Brian Keene - Dead Sea

“How do you know there aren’t any gay people around here?”

He shrugged. “I don’t for sure, I guess. There just ain’t.”

“Malik, I’m gay.”

He stared at me, mouth open in astonishment, half-chewed granola bar stuck to his tongue.

“Y-you’re gay, Lamar? You like other guys?”

I nodded, smiling. “I sure am, and yes, I do. And when you say fag or faggot, it hurts my feelings just as bad as when someone calls us niggers. Faggots were bundles of sticks that people used to start fires with. When you call someone a fag, you’re really saying that you want to burn them alive, even if you aren’t aware of it. So don’t do that anymore, okay?”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that’s what it meant.”

“That’s all right, buddy. Now you do.”

“Damn straight, and I won’t say it no more.”

The kids went back to eating. I picked up my coffee cup and noticed that Mitch was staring at me.

“What?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you have a problem with me being gay.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender and laughed. “Hey, man, like I told you before, I just sell the Bible. Doesn’t mean I believe what it says—especially the bit about men lying down with other men. I couldn’t care less. Too much hate in the world. Nothing wrong with a little more love.”

“So then what are you smiling at?”

“You, man. I was just thinking that you’re pretty good when it comes to kids. You must have been a teacher or a coach or something. Am I right?”

“Not even close,” I told him. “I worked at the Ford plant, until it shut down.”

I didn’t tell him the rest, didn’t mention the robbery at the dealership or the money I’d gotten away with—money that was gone as soon as I paid the bills.

“Yeah,” he said. “I remember reading about that in the Baltimore Sun. Lot of guys lost their jobs.”

“It was tough,” I agreed, then switched topics. “So, Mitch—how did you end up in Fells Point? You were a long way from Towson, weren’t you?”

When he answered, his voice was thick with emotion. “I’d rather not talk about it. You cool with that, Lamar?”

“Sure, man. That’s okay.”

“Thanks.”

Sounded like we both had secrets that we didn’t want to share. I figured that was okay. Maybe being on this ship, sailing away from our homes, was a chance to reinvent ourselves—find out who we really were. The past was behind us. The past was dead—or maybe undead.

We went back to eating. I studied Hooper and Tran, tried to figure out if they’d assigned themselves as the ship’s unofficial cooks or if they’d just decided to help out for the morning because nobody else would. There were a dozen people in the room, not counting the two of them and us. None of the people eating breakfast looked military. Judging from their conversations, most of them had been in the same situation we were in the night before-fleeing the flames and the zombies, and then happening upon the boat. Apparently the guy we’d met in the coast guard uniform had been hiding out on the ship at the time. When he saw what was happening, he’d decided to pull out to sea. Same plan I’d had. Great minds think alike and all that shit.

Joan, the woman who loaned a T-shirt to Tasha, joined us at our table. While she was there she told us her story. She’d been trapped in a bathroom for the last two weeks. Two zombies had chased her inside, but when they finally lost interest and left, the door was jammed and she couldn’t get it open. The creatures had battered the doorknob till it was useless. The bathroom had no windows and no other exits. She drank water from the toilet bowl and survived by eating toilet paper and cough drops. She’d considered eating a bottle of ibuprofen as well, but decided to save them instead in case she needed to commit suicide. Lucky for her, she didn’t have to. Three other survivors found her while they were looting the house, and freed her from the bathroom. Two of them were killed later on—one by a zombie and the other by a sniper. The third had run away during the sniper attack and she didn’t know what had happened to him. If he’d stayed in Baltimore, he was probably dead by now.

We didn’t talk much after she told us her story. Too busy eating. Joan was ravenous, and so were the rest of us. I’d had nothing since the fruit cocktail at my place the evening before. Already, it seemed like long ago, but in reality, it had been less than twelve hours. Malik asked me if he could have seconds and I told him I didn’t see any trouble with that. When he’d left the table, Mitch took a sip of coffee and shifted uncomfortably.

“What’s up?”

“Just thinking.” He set his coffee mug down. It slid about a quarter of an inch as the ship rolled. Mitch’s complexion paled.

“Seasick?” I asked, trying not to let on that I felt the same.

“A little, maybe,” he admitted. “But that’s not what I’m thinking about. Just wondering how much food we have onboard. I mean, I can’t imagine any of this is the ship’s stores. Must have been brought on after Hamelin’s Revenge.”

“I’m just happy for anything,” Joan said.

“Me, too,” Mitch agreed. “So is there anyone in charge of inventory or rationing?”

Before Joan or I could answer, there was a sudden burst of electronic feedback, and the ship’s public address speakers crackled.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Chief Maxey is my name.

You can call me Wade or Chief or Captain—whatever you like. I’d like all hands to muster on the flight deck, located aft, at oh-nine-hundred hours. If you have companions still sleeping in their racks, please wake them and have them join us. I thought a brief orientation might be in order, since we all seem to have been thrown together like this. Thank you.”

There was another burst of static and then the speaker cut off.

“What’s he mean by muster?” Joan asked.

Tasha shrugged. “And where’s the aft deck?”

“What time did he say,” a man called out from across the room. “Oh nine what?”

“Folks, if I could…” An old man stood up. He was short, and his thin white hair was disheveled. He wore a dirty suit and thick trifocals that kept sliding down his face. He pushed them back up and said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” someone shouted back. Then more people joined in.

The old man blinked, grinning sheepishly, clearly embarrassed. The he cleared his throat and continued.

“My name is Professor Williams. Well, actually, my real name is Steven Williams, but my friends and family have always called me Professor, since I am one. Was one, I mean. Before retirement and before—well, before what happened to all of us. Anyway, just to clarify what our captain said, aft is the rear of the ship. I believe if you exit out of that hatch back there, what you call a door, and work your way along the catwalk on this side of the ship, you’ll come to the aft deck. Can’t miss it, really—big, black, flat area. The requested time was nine o’clock, which is about ten minutes from now.”

“Thanks, Professor,” another man called out. There was a sarcastic edge to the stranger’s voice, and the old man blushed. He sat down quickly and stared at his tray.

I stood up and emptied my tray in the garbage can. Then I stopped at his table and tapped him on the shoulder. He was busy packing a pipe, and he jumped when I touched him, spilling tobacco onto the table. The professor looked up at me. He seemed very small.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “Didn’t mean to make you spill.”

“Oh, it wasn’t you. My hands aren’t as steady as they used to be.”

“Well, I just wanted to say thanks for that explanation, man. I was never in the military, so it all sounded like Greek to me until you spoke up.”