SurvivorZ: Grave Harbor

76

KEITH

Keith Cross had always thought of himself as an apex predator in a world of sheep. He now knew that to be hubris. Don Manconi helped shape him into a hunter of men, but it wasn't until after his death that he fully appreciated how limited he was by his mortal shell.

Though little more than a disembodied head, he still felt superior to his former self. His senses were razor sharp, enabling him to detect prey over distances that would have been impossible before. Thanks to heightened hearing and the pervasive silence of a dead world, tracking down their next meal was simply a matter of listening carefully and following noises to their source.

Usually.

His bearer held him up to gaze over the dark, empty expanse of the Charles River. After walking north all night long, towards the resounding boom they heard in Roxbury, his hunting senses were in danger of letting him down for the first time. Everything had gone silent after that thunderous blast. Worse, half a city block had burned to the ground along Storrow Drive, masking any trace of his prey. The scent of charred wood and drifting ash filled his nostrils.

He listened for any clue that would lead his ravenous army to their next meal. All he heard were the angry grumblings of his followers.

The pack was only as strong as their alpha. Should he fail to find their way, there were plenty among them ready and willing to challenge him for leadership. It wouldn't even be a contest. Without a body, he was a defenseless baby. Once they sensed he had steered them wrong, his successor would rip him apart and leave his bones for the elements.

He found this thought more frustrating than worrisome. Dead or alive, he still hated to fail.

He searched upriver for any sign of what caused the loud boom they heard halfway across the city. All he found were dark buildings painted on a moonlit backdrop, and impending clouds threatened to obscure even this much. Keith growled at the shadows concealing the trail.

Judging by the restlessness of his pack, he knew his only chance meant picking a direction and hoping for the best. Going left, past Storrow's burnt-out buildings, meant returning to neighborhoods that had likely fallen weeks ago. Going right led them past the crumbling ruins of the city's business district to Boston Harbor. Without a clear trail to follow, neither option seemed ideal.

He grunted a command to his carrier, who turned around and held him up so he could address his followers. Lacking a better idea, he decided to trust his instincts instead. He'd lead them east, towards the harbor, and possibly the source of the noise that drove them north in the first place.

Before he could issue his proclamation, the distant pop of a gunshot echoed across the water. Many more soon followed it, growing louder and more intense once the pounding of explosives joined in.

The horde growled and whooped excitedly. Keith sneered. This was the sign for which he was hoping.

Keith's bearer turned back towards the river, allowing him to study the dark, remote shoreline. The racket was coming from somewhere further north, on the other side of the Charles.

He studied the dark expanse of Harvard Bridge to their right, dismayed at finding the middle of the span missing. In his hunger, a part of him wanted to go that way anyway. It took everything of his former self to subdue the impulse and decide on a surer course of action.

When he was alive, he briefly had a fling with a woman who lived in Cambridgeport. Carrie Wilder was a junkie, but back when he was seeing her, she managed to retain something of her former beauty queen good looks. It wasn't until he dumped her and she started dating some meth head that she really went to pot.

She didn't matter to him; not then and certainly not now. What mattered was the route he took to her front door for the occasional booty call. The Boston University Bridge wasn't far from their current position, and unlike the much longer span into MIT, he was willing to bet this bridge was still crossable. Though he technically didn't have a life to wager, his continued existence in the pack amounted to much the same thing.

He issued the order to follow in a breathless rasp to his guardian, who translated it to the horde in a bellowing roar. In seconds, they were on the march again, loping and jostling one another as they followed one of the few functioning routes across the river to Harvard. They picked up a few stray zombies along the way, languid stragglers who couldn't hope to keep up with them, but mindlessly followed anyway.

When the bridge finally appeared in the shadows, Keith felt a twinge of relief to discover that it was undamaged. He led his flock through the maze of crashed cars and trucks lining the expanse, barely taking any notice of Mike Edward's broken cell phone or the faint odor of gasoline mixed into the icy pavement.

The explosions they were chasing had ceased their rumbling. Only a few intermittent gunshots popped off now. They sounded far away, coming from somewhere to the distant north. Keith grew anxious, worried that they wouldn't reach the source in time. Their journey might only be postponing his second imminent, brutal demise.

He shoved that thought aside while leading them through Cambridgeport; first up Brookline Street, then Massachusetts Avenue, then north up Prospect Street. They had many miles to go before reaching their next meal. With the possibility of hitting another dead end staring him in the face down every empty street, Keith instead chose to spend his time focused on his raging appetite.

This time, the good luck that sustained him during his career as a hitman reared its head once more. Shortly after the sun rose on a new day, the warm air carried with it a familiar scent. If he still had a stomach, the smell would have left it gurgling in anticipation.

Many of his followers fussed excitedly over the aroma of sweat and diesel fumes carried in the air. He hissed to his carrier, who passed along his command to silence the throng as they closed in on their prey. The sounds of raised voices reached their ears soon after. Keith led his silent procession down a side street, pursuing the assembly to its source.

"Then it's decided," a voice shouted. "Everyone grab what you can from the neighborhood homes and meet back here at the top of the hour. We're leaving for Boston Harbor."

Keith understood enough of that declaration to realize that they didn't have much time before the group would be moving on. As if proving his point, three truck engines suddenly revved into life, cutting off the murmurs of the departing crowd.

He led his army north, across the untended lawns of the homes on Oak Street. They surged forth like a tidal wave, jumping fences and cutting across back yards towards their unsuspecting quarry. By the time they came close enough to smell the nervous sweat of dozens of awaiting victims, everyone was running at full steam, including his guardian.

He was conscious of the racket they made as they barreled through the adjoining neighborhoods. His savage legions had turned into a runaway train. Nothing would slow them down until they sated their bloodlust.

Curbing their rampage never once entered his mind. After the drudgery of their long evening's hike from Roxbury, Keith shared the pack's appetite for slaughter. Except in his case, it took a backseat to something else; gratitude for ending their tireless march with a favorable conclusion.

His army would soon spill blood. He was glad that none of it – for now, at least – would pour from his veins.