Voodoo Plague - 01 (20 page)

The next morning
I started the engine and raised the anchor as soon as there was enough light to
distinguish individual trees along the shoreline.  Notching the throttles
forward I settled on half throttle.  The instruments on the flying bridge told
me we were going 15 knots, which if my math was correct worked out to about 17
miles per hour.  Exposed as I was to the wind and sounds of the hull slicing
through the lake it felt much faster.

I wasn’t a
sailor by any means, having driven a boat only a handful of times in my life. 
Not very comfortable with how fast I could stop the big cruiser or what its
turning radius was like I didn’t plan on going any faster than our current
speed.  Getting there a little slower in one piece beats getting there a little
faster in several pieces any day of the week.

We followed the
lake for most of the morning.  There was the occasional abandoned boat floating
at the whim of the wind and currents, but we gave them a wide berth.  Twice we
saw infected roaming the southern shoreline, but there was no sign of life all
morning.  Shortly before noon we entered an area of the lake where it spread
out and the southern shoreline disappeared over the horizon.  I throttled back
to idle and pulled out the maps.

We were in the
widest part of the lake and it was nearly twenty miles wide at this point.  We
were closer to the northern shore which was apparently undeveloped.  The map
offered no clue, but I suspected it was protected land, possibly a state park
or wildlife sanctuary, otherwise builders would have snatched up the valuable
waterfront property and crammed in as many houses as they could.

Over the horizon
to the south the map showed a dense tangle of roads right up to the edge of the
water for miles in each direction.  A marina was marked on the map as well as
an area designated for amphibious aircraft.  What I wouldn’t give to know how
to fly.  We’d be to Arizona in a matter of hours, not the weeks that I expected
it was going to take us.

Rachel joined me
on the flying bridge, curious why we had stopped.  I showed her the map and
traced my finger to the far end of the lake where a river either emptied into
or drained from the lake.  The map gave no indication and I wasn’t familiar
enough with the area to even hazard a guess.  I just hoped the river was
navigable.

Rachel agreed
with me that we didn’t want to go anywhere near the southern shore.  We not
only had to worry about infected, but as we had learned there was a very real
threat from survivors as well.  I pushed the throttle back to half power and
the big boat slowly picked up speed, coming to plane on the surface as we
passed through ten knots.  Rachel leaned a hip against the bridge railing and
used the binoculars to make a 360 degree scan of the lake.  We both stayed on
the bridge for the next few hours, me driving the boat and Rachel frequently
scanning the horizon for other boats. 

By mid-afternoon
I was sluggish and sleepy from the sun and wind.  I made myself stand to
prevent nodding off from the gentle motion of the boat as it motored across the
lake.  Rachel seemed to have no issue staying alert and was once again holding
the binoculars up, resting them on the back of her bandaged hand.

“Got something,”
She said.

I was instantly
alert as those two words triggered a big dump of adrenaline into my system.  I
looked in the direction Rachel was locked onto, but couldn’t see anything
except water and humidity haze.

“Can’t see it. 
What have you got?”  I asked, hand on the throttle in preparation for pushing
our speed up.

“Small boat. 
Looks like three people in it, but I can’t tell men from women.  I don’t think
they’ve seen us.  Take a look.”  Rachel handed over the glasses and I raised
them to my face and adjusted the focus for my eyes.

It took some
patience and scanning back and forth but I finally spotted the boat.  It was a
small ski boat, probably no more than twenty or twenty-five feet in length. 
There were three people visible, one driving and two sitting near the stern but
like Rachel I couldn’t see any detail other than a human form.  The boat was
travelling in the same direction as us, probably about four miles away, moving
at a good speed.  I agreed with Rachel that it didn’t appear they had spotted
us.  They seemed to be focused on getting from point A to point B and not
paying any attention to their surroundings as they transited the lake.  I
scanned ahead of their direction of travel, seeing nothing except more lake and
more haze. 

“What do you
think?”  Rachel asked, watching me scan the lake.

“I think I don’t
like it,” I said.  “They could just be survivors heading for the river like
us.  Or, they could be part of a larger group that’s either ahead of us near
the river or behind us on the southern shore.  Either way I think we need to
exercise some caution here.”

Reaching out I
shut down the engine.  The depth finder said we had almost two hundred feet of
water under us at the moment, and I had no idea if our anchor line was long
enough, but flipped the switch anyway.  The anchor hit the water with a splash
and the nylon line that attached it to the boat made a distinctly serpentine
hissing sound as it unrolled and slid through a stainless steel ring set in the
rail of the boat’s bow.  It seemed to hiss forever, then stopped as suddenly as
it had started.  I moved the switch to the middle position which locked the
anchor winch and a few moments later the boat came up against the line,
stretching it tight as the anchor held us fast to the bottom.

We stayed in
that spot for the rest of the afternoon, taking turns on the bridge with the
binoculars to keep watch.  When it was Rachel’s turn to watch I went below and
stretched out in the salon, resting but unable to nap.  I planned to wait until
dark before resuming our travel.  I’d keep the speed down which would also keep
the noise down and hopefully let us approach the river unseen and unheard.

I didn’t know
what to think of the boat we’d seen, but if I was of a mind to set up an ambush
for unwary travelers I couldn’t think of a better place than the natural choke
point of the transition from a lake to a river.  The lake was great and had
provided us with an easy path to cover a lot of miles quickly, but to really
make progress we’d have to transition to the river, again assuming it was
navigable.  It was certainly drawn large enough on the road map I had, but I
doubted the cartographer had been particularly concerned with the accuracy of
waterways when the map was created.

As the sun
slipped below the horizon I started the engine, waited while the anchor winch
did its job then fed in enough throttle to get us moving.  I had taken a
compass heading before we dropped anchor and quickly got us back on that
heading as we slowly motored towards the river.

We sailed with
the boat blacked out, the only light showing being the dim, red glow from the
instrument panel on the flying bridge.  Even though it was dim I looked for a
way to shut them off, coming up empty as apparently the light was on if the
engine was on.  I checked the fuse panel thinking to pull the fuse for the
instrument lights, but it was poorly marked and I didn’t feel like messing
around with something I knew little about.  I finally settled for ripping off
strips of duct tape and covering each instrument to mask its light.  This was a
better solution anyway because if I really needed to check something all I had
to do was peel back a piece of tape and the gauge would be instantly visible.

Rachel stayed on
the bridge with me, again acting as lookout with the binoculars, continually
scanning all around us.  Neither of us was in a talkative mood and the evening
passed in silence. 

Finally, shortly
after midnight Rachel lowered the glasses and stepped close to me, speaking in
a low voice, “Lights ahead, just a little to the right of our direction of
travel.  They’re dim and I can’t see them without the glasses.”

Throttling back
to idle I took the glasses from her and raised them to look in the direction
she pointed.  Faint spots of light were visible against a darker back drop.  It
took me some time to realize that the back drop was heavy forest and we had
reached the shore where the river cut through into the lake.  I guessed the
lights were still well over a mile away as they were completely invisible to
the naked eye, so I nudged the throttle enough to get us moving forward again.

Taking a moment
I double checked the location and load on our rifles, made sure the extra
magazines were loaded and at hand on our vests and pistols had rounds in the
chambers and were ready to go.  Satisfied we were as prepared as possible I
focused on the darkness ahead, straining to spot the break in the shoreline
that would indicate the path to the river.

A few minutes
later I lowered our speed to as close to idle as I could get it and still have
enough water flow across the rudder to allow me to steer the boat.  The term
‘steerage way’ came to mind, but I wasn’t about to try and start talking like a
sailor when I didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.  Peeling the tape
off the Indicated Knots gauge I checked our speed, the needle bouncing right
around three knots, and then spread the tape back into place. 

“What can you
see?” I mumbled to Rachel, lips close to her ear.  I knew how sound could
travel across the water and I was worried enough about the sound of the engine
and sure didn’t want to add in a human voice.

“Same thing,”
She answered just as quietly.  “Dim spots of light.  If I had to guess I’d say
they almost look like windows in a house with the curtains closed, but that’s
just a guess.  Oh, and there’s a break in the shoreline directly in front of us
that I’m pretty sure is the river.  It could just be an inlet to a cove, but I
don’t think so.  It looks nice and wide to me.  See what you think.” 

I took the
offered binoculars and focused first on the lights, then slightly left to the
break in the darkness that Rachel had referred to.  She was right about the
light looking like house windows, and if this was the river at least the mouth
of it was nice and wide.  Of course we still had the speedboat in tow which
could float in as little as two feet of water if needed.  I hoped we didn’t
need it. 

We kept motoring
forward, finally cutting the engines and letting the big boat drift to a stop
when I estimated we were about half a mile from the mouth of the river.  The
spots of light were much more defined through the binoculars now and it looked
like Rachel had called it correctly.  They were, without a doubt, windows with
curtains pulled over them.  We both spent a good amount of time scanning the
shore, the opening to the river and the building with the lights, but neither
of us spotted any indication of an ambush and thankfully no infected.

Decision time. 
Do we try to motor quietly into the river and past the building, risking navigating
in the dark in a very large and cumbersome boat?  Should we transition to the
speed boat and head up river?  Was it wise to try and make contact with the
people in the building, or should we just pull back out into the lake and wait
for daylight to make a run for the river at speed?

Rachel and I
discussed and weighed each of the options, finally settling on pulling back and
waiting.  I was too concerned about taking the boat into the river in the
darkness and neither of us was ready to abandon the big cruiser just yet. 
Neither were we eager to introduce ourselves to the strangers.  Even if they
were friendlies it was almost two o’clock in the morning and not the time of
day to make a social call.

As we sat and
discussed our options I noted that we were slowly drifting back towards the
open lake, away from the river.  Well, that answered that question.  We were in
a mild current that was resulting from the river emptying into the lake.  We
rode that current for another hour, far enough out into the lake that once
again the lighted windows could only be seen with the binoculars.  Dropping the
anchor I sent Rachel below to rest while I settled into the padded captain’s
chair on the flying bridge to keep watch for a few hours.  Dog padded into the
salon with Rachel, leaving me to my thoughts in the quiet night.

The eastern sky
was just starting to lighten when I went below and shook Rachel awake.  Her
eyes flew open and she sat straight up in bed the second I touched her
shoulder, relaxing when I spoke softly to her.

“It’s going to
be dawn soon.  Can you take watch and wake me in two hours?”

Rachel nodded,
rubbed her eyes, scooted to the edge of the bed and stood up.  Dog looked up at
us without moving and grunted his displeasure at being disturbed before rolling
over onto his other side and ignoring us.

“Anything
moving?” Rachel asked, pulling her pants on and picking up her socks and boots
off the floor.

“Quiet as a
tomb,” I said, then grinned in embarrassment at my poor choice of analogies.

Rachel patted me
on the chest as she squeezed past me and I fell into the bed, sheets still warm
from her body.  I twisted the pillows around to get comfortable, pushed Dog’s
big paws out of my face and closed my eyes.  Moments later Rachel was shaking
my shoulder.

“It’s been two
hours,” She said.

I opened my eyes
and the first thing I saw was Dog’s ass aimed directly at my face.  Slapping
his tail down to cover the view I sat up, wincing from the pain in my chest. 
The good news was my chest only hurt when I moved now, not all the time.  The
bad news was it still hurt enough to slow me down if I needed to move quickly.

“Still quiet?” I
asked, accepting the cup of coffee Rachel pressed into my hand.

“Very.  Sun’s
been up about an hour, but we’ve got a layer of fog on the lake that’s keeping
us well hidden.  Can’t see past the bow, but I’ve not heard anything so far.”

I stood up and
sipped the coffee, wincing from the pain in my chest and the bitter coffee. 
Dog rolled over and laid his head on the pillow I’d just vacated, tail thumping
the mattress like a bass drum.  Rachel leaned in, smacked him on the ass until
he finally jumped off the bed, and then straightened the covers.  While Dog
wandered forward to the small deck at the bow to take care of personal business
I did the same in the small head, then finishing the coffee I made my way out
of the salon and up to the flying bridge.

We floated in a
world of white cotton.  The fog was thick and all enveloping, nothing visible
beyond the boat’s railing.  Leaning out and looking over the side I could make
out the steel grey water lapping against the hull, but the sound was muted in
the thick fog.  Every surface had beaded water on it and when Rachel climbed the
ladder and joined me I noted her normally thick hair was plastered to her head
in the damp.

We sat quiet,
listening, but other than the gentle lap of the water all we heard were Dog’s
nails on the fiberglass deck as he made his way back to the stern.  “When did
the fog roll in?” I asked in a quiet voice.

“About half an
hour after you woke me.  It was clear as a bell when I came up, then it felt
like the temperature dropped ten degrees and within fifteen minutes it was like
this.  This is pretty normal in Georgia for this time of year.  In another hour
the sun will have burned it off.”

We sat in the
fog, talking in low voices, discussing our plan.  Neither of us was anxious to
make contact with other survivors.  We had the supplies we needed for a while,
were well armed and still had a good stock of ammunition.  There was nothing we
could see being gained by taking the risk of approaching more people at this
time.  For all we knew they could turn out to be even more paranoid than us and
start shooting as soon as they saw us.

With our
decision made we ate a Spartan breakfast, sharing with Dog, and took the
opportunity to individually jump into the lake with a bar of soap.  Despite the
chilly fog, the lake water was warm and refreshing.  Rachel had bandaged my
wounds with plastic wrap and medical tape before she’d let me get in the water,
and it felt wonderful to get the last of the blood and grime washed from my
body.  The boat did have a small laundry set on board and Rachel had washed and
dried a set of clothes for each of us.  Before dressing I rummaged through one
of the heads until I found a disposable razor, then sat on the stern rail while
Rachel shaved the stubble off my head.  I took care of my face, dressed in
clean clothes and felt like a new man.

About 8:30 the
fog started thinning slightly, then quickly burned off as the sun’s light
warmed up.  Back on the flying bridge I scanned with the binoculars and
realized that the lights we’d seen the night before hadn’t been a building on
the shore but a house boat tied up to the shore.  The ski boat from yesterday
was tied to the house boat’s rail and there was no sign of movement.

Swinging the
glasses to the river I was immediately thankful that we had not tried to take
the cruiser up the river in the dark.  Sitting half submerged and blocking
almost half of the river was a crashed helicopter that had been invisible in
the dark.  The nose of the chopper was stuck into the muddy right bank of the
river, the body of the aircraft tilted sideways nearly 40 degrees and the tail
extending out into the water.  The rotor blades were snapped off and it was
easy to trace their path of destruction into the trees that lined the river.  I
silently handed the binoculars to Rachel and she caught her breath when she saw
the downed craft.

“Can we get
around it?” She asked without lowering the glasses.

“The short
answer is we’re going to get around it.  Either in this or the speedboat.”  I
answered, looking over my shoulder, trying to identify the low sound I was
hearing.  Not able to see anything I reached out for the glasses, rudely taking
them from Rachel without asking and using them to scan the open lake to our
rear.

Two bass boats
with monster outboard engines were coming towards us at what had to be full
throttle.  Four men were in each boat and the long, stick looking things in
their hands were most certainly rifles.  I spun around, started the engine and
hit the switch for the anchor to raise.  Again, it seemed to take forever but
if I started moving forward before it was fully retracted I could end up
driving over my own anchor line and getting it tangled in the boat’s
propellers. 

Rachel had the
glasses back and was watching the fast approaching boats, my eyes glued to the
anchor winch willing it to go faster.  When the anchor finally broke the
surface of the lake I slammed the throttle all the way forward and the big
boat’s engine bellowed.  The stern settled for a moment as the props displaced
the water directly under it, then we started accelerating.  Much too slow.  This
wasn’t a speed boat, it was a floating luxury home and not made for fast
starts.

“Not going to
make it,” Rachel shouted over the engine noise.

I looked back
and realized she was right.  The bass boats were moving at a high rate of speed
and would intercept us well before we made the river.  I wasn’t even sure the
river was a good idea at this point.  No room to maneuver.  No room to turn and
fight.  They’d be able to stay on our ass and keep pumping bullets into the
boat until they hit something that was either mechanically or biologically
vital.  Without another thought I spun the wheel and the cruiser slowly
responded to the new course I set towards the middle of the lake.

We kept turning
until the bow of the big cruiser was pointed almost directly at the approaching
boats.  I straightened the wheel and double checked to make sure the throttle
was wide open.  The duct tape from the night before was still covering the
gauges and I started ripping pieces off, surprised to see our indicated speed
as just over 28 knots and slowly climbing.  Rachel leaned into me and shouted
above the engine noise and slipstream of wind,

“Should we do
something to alert the people in the houseboat?”

I shook my head,
eyes fixed on the approaching threat.  We know nothing of the dynamic here. 
The people in the houseboat could be bad guys and these were the good guys
coming to take care of a problem.  I wasn’t sure which group, if either, could
be trusted and I was more concerned about getting us out of the middle of
whatever dispute was going on.  The boat was easy to pilot with one hand on the
wheel and I had my rifle up and resting on the bridge railing, right hand on
the pistol grip and thumb on the safety in case it was needed.

The two boats
were now close enough for me to make out more details.  One was bright red, the
other a color of blue that can only be described as electric blue.  Other than
that they were almost identical, both sporting huge Mercury outboard motors
that had to be around 300 horse power each.  No wonder they were so fast.  The
men riding in the red boat seemed to be fixated on me, the blue boat steering
slightly to its right to bypass me and be on a direct course to the houseboat. 
The red boat made the decision for me when the man in the bow braced himself
and pointed a rifle in my direction.

“Drive, and
sound the horn!” I shouted to Rachel as I slipped out of the pilot’s seat and
onto my knee, rifle up and aimed over the bridge rail.

Rachel hit the
button for the horn and the blast pierced the morning, carrying for miles
across the water.  I still didn’t know the dynamics here, but if these were
good guys approaching they had made a critical mistake by pointing a rifle at
me.  I hoped the horn would alert the people in the houseboat and they could keep
the blue boat occupied. 

Settling into
the stock of the rifle I flipped the selector to burst mode and briefly wished
for a heavier caliber machine gun such as a good old fashioned M-60.  Oh well,
you fight with what you have as I’d been told over and over. 

Even at almost
30 knots the cabin cruiser provided an amazingly smooth and stable ride.  The
bass boat on the other hand was bouncing and jarring around, sensitive to every
little ripple on the lake’s surface.  This was to my advantage as far as a stable
aiming platform, but hitting a moving target that is moving up and down and
side to side at the same time is not child’s play.  They hadn’t fired on us
yet, but the threat was clear and I didn’t intend to wait to see if I was just
misunderstanding some poor souls who only wanted to stop by for tea.

Taking a deep
breath and slowly exhaling I tracked the boat, aiming for the man in the bow. 
As the last of the breath left my lungs I squeezed the trigger twice, sending
six rounds down range.  A moment later I was rewarded with an explosion of
fiberglass from the bow of the boat, inches from the rifle that was aimed at
us.  The man in the bow jerked away from the impact of my bullets and raised up
in perfect profile at the very front of the boat which was getting closer by
the second.  I quickly sent another three rounds on their way and was gratified
to see him pitch over backwards in the boat.  Whether hit once, twice or three
times didn’t matter as he was now out of the fight.

The red boat
reacted exactly as I expected.  Instead of continuing closer and the remaining
men opening up on us it turned quickly to its right, presenting me with a
perfect profile.  Ready for the opportunity I sighted on the big outboard
motor, leading it in the scope by what I hoped was the right distance, and
started sending three round bursts downrange.  The third burst did the trick,
the top of the housing shredding into dozens of pieces as thick, black smoke
started pouring out of the motor.  Propulsion gone, the boat quickly came off
plane and settled in the water, momentum carrying it forward a short distance
until it fell adrift.

I put six more
rounds into the side of the boat, just to keep their heads down and motioned
for Rachel to turn and follow the blue boat.  A quick magazine change and I
used the binoculars to check on the boat I’d disabled.  Two of the men were
battling a small fire in the motor while the third watched us through a pair of
binoculars.  He was a sitting duck and was at least smart enough to not point his
rifle in my direction.

The cruiser came
about and I shifted attention to the blue boat.  The boat was sitting still in
the water fifty yards from the houseboat and all four men were standing and
firing their rifles into the side of the craft.  They seemed unaware of what
had transpired with their buddies.  Amateurs.

I stood and
leaned into Rachel, telling her to bring us up behind them and cut speed when
we were about two hundred yards out, but be ready to throttle up and get us
moving.  We covered the distance quickly, and I resumed my one knee shooting
stance at the bridge railing as we came at them.  Rachel cut the engine to idle
at the right spot and the big boat quickly settled in the water, momentum
carrying us forward.  At about 150 yards I opened fire, still in burst mode.

The man standing
in the stern pitched forward, rifle flying out of his hands and splashing into
the lake just before his body hit the water.  The two men to the far left were
so focused on firing at their target that they didn’t notice, but the man
closest to him did.  He lowered his rifle and stared at the body of his friend
in the water and started to turn just as my next three rounds shredded his
lower torso.  He pitched forward across the pilot’s seat and lay still.

The other two
men noticed now, turning and gawking at their two dead friends before spinning
around in my direction.  The man in the bow took the next three rounds to the
chest and flipped backwards out of the boat into the water.  The remaining man
could have lived if he’d had the sense to put his rifle down, but he raised it
and started to aim at the cabin cruiser.  Three rounds sped downrange, two
slamming into his chest and neck, the third punching through his skull leaving
a faint pink mist in the air for a brief moment before it settled onto the
water along with his body.