Brian Keene: Dead Sea

“Dude,” I said. “You’re injured. There’s blood on your coat. What the hell happened?”

“Injured?” Chief Maxey pulled in his oar and slid toward us. “Let us see, Runkle. How bad is it?”

“It’s not my blood,” he said, pulling the coat tighter. “Just some… of Murphy. I g-got it on me when I… s-shot him.”

“Bullshit,” I insisted. “I saw you after that and there wasn’t any blood on you then. Now let us help you.”

Runkle’s head snapped up, his eyes suddenly alert. He shoved the gun in my face.

“Sit the fuck d-down and… leave me alone. I t-told you… it’s nothing .”

Suddenly, I understood. He’d been acting weird ever since I’d encountered him on the ship during our hunt for the professor. He’d lied about the coat. Told me he was wearing it because of the storm. Instead, he’d been wearing it to hide his wound.

“You got bit, didn’t you, Runkle? Murphy bit you before you shot him, and you’ve been hiding it all this time.”

He sneered. “You’re… c-crazy, Lamar. If I’d been… b-bitten, wouldn’t I be d-dead by now?”

“You ain’t looking too healthy. All the signs are there, now that you mention it. You’re slurring your words. You’re weak. Admit it, Runkle. You were bitten and you’ve been trying to hide it.”

Chief Maxey put his hand on Runkle’s shoulder. “Everything will be okay, Mr. Runkle. Just let us help you.”

Weakened as he was, Runkle still had strength. He moved fast, swinging his arm out and smacking the chief in the face with the pistol. There was a loud crack and Chief Maxey tumbled backward. His nose and mouth spurted blood. The boat rocked dangerously to one side, and more water flooded in. I lunged for Runkle, intent on getting the gun away from him, but he was too fast for me. He whipped around again and suddenly the barrel of the pistol was pressed against my stomach. Grinning, he shoved me back into my seat.

“D-don’t… you f-fucking move… or I’ll… w-waste those kids… Just… k-keep rowing.”

“You son of a bitch. You’re a cop. What about your oath—to serve and protect?”

He laughed. “That d-died… with… the rest of the… world.”

“You’re a real piece of shit, man.”

His laughter turned into a cough. “J-just shut up… and r-row, f-faggot.”

Clenching my teeth in anger, I did as he ordered. Grinning, Runkle waved the gun at me. I picked up the oar and dipped it into the water again. Chief Maxey rolled over onto his back, groaned, and then lay still. Rainwater splashed off his face, washing away the blood streaming from his nose.

“C-Carol,” Runkle called, without taking his eyes off me, “you and… the k-kids… get over here n-next t-to… Lamar.”

“Officer Runkle” she pleaded. “You’re sick. You don’t know—”

“Shut up. D-do what I… t-tell you, or I’ll… s-shoot Lamar f-first. N-now get o-over h-here…”

“My grip tightened on the oars. Chief Maxey was still unconscious. If I moved, Runkle would shoot me before I made two steps. We were helpless. I decided to try reasoning with him again.

“You’re gonna die, Runkle. You know that, right? I mean, if Murphy bit you then Hamelin’s Revenge is already in your bloodstream.”

He shook his head. “N-not… going to… die. I’m g-going… to l-live.”

“The hell you are. It is gonna happen, whether you fight it or not. You can’t beat it. So what’s the point, man? Why do this to us? What are you hoping to accomplish?”

He didn’t answer me. His free hand went to his side, cradling the wound beneath his coat. His skin was slick with rain and sweat. I wondered why it was taking him so long to turn. Mitch had died a lot quicker. Maybe Runkle’s constitution was better. Maybe the rate of infection had something to do with how healthy the person had been.

Carol, Tasha, and Malik carefully crossed over to our side of the lifeboat. One by one, they sat down next to me on the bench. Runkle watched them closely. I scooted over so they’d have more room. As Malik turned around to sit, Runkle grabbed his arm.

“Hey” Malik shouted. “What you doing, man? Let me go!”

“S-shut up… you l-little… s-shit… When the chief… o-opened that s-storage b-box… I s-saw some… ropes inside… I w-want you t-to… take those… r-ropes… back there and… t-tie up C-Chief M-Maxey…”

“I ain’t doing shit.”

I sat up straight, my body coiled and ready to spring. “Let him go, you son of a bitch.”

Runkle twisted his arm and Malik shrieked. I started to stand up, but Runkle aimed the pistol at me again.

“S-sit d-down… faggot, or I’ll… p-pull his arm out.”

“You motherfucker.” I obeyed, sitting back down. “You sick, twisted son of a bitch. Let him go!”

He twisted Malik’s arm again. “D-do it n-now…”

“Okay, man.” Malik tore free from Runkle’s grip. “Damn. I can’t do shit if you’re gonna tear my arm off first. Bitch.”

Rubbing his bicep and frowning, Malik made his way across the lifeboat. Runkle didn’t turn to watch him; instead, he kept his eyes on me, Carol, and Tasha. I wondered why he didn’t simply get up and move to the far end of the boat, where he could watch all of us at the same time. Figured maybe he was farther gone than he appeared; not thinking clearly, dying a death that would not last, already thinking like a zombie rather than a man.

Another large wave tossed the lifeboat to one side. Debris rolled across the bottom of the boat. Icy seawater flooded my boots. Keeping his balance, Malik opened the storage box and rummaged inside until he found the rope. He pulled it out and slammed the lid.

“Y-you got it?” Runkle coughed again.

“Yeah,” Malik said. “I found it.”

“H-hurry… up…”

“Just hold up a second. Don’t rush me. You’re worse than my sister.”

Tasha scowled, but held her tongue. My eyes didn’t leave the pistol. Some hero I’d turned out to be. Professor Williams had been way off base, and I wished he was there so I could show him.

Runkle did not turn around. His eyelids drooped lower. The stain on his coat grew broader. A thin line of bright blood dribbled out of his sleeve and ran down his hand, dripping off his index finger. The water in the boat turned pink. Runkle’s other hand squeezed the pistol tighter. I watched as I rowed, willing him to die. I licked saltwater from my lips and hoped that the next breath would be his last. But it wasn’t.

Instead of tying up the chief, Malik quietly picked up his spear instead. Very slowly, he tiptoed toward Runkle, who still had his back turned. I looked away on purpose, so as not to alert Runkle, and silently willed Carol and Tasha to do the same. Malik lifted the spear over his head and crept closer.

“S-save some… rope,” Runkle wheezed. “I w-want… you… to t-tie up… the r-rest of… them… t-too.”

“Whatever,” Malik said, creeping closer. “You’re in charge.”

“T-that’s right… I am in…”

Runkle suddenly doubled over, clenching his side and gasping with pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and his gun hand went limp. The weapon pointed at the deck. With a shout, Malik lunged forward and drove the spear down into Runkle’s back. The boy struggled, putting all of his weight behind the shaft. Runkle stiffened, trying to stand. He opened his mouth to scream, but only a strangled sigh came out. The pistol slipped from his fingers, landing in a puddle of bloody seawater. Tasha leapt forward to grab it, but I warned her to stay seated. Runkle’s infected blood had mixed with the water in the boat. There was no sense in chancing it.

Malik continued thrusting the spear into Runkle’s back. The spear’s tip poked through his chest, ripping the peacoat. Runkle tried to scream again. Instead, he gurgled. Dark blood—almost black—bubbled from his gaping mouth.