Free Affliction Z (Book 3): Descended in Blood by L.T. Ryan

drive. Jenny, help secure Barbara, then you’re on gun duty with me.”
    Seconds later they slipped into the shady veil of the woods.

Chapter 9
    Two hours in the water. Most men Turk’s age couldn’t make it that long. Hell, putting up with the filthy gas- and oil-laden harbor would have drowned half upon contact. The toxic water coated his skin like slime. He estimated the distance was roughly three miles from the Coast Guard station to the Atlantic. The Ashley River dumped into the Charleston Harbor, which opened up to the ocean. On either side were the tourist beaches. Those provided the best opportunity. He’d have to exercise caution around the jetties, which produced powerful currents where the mouth of the harbor met the tumbling ocean. Exhausted, Turk would be a dead man if he got caught in one. Didn’t matter that he’d spent twenty years as a SEAL. The powerful pull of the water would carry him out. In his weakened state, there would be no getting back to shore.
    Turk swam through the harbor, looking for a salvageable vessel. Despite dozens of wrecks, he found nothing of use. Survivors and other scavengers had taken the life rafts off every ship large enough to carry one. Communication equipment and GPS units had also been looted. Even the damn life preservers were gone.
    Two choices remained. Dive into the depths of the murky harbor and search for a boat on the bottom, or start swimming toward the mouth and head either north on Sullivan’s Island, or south to Folly Beach.
    The first question he had was which way would most survivors have gone? Heading into the Atlantic wasn’t ideal, not with the types of ships that littered the harbor. The open water saw waves fifty feet high. Storms were killers. If the captain didn’t know what areas to avoid, the boat could get trapped in a current and never get out. It was thousands of miles before they were guaranteed to hit land. And even then, whether Europe or Africa, they’d face the same issues they had here.
    South brought warm weather, which made it easier for survival.
    For us and them.
    North might be a solid choice after winter had passed. If the afflicted remained even a trace human, the cold would dwindle their numbers. Food sources would disappear. The elements would win.
    Those with experience might decide to remain at sea. Find the Gulf Stream and live off the catch. Or they might take their chances and make their way around the southern tip of Florida and settle into the gulf. The Bahamas, Turk’s ultimate destination, was another option. It contained hundreds of small islands where the virus likely hadn’t taken hold. And even if it did, how many could there be on a small island?
    Zombies can’t swim.
    But could the afflicted?
    Turk wasn’t sure, but every time something brushed against his leg he sure as hell had the urge to get out of the harbor.
    Moving was the best choice. Without the right gear, diving in search of a wreck was a pointless exercise. The water offered zero visibility. Turk would have to rely on touch alone. He’d end up wasting time and energy.
    The tide pushed in from the Atlantic. Turk swam against it. The constant current wore him down stroke by stroke. His muscles ached. Joints groaned. Lungs burned. He needed to get out of the water soon, but first he had to get past the city.
    The Fort Sumter National Monument rose in the distance. A small spit of land with an old brick fort. A number of shipwrecks existed in between, acting as both obstacle and opportunity. Turk approached each with a glimmer of hope, like an impoverished child on Christmas morning, hopeful that just this one time what he wanted most would be under the wilted tree.
    Every investigation led to more disappointment.
    The fort stood a couple hundred yards away. Turk had to make a decision whether to go on land and investigate. It wasn’t like the island was far enough from society that the virus couldn’t reach. But it was the kind of place where