SurvivorZ: Grave Harbor

33

TOMMY

Tommy stared through the bars of the mansion's gate with a cold knot in his stomach. Before the world ended, the sight of greying clouds always forewarned the coming of a storm. Now that tempests traveled in packed mobs along the surface, detecting their approach wasn't always so easy.

The clamor of running feet was their first indication that trouble was heading their way. It wasn't the Boston marathon, nor was it a tribe of survivors running for their lives. As one of the few people who'd experienced fast-moving zombies and lived to tell the tale, he knew exactly what it was. He even had a good idea where they came from. It seemed that their attempt to cut Needham Heights off from the rest of Boston wasn't as effective as they'd hoped.

The sound of the approaching car ahead of the pack went quiet a short while ago. Not a good sign. If the dead were simply chasing a panicked driver, they would have flew by before now. That they stopped somewhere close raised the possibility that whoever was behind the wheel had led them here intentionally.

"Get those generators up and running," he ordered his men, pointing to several trailer-hitched, portable generators against the west wall. Wires snaked from them to the barrier's interconnected reinforcement of metal bars. Anyone who tried climbing in here, dead or alive, was going to be in for quite a shock.

Several men ran to carry out his orders. Others, including Clint, stood beside him to guard the exposed gate.

"Where's my tractor?" Tommy asked, looking around. "We need this gate secure."

"It's on its way," Clint replied.

While scoping out the situation, Tommy spotted a pair of figures coming down the driveway from the main house. Graves tagged along behind his stern-looking father like a Doberman off its leash.

"Father, you should go back in the house," Tommy said. "I've got everything under control."

"So I see. If your plan was to announce our presence to a passing herd, you've managed to accomplish this with flying colors."

"This isn't a normal herd," he declared. "They're moving too fast. I think they're from Needham."

"The bombers could've driven them east," Clint offered.

"Across the river?" Carmine argued. "I know they're smart, but what'd they do? Build a ferry?"

Tommy exhaled, trying to maintain his cool. "I think somebody helped them across and led them here. I heard a car."

Carmine listened for himself. The frown on his face implied that he couldn't hear anything over the rumble of heavy machinery and the rattle of the gas generators kicking in. The racket was bringing the horde to their doorstep. The only proof they had that this was their intended destination all along came from Tommy's intuition.

"Wherever they're from, they'll be here soon," Graves said. "We'd better get ready for a fight. We can't sit behind an electrified fence forever."

"Agreed," Carmine replied. "That's why I'm putting you in charge of our defense. Direct my men as you see fit."

Whether or not he had prior knowledge of the purpose for Carmine's frontline visit, Carl at least managed to look surprised by the decision. Tommy couldn't say the same. He had grown accustomed to his father cutting him off at the knees.

"You put me in charge of protecting the estate," he cried.

"And now I'm putting someone more qualified in your place," his father replied dismissively.

Tommy fumed, but somehow managed to hold his tongue. He knew from experience that any argument was pointless. Carmine DiMarco would never trust that his only son might prove himself capable. It was foolish to hope that even the end of the world would change his father's attitude towards him.