Motionless

Starting small, at first she concentrated solely on trying to wiggle the index finger on her right hand. She focused all her attention there, both body and mind, refusing to cry another tear.

It took at least an hour but finally that finger started moving, twitching at first, then curling from every knuckle much to her satisfaction. She moved her other fingers after that, enjoying the sensation of being able to ball up a fist, even if it was weak at first. She worked her wrists next, then her elbows, then her shoulders.

None of it was easy.

As soon as she could she cradled the burnt finger in her other hand and pinched the area below the scorched skin. It looked messy—a gigantic blister bigger than her fingernail was pushing up through the peeling, blackened tissue. She was taking deep breaths now and exhaling hard and fast, attempting to make the pain go away.

The hurt was still there, however, lingering even as she concentrated on moving her legs. She bent her ankles first, then her knees.

She fell forward on the sun-warmed tile floor of the bridge. She planted her forearms and brought her legs underneath her chest, then pushed herself into a crawling position. She struggled to the nearby chair, then reached up and put her hands on the cushion, immediately smacking away the syringe Dane had left for her. It clattered to the floor and slid to the base of a nearby control panel.

She lifted herself into the chair and sat down.

From there she lunged at one of the big windows lining the walls.

Holding fast, she peered through the glass and viewed the main deck of The Atlantic Princess from up high. A lot had changed since she had last seen it.

Now there were dozens and dozens of armored zombies moving rather rapidly across the bow, and—like a tide of lemmings—they each in turn fell over the railing and onto the golden sands below. From there the long line of them disappeared into the woods beyond the beach, with plenty more still following.

There had to be at least a hundred.

The passing of time had shifted the shadow of the cruiseliner off of the humvees her team had left parked on the beach. Squinting her eyes, she saw Dr. Dane standing next to those humvees, controlling the same handbox she had seen him utilizing during the ambush in the casino. She knew that somehow the antenna sent simplistic commands to the helmeted zombies, perhaps telling them which direction to go. He had revealed that much in their conversation earlier.

She also noticed how the zombies simply walked right past him without a second glance. Either he really was technically dead or his delusions were real enough to fool even the mindless automatons surrounding him.

He had mentioned physiological psychology and sensory stimulation and something about electrical impulses. She had no clue what he was talking about, but regardless of the jargon he had used or the absurdity of the idea, Dane had had plenty of time to himself aboard the ship to pursue and perfect this insane vision.

And now he really was leading an army.

Courtney watched for several minutes as the last zombie fell over the railing and joined the rest of the storm troopers marching across the beach. They were walking with long, fast strides—moving quicker than any zombie she had ever seen before.

Once the last of them disappeared into the woods, she saw Dane push down the antenna on the handbox and climb inside one of the Black Beret humvees. She then saw exhaust come out the tailpipe and the vehicle pull forward.

The sight of this was enough to ignite the rage brewing in her gut.

Mustering her strength, she picked up the nearby chair and flung it against the window as hard as she was able. However, instead of glass breaking there was just a weak-sounding boink as the chair bounced off and hit the floor. The window hardly wobbled. Snarling, Courtney picked up the chair again and held it by the legs. She beat it against the glass over and over, resulting in nothing more than her own fatigue.

She dropped the chair and smacked her palms against the window.

“Dane!” she screamed. “I’m gonna kill you!”

But the humvee disappeared into the woods. Dane was gone.

She collapsed, her back sliding down the wall until she was sitting on the floor once again. She gasped in breath after breath, her entire body trembling. Her face—which had only recently been dried of the tears she cried—was now soaked with sweat. Her hair was sticking to her cheeks and forehead.

She brushed it away.

Struggling for air, she put her fingers down the collar of the wetsuit to pull it from her throat. As she did this she became even more aware of the pain in her scorched finger. She pinched the knuckle again, trying to make the pain stop.

It wouldn’t.

She screamed long and loud, “GODDAMNIT!!!”

As soon as the last syllable left her mouth, she fell forward and started gagging, dry heaves collapsing her stomach and sending ripples of tension up her chest and neck. She wanted to throw up as long as it would make the pain stop, but nothing came out. It was just one dry heave after another.

She lifted her head and saw the cooler against the wall beneath the girly posters. Dane said he had chopped up her teammates and put pieces of them inside for her to eat after she used the syringe.

This was the trigger.

She puked. It spilled to the floor in a gross splash, relieving her of some of the pressure in her gut.

Breathing hard and unsteady, she brought herself to her feet and picked up the glove Dane had taken off her hand before burning her. She used it to wipe her lips, then tossed it away again.

She then staggered to the big metal door—the only door on the bridge—and tried to turn the handle. She could get it to go halfway, but something on the other side was preventing it from completely turning. She tried yanking on the handle in the hopes that somehow the door would open both ways and Dane had been too stupid to know, but gave up when she realized it was to no avail. She then took a couple steps back and gave the door a hard front kick, but it didn’t budge at all.

It didn’t even react.

She clinched her fists and let loose a cry of pure despair, then turned around and put her back against the door. She slid down and returned to a sitting position with her knees against her chest.

Her eyes were turning red as wetness formed once again across her lower eyelids. Tears came, rolling freely and indiscriminately down her cheeks. Her face fell into her palms soon after. She seized several strands of her hair and tugged them violently between her tense fingers.

She didn’t want to take her hands away from her face and she didn’t want to open her eyes again. She knew that if she did she would see the syringe on the floor where she had flung it earlier. Some kind of green gunk was swirling inside the casing. She knew there was no way in hell she would ever use that syringe. She knew there was no way she would ever give herself to Dane, even if it was the only way to stay alive.

And the others were all dead—Leon and Chris and Delmas and Mike and Vaughn.

Slaughtered.

Eastpointe was doomed too. Her new friend Alexis was going to be Dane’s dinner and Courtney was powerless to stop it. The same went for Superintendent Wright and all the Committees and the rest of the five hundred or so people living within the walls. All they had wanted was a Cure, but instead all they got was deception.

So, with her decision made and her eyes closed, her right hand found its way down her leg and maneuvered into her boot. Her fingers wrapped around something inside, then brought it out.

She opened her eyes, but focused only on the new object. It was a little white container about an inch wide.

She popped it open.

Inside were dozens of little white pills. She had seen them used by others. She knew that once she swallowed them she would be dead within moments.

Sniffling, she wiped her eyes with her forearm and dropped the pills out of the container and onto her open palm. She opened her mouth and prepared to place the pills on her tongue.

That was when there came a light knocking on the other side of the door she was resting against. A voice asked, “Courtney? Is that you? Are you in there?”

The pills fell from her hand as she stood up and faced the door. She didn’t believe it at first, but the voice on the other side had been instantly recognizable.

She uttered, “Leon?”

“Yeah,” the muffled voice replied. “Are you okay?”

She sniffled long and hard and wiped her eyes again. She said, “No, I’m pretty far from okay. Get me out of here.”

“Hold on.”

She heard something get pulled away from the other side of the door, then saw the handle turn freely. A moment later the door swung open.

Standing there was Leon Wolfe. His beret and visor were gone, as was his handgun and rifle. Blood was leaking from the scabbard where his wakizashi was held. His hair was clumping together and his face was paler than usual.

She asked, “How did you find me?”

“I used deductive reasoning,” he replied, attempting to show one of his cocky smiles. “You know, like Sherlock Holmes and Jessica Fletcher. Maybe even Matlock.”

She showed him a confused expression.

“You were making enough noise to wake the dead,” he said with a sigh. “Pun intended.”

Despite his arrogance and his annoying accent, her only reaction was to embrace him. She wrapped her arms around his torso and put her face against his neck. She had thought the worst when she saw him fall over the balcony in the casino and assumed Dane had dismembered him like he did the others.

Leon seemed to hesitate for a moment before returning the hug, but he winced and pulled away before he got his arms completely around her. He took a step back and all of a sudden his cheery attitude was gone.

She asked, “Leon, what’s wrong?”

“I’ve had a really bad day,” he replied.

He turned around, showing her his back.

Courtney could see that his suit was ripped below his left shoulder and there was blood running from a gash there. At first she thought it was just a puncture wound from the bayonets the armored zombies were wielding or maybe an injury he received when he fell off the balcony. However, neither scenario was the case. She could see, very clearly now, that there were two rows of indentations surrounding the bleeding hole in his shoulder.

Teeth marks.