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    "That's a long way to go," Chief Maxey sighed. "We're closer to North Carolina and points south. I think we should consider one of those or the station near Virginia Beach-keep Fenwick as a last resort. Maybe we could try one of the islands off the Carolina coast."

    "I don't know, Chief," Turn said. "Those islands are all inhabited, and they had regular contact with the mainland, which increases the chances of infection. 1 think Fenwick Island is our best shot."

    While they were talking, I noticed a little red dot on the map, positioned farther out in the Atlantic Ocean. It looked like it had been drawn with a dry-erase marker.

    "What's this?" I asked, pointing to it.

    "Oil rig," Chief Maxey grunted.

    I was surprised. "There are oil rigs off the East Coast?"

    "Sure," Turn said. "There wasn't a lot of drilling going on off Florida because of political stuff, but there are lots of operations elsewhere in the Atlantic. Most of them are way off shore. The one you're pointing at is a jack-up. It's mobile, which is why we drew it on the map in erasable marker. That was its last known location."

    "What's a jack-up?" Basil asked.

    Hooper grinned. "It's when I run up to Lamar and jack his ass up."

    "You're welcome to try," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. Things had not calmed between us since our initial introduction. He thought I was an Uncle Tom and had since learned that I was gay- two strikes against me. In turn, I thought he was a lazy, ignorant, punk-ass motherfucker.

    "I'd like to see him try it, too," Mitch said.

    "Ya'll are tripping," Hooper muttered, backing down. "I'm just fucking around."

    "A jack-up is a shallow water rig," Turn explained, ignoring Hooper. "Basically, it's just a big barge with a drilling rig and living quarters attached to it. The oil companies float it wherever they need to drill and then there are literally jacks that extend down, raising the platform and stabilizing it on the surface. It's a little smaller than a full-blown drill ship. They've got motion compensating motors and all that shit. But anyway, yeah, they're out there. Not just confined to the Gulf. The oil companies are forever drilling test wells just to see what's down there beneath the ocean floor."

    Mitch asked aloud what I had been thinking. "So why couldn't we just go to that rig?"

    "There would still be zombies," Chief Maxey said. "Even a small platform would have a crew. The company man, the tool pusher, driller, derrick man, floor hands, cooks, and roustabouts. Unless they evacuated the crew before everything on the mainland collapsed, they'd still be there."

    "Yeah," Mitch said slowly, "but they wouldn't necessarily be zombies. If they had no connection to the mainland, then there's no way they'd have caught Hamelin's Revenge. You've got to be exposed to it-bitten or come into contact with infected blood-to turn into one of them, right? Only thing that could get them would be the birds and the fish, and neither of them are carriers. Those crews could still be alive. They could help us."

    "He's got a point, Chief," Turn said. "In the Gulf, it's pretty common for shrimp boats and the like to pull up and trade their catch for diesel. Stands to reason the same would go for Atlantic platforms. We could trade for supplies. They'd probably welcome us, especially now."

    "But we don't have anything to trade."

    "We've got transport," Turn said. "I doubt the oil company is sending a helicopter to pull them off the jack-up anytime soon. But we can. We're their ticket off the rig."

    "Okay," the chief argued, "but what if they don't want to leave? What if they'd rather stay? Then what? What else do we have to trade?"

    "The women," Runkle suggested. There was no hint of humor in his voice. The guy was serious.

    We stared at him in disbelief.

    "Fuck that," Hooper said. "The women are ours. We ain't trading them. Need them for breeding purposes."

    "What the fuck is wrong with you two?" Mitch slammed his palm down on the map. "Do you hear yourselves? You're talking about fucking slavery- like the women onboard are something to be used for barter or a harem."

    "You mean they ain't?" Hooper grinned wide enough to expose his missing teeth.

    My hands curled into fists. I kept them at my sides. It was hard to do. I noticed Mitch tense up, as well. He was shaking with anger and his face turned red. Chief Maxey interrupted, defusing the mounting tension.

    "Knock it off, all of you. Officer Runkle. Mr. Hooper. While your contributions to this ship are valuable and needed, I won't stand for that nonsense. I don't ever want to hear either of you talk like that again. Not while you're on my ship. Do I make myself clear?"

    Hooper shrugged. "Whatever, man. I was just fucking around."

    "You've been doing that a little too much," Turn said.

    "Runkle?" Chief Maxey glared at him. "Do you understand me?"

    Runkle nodded, but said nothing.

    "So what's the plan, Chief?" Turn turned back to the map. "We need a decision."