SurvivorZ: Grave Harbor

26

KEITH

The morning sun revived Keith Cross from his slumber on the bank of the Charles River. He groaned and clawed at the cold earth, dragging himself further ashore. His entire body was numb. His damp clothes clung to his skin like a rigid set of frozen armor.

He should have been dead, along with everyone else. Somehow, he managed to escape the slaughter at Manconi's compound and survive a freezing cold swim across the river in the dead of night. It seemed like nothing short of a miracle.

The only catch was that Keith didn't believe in miracles, and for good reason. God didn't get to have a say when it came to his business. He was Don Manconi's number one by virtue of skill and dogged persistence, not because of divine intervention.

Those same traits would see him through this current crisis, as well as grant him the vengeance he sought against Carmine DiMarco and Carl Graves. Until both men lay dead at his feet, Heaven had best stay the fuck out of his way. He was a steamroller with the pedal to the floor and the brakes shot to shit. God needed to save his miracles for anyone foolish enough to stand between him and his targets.

Keith rose to his feet. A shudder ran through his muscular body. Hugging himself for warmth, he checked his bearings.

The current must have carried him further downstream than he suspected. Smoke billowed to his left from the downed Kendrick Street Bridge. In his exhausted flight to safety, he apparently floated right under its broken, burning frame without realizing it.

He trudged across the uneven floodplains, towards the warmth of the rising sun peeking through the trees. His immediate needs ran through his mind like a shopping list. Protection. Warmth. Shelter. Nourishment. Revenge. These were the only things that mattered to him anymore.

Keith drew his sidearm. Water poured out of it from every opening. Scowling, he tossed it away. A gun that he couldn't trust was just a liability to him. Hell, a working firearm was a potential concern, now that he had to worry about attracting the dead with too much noise.

He removed and discarded his wet jacket and then did the same with his empty shoulder holster. The chill blew through his remaining clothes. He shivered and did his best to ignore it. If he couldn't find something else to wear, he'd strip down, start a fire, and dry out his remaining things. Until then, he needed to lighten the load. Every stitch of clothing felt like an extra ten pounds of ice weighing him down.

With the potential threat of a populated area looming before him, he unsheathed his knife from its leg holster. In his skilled hands, the weapon would provide sufficient protection against the dead. Assuming he didn't stumble into a herd, that is.

The commercial area he was venturing into sat next to a university campus and the residential area of Oak Hill Park. Both places were bound to be attractive targets for the former residents of the seven cemeteries occupying the mile-long stretch of land between Oak Hill and Brook Farm. Keith kept his fingers crossed that most of the dead buried there hadn't migrated this far west. He didn't come all this way to dick around with a bunch of rotters. If that was how he wanted to waste his time, he could've stayed in Needham.

After several minutes of slogging through the cold, a brick structure appeared through the trees. The building had no visible signage on this side of the road. What it did have was a large, nearly deserted parking lot and a shitload of easily breakable windows on the ground floor. It wasn't at all secure, but at least that much glass meant he didn't have to worry about getting trapped inside.

It'd do in a pinch. He only needed a place to dry off, warm up, and plan his next move. He had no intention of staying.

He spotted a lone Jeep Cherokee near the entrance. Its owner must have been in a hurry. Ignoring the designated parking spots, the driver pulled up against the foot of the steps and left it there.