Winter Apocalypse: Zombie Crusade V by J.W. Vohs, Sandra Vohs
Authors: J.W. Vohs, Sandra Vohs
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by the crew.
Roberto’s theory seemed to make the most sense. “I’m tellin’ ya, when the outbreak began, a bunch of rich folks on Grosse Isle all packed onto that old-school ferry and tried to escape to the north. Somebody was already infected, and now there’s a boat full of flesh-eaters floating toward Lake Huron.”
“Oh yeah,” Brittany had argued, “so the ferry just somehow managed to float across Lake St. Clair and into the river without running aground somewhere?”
“Hey, it’s a possibility. How else can you explain it?”
Brittany furrowed her brow. “I don’t know, but there’s something really weird about the whole thing.”
Regardless of the boat’s origins or contents, O’Brien needed to concentrate as they navigated the entrance to the marina in Sarnia. The mouth of the channel wasn’t particularly wide, but the stretch of open, deep water between the peninsula and the mainland was nearly a quarter mile in length. A number of heavy-duty quays jutted out from the shore, obviously used to dock large freighters. Marilyn had told them to drop anchor near one of the piers, or even tie up to one of them if the place seemed clear of infected. Father O’Brien did just that after he’d traveled over halfway down the channel, then he got on the radio to see if he could raise the Canadian delegation.
After a few tries, he heard Marilyn’s voice ring out loud and clear. “Hey there, Father, ready for that confession yet?”
He laughed aloud at their running joke. “Think you could handle the penance?”
“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t be too hard on me.”
“Well, you could start by coming into the marina.”
“We can see the shore from where we are; let me check with Michael, I mean, Mayor.”
Father O’Brien smiled to himself at the mention of Mayor’s real name, then he remembered the enthusiasm in Christy’s voice when she talked about her cousin who lived on an island in Lake Huron. His name was Michael too, Michael Carboni. O’Brien was trying to remember what else Christy had told him when Marilyn came back on the air.
“My fearless captain says we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Sounds good. We’re near the end of the main channel, past the big boats, tied up to the third standard pier on the right. It’s a good spot if we decide to do a little salvaging in the daylight, and we’re setting up some trip wires on shore to alert us if any unexpected visitors head our way. If it’s not safe to dock, we’ll let you know.”
“Perfect—see you soon.”
The two captured civilians from a small community not far from Windsor really had no experience piloting old commercial ferries, but they’d known enough about general ship operations to get the vessel away from the dock in Marine City and headed toward the Canadian shore of Lake Huron. They’d watched a crane load several large containers filled with moaning, flesh-eating monsters before six well-armed soldiers directed them to what would have been a high-tech wheelhouse in the 1970s. After not even an hour on the water, things had begun to go terribly wrong.
The so-called American Army soldiers had double checked the twist locks on the freight containers when they’d secured them in the cargo hold, but it never occurred to anyone to check the integrity of the sides of the oversized transport trailers. At some point in its history, potential thieves had cut most of the way through the side of one of the semi-trailers, and pressure from the overcrowded mob of monsters caused a pre-cut plate to give way. Over two hundred creatures had spilled out from the opening. When one of Barnes’ not-too-bright young soldiers opened the cargo hatch to investigate the noise, he was greeted with hungry moans and outstretched arms. The inexperienced recruit managed to fire several ineffective shots before he was pulled into a mob of snarling flesh-eaters.
Everyone on board heard the shots ring out, but the hum
Roberto’s theory seemed to make the most sense. “I’m tellin’ ya, when the outbreak began, a bunch of rich folks on Grosse Isle all packed onto that old-school ferry and tried to escape to the north. Somebody was already infected, and now there’s a boat full of flesh-eaters floating toward Lake Huron.”
“Oh yeah,” Brittany had argued, “so the ferry just somehow managed to float across Lake St. Clair and into the river without running aground somewhere?”
“Hey, it’s a possibility. How else can you explain it?”
Brittany furrowed her brow. “I don’t know, but there’s something really weird about the whole thing.”
Regardless of the boat’s origins or contents, O’Brien needed to concentrate as they navigated the entrance to the marina in Sarnia. The mouth of the channel wasn’t particularly wide, but the stretch of open, deep water between the peninsula and the mainland was nearly a quarter mile in length. A number of heavy-duty quays jutted out from the shore, obviously used to dock large freighters. Marilyn had told them to drop anchor near one of the piers, or even tie up to one of them if the place seemed clear of infected. Father O’Brien did just that after he’d traveled over halfway down the channel, then he got on the radio to see if he could raise the Canadian delegation.
After a few tries, he heard Marilyn’s voice ring out loud and clear. “Hey there, Father, ready for that confession yet?”
He laughed aloud at their running joke. “Think you could handle the penance?”
“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t be too hard on me.”
“Well, you could start by coming into the marina.”
“We can see the shore from where we are; let me check with Michael, I mean, Mayor.”
Father O’Brien smiled to himself at the mention of Mayor’s real name, then he remembered the enthusiasm in Christy’s voice when she talked about her cousin who lived on an island in Lake Huron. His name was Michael too, Michael Carboni. O’Brien was trying to remember what else Christy had told him when Marilyn came back on the air.
“My fearless captain says we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Sounds good. We’re near the end of the main channel, past the big boats, tied up to the third standard pier on the right. It’s a good spot if we decide to do a little salvaging in the daylight, and we’re setting up some trip wires on shore to alert us if any unexpected visitors head our way. If it’s not safe to dock, we’ll let you know.”
“Perfect—see you soon.”
The two captured civilians from a small community not far from Windsor really had no experience piloting old commercial ferries, but they’d known enough about general ship operations to get the vessel away from the dock in Marine City and headed toward the Canadian shore of Lake Huron. They’d watched a crane load several large containers filled with moaning, flesh-eating monsters before six well-armed soldiers directed them to what would have been a high-tech wheelhouse in the 1970s. After not even an hour on the water, things had begun to go terribly wrong.
The so-called American Army soldiers had double checked the twist locks on the freight containers when they’d secured them in the cargo hold, but it never occurred to anyone to check the integrity of the sides of the oversized transport trailers. At some point in its history, potential thieves had cut most of the way through the side of one of the semi-trailers, and pressure from the overcrowded mob of monsters caused a pre-cut plate to give way. Over two hundred creatures had spilled out from the opening. When one of Barnes’ not-too-bright young soldiers opened the cargo hatch to investigate the noise, he was greeted with hungry moans and outstretched arms. The inexperienced recruit managed to fire several ineffective shots before he was pulled into a mob of snarling flesh-eaters.
Everyone on board heard the shots ring out, but the hum
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