Time of Death Book 2: Asylum (A Zombie Novel) (7 page)

"Get up. There's another boat out there."

He was up on his feet in an instant, eyes
searching for the craft.

"What's going on?" Vinny asked, coming up the
stairs.

"A boat!"

Meg appeared behind him, trying to squeeze by
his large stature. "A boat? Oh, my God, where?" She shoved past
Vinny's bulk and followed our gazes.

"Now what?" I asked. We all looked to Jake
for the answer.

"Let's vote, all in favor—" he was cut off by
a chorus of ayes from the three of us.

"Well, I guess that settles that," he said
and made for the captain's seat.

Chapter 04: Walk Her to the
Door

We coasted at a slow speed toward the sailboat. From
the closer vantage point, I could make out more details. The boat
was white, with gold trim and, as the low waves rolled beneath it,
I could see the bottom half was painted a dark orange. On the side,
a cartoon Bob Marley portrait welcomed onlookers with open arms and
under him was the boat's name, Island Bound.

Three portholes into a dark cabin were
visible and, as we circled, a closed hatch came into view. While
Jake manned the helm, the rest of us moved along the deck, poles at
the ready in case anything dead was aboard. The lack of bloodstains
struck me as a good sign, and the deck appeared clean and
orderly.

Meg gasped, startled by a face appearing in
one of the portholes, and Vinny and I rushed to her side. Looking
back at us was a man, whether he was dead or alive remained a
mystery, because as fast as the face had appeared, it was gone.

"What do you see?" shouted Jake from
above.

"There's someone in there," I yelled back,
not taking my eyes from the small window.

"Alive?"

"I can't tell."

The hatch slid open with a creak and a
disheveled man's head popped up, taking in our vessel with fear and
apprehension. I didn't need to convey the new revelation to Jake,
who was peering over the railing and into the new opening.

Apprehension disappeared from the man's face,
replaced with hope. I waved tentatively and the man collapsed to
his knees, bursting into tears and crying openly for his salvation.
I stared, uncomfortable by the display of emotion and not knowing
how to react.

"Peter?" I heard a course voice call out from
within the darkness behind the kneeling man. The gravelly sound
made it difficult to know if the voice was male or female, and it
was strained, as if just uttering the word took great effort.

"It's okay, Lydia," he called back. "We're
saved." The man, Peter, choked out the last words in something that
resembled a half-cry, half-laugh. The declaration made me uneasy.
We weren't in a position to save ourselves, much less anyone
else.

Meg and I exchanged a glance, and I knew she
was thinking the same thing. There was a pregnant pause as we faced
our indecision and the tide drew us closer to the sailboat, seeming
to make the decision for us.

Peter picked up on our reservation and spoke.
"Please, we mean you no harm. My friend is ill, and we have no food
or water." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "It's Lydia, she's
dying."

His words sounded our alarms. While dying was
common nowadays, it usually meant turning into a zombie.

"Cancer," he stage whispered in
explanation.

"Peter, is it?" I asked. "I'm Emma Rossi.
This is my family, Meg, Vinny, and Jake."

He nodded. "Family," he uttered the word with
amazement, and he had a wistful expression, no doubt shocked that
we'd survived as a whole unit.

My usually easy-going brother-in-law was all
business. He'd slipped back into soldier mode and was inspecting
the boat and the hatch entrance with a critical eye.

"Is it just the two of you?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Have either of you come into contact with
the infected recently?"

"Not since the first day," Peter replied.

"You've been on this boat for two months?" I
asked, shocked at their ability to have survived this long.

Peter laughed, a mournful sound. "Has it been
two months already? I stopped counting the days after the third
week."

"Do you mind if we come aboard? I'm sure you
can understand our reluctance to take your word at face value."

Peter sighed. "Do what you need to do. We've
got nothing to hide. Hell, we've got nothing to show either."

His attempt at gallows humor hit closer to
home than he knew.

Vinny lifted his M16, not pointing it at the
man, but ready to shoot if need be. Jake pushed on the throttle
enough to coast us into the other boat and the hulls made a
screeching sound as they rubbed together. I caught the rope Peter
flung over and tied it off on the nearest deck mooring, connecting
the two vessels together.

Jake made eye contact with Vinny and nodded
almost imperceptibly. He had his brother's back, and if Peter tried
anything, he wouldn't live to regret it. Just before crossing over
to the smaller boat, Vinny asked if he had any weapons on him, and
was answered with a no.

The boat itself wasn't large, and there were
no nooks and crannies for a person to hide on deck. Vinny did a
quick sweep and continued to the hatch, calling out to the occupant
before descending into the dark cabin. I heard muffled voices from
within, nothing I could make out, and Vinny returned a moment
later, his face ashen and grim.

"Clear," he called up to Jake. "Emma, I think
you need to come over here."

I was never good at math, but I could easily
put two and two together; this was a medical issue. He held out his
hands to help me over, and putting the pole down, I hopped the
short distance to the sailboat.

The cabin was lit only by the small portholes
and open hatch, bathing the small room in an almost ethereal light.
A frail, emaciated woman lay on the bed, sheets stained with urine
and feces. Pillows propped her body into an upright position, and
she looked to be in the end stage of the disease. The sickly odor
in the confined space reminded me of my rotation at Hospice, not
quite the smell of death, but the dying.

I fell into nursing mode, visually assessing
Lydia the instant I stepped down into the cabin. A variety of pill
bottles were atop a small vanity—all of them empty.

"Hi, Lydia, I'm Emma. I'm a nurse. Do you
mind if I sit with you for a bit?" I smiled at her, not one of
those fake smiles, a genuine I'm-happy-to-meet-you smile. She
returned the gesture and made a slight motion for me to join her.
The little movement from my sitting on the edge of her bed caused
her to wince.

"It's lovely to meet you, Emma," Lydia said
with great effort. She was having difficulty breathing, even at
rest, and her accessory muscles flared with each labored intake of
air. When she spoke, she did so in broken speech, stopping after
each word for a breath. As she wheezed out the last word, she
choked and began to cough. There was nothing I could do for her but
show her compassion; all that was left for Lydia was the best
palliative care I could offer.

"Save your strength. I can do enough talking
for the both of us." I blinked back the tears that welled in my
eyes and put on a strong front. The last thing this woman needed
from me was pity. She didn't have much time left, days at most, and
I would do my best to allow her to die with dignity. Something I'd
been unable to do for anyone in a long time.

"Lydia, would you mind if I did a physical
assessment on you? I'd like to see if there's anything I can do to
help." She nodded her head, indicating her permission. To make her
more comfortable, I closed the hatch enough to provide her some
privacy should anyone walk by, and began to look her over.

Nursing school can't teach someone how to
interact with people; either you've got it or you don't. This was
the skill in which I prided myself. I talked with patients—not at
them—and created a human connection. The smell of infection wafted
up from the sheets as I turned her on her side. Immobility had
caused pressure ulcers to form on her underside, and necrosis of
the tissue around her coccyx was evident.

Pressure ulcers, more commonly known as bed
sores, were diagnosed in stages. A stage one ulcer happens after
being in the same position for only a few hours. The easiest way to
describe that so people understand is to look at the redness left
after uncrossing your legs. That's the beginning of a pressure
ulcer. A stage four ulcer is an open wound, caused from skin not
getting oxygen for an extended period of time. Lydia had several
stage four ulcers on her backside.

"I know you're in a lot of pain, but I'm
going to help you shift positions every two hours to let your skin
breathe. I don't want these to get any worse." I didn't feel
comfortable lowering her head for fear she would aspirate, so I
grabbed the crumpled comforter and stuffed it under her so she was
tilted to one side.

Telling her I would be back shortly, I went
to the group, my lungs desperate for fresh air. Peter was talking
when I approached, pausing only to ask me how Lydia was.

"I'm not a doctor, Peter. Hell, I'm barely a
nurse. But it doesn't look good. If I were to make a guess, I don't
think she's got much time left."

His shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I didn't think
so either."

"The best thing we can do for her is keep her
comfortable and treat her like a human being. She doesn't need to
fight alone."

"Thank you," he said, taking my hands in
his.

Jake interrupted. "Peter was waiting for you
to come back outside. He's going to share their story."

* * *

"Lydia and I worked together for twelve
years, selling real estate for the largest firm in Cape Coral.
About a year ago, she got sick, lung cancer. It's been an uphill
battle for her, and a few months before things fell apart we
thought she had it beat. As you can see," he motioned to the cabin,
"we were wrong. The disease had progressed and the doctors told us
it had metastasized. They did another round of chemo, but weren't
very optimistic. At that point, we knew it was just prolonging the
inevitable."

Peter paused, taking a long gulp of water
from the bottle someone must have given him while I was in the
cabin. He savored the refreshing liquid as it slid down his
esophagus, his eyes closed in contentment.

He cleared his throat, still scratchy from
lack of hydration, and continued. "She doesn't have any family; she
buried her mother a few years back. She's my best friend, and I did
everything I could to help her. When she got too sick to drive, I
took her to chemo and made sure she always had food in the house.
Essentially, I moved into her house when she got too bad to handle
even basic daily activities.

The day the bees showed up, we'd just left
her last round of chemo. The television had been on during her
treatment, and the news showed an unedited video of the city in
chaos. They came right out and said the Z word. Lydia had spent her
savings on the Island Bound," he patted the captain's chair, "and
we drove straight to the marina and boarded. We hadn't planned for
the end of the world, only the end of her world, and we didn't have
supplies on board. I left her down in the cabin and drove to the
closest mini-mart. It was abandoned, not locked up, just empty of
people. So I loaded as much food and water as I could, along with
the measly stock of personal products they stocked on a single
shelf, and made it back to the boat."

Peter shuddered, remembering whatever it was
that haunted him from that day. I thought he was finished talking
and opened my mouth to ask a question, but he beat me to it,
answering it before I had a chance to ask.

"The streets were like a horror movie come to
life; people were eating each other as I drove by. I made it back
to the boat unscathed; I wasn't the only one who'd had the
foresight to take to the water. While I was gone, the marina had
emptied of all but a few boats, and the few that remained had
grisly scenes playing out on them. I fought a man trying to take
our boat." He left it at that. We all caught the meaning, and the
outcome was obvious considering we stood before Peter, not someone
else.

"We've been at sea ever since. Lydia ran out
of meds over a month ago. I guess that's when I stopped counting
the days. That is, until two days ago, when the last of our food
and water ran out."

I looked at Peter, I mean really looked at
him. Judging by his withered body, it was evident that he'd been
malnourished for quite some time. So much so, that from a distance
he may have been mistaken for one of the walking dead. Dark circles
surrounded his eyes, and his shirtless torso was caved in from
starvation, each rib outlined on his thin frame. Jake and I took a
cruise a few years ago and toured Belize City on a port day. Dogs
ran free, starving and surviving on scraps. Peter looked like one
of those neglected animals.

"Peter?" Lydia called from below deck,
dissolving into a fit of coughs. I started toward the opening,
concerned, but Peter stopped me.

"I've got it."

He disappeared into the cabin, leaving the
four of us alone on deck. Before anyone could say otherwise, Meg
took a firm stance.

"I'm not leaving them." There was, no
discussion needed; we would not abandon these people. My respect
and admiration for Meg grew exponentially with those four words.
She'd been through so much that it was difficult to remember she
was only twenty-one years old.

"I agree," I added. "Leaving them now would
be the same as killing them. Peter is about to be alone. I'd be
surprised if Lydia makes it through the night."

Meg and I looked to Jake and Vinny, who
seemed to be thinking things through. A knowing glance passed
between them, one of those powers that only brother's possessed;
they could have entire conversations without uttering a single
word. We spoke in hushed tones, not wanting the newcomers to
hear.