The thing got up and limped closer. Noah cupped his shoulder. As he stepped backward, his heel stubbed the lip of the deck, and Noah fell over the railing into the dinghy.
Seconds later the corpse was on him, snapping at his face and neck. Charred skin flaked onto Noah’s face as he fought against it. As he turned his head from side to side to avoid its snapping jaws, he spotted a crank on the backside of the ship. Noah kicked it hard, sending the handle spinning like a pinwheel in a strong wind. The dinghy plummeted into the water below, striking the surface at an angle. The momentum of the fall flung the corpse out of the boat and into the canal.
Noah lay propped against the rubber gunwale, stunned by the impact. From the corner of his eye, he could see Alvin paddling toward him.
“You alright?” he asked as he neared. “What happened?”
Noah propped himself up on his elbows. “There was a zo—.”
But before he could finish his sentence, Alvin cocked an oar over his shoulder like a baseball player about to swing for the fences. Surprised and confused, the only thing Noah could do was duck and cover his head.
Alvin swung the oar over Noah's body, cracking the skull of the burnt creature as it tried to pull itself into the raft. Its moan turned to gargles as it sank back into the murky water.
Noah scrambled to the other side of the boat. “That’s what happened.”
Using the oar, Alvin pulled the raft against the skiff.
He talked as he transferred their guns and packs into the dinghy. “Damn it. I should have gone with you. This wouldn’t have happened if I didn't chicken out.” Then he climbed into the raft, his heft and maladroitness causing him to nearly fall over the opposite side.
“I shouldn't have gone in the first place. It's stupid to take a risk if you don't have to,” he said, hoping to subtly ingrain the guideline into Alvin’s brain. “I just,” he said and let out a nugget of laughter. “I was getting so sick of paddling.”
Suddenly there was a large splash a few feet away as another corpse fell into the canal.
“Dead dummies,” Alvin said with a smirk.
Noah looked around the marina. The clamor was enough to rouse the dead from every nook and cranny within earshot. A half-dozen weaved through the maze of cars on the bridge. A few more came out of the back of the Dockside Cafe, and another came stumbling out of the public restroom near the launch. The one that had fallen in the water a moment before came bobbing up to the surface like a buoy, flailing and twisting only a few feet away from them.
“Jesus!” said Alvin, leaning away from it.
Suddenly a sharp screech sounded from the Winnebago. Their heads pivoted like chickens in its direction. The formerly teetering motorhome had begun slowly rolling toward them.
“What the hell?” said Alvin.
“Something knocked it in gear,” Noah replied. “We have to get out of here, now.” He turned his attention to the electric motor and attempted to glean its operation. Black and red wires hung from the bottom of the motor. He connected them to a battery in the stern.
“Will it work?”
The Winnebago was picking up momentum. In a moment, it would be right on top of them.
“It has to.”
He flicked the switch on the tiller and a power indicator flashed. They both breathed a sigh of relief. Noah switched the motor into reverse and twisted the throttle on the tiller handle. The little two-horse outboard pulled them out of the path of the Winnebago seconds before it drove off the retaining wall and slammed into the water.
“Yeah!” Alvin punched the air.
Noah tried to smile, but it looked more like a pained wince. He looked over his shoulder. The motorhome was sinking nose-first into the canal. Too many close calls, he thought.
Hauling the weight of two full-grown men was a strain on the small motor, but it was still a far more efficient method of travel than paddling. And, to Noah’s surprise, the engine made less noise than the oars did when they banged against the gunwale after each row.
When they were far from the marina, Noah stopped the boat and switched positions with Alvin so that he could tend to his shoulder.
“So why could you get in this boat, but not in the yacht?” said Noah.
“Because I can see everything in this boat.”
“Got it.” Noah pulled his collar over his shoulder and examined the bite. Blood oozed from the oval teeth-marks.
Alvin’s jaw gaped open as the color blanched from his face.
Noah scooped up a handful of water from the canal and poured it over the wound.
“Does that mean you're gonna turn into one of them things now?” Alvin asked nervously. His hand instinctively reached for the paddle.
“Bites won't kill you—not necessarily.”
“But in the movies people always turn after one of those things bites ‘em.”
“It’s not like it is in the movies, Al. We already have the disease. It won't kick in until I die, and I'm not going to let a scratch do me in.”
“What do you mean, we already have it?”
“I knew someone who died without having been bitten, and she came back anyway.”
“Who?” Alvin asked skeptically.
Noah hesitated. “My mother.” He took a deep breath. “She slit her wrists—no bites—and she still came back.”
Alvin’s eyes widened. This was the first time Noah had mentioned his mother. He wasn’t big on unloading his personal baggage. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t say anything for
