Sole Chaos Page 4

  Emily realized in horror that he was right. She hadn’t recognized the brutalized body as the saucy woman from the diner, but he was right.

  “Flo,” Marco said as he patted her hand. “You’re going to be okay. Just hang on.” He looked at the doctor still working across the room. “Doctor! We need you over here. Now!”

  The doctor finished tying a red tag around a victim’s wrist and looked up. “Coming!” A few seconds later, she skidded to a stop.

  Her experienced hands glided over Flo’s body and under the fragments of what remained of her clothes. Her eyes pinched shut and her lips pressed tightly together.

  Emily grabbed her sleeve without meaning to. “What? How is she?”

  The doctor opened her eyes and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She flipped through a rainbow of tags until she got to the black ones at the back.

  She wrote something on a black tag and tore it off. The stretchy rubber band attached to it snapped. She pulled the rubber band around Flo’s wrist and made sure it cinched tight. The doctor started to turn away.

  “What are you doing?” Emily asked, even though she already knew.

  “Doctor! Over here!” one of the nurses shouted as she leaned onto a victim’s chest with all her weight. Blood fountained up and splattered on the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor repeated as she hurried over to another victim that apparently had a better chance than Flo.

  Marco kissed Flo’s hand. “You’re an amazing woman. I don’t know you that well, but I know that.”

  Flo’s head flopped to the side as she focused on him. Her eyes dilated as a weak smile crossed her face. “I liked you…” blood gurgled out of her mouth. “… from the start.”

  Marco forced a smile. It was the fake yet sincere smile of someone who pities the tragedies of another. “Just hold on, okay?”

  Flo licked blood from her lips. “Too late for that. Tell my son—“.

  Her eyes blinked shut and stayed that way for what felt like forever.

  Emily glanced up at Marco and they shared a sorrow that only a moment like that could create.

  “I love him,” Flo said through more blood gurgling out of her mouth. “I love him to the moon…”

  Emily touched her shoulder, gently, not knowing where or what might cause her pain.

  A single tear, clear as water and wet as rain, welled up out of the corner of Flo’s eye. It broke free and streamed down her temple, clearing a trail through the white coating of dust, before it disappeared into the bloody thatch of her hair.

  “And back,” Emily finished for her. She leaned down and kissed the damp streak. As she backed away, Flo’s eyes caught hers.

  The loss echoing through them stabbed into Emily’s chest.

  And then she was gone.

  Eyes as empty as glass marbles.

  Beautiful, yet hollow.

  Glistening with gathered tears that would never spill.

  Flo was gone.

  7

  The full moon hung on the horizon, diffused behind a perpetual gray gauze curtain. She was late.

  Maybe too late.

  Maybe already missed the boat.

  Leaving Marco and the tragedy at the hospital behind hadn’t been easy. She’d left a part of her heart back there.

  But that was the life she’d always known. Slices of her heart left to die as those she cared about were ripped away.

  This was no different.

  And a cold, hard part inside her chest welcomed it.

  She’d made it all the way to the south side of town, slipping from shadow to shadow, avoiding the few people that happened across her path at this late hour.

  Emily rounded the building which opened onto the marina beyond and breathed a sigh of relief.

  The old fishing boat she’d signed onto was still there. Dark silhouettes hurried back and forth on the dock next to it, pulling lines up and tossing them on the deck. The engine revved and the pale ghost eased away from the dock.

  Emily broke into a sprint, shouting as she ran. “Wait! Wait for me!”

  The engine slowed as a hushed voice responded. “Quiet down!”

  The boat continued drifting away, the space between it and the dock growing larger with every second.

  Emily hit the end of the dock at a full sprint and launched into the air.

  She flew over the three feet of dark water separating her from the boat and made it. Her momentum slammed her into a dark figure on the deck.

  “Whoa, now!” the man said as he absorbed the impact and kept her from breaking an ankle or worse. “And who are you?’

  “Emily Wilder,” she said through winded breaths. “I made arrangements with the captain.”

  She recognized the thick beard tinged with gray and thick glasses covering dark eyes.

  He nodded as he let her loose. “So I did. Welcome aboard. Didn’t think you were going to make it.”

  “Neither did I.”

  He looked backward over his shoulder. “Come on now! Let’s get this rust bucket moving!”

  Emily worked to slow her breathing. “I thought we were supposed to be quiet.”

  “Yeah. You are. But I’m the captain. I can damn well do what I please.” He laughed gruffly and spun away. “I said get us underway!”

  Who he was yelling at, Emily couldn’t see.

  He opened a side door to what passed for the bridge and yelled something more colorful. An imaginatively descriptive insult that could’ve won a poetry contest if it hadn’t been so laced with vulgarity.

  The engines sputtered, roared for a few seconds, and died.

  They clicked off, sputtered again, roared like a hurricane, and died again.

  Great. She was on a boat to nowhere.

  The door to the bridge flew open. The captain stomped out and turned toward the back of the large fishing boat. “If I have to come down there, heads will roll!”

  The engines sputtered again and this time caught.

  The boat lurched forward and Emily grabbed a hold of the rail or else would’ve landed on her backside.

  “That’s better,” the captain muttered as he returned to his station.

  The vibration of the engines echoed up through her boots as she stared out over the dark water beyond the marina. The captain had told her they’d hug the shore before clearing Kodiak and then head north into the open ocean. If all went well, they’d be safely at Anchorage by day break.

  It was the “if all went well” part that worried her.

  She walked to the front of the boat and leaned out over the side.

  The pale moonlight reflected off the white water peeling away from the boat’s side. The marina shrank into the distance as they got underway.

  Emily dropped her pack by her feet. She took a deep breath and wondered for the hundredth time if she was doing the right thing.

  Or if she was a complete and total idiot.

  Why was she so determined to get back to Oakland?

  That was easy.

  Her grandmother.

  The only family she had left.

  But did she have a chance of actually making it?

  Saying it was a long shot was giving it a sheen of optimism that it logically didn’t have.

  She wouldn’t give up. She knew that.

  But that didn’t mean she’d make it.

  And what if, against all odds, she somehow did get back home?

  What did she expect to find?

  She pushed a stray lock of hair behind one ear. The cool ocean breeze chilled her cheeks and nose. She inhaled deeply and enjoyed the cold filling her lungs.

  What if Oakland was gone?

  Just like San Francisco.

  Just like so many other cities around the world.

  Emily slammed her fist into the railing and, too late, realized it was a dumb idea when her fingers came back ringing with pain.

  Thinking about what might or might not happen didn’t help anything.

  Sh
e was on a boat.

  A boat that would get her one step closer to home.

  And if, by some miracle, she actually made it back to her apartment in Oakland, then she would know the truth.

  The reality of whether or not she was alone in the world.

  She’d lived most of her life knowing what it meant to be alone. Knowing that she could depend on no one but herself.

  To allow her heart to feel was a dangerous vulnerability. One she avoided by necessity. Her heart had but one soft spot left.

  Her grandmother.

  And that small, unprotected spot was enough to bring her home.

  Or to die trying to get there.

  8

  BOB RANDY turned over on his side and the slicing ache in his stitched wrists jolted up his arms. He groaned, despite not wanting to draw any attention from Rome. Aside from the discomfort, it was the overwhelming weakness that sapped his energy. Doing the smallest thing required the greatest effort.

  Losing a ton of blood did that to a person.

  The inside of his nose itched and he would’ve picked it if he wasn’t already so exhausted from turning over. Instead, he settled for crinkling his nose a few times.

  The feint stirrings in his bladder promised a trip to the bathroom in the not too distant future. That was gonna be fun. And without Flo to help him, the trip to the toilet was going to be like doing the Iditarod for a normal man.

  There was no chance he was going to ask Rome for help. He’d rather open the stitches in his wrists and finish bleeding out before doing that.

  Besides, the boy wasn’t going to help.

  Misery loved company, but what if the company didn’t love you back?

  The boy in a man’s body sat at the small round table that straddled the apartment’s kitchen and living room. There wasn’t enough room for it to properly fit in either. “The voice that sounds astonishingly like gas exiting a donkey’s butt should know that I don’t care.”

  Bob bit his lip as he finished the quarter turn from his back.

  The couch was more boards than padding and wasn’t all that different from sleeping on a workbench.

  But still, Flo didn’t have to let him stay here. Nobody could’ve blamed her if she’d refused to let him come near her home again. But she’d taken him in.

  And here was infinitely better than his room at the roach-infested hotel called The Weary Traveler.

  It should’ve been renamed to The Desperate and Dead Tired Traveler.

  That would’ve more accurately described the kind of person who would choose to stay in a room like he’d had.

  And that was before he’d spilled a few quarts of his blood all over the bed and floor in a pathetic attempt to end his own pathetic life.

  How in everything holy had he ended up here?

  Half-dead and somewhat recovering on an uncomfortable couch in Kodiak, Alaska? Lying a few feet away from a fat kid that would prefer he died than take up another second of his or his mother’s time.

  How?

  His life had been so much better than this!

  Not so long ago, he was more powerful than Steven Spielberg, for Christ’s sake!

  He was Mr. Hollywood, pulling in millions and choosing the stars that would be accepting next year’s Oscars.

  First Barflies and then Schwartzfeld.

  Two of the most successful, long running network series ever created!

  All his doing!

  Who else had thought of the bar where everybody knew your name?

  Who else had thought of creating a show about nothing?

  No one else. That’s who.

  Bob’s temples pulsed as his heart pounded through constricted veins. The room swayed as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

  He laid his head on a lumpy pillow and slowed his breathing.

  As his breathing and pulse steadied, he watched Rome doing something at the table. It took a few minutes, but he eventually felt well enough to not pass out. He gritted his teeth and sat up.

  Lancing pain shot through the stitched wounds in each wrist. Though he managed to get through it without making a sound this time.

  He took a drink of water from the cup on the coffee table.

  Rome’s eyes darted over and back to whatever he was doing. “The mouth that’s drinking my family’s water should find another family to leech off of.”

  Bob swallowed a few gulps and let his head clear. The minute change in altitude nearly had his balance swimming again. After it cleared, he decided to say something. “Listen Rome, I—“

  Rome held up a hand with the palm facing toward him. “The sound that reminds me of two goats getting it on needs to shut up.”

  Bob shook his head.

  It had been like this all day since his mother had gone.

  With her here, Rome was somewhat civil. With her gone, not so much. That he hadn’t picked Bob up and thrown him out the door was something.

  Not a lot.

  But still something.

  Every time Bob had tried to extend an olive branch, it had been met with a flaming torch.

  So Bob decided on a different approach.

  “What are you working on? Looks like improvised defensive measures for the home.”

  Rome’s hands froze in mid-air. He turned to Bob with narrowed eyes. “Are you telling me you know about defensive measures for the home during a zombie apocalypse?”

  Bob nodded. “I know some.”

  Rome rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  Bob sensed an opening. He knew a few things from a failed zombie tv series that he’d pushed over a decade ago.

  Bad timing on that one. It got cancelled halfway through the season. Zomburbia. Seemed like a catchy name for a series set in an apocalyptic suburbia, but the Nielsen ratings didn’t come through. And then a few years later, The Walking Dead took off like a rocket.

  Timing was everything in life.

  The right angle at the wrong time was the same thing as the right woman at the wrong time.

  Neither one was going to get in bed.

  Bob scanned his memories of that series and landed on a thought he knew a kid like this would appreciate. “Well, what’s the easiest way for a zombie to break into a house?”

  Rome shook his head like Bob was an idiot. “Duh. The windows.”

  Bob nodded, and almost smiled. The kid was warming up. “Exactly. Boarding them up is the obvious thing but that’s probably not a good idea with no electricity and already fairly dim light coming from outside.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “So, you take a two by six and hammer nails through it. Then you have to place it correctly. If you have a shrub or whatever outside the window, you put it below the window with the sharp points up. There are different ways you can secure it, but you get the idea.”

  Rome’s eyes slowly widened. “That would seriously hurt. Nails through the bottom of your feet? Oh man!” He made a face like he’d just stepped on the board. “That’s awesome!”

  He set down the roll of duct tape in his hand. “You like zombie stuff?”

  Bob nodded. He didn’t. But whatever. “I produced a series a long time ago about a zombie apocalypse in suburbia.”

  Rome nodded with enthusiasm. “Cool. What was the name of it?”

  “Zomburbia.”

  Rome laughed so hard he choked a few times. “That’s awful. I mean unbelievably stupid. Who would watch that?”

  Despite himself, Bob chuckled. “Yeah, in retrospect, it probably could’ve had a better name.”

  “Not probably,” Rome said as he stood up. “Definitely.” He headed for the front door.”

  “Where are you going?”

  His easy demeanor stiffened. “What? Are you my mother?”

  Bob raised both hands and winced at the twinge in his wrists. “No. Just wondering. That’s all.”

  Rome’s broad shoulders relaxed. “Going to get some boards and nails from our storage closet out back. I like your idea. Be back in a f
ew.”

  Bob didn’t respond as the kid wasn’t looking for his approval or even a comment.

  A few minutes later and Rome marched back through carrying a load of lumber and a bucket full of tools. He set everything on the floor and got straight to work.

  After working for a while in silence, he looked up at Bob. “You ever heard of a tv series called The Edge of Survival?”

  Bob nodded.

  Of course, he had.

  Who hadn’t?

  Where the writing for The Walking Dead had left the fans moaning louder than the zombies in recent years, The Edge of Survival had burst onto the scene and grabbed huge numbers. His boss, old boss now by the looks of things, had gotten pitched on it several years ago and turned it down.

  And he’d regretted missing out on that cash cow ever since.

  It was one of Bob’s favorite stories to bring up at lunches with other disgruntled employees at the network.

  “Yeah, I know it. Haven’t watched more than a few episodes, but what I did see was good. Great storyline. Action-packed and twisted in the best way.”

  Rome nodded. “Yeah, I loved it. For three years, I watched every episode the minute it came out each week. Every episode except for the season three finale. I purposefully waited because I had to miss the first half. I was going to watch it on Saturday night and savor every beautifully horrible minute.”

  He shook his head and continued pounding nails through a board.

  Bob waited.

  And waited some more.

  “So what happened?”

  Rome slammed the hammer down at a nail, missed it and smacked the flat of the board. “I missed it! I missed the freaking season three finale! And now, with the EMP and global nuclear war or whatever this is, I’m probably never going to get to find out what happened! Never!”

  “The show was based on a book series. Didn’t you read those first?”

  Rome shook his head in disgust. “I don’t read books for fun, man.”

  Bob managed to force a bubbling laugh into a cough and clearing of the throat. “That’s too bad.”

  “Yeah, it really sucks. Mason’s daughter and her boyfriend were sentenced to be hanged at Alcatraz while the crazy cult priest guy was going to do the final blessings. You know he was going to do something messed up.”