Arisen, Book Five - EXODUS

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  And, now, the zombie battle had somehow gone nuclear. That was a new one.

  Looking back at the ocean surface around them again, the next thing Ali clocked was the complete absence of the Navy rescue swimmer. She spun around, treading water, and tried to raise herself up as much as she could. But he was nowhere to be seen. This was ironic because he was, by far, the best skilled of any of them to survive what had just happened. But he hadn’t been as quick-witted and adaptable as Ali. And he hadn’t been trained, like Emily and Simon, to instantly obey her life-saving instructions.

  Ali had known that there would be some buoyancy in the helo – she had been a helo pilot in a previous life, after all – but that, nonetheless, the blades would cut as much as eight or ten feet into the water. So she had known they needed to get below that, diving straight down, letting it pass overhead, before resurfacing again. She’d also known the friction of the water would fairly quickly stop the spinning rotors. In any case, there’d been no time to swim out of the way to either side – and definitely no time to swim back away from it.

  Maybe the Navy guy had tried that. Or maybe he’d frozen. Maybe he’d done something heroic, to try to save the others. Now no one would ever know.

  All Ali knew for sure was that their ride was gone, taken out by half a dead man and the unforgiving sea.

  And if there was another one coming, she definitely couldn’t hear or see it.

  They were alone again.

  Take the King’s Shilling

  The Stern of the JFK

  The yacht bumped dully into the steel hull of the beached and besieged supercarrier. Melvin was first off, followed by Browning, both jumping onto the small deck at the water’s level and looking up at the platform above.

  “Identify yourselves,” came a voice from above. Wesley glanced up to see two sailors pointing assault rifles at them.

  “Melvin and Browning from NSF,” shouted Melvin. “We’ve got Lieutenant Wesley with us, and we’ve picked up some survivors.”

  The weapons above seemed to relax, but didn’t withdraw.

  “Survivors?” said a different voice. “Where from?”

  “Virginia Beach,” shouted Wesley. “And we’ve got an injured crewman down here who will soon be an ex-survivor, if we don’t get him to the hospital fast.”

  Shuffling sounds issued from above. The rifle muzzles finally pointed some other direction. “Sir, was he bitten?” asked one of the sailors.

  “No. He’s not infected,” snapped Wesley, realizing from the sailor’s form of address that he was still in some kind of charge. “It’s a gunshot wound, and urgent. Get that ladder down here, now. And a winch. Do you have a winch? He won’t be able to climb.”

  “Yes, sir. Stretcher on its way. Just give us a minute, we weren’t expecting living people.”

  Two of the survivors helped Derwin climb across to the little dock, and were then joined by another man who was limping. Burns stood on the dock next to Wesley. The UK security guard, now U.S. Naval officer, could see that the leader of these people was still undecided.

  Burns turned to him, a tentative look on his face. “You do know that we could just sit on the yacht and wait to see what goes down. We don’t have to be here.”

  Wesley nodded. “True, but maybe we can help. It’s up to you what you do, but I don’t have a choice. Or it’s simply not a choice I want to make. This is bigger than just us.”

  It occurred to Wesley, now that they were actually at the Kennedy, that he didn’t know if he even had the authority to invite random civilians on board. But it was too late now, and he doubted anyone would turn away a dozen survivors from the presumably wiped-out U.S. He knew he wasn’t going to, anyway. Moreover, these people had survived for two years, proving it was possible that others had.

  Over on the dock, Derwin slumped further down as the two survivors struggled to lift him onto the stretcher that was being lowered from above. The contraption hit the deck with a clang, and Derwin’s eyes shot open for a moment before he finally sagged onto the swinging metal frame.

  Burns watched as three more of his group left the yacht, all with guilty expressions. His group was splintering, that much was obvious. Some of them were unquestionably loyal and would follow him wherever he led, but some didn’t agree with his thinking. He knew all were willing to fight for a possible escape from the doomed continent, but most would ultimately follow his lead. Sometimes that realization wasn’t a good thing. He bit his lip, wishing the decisions didn’t always have to land on his shoulders. Life had been so much easier when all they had to think about was planning their next big job.

  As the rain pattered down on the deck of the yacht, Burns thought about what they had to go back to. Sure, they could take the yacht up the coast and find a place to land, but that would just lead them back to the same nightmare that was their lives before – running every day and barricading themselves in by night, only to have to fight their way out in the morning. That was no life for the three kids, no life for any of them. If Britain really was still standing, even half of it, and there was a chance or a hope that they could live without fighting for their lives every moment, who was he to take that away from them?

  How many had died on their journey so far? Half? It had to be nearly that. The Keiths and their son, the four bikers, the couple hiding in the hills who let them stay in their lodge for the winter, only to die a week later because the dead had followed their trail up there. And there were more. Too many even to remember.

  It was then that Burns noticed the child looking up at him. Little Dana Crossly, five years old and now parentless. Now his Dana, because she seemed to think he was her new pa. She looked as though she were about to cry, and the realization that he was the one returning her to that hell back on land was what broke him, and finally made him realize they could no longer go on the way they had been.

  “Okay. This is crazy, and we could all die, but screw it. We’ve got nothing to go back to. We’ll come.”

  Wesley looked surprised, but then grinned through his muck-smeared stubble. “That was a quick change of heart. But, you’re making the right decision.” I think.

  Burns shook his head, still not fully convinced. “I hope to hell you know what you’re doing.” There was a grave warning in his tone.

  “I don’t see any better choice,” said Wesley.

  With this, the survivor group started to disembark the yacht, grabbing backpacks and weapons and climbing out onto the low dock. Melvin and Browning had already reached the top of the ladder the sailors had lowered. The Scotsman jumped onto the deck, then leaned over the railing, glancing down at the survivors coming aboard. Last off was their found fighter pilot, Hailey, being helped along by one of the woman survivors. She had badly strained her lower back muscles in the high-speed ejection, and her knee had gotten wrenched somewhere between there and being pulled aboard the yacht. But her head was held up as she now finally made it back home. Melvin nodded contentedly. “I guess that’s all in then.”

  Wesley nodded, then turned and looked down the tiny stairway in the center of the yacht at an open hatch. Nearly all in. Just one more straggler left to come. Down in the dim light of the cabin, peeping around the edge of the door, was the German Shepherd, its intelligent dark eyes watching him.

  “You coming?” he called, and the dog turned its head to the side, cocking its ear. Then it made a quiet whining sound, and edged forward one step to stand at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him quizzically.

  “Come on,” he called, slapping his leg.

  The dog’s ears shot up at the sound, and it bolted up the stairs and ran to his side, then sat on its haunches and looked up at him.

  Wesley smiled. “Wow, someone trained you.”

  The dog issued another whine, followed by a sharp bark. It was fidgeting, unable to control its excitement, and Wesley thought it likely the dog had been someone’s faithful companion a couple of years ago. It had probably been lonely as hell since t
hen.

  “Come on, pooch. Let’s get the hell off this boat.”

  The dog leapt from the yacht, landed on the the platform, then stopped and looked back, waiting for him.

  * * *

  Fifteen pairs of feet pounded a third metal stairwell as the group made its way through the ship, heading for where Wesley vaguely remembered the ladder to the flight deck would be. Melvin was in front, followed by Browning and then Wesley. The shore patrolmen knew their way around the ship far better than he did, and he was relieved to not be in charge for a while.

  As they ran up the stairs, Wesley wondered whether he should have made sure the kids got safely to the mess, and whether he should have gone with Derwin to the hospital. He even wondered if he’d remembered to shut the hatch to the tiny cabin that now housed his new canine friend, but he knew there just wasn’t time to worry about everything. He had to hope Browning’s instructions were clear enough, and that the four survivors could keep the kids safe and get Derwin to the hospital. As much as he wanted to help his friend, he knew that every minute he and the others weren’t helping defend the ship made it likelier that it would fall. A dozen extra shooters could make a difference, even if it was a small one.

  They were passing an intersection with a bigger passageway, when their pilot stopped to peel off from the group. “This is me,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to the air wing, and get my new assignment. They’ll have some kind of job for me to do.” Speaking half under her breath, she added, “Even if I managed to ditch a 280-million-dollar aircraft, and my new job will probably involve potatoes in some capacity…” Wesley had briefly tried to convince her to go to the hospital, but she was having none of it. Now she nodded once at the others, drew her side arm, and limped off bravely – and alone.

  The rest of the group carried on, moving quickly down long passageways, and up several stairwells. Hardly any of the place was lit up anymore, even less so than when he had been on the ship a few days ago, and that worried Wesley. The ship should still have reserve power, or so Martin had said, and all these corridors lit only by emergency lighting made the place even more creepy, and more likely to hide an unwelcome visitor.

  They were crossing another intersection when Wesley saw movement down the corridor. This was in an unlit area, about forty yards down a passageway to their left, and not the direction they were heading. He stopped, surprising the survivors behind him, but the two men immediately looked in the same direction and stood still, one of them raising his hand to slow the group behind.

  “Melvin,” hissed Wesley, knowing the man was a dead shot, and if there had to be gunplay down here, he wanted the guy who could take a zombie out with one round. The last thing they needed was to attract any others that may be around.

  Wesley stood still, his handgun extended at the approaching figure as it lumbered out of the darkness along the corridor and into the pale beam of the emergency strip light. He barely had a moment to register the man’s pallid face, and the smashed leg, when a single shot rang out from over his shoulder, loud and echoing, ringing in his ears. Melvin.

  The body crumpled.

  “Move,” said Wesley. “If there are more, they’ll be heading this way now.”

  * * *

  They finally made it to the hangar deck, bursting from the stairwell in an energized knot, and were surprised to see the place bustling with activity. Even though a large proportion of the crew were now up on the flight deck, fighting for their lives and for the survival of the carrier, there still had to be a hundred or more down here.

  Twenty yards away a group of a dozen sailors carried fire hoses across the hangar floor, dragging them toward one of the smaller elevators that Wesley estimated must come up amidships somewhere. Three forklift trucks sat on the deck next to a much larger aircraft elevator further on, with a dozen armed sailors standing by, all of them watching the ceiling nervously. None of the big elevators were down, so there were no gaps in the deck above to allow dead to drop through, but they could all hear the rumbling of the battle. There were also stacks of ammunition on one of the larger platforms, and several sailors were reloading a collection of assault rifles.

  “You!” called a voice just a few yards away.

  Melvin and Browning turned with their rifles, but then lowered them immediately.

  “Captain?” asked Browning, sounding gobsmacked.

  The newcomer didn’t look much like a captain to Wesley, even if he did wear an officer’s uniform. The man had a beard that must have been a foot long, and more suitable for a member of ZZ Top than a military commander.

  “Yes, I am. Whoever you are, you are now assigned to the weapons crew. Over there. All of you. Quickly. We are going up in three minutes and we’re going to take this ship back. I’ll need your guns at the front. And you,” he said, pointing at Wesley. “You’ll help with the hoses. The same for any others who aren’t armed. Now go, timing is critical.”

  Stunned into action, unable to formulate any objection, the newcomers started across the deck toward a group of armed men and women gathering next to a stairwell that led upward. Wesley turned to Burns as they jogged, and found him grinning.

  “Well,” said Burns. “I guess I better get used to taking orders.”

  Wesley laughed, wondering whether they were even going to be alive long enough for it to matter.

  “You’ll get used to it. Stick around long enough and they’ll give you a rank and put you in charge of something.”

  Damnatio Memoriae

  Ocean Surface

  Ali spat out another mouthful of seawater, her nose wrinkled with distaste. The seawater in the vicinity of large ocean-going ships was pretty dodgy at the best of times – they tended to eject their waste, trash, and used oil right in their wakes.

  But God only knew what was going into the sea today.

  And the bad taste in her mouth was far down the long list of problems Ali had right now. These were piling up – no rescue helo, no life jackets since she stabbed them, nuclear explosions – and they had all regained the surface less than a minute ago. She paddled up to Park to check him out. “You okay?”

  “I’m good,” he wheezed, still breathing heavily from his dive, and jerkily treading water.

  She turned then to Emily, whose head was also thankfully still on the right side of the ocean surface. “Em?”

  Wide-eyed, she just nodded vigorously, while her body rose and fell with her half-panicked breaths and dog-paddling. With hair plastered down on both sides of her face, she looked more than a little like a drowned rat. Maybe only half-drowned. For now.

  Ali took another look toward shore, and the textbook mushroom cloud that was still expanding and contracting and rising toward the heavens. But, surreal as it was to witness the first zombie-warfare tactical nuclear strike, Ali also knew that this didn’t impact their immediate situation. And she didn’t need to ponder for more than about two seconds to know what their new number-one problem was.

  With all of their life vests punctured in the deep-dive escape from the crashing helo, they were all now keeping their heads above water only by treading it. And while Ali could conceivably do this for a very long time, maybe even indefinitely, the same was not true of the civilian girl. And it wasn’t true of Dr. Simon Park – the most important man in the world.

  The clock was now ticking. And he, and all of them, were getting close to being lost at sea.

  Ali knew there was a second Seahawk on the Murphy. Her job now was to get it here as quickly as possible, by any means. She pressed the PTT button on her radio again. There was no squelch of her radio taking the channel – there was nothing. Her battery was completely dead, and she knew it. She’d been able to get a fresh one from their resupply pallet back on Lake Michigan. But the others had gone to the bottom along with their first boat. And that had been a long time ago. Also, the cold of the ocean wouldn’t be helping any. Lithium-ion batteries didn’t like the cold; it could drain them as quickly as continuous use
, sometimes more quickly.

  So now Ali had to rely on something she never counted as part of her toolbox: hope. She had to hope the Murphy would work out that their first helo had gone down, that they were able to send the other one – and that someone else over there still knew their location. Basically, she had to hope someone came to their rescue.

  They were in trouble. But not desperate trouble. Not yet.

  “Wh—what happens now?” Emily managed. She was obviously working hard, with the cold, and with her exhaustion, to keep her head above water.

  Ali made her voice calm and reassuring. “Now we wait. There’s another helicopter. As soon as they realize the first one went down, they’ll send it. And it’s close. It shouldn’t be long.”

  But Ali honestly had no idea how long it might be. All she had was a silent prayer that the fog of battle wouldn’t leave them stranded, and doom them here. She prayed that those on the two ships, though engaged in a desperate fight for survival, would have their shit sufficiently together to work out that the three of them were still floating around out here, waiting.

  She looked around them. With the rain splashing quietly again, and churning up the ocean surface, visibility was still terrible. But, suddenly, she realized it was good enough for her to see one thing – just not anything she had remotely wanted to see.

  It slowly became obvious to her that, a ways off toward shore, not all of the churning she saw was from the rain coming down from above. Some of it was from below. The water was being churned from beneath the surface – and perhaps not very far beneath.

  And out beyond that, through the mist and haze, at the very edge of vision, she could just make out… hands. Breaking the surface. They were indistinct, and they came and went. But it couldn’t be anything else. Back behind that somewhere, she figured, would be heads. And she had zero desire to still be here when those appeared.

  Kicking her legs to stay afloat, suddenly Ali was seized by the expectation of kicking into something, at any second, and with every kick. It didn’t happen, not yet. It was deeper here, and they probably weren’t that close. But it was impossible not to anticipate it, half-feel it before it even happened. Looking at the other two, she concluded the two of them had not seen what she had, thank God.