Brian Keene - Dead Sea

He smiled, flashing a set of false teeth. “Thank you, Mister…?”

“Reed. Lamar Reed.” I stuck out my hand and he shook it.

“Professor Steven Williams. Just call me Professor. But of course, you already know that.”

“Hey Lamar,” Malik yelled across the galley. “Can I get thirds?”

“Save some for everyone else,” I said.

“But I’m still hungry.”

“Don’t be a pig.” Tasha elbowed him in the ribs.

I turned back to the old man while Mitch quieted the kids down.

“They’re lovely children,” the professor said. “It’s actually nice to see children again. Nice to see anyone, really, I suppose. I’ve spent the last month sequestered in a storage room at the public library. I had plenty to read but no one to talk to. It was a very lonely existence.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That would be tough.”

“They seem very well-behaved.”

“They’re pretty good kids.”

“Are you their father?”

“No. No, I’m just watching out for them. We crossed paths last night. They helped me out so I took them under my wing.”

He smiled again. “Ah, so you are the protector, then. The hero archetype.”

“Excuse me?”

“The hero. Are you familiar with the works of Joseph Campbell?”

“Can’t say that I am.”

“Well, then you must read The Hero With a Thousand Faces. It’s all about mythic archetypes. Understand those and you have the key to unraveling the riddle of life itself. Fascinating material, really. Most scholars prefer his other books: The Mythic Image and The Masks of God, but I was never one for popular convention. Come find me later and I’ll explain all about it. You’re on a quest, Mr. Reed, and you are fulfilling a role.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. Meanwhile, I had no clue what he was babbling about, and no time to wonder. There were more important things to worry ourselves with. Such as Mitch’s idea of food rationing and exactly what destination—if any—Chief Maxey had in mind for us.

I found out soon enough. When we were done eating breakfast, the four of us filed outside, joined once again by Joan. Slowly, the rest of the passengers assembled on the flight deck. The sun hung high in the sky, bright and hot. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I shielded my eyes against the glare and studied our companions. I counted eighteen of us total, and I learned that there was one more person, a guy named Turn, who was piloting the ship while the rest of us had our little powwow. Apparently Turn was a retired harbormaster, and Chief Maxey had made him second-in-command.

Mitch sniffed the air and breathed deep. “Smell that salt air? Man, I love that sea breeze.”

I grinned. “Know what else?”

“What’s that?”

“For the first time in over a month, I don’t smell rotting corpses.”

He shuddered. “You’re right. I hadn’t even noticed. As horrible as it sounds, I guess I’d gotten used to it.”

Another hatch banged open and Chief Maxey walked out onto the deck. His stride had purpose, and the expression on his face was all business. He wore the same uniform he’d had on the night before, and a pair of black sunglasses. He had us gather around him in a circle and silently studied each of us for a moment.

“Good morning.” He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t shout over the waves or the engines or the screeching birds that followed the ship, hoping for a handout. He didn’t have to. The man had presence. Even though he was an overweight, middle-aged white guy in a dirty coast guard uniform and hat, and even though he smelled like he hadn’t showered in days and had salt and pepper stubble on his face, the man commanded our attention. There was no doubt that he was in charge.

“I’d like to welcome each of you onboard the United States Coast Guard Cutter Spratling. I’m sorry that it can’t be under better circumstances. We weren’t properly introduced last night, and I’m sorry for that, too. If I was gruff with you, just ignore it. We were in a tense situation and I didn’t have time for pleasantries. My priority was getting us away from the harbor. Also, I want to thank those of you who volunteered to help last night. Your willingness to chip in probably saved all our lives.”

The crowd murmured thanks and then Maxey cleared his throat and continued.

“We’ve got a lot to cover, so make yourselves comfortable. I figure that first we—”

A man in front of me put his hand up. He was short and balding, and his scalp was beet red from sunburn. I wondered where he’d spent his time hiding from the zombies. Maybe a rooftop somewhere?

“Yes?” The chief pointed at him. “You have a question?”

“Sure do, Chief. If this is gonna take a while, why don’t we move back inside to the galley where it’s a lot more comfortable and cooler?”

Maxey’s smile was tight. “I’m sorry, Mister…?”

“Basil. My name’s Basil Martin.”

“Well, Mr. Martin, the reason we’re not going inside is because I need your attention. If you’re too comfortable, then chances are your attention will drift. You might even nod off. I wouldn’t blame you, of course. I’m sure each and every one of you has been through quite an ordeal. But if you quit paying attention, then you might as well jump overboard right now. Because I intend to stay alive. And as captain of this vessel, it’s my job to make sure you folks do the same. I can’t protect you unless you help me, and to do that, I need to make you fully aware of our situation. So I need your full attention. Clear?”

Blushing, Basil nodded, and then slipped past us to the back row.

“Now,” the chief continued, “as I was saying, I figured we’d start with the basics. I’ll tell you who I am and a little bit about the Spratling. Give you an overview of our situation. Then I’d like to know a little bit about each of you—especially any skills or trades you might have, or military or law enforcement experience. Let’s start with a head count.”

He paused, surveying the crowd. Then he nodded at Hooper.

“Where’s the other guy? Tran? Wasn’t he helping you with breakfast?”

“He’s in the galley doing dishes. Don’t matter none. Motherfucker can’t speak English anyway.”

The chief frowned, but continued with his count. I got the impression that he felt the same way about Cleveland Hooper as I did.

“Okay,” Chief Maxey said. “So, counting the absent Mr. Tran, and our second mate Turn, who is piloting the ship while we’re down here, there are twenty of us onboard.”

Joan timidly raised her hand.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “But last night, after we’d gotten underway, I thought I counted twenty-one.”

“Yes ma’am, you did.”

“But you said there were twenty, counting the two men who are absent. Aren’t we missing somebody else?”

“There were twenty-one. One member of our party was bitten sometime before he came aboard. He tried to hide it from us, but we discovered it early this morning, before most of you were awake. We removed him from the ship immediately.”

Joan stuttered. “W-who? Who did that?”

“Turn and I, and Mr. Runkle.

“Mr. Runkle?”

“Yes, he’s standing there to your left.”

We all looked at Mr. Runkle, a large man, probably in his late thirties, physically fit and hair cropped short. I made him for a cop right away. It was in the way he carried himself. Chief Maxey confirmed my suspicions a second later.

“Mr. Runkle is a Baltimore City police officer. We asked for his help as soon as we were aware of the situation.”

“Hi. Steven Runkle. Just call me Steve.”

A few of us nodded at him, but our attention was on the chief. I noticed the professor step away from the group. Frowning, he lit his pipe and puffed on it. The smoke smelled like cherries. In the sudden silence, the roaring waves seemed to grow louder. Seagulls squawked above us, perched on one of the antennas.