To Sail a Darkling Sea

by John Ringo

  Wilkes finally fired, putting round after round into a zombie until it finally dropped. But there was another one behind that one . . .

  “Jesus, they’re not stopping,” Wilkes panted. He suddenly realized he was out of rounds. How did that happen?

  “You’re pulling an empty trigger, sir,” Faith said, calmly servicing targets. “Reload,” she said, switching to pistol.

  By the time Wilkes had reloaded, all the infected were down.

  “Are you on safe, sir?” Faith asked when Wilkes had reloaded and chambered a round. “Safety is sort of important, sir.”

  “On safe,” Wilkes said. “I apologize for not taking the shot. That put the team in jeopardy.”

  “I can’t shoot the kids, sir,” Faith said. “Fortunately or unfortunately it looks like they’ve all been eaten on this ship. Lots of them left on the Voyage, sir. Shall we continue?”

  CHAPTER 15

  O makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep

  Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;

  An’ hustlin’ drunken sodgers when they’re goin’ large a bit

  Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.

  “Tommy”

  Rudyard Kipling

  “Captain?” Captain Wilkes said, sticking his head in the compartment. “I was told you wanted to see me immediately following clearance ops.” The captain was out of zombie gear but still wearing the same uniform. Which was fairly grungy.

  “Grab a seat, Milo,” Steve said, waving. “You’re not flying any time soon. Are you a drinker, Captain? And what? Bourbon, scotch . . .”

  “Scotch, sir,” Wilkes said, taking a seat.

  “My daughter, Sophia, has cleared two hundred and eighty-six small craft, according to a report I just read . . .”

  “Good God,” Wilkes said, shaking his head. “Where do you get them, sir?”

  “My wife actually popped them out, Captain,” Steve said, smiling. He’d pulled a bottle out of the drawer and poured two glasses, then handed one to Wilkes. “And, yes, I consider them fine little sheilas. But the point to it is that people seem to always take booze with them when they evacuate. I was rather remiss in that area. Apparently, I was supposed to pack along two-hundred-year-old brandy instead of guns and ammo. Who knew? But the rich people with rich yachts that took to sea tended to stock rather fine booze. And from experience, your first day of clearing the fucking bowels of a supermax liner requires a little snort. Cheers.”

  “Semper Fi, sir,” Wilkes said, taking a sip. “God, that is good.”

  “We’ve got a post clearance meeting in fifteen minutes,” Steve said. “This is not any sort of official meeting. This is a debrief, only one you’ll get. Time to clear your head with someone you can, actually, be frank with. The first comment would probably be along the lines of the ‘Good God’ you already used or possibly ‘Holy Christ.’ ”

  Wilkes leaned back and put his hand over his mouth, clearly thinking.

  “How about ‘Holy fucking shit on a cracker?’ sir,” he said after a moment. “When I looked at the objective my first thought was ‘I’m expected to do this with thirty Marines?’ My second thought was ‘There is really no way anyone did this with four people. This is a battalion objective.’ I mean, sir, with respect, I just sort of thought . . .”

  “We’d made it up?” Steve said, snorting. “There are plenty of people who were around for it, Captain. I’m not offended, but—”

  “It’s not the sort of thing you go up to random people and say ‘They had to be lying,’ sir,” Wilkes said. “And that was before I actually went forward and saw what it’s like, sir. When I actually did it . . . Jesus Christ Eating a Holy Wafer in Hell, sir.”

  “Are you still wondering . . . ?” Steve asked. “I’m curious, not upset.”

  “No, sir,” Wilkes said. “Sir, I saw the video, sure. But working with Shewolf is a different deal, sir. I’m a pilot, sir. We understand muscle memory and how much time it takes to develop. And your daughter, sir, fights zombies with muscle memory like nobody I’ve ever seen.”

  “She fights them in her sleep,” Steve said.

  “Which is the next point, sir,” Wilkes said. “She needs a break, sir. That is an official statement as her commanding officer, sir. I’m pretty sure she really does fight them in her sleep. Every waking moment and every night is not good, sir. Her going off in the mess deck is now much more comprehensible, sir. Did that report cover how many hours of combat she’s had since the Plague, sir?”

  “Do we count New York where she was a positive zombie magnet?” Steve asked. “No, there’s another team working on that one. Two hundred and fifty or so of ‘hard clearance,’ what you’re doing, on the Voyage alone. Week of twelve-hours days on the Iwo . . .”

  “Lieutenant Smith needs some downtime, sir,” Wilkes said. “R and R. Swimming. A beach. Pina colad— Well, she’s thirteen, so . . .”

  “And really uninterested in drinking,” Steve said. “When we finish this clearance we’re headed across the Atlantic. Two weeks, minimum. I intend to sweep for any rescues on the way to Gitmo. That do?”

  “Possibly, sir,” Wilkes said. “But that’s an official recommendation and not because she is, as an instructor, an absolute prick, sir. That’s actually a compliment, sir. She is one hell of a prick instructor.”

  “So what do you think of the actual methods?” Steve said. “Official question.”

  “I think that they’re . . . institutional memory, sir,” Wilkes said. “Not really developed SOPs. And they need to be developed SOPs. Some of them are rough, catch-as-catch-can. I know you think I’m . . . well, a regular military asshat, sir . . .”

  “I also am aware that there’s a method to the madness, Captain,” Steve said. “I did actually counsel Faith on that, if you’re wondering about my counseling session with her. That there is a value to even such things as military deportment. When we head off on our cruise, there will, again, be time to work on developing these as actual SOPs. Thoughts?”

  “We certainly don’t have time right now, sir,” Wilkes said. “I can see why the pace is as slow as it is. And why we’re using so many damned batteries. I was going to bring up the subject of cutting down on the use of so many flashlights in clearance at this meeting, sir. That was until I did it. No way in hell. We don’t have enough light.”

  “Lieutenant Isham brought it up already,” Steve said chuckling. “I told him I’d be glad to take him clearing and he could see what it was like. But it’s worthwhile for you to reiterate that. Especially given that you’d identified the same issue and now have a different take. Couple of things I’m going to be bringing up at the meeting that touch on your mission. We’re moving the Marines to the Boadicea. And they’re getting the good cabins.”

  “Sir?” Wilkes said.

  “Marines are supposed to be all about Spartan,” Steve said. “But as you pointed out, what they are doing is fucking godawful. The cleaning crews see your results but not how they happened. Maybe it’s just that I used to be a para and I’ve done it. But I think they need . . . I hate to call it TLC but that’s what it is. They’re specialists and they’re the only ones we’ve got. So they’re going into the first-class cabins, no more than two to a cabin. The officers and senior NCOs into the better staterooms. They sure as hell don’t need to be stuffed into interior rooms, six to a stateroom, after clearing in the fucking dark all day. There’s a limit and I don’t want to push it.”

  “I’m sure as hell not going to argue for shoving them into holds, sir,” Wilkes said.

  “The second thing follows the first,” Steve said. “When they’re done with clearance, they clean their weapons. Gear goes to a team to be cleaned. That will have to be checked, probably by the gunny, and I’m sure there will be some fuck-ups at first. We’re not going to get rocket scientists, or Marines for that matter, cleaning it. But I know how fucked up gear gets doing this, and after making the mess,
picking bits of flesh out of your gear is the last fucking thing you want to do at the end of a long day of getting pummeled by zombies.”

  “You sure about that one, sir?” Wilkes said. “I mean, the officers, I can see it. We’ve got at least two more meetings to go through this evening. The grunts are just . . . off, sir.”

  “How many times would you like to go into that shithole, Captain?” Steve said. “That’s not a threat, but the fact that it sort of sounds like it should answer your question.”

  “I won’t disagree, sir,” Wilkes said. “But who’s going to do it?”

  “I have some people who are on my shit list,” Steve said. “All they need is the proper encouragement.”

  * * *

  “Mr. Zumwald,” Steve said. “Walk with me.”

  “You’re Captain Smith,” Zumwald said. “You don’t have much of an Aussie accent. Where we going?”

  “For a little walk, followed by a boat ride, followed by a little walk,” Steve said. “This way.”

  “Walk in concrete overshoes?” Zumwald asked.

  “You have my personal and professional assurance that you will return, alive, from this little excursion,” Steve said seriously. “You’re not an idiot. The damage to my reputation if I really did dump you over the side would be extreme. Management is, to an extent, about trust. Nobody could trust me if I took such a high-handed approach. I’d lose my position, with justice, and my agenda would be disrupted or destroyed. You will return alive and unharmed. Physically. We’ll see about otherwise.”

  “Well, I’d still like to apologize about what happened with your daughter, Captain,” the former executive said. “I was sorta drunk and real glad to be off that little boat. It shouldn’t have happened and certainly not to a real hero like your daughter.”

  “Were you aware that the Social Alpha was the megayacht of Mike Mickerberg?” Steve asked.

  “Yeah,” Zumwald said. “I was even on it one time before the Plague. I heard he got whacked. Which serves him right, the bastard. I lost my shirt in that IPO.”

  “Faith, then Sergeant Fontana and I cleared it,” Steve said, gesturing to a dinghy. “After you.”

  “No, you should go first,” Zumwald said.

  “It’s an odd thing in the Navy,” Steve said. “The junior boards first. That way the senior gets off the boat first. You first.

  “Did you hear about what happened before it went fully infected?” Steve asked as Zumwald got in the inflatable.

  “No,” Zumwald said. “Sort of. Mutiny or something like that?”

  “Mr. Mickerberg, possibly panicking at the thought of an apocalypse, hired a cut-rate security firm that employed mostly West African mercenaries. Child soldier types.”

  “Sounds like Mickey,” Zumwald said. “He was great for the whole social networking thing, never got his head in gear on anything else.”

  “The mercenaries took over, led by a slightly insane ex-Special Forces major,” Steve said, gesturing for the crew to take off. “They injected Mr. Mickerberg with live agent to make sure he went zombie. Shot all the male passengers and dumped them to the sharks. Then proceeded to have their way, if you will, with the women he’d brought along.”

  “Jesus,” Zumwald said, shaking his head. “I was going to say it’s like the script to some low-budget post-apoc, but—”

  “Indeed,” Steve said. “But. Then there was the usual falling out you’d expect, as more and more became infected. Faith was part of the entry to the main suite, which we currently use for a command post. Nobody with sense would want to sleep there. The major had apparently locked himself in with, presumably, the fairer of the fair ladies. When the evil overlord was to be overrun, he lined them up, flex-cuffed them, and shot them all in the head, one by one. Then shot himself.”

  “Fuck,” Zumwald said, shuddering. “And your daughter—”

  “Saw it all,” Steve said. “Was part of the analysis team if you will. So . . . Faith takes a dim view of any man who thinks he quote owns a woman. Or feels that his needs override some cookie who is just wandering around the saloon.”

  “Okay, now I really realize how bad I fucked up,” Zumwald said. “And, again, I apologize.” He’d been watching where they were going and now realized it was to the lit hole in the side of the supermax. “We’re going to the liner? I thought you said I was coming back alive?”

  “We will be going only into cleared areas,” Steve said, pulling out a Tyvek suit and a gas mask. “You’ll want these, however.”

  “Shit, you cannot be serious,” Zumwald said. “If you’re trying to test my courage, you win. I’m a coward.”

  “This is not a test of courage,” Steve said. “It’s not even a test. It is what is generally called a learning experience. I’m aware you’re a coward. Not all bullies are, but you are. That’s okay, I can use cowards too. Jack Isham’s a physical coward and he makes a perfectly adequate chief of staff. I’m not asking you to kill infecteds. You’re just going to be taking a short walk. And I strongly suggest the Tyvek suit. It has booties. You’re going to mess up your Guccis if you don’t use the suit.”

  “Is this just you and me?” Zumwald temporized. The stink from the boat was evident even on the water. It smelled like shit and iron and the worst rotting garbage in history. He already wanted to puke. “No way you’re getting me in there.”

  “Oh, I brought people who can carry you, Mr. Zumwald,” Steve said. “While we will be in areas that have been cleared, by a pro I might add, I am not an idiot. And I’m not rigged for heavy combat. So there will be security. And I really don’t think you want the indignity of Lieutenant Fontana and Staff Sergeant Januscheitis dragging you through the bowels of the ship. Put on the suit, Mr. Zumwald. There are things you need to understand.”

  * * *

  “Holy fuck,” Zumwald groaned.

  “If you are going to puke in a mask, sir, this is the procedure,” the black lieutenant said politely. “Take a deep breath as you realize you are going to puke. Lift the mask up to your forehead. Puke. You will automatically inhale. Try not to smell the surrounding air. The puke will probably cover it up. Redon the mask, clear it as we told you then take a deep breath. If you have to puke again, and you will, lather, rinse, repeat.”

  Zumwald wanted to pass out, not just puke. It was dark as fuck in the ship and he was lost. He had a flashlight, but there was no way he was finding his way back. Even if he hadn’t had heavily armed Marines following him. So far they hadn’t said a fucking word and that scared him worse than anything.

  “This isn’t actually the part I’m interested in,” Smith said, examining the bodies. “All Barbie shots. Where’s the other?”

  “This way, sir,” the big black lieutenant said.

  About all that Zumwald knew about the military was that generals were the bosses. But the black guy was the same rank as that little bitch that got him into this. And Smith had said they’d been together clearing the yacht, which was before they’d found any of the rest of the Marines. So he and the chick were probably buddies. Hell, he was probably banging her. Blacks were like that.

  The interior of the boat was like a fucking Tarantino movie but for real. He mentally made the note that even Tarantino didn’t use enough blood. In some of the rooms it was drying and still an inch or more thick. Walking through it was like glue. Each footstep gave this puke-inducing “suck, suck, suck” sound. Sometimes he couldn’t step around the bodies. One time when he balked, the two Marines just picked him up by the arms without a word and carried him over the pile of naked bodies.

  He puked. Couple of times. The boat smelled worse than it looked. And none of these fuckers seemed to even notice. Like it was a walk in the fucking park.

  Finally they came to the worst. He wasn’t sure what the fuck had happened in the room but the zombies weren’t just dead, they were fucked up. Huge fucking holes in their chests. He puked, again, when he realized he was looking at ribs and shit. For real.

  “Jesu
s, Smith, enough, okay?” Zumwald said, bent over. He was just puking in his mask at this point. There wasn’t anything to puke up. “Enough.”

  “I think you’ve noted the difference in the wounds?” Smith said. “Big fucking holes? That’s my daughter’s signature. Then there are these,” he said, walking over to a pile and picked one of the dead zombies up by its hair. “This is where Captain Wilkes, who was in training, got piled by zombies. Please try to stop puking long enough to note the cuts to the back of the neck. Do you see them?”

  “Yeah,” Zumwald said, looking then looking away. “You can see the fucking spine.”

  “I was given to understand that one of the things that Faith told you when you grabbed her arm was ‘The last guy who grabbed me, I cut off his hand.’ It was a tense moment; I’m not sure you remember.”

  “I remember,” Zumwald said.

  “She was being quite literal, I hope you understand,” Smith said. “She literally cuts off the hands of infected that grab her.”

  “You’ve made your point, okay? She’s a fucking badass. I’ll make the movie.”

  “I doubt it,” Steve said. “The likelihood of there being any significant movie industry in the near future is unlikely. What there is is this. Blood and death and shit and crap and horror. We are living, Mr. Zumwald, a much worse reality than any movie you could possibly make. Even given a budget. Okay? Or, perhaps you should just get a camera. This is reality TV. On steroids. Every fucking day, Zumwald.”

  “And if there’s a star, it’s the lady that you manhandled,” the black lieutenant said.

  “And this is, yes, very much like Survivor. Some people do get thrown off the island, or the boats as it may be, Mr. Zumwald. And, no, I won’t give you a boat. We need all the boats we can get working. And no, as noted, I will not throw you in the shark-infested harbor. I will put you down in the town of La Puntilla, which is a charming place from what I’ve heard and has plenty of resources for a resourceful person such as yourself. It will be a bit like I Am Legend. Just you, scavenging for survival in the zombie apocalypse. Does that sound appealing, Mr. Zumwald? I’ll even give you a pistol. If I’m feeling sufficiently nice, I’ll even give you bullets for it. And more than one.”