To Sail a Darkling Sea

by John Ringo

  “ ‘Becoming the Bull,’ ” Faith said, nodding. “Nice choice. Appropriate.”

  “I thought so,” Sophia said as the Wet Debt fired a burst at the group of zombies. “Hell with taking the bull by the horns. We’re gonna be the bull.”

  “And now they have something to eat,” Januscheitis said, nodding. Seagulls descended on the dead infecteds and that must have been a signal for other zombies. More appeared from the town, heading for the pile of new carrion.

  “I knew I forgot something,” Sophia said, snapping her fingers.

  “What?” Faith asked.

  “Flock of Seagulls.”

  “Oh, please, ma’am,” Derek said. “Anything but that.”

  “Who?” Faith said.

  “Okay, now we wait,” Chen radioed. “Like, say, crab fishing. Let the bait do the work for you. Good choice by the way, Seawolf. Crank it up.”

  “Hope you like the rest of the playlist, sir,” Sophia replied. “Okay, let’s party.”

  “By the way,” Chen radioed. “Do you have Flock of Seagulls?”

  “Oh, God,” Derek said. “No, no, no . . .”

  “Not on this playlist, sir,” Sophia said. “I’ll have to check my hard drive . . .”

  * * *

  “What’s wrong with this song, Derek?” Faith asked, writhing to the music.

  The sun had slowly set over the harbor and the boats had all their lights on full blaze along with the booming music. They’d even been firing off flares from time to time as the party got into full swing.

  Lieutenant Chen was an Annapolis grad and raised in the tradition, going back to the first Secretary of the Navy, of ships being dry. He also was trained in the tradition of “never give a rule you know won’t be obeyed.” They’d compromised on “light drinking” for the “zombie bait party.”

  “You okay, Derek?” Faith asked.

  There were plenty of military rules, as well, about having a party involving officers and enlisteds. Chen, again, was smart enough to know that in this mix, that was impossible to manage. There were no “wardrooms” or “officers’ clubs.” Just tiny boats with people packed cheek to jowl. So the party on the boats was decidedly mixed. And Faith had been enjoying a chance to metaphorically and literally let her hair down. Until Derek stopped dancing.

  “I just remembered why I didn’t like this song, ma’am,” Derek said, looking off into the darkness. There was a light sea breeze, a tropical night in a picturesque harbor. A perfect evening. “My parents used to play it all the time whenever we’d go on a long drive and sing it together. It was one of their songs.”

  “Oh, Christ, Der,” Faith said, stopping dancing. “You want me to get Sophia to . . .”

  “No, ma’am,” Derek said, starting to dance. “I just decided it’s one of my favorites . . .”

  * * *

  “Okay, try this, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, setting down a shot glass with a clear liquid in it.

  “What is this?” Faith said. She sniffed it and her nose wrinkled. “Seriously? A Marine has to drink?”

  “Not has to, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Just interested. And it’s chilled vodka. Try it.”

  Faith tossed back the drink as the assembled group watched with sneaky smiles.

  “Okay, that’s not bad,” Faith said, shrugging.

  “No reaction at all?” Paula said, looking shocked. “No coughing? No choking?”

  “Was there supposed to be one?” Faith asked. She picked up the bottle, poured another shot and tossed it back. “There, happy?”

  “Try this one . . .” Sophia said, carefully sliding across a shot of dark liquor.

  “Ick,” Faith said. “That’s not so good. What was it?”

  “Twenty-five-year-old Strathsclyde,” Sophia said.

  “Which is?” Faith asked.

  “Scotch, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Good scotch.”

  “Tastes like piss,” Faith said. “Not that I’ve ever drunk piss. Okay, what else you got?”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later there were a dozen bottles on the table and Faith had had at least one shot from each.

  “Okay, rum’s pretty good,” she said, smacking her lips. “Not as good as razzleberry tea but not bad.”

  “She’s not even slightly drunk?” Derek slurred. He was, for sure.

  “Isn’t it supposed to be doing something by now?” Faith asked, taking another shot of 151.

  * * *

  “I mean, I’d just finished seventh grade,” Faith said. “I’ve been to, like, two school dances! I’m never going to get to go to prom . . .” She took another drink and frowned. “That sucks. That’s one of the reasons I hate fucking zombies. I’m never going to get to go to prom.”

  “Marine corps ball, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. He’d stopped drinking when the LT started to get shit-faced. Which had taken enough straight booze to drown a Force Recon platoon. “Way better than prom.”

  “Really?” Faith said.

  “Really,” Derek said. “Marine Corps Ball is like prom for Marines.”

  “Christ, it’s coming up, isn’t it?” Januscheitis said. “Time’s sort of gotten to be one of those things you forget.”

  “We gonna have one?” Derek said.

  “Bet you,” Januscheitis said. “Gunny will insist. Probably use the Alpha or the Money.”

  “That’d be cool,” Derek said, grinning. “Use the Alpha. Marine Corps Ball on a megayacht captured from zombies? I can dig that. Besides it’s more trashed out. You know how ball gets . . .”

  “Semper fucking Fi,” Faith said. “I get to go to prom.”

  “We’ll make sure of it, ma’am,” Januscheitis said.

  “Great!” Faith slurred. “So why do I gotta puke?”

  * * *

  “Oh, I’m glad I’m not on the gun boats,” Faith said, holding her head. “This is the other reason I don’t drink. Can we turn the music down, yet?”

  “More water, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, holding out the tube of her hydration unit.

  Dawn was breaking and there was a huge concentration of zombies at the end of the jetty. The Debt had occasionally fired during the night to make sure they had food to keep them sticking around. Now in the early morning light, they could be seen as a mass of naked infecteds, alternately feeding and concentrating on the light and sound from the boats.

  “And now the last song,” Sophia said as the music temporarily stopped.

  “In the quiet misty morning . . .” Faith sang. “Another good choice, Sis.”

  “When the summer’s past its gleaming, when the corn is past its prime . . .” Derek sang in a not bad tenor.

  “Set me free to find my calling, and I’ll return to you somehow . . .” Januscheitis sang. He really didn’t have the voice for the song but nobody minded.

  “In the quiet misty morning,” Faith and Sophia sang in duet. “When the moon has gone to bed, When the sparrows stop their singing, I’ll be homeward bound again.”

  “All gun boats, open fire,” Lieutenant Chen ordered as the second of official nautical dawn was reached and the song ended.

  Both boats opened fire, the massive .50 caliber rounds chewing up the crowd of what must have been nearly two hundred infecteds. It took less than a minute of concentrated fire for the crowd of zombies to be reduced to so much offal.

  “Landing team is a go,” Chen radioed. “Drop some of Captain Carrion’s Little Helpers on that pile on your way by.”

  “Time to board the boats,” Faith said, hefting her AK. “And keep an eye out for some ammo for this thing. I don’t care if it’s a haji gun. It works. Let’s take that jetty, Marines.”

  CHAPTER 9

  [F]ar from being the Great Satan, I would say that we are the Great Protector. We have sent men and women from the armed forces of the United States to other parts of the world throughout the past century to put down oppression. We defeated Fascism. We defeated Communism. We saved Europe in World War I and World
War II. We were willing to do it, glad to do it. We went to Korea. We went to Vietnam. All in the interest of preserving the rights of people.

  And when all those conflicts were over, what did we do? Did we stay and conquer? Did we say, “Okay, we defeated Germany. Now Germany belongs to us? We defeated Japan, so Japan belongs to us”? No. What did we do? We built them up. We gave them democratic systems which they have embraced totally to their soul. And did we ask for any land? No. The only land we ever asked for was enough land to bury our dead.

  General Colin Powell

  “Permission to look for some wheels, ma’am?” Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said.

  “Oh, definitely,” Faith said, trying to keep from swaying. “There’s no clearing this place on foot.”

  The lieutenant was in charge of, more or less, a fire team of Marines. But that suited Faith just fine. And they weren’t wearing “full fig” zombie-clearing kit, just basic combat gear with the addition of Tyvek suits, gas masks and hoods to reduce the chance of bites on exposed flesh. They had military headphones and mics for radio communications and two of them carried Halligan tools and other entry systems.

  All of them had a tendency to rock in place as the ground seemed to be moving. This was the first solid land any of them had stepped on in nearly six months.

  “See if you can get something running that’s got a moon roof,” she added. “We can stick somebody out of the top with a loudhailer. If my head can handle it.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Two-man teams. One checking for keys and functioning vehicles. One on sentry.”

  There was a large parking lot on the jetty but it was mostly empty and none of the vehicles would crank. There were more cars at the square at the base of the jetty but those were, also, nonfunctional.

  “The boats always have a spare battery,” Faith said. “Staff Sergeant, send a team back to get a battery while the rest of us clear these buildings. I think it was my job to think of that.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Derek, Kirby, hump it.”

  “Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” Derek said. “Let’s go, Kirby.”

  “Clear this one first?” Faith said, pointing to a café. “I’m supposed to get input from my NCOs, Staff Sergeant.”

  “I would suggest backing up the jetty, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, pointing to a building that was probably the harbor master’s office. “That way we know our rear is clear.”

  “Make it so, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said.

  “Pagliaro, Bearson, crack me that building.”

  “Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” Lance Corporal Pagliaro said, hefting his hammer. “Come on, Bear.”

  “Knock first,” Faith said. “Zombies don’t like impolite people.”

  “I don’t got nothing,” Pagliaro said. He’d hit the heavy door with his hammer several times. “No scratching or nothing.”

  “Open it,” Faith said.

  “Open it, aye, ma’am,” Pagliaro said.

  Pagliaro and Bearson made short work of cracking the front doors with the firemen entry tools. When they had the locks bashed, Bearson kicked the door in and they both backed off, hefting their M4s. Nothing came through the door.

  “I don’t think anyone’s home,” Faith said. “Check it, though.”

  “Pag, Bearson, clear the building,” Januscheitis said.

  “Clearance ops, aye, Staff Sergeant,” Pagliaro said. “I’m point.”

  * * *

  “One dead infected,” Pagliaro said as they exited the building. “Usual mess. Old. Most of it’s dried up. Looks like harbor master’s office. Some boat parts but they look like they’re for those bitty boats in the harbor.”

  “Staff Sergeant,” Derek radioed. “We’ve got the battery and some jumper cables. Mind if we try to crank one of these down here rather than hump it back up the jetty?”

  The smaller jetty was nearly two football fields long.

  Januscheitis looked at the lieutenant and Faith nodded.

  “Makes sense to me,” she said.

  “Shewolf says roger,” Januscheitis replied. “Shall we continue clearance ops, ma’am?”

  “Only if you feel like it,” Faith said. “We can’t open and clear every house in town. We need to sweep through the streets and see if we can find any survivors. I just wanted to see if the basic methods worked. From a supplies perspective, I’d say clear the tavern and see what’s up there while we wait for Derek to find us a ride.”

  “Roger, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Pag, Bear, go break into that bar.”

  “Oh, aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” Bearson said. “We are all over that!”

  * * *

  “Ola!” Pagliaro boomed through the loudhailer. “Anybody home? Hello? Anybody home?”

  The unit had broken down into two three-man teams with Januscheitis taking charge of one and Faith, with Corporal Douglas, taking charge of the other. Douglas was driving while Pagliaro stuck his head out the moon roof to try to find survivors.

  The streets of the town were deserted. So far they hadn’t seen one single remaining infected and while there was some sign of them, the usual mix of decayed and gnawed bodies and fecal matter, even that was scattered. And there was, so far, no sign of survivors.

  “Is it just me or is this creepy?” Faith asked.

  “Little creepy, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, taking a slow turn around an even smaller body in the street. “Christ, I hope that some of these towns have survivors.”

  “There are more towns up the road according to the map,” Faith said. “I suppose we could try to penetrate into the interior.”

  “With due respect, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “I don’t think that was part of the plan.”

  “Plans change, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said. “But, yes, we’d have to get permission.”

  “Hey, I think we’ve got customers,” Pagliaro said. “Half a block, roof of the building.”

  “Really?” Faith said, looking up through the cracked windshield. “Holy shit.”

  A group of people were waving from the roof of one of the buildings. They were just in the process of hanging a sheet from the edge of the roof to try to attract the attention of the Marines.

  “Hello,” Faith said, stepping out of the car. “Anyone speak English?”

  She took off her gas mask. The smell wasn’t really all that bad and they hadn’t seen a single infected.

  “Si!” one of the men yelled. “Hello! Thank you? Are all the infectado gone? Who are you?”

  “Lieutenant Faith Smith, United States Marine Corps, at your service, sir,” Faith yelled. “We haven’t seen any. Come on down. Olly, olly oxenfree as we say . . .”

  * * *

  “The building was a general stores house, si?” the man said, taking a sip of bottled water. “Ah, that is good. Very good.”

  Valerio Villa had been one of five policemen for the District of San Sebastian de la Gomera. He had done what he could as the Plague took hold, then fallen back on the warehouse along with a small group of survivors from La Puntilla, the small town Faith’s team had been clearing.

  “We had much trouble with water,” Conchita Casales said. “There is little rain.”

  The five survivors—two women, three men—had found seeds and created “soil” from their “waste,” fecal and urine, and sand for mixing concrete. They had even taken tubs onto the roof and buried the bodies of the dead in them, then planted on those. There had been a store of bottled water in the warehouse but that had run out eventually. They’d collected rainwater. Generally, they’d just dug in and survived.

  “Have you seen any evidence of other survivors?”

  “There were some,” Villa said, shrugging. “Across the town. We could see them. They did not have the stores we had, the seeds . . .” He shrugged again.

  “I think we are all,” Conchita said. She took his hand and shrugged as well, then patted her belly. “But there will be more, si?”

&nb
sp; “What do we do now?” Villa asked. “Is the U.S.—? Are we to be . . . ?”

  “The United States has fought on every inhabited continent,” Januscheitis said. “And the only land we’ve ever asked is enough to bury our dead. So, no, we’re not ‘taking’ this land. It remains a property of Spain, I guess. More or less independent right now, since there isn’t really a Spain. What you do is up to you. We can transport you back to the squadron or you can stay here. We’ve been asked to ask if we can put off some people here, if it comes up. We don’t have any land bases. But we’re pretty much adjusted to being totally at sea. And we’re planning on taking some U.S. land bases in the near future.”

  “If there are infectado left . . . I cannot clear this whole town by myself,” Villa said. “Among other things, I’m out of bullets.”

  “We have plenty of spare M4s and five five six,” Faith said. “We should be able to get authorization to pass some of those to you. We also have been clearing ships at sea and have some fairly sizeable stores. Or we can pick you up and take you back to the squadron as the staff sergeant said.”

  “Can you help me ensure that some of the buildings are clear?” Villa said. “We have seen no sign that there are infectado surviving in them but . . . This is not the place to stay in long term.”

  “Ma’am?” Januscheitis said.

  “I’ll clear it with Division,” Faith said. “But I don’t see that being an issue.”

  “You know best,” Januscheitis said. “But I’d suggest concentrating on a traditional building and something near the waterfront. We can’t clear this whole island for you. We’re not even vaguely up to speed. The USMC is pretty much twenty something guys and the skipper here and we don’t have a bunch of people to come in and fix your town. So you’d better be prepared to survive on your own. Food, power, water and security.”

  “I think we can do that, yes,” Conchita said. “I think we stay.”

  “We shall stay,” Villa said, looking around the shattered town. “If we can borrow some guns.”

  “Not an issue,” Faith said. “But . . . would you mind if some people took some shore leave?”