"Ever since we got back from Site R, Tibor has been talking about leaving the group and setting out on our own, rebuilding the coven and eventually the vampire nation. He's convinced that if we don't do it now, before you humans use the vaccine to stop the rotters, then our species will be wiped out along with them."

"Do you agree with him?"

Dravko sighed. "As the only remaining vampires, we are an endangered species. However, I've lived among you so long I can't go back to hunting humans for food."

"I take it Tibor doesn't see things the same way."

"No. The only concession he's willing to make is that, after what we've all gone through together, he won't turn any of you. He's adamant about leaving the group and rebuilding the coven with other humans. So far I've been able to keep him under control. Since we're the only two of our kind left, my authority is wearing thin. I'm afraid the first chance he gets, Tibor is going to kill me off and turn on your group."

Robson had not thought about that before. They had grown accustomed to living with the undead these past nine months, and had taken it for granted that under Elena's leadership the vampires had a.s.similated into human culture. It seemed only natural that, as a species, they would want to avoid extinction. The only way Dravko and Tibor could accomplish that was if Robson gave his blessing for them to go off on their own to prey on humans and rebuild the coven. Robson knew he couldn't allow that, couldn't spend so many lives wiping out one species of creature to turn around and allow another one to thrive, even if he had come to know them personally and respect them. Ironically, because he knew and respected them he couldn't slaughter Dravko and Tibor in cold blood. Based on what Dravko had just told him, he might have to.

While Robson contemplated his next move, Dravko made eye contact. The vampire must have seen the concern in his friend's eyes because he said, "Don't worry. I've already made up my mind to take down Tibor if he becomes an immediate threat to me or any of you."

"Hopefully you won't have to make that decision."

"We both know I will. If not now, sometime down the road."

Robson pitied the dilemma his friend faced. "This must be a horrible decision for you."

"It is, but it's inevitable. My species can't live in this world we created. Maybe it's time we died out." Dravko laughed sullenly. "Ironic, isn't it? We created our own extinction event."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

Natalie woke up slowly, that long process when you emerge from a dream into reality. She was aware of the gentle rocking of the yacht underneath her, and the soft rays of morning light shining through the porthole. For one blissful moment, she imagined herself aboard a cruise ship, waking up beside Robson. As the fog of sleep wore off, it struck her that she was aboard a yacht traveling along a dead coast trying to get a vaccine to a government-in-exile deep inside a rotter-infested country. She wanted to bury her head into the pillow and sob.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the deck above her. Natalie's eyes shot open in antic.i.p.ation of the inevitable yelling and gunfire. It never happened. The sound continued, now in a pattern. Swinging her legs out of bed, Natalie put on her boots, grabbed her M-16A2, and made her way topside.

To her surprise, she found the Angels lined up in three rows and engaged in jumping jacks, each one stripped down to their panties and t-shirts. Ari faced them, keeping cadence. Once they reached twenty, Ari ordered them to drop. Lying p.r.o.ne with their feet together and their hands flush on the deck and level with their shoulders, they began a series of pushups, again with Ari leading the cadence. This time the Angels performed fifteen reps of double pushups, and then jumped to their feet. Ari told them to take a breather.

Ari glanced over and saw Natalie standing by the hatch and grinned. "About time you woke up."

"How long have I been asleep?" Natalie asked as she crossed the deck.

"Sixteen hours."

"s.h.i.t."

"Don't worry. You needed the rest."

Natalie tried to hide her embarra.s.sment about showing such weakness. She turned to the rest of the Angels. "What's going on here?"

"You were right yesterday," replied Ari. "We've become sloppy."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"You should have because it's true. We let what happened at Site R get the better of us. We have to reverse that."

"With calisthenics?" Natalie joked.

Ari grinned. "It's a start. Besides, we have to make sure we look good in our uniforms when we meet the President."

Natalie laughed. The other Angels took that opportunity to move forward and greet her, letting her know that they harbored no ill feelings about the previous day's dressing down. For the first time in almost two weeks, the women acted like their old selves. It felt good. Although Natalie wouldn't show it, deep down she wanted to cry. Once again her girls had risen to the occasion. For the first time since setting out from Portland, she began to feel like they might just pull this off.

The Angels enjoyed the moment for only a few minutes before Emily called out from the flying bridge. "Sorry to break this up. You'll want to come up here."

Natalie felt her emotions sink. "Coming."

She made her way to the bridge, followed by Ari and the rest of the Angels. Ari grabbed the binoculars when she reached the steering house.

"What's up?" Natalie asked, standing beside Emily.

"We're about to round the southern tip of Florida. I estimate we're twenty-five to thirty miles west of Key Largo." She pointed ahead of them to a land formation that stretched along the horizon. "My guess is those are the Keys."

The yacht sailed closer. The land formation took on a more defined shape into a series of islands ranging in length from several hundred yards to several miles, each connected to the other by an elevated highway spanning the water. When the yacht got to within a mile, the Angels could make out buildings dotting the islands. Thousands of vehicles generated a traffic jam along the elevated highway that extended as far to east and west as they could see.

"What is it?" asked Tiara.

"It's the Overseas Highway," Emily answered. "It runs from Key Largo to Stock Island, a distance of about one hundred miles, and connects the Keys."

Josephine shook her head. "It looks like everyone had the same idea. Make it to the islands where they'd be safe from the outbreak."

"That didn't work out too well," Sandy said sarcastically.

"Where is everyone?"

Ari removed the binoculars from her eyes and pointed straight ahead. "There."

Natalie reached for the binoculars and used them to scan the highway. Her stomach churned. Thousands of rotters stumbled around the stalled traffic and along the parallel bike trail, staggering into vehicles, b.u.mping into each other, and wandering mindlessly. Even from this distance, she could see that the sun had baked these rotters, blistering the skin and drying it out until they resembled mummified skeletons. Their lips had pulled back to reveal jaws and decaying teeth, and the lids had shrunk to reveal sockets in which the eyes had long since shriveled from the intense heat. That explained their movement. They were blind. She almost pitied them.

After a few minutes, a female rotter in a sun-bleached summer dress heard the yacht's engines. Its head shifted up and down and to the sides, trying to determine where the noise came from. Eventually it turned its head in the yacht's direction and moaned. Those rotters closest to it joined in and gazed around. It spread like a wildfire through the horde, making its way along the highway until every rotter within sight thrashed about. Soon the moaning reached the Angels aboard the yacht, the loudest and most unG.o.dly chorus any of them had ever heard. It sent a shiver down Natalie's spine.

Then the feeding frenzy began. One rotter stumbled into another. Maybe it was frustration over not being able to see the food, or fear generated by its blindness, but the first rotter lashed out at the one it stumbled into. It tore at its face, ripping away dried-out chunks of flesh, and lunged. Sinking its teeth into the second rotter's face, it ripped out most of the latter's cheek. Others exhibited the same behavior and attacked those nearby, while others attempted to avoid the conflict, which became difficult as more and more battles broke out along the highway.

"Holy f.u.c.k," Ari mumbled.

Natalie lowered the binoculars. Each of her Angels stared at the melee, most with an expression of horror.

She moved closer to Emily. "If we cut the engines, would we be able to coast under the highway?"

"We should. The current isn't strong here. Why?"

"I don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

Emily aimed between the two closest islands, throttled forward to give the ship momentum, and shut down the engines. The only sound now came from the water slapping against the side of the hull and the unG.o.dly moaning. Five tense minutes pa.s.sed as the yacht coasted along and pa.s.sed underneath the highway. The sound became more eerie with the noise from thousands of rotters sc.r.a.ping along the cement echoing off the underside of the highway and walking trail. Everyone stared up, half expecting the battle above them to spill over onto the deck. Thankfully, nothing happened and the yacht emerged from the under the highway. Once it had coasted a hundred feet away, Natalie nodded to Emily.

"Let's get out of here."

"With pleasure." Emily started the engines and throttled them forward. The sound excited the rotters, increasing the intensity of the battles. Within a few minutes, the yacht left the horror of the highway behind them.

"I'll steer us back toward sh.o.r.e."

"That'll take too much time," Natalie said. "Do we have enough gas to cut across the Gulf toward Louisiana?"

Emily checked the fuel gauge. "We should."

"Are your navigational skills good enough to get us to New Orleans?"

"I'll get you to within five miles of the Mississippi River."

"How long will it take?"

"If everything goes well, we should reach the coast late tomorrow afternoon."

"Good." Natalie leaned closer so the others couldn't hear. "The less time we spend out here the better."

"Next stop, Bourbon Street."

"Angels, when did you ladies clean your weapons last?"

The women exchanged glances, embarra.s.sed. Sandy said, "Not since we left Maine."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Natalie barked the order, although the grin on her face betrayed her feelings. The Angels responded with good-natured complaints and sauntered below deck to gather their weapons. Natalie wanted to keep their morale up and build on their newfound cohesion. The drill to check and clean their weapons was much more than that.

Natalie realized that as of this time tomorrow, they would be entering a rotter nation.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

Removing his last bottle of Jack Daniels from the desk drawer, Price poured the whiskey into a tumbler, filling it halfway. He had gone through a whole case in their first few months here, and had saved this bottle to celebrate a special occasion. At the time, he had thought it would be to toast the end of the deader outbreak and the rise of a new world order in which strength prevailed over so-called justice. That dream died along with the rest of the world. He still kept the bottle hidden away, hoping that something positive might happen that he could celebrate. It never did. He broke out the bottle this morning because he needed a stiff drink.

Price walked over to his office window and took a swig, staring out into the storage facility. The sight of it burned in his stomach worse than the whiskey. Everyone except himself lived in unheated and unventilated storage units. Their bathrooms consisted of portable toilets and makeshift showers rigged from hoses siphoning water brought in from the Sunc.o.c.k River. Their kitchen was primitive, and their food stocks were running low. Plus they had limited medical supplies and even less in the way of health care expertise. He had already lost more than half a dozen of his men to illness and serious wounds. To put it bluntly, this compound was a s.h.i.thole. He always knew it and, up until a few days ago, it had not bothered him. For Christ's sake, it was the f.u.c.king apocalypse. n.o.body expected to be living in luxury. They were lucky to be alive. Now he couldn't stand the sight of the place.

The catalyst for all this was the discovery of the other group's compound along the coast of Maine. He had fooled himself into thinking he had done a good job caring for his men until he heard about their set-up. Adequately-furnished container boxes, a well-stocked mess hall, agriculture and livestock, a medical facility. It had everything he had failed to provide for his people, which p.i.s.sed him off. Those a.s.sholes were no better or smarter than him. They sure as h.e.l.l weren't stronger judging by the way they allowed his search party to take over their compound without a fight. Yet they had ridden out the deader outbreak a lot better than his group had. Though he would never admit it to any of his people, not even Carter, what really p.i.s.sed him off was his own failure of leadership. The other group had done well for itself because their leaders focused on the correct priorities, while he had dropped the ball. Sure, his reasons for choosing the storage facility seemed sound at the time. It had been the most secure location they had found in weeks, with concrete buildings closed off by metal doors and surrounded by a brick wall with a security gate, ideal for keeping away deaders and humans. Besides, no one could have foreseen that the outbreak would last this long, so he hadn't seen the need to make the compound more amenable. At some point, he should have realized that the world had permanently gone to s.h.i.t, and should have concentrated on either fixing up their own compound or finding a better location. Instead, he focused on keeping his men happy rather than protected. So the blame for their current situation rested squarely on him.

h.e.l.l, even he had enjoyed those first few days after the outbreak. It got him off getting revenge on the prison guards, especially those three that took turns holding him down while another raped him. They used to taunt him that they would show him how it felt to be an abused b.i.t.c.h. He had handcuffed them to the fence outside the prison and left them to be deader food. If they were lucky, the deaders completely devoured them, although a part of him hoped they did come back to spend forever chained to that fence, starving. Carter had joined him because he had wanted to get back at the guard who had been f.u.c.king his wife while he sat in jail. And Kingston... Kingston was just a psycho who enjoyed killing.

He knew he should have put an end to the violence after they left the prison. Now he couldn't remember why he didn't. He didn't necessarily enjoy it. He hadn't been with a woman since the outbreak began, except for Tina. She had given herself to him willingly until a deader bit her, forcing him to shoot her in the head. He rarely killed anyone unless he needed to cull out those who posed a threat to his authority. While in prison, he had read a magazine article about mob mentalities and how groups of people will follow the strongest wills or their basest instincts. When your group consists of murderers and rapists, those instincts are pretty base.

Price took another long sip, letting the whiskey settle in the back of his throat for several seconds before swallowing. It burned going down, causing him to cough. Truth be known, now he was just making up excuses. Price could have reined them in at any time because he had the strongest will in the group. He should have reined them in. Instead, he had allowed his people to do a Mickey and Mallory across New Hampshire, and he condoned it just so he could keep the group loyal to him. In that he had succeeded. They stuck by him as long as he provided women to rape and people to kill. By focusing on that, he had placed his group in a precarious situation. Winter would soon be here, and their food supplies would run out long before then, especially with so many camp wh.o.r.es and those on the Line to feed. Even with ample food, he doubted they would survive another winter in this place.

He had royally f.u.c.ked up the entire situation.

Price drained the tumbler and swallowed hard. His old man would get a kick out of knowing how bad a f.u.c.k up his son had become. Thank G.o.d he kept him isolated and restricted his contact with others. He should have gotten rid of his father months ago. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d let deaders get his mother, and later turned on him, along with the other conspirators. The old man didn't deserve to live, and for the life of him Price couldn't remember why he allowed it. He wanted to take a baseball bat, go into the old man's unit, and bash in his skull.

He decided he would settle for another drink.

Going back to his desk, Price picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels when someone knocked. "Come in," he barked.

Carter stepped inside. He held a map in his hand. "Sorry to bother you. One of the scouting parties you sent out yesterday came across something you might be interested in."

"Let me see." Price placed the bottle and tumbler back in the drawer.

Stepping over to the desk, Carter spread out a map of the local area. He traced his finger along the surface. "One of our teams was scouting twenty-five miles northwest of here when they found a gated community...." He paused until he found the site. "Here. A few miles east of Andover."

"So? We've run into a lot of gated communities. Right now we're in no position for another fight."

"That's the thing." Carter smiled. "This is an unfinished community. The gates were still closed and locked, so our guys broke in and checked it out. About three quarters of the houses have been built, and none of them were occupied. A brick wall surrounds the entire community. And there's more than enough construction supplies left behind for us to fortify it."

"What are you suggesting?"

Carter leaned forward and spoke softly. "That we get the h.e.l.l out of here. Set ourselves up in a place where we can be comfortable for a change. We could steal furniture from that community we trashed just east of here. Make a few runs into Andover to stockpile food. h.e.l.l, we can even start growing our own like those a.s.sholes in Maine."

Price walked past Carter and stared out the window again. This was his chance to redeem himself. He could finally get his men some decent living quarters, and give them a chance to survive the upcoming winter. It would also give him a chance to clean house and put things in order. He could dispose of those who had become a burden and then concentrate on rebuilding their lives.

"What do you think?" Carter asked.

"I think it's a great idea."

Carter gave a fist pump.

Stepping back over to his desk, Price slid into the chair. "How long would it take to prepare for the move?"

"We don't have much to move. Two, maybe three days."

"Then we'll leave in three days."

"Roger that." Carter hesitated. "What about those on the Line?"

"Leave them. We won't need them where we're going."

"Do you want me to untie them after we're gone?"

Price shrugged. "Either way. Your choice."