Rescue
Music danced on the evening air, barely audible over the wind and rain. Westlake and Sayers were huddled in a knot of broken trees just past the outer boundary of the Watkins’ place. There were a lot of broken trees; it looked as if something big had come this way, and more than once. Westlake thought about the thing Brady had called “King Crunch” and wondered if it were somewhere close by now, watching them.
He hadn’t said anything to Sayers about it, but then she didn’t seem interested in talking to him either. For good reason, obviously. He wondered if she would tell Ramirez. Part of him hoped so. Maybe it was time to retire from his second life.
He pushed the thought to the back of his mind as Sayers gestured to the set of concrete bulwarks that separated the Watkins’ home from the swamp. “There’s wire fencing stretched between them, just at the water level,” Sayers said. “It’s enough to keep out floaters and the odd walker, but not someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“Not very secure,” Westlake said. He wiped ineffectually at his face. He could still smell – still taste – Brady’s blood and it was driving him to distraction. Sayers’ smile was cold in the dim light cast from the bulwarks.
“You’d think. But I got a look at what’s waiting past them.”
Westlake saw where she was going. “Walkers,” he said.
She nodded. “It’s like one of those ponds seeded with trout for fishermen. They probably dip in and pull one out every so often when they need protein.” She drew her knife and handed it to him. “For the wire. Cut through it and slip in. They’re not watching the pond. They’re looking at the swamp.”
Westlake took the knife. “They’ll notice when I climb out of the water.”
“No, they won’t. They’ll be too busy keeping their heads down.” She patted her quiver of arrows. “Once you get clear of the water, find the others and make some noise. Blow up a generator or something. Keep them guessing.”
“And while I’m doing that, you’ll be playing Robin Hood?”
She gave a feral grin. “No, I’ll be securing transportation. You just get everyone out the front. There’s a jetty leading into the sawgrass. Get them on it and don’t stop until you reach the end. I’ll meet you there.”
“If you don’t, it’ll be messy.”
“I will. Trust me.” She paused. “Watch out for Calvin for me.” She hesitated. “If he’s alive,” she added reluctantly.
“And if not?”
“Eat a few of the bastards,” she said harshly. Then she was pushing away from him, vanishing into the gloom. He gave her a few moments to get clear, and then made his way toward the bulwarks. There were spotlights rigged up on every other bulwark, and as he slid into the water, he took note of the power cables stretched across the top. They’d lead him to a generator, if he got the opportunity to look for one.
Westlake dropped low into the water, sinking until the top of his head was barely above the surface. There were floaters around him, broken things impaled on branches or chopped to pieces by something. They barely noticed him, their eyes fixed on the dim forms walking across the plywood planks stretched across the tops of the bulwarks.
He paused, waiting for a sentry to go past. He counted three. Not many. Then, what did they have to worry about besides floaters and alligators? He stayed low anyway, brushing aside floaters until he was right up against the fence. Then he went to work with Sayers’ knife. It was easier than he’d expected. The metal was rusted, and he soon had a hole big enough to squeeze through. The rain hid the sound of him wedging the gap open.
The dead barely reacted as he joined them. Some moans, some swipes, but he kept things civil and ignored them. As always, they returned the favor. The sentries were obviously used to the noise, and they paid no attention to him as he shoved his way through the crowd. The walkways were easy to spot, lit by Christmas lights that twinkled in the gloom. He could hear music and laughter. They were having a grand old time somewhere in there. That was fine by him. Let them enjoy themselves.
There were ropes and chains dangling over the side of the walkway. He grabbed one, gave it an experimental tug, and began to climb. The nearest zombies groaned in puzzlement as he ascended, and he felt them fumbling at the rope in his wake. He wondered if they could learn to climb. Then he was up and crouched at the edge of the walkway. It was crowded with pallets and empty fuel drums. A forest of junk, left over from more prosperous days perhaps.
From the look of things, everyone was inside the house out of the rain. That was good. He turned, paused. One of the sentries on the bulwark was missing. As he watched, one of the remaining two pitched backward into the zombie pool, an arrow jutting from his throat. The remaining sentry noticed that he was alone and turned as if to shout. Westlake caught his eye and waved. The man opened his mouth – and the broad head of a hunting arrow emerged. His eyes fluttered and he spun away out of sight, clutching his head.
As he turned away from the bulwark, Westlake heard a door clatter, and the thump of someone striding across the walkway. He watched whoever it was go to the edge of the rail, unzip their pants and begin to urinate on the zombies below.
Westlake crept toward him, but paused just short of grabbing him, worried that it might alert the others inside. The man was big, bulky. A frayed baseball cap hid the top of his head, and his cheeks were rough with dead skin. He squinted toward the bulwarks. “What the good goddamn…?” he began. Westlake hit him on the back of the head with the pommel of the knife. The big man went down like a sack of potatoes.
He hesitated, wondering why he hadn’t simply killed the other man. It was the smart thing, but he didn’t feel like doing the smart thing. Not after Brady. He did, however, take the man’s gun and stuffed it into the back of his jeans.
Moving as quickly as he could, he made his way toward the cages that hung over the water. It took him a moment to figure out the pulley system to bring them in, but once he did, he got it moving. The storm covered the sound. The first cage was empty. The second held Gable and Ptolemy. The third, Terry and a woman Westlake didn’t recognize. Whoever she was, she looked in bad shape. The fourth and fifth cages were empty. As soon as the second cage thumped against the dock, he asked, “Where’s Ramirez?”
“They have taken her to the ship,” Ptolemy said. If he was startled by Westlake’s sudden appearance, he gave no sign. Instead, he indicated the cage door. “The cages are locked. I do not suppose you have the key?”
Westlake paused. The simplest option would be to shoot the locks off. But that would attract too much attention. Plan B it was, then. He grabbed one of the bars, braced his foot against the frame of the cage and pulled. “Are you mental?” Gable hissed. “These things are designed to withstand shark attacks.”
The bar popped loose from its upper housing. “Took her to the ship, huh? Let me guess, they intend to bushwhack them the way they did us?” Westlake felt a grim sort of admiration for such duplicity.
“I can only assume that’s the idea.” Ptolemy paused. “Elizabeth… did she…?”
“Out in the swamp, waiting for us.” Westlake finished prying the bar loose and cast it into the water below. He started to work on the next bar. As he did so, he felt a looseness in his shoulder. A ligament had torn, or the muscle fibers were finally starting to fray. He ignored it and kept working on the bar. Shark cages were tough, but so was he. “And the people on the ship can handle themselves.”
“We have to warn them,” Ptolemy began. “These people–”
Whatever he’d been about to say was interrupted by the crack of a rifle. Westlake felt something tug at his back. He turned, drawing the pistol he’d taken from the unconscious man as he did so. He fired blind, hoping to make whoever it was think better of taking another potshot at him. Shouts and yells pierced the rain noise. But they weren’t directed at him. He paused, startled by the sight of a walker hauling itself up onto the dock. It joined the others stumbling toward the house.
They’d copied him, he realized. They’d seen him climb the rope and figured out how to do it for themselves. Earlier he’d wondered if they could do something like that. Now he had his answer. More walkers shimmied up the ropes and chains, following the leader the same way they always did. The people in the house had realized something was amiss and were shooting at the dead.
He turned back to the cage and fired, busting the lock. “Guess we do it the quick way. Get out and find cover, I’ll get the others.” He hauled the next cage in and did the same. Down below, the dead were seething, agitated by the smell of blood and the sound of shots. The ones that weren’t climbing were shoving against the support struts of the walkway and the wire fencing, trying to go somewhere, anywhere.
Westlake freed Terry and his cellmate a moment later. “You in one piece, kid?” he asked. Terry nodded, though he had a bruise covering half his face and looked as if he’d been dragged backward through a thorn bush. Westlake glanced at the woman. She shied away from him, eyes wide. She looked as if she were going to scream, but Terry caught her hand and murmured quietly to her.
Westlake gave Ptolemy a questioning glance. He and Gable were sheltering behind a stack of pallets. “She is from the ship,” Ptolemy said. “There were three others with her.”
“Where are they now?” Westlake asked. Ptolemy looked toward the house.
“Our… hosts are celebrating,” he said. Recalling what Brady had told them, Westlake shook his head and gestured toward the far side of the house. There were at least twenty walkers scattered across the walkway and back porch of the house now, trying to get inside. A few were already down, and Westlake had no doubt the Watkins family would clear them all out in time. But for the moment, they were a good distraction.
“Let’s leave them to their fun. It’s time to go. There’s a jetty on the far side of the house…” he began. Ptolemy nodded.
“It’s where we were brought in.”
“Sayers will be waiting there with transport. Let’s go.”
“You ain’t going nowhere, mister,” a woman’s voice called out. “Except maybe into the paddling pool with the rest of the dead.” A gunshot followed this assertion, and Westlake felt a punch in his stomach. He stumbled back against the cages and slid down. He saw a man resembling the one he’d knocked unconscious approaching, a rifle in his hands. Beside him were two others, similarly armed. They stepped over fallen walkers with the easy confidence of experienced killers as they approached Ptolemy and the others.
A young girl pushed an old woman in a wheelchair after the trio. It was the latter who’d spoken, and her eyes gleamed with curiosity as she studied Westlake. “You look like something that’s been marinating in a gator’s belly, boy.”
Westlake pushed himself to his feet. The big man shot him again, but he didn’t fall this time. The other two joined in. Westlake looked down at the holes in his chest and stomach and then back up. “You must be Brady’s kin. He says hi, by the way.”
“Brady…?” the old woman said. “What you know about Brady?”
“He was delicious,” Westlake said, and lunged forward.