When they pull me onto the yacht, I can’t even stand I’ve been adrift in the ocean so long. A young crewman sits me on a teak bench while he calls out for someone to bring him blankets and water. He asks me my name but my tongue is too thick and my throat too raw from screaming and salt water to answer.
I’m alive, I think to myself. The words run on an endless loop through my head as if with repetition I’ll somehow believe it. I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.
And Libby isn’t.
For starters, it has three pools, a bowling alley, and more buffets than I have fingers and toes. Its passengers are dragging rolling suitcases and hoisting cheap woven beach bags stuffed with shorts and tank tops and flip-flops and bathing suits in a rainbow of colors, and some of them already seem to be sunburned. And there are giant potted palm trees dotting the various levels and decks. Palm trees. Something about palm trees floating across the ocean blows my mind.
A body that’s been… uh… recently chewed on is in the process of “reanimation”. Its limbs and torso, motionless an instant ago, twitch and jerk. The creature’s leg twists in an impossible direction, allowing the figure to right itself. I recognize the newborn zombie: the Soap Nazi.
So much for the power of antibacterial gel.