Billy brought the bird down on some of the higher containers. There was no place else to set her down. We got out of the helicopter and they took off. They couldn’t just hover, it would kill precious fuel, so they headed back to the Atlantis, which was now closer to the Majestik than the Prague was. They would come get us as soon as we called them, or in two hours, whichever came first. In three hours, the storm would catch the ship, but Bob said that could be a good thing, because severe weather could defeat the course correction software and push this big bitch away from us.
Still, a rogue runaway boat, the size of a small town, was not a nice thing to have running around us or our friends in the gulf, so we had to shut her down. Or take her. If the containers held shit we could use, we would of course pilfer said shit. The water here was too deep to anchor her, but Bob was talking about sea anchors when we began climbing down the containers. It took a few minutes, but we made it to the deck, and I gotta tell you it was creepy in there. It was like being at the bottom of a steep, metal ravine. Everybody was quiet, but our footfalls echoed at each step, and honestly, it was tough to keep our shit together. Even Alvarez, who is normally stoic and tough, was looking a might nervous.
We made it to the tents we had seen from the chopper and my suspicions were confirmed on what had happened here. The tents were torn and bloody, with signs of struggle. Bullet brass and blood was everywhere, as were the tell-tale drag marks of a body being moved across the deck. A stainless steel medical table was overturned and there were medical supplies scattered all over the place. Syringes and unopened gauze and bandages, stainless instruments and even a defibrillator. Steve the medic began to inspect some of the stuff, and pocketed anything not covered in zombie shit.
Other than the sounds of the ship, it was eerily silent. So when one of the container doors moved slightly and squealed, we all spun and faced our weapons toward it. The container was black, and there were three of them. The doors were open, but the boxes were empty. Upon further inspection, the things stank to high heaven. Brown stains covered the floors and walls, and pieces of clothing were here and there. They had been storing their dead in here, or they had been storing the dead in here. Either way they were crazy. Why anybody would have a container full of infected is beyond me.
Alvarez, Babe, and Zero, one of the marines, began to confer on what to do. The plan was to run if things got dicey. We would get back to the tops of the containers by any means necessary, and wait for extraction by the helicopter. We did a comms check and we moved on toward the wheelhouse.
We came across the first body lying on its side against one of the containers. It was a torso, and there was barely anything left of it. It was impossible to tell if it had been a man or woman, as there were no features left. It had been dressed in jeans but the shirt, and face, and scalp and every single scrap of flesh and muscle was gone. There were tiny pieces of viscera, but for the most part this was a skeleton that had been picked clean. It looked like the blood on the deck and container had even been lapped at.
So you can imagine how far back we all jumped when the thing shifted its head. The head moved a little, but other than that there was nothing else left to budge, and it couldn’t moan as there was nothing below its upper jaw. Zero pulled his knife and jabbed it through the thing’s empty eye socket, ending its pathetic imitation of life.
We were all nervous and on edge now. It took a few minutes of frightful meandering through the containers to get to the superstructure of the ship. A really long set of white metal steps went up and up, but there was also a hatch leading inside right where the stairs met the deck. We decided to split up, six up the stairs, and six through the hatch. I was lucky enough to go through the hatch. Alvarez opened it, and it didn’t squeak horribly like I thought it would. Eleven firearms lowered when we saw that the inside was totally lit by interior lights, and seemed to be empty, and the stairs-six began their ascent. Ship was the last one through the hatch, and he closed and locked it with those little handles behind him.
A corridor went straight, all the way to the other side of the superstructure, but we wanted the stairwell in front of us. Another body was sitting down in the corner of the first landing, and it opened its eyes and tried to stand as we approached the stairs. It moaned, and Alvarez smoked it with his machete before it could get all the way up. We heard more moaning above us, and shuffling footsteps on the metal.
We were as quiet as possible going up the steps, and our enemy was making as much noise as possible, so when we met, we were surprised that there were only two of them. The guy who had been sitting down was a civilian, but these two were ship workers. They were both wearing what used to be blue jumpsuits with MAERSK on them, and they were absolutely mauled. They came at us, and Alvarez and Zero smoked them with a machete and a combat knife. When the dead were dead again, we listened. We could hear movement above us, and everybody knew what it was. Three landings up, we found it. Again, it was not possible to tell the gender of this one, but it had more to it. No legs and only half of one arm, it was trying to drag its wretched self to us.
What drives these things? Why do they want to eat us? If it’s some primal need, then why don’t they eat each other? Is it because nobody wants to eat something rotten, or do they consider themselves a different species, and abhor cannibalism?
Alvarez brought one of his size tens down on its noggin a few times and it was finished. We listened again, but couldn’t hear anything, so we moved on. There were several hatches on the way up, but they were all closed, and some of them looked to have that gore spatter you see when a group of them have been beating their rotten fists against something. We were smart enough not to open any of them. All we had to do was get to the bridge and turn this big bitch a tiny bit.
We reached the top of the stairs, and there was carnage everywhere. How the hell these things had gotten inside the wheelhouse when there were only a few entrances was beyond me. All the hatches had locking mechanisms, but the port side door was wide open. Why would they open the fucking door with those things pounding on it?
The bridge looked like what I would think a spaceship bridge looked like. There were so many controls and buttons and lights and sticks it was insanity. And it was big. Really big, super wide and if it weren’t for the giant broken window, all the blood, and few staggering zombies, it would have looked quite nice up there.
Zero dispatched the first one to come at us with the butt of his rifle. Alvarez got the next one, and Babe and Ship took the last two. All of them were down in under five seconds, and all of them looked like civilians except for one in blue scrubs. She had been a doctor, and she looked fresher than the others. She had a single bite mark on her forearm, even though the front of her scrubs were covered in blood and bits of shit. Although quite infected, she hadn’t been mangled like the others we had seen.
Captain Bob moved toward the massive instrument panel and began to search it over, just when the exterior team arrived at the outside hatch. They came in and we were all confused, as they hadn’t seen shit. The captain reached for one of the knobs or dials, but Steve, our medic stopped him with a hand on his arm. Steve pointed at all the blood on the panel, and said one word, “Don’t.”
He opened his pack and fished out a pair of purple examination gloves for Bob, who nodded and put them on. The rest of us searched around for stuff, and the security force began to sweep the giant room and the access points. There wasn’t a lot of space to hide, but the first time you don’t check, you’ve got a zombie chewing on your ass, so they checked. With the captain fiddling with his knobs, the heavy hitters securing the perimeter, the medic looking like he was shitting himself, and Ship looking over the computer systems, I had some free time, so I searched for something to do.
I found a black bound notebook and picked it up. It was the captain’s private log. I read the last entry, and it was like a fucking horror story.
July 6th
They’re at the doors and the stairwell is crawlin
g with them. They can’t get in, but we can’t get out. We only have a day’s rations up here. Eventually we will have to try to escape. My God there are so many. I can see several of my crew members on the deck, feeding on their friends and the civilians we picked up. I’ve set a course of 190° and a speed of seven knots and turned on the CCS. This should beach the Majestik near the port city of Tampico, Mexico. Seven knots is as slow as I can set her to maintain course, and the CCS will help. I want her to be as slow as possible when she beaches so she doesn’t break up. God help anyone left alive in Tampico if the Majestic breaks up and spills her cargo.
If we live through this, I swear to all that is holy I will kill every one of those USAMRIID bastards. That bitch Doctor Callus won’t need my wrath, as she was bitten earlier today, and she’s already sick. She’s killed us all, even herself.
This is the final log of Captain Asmund Pedersen. I hope I see my children again. Jeg elsker deg Hanna. Jeg elsker deg Marit. Jeg elsker deg Jan Egil. Beklager…
I kept reading as I heard the security guys saying Clear through the radio. I flipped a few pages back.
June 29th
They dropped off the containers today. Three Sky Cranes plopped them down right on the deck by the tent city that has sprung up there. We had room aft, but Callus demanded we put them immediately in front of the bridge, so they could be monitored from the wheelhouse. My suggestions that these containers be put aft for safety went unheeded, and actually earned me looks of reproach from the soldiers and doctors. I’ve come to realize that Captain means nothing to these people. I don’t run my ship anymore, they do. “A military operation now” is what she said. Those damn containers should not be aboard this vessel with all these survivors on board. They should be doing this elsewhere.
Jarron fixed the electrical issue with the forward boom this morning.
We picked up another eight survivors from the sea as well today. Their boat was taking on water and we were able to get to them before it sunk, but just. They were grateful. One of the children reminds me of Marit, six years old and blonde to the point of blinding me. She is beautiful. I miss my children. I hold no hope that they survived as Trondheim is a large city. Hanna is resourceful though, perhaps they escaped to the sea.
And a few more pages back.
June 23rd
The Majestik received radio contact from the Navy of the United States this morning. We were anchored southwest of Pensacola Florida taking on survivors, when we received a request to weigh anchor and steam southwest further into the gulf. There is a US military ship, the Winston S. Churchill, that has suffered some type of catastrophe, and we have been asked to help.
Forward boom is still giving us some trouble.
Thirty two survivors made it to us today. We are acquiring quite a family here.
June 24th
We now have several doctors and naval sailors on the Majestik. They have brought weapons and medical equipment and supplies from the Churchill. There was an outbreak aboard the Churchill, and they were unable to contain it. Apparently there are dozens of dead confined below decks, but the engine room is overrun and there was a fire. They were dead in the water when we found them. One of the sailors was bitten, and not allowed to come with us. I could hear the dead pounding on the hatches and bulkheads, and apparently so could the sailor, because he took his own life. I don’t blame him, nobody survives a bite from one of those things.
I harrumphed.
When we had moved a kilometer away from the Churchill, one of the sailors triggered something, and there was a huge explosion on the port side. A large fireball leapt from the ship, and she immediately listed to port. She took less than twenty minutes to slip beneath the waves. None of the sailors or doctors would tell us anything other than there was an outbreak and a fire. The lead doctor, a woman named Callus, demanded to see me on the bridge. I think she’s a tad intrusive, but she’s a doctor, and we need one since Bernhardt died.
June 25th
They have taken my ship. The United States military has taken my ship. I am a puppet, and there are armed guards in my wheelhouse “for my safety.” I can’t even use the head without armed escort. They are bringing infected aboard for study and examination. That bitch doctor, who is also a colonel in the Army, has told me that this is the best hope for the world. She struts around here like she owns my boat, and with her escorts and their weapons, she might just. Her arrogance would amuse me if not for the fact that she is in charge of me. I requested to evacuate the three hundred civilians aboard, but she said no, stating that the Majestik was safer than anywhere else. Safer until you bring zombies here, stupid woman!
Three hundred people…plus the crew, plus the soldiers and sailors and doctors. Where the fuck is everybody?
“Contact!”
I had to think it. I just couldn’t have kept my mind on what I had been reading, or peanuts or porn stars. I just had to. I put the book in my pack and checked my rifle. Babe had been the one to call out contact and he was pointing down at the deck.
Other than Captain Bob, we all came to those giant windows and looked toward the back of the ship. The containers were stacked a few high, and in between some close to the superstructure stumbled a lone infected. It just milled about, not doing anything scary. Another stumbled into view, then another. They were coming from the rear, and within seconds, the maze of containers was filled with moving bodies.
And they kept coming. They moved in all directions, as long as those directions were forward. Two of them stormed past, pushing the others out of the way. One of the newcomers grabbed a shambler and screamed at it, punching it over and over. The others turned to look, but then moved forward again when the screamer dropped the one it had been striking. Great. Runners. Hadn’t seen them in a while.
Once again, I should have kept my big mind shut.
The Runner looked around, then up at us. We didn’t think to duck, and we should have, because he screamed, and then fought his way through the crowd to get to the stairwell. The other one did the same, chasing his buddy at top speed, and soon four more were pushing and shoving the slower ones. Then two more, then another. How the hell were there so many runners in one place?
I felt the ship move slightly, and my Ship put his hand on my shoulder. I jumped, and may or may not have given off a quiet manly shriek that only the two of us heard. Ship moved his head in a “let’s get the F outa here” motion, and I was on board with that plan. Oh yeah, and it had suddenly gotten very dark outside.
“We need to get out of here before we get trapped!”
The medic looked at me like I was crazy. “They can’t get in here, we should wait.”
“Yeah, but we can’t get out either! After a week up here, you’re gonna look mighty tasty dumbass, and I don’t mean to the zombies!”
“I’m done,” Bob said. “I’ve set her course for one sixty five, she should miss all the rigs, even the abandoned ones. I’m with him, let’s go.”
We could hear frantic stamping on the exterior metal stairs. Babe moved to the door and looked down. “Here they come.” He slammed the hatch and threw all six hatch locks and the slide bar.
Zero did the same across the wheelhouse. “This side is fucked too,” he said calmly and pulled his radio. He called for extraction, and the chopper was on its way.
“Alright,” began Alvarez, “we can’t get to the roof of this structure, or use the exterior stairs, we have to go down the interior stairwell!”
I shook my head. “By the time we get to the bottom all those pus bags will have reached it.”
“Then we use one of the other doors in the stairwell and get into the ship! Now or we die!”
He ran to the door and threw it open, shining his tactical light into the stairwell, “C’mon!” He ran down the stairs and we all followed. I could hear the Runners beating the shit out of the hatches upstairs. Six landings down, Alvarez opened a wooden door and moved in covering the left side, while Babe covered the right.
We moved down the corridor, not seeing any evidence of an undead plague. There were stairwells and doors aplenty, but nobody living, dead, or undead to be seen. Still, Alvarez and Babe checked every nook and cranny without opening doors, while Zero covered the rear. Ship stopped and put his massive mitt on one of the bulkheads. You don’t call the walls on a boat walls, you call them bulkheads. Fucking stupid, I know, but it sounds cool, and I firmly believe that is why sailors call walls bulkheads, floors decks, ropes lines, and toilets heads. My knowledge of nautical terms notwithstanding, the big guy looked pretty bad off. I stopped and looked at him, and he looked back at me. I saw it coming, and pulled off a ten point zero Louganis to the right, (six point five from the Russian Judge) but he still got me with some of his spatter.
Everybody has to puke on me. Ever since Steven Jordan in the fourth grade, I’ve been the planet’s vomit target, and honestly, I’ve gotten pretty spry when it comes to dodging. The problem is, sometimes there’s no place to go, and in my haste to escape I bounced off of the opposite bulkhead while Ship continued to spray.
Have we covered the fact that Ship is large? We may have gone over that a time or three. So using your Holmsian deductive powers, you’ve undoubtedly come to the conclusion that big guys supply vastly more spew than smaller guys.
Chaos Theory Page 18
