Читаем Dead Sea полностью

    I watched him go, shoulders slumped, head to the deck. He didn't look at anyone as he passed them, especially the kids. I felt sorry for the guy. Sorry for us all. We'd survived. We'd beat the odds. We were still alive. But was it worth it?

    I watched Tasha and Malik as they played and decided that it was; if only for them.

    I closed my eyes and leaned back against the rail, letting the ocean breeze cool my skin. I listened to the roar of the waves. Listened to the screeching birds. Listened to the kid's laughter. It all blended together.

    With my eyes shut, it sounded like screams.

* * * *

    Stephanie died in the middle of the night. Weak and dehydrated, she'd slipped into a diabetic coma shortly before sundown. Wasn't much any of us could do for her. Joan kept her warm and wiped her forehead with a cool washcloth. Held her hand and talked to her. Watched her go and made sure she didn't do it alone. Sometimes, that's the best you can hope for in this world.

    Stephanie Pollack had lived in an apartment in Baltimore and was diabetic. That was all any of us knew about her. Joan said that before she'd slipped into the coma, Stephanie had whispered some names. But those names had died with her. No tears were shed. We hadn't known her long enough. It was sad. Demoralizing and depressing. We were still human after all, and another human's passing, even a stranger's, was cause for reflection. But what was there to reflect on, except our own fucked-up situation? How to remember her? Stephanie had no purse, no identification, nothing that would give us a deeper glimpse into her life and who she'd been. Her locker was empty, as was the storage space beneath her rack. Was she married? There was no ring on her ringer, so probably not. Divorced, then? Widowed? Gay? Did she have children, and if so, were they still alive somewhere out there, or had they joined the ranks of the others? Brothers or sisters? She must have had parents, at least. Were they alive or dead? We would never know.

    Again, I found myself wondering what the fucking point was. Why continue fighting, continue struggling to survive? In the end, you died with a bunch of strangers who couldn't even eulogize you properly because they didn't know shit about you. When you died, you were supposed to live on in the memories of others. That's what I'd always been told. Didn't matter what you believed, which religion you subscribed to, what god you worshipped. The simple fact was that none of us knew what lies beyond. Immortality and eternal life? The only sure shot at that was the memories of those you left behind-your friends and family. But if you had no one, if you were alone in this world, who would remember you when you were gone? If memories were your only shot at eternal life, and there was no one to remember you, what then? If there was such a thing as a soul, what happened to it? Maybe death was all there really was. Maybe there was no such thing as eternal life. But now, even death wasn't the end, thanks to Hamelin's Revenge. Did the zombies still have their souls or were they just hollow shells? Could the person who'd once inhabited their bodies still be alive inside, conscious even after death, and if so, did they scream?

    Why not just go outside, climb over the rail, let go, and fall into the ocean? After all we'd seen and done in life, and all that had happened to us, both good and bad, all the triumphs and tragedies and everything associated with them, what was the fucking point? Was it all just to die among a bunch of strangers who barely knew your name? Or to end up inside a zombie's stomach or worse yet, to walk around like one of them, putrefying on the go?

    Word of Stephanie's death spread quickly through the ship. Murphy woke Mitch and me to tell us. He'd stood in the passageway, leaning through our hatch, silhouetted in red light. His breath smelled like cough syrup and his voice was slurred. If he was down to drinking cough syrup already, what would he do when he ran out of that? I wondered if there was any rubbing alcohol onboard.

    After Murphy left, Mitch and I didn't talk. The kids hadn't woken up and we didn't want to disturb them. Soon I heard Mitch softly snoring again. It amazed me, how quickly he'd fallen asleep. I lay there in the darkness, hands behind my head, and stared at the ceiling. My rack swayed with the ship, but I wasn't queasy. Tony's suggestion had worked. During dinner, I'd wolfed down a bunch of saltine crackers. They'd done the trick. No more seasickness.

    Heartsickness-there was no cure.

    I didn't fall back asleep.

    The others slept like the dead. I wondered if they dreamed and wished that I could, if only to escape this world for a little while. Even a nightmare would have been welcome. It certainly couldn't have been as bad as reality.