Too many.
Ethan backed toward the boat, his face white.
“I’m starting the engine!”
“Go!” Jeff barked.
Ethan leaped aboard; seconds later, the engine roared to life, the rumble shaking through the dock pilings beneath our feet.
The sound surged through the approaching dead like electricity; their moans rose in pitch.
“FULL!” Callan shouted.
He ripped the nozzle free and slammed the fuel cap shut.
“RUN!”
We didn’t argue.
Jeff grabbed Callan’s arm and hauled him upright. I took his other side. The three of us jumped onto the boat as the dead poured onto the dock behind us—a tide of grasping hands, the endless sound of hunger.
Thirty One
Callan
The Mariner cut through open water, the marina disappearing into the distance behind us, and no one spoke for a long time; the only sound was the engine and the smack of waves against the hull.
I sat against the railing, watching Sloane. At first, she looked fine—quiet, still—but as the adrenaline seeped out of
Her hands trembled. She curled inward, slowly collapsing, staring down at the dark blood streaking her shirt and forearms, and her expression shifted from blank to horrified as the reality of it hit.
Her breathing went shallow and ragged as she scrubbed at her hands, rubbing them together hard, harder, like she could strip the skin clean if she kept going.
“Sloane,” I whispered.
Nothing. Her eyes stayed locked somewhere faraway.
I stood, ignoring the sharp bolt of pain that radiated through my ankle, and looked toward the wheelhouse.
“Hey, Jeff.”
“Yeah?” he called back.
“Can we cut the engine for a bit?”
A pause. “Everything alright?”
I glanced back at Sloane, at the blood drying in her hair, her hands still working against each other.
“Yeah. I think we should give Sloane a bath.”
That reached her.
She looked up at me, confused. “A bath?”
I gave her a small, crooked smile.
“We’re going for a swim, love.”