Extinction Level Event (Book 4): Rescue

by Jones, K. J.

  “So, the guy in this picture with her?” Matt held up the framed photo.

  “Assuming, since they look alike.” He scanned and flipped pages. “Oh. She got bit.”

  Tyler left the cabin. Bored.

  “That explains the suicide in the master bedroom. She knew what would happen. Can you get these computers on?”

  “Yes and no. I’m not the best with boat gennies. We probably need Sully for that. And a black hat hacker is going to have firewalls up the ass.”

  “Thieves think everyone’s a thief. I can’t believe they killed all those people and wildlife to get this person and here she is.”

  “Done in by a bite. Ironic, huh. She wrote it was even a small bite. But she started getting a fever and neck ache, so she knew. Also, she assumed her brother didn’t make it.”

  “I’m assuming she’s writing in English.”

  Mullen chuckled. “Yeah. There’s other parts that aren’t.”

  “Asian American then.”

  “Oh, yeah. There’s typical American shit written. From what I have learned from Eric before he started his strange ramblings, you gotta be American raised to get the phrasing right.”

  “Interesting.”

  4.

  Tyler and Chris returned to home base to tell the others and retrieve the right personnel.

  Phebe sat on a bench seat beside Eric with permission to knock him down if he tried to flip out and jump overboard. The crazy people from the house were on a day pass. It was nice to get out.

  “First,” said Chris. “We gotta take care of this yacht and shit.”

  Tyler remembered all the water hazard spots as he drove.

  “But there people up here at the hospital we can moon.”

  Phebe said, “No mooning, boys.”

  “She always ruins all our fun,” said Peter. His plan for the maritime museum people was a group mooning.

  “I like her more than you,” said Chris.

  “Nice. I’ve known you forever and you choose her over me.”

  Chris shrugged. “She more likable than you.”

  Phebe smiled at Peter.

  Chris examined the bullet holes. “So they tried to shoot our Miss Mazy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not good at aiming.”

  “Are they the assholes I shot?” Tyler asked.

  “We think so,” responded Peter.

  Eric watched the banks as the metal skiff hurried up the Ashley River. He was still unwashed. Phebe hung a car air freshener from the button of his old man cardigan.

  “Are we looking for my sisters?” he asked her.

  “No, Eric. Remember? It’s the hacker.”

  “Does he know where they are?”

  “You’ll see.”

  5.

  As soon as Peter got the yacht’s generator operating, Eric’s demeanor changed. The computers kicked on and he went right to the seat in front of them as if they gave off a Siren’s song to an ancient Greek sailor.

  “This is so cool.” He smiled at Mullen as his fingers went to work. He typed rapidly on the keyboard and moved the mouse around. He was in his zone.

  “Insanity’s totally bringing out his genius,” said Mullen.

  Peter came down from the wheelhouse. “This sucker has fuel. No EMP damage. Where’s Pheebs?”

  Matt pointed in the direction of the master bedroom below deck. “Checking what she does.”

  “Oh. Yeah. She can’t resist a dead body. There has to be a galley in this place.” He wandered off.

  “This boat is nicer than my apartment in Wilmington.” Matt sat on a leather couch.

  Eric said to Mullen, “Flip to the next.”

  Mullen turned the journal page.

  “What’s that all about?” Matt asked.

  Mullen responded, “The Asian characters are codes. Some are in Vietnamese, so I was right. But some are also Chinese and some Japanese. And even some are Thai. She kind of made up her own written language using various Asian languages characters..”

  “Sounds smart.”

  “She was definitely that. Genius level.”

  “If he gets in, what does that do for us?”

  “Possibly connect with the outside world.”

  “How so?”

  “Those satellite dishes on the roof? They can connect with satellites in orbit.”

  “Could that give us a satellite phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We could contact our families?”

  “Possibility of it. For y’all.”

  Peter came up the stairs. “The icemaker’s kicked on. Want cocktails?”

  Matt asked him, “Can you steer this yacht to home base marina?”

  “Don’t see why not. There’s gas. Everything’s intact electronically. The only thing this baby’s missing is defenses.” He added, “And a shallower underside.”

  “It can’t get down the river?”

  “We’d have to wait until high tide. And be really careful going under those bridges. It has a depth finder. It works. It’s top of the line, too. Really shocking no one got to this yet. Its galley is stocked with freeze-dried prepper foods. Even the dreaded MREs. The water tanks are filled. And there’s a filtration system on board, including desalination. Probably could even cleanout dead body yuck. This baby can live out on the ocean for weeks if not months.”

  Phebe came upstairs.

  “What’s the prognosis, doctor?” Peter asked

  “Looks bad for the patient. I don’t think she’ll pull through.” She held the framed photo. “There’s nothing from the remains that excludes the girl in the picture from being her. I would like more pictures. The skin has tattoos, but I can’t see them in the photo.”

  Mullen leaned over Eric’s shoulder to hear him. “How about different pictures? Eric’s pulling some up.”

  A screen change. Photos appeared.

  Phebe studied them. “That’s the same wrist tattoo.” She turned to Peter and Matt. “I’m willing to say that is her.”

  “Was she bitten?” asked Matt.

  “Yeah. The teeth indentation remains on the skin, mostly healed. This place must hermetically seal or something. She mummified. That tells me a lot. No insects. Limited oxygen.”

  “But the bodies at the pier had mummified.”

  “That’s because the insects were killed by the gassing. It was probably a super-concentrated pesticide or something. Autolysis still occurred.”

  “In English,” said Peter.

  “Autolysis is self-digestive enzymes that break down cells. Positive when in its in wound dressing.”

  Matt nodded. “That’s what helps the system to wash away dead tissue.”

  “Yeah. It goes to the greater extreme when the organism has died. It happened to even the Bog Bodies or Egyptian mummies. In anaerobic environments. The pier bodies slowed in the process due to the lack of insect activity, but their soft tissue still decomposed. Hers has not.”

  “Explains why she survived the gassing.”

  “That’s what I am thinking, too. And this place, the electronics, have some kind of defense against the EMP.”

  “Yeah,” said Peter. “Since she doesn’t have wires running all over the place like the Mol. Everything upstairs must be well insulated with EMP in mind, including the sonar and satellite dishes. Smart. If you’re going to take on the US Armed Forces, you need your gear protected.”

  Matt turned to him. “Now it’s our gear.”

  “High tide should start soon.”

  6.

  The yacht was not a boat. It was a ship. Peter corrected everyone on the lingo. When past eighty feet, it’s a ship. The yacht was longer than the Molly. And had more decks stacked up. The stern deck was enclosed. A party deck above it, under a solid roof, behind the bridge. Nothing was lacking in wants. It would be as expensive as the home base Star Gate House.

  The hacker’s brother must have been extremely patriotic to join the Marine Corps, or their family wasn’t rich and s
he accumulated wealth on her own, illegally no doubt.

  The depth finder showed too many obstructions on the floor of the Ashely River under the bridge to clear the underside of the yacht’s hull at the south bank.

  “No choice but to cut close to the un-friendlies.” Peter steered.

  Tyler sat in the co-pilot seat, watching everything, including the bay of high end electronics on the console.

  “I’ll make sure Eric gets down.” Phebe headed for the stairs.

  “How about you stay with him, toots.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “She listens worse than you, Ty.”

  “I taught her everything she knows.”

  Peter smiled at the kid.

  The hospital un-friendlies waited on the dock. The depth finder showed bridge rubble had been pushed downstream on the southern side by the current.

  “Not liking these people,” Peter said into the throat mic. “Very Mad Maxed. Or punk rock era revival. Over.”

  More than a dozen people had gathered on the dock. None looked normal. They raised rifles and clubs and makeshift blades as they yelled antagonisms at the yacht.

  But as long as they stayed where they were, and didn’t open fire, there was no reason for Ben to shoot at them. He was readied, laying on the floor with his SASS riffle.

  Chris, too, was ready. He had the newly clean M249 SAW. But he hadn’t a chance to test if it fired. The chain ammo bullets were limited. But enough, they figured, to scare these young people awaiting them.

  The yacht slowed. The underside barely cleared displaced rubble.

  * * *

  Phebe told Eric to get under the desk. His eyes wide. Yet he pulled out a knife.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Okay then. But stay there, okay?”

  “I’m here for you.”

  “Good.” But she had no idea what that would mean for him.

  Through the windows, she watched the weird-looking young people on the dock. Too far away for them to jump onto the yacht, but not too far to shoot at it.

  She ducked.

  Then laughed.

  The windows turned out to be bulletproof.

  “Alright, hacker girl!” She grabbed a handheld. “We got bulletproof glass down here. Over.”

  No one responded.

  She could not see the stern, where Matt, Brandon, and Mullen were. The back of the saloon was a wall with a door in it. No windows. She had only three views, port side, starboard, and forward, but not the bow deck itself as the saloon was too high. Yacht were not built for combat.

  Eric had brought up feed from cameras all over the ship. Everywhere seemed to have a camera, inside and out. She looked from windows to monitors and back again as she placed the handheld on the desk.

  “Can I come up?”

  “Um.” She looked around. “I guess.”

  “Good.” He went right to the seat. “We have trouble.” He expanded one of the outside feeds.

  “Aw, shit.” Scooped up the radio. “We’re seeing boats launching at us. Over.”

  Peter’s voice, “Yeah. We got Waterworld Mad Max happening. Still not clear. Over.”

  Eric minimized that feed image and drew up the one for the stern.

  About two dozen young males, all appearing as if they watched too many movies, climbed from their outboard skiffs onto the swim board. Brandon and Mullen aimed downward from the party deck above. Young guys fell off from the shots.

  Chris and Ben appeared on a starboard walkway feed, hurrying aft.

  “Let me see the stern room deck behind us. Just big enough for me to see.”

  Eric drew it up.

  Chris aimed the SAW and … nothing happened. His cursing was so loud, she could hear it through the walls. He dropped the massive weapon.

  But the maniacs surged in a horde. They brandished clubs, boards with nails stuck out of one side, and makeshift machetes. Hand-to-hand ensued.

  “This is one nasty group,” Eric muttered.

  “What the fuck is that?” She pointed.

  “An RPG, right?”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  They saw the grenade launch on the feed and heard the explosion behind them.

  “Get below deck,” she ordered.

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “This is gonna get ugly, Eric. Go!”

  Movement on the interior stairs startled her.

  “Me.” Peter flew down them. “Lock the doors behind me. Get below deck.”

  He went out of the starboard door.

  Tyler had to be at the wheel since the yacht kept moving forward.

  “Go, Eric.”

  “You, too.”

  “That doesn’t work. Someone has to stop them. This is the only way to the flying bridge. They get it, they got the yacht and we’re all gator food.”

  Eric thought this through. “That is logical.”

  A crash at the bow. She tumbled backward. Eric held on to his seat. Things fell off surfaces to the floor.

  Tyler’s voice on the radio. “They’re dropping boats in front of me. I hit one. Over.”

  “We need that goddamn SAW to work,” she muttered.

  A look at the monitors. All the men were engaged in hand-to-hand. Some on the party deck. Others in the covered deck.

  “This is bad.”

  “They cut our skiff line.”

  The metal skiff was gone from the stern. This was do or die.

  Figures appeared at the portside door window. A guy with piercings and fresh tattoos all over his face aimed at the door.

  “Shit.” She covered Eric.

  “Could you please put on Matt’s baby flak jacket?”

  The door held.

  “Ha-ha! It’s bulletproof too.”

  “Please.”

  “What?”

  “The flak jacket.” He pointed to it on the couch. “It would make me feel better.”

  Surprised he was so aware of things, she considered his request.

  “Please.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  She began the process of pulling it on and cinching all the many Velcro straps. The thing hung to her upper thighs, something she really disliked. It could get in the way of her legs.

  “Pheeb.”

  She looked up to see through the door window. A guy with the RPG. He fired, and instantly flew backward over the railing from the backend release of gases. Not the smartest fella.

  The side of the door exploded.

  “Fuck!”

  Shrapnel rained down. Explosion smoke-choked.

  But through it, she saw the door opening. The RPG couldn’t get its full ferocity from the stupid thing the guy did, but it was enough to dislodge the locking mechanism.

  She hurled her body at the door and caught face pierce guy’s wrist. He pushed back. She pushed forward.

  “Eric!”

  But he was under the desk. An explosion too much like his bad past.

  She was going to lose. So she pulled the machete out of the makeshift back sheath, whirled it around for a good angle, and whacked off the guy’s hand at the wrist. Blood spurted. The door pressed flush.

  The expectation of such a wound would be screaming. He merely cursed. “Get that fucking bitch. I want her dissected!”

  Never a good thing to hear, especially from people who looked the part.

  Her mind raced on what to do next. If more people than pushed at the door, she wouldn’t be able to stop them.

  She realized she had done something stupid when she made the panicked rush at the door. Her M4 laid on the couch.

  “Eric, get me the M4. Eric!”

  They pushed.

  Her boot soles skidded backward across the floor.

  “Eric!”

  They didn’t dare shove their hands through the opening. Instead, the shoulders of young males pushed at the door. It opened further and further.

  There was no hope in this. She pulled out her combat knife with her left hand, holding the blade down
ward, and with the machete in her right, released the door.

  It flew open. They tumbled in from the sudden lack of resistance.

  She took the moment.

  The machete whirled. The blade came down just at the side of one guy’s neck into the soft tissue. An easy slice to pull the blade all the way through in one motion. A fatal wound for the guy. Blood spurted with his heart pulse.

  Without skipping a beat, the machete moved on and sliced open the other guy’s stomach and abdomen. His entrails spilled out of the opening flesh.

  She backed off, for others behind them entered. They brandished their clubs and nail-boards and other vile home-made weapons. Some of them had screws riveted along the arms of their leather ZBDUs, sharp ends outward.

  But few had guns. They kept them holstered.

  They looked not one bit intimidated by her double-bladed fight stance. As the overhead lights illuminated eyes, the lightest orbs showed these young men were stoned out of their minds. That was never good.

  It explained why they weren’t reacting to pain. Bath salts. Flakka in the Middle East the guys had talked about. All the no-pain-feeling original real-life zombies who kept on coming despite even fatal wounds.

  Pierced face guy had his bleeding wrist wrapped in a shred of cloth. He yelled, “I want to eat her heart. She’s brave.”

  Eat. Heart.

  She suspected he didn’t mean it figuratively.

  The idea of it ratcheted her adrenaline to the stratosphere. It could be two hearts. The fetus had a pulse.

  “No. Way!” Her voice, low and husky, bounced off the walls.

  She charged in, screaming a warrior’s battle cry.

  As always seemed to happen in combat, everything decelerated into slow motion.

  Peter had taught her how to wield a blade properly. Slash, not stab. Target soft tissue, preferably with an artery close to the surface, and continue the blade motion like cutting a roast.

  She ducked a nail-board and slashed at the guy’s leg as she moved onto the next target. Outnumbered heavily, she had to keep moving or one of those weapons would bring her down.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Eric charge out from under the deck with his knife. No time to be concerned for him.

  A club came straight down at her. They were not skilled at this fighting. She tilted to the side and rammed her knife into his side, cutting through his leather jacket. Then next guy swung a make-shift machete sideways at her head. She knelt and stabbed him in the groin. No pain yelp. But his knees buckled. It was a crippling wound.