Zombie Ocean (Book 3): The Least Read online

  ZOMBIE OCEAN

  The Last (Book 1)

  The Lost (Book 2)

  The Least (Book 3)

  Buy Michael John Grist's books via Amazon links here.

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  For SY, as always.

  CONTENTS

  TAKE-OFF

  1. GREEN-O

  2. FRAYSER

  3. THE DIVE

  4. DEMON

  5. DEEPCRAFT

  FLIGHT

  6. APOCALYPSE

  7. AMO

  8. WHEELS

  9. NEW YORK

  10. TIMES SQUARE

  LANDING

  11. MATTHEW

  12. RV

  13. MASAKO

  14. SURVIVORS

  15. CAIRNS

  16. WEST

  17. SETTLING IN

  18. JULIO

  TAKEN

  19. TEN YEARS LATER

  INTERLUDE 1

  20. VAN

  INTERLUDE 2

  21. MAINE

  INTERLUDE 3

  22. CHAINS

  EAST

  23. FREEFALL

  24. FLIGHT

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  EXTRAS

  Mr. Ruins (excerpt)

  TAKE-OFF

  1. GREEN-O

  One day before the dive that would change his life forever, Olympic hopeful Robert 'Cerulean' stood at the edge of the 33-foot dive platform in the University of Memphis swim hall, trying to focus on the dive ahead. It was an arm-stand triple pike flip with twist, a dive he'd mastered a year ago, so the technical elements were not the problem.

  The real problem was focus.

  He took a deep breath and looked out over the hall. He'd only been training here for six months, after Coach Willings had gotten him membership in advance of the final Olympic trials. It was a cavernous space, like an airport hangar, with windows that ran floor to ceiling and offered a gorgeous view out over the university's green campus. Below lay the deep blue dive pool, with all its lane marker buoys removed and bundled off to the side, its surface rippling under the lights. On the two remaining walls stood tall bleachers, which tomorrow would be filled with hundreds of dive fans, the judges and his Olympic agent.

  Everything was as it should be, except for Green-O.

  Goddamn Green-O. He was standing by the locker room entrance like a fat toad in his red parka, glaring up. Robert hadn't seen him for precisely a year. That was shitty timing.

  "Brother, are you gonna be all day?"

  Robert blinked and turned. A guy was waiting at the platform ladder-top behind him. Really he shouldn't have even climbed until Robert had dived.

  "Would you drop out of sight, please?" Robert asked, keeping his temper. "I'm doing an arm-stand."

  The guy sucked his teeth. That sort of thing would get him shot in Frayser. But no, Green-O was not here for him.

  Focus.

  The guy dropped down and Robert set his feet at the edge of the platform with his back to the pool. Behind him the fall stretched out and down, 33 feet and an aching two seconds of 'flight' to the water. Take-off, flight, landing: every part of the dive was judged, from difficulty and execution to height gained and smoothness of entry into the water. Even the tiniest mistakes could lead to a loss of control, a loss of points, a loss of his Olympic dream…

  Focus! The grooved tile at the edge of the platform was rough and solid underfoot, grounding him. He'd been training non-stop for this for seven years, almost aging out of the full training package and this time he had to make it, or…

  He bent down and set his palms firmly on the tile. This had always impressed the girls in his teens, letting him show off his strength. Smoothly he shifted his weight to his arms, finding balance. This was the most precarious moment, when nerves could flavor the judges' impression and ruin a performance. Carefully he raised his legs until they were arrow-straight up into the air, and for a long moment held the handstand at the edge.

  Focus came.

  This was the reason he dived; for that moment when he lost himself in the dance between his body and his mind, in pure focus where nothing else mattered. It blocked out the blood in his past, the swamp that was Frayser, Green-O, the shitty duplex he shared with his mom, everything.

  He took a breath, tucked his head straight, and allowed his body to tip outward over the pool. For an instant he was falling, then he bent his legs at the knee and kicked his heels in a sharp jack-knife. The jolt pulled him bodily off the platform and into the air at a dizzying spin. He clasped his knees in a perfect pike and spun backwards one, two, three rapid turns, followed by a flick of his elbows for a full twist, then smacked into the water.

  His clasped palms punched a deep hole in the surface, drawing the splash down after him, and his body curled round as his rotary momentum died out.

  Hell yes. It was good and it felt good.

  He kicked and surfaced, rubbing water out of his eyes. Green-O was doing a slow clap. Green-O didn't have a goddamned clue. Robert swam over to the edge where Coach Willings was grinning, and Green-O ducked out, headed for the locker room.

  "That was damn good," Coach Willings said, as Robert climbed out of the water to stand dripping on the side. The Coach was 63, on the verge of retirement, but had the diver's frame of a much younger man; legacy of being a top level national dive competitor well into his forties. He'd been the one to discover Robert nine years ago when he was just 14, pulling off neat quadruple somersaults from a 16-foot board in the Frayser Rec pool, and stuck with him despite all his many setbacks. "Robert, I really think you've got it this time."

  Robert grinned and nodded. "It felt right."

  "It looked amazing. I'll never get over the height you get on the kick. You're like Michael Jordan up there."

  Robert laughed. The Coach slapped him on the shoulder. "Get home and rest up. You'll need your A-game tomorrow."

  "Thanks Coach."

  Robert toweled off at the bottom of the bleachers, then headed for the locker room. The knot of anticipation, dispelled so briefly by the dive, was coming back.

  Green-O would be waiting for him inside.

  He pushed through the door and there he was, lolling extravagantly on one of the wooden benches running down the middle of the long locker room. Two guys were getting changed at the far end by the sinks and mirrors, but Green-O wouldn't care.

  "Tight swim pants, those," he said, through his chubby, frog-like mouth. There were two black teardrop tattoos inked by the corner of his left eye. They hadn't been there before. "Like a superhero would wear. Are they called pants or panties?"

  Robert frowned. "Speedos. You know it's not panties."

  "Speedos," Green-O considered. "Sure. You're too black to be a superhero."

  Robert snorted. Green-O was always like this now. He'd been like it before too, but it had been funny then. Now it was just a trial.

  "You're here about the memorial," Robert said.

  Green-O nodded. "Of course I am. You know I remember this shit. I live it. I'm the one who goes by the cemetery every week. When did you last go?"

  "A year ago."

  Green-O sucked his teeth. "No shame, that's your problem. You should at least pretend."

  Robert shook his head. It was old, old news. "Zane died nine years ago, Germaine. I'm not coming this time. You can all go without me. I've got my final Olympic trial tomorrow."

  A slab of fat lifted above one of Green-O's eyes, putting a single wrinkle in his glossy forehead. "You haven't got time to stand by a grave?"

  "Stand? Last time you took us through Binghamton in a convoy and we shot up three h
ouses. That was on the way to the service."

  Green-O laughed. "You bitched like a damn coyote about that."

  Robert shook his head. "You're lucky you didn't kill anyone. There could've been kids in those houses."

  One of the guys getting changed at the far end of the room looked up. He nudged his friend and they started packing their gear faster. Green-O followed Robert's gaze, saw the muscular young men hurrying, and laughed.

  "There weren't any kids," he called after them, then turned back. "I'm not an amateur, son. And kill people, well, that was kind of the point. You're coming."

  Robert looked down at his old friend. He had almost the same face as goofy Green-O from the block, but Zane dying had changed them all. Robert had buried himself in his diving, while Green-O only had the Sons of the Harp.

  Robert set his feet. "Are you going to make me?"

  Green-O laughed. "You look like a superhero standing like that. Put your hands on your hips for me, would you?" When Robert didn't he laughed louder. "It's always like this with you, trying to make me into the villain. You're so dramatic. I come here once a year and we go, that's all I ask."

  "To go shoot people. And what do I ask from you, Green-O? What have I ever asked from you?"

  Green-O rolled to his feet. He was taller than Robert and much heavier, though most of the weight was round his belly. His red parka inflated his girth even more. He stepped oppressively close but Robert didn't take a step back.

  "You don't need to ask. That's what friends are for, looking out for each other right? You won't know it but I'm a sergeant now in the Sons. I protect you, Bobby. No one's tried to bust in your place have they? You don't have any drugs or whores on your street do you? That's me."

  Robert stared right back. "That's bullshit."

  "Not bullshit, I protect you and your mom. She's looking well, by the way. I like her new weave. It'd be a pity if some gangbanger busted in and knocked it off her head, wouldn't it? Mussed her up a bit or flipped her over, you know?"

  Robert blinked. Flipped her over? This was new. "You're threatening my mother? Are you serious?"

  Green-O prodded Robert in the chest. "You think you know me, son. Truth is you don't know shit. You see these?" he pointed to his teardrop tattoos. "You know what they mean."

  "They mean you're a goddamned idiot."

  Green-O slapped him.

  It came fast and hard and Robert didn't see it coming. It was a solid smack like they used to do when they were kids with too much time to kill, and it echoed sharply in the narrow locker room. Robert's cheek stung, his face swung to the side, and the smart of it raised tears in his eyes.

  "Like I say," Green-O said calmly, "you don't know me at all. You think we're still friends, so OK, let's be friends. You ride with me, front seat for respect because we used to roll together. One day a year and that's all."

  Robert reached up to touch his cheek. Emotions curdled inside him, anger mixing with shock and disbelief.

  "The hell you just did?"

  "Slap back if you can," Green-O said. "Raise your hand. I won't draw down. We'll just go, you and me here. You were always strong, I'd like to try that. You may even win, but how many fingers are you going to break on the way through? Your ribs, sprain an ankle, bust your ACL, you know?"

  A churn of emotions sank in Robert's gut like a bag of cold milk. He wouldn't be able to dive. Colorado Springs would be gone. It knocked the wind out of him more than the slap.

  Green-O nodded. "What I thought. Shit, I've got the internet too, Bobby; I keep track of you and your diving. We're all real proud, but you've got to do it right, you know? We're proud if you're one of us. If you're not one of us, then what is any of this but a big F-you, to me in particular?"

  "It's got nothing to do with you."

  Green-O laughed. "That's a lie and you know it. This is reality, Bobby, where the shit you do is remembered and matters. Every year this time I start taking flak about you and it looks like I'm the bitch. I can't allow that. Are we clear?"

  Anger stung at Robert's pride, urging him to knock this fat punk down once and for all, like he should have done years ago. He was a professional-level athlete and Green-O was a fat slob used to relying on a gun. But...

  "I see the rage," Green-O said. "The same as that night, ready to pop. You think I've not faced this shit down before? You're just a civilian to me. Go ahead and lay me out, give me an excuse to burn you to the ground. I've been waiting since Zane."

  "I've been waiting since Zane too," Robert said through gritted teeth.

  Green-O took a step closer, pressing his parka against Robert's chest. "You always thought you were so special. What are you now? Pissing your superhero panties."

  "I would knock you flat out."

  Green-O's grin widened. "But you won't."

  The tension drew out.

  "Will you?"

  Robert trembled. He longed to lash out, but he'd lose everything.

  "You come by mine tomorrow after five," he said through gritted teeth. "When the dive's over. Pick me up then. And I'm not shooting anyone."

  Green-O laughed. "I'm not a idiot. We're coming at dawn, before you dive. We better find you there. Or else, well, you've given me an excuse."

  A wave of heat flushed through Robert's face. This wasn't remotely his friend anymore. This was another piece of gangbanger shit, acting like supremacy in Frayser was the whole of the goddamn world.

  "I like it," Green-O said. "Smoldering eyes; you're making me hard. Dawn tomorrow, Bobby, or you're done."

  * * *

  Focus came on the bus ride home.

  He sat at the back of the number 9; a forty-minute ride across the city to Frayser, then a ten-minute walk to his mother's crappy duplex through the leafy suburban ganglands.

  He looked out of the bus window without seeing anything. His cheek still burned and the bag of milk hung heavy on his belly, quickly going stale. Outside another bus went by, a park, the high-rises of downtown Memphis.

  He didn't remember leaving the sports hall. He felt drunk.

  Zane came into his thoughts, forever trapped in the body of a fifteen-year old. He'd been their leader in so many things; the handsome one, the charming one, the best with the girls. He'd touched tits before grade school even began; by twelve he'd scored a home run with an older girl on his block; by thirteen he was pimping out his exes to Green-O and Robert if they'd wanted a kiss or to cop a feel; and at fourteen he was actually making money from it. The crazy thing was that the girls seemed happy to do it, because Zane was special.

  Being around him made people feel lifted. He was strong and smart, played football JV at fourteen. He was the youngest on the team but the fastest at tailback, forcing rushing plays that found gaps through the defensive line that nobody else could see.

  "You just got to feel it," he told Robert once, who'd always been a strong athlete too, but didn't have Zane's skill with the ball. "You focus and the world opens up to you."

  Until diving he'd never felt that way. It was the one thing in his life he'd ever done better than Zane.

  Then Zane got shot.

  It was simple and stupid. They'd been out in a gang, ten or so girls and guys of fifteen and up with a crate of Colt 45s, high on a weekend after a big game, headed for the park behind Denver Elementary.

  There they stumbled on an execution. They were all already half-drunk and groping on each other, and none of them spotted the warning signs of the headlights glowing through the scrubby trees until they were upon them. The first Robert knew was Zane's steadying hand on his shoulder.

  Robert turned from the girl he was canoodling and saw a clearing lit by the roof-lights of a yellow Humvee. Two guys were kneeling and three guys were standing over them holding guns.

  A gangland execution.

  He'd recognized the men on their knees at once; one of them was Green-O's father, the other was Tolerance Big, one of the Sons of the Harp generals. Their red caps, bandannas and jackets had been stripp
ed and lay on the dirt before them. Their faces were bloody and bruised.

  Somewhere at the back of the group Green-O was laughing loudly. He hadn't seen yet. His father winced visibly.

  "We get the hell out of here," Robert said quietly to Zane.

  Zane squeezed his shoulder. "That's Green-O's pops."

  "What's all this?" one of the gunmen asked. He wore a yellow do-rag hovering atop a tall afro, with bright yellow high-top shoes. "I don't recall inviting the Brady bunch."

  A second man laughed, wearing a yellow cap and yellow belt over a tucked in black T-shirt. Yellow meant the Memphis chapter of the Orandelles, one of the biggest gangs in the state.

  Just then Green-O burst through the middle of the group, emerged into the light, and saw his father.

  "Shit!" he shouted. A second passed, then he fumbled drunkenly for the revolver in his paunchy waistband.

  The third Orandelle fired. It hit Green-O in the gut and dropped him to the floor. At the same time Zane squeezed Robert's shoulder and called out the play.

  "Eleven twenty-two."

  Without waiting he sprinted to the side, cutting an evasive line that took him round the cover of a tree. Robert charged too, without thinking, directly toward the middle guy with the high-tops. Shots fired and a bullet zinged off his ribs, then he leaped over a bush and hit. The guy went down hard across tree roots and Robert fell with him, smacking the dirt and rolling.

  "Keep driving!" Zane shouted from behind, and as Robert found his feet he glimpsed Green-O's pops and Furious rising up. Zane was straddling his guy and thumping his face, while the girls behind them were screaming and hurling bottles.

  The third Orandelle was leveling his gun on Robert when a bottle struck his wrist and knocked it loose, a second before Green-O's dad thumped into him. Robert dived for the weapon as his first guy was getting up and drawing a second pistol from a calf holster. Robert snatched up the fallen gun and fired, hitting the second guy in the belly. He fell back with surprise on his face and blood welling out through his yellow jacket, like a burst ketchup bottle.