Rebecca Kirkland wrapped her daughter in her arms, hoping that squeezing the six-year-old would make her own trembling less obvious. The group’s self-appointed captain had announced that the ferry they’d stolen was chugging along at about 17 knots, but Rebecca was an elementary school teacher, not a sailor. A knot tied things together, and at the moment, everything was breaking apart.
She could still hear the guttural caterwauling from the shore. No one knew what provisions the ferry carried, or where they were headed. The undead were too physically unstable to swim, but the plague was spreading at a frantic rate. When the fuel tanks dipped low enough, Rebecca and the nine strangers she now needed to trust with her life would be forced to land, though the plague would be even more pervasive by then.
“Ssssh, baby,” Rebecca whispered to her daughter, gently turning the little girl’s head towards the sea. “It’s OK. We’ll float on. We’ll float ever on.”
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