We stick to the tree line, following a rough trail around the lake. Wyatt is on alert—another thing that nags at my spidey-senses. He seems to be either on or off, the off button only activating when he’s asleep. Even then I’m not sure. He has to have some sort of military background.
“You said the Eaters aren’t dead, right?” he asks after a couple of minutes.
“That’s what they say.”
“So how do they exist otherwise? Do they hang out together? Watch TV? I don’t get it?”
“I don’t either, first of all because I’m not hanging out with them and second, because the stupid virus keeps mutating.” I sigh, annoyed with all the questions. “I think they go in sleep mode or just search for food. They’re parasites. They want to feed.” He looks skeptical and I snap. “Do I look like I would have the answers to all this? I’m eighteen for Christ’s sake.”
He turned and gave me the once over. “Eighteen?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
Those shoulders move up and down. “Just thought you seemed younger.”
“How old are you?”
‘Twenty–two.”
Seems about right since he doesn’t look like the boys from my high school but not quite like a man either. I’ve got nothing else to say on the subject, but it doesn’t matter because we’ve reached the marina. A couple dozen boats fill the slips, some definitely nicer than others. “Too bad we can’t sail to Georgia,” I joke, eyeing an extremely nice cabin cruiser.
We wait and watch but there’s no movement other than the slight rocking of the boats from the water. The waves lap against the sides, and we walk out in the open, down the dock between the slips. “We’ll search each one,” Wyatt says. “One searches—the other keeps watch. Look for anything useful but mostly extra fuel.”
We start the process, alternating jobs. I find an unplugged mini-fridge with sodas inside. I stash two in my bag. In another, Wyatt uncovers an emergency kit, complete with knife and flares. “Good find,” I say looking at the flare gun. It could come in handy.
We save the biggest boats for last, both huge boats, one with a slide off the top deck. Wyatt jimmies the lock using the knife we just found.
“Check it out,” he says stepping back on the deck.
I climb down the stairs and find myself in the most luxurious boat I’ve ever seen. It’s way nicer than my aunt’s cabin. Okay, way, way nicer. I make a quick search but don’t find anything useful. There’s a full bar over the sink, and an enormous bed. The seats are leather and I do find several packages of fancy crackers in a cabinet.
I hear a knock on the door and I race up the steps to find Wyatt standing on the deck with his back to me, rifle drawn.
“Dude, come see this place, you’ll never believ—”
I hear the Eaters before I see them, growling loud in unison. Five below and two climbing the ladder to get on board. Wyatt lunges, fighting one off and I reach for my hatchet. “I’ve got this,” he yells swinging his gun like a sword. The Eater’s head cracks down the side and blood spills from its ears and mouth. Wyatt flips the gun around and pulls the trigger, unloading into the now, very dead man.
“They’re still coming,” I say, the echo of the gunshot alerting others to our whereabouts. They file out of the small marina shop on the other side of the dock. I rush forward and attack the one at the top of the ladder, slicing into her throat. Blood gurgles and I recoil, vomit rising up the back of my own throat. She falls backwards taking the other Eater with her. They fall in a jumbled heap on the dock. Two more take their place, spastically climbing the ladder.
“Where are they all coming from?” I ask breathing heavy.
“I don’t know. It’s like they were hiding or something.”
Wyatt goes after the next one coming up the ladder and I glance over the edge. They’re scrambling to climb on one another’s shoulders. Organized. Intentional.
“Should we jump?” I ask looking at the water.
“We’d sink with the packs on.”
He’s right. I swing my hatchet cutting off the hands of an Eater climbing up the railing but there are too many, coming from all sides. Eyes black, drooling mouths, rage building in their chests. They’re so very angry—I can sense the hatred they have for me—for the living.
I swing at one climbing over the rail but he’s too big and my hatchet only swipes at the side of his arm. Another grabs me by the throat, screeching in my ear.
“Alex!” Wyatt yells, rushing toward me. He knocks the Eater off, bashing his head in with the butt of his rifle. “Let’s go!”