Deadland's Harves(84)

We all watched Clutch hopefully. While I trusted his judgment—his gut was never wrong—a part of me imagined the Lady Amore as the Titanic and that we could rescue any survivors who remained. Since the outbreak, nearly everything we did revolved around simply surviving. The chance to save even one person from the zeds brought hope that we could eventually win this war. Even though the realistic part of my brain pointed out the hopeless odds of surviving a zed herd.

Clutch sighed. “All right, but we wait until we are sure the herd can’t see, smell, or hear us. So, dig in. We have at least a couple more hours to wait.”

And the waiting continued.

Three hours and forty-seven minutes later, Clutch broke the silence. “Okay. We’ll go in slow and keep to the east bank. We can’t do a thing to draw the herd’s attention, got it?”

We all came to full attention. No one smiled because we all knew that going near anything where zeds had been a day earlier was dangerous.

“It’s the right thing,” Kurt said as he climbed into the pilot’s seat.

“Before we go, take five,” Clutch said. “We’re not heading into that clusterf*ck half-cocked.”

After we checked and double-checked our weapons, Kurt started the motor, and then reached back and pulled up the anchor. He kept the motor at idle as he weaved through the trees that had camouflaged us all night. The wind was out of the northwest, so any noise from the boat was carried harmlessly to the southeast.

Once clear of the trees, Kurt cut the engine, and we rode the current toward the lock. We all searched for survivors as well as for zeds. No zeds remained on the ledges, but I could already make out at least a hundred on the top deck of the riverboat. Kurt kept the boat on the eastern edge, so the tall, concrete lock served as a wall between us and the migrating herds. Even though they were now several miles away, we’d all long since learned that one of the secrets to survival was to be overly, obsessively careful. The other secret? Having a shitload of luck.

“Careful not to get caught in the lock,” Griz said.

“Trust me, Sarge. I know what I’m doing,” Kurt replied.

I’d almost echoed Griz’s words. The riverboat blocked the entire opening to the lock, with smaller boats and debris lodged around it. Kurt pulled the boat closer and slowed to a stop.

Any hope I had of finding survivors, or at least access to food and supplies, was quickly drowned. The riverboat was filled with zeds. Through the windows, we could see zeds standing shoulder-to-shoulder. “We’re not going in there,” I said quietly. “Any food or supplies is a lost cause.”

Clutch grimaced. “The riverboat is a no-go. Let’s head back to the levee.”

Kurt started to turn the boat around. Something thumped against the hull.

Griz leaned over the edge and then staggered back. “The water is full of zeds! They’re floating just below the surface. Get out of here!”

Kurt throttled forward, but the motor ground and then died.

“They’re getting tangled in the props!” Wes cried out.

“Grab the oars,” Clutch ordered. “No gunfire.”

We all lunged for oars. I dipped mine in the water to paddle and hit something solid. I pulled back and tried again. This time, something heavy nearly pulled the oar right out of my hands. I gasped and put all my weight into yanking the oar out of the water, and a zed still holding the oar reached for the boat. Every nerve was on edge as I twirled the oar free. I swung and cracked the zed’s skull, and it fell back below the surface.

My brow furrowed with confusion. Zeds couldn’t swim, but these hadn’t sunk yet. Then it hit me, and my heart thumped harder. These zeds were climbing on one another to get to us. “Jesus, how many fell off the lock?” Goosebumps covered my skin even as adrenaline sent a surge of heat through me.

Everyone was too busy dealing with zeds clawing at the boat to say anything except curse the zeds. We were making no headway, and more hands were grabbing onto the sides. We wouldn’t live much longer if we didn’t get out of there soon.

Frantic, I swapped the oar for a machete and hacked away any arms that managed to grab onto the boat as the guys continued to paddle. Every foot we made north was a battle against both the current and the relentless zeds. Even in the cold temperature, sweat ran down my face. My arms ached and I struggled to keep a firm grip on my machete.

After fifty feet or so, fewer zeds reached up the sides, and the boat moved more smoothly through the water. I swapped my machete for the oar and paddled upriver. With all of us rowing, it took only a few minutes to close the rest of the distance to the trees where we’d hidden last night. Once there, Kurt threw out the anchor and then collapsed on his seat.