Dead Sea

Chapter Nine

The chief had been right about the weather. The next morning we woke to cold rain. A storm had blown in overnight. Massive gray and black clouds swallowed the horizon, obscuring the lines between sea and sky. Thunder boomed across the water. Dime-sized drops of rain pelted the decks. The waves grew larger and the ship tilted like a carnival amusement ride. Most of us hadn’t developed our sea legs yet and every time the Spratling took a particularly hard roll, we ran into the bulkheads. At breakfast, which consisted of fish we’d caught the day before, we had to hold on to our trays tightly, or else they’d slide down the table and crash into each other. Even those of us who hadn’t struggled with seasickness before now looked queasy.

The weather suited the crew’s mood. But by noon, the clouds had cleared and the rain stopped. The ocean grew calm, flat like glass, the waves barely cresting. The sun shined down and the ternperature climbed again. Seagulls circled the ship, hoping for a handout. Old habits died hard, I guess. There were a million meals walking around on shore for them.

According to the chief, we were still on course for the oil drilling platform. Mitch, Basil, Professor Williams, and I had spent the morning performing other duties below deck. I also spent some time with Tasha and Malik. My late-night conversations with Mitch and the professor kept running through my mind, and I decided to try to live up to whatever the kids wanted me to be. Once the storm had passed, we met up on the flight deck, got out our deep-sea rods and tackle gear, and began the day’s fishing. Tran and Nick had saved the guts and heads from yesterday’s catch in a bucket so that we could use them for bait. We lined up along the railing with the bait bucket between us and cast our lines. The professor had found a floppy-brimmed hat somewhere onboard and he wore it to keep the sun off his head. He looked like a geriatric Gilligan. Basil was quiet and sullen. He didn’t say anything about his mutinous thoughts regarding our destination, and the three of us didn’t let on that we knew. Instead, Mitch and the professor traded jokes back and forth, and I laughed. Basil pretty much ignored us, standing off by himself farther down the deck.

We pulled in half a dozen groupers and striped sea bass, and Mitch hooked a small shark, which was about four feet long. Then the professor caught a really nice-sized tuna—enough to feed us all for one meal. He wasn’t strong enough to haul it up over the rail, so Mitch grabbed the line and did it for him. The tuna had swallowed the hook. Blood dribbled from its mouth and ran across the deck. The fish flopped around, thrashing its tail like a hammer. Its gills flapped uselessly.

“Can you take it off the hook for me, Mr. Bollinger?”

Mitch grinned. “No way, Professor. I hauled him in for you. You can take him off yourself. I ain’t baiting your hook again, either.”

“Youth,” Professor Williams said in mock disdain. “No respect for their elders.”

“You know what they say, man-age before beauty.”

Nose wrinkling in disgust, the Professor bent down and grabbed the fish with one hand. His other hand forced its mouth open. Slimy fish blood trickled over his fingers and wrists and dripped onto the deck. He tugged on the line, peering down the tuna’s gullet. It wriggled in his grasp.

“Oh dear,” the professor said. “He really did swallow the hook. This must be what is meant by ‘hook, line and sinker.’ Poor thing. He’s in bad shape. Will one of you gentlemen please hand me the needle-nose pliers out of the tackle box?”

Basil leaned over and picked up the pliers. As he handed them to the professor, he suddenly drew away.

“What the hell’s that on its tail?”

We all looked closer. Near the bottom of the fish’s tail was a small, ulcerated sore. It was raw and open, leaking pale fluid.

The professor frowned. “It appears the fish is infected with something; perhaps a parasite or fungus of some kind, or a reaction to some pollutant.”

Mitch shook his head. “Looks like a bite mark, doesn’t it?”

“That’s not a bite,” Basil argued. “More like a sore. Professor’s right. It’s probably a parasite, maybe a worm of some kind. We won’t know for sure until Tran and Nick clean it.”

The professor took the pliers from Basil and forced them down the tuna’s throat. It was still bleeding, and his grip kept slipping as a result. The fish continued struggling. I had to give it credit. Like us, it kept on fighting, even if death was inevitable. Suddenly, the tuna jerked in the professor’s grasp. He dropped the pliers. The hook ripped free, taking a chunk of fish innards with it. The line went taught and the hook’s point speared the professor’s hand, right between his thumb and forefinger. It dug deep, the barbs slipping beneath his skin. Professor Williams shouted in pain and the fish flopped away across the deck. The professor stared at his hand—his own blood flowing overtop the fish blood.

“Jesus,” Basil gasped. “You okay, Professor?”

The color drained from the older man’s face. “No, I am most assuredly not okay. It hurts a great deal. Could one of you please get it out? I’m feeling light-headed.”

I held him up from behind while Mitch went to work on the hook. The professor was bathed in sweat, but his skin felt cold. He hadn’t been kidding. He was limp in my arms—on the verge of passing out.

“You’ll be fine,” I assured him. “You’re just in mild shock. Take deep breaths and try putting your head between your knees.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’m afraid that I don’t deal very well with pain. I feel pretty silly.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’d freak out too, if I had a fishhook in my hand.”

Frowning, Mitch jiggled the hook. The professor groaned.

“It’s in there pretty good,” Mitch said. “The barbs are underneath your skin. I’m going to have to work it out slowly.”

The professor gulped. “Will it hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I suggest that Lamar and Basil hold me down. I’d hate to lash out at you in the heat of the moment, Mitch.”

Mitch grinned. “I’d hate that, too. Hold still, now.”

Basil held the professor’s legs while I held his free hand. He gritted his teeth and moaned as Mitch began working the hook free. More blood flowed. I looked away from it, glancing over at the fish. Incredibly, it was still flopping around on the deck. It almost seemed as if it were trying to reach Mitch, heaving itself toward him in a series of flips and leaps. Then I realized it was probably just trying to get back into the water. Basil turned to look at it as well, his grip on the professor momentarily forgotten. The professor’s arm jerked and the hook tore free, taking a good chunk of his skin with it. The professor cried out and Mitch cursed Basil.

“What the hell are you doing? I told you to hold him.”

“It’s the tuna. Look at it. Damn thing’s still alive.”

“Throw it back over the side,” Mitch said. “That fish is more trouble than it’s worth. Nobody is going to eat it with that sore on its tail anyway.”

Basil made a grab for the tuna with both hands. The fish was so slippery with blood that it slid from his grasp and fell back to the deck. Its mouth worked soundlessly. He picked it up again and dumped it over the side. The tuna splashed into the ocean and then vanished beneath the surface. Basil looked at his hands in disgust and held them up for us to see.

“Gross. I got blood and scales all over me.”

“Go wash up,” Mitch said. “And take the professor with you. Get him cleaned up. Find out from the chief if we’ve got any hydrogen peroxide or disinfectant onboard.”

“I’m sure we do,” Basil said.

I helped Professor Williams to his feet. “You okay to stand?”

He nodded weakly. “Yes, I think so. I’ll be fine now. Thank you both, gentlemen. You see, I was right. The two of you are the embodiments of the warrior and the hero.”

Mitch flexed his bicep and laughed. “That’s us.”

The professor leaned on Basil for support and the two of them went below. Mitch and I fished for another hour, but didn’t get any more bites. It was weird—as if the tuna had warned away all the other fish in the sea. Finally, we took count of our catch and decided that we had enough to last the crew till tomorrow. Then we dumped the bait bucket over the side. The chum floated atop the waves—a gory treat for any scavengers lurking below the surface. A few of the birds darted down to scoop entrails from the water. We stored the fishing gear and headed below deck to clean up. Both Mitch and I smelled like fish. I remember thinking at least we didn’t have the tuna’s blood all over our hands.

“Is Mitch gonna be your new boyfriend?”

I was stunned by the question, and I stared at Malik for a moment, trying to figure out if he was serious or just joking around. His expression was earnest.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think Mitch is gay, Malik.” Dinner had been over for several hours and the three of us were getting ready to turn in for the night. Mitch was off playing cards again with the guys in the engineering compartment. The ship was quiet, except for the occasional tick or groan from the pipes. Most of the crew had gone to bed. Both Basil and the professor had been absent from the galley during dinner. I’d gone to check on them before we ate. The professor said he wasn’t feeling good—too much excitement for one day. His voice was tired. His hand was bandaged and doctored. Basil didn’t answer when I knocked on the hatch to his berthing compartment. Curiosity got the best of me, and I opened the hatch and peeked inside. He was asleep and did not stir when I whispered his name. After dinner, Joan and Alicia had volunteered to take them each a plate of food and check in on them. We hadn’t seen them since, but I assumed both men were okay. Otherwise, the women would have told us.

“Okay” Malik said. “I just wondered. The two of you are friends. I wasn’t sure if that meant you were boyfriends, too.”

“Gay men can be friends with other guys, Malik. That doesn’t necessarily mean they’re ‘together.’ I like Mitch, but not that way. He’s a good guy, and he’s helped us out quite a bit. We would have never gotten away from the dogs if it hadn’t been for him.”

“1 like him, too,” Malik said, closing his Walking Dead comic. I’d been right about that. He’d read it several times every night since I’d given it to him. “Both of you.”

Tasha looked up from a picture she was drawing with some pens and pencils that Carol had given to her.

“Malik never knew our dad.”

“I did too.”

“No, you didn’t. You said you can’t remember him.”

“I do… a little bit. I think. Sometimes…”

I sat down on the rack next to him. “It’s okay if you don’t. I don’t remember my father. He left when I was still a baby.”

“Really? Our dad did the same thing. Momma said he was no good.”

I chuckled. “My mother used to say the same thing about mine. I used to worry, when I was your age. Thought that maybe I was somehow weaker or dumber than the other guys in my class, because I didn’t have a father to teach me stuff the way they did. But you know what? Some of them would have been better off without their fathers around. Some of their dads were drunks or abusive or just ignored them. And you know what else? I was better off without my dad. From everything I’ve heard he would have been a lousy role model.”

“What’s a role model?” Malik asked.

“Someone you look up to,” Tasha told him. “Like how you look up to Lamar and Mitch.”

Malik twitched uncomfortably, clearly embarrassed that his older sister had revealed that. I wasn’t sure what to say, and before I could respond, the hatch opened and Mitch walked into the compartment. Apparently, he’d had a good night with the cards. He grinned from ear to ear. He shut the hatch behind him and started to speak, but then looked at the three of us.

“What’s going on? What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Why?”

“Because the way the three of you got quiet, it looks like you were talking about me.”

I grinned. “You’re paranoid. Malik and I were just talking about what it’s like for a boy to grow up without a dad.”

“Probably better off sometimes.” Mitch sat down on the rack across from us. “My old man was a real jerk. He didn’t beat me or abuse me, nothing like that, but he was never there. He was always working, and if he wasn’t at work, then he was at the bar with his union buddies. Never had time for us. My folks got divorced when I was ten. I liked my stepfather a lot more than I did my real dad. He was there, at least.”

“What happened to them?” I asked.

He shrugged. “My real dad died of prostate cancer about ten years ago. He was one of these guys that never liked going to the doctor. Usually, you can survive prostate cancer if they catch it in time, and it moves so slowly that diagnosing and treating it are pretty easy to do. But he was a real bull-headed son of a bitch. He didn’t go to the doctor until it was too late. My stepdad and my mom retired in Arizona. I talked to them about a week before Hamelin’s Revenge. Now… I don’t know.”

Malik sighed. “Shit. I’d just be happy to have a dad at all.”

“Well,” Mitch said, “here’s something I’ve learned over time, Malik. A family isn’t just a mom, dad, brother, and sister. It can be any combination of those. And sometimes, the people don’t even have to be related. Hell, you could say we’ve got our own. little family right here. Me, you, Tasha, and Lamar. We’ve been through a lot in the last week, but we’ve stuck together and looked out for each other, right? That’s what families do.”

Mitch punched him playfully on the shoulder and Malik giggled.

“So if we’re a family,” Tasha said with a smile, “then which one of you is the mother?”

Mitch and Malik looked at me, both of them grinning. I cut them off with a laugh.

“Don’t even say it or I’ll kick both your butts.”

Mitch stood up. “Hold that thought. I’m gonna go take a leak and brush my teeth.”

He opened the hatch and stepped halfway out into the passageway. He stopped suddenly. We heard Mitch say, “Joan, what’s wrong?”

And then he screamed and we were a family no more.

Mitch stumbled back into the berthing compartment. His forearm gushed blood from a large, ragged hole. The wound was alarmingly deep. I could see tendons inside the hole. His free hand fumbled with his hip holster, trying to free his pistol. The shock must have prevented him from doing so, because his fingers slid away. Joan lurched through the hatchway chewing the missing piece of Mitch’s arm. She was obviously dead. The left side of her face and neck had been gnawed off. The bites still bled, so she hadn’t been dead for long. Her hands and face were smeared scarlet.

With an angry yell, Mitch spun and delivered a kick to Joan’s ribcage. More blood jetted from his arm. We heard Joan’s ribs snap, yet in death, she was unaffected. The blow knocked her backward. Grunting, she slammed into the passageway’s far bulkhead and slumped to the floor. Then her broken form stumbled slowly to her feet again, licking Mitch’s blood from her lips.

“Shut the hatch,” Mitch shouted. He held his forearm just below the wound and squeezed, trying to stop the flow of blood.

I slammed the hatch shut just as Joan reached for the doorway. I heard her fingernails screeching on the other side of the steel. Then she started pounding. I turned back to Mitch. He was crouched in the corner, staring at his arm in shock. Tasha grabbed a pillowcase and approached him with it.

“Here, Mitch. Let me stop the bleeding.”

“No,” he gasped. “Just hand me the pillowcase and then stay back. Don’t get my blood on you. And watch out where I’ve already bled on the floor. Don’t go near it.”

“But you need help. You need—”

“I need you to listen, girl.”

Flinching, Tasha took a faltering step backward.

“I’m sorry,” Mitch apologized. “I don’t mean to be harsh, Tasha, but I’m already infected and I don’t want you getting it, too.”

From out in the passageway, I heard Carol call out. Her voice was muffled, but alarmed.

“What’s going on? Did someone scream?”

“Carol,” I shouted through the closed hatch. “Stay in your compartment. Joan’s a zombie!”

“What?”

“She’s right outside our door. Just keep your hatch closed.”

I took a step forward, making a wide berth around the half-dollar sized drops of Mitch’s blood.

“Mitch, it might not be too late. We could…”

The look he gave me froze the words in my throat.

“You’ve seen it happen, Lamar. So have I. Too many times. Infection is instantaneous. It doesn’t matter if we cut my arm off or burn the wound or pour a gallon of fucking bleach on it. We both know what’s going to happen.”

Tasha began to cry. A second later, Malik joined her. The muffled pounding continued outside.

“Goddamn it.” I punched the locker in frustration. “God fucking damn it.”

“Yeah,” Mitch said, wrapping the pillowcase around his arm like a tourniquet. “Believe me, I feel the same way. But that ain’t gonna help us right now, Lamar. Hold it together for the kids. We need to come up with a plan.”

“We’re supposed to be safe,” Tasha whimpered. “You guys promised. You said we’d be safe on the ship. You said the zombies couldn’t get us!”

“Yeah.” Malik wiped his runny nose on his shirt sleeve. “How did they get onboard?”

I shook my head. “We don’t know guys. We just don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Moaning with pain, Mitch tightened the pillowcase. It was already soaked through with blood. Brushing away her tears, Tasha stripped the sheet off his bed, grabbed Mitch’s pocketknife from his locker, and began cutting the sheet into strips. Joan kept clawing at the door.

“Can Joan work the latch?” Malik asked, glancing at the door.

“I don’t think so.” I turned back to Mitch. “There has to be a way. Amputation? Fire? You can’t just give up.”

Teeth clenched, he finished tying off the bite. The linens were stained red, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

“I ain’t giving up,” he said. “Just making better use of my time. Don’t know how long I got, so let’s not mess around. Get the guns out. All of them.”

Malik stopped crying completely. “The grenades, too?”

“Yeah, Malik.” Mitch grinned, despite the pain. “The grenades, too.”

I lifted up his mattress and pulled out the rifle and the shotgun. Then I grabbed the ammunition and grenades. Mitch propped himself up against the wall and nodded.

“You’ll have to load them. And Tasha, you’re gonna have to carry a rifle this time. I can fire the pistol, even with this bum arm. But there’s no way I’ll be able to handle a rifle.”

“I can do it,” Tasha said, “if you teach me how.”

“Won’t be much time,” Mitch said. “But I’ll try.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have a gun at all,” I suggested. “1 mean, no offense, Mitch, but you said it yourself. We’re on borrowed time here.”

“Yeah, but I ain’t dead yet. What—you think I’m going to turn on you guys? I’ve got to die before I become a zombie, Lamar. So I might as well take out as many of these damn things as I can before that happens. Who knows how many are loose on the ship.”

“How did they get onboard?” I asked, echoing the kids.

“Well, let’s think about it for a moment. However it happened, they got to Joan first. By the looks of her, she hasn’t been dead long. We saw her at dinner, right?”

The three of us nodded.

“Okay,” Mitch said. “Then it happened between the time she left the galley and now.”

“Was there anybody else in the passageway?”

“I don’t think so.” Mitch shrugged, clenching his teeth as more pain shot through him. “I really… didn’t get a chance to see. She attacked me… right away. She must have been coming down the corridor.”

I frowned. “Do you remember which direction she came from?”

Mitch paused, thinking about it. “Forward.”

“Her compartment is aft. So she wouldn’t have been coming from there. After dinner, Joan and Alicia were going to check in on the professor and Basil…”

My voice trailed off. The realization jolted me. My stomach lurched and my head swam. I thought I might pass out, so I sat down on the floor.

“Lamar,” Tasha cried out. “What’s wrong?”

“The professor and Basil. Both of their berthing areas are in the forward section. Joan was coming from their compartments.”

“Maybe,” Mitch said. “But that still doesn’t explain—”

“The fish.” I slammed my palm down on the floor. “The tuna—the one that swallowed the hook. Don’t you see? It kept thrashing around even after it had been out of the water for so long. It was wounded. Bleeding! And the professor had an open wound on his hand. His hand was covered with the fish’s blood.”

Malik frowned. “What are you talking about?”

I jumped up. “Remember when the dead first started coming back to life? There were cross-species jumps. Well, that’s happened again. Hamelin’s Revenge has spread to the fish. It’s in the rucking ocean now. The tuna was already dead. We just didn’t realize it. Remember that sore on its tail? We thought it was some kind of fungus or parasite, but you were right. You said it was a bite, Mitch. We should have listened to you. We should have paid attention, especially after all we’ve seen. Horses were supposed to be immune, but the other day, the chief said he’d seen a zombie horse. It can jump species. We should have lucking thought.”

“Lamar.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Get a… grip on yourself, man. You’re hysterical, and that’s not… going to help us… right now.”

“Lamar,” Tasha pleaded. “You’re scaring Malik. Please help.”

“Sorry.” I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, guys. It’s just not fair.”

“No,” Mitch said. “It’s not. But it happened anyway, and we can’t… change that. Right now, we need to stop it before anyone else gets… killed. Please, Lamar—while I can still think and move?”

“Okay.” I forced myself to calm down.

Mitch smiled. “You keep… asking everyone why we fight to survive when… it all seems so hopeless. Why we continue to go on? This is why. Because you’re a hero… and that’s what heroes do. They rise to the… occasion.”

I nodded, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.

“What are we gonna do now?” Malik asked, running his fingers over the grenades.

Mitch struggled to sit up farther. “Well, the first thing is that… you’re not to use those grenades. Set it off in the wrong spot and you’ll… sink this boat. They are a last resort, and I’m going to keep them… on me.”

“Well then what the hell am I gonna use? I need something, too. I want to blow stuff up again.”

“We’ll find something for you. For now, reach into my locker and pull out that big bayonet.”

“Man, I don’t want no stupid knife. Give that to Tasha.”

“I’ve already got his pocketknife,” Tasha said.

“Malik,” Mitch groaned. “Don’t… argue with me.”

Sulking, Malik did as he was told. His attitude changed when he saw the size of the bayonet—military-issue and nearly twelve inches long. It looked very sharp. Until now, I hadn’t even known Mitch had it.

“Now, that’s a knife,” Malik said, his demeanor changed.

Mitch grinned. “We cool now?”

“Hell, yeah!”

“Good. Now, Lamar, slide me the… weapons and the ammo. Tasha, go listen at the door… and tell us what you hear.”

While he checked and loaded the guns—carefully, so as not to bleed on them—Tasha crept to the hatch and listened. Her upper lip quivered with fear, and her eyes were wide.

“Miss Joan is still out there,” she whispered. “1 can hear her scratching on the door. Sounds like when our teacher at school, Ms. Price, used to run her fingers down the chalkboard. And there’s a banging noise too, but it sounds far away.”

Mitch slid bullets into the pistol’s magazine. “No screams or gunshots?”

Tasha shook her head.

“How about… Carol? Do you hear her?”

“No.”

“Good. That means… she listened to Lamar and is still inside her compartment. Okay, Joan is infected… so we have to assume that Alicia is, as well. That means there are at least… four zombies onboard.”

“Four?” I was confused. “There’s Joan, Professor Williams, and maybe Alicia.”

“Right.”

“So then who’s the fourth?”

“Basil. He had the… tuna’s blood on him, too.”

“Shit. I’d forgotten about that. But if he didn’t have an open cut and didn’t get it in his mouth, he might be okay.”

“Maybe, but we have to… assume he’s one of them… now.”

Carol called out and we yelled back, telling her to stay inside.

“The professor and Basil are probably mobile,” Mitch continued. “They died from the disease, rather than from… an actual attack by an infected corpse. Alicia’s the wild card. Maybe they… tore her to pieces, or maybe… she’s still mobile, too.”

“Or maybe she got away from them,” Malik offered. “Maybe she made it up to the bridge and warned the chief.”

I could tell from the expression on his face that Mitch’s pain was growing worse, and when he spoke again, we heard it in his voice.

“I hope… that you’re right. But… we’ve got to assume… o-otherwise. So… here’s the p-plan. We’re going to… open that d-door, take care of Joan, and then… s-search the ship… Let me go into the passageway f-first… I’m already infected, so I s-should be… on point. Once we’re sure the… passageway is clear, we’ll… w-work our way f-forward… Lamar, if we get separated… we’ll meet back here. K-kids, once we’re g-gone, I want you to… s-shut the hatch behind us and don’t open it f-for… anybody.”

“Screw that,” Tasha yelled. “We ain’t staying behind. We’re going with you. Look at you—you can barely talk at this point.”

“Yeah,” Malik said, moving to her side. “Ya’ll are gonna need our help.”

Groaning, Mitch stumbled to his feet. “It’s n-not… open f-for… debate. Now Tasha, come… here and let me… t-teach you how to use this… r-rifle. When you f-fire it, it’ll… knock you… over if you’re n-not… careful.”

“No.” She stomped her foot. “We’re going with you. It ain’t open for discussion.”

“Tasha,” Mitch sighed. “W-we d-don’t… have time t-to… argue. Now d-drop it… and p-pay… attention, or I’ll have L-Lamar… lock you b-both… inside this… c-compartment.”

Tasha bit her lip to keep from responding. Her hands curled into fists.

Mitch went over the basics of the rifle, quickly taught her how to hold it and how to sight, showed her where the safety was and how to change the magazine. Then he handed me the shotgun.

“Th-think you c-can… handle that b-better… now?”

I nodded. “I’m the hero, remember? I’m just glad you had extra shells that would fit this, otherwise it’d be pretty fucking useless.”

“Me, t-too… Okay, hero… let’s d-do this… Malik, m-move… away f-from the… hatch.”

“Mitch. Lamar.” Tasha picked up the rifle. “Wait a second.”

We turned to her. I heard Mitch take a deep breath, prepared to argue more, but Tasha was done arguing. Even as we turned, she swept past us and ran toward the hatch.

“Open the door, Malik!”

He followed his sister’s order and flung the hatch open. Then he ducked behind the steel door. Only his feet were visible. Joan half-tumbled through the doorway. Tasha snapped the rifle upward, set it against her shoulder like Mitch had just taught her, and squeezed the trigger. Her aim was perfect. Joan’s head exploded, showering the hatch and the bulkheads with blood, hair and bone fragments. The rifle bucked, and the force of the blast knocked her backward. Tasha cried out in pain and surprise but kept her footing.

Outside, Carol screamed. Her voice was still muffled, which meant she had at least stayed inside her berthing area.

Malik slammed the hatch door shut again, carefully avoiding the gore. He and Tasha checked each other, making sure they hadn’t gotten hit by the splatter, and then they turned to us.

“You said we were a family,” Malik said, his tone serious. “You said we got to stick together.”

Tasha nodded, rubbing her shoulder. “Now let’s do it. Or Malik and I will lock you both in here.”

Mitch and I turned to each other in disbelief, and then back to the kids.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go. But you stay behind me and Mitch. Understand?”

They nodded.

Mitch and I both tried to stifle grins, but failed. The kids smiled back.

I readied the shotgun. Mitch unholstered his pistol with difficulty, but managed to hold it in his uninjured arm. Malik brandished the bayonet and licked his lips. Tasha’s arms sagged from the weight of the rifle. Nodding to each other, we stepped over Joan’s unmoving corpse, opened the hatch again, and moved as one into the passageway.

Alicia waited for us there—dead.

She was very hungry.