by Z. A. Recht
“Look for pins or bolts! Figure out how to get these things off!” he shouted, holstering his pistol and kneeling quickly, running his eyes and hands along the frame of the ramp.
On the opposite end of the dock, Brewster heard Sherman’s idea.
“Shit, yeah!” he said, looking back and forth at the soldiers around him. “He’s right! I’ve seen these things too!”
Brewster flattened himself out, hanging his head and shoulders over the edge of the planks, desperately looking for whatever it was that bound the ramps to the dock.
“They’re coming closer, sir!” shouted Sergeant Decker, flicking his safety off. Similar clicks issued from up and down the line of soldiers. “Do we fire?!”
Sherman looked up. The carriers were more than halfway across the pavement, advancing swiftly, spreading out as they got closer.
That, in his opinion, was quite close enough.
“Open fire!” he ordered.
The distinctive staccato chatter of M-16 fire ripped across the docks as the soldiers opened up. Bursts of viral blood sprayed up into the air as rounds drilled through fevered foreheads, dropping the first line of carriers in their tracks. The second line was right behind them, deftly negotiating their way around the corpses of their former comrades and charging straight at the line. They fell a moment later as a second fusillade hit them, but the infected advance had gained a yard.
Brewster cast about wildly under the ramp as he heard the shots. He knew he didn’t have much time. His eyes settled on a small steel chain that dangled below the planks. He reached out a hand to grab it, but it dangled just out of his reach. He pushed himself farther, hanging out over the blue water, and managed to snag the chain with his ring finger. With a gasp of achievement, he wrapped his hand around it and yanked. Whatever the chain was attached to, it was wedged in firmly. He pulled in his breath and pulled with all the strength he could muster.
The chain popped free, pulling a stout metal pin with it. The access ramp shifted under Brewster, hanging loose. He grinned in victory and pulled himself to his knees, turning and cupping his hands around his mouth.
“There’s a pin at the top of the ramp on the underside! Pull it out!” he yelled. He saw Sherman and Decker on the other ramps look in his direction and nod. Responsibility fulfilled, Brewster grabbed up his rifle and jumped to his feet, taking in the scene.
The carriers had covered three-quarters of the parking lot and were nearly on top of the defenders. Corpses littered the pavement, dozens of carriers lying face-down in pools of blood. It was time to add to the casualty list.
Brewster drew a textbook sight picture on the forehead of a shambler and fired off a round. He watched with satisfaction as the carrier went down, twitching, in a heap. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Decker rising to his feet on the other ramp, holding a chain and pin in his hands. Two ramps were ready. General Sherman was having difficulty, apparently, as he was still reaching underneath his own ramp.
Brewster picked off another carrier, this one a sprinter. It fell facedown, skidding a few feet as it burned off inertia, coming to a rest in a tangled knot of limbs, a neat hole drilled through its forehead.
“I’m out of ammo!” yelled a soldier, stepping back from the barricade and dropping an empty magazine from his rifle. Brewster moved up to take his position, resting his own weapon on the crate in front of him. The steady firing position gave him some added accuracy—time to put it to good use. Brewster let his training kick in. He acquired a target, drew a sight picture, and fired. Target, sight in, fire. Target, sight in, fire.
The carriers were almost completely on them now. The sprinters were too fast and too numerous. By the time one fell, another had already run around the falling corpse and gained a foot or two. Brewster sensed the situation deteriorating. Sherman had better hurry. He sighted in another carrier and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Brewster swore, pulling himself upright and pinching the button that released the rifle’s magazine. He let it drop to the ramp, forgotten, as he slapped in his full—and final—ammo magazine. As he did so, Sherman stood upright, waving a pin and chain over his head.
“Everyone back down the ramps, get on the dock!” Sherman yelled.
“Fall back!” Decker echoed, waving his wounded arm overhead. The soldiers pulled away from the barricades, backing down the ramps, still firing.
As the last soldier cleared his ramp, Brewster slung his rifle and dug his fingers between the wooden planks. He pulled, and the ramp rose a few inches before crashing back down.
“Someone help! It’s too heavy!” Brewster yelled. Corporal Darin appeared a moment later, grabbing hold of the ramp alongside Brewster. Both heaved, pulling the ramp into a vertical position. It hovered there a moment before wavering and falling back. Darin and Brewster barely had enough time to dive out of the way as the ramp hit the docks. It left a six foot gap between the dock proper and the pavement.
“Hoo-ah!” Brewster shouted, pumping an arm in the air and throwing a taunt at the carriers, who were now grouping around the barricade, pulling aside the obstacles in an effort to get at the men beyond.
Decker and Sherman had also managed to pull their ramps back, sealing the docks off from the parking lot. The soldiers filtered back towards the boats, keeping a wary eye on the carriers as they did so.
Brewster unslung his rifle again, holding it angled down. He decided to conserve ammo—the dead and infected were cut off for the time being.
“Sir!” came a cry. Sergeant Major Thomas appeared in the boathouse door, holding key rings above his head. “I’ve got ‘em! Keys to four of the yachts!”
“Right!” Sherman yelled back. He turned to look at Decker, who stood about ten feet away on the adjoining walkway. He said, “Looks like we’ll make it after all.”
Darin and Brewster turned away from the mass of carriers on their end of the dock and headed toward the boats. Behind them, with no warning other than an uttered snarl, one of the carriers decided to go for it.
It came barreling through the barricades, launching itself from the edge of the pavement and sailing ungracefully through the air. It hadn’t so much jumped as ran out over the water, but it had the speed it needed. It hit Darin from behind, knocking him to the planks, and tried to bury its nails in the back of his neck.
Brewster was shocked into inaction, but the moment passed quickly, and he lowered his rifle with one swift motion and blew the back of the carrier’s skull off. The infected body hung over Darin for a moment, then slumped over the side of the dock and splashed into the water below.
Darin, wide-eyed, sat up slowly. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Brewster said, resting his rifle on his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get out of here before another fucking Evel Knievel wannabe tries his luck.”
“Yeah,” Darin agreed, backing away from the gap, rifle trained on the staggering infected above.
He didn’t take his eyes off of them until they were safely onboard one of the band’s commandeered yachts, and pulling away from the harbor.
Open Sea
January 10, 2007
1513 hrs_
The USS Ramage, DDG-61, was an Arleigh-Burke class destroyer, the pinnacle of state-of-the-art technology. It was a sub-hunter, a mobile anti-aircraft station, and a long-range cruise missile platform, boasting firepower on its decks that outperformed entire third-world militaries. But it wasn’t hunting subs now. It found itself pressed into service as a floating refugee camp.
Cargo webbing had been thrown over the sides of the deck to allow soldiers and civilians to climb up from the moored yachts alongside. The ship itself was operating on a skeleton crew, since most of the crewmembers were working with the USS Ronald Reagan’s battle group in the Red Sea. That left it with enough room onboard to accommodate the escaping group, albeit slightly uncomfortably. Rooms normally left for storage of supplies or briefings were filled with displaced civilians, among them Mbutu Ngasy.<
br />
He found that he had had little trouble adjusting to the world falling apart around him, a fact that sat uneasily with him. Maybe adaptation was in his blood. His family, after all, were notorious survivors, moving from region to region in the past to avoid conflict and poverty. Whatever it was, he found he was having fun escaping from the continent on this floating fortress, and the idea made him wonder about his own morality.
People are dying, he thought as he pressed himself against a bulkhead to allow a pair of sailors to pass. People are dying and I’m enjoying myself. Or, maybe I’m NOT as crazy as that.
He figured that maybe the dull routine in Mombasa of waking up, going to work, and going to sleep at the end of the day had worn him thin. Maybe a tragedy like the one that had struck Africa was exactly what his life needed—a jump start.
Certainly he had met plenty of interesting people on the journey so far. As an air traffic controller he had had the opportunity to broaden his horizons, talking with pilots and crewmembers of cargo and passenger flights alike, but he had never actually gone to any of their home nations. He had now, in less than a month, been through four countries, and was on his way to his fifth, the United States.
He had just had his picture taken on deck by a man named Sam Denton, a Canadian photographer, as he had helped a soldier aboard.
“I’ll make you famous,” Denton had said with a grin. “If there are any newspapers left to print when we get back.”
If indeed, Mbutu thought. The fall of Suez had left him with a gnawing sense of dread in his stomach. The virus was trampling any organized resistance in its path. Mother Nature was pissed off about something and she was taking heads. He wasn’t a pessimist as a rule, but Mbutu couldn’t help but feel as if this disease had barely begun its rampage.
Mbutu arrived at his destination, the destroyer’s sickbay. He leaned in the doorway and knocked on the bulkhead.
“Hello,” he said. “Would you like any help?”
Rebecca Hall was sitting on a metal stool, re-wrapping a wound on a refugee’s leg, and glanced up at the sound of Mbutu’s voice.
“Oh, hi!” she said, grinning. “Not really. The ship’s got a full stock of medical supplies and the sailors have a doctor with them. We’re close to wrapping up now.”
“Hey, Becky, where’d you want your charts?” came a voice from behind Mbutu.
He stepped aside, allowing a sergeant to squeeze by with a double handful of scrap paper Rebecca had been jotting case notes on.
“Hi, Jack! In my hand would be great,” Rebecca said, putting the finishing touch on the leg wound in front of her. She stood, accepting the papers from Sergeant Decker. She turned back to her patient and told him, “You can go. Keep an eye on it. It’ll be throbbing for a while, but there shouldn’t be any sharp pains. Remember to take the penicillin I gave you. Take one every six hours or so.”
Mbutu grinned. The patient probably only understood every third word Rebecca said to him. As the man walked past him, Mbutu grabbed his arm, repeating the instructions in Swahili. His guess was right. The man was from his own home country.
“Asante!” he said with a broad smile before moving on.
“You are welcome,” Mbutu said softly, turning back to Rebecca and Sergeant Decker in the sickbay. The pair were talking quietly between themselves. Mbutu may as well have been invisible. Other than him, the bay was empty.
Mbutu smiled. He could take a hint. He cleared his throat and the pair looked over at him.
“I am going up top. Maybe they could use my help,” he said.
“Oh, okay. We’ll be up once we get this place organized,” Rebecca said. Decker waved a hand in his direction.
Mbutu strolled off down the corridor, squeezing to the side once more to allow sailors to pass by, the vague smile still on his face. No husband, she had said. Well, a sergeant in the Army was not the worst choice she could make.
Back in the sickbay, Rebecca shoved her charts into a folder, tucking it neatly into a desk drawer, then turned back to Sergeant Decker.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well, what?” he replied.
“Well, there must be a reason you came down here other than to just give me my charts,” she told him, coquettishly brushing her hair back behind an ear. “—Not that I’m not happy you did.”
“You caught me,” said Decker, smiling. “I wanted to talk to you some more.”
“Oh, I’m that interesting, am I?”
“Well, you’re more interesting than the other people on this ship,” Decker replied, leaning his rifle against an exam table.
Rebecca laughed. “Thanks, I think.”
“We’re heading back home,” Decker began, choosing his words. “We should be there in a couple weeks. I was thinking . . .”
“Sergeants think?” Rebecca quipped.
“Ha-ha. I was thinking . . . I don’t know, maybe once we got back we could go out sometime. My credit’s good. Haven’t been able to spend anything for the past couple months on deployment.”
Rebecca smiled, looking down at the floor to hide the barest hint of a blush.
“—That is,” Decker quickly added, “Assuming there are still restaurants when we get back.”
“That’s not funny,” Rebecca replied.
“Well?”
“Oh.” Rebecca took a moment before answering: “I . . . think I’d like that very much.”
Decker flashed her a grin. “Me too.”
They held the smile and gaze for a pair of heartbeats. As if by unspoken agreement, they leaned in towards each other, faces mere inches apart.
Outside, the ship’s intercom buzzed loudly, and they pulled apart, the moment shattered.
“This is the captain. A few announcements before we begin our voyage. Listen up. All civilian refugees and military passengers, be advised. Remain out of areas designed crew only. The only authorized locations for passengers are temporary quarters, mess, and deck. Volunteers are needed in the mess to help prepare meals. General Sherman and staff, to the bridge, please . . .”
Above, Mbutu was just stepping into the hot sun when the announcement ended. General Sherman and Sergeant Major Thomas were standing at the far end of the deck, looking up at the bridge with furrowed brows. Mbutu saw Sherman gesture at Thomas, and the pair began a brisk walk towards the forecastle. Mbutu wasn’t entirely sure he liked the look on the General’s face. As the pair drew near, he risked an interruption.
“General,” he said, “Is everything okay?”
“Things are fine, Ngasy,” Sherman told him, brushing past Mbutu without further explanation. Ever-gruff Thomas shot him an annoyed glance. The two soldiers disappeared into the ship.
Mbutu sighed, folding his arms as a warm sea breeze washed over him. His mother, so famous in his mind for her stories of subtle wisdom, had once shared a Western tale of a man named Murphy and his Law. This, Mbutu thought, would be the time when Mr. Murphy would poke his head in, if things kept going at their current rate. He hoped they would be back on dry land before whatever was brewing on the bridge hit. He wasn’t much of a swimmer.
Inside the corridors of the destroyer, Thomas drew alongside Sherman.
“With respect, sir, maybe it’s not such a good idea to get too buddy-buddy with the civvies,” he said.
“What do you mean, Sergeant?” Sherman asked, casting Thomas a sideways glance.
“You’ll feel obligated to keep them informed, but still control our intel. That might not be a good idea, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Considering the state of affairs in the world. We should keep our little corner as ordered as possible. The last thing we need is a bunch of RumInt floating around making people nervous,” Thomas said, hands clasped behind his back.
Sherman said in his own defense, “Rumor Intelligence is nothing new. No matter how much you try to control the flow of information, it’s going to get out in bits and pieces.”
“You could have jus
t told him about the radio contacts. It could mean nothing, and solid intel’s better than playing telephone like a bunch of grab-assy teenagers at a slumber party. If that guy back there,” Thomas said, jerking a finger over his shoulder, “decides to tell someone how he just got the brush-off, you can bet there’ll be a baker’s dozen conspiracy theories floating around by evening chow.”
“You sound truly disturbed, Sergeant,” Sherman said, smirking.
“I’m just commenting, sir.”
“Comment noted. I’ll consider it. Maybe we should hold a meeting tonight, smooth things out and let the people know what’s going on.”
Thomas nodded once, and the pair moved on in silence. When they reached the door to the bridge, Thomas reached out a hand and pulled it open. Inside, all was harried business. The bridge was ingeniously designed, with a maximum of efficiency for a minimum of space. Consoles lined the walls, and a wide viewport gave the ship’s commanders a panoramic view of the open sea off the ship’s bow. Crewmen bustled around, checking instruments, jotting notes, and broadcasting reports.
The Captain of the USS Ramage was a stout middle-aged career man named Franklin. He spoke with the slightest of New York accents, vaguely reminding Sherman of Joe Pesci in one of those old gangster films. As they entered, Franklin was hovering over the shoulder of the radio op in the center of the bridge. He looked up as they approached.
“Ah, General. Glad you’re here,” Franklin said.
“Glad you picked us up, Captain,” Sherman replied. “Things were getting pretty sporty onshore.”
“That’s exactly what we’re worried about right now. When you got onboard a couple hours ago I told you we were having problems establishing a connection with our base back home.”
“Yes,” Sherman said.
“Well, it’s gotten worse in the past few minutes,” Franklin said, leading Sherman and Thomas over to the radio station. He picked up a written transcript and handed it to Sherman. “We think they’ve got a down antenna or a pretty bad atmospheric disturbance.”
