain’t gonna chill the air—it’s only making snow. Snow won’t freeze them. You need to control the temperature for that. Sure, it would make a good winter hideout, but as soon as spring came, we’d be on the run again.”

Murphy muttered under his breath.

“What?” I asked.

“I said, I guess we didn’t think of that.”

“Your idea does have merit,” the professor said. “But we’d have to travel to a region where the temperatures remain below freezing all year round—Antarctica, for example. Such an environment would be hostile to the living as well.”

Murphy grunted. “Look around next time we go ashore, Prof. The whole world’s pretty fucking hostile.”

“Yes, it is. That’s why I support the chief’s decision. If the undead are aboard the oil rig, it would be far easier to exterminate their limited numbers than to do battle with an entire mainland population.”

Murphy still didn’t seem convinced. “We’re on a ship. Don’t see why we can’t go to the North Pole or Antarctica, like you said.”

“We could,” the professor agreed. “But a trek of that magnitude would require a lot more fuel than we currently have. Fuel we can possibly find at our current destination.”

I stifled a yawn. I’ll give the professor one thing—interesting as the old man was, he’d definitely cured my insomnia.

“Guys,” I said, “I’m gonna hit the hay. It’s been a long day and I’m wiped out. Murphy, make me one promise, okay?”

“What’s that, Lamar?”

“That we stick together. All of us. If you guys don’t like the chief’s plan, let’s talk about it as a group. The last thing we need right now is a fucking mutiny.”

He half smiled, half nodded. “No worries, man. Get some sleep.”

“Good night, Lamar,” the professor said. “Give my regards to the warrior.”

“I’ll do that. Night.”

The ship rolled beneath my feet as we crested a swell. Hanging on to the handrail, I made my way through the darkness, back down the ladder, and then through the hatch and down the passageway. I was surprised to find Mitch standing outside our compartment.

“Where have you been?” he whispered. “I came back and the kids were in there by themselves.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Couldn’t sleep. Went topside to get some air. Are they okay?”

“Yeah, they’re fine. I was just a little worried, is all. You okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah, man, I’m fine. How about you?”

“Sure. I was playing cards with Cliff, Tony, Chuck, and Tran.”

“Tran can play cards?”

“Well of course he can play, Lamar. Just because he doesn’t speak English doesn’t mean he’s an idiot.”

“Point taken. So how was the game?”

“I left early. Tony’s in a pissy mood—he’s having really bad nicotine cravings. I did find out that we may have trouble with Basil and Murphy, though.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Apparently, they aren’t too happy with our current course. Want to second-guess the chief. Even talked about forcing him to change course, head back to land.”

“The professor and I ran into Murphy. He mentioned it, too, but I didn’t think he was serious. Figured he was just bullshitting, you know?”

Mitch pulled a small square of gum from his pocket and popped it in his mouth. “Nicotine gum,” he said with a wink. “But don’t tell Tony. I don’t have much left and I need it to last. Anyway, I got the impression that it was more Basil than Murphy. Basil’s the ringleader. The question is, how many people has he swung over to his side and how serious are they?”

We walked down the passageway and back out into the night, so that we wouldn’t wake the kids up, and so no one else would hear us while we talked.

“Think we should tell someone?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Well, Chuck already knows. He’s going to let the chief and Runkle know about it, too. I guess we’ll leave it up to them. It’s in their hands. I don’t think much of Runkle, but I’ll side with him on this. If we have to put them in the brig, then so be it. Last thing we need right now is a mutiny.”

“Well, I got your back. Just let me know.” He grinned. “Thanks, man. That means a lot.” “Not that I’ll do much good, I guess.” Mitch frowned. “What are you talking about? Ain’t nobody else on this ship I’d rather have at my side.” “You know what I’m saying, man. If the shit hits the fan, what good am I? I’ve got nothing to offer. You and Tony are the experts when it comes to guns. Meanwhile, I couldn’t hit the broadside of a fucking barn. Runkle is a cop. We know he can handle himself. The chief knows the boat and Chuck’s his new apprentice, so that makes him valuable. Hell, even Murphy’s good for something. He keeps us moving down there in the boiler room. Everybody’s got their place. So far, all I’ve done is throw up at the rescue station when we saw those crosses and choke when it came to killing that preacher. The professor says I’m the hero, but I think he must be senile.” “The hero?”

I explained to Mitch all about the archetypes and monomyths and the professor’s theories on the two of us. When I was finished, Mitch shook his head, laughing softly.

“Well, if that don’t beat all. I’m the warrior, huh? I’ll take that, I guess. Better than being the trickster. But he’s right, Lamar. In those kid’s eyes, you’re a hero. They look up to you. After all the bad shit that’s happened to them, you’re the best person they could have come across.” “But I don’t know shit about kids. I’m impatient with them. I curse too much. I’m not a parental figure.”

“Too bad, buddy, because you’ve got the job whether you want it or not. I think you’ll be okay. Take it from me. There’s no instruction manual that comes with kids. You do your best and try not to fuck up and realize that you probably will anyway. You’re their hero. Try to live up to that.”

His voice cracked, and I realized that he was crying. Tears dripped down into his beard. “Mitch?” I was shocked. “What’s wrong, man?” “I… Do you remember our first morning onboard? When we were eating breakfast in the galley? You asked me why I’d gone from Towson down into the city, and I told you I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah.” I nodded, thinking back. “I remember.” “Well, the truth is, I was looking for my son, Mickey. We always called him Mick. Mitch and Mick—our little family joke. My wife and I got divorced when he was fourteen. I was on the road a lot. Had a sales route at the time—copiers and fax machines for businesses. I did something stupid. Had a one night stand with this girl in New York City—a client of mine. Beautiful girl. She made me feel young again. Even so, I felt guilty about it afterward. Swore I wouldn’t do it again and figured my wife would never find out. But I gave the girl my e-mail address and we chatted online a lot, and my wife found the e-mails. Some of them referenced that night. Yeah, I know—I’m a dumb ass.

Anyway, we split up and my son blamed me. He had a hard time with it. A few years later, he got into drugs and dropped out of school. I lost all contact with him. When they declared martial law, I called my ex-wife. I hadn’t talked to her in about six months, but it was the end of the world, you know? I was worried about him—about them both. My ex-wife answered. She was worried sick. Turned out she hadn’t seen or heard from Mick in months. All she knew was that he was dating this girl named Frankie. She was a prostitute and a heroin addict, and she’d gotten Mick addicted, too. One of my ex-wife’s co-workers had apparently seen him and his girlfriend. They were sleeping on the streets down in Fells Point.”

“So you went looking for him?” “Yeah, I did.” Mitch sighed. “It was a stupid thing to do, but love makes us dumb sometimes. There was no way he could have been alive. I knew that, deep down inside. But I had to do it anyway, because I’m his father and that’s part of it. When you become a parent, you have all these dreams. Maybe your kid will be a quarterback for the Ravens someday, or maybe he’ll win the Nobel Peace Prize. My dream was a little simpler than that. I just wanted grandkids. Don’t guess I’ll ever have one now. But you have these dreams and you’ll do anything to help your child achieve them, and sometimes, you do this even if your dreams aren’t your kid’s desires. You help your kids out. That’s what you’re supposed to do. But I wasn’t there to help Mick, so I had to make up for it, even if he was dead. I had to see it through.”

“You could have been killed.”

“And I almost was—many, many times. Started out okay. Blew away most of my neighbors—they’d all been infected. But then, once I’d taken care of them, I was home free. My car had a full tank of gas and I had plenty of ammo. Fucking Rambo, right? At first, I stuck to York Road, but believe it or not, it was more congested than Interstate Eighty-three, so I switched to the highway. I made it as far as Television Hill before the fucking car overheated. Then I grabbed my guns out of the trunk and went on foot. Understand me, Lamar. I had to see it through to the end, but I expected to die every second of every minute. Those things were everywhere. The deeper I went into the city, the worse it got. I’d been in the city for two days before I ran across you and the kids.”

“Jesus…” I was stunned. “Two whole days? How did you make it?”

“Determination. I went there looking for my son and I intended to find him.”

“Did you?”

“No.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “No, I never did. But I found you guys instead and that’s enough for me. I tried. In my heart, I know that and I’ve made peace with it. I tried to find Mick. I made the effort, and Mick would have appreciated that. It would have been important to him. Nothing else matters. And that’s why Tasha and Malik look up to you so much—because they see you trying. So the professor is right, Lamar. You’re their hero.”

“But I’m not a hero,” I snapped. “I’m a fraud, man. A fucking poseur. I’m everything people assume that I am when they first see the color of my skin or find out where I’m from.”

“What are you talking about? Is this because you couldn’t shoot the preacher?”

“I’m not talking about the preacher. I’m talking about before all of this shit. I did a bad thing, Mitch. A real bad thing.”

“What? Were you a drug dealer or something?”

“See?” I pointed a finger at him. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I’m black and from the ghetto, and when I tell you that I did something bad, you fucking automatically assume it must have been drug related. I must have committed some type of crime.”

“Hey,” Mitch said, “that’s got nothing to do with it. You said you did something bad. Of course I’m gonna assume it’s a crime.”

“Because I’m black.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“No, it’s not bullshit, Mitch. You just can’t see it from where you’re sitting.”

He sighed. “Then prove me wrong. Go ahead and tell me what it was.”

“That’s the thing. I have no right to get pissed off at you, because in the end, I contributed to that bullshit. I became what I hated. See, I lived in the city and shit, but I always felt like an outsider. Not just because I’m gay, but because I didn’t do drugs, or sell them, or do any of the other crazy shit that so many people were into. The thug life isn’t just something you see in rap videos. So many people emulate it, because it’s all they know. It’s a way out. A way to fight back. I never wanted to be a part of that.”

Mitch nodded silently, encouraging me to continue. I was surprised by the sudden swelling of rage inside me.

“I had a good job in White Marsh, working on the assembly line at the Ford plant. Paid my bills on time, wasn’t in too much debt. Didn’t have much to show for it all, but I figured good things would come, right? And then I got laid off. They closed the plant down. Opened a new one in China, and shipped our jobs over there. I got on unemployment, but that didn’t amount to shit. Couldn’t find a job anywhere. Either I wasn’t qualified enough or I was too qualified. Shit, I couldn’t even get a job in fast food. Every month the stack of past-due bills got higher and I got deeper into shit. Then the phone calls started. Bill collectors. Fucking locusts is what they are. They’d call all hours of the day, even on the weekends. Even on Sunday. I was about to lose everything. And all I could think was ‘Why me?’ I’d done everything right. You used to see these politicians on TV, saying that black folks needed to work harder—needed to better ourselves and our communities. Well, that’s exactly what the hell I was trying to do. And you know what I got for it? I got fucked.”

“And that’s why you feel like a fraud? Shit, Lamar, it wasn’t your fault.”

“No, maybe it wasn’t my fault. But it sure as hell was a few days later when I took what little money I still had and bought a pistol. And it was definitely my fault when I decided to get even with Ford by robbing one of their dealerships.”

“Oh, shit…”

“Exactly. I woke up one morning and the bill collectors were calling before I’d even got out of bed. I walked into the Ford dealership with the gun stuffed in my waistband and my shirt pulled down over it. A salesman came over to help me and I told him I wanted to take one of the cars for a test drive. We went out. He was sitting beside me, talking about all the different features and shit. When he told me to turn around, instead, I pulled into an old industrial complex.”

“And then what?”

“I robbed him at gunpoint. I was so nervous I thought I’d puke. I think the salesman actually took it better than me. I remember at one point, he was having trouble getting his wallet out of his pants and he apologized. And all I kept thinking was that it should be me who was apologizing, not him. I took all his money, and then I drove us to an ATM and made him empty out his account. When we were finished, I bailed. I was sick for the next three days. Oh, I was out of debt—temporarily, at least. I paid my past-due mortgage and made sure the bank wouldn’t foreclose. But the guilt was crushing me, man. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Figured the cops would kick down my front door at any second. But they never did. And in some ways, that was worse, because that meant I still had to live with the guilt in silence. I’d become everything I hated. And then I was broke again. I was still dealing with all that when Hamelin’s Revenge came along. I’ve been focused on staying alive ever since. But I can’t forget about what happened. It’s right there, in the past. I can’t change it and I can’t forget about it. The kids and you and the professor—you all think I’m somebody that I’m not. I ain’t no hero. I’m a fucking loser.”

He shook his head. “You’re a damn fool is what you are.”

“Excuse me?”

Mitch grinned. “Don’t you see, Lamar? None of that matters now. The past is just that—the past. It’s as dead as those things in the streets. We’ve left it behind. Everyone makes mistakes. That’s what molds us. But it doesn’t matter who we were or what we did before all of this happened. We’re still alive! When the rest of the world is fucking dying, we’re still here. The only thing that matters now is how we respond and who we become. You know, that preacher back at the rescue station may have been insane, but he was right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“We really are born again. I’m not talking about in any religious sense. We’ve got a second chance to reinvent ourselves, to become someone different. The professor is right. We’re on a quest—all of us. So stop worrying about the past and start thinking about the future. The past is dead.”

“So are the zombies,” I said. “But that doesn’t stop them from coming back and biting us in the ass. What kind of future can we possibly look forward to? Living on the run? Hiding out every time we go to the mainland? That’s not living. That’s existing.”

“It’s enough for me. And the same goes for you. Otherwise, you’d walk out on the flight deck right now and jump into the ocean. You’re a fighter, same as me—you do it because you don’t know what else to do. And now you’re fighting for those kids, whether you’ll admit to it or not. So suck it up and be a hero. Hell, who knows? We live through this and civilization makes a comeback, then maybe they’ll have mythology about us in five thousand years. We’ll be history.”

I shrugged. “Maybe we already are.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Mitch said, smiling, “and you know it.”

His smile grew broader. After a moment, I returned it. We crept back into the compartment and, with the lights out, crawled into our racks. Tasha and Malik didn’t stir. The ship gently rolled from side to side, creaking and groaning. Steam pipes along the wall ticked. My stomach grumbled.

“Good night,” Mitch whispered.

“Night.”

I lay back in my rack and stared at nothing. I thought about the past. Maybe Mitch was right. Maybe it didn’t exist anymore. Maybe that version of Lamar Reed was as dead as the city he’d left behind when he sailed out to sea. The future waited right over the horizon, and when the sun came up tomorrow morning, it would rise on the first day of the rest of our lives. I wondered how long those lives would be.