by Glynn James
“Thank God for that."
Martin nodded. “Yes, quite. Given a full-blown mutiny, an outbreak belowdecks, explosions and fires, and intentionally being run aground at speed…”
“Yeah,” Drake said. “I get it. It’s a miracle we’re still here at all. But Big John is a tough old tub.”
“Just so,” Martin said. “But I’m afraid there’s some more bad news to follow the good.”
“Just as long as it doesn’t go on like that forever, Captain. One of those good-news/bad-news jokes. Back and forth.”
Martin squinted in mild confusion, but then just carried on. “It’s to do with refloating the ship. Getting us off the sandbar. Simply… we can’t do it without power.”
“What’s the problem with power?”
“We don’t have any.”
Drake looked up at the overhead lights, which were burning bright enough.
“Ship’s batteries are still charged, and holding strong at about eighty percent. So no problem there, not with mains power for the ship. Not for a while. But, as you’ll know, our propulsion depends on the nuclear reactors. The steam they generate drives a turbine – which, in addition to recharging the batteries for electrical power, is then coupled through a gearbox directly to the propellers.”
“Thank you, Captain, for that lesson on nuclear marine propulsion.”
“Sorry,” Martin said, looking ill-at-ease in that special way the English had. “Of course. But, the point is, you’ll also remember the bit yesterday where I shut down the reactors.”
“Yes, that does sound familiar,” Drake said. “So start them up again.”
“That’s precisely the problem,” Martin said. “I knew enough about their operation to shut them down. But that’s much the easiest part – they’re designed to be simple to shut down, as a safety measure. But starting and running them safely is a whole different ball of twine.”
Drake mouthed the word Shit, without saying it aloud. He looked up. “And we lost most of the ship’s nuclear engineering section in the insurrection, and the outbreak.”
“Afraid so,” Martin said. “The crew on duty in the reactor compartments at the time were almost all killed by the mutineers. And their commander died beside his men.” Martin knew this, in part, because he’d had to fight his way down there, with Fick and with Wesley, to retake those compartments and shut down the reactors.
Drake continued for him. “Died defending his post, alongside his men. Which seemed pretty courageous at the time. Looks a little less smart now. Also, that starboard-side explosion took out much of the engineers’ quarters and some of the workshops. Fuck.” This he said aloud.
The XO had already known all these facts. He just hadn’t been attending to them. He currently had so many damned problems to deal with, most of them critically urgent, that he’d forgotten the implications of losing almost all of his remaining senior engineers. One damned thing after another…
He muttered, “Great, so we’re basically an airport now. Stuck out on the edge of Virginia.” But then he looked back up at Martin – and suddenly saw his great white hope.
“Wait. What’s it going to take for you to get the reactors spun up again?”
Martin exhaled heavily. “About a week in my cabin with the operations manuals, I think.”
“You’ve got the documentation?”
“Downloaded it all an hour ago.”
“So get on it. You're also authorized to shanghai any surviving engineering ratings who might be able to help you. Meanwhile, I’ll see if there are any qualified people left alive in Britain, and if so get them in the air flying here. And we’ll see who wins the race – just as long as it’s not the dead. Oh, and, for the moment at least, I think you also just became my Chief Engineer. With all that entails.”
Martin looked concerned. “What tasks do you want me to prioritize?”
Commander Drake gave him a hard look. “Everything. Do everything. Just like everyone else around here. You’re dismissed.”
Martin got up wordlessly, saluted, and walked to the hatch. Before he could open it, though, it opened from the other side. After moving aside to let Martin exit, an ensign stuck his head in.
“Commander, the CIC Watch Officer needs you. Downstairs, sir.”
“Want to give me an advance preview, Ensign?”
“They think they’ve picked up a storm system, sir.”
“Severe enough that I need to worry about it?”
The ensign looked slightly flustered. “They think it may be a… a storm of the dead. Um, sir.”
An Empty Land
Andrew Wesley, former corporal with the UK Security Services, stood now at the passenger side of an oversized American 4x4, the door wide open, and looked down the street. His side arm was in his hand, loaded and ready to go if necessary, but the safety was still on, and it didn’t look as though he was going to need to change that in the next few minutes. It still boggled his mind: here he was, actually on the ground in America – on the coast of Virginia and at the periphery of what used to be U.S. Naval Air Station Oceana.
A sharp wind blew through the buildings, cutting along the wide boulevard and ruffling Wesley’s two-week beard. It was a strange feeling, and one that he knew would take time to get used to. Rain-worn sheets of two-year-old newspaper drifted by, followed closely by shreds of cloth that had once belonged to… he shrugged off the thought, deciding it was best not to dwell on their origin.
“Where the hell are they all?” he asked, more to himself than anyone else.
Anderson, Wesley’s driver, a young seaman with freakishly unkempt hair and two missing front teeth – both lost during a scuffle on the lower decks during the Zealot uprising, to the butt of an ammunition-depleted M4 in the hands of a mutineer who had completely lost the plot – squinted through the dust that caked the windscreen, and he shrugged.
"Not a clue, sir," he said, keeping his hands comfortably on the steering wheel – and all of him safely in the vehicle.
They’d pulled over, at Wesley’s insistence, at the crossing of the Dam Neck Road and General Booth Boulevard, and into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. Two other SUVs, also appropriated from the endless car parks that surrounded the air station, itself surrounded by Virginia Beach, were pulled over behind them. From inside of each of these, the faces of the shore patrolmen who Commander Drake had sent out with Wesley scanned the area. Only Derwin, Wesley’s new second-in-command, had gotten out of his vehicle.
The stout man walked over, but didn’t say anything.
"Not a single sighting for the whole of today," said Wesley as he saw the sailor standing beside him.
"Yes, sir."
Sir. A new form of address that didn’t sit comfortably with Wesley, and another decision forced upon him. It seemed to him they had a lot of sailors and soldiers left on the JFK and the Michael Murphy, the destroyer that had sailed with them, but he had still been promoted. He’d actually overheard the complete deliberation on the matter, while holding up a wall outside Drake’s office:
“This guy’s got zombie-fighting experience. He was at Folkestone.”
“Fine. Send him.”
“He’s only a corporal, though.”
“Well, promote his ass. Give him a field commission. But get his ass out there. We need live bodies.”
And thus had Andrew Wesley been given a rank, Second Lieutenant, that he considered well above his station. Captain Martin, his friend from the Royal Engineers, and with whom he had survived that nightmare in Folkestone, was different. Martin was a professional soldier, and already an officer. Rising in the ranks, considering the situation and the value the man obviously had, made perfect sense. But Wesley? One night fighting on the streets of a small coastal town did not a commanding officer make.
Wesley looked back to Derwin, the team’s Master-at-Arms. Wesley knew the man’s real commander had been killed trying to put down the mutiny on the carrier. It had subsequently been explained to Wesley that this
shore patrol team, or Naval Security Force (NSF), was tasked with LE (Law Enforcement) and ATFP (Anti-Terrorism Force Protection) duties. That was too many acronyms by half, Wesley felt. Of course, now that all the terrorists were dead, these men were mainly tasked with zombie fighting. And now all of them were looking to Wesley – British, out of his element, vaguely ill-at-ease – for leadership.
He tried to square up to his duty.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Wesley said crisply. “We’ve seen… what? Three of the damned things since we set foot on the ground here, all of them trapped in some way. Just three.”
Derwin frowned. “To be honest, sir…”
“The name’s Wes, mate.”
“Okay… Wes. To be honest, we haven’t been in any of the buildings yet. There may be many more of them around here.”
Wesley turned to regard the young seaman, wondering how he felt about being under the command of a security guard. He tried to shrug that off.
“That’s not how they work though, is it? They move on, drift around, and others wander in. It just doesn’t make sense that the only ones left around here would be stuck inside buildings or trapped under a car.”
Wesley looked over at the 7-Eleven.
“We’re going in there.”
Derwin turned toward the building, his military training already kicking in. Entry points, exit points, lanes of fire, cover and concealment, potential hazards.
“Do you mind me asking why this particular building, sir… I mean Wes?”
Wesley pointed across the road.
“Lots of space around it. There’s no other buildings within spitting distance, so we don’t have to leave more than one person out here to cover us and the vehicles. I don’t think we’ll find anything of use in there, apart from long-rotten food, but I want to know if there are Zulus inside.”
Wesley smiled. He’d begun to pick up their military yabber. And, just conceivably, maybe he even had a bit of a knack for this whole tactical lark…
“I want to prove you wrong,” he said, grinning at Derwin.
Derwin frowned back. “How so?”
“I don’t think there are many in the buildings. I think they have all gone. Look, It’s just a gut feeling, but I just don’t feel the same oppressive presence that there was back in Folkestone. There are supposed to be 350 million dead people wandering around the USA, and this is a pretty built-up area. It should be teeming with them, but it just doesn’t feel like the land of the dead.”
Derwin nodded his understanding.
“It feels like the land of the lost.”
Anderson seemed to have no problem with serving as their watchman, as Wesley had expected. One trait that he had noticed about Anderson was that he had no shortage of reluctance when it came to anything that might put him at risk. Maybe he’d had his fill of risk in the mutiny. So far, Wesley had only met example after example of military people who were willing to put themselves out, and into harm’s way, for their fellows. He guessed there was bound to be an exception to this rule, and Anderson was it.
Derwin and the other three sailors, men who Wesley had only met that morning as they loaded up the Sea Hawk helicopters that had ferried them to shore, now fanned out around the entrance to the shop. They held their M4 assault rifles to their shoulders but pointing toward the ground, eyes everywhere at once, and waited for Wesley to lead them in.
He tentatively pushed open the left entranceway door, his handgun raised – safety off now – and peered into the darkness inside. Normally these places were easy to see into; huge plate-glass windows allowed light in to showcase the cheap goods. But this building had been sitting here for a long time, unattended and uncleaned. Where all the dust came from, Wesley could only guess, but it had completely covered the inside of the windows, blocking the light and leaving the interior submerged in near darkness.
The door protested loudly as it opened, surely alerting anyone or anything inside that they had visitors. But as Wesley stood there for more than a minute before stepping into the dimness of the store, he heard not a sound.
Nothing came rushing out of the darkness to attack him.
Then Derwin, Scott, Melvin, and Browning were inside, moving swiftly through the aisles, gun-mounted LED beams lighting up the dark places as they covered one other methodically, stepping quickly and flooding through the building. For just one moment Derwin stopped dead, raising his hand. The other three froze as well. But then a second later he lowered it, nodded, and they moved on.
Wesley followed the squad, impressed with their timing and coordination. He kept a few paces’ distance, giving them the space they needed to work the place. These guys knew far better what they were doing, and he wasn’t going to get in their way.
Perhaps one day there would be someone on hand to tell him that this was actually one of the very best traits of a commanding officer.
As Wesley stepped in behind his men, he saw that they had found bodies. Three of them – but these corpses weren’t getting up and wandering around anytime soon. They were barely recognizable as human. They were victims of the dead, rather than Zulus themselves. If the three dead people – for Wesley couldn’t discern their gender, age, or anything else about them – had ever turned or come back, there was so little left of them that all they could do was thrash around for a while.
But Wesley doubted they had ever come back.
“This place is chock-a-block with scoff,” said Melvin from the next aisle over. Wesley’s ear tripped on the man’s strong Scottish accent – and up until this moment, when he first heard him speak, hadn’t even known he wasn’t American. Melvin had been one of the replenishment troops sent to join the JFK when it had stopped at the UK to pick up Alpha team. He was a sailor sure enough, but not a US swabbie. He was Royal Navy.
Now that the initial nervous tension had dissipated, Wesley took a moment to look around. His eyes were adjusting to the low light now, and he saw exactly what Melvin was talking about.
Row upon row of goods stacked the shelves. At some time in the last two years the perishable goods had baked, rotted and slowly turned to mush, which dried in the moistureless air inside the store. Now all that was left were the dry goods and tinned food. But there was a lot of it.
“You were right,” said Derwin, scratching the stubble on his chin, as he and Wesley stepped back outside. “Empty. Completely empty.”
“Yes,” replied Wesley, nodding and taking a deep breath of the open air. Even though the fresh produce had long ago passed through its foulest stage of rotting, the mustiness and dankness still assaulted him and he was glad to be outside again.
He looked at Derwin. “That’s only one building, though. I could be wrong. Hell, that huge place over there,” he pointed at the monstrous hangar north of them, “could have a heap of them hiding in it.”
“True,” agreed Derwin, “But somehow I still think you’re right. I don’t know where all of the Zulus have gone to, but they’ve gone. Shit, I’d hate to be the poor asshole that bumps into them if they are all in the same place somewhere else.”
“Tell me about it,” said Wesley, and he was about to say something else when Anderson cut in, calling loudly.
“Wes. I’ve got Gillan on the radio. He says it’s important.”
Wesley’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, and he could see from Derwin’s expression that the man was thinking the same. Had the team up at the airfield proper discovered where all the Zulus were? Was Gillan the poor asshole?
Wesley ran to the vehicle and grabbed the handset.
“Wes here. Gillan, what’s up? Is everything okay?”
Radio silence for a second.
“Copy, Wes. Everything’s fine. Too fine, in fact. Not a whiff of the enemy up here. But you need to head back ASAP – Fick’s orders. Anyway, you’ll wanna see what we found up here. Fick is already on his way.”
Wesley frowned, and looked over at Derwin, who still looked concerned. The other sailors were already
bundling back into their vehicles, obviously expecting to rush off to support their fellows. Bless them for their willingness, thought Wesley.
“They’re all fine up there,” Wesley said to his men. “Panic over. Gillan, what did you find?”
“Um… everything,” Gillan said into his handset, from a couple of miles away, inside the warehouse. “Just get your sector done ASAP and get back up here. See for yourself.”
“On our way. Out.” Wesley turned to Derwin. “Okay, just one more building, picked at random, and then we haul back to the center of the base. Fifty quid says it’s just as empty this place.”
From Derwin’s expression, Wesley gathered he wasn’t totally clear on what a quid was.
* * *
Gillan handed the radio handset back to the young woman standing next to him – Hersey was her name, the group’s RTO (radio telephone operator) and another newcomer from Portsmouth. He then took a deep breath and scanned the whole panorama of the warehouse, which they had only just opened the doors to a few minutes earlier. The second squad of Marines under Fick’s command were still moving through the vast building, securing aisles of tall metal racking as they went.
Fick had brought his entire platoon out to the base and they had been given a single, incredibly important task. Go ashore and secure Naval Air Station (NAS) Oceana, and the adjacent Dam Neck Naval Air Station – and find something, anything, that could fly to the top of Lake Michigan and back, and that would hold eight men.
Teetering as they usually were on the brink of subsistence and survival, they also had standing orders to keep an eye out for anything else they might eat or otherwise make use of. But the aircraft was the important thing, and the anything else was minor.
The shore party had expected to find ranks of fighter planes on the runways and in the hangars of the airbase – and with luck at least one long-haul transport aircraft. But so far they had found the place completely barren of flying metal. At one point there would have been enough air power sitting here to refit an entire wing if necessary, probably two.
