To Sail a Darkling Sea

by John Ringo

  “Oh,” Olga said, nodding. “Okay, guys, I’ll assemble the groups at the ladder, you take them from there downstairs. You got it?”

  “Jesus, why couldn’t they get this all figured out the first time?” Hadley groused. “We’re just gonna stay in place in teams. No, now we’re going to be by ourselves. No, now we’re going to be . . .”

  “Because we haven’t done it before,” Olga snapped. “Just follow the damn orders, Hadley!”

  “Screw you, Olga,” Hadley said.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Olga said. “Just get ready to take the people down.”

  * * *

  Slowly, one by one, with much coaching, the refugees were put over the wall. Only one slipped off the ladder, an elderly man who lost his footing. But he was only ten feet or so from the bottom and Bearson belayed him down easily.

  More turned up as the Marines continued their clearance of the local area. There were more bursts of fire, at one point a lot of fire, but nothing on the radio. So far, so good.

  “Division, Team Shewolf, over.”

  “Shewolf, Division.”

  “All the target buildings are clear. No injuries to refugees or Marines. We are bringing the last group back to Seawolf hand-off at this time.”

  “Roger, Shewolf. Good job. Seawolf, how’s it coming with the infirm? Haven’t seen any of those over the side, over?”

  “I still haven’t seen the stretchers turn up, Division,” Sophia replied.

  “Let me check on the stretchers, over.”

  “Division, Seawolf. Thinking about it, unless they’re in really bad health, I really think that the stretchers are a suboptimal choice. We just lower them on a rope. Unless they physically can’t take it.”

  “Shewolf, Division. Are you back in contact with the climbing guy, yet, over?”

  “Not yet, Division. Moving this last group of refugees.”

  “Contact him and check on what Seawolf is suggesting, over.”

  “Aye, aye, Division.”

  * * *

  “Gotcha, ma’am,” Derek said, balancing the woman as she reached the ground.

  The elderly Spanish lady was bitching about something a mile a minute in Spanish. Derek’s Spanish was limited to “Dos cervezas, por favor” and “¿Cuál es el costo de un rapidito?”

  “Any idea what she’s saying, ma’am?” he asked the ensign.

  “Do you call this a rescue? Where are the helicopters? Who are you people? Are you really from the United States? I don’t believe it. Where are your ships? Where have you been all this time?” the ensign translated. She said something in Spanish and the woman babbled back at her, just as angrily. There was some back and forth and the woman finally stopped, shaking her head. She patted the ensign on the arm then pulled Derek’s face down and kissed him on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” Derek asked.

  “I told her she’s looking at half the remaining United States Marine Corps,” the ensign said. “Now carry her over to the ladder. We’re going to have to belay her down there as well. Then probably through the building.”

  “Hola! Hola!” a voice said from above them.

  Rapelling down the rope was a very tan and handsome man in his late twenties. He landed with a bounce and waved and bowed as if wearing a broad hat.

  “Señor Javier Eduardo Estrada, at your service, bella señorita!”

  It was only when he hit the ground that it was apparent he was shorter than the ensign.

  “My boat is the Bella Señorita,” the ensign replied. “I am Ensign Sophia Smith of the United States Navy.”

  “Ensign Smith?” the man said, then pointed upwards. “Teniente Smith?”

  “My sister,” Sophia said.

  “Ah, the resemblance is notable,” Estrada said, then held out a hand at chest height. “Except for the height.”

  “You’re one to talk,” the ensign said, chuckling. “Maybe because it’s not such a long way down for me to look, I’m the one that can handle them. Corporal. If you’d move Mrs. Alvarado over to the ladder, please? We get her all the way to the boats and I think we’re done.”

  “Not before time, ma’am,” Derek said. “Sun’s going down.”

  “And the zombies like the dark, no?” Estrada said. “Perhaps it is best to hurry.”

  CHAPTER 22

  They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

  Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

  At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

  We will remember them.

  “Ode of Remembrance”

  Lawrence Binyon

  “Please God, we don’t have another evolution like that one,” Corporal Douglas said. “I am fricking beat!”

  The sun had set on the town of Las Corrillas, “the trickle,” and all the survivors that were recoverable were tucked away in the large yacht that had brought down the Marines. Sophia had invited the Marines over to her boat to hang for a while before they moved out to the next town.

  “I think in retrospect we should have just fought our way through town,” Sophia said. “But that’s both retrospect and I don’t do that stuff.”

  “I’m not sure I agree, ma’am,” Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said. “We hit some big concentrations up on the hill. And that was a hell of a lot of survivors. Getting them down in vehicles would have been as much of a pain in the ass. And walking them would have been out of the question.”

  “Yeah,” Faith said, sipping a cup of tea. “Infected density was higher than you realize, Sis. Most of them didn’t make it down to your teams. They were trying to find a way down. Which meant they were in our way.” She drained the tea and stood up. “Sis, thanks for hosting my guys and for the beer. But we need to get back to the boat. We’re headed back to Santa whatever to go, ugh, clear more liners.”

  “Take care of yourself, Sis,” Sophia said, giving her a hug. “And don’t let that Spanish climber talk you out of your pants.”

  “He is cute, isn’t he?” Faith said, grinning.

  “Señorita, Division.”

  “Division, Señorita,” Sophia said, picking up the radio.

  “Need to get the Marines back over to their boat. We are pulling out in thirty.”

  “Roger, Division. The party was just breaking up. Señorita, out.”

  “So where you going next?” Faith asked, headed to the away boat.

  “Las Galletas,” Sophia said. “Know nothing about it except ‘intel’ suggests there are some useable boats. Nothing about survivors.”

  “You be careful,” Faith said, giving her a hug again before getting on the boat. “Especially with all these mall ninjas.”

  “We’ll get it done,” Sophia said. “Da wants boats and survivors, we’ll get him boats and survivors . . .”

  * * *

  “We’re definitely not clearing this one. Definitely not.”

  They’d arrived at the town of Candelaria just before dawn. Which wasn’t good. It meant they couldn’t draw any of the infected into a kill zone. And there were going to be infected. The town was huge, at least as big as Las Corrillas. But there were some big yachts in the basin. The question was whether they could get them out. They’d been told to just anchor offshore and wait for dawn. It was dawn. And it was a damned pretty one. But it didn’t mean the boats were any closer to being in their hands. And there were infected moving around.

  “Señorita. Take your away boat and go recon. See if we can cut these yachts out. I’m told recon indicates some good deep water inflatables as well. Check on them.”

  “Roger, Division,” Sophia said, her face working. “One question, Division, define ‘cut out,’ over.”

  “Remind me to assign you some reading material, Señorita. See if we can go in and grab them without actually mixing it up, much, with infected, over.”

  “Oh, sure, that should be easy,” Sophia said. “Olga, gear up. I want somebody besides me on this run.”

  “Aye, aye,
Captain Crunch,” Olga said, saluting. “Gearing up!”

  * * *

  There were the usual bunch of sailboats in the harbor. Probably more than normal. But there were also two big motor yachts. They were both rigged as sport fishers but one was at least a sixty-five-footer and the other was enormous, probably a ninety or better.

  There were nine or ten big offshore inflatables. They were rigged for fishing as well. It was apparent that sport fishing was a big industry in the area. But they’d be really useful as general purpose “get-around” boats. Better than her dinghy, that was for sure.

  Then there were the infected. There were a lot of them and they were active at the moment. But they were scattered. The way the marina was laid out, there were only so many that could, easily, make their way to the boats. One of the yachts was tied up alongside the seawall. The other was butt-in to one of the docks.

  She looked up at the sound of an outboard puttering along and wasn’t surprised it was Lieutenant Chen.

  “I’m glad you’re here, sir,” Sophia said. She held up her digital camera. “I was taking pictures, but I didn’t know if they were going to make sense.”

  “What do you think?” Chen asked.

  “I think it’s going to take careful coordination,” Sophia said. “And one of the gunboats. Just in case it drops in the pot. And our best people. We come up to that one that’s butt in. Throw a grapnel on the front rail. Send a team aboard. One of them cuts the ropes, I’d suggest a machete for that, while the other two cover. If the infected react, the gunboats engage outside the boat, port and starboard, and the security team engages inside. Once they’ve cut the ropes, pull it out. Then we find out if it’s going to run.”

  “And the big one?” Chen asked.

  “Pretty much the same thing, sir,” Sophia said. “Possibly with both gunboats. One inside and one outside. The inflatables will be easy. I’d suggest that we take out the one that’s sternfirst, first. That’s closest to the main entrance and most likely to attract a bunch of infected. The other one, we can cover it pretty good. There’s only one way for them to approach and we can chew them up with the fifties if they come that way.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Chen said. “Rusty and Anarchy, for sure. Who else?”

  “Olga,” Sophia said, thumbing at the girl. “With the machete.”

  “Oh, you’re going to give me a machete!” Olga said, clapping her hands happily.

  “Are the other gunners going to be disciplined enough with Anarchy gone, sir?” Sophia asked.

  “I’ll be watching them, Ensign,” Chen said. “We’ll use my boat to pull it out.”

  * * *

  “Okay, the first problem,” Anarchy said, looking up at the bulwarks of the yacht. “How the hell do we get aboard?”

  The side of the yacht was well above the level of the inflatable. At least at the front.

  “I’ll creep back to the stern,” Paula said quietly. As one of the people with the most experience driving small boats, she’d been elected to drive the inflatable. She really didn’t like being this close to infected, but she knew she was the best choice.

  The sun was well up and most of the infected had gone to ground. They mostly moved at night and around dawn and dusk. But it didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  “Hey, boss,” Rusty whispered.

  “Yeah,” Anarchy said.

  “We get back there, I can boost you and Olga over,” Rusty said. “Then you give me a hand up.”

  “Okay,” Anarchy said. “Let’s try to keep this quiet. If we don’t fire at all, I’d be just as happy. I’d like these guys to keep sleeping. Okay, Paula, let’s do it.”

  * * *

  “You said boost,” Mcgarity muttered as he was more or less hurled over the bulwark. Rusty was a big boy, Mcgarity not so much. And Rusty had gotten back pretty much all his strength, then some, handling the big fifties and their ammo.

  The problem being, there was an infected sleeping in the shadow of the superstructure of the yacht. It woke up at the clatter of the arriving infantryman and scrabbled towards him on hands and knees, hissing.

  It hit Mcgarity and tried to bite. The security specialist wasn’t wearing full zombie fighting gear and it nearly managed to get his neck. He fended it off and got a hand on its throat just before it let out the standard zombie howl.

  Mcgarity drew his side-arm and shoved it into the infected’s stomach, pulling the trigger repeatedly and trying to angle up. Being in contact muffled the sound of the shots. Something must have given because the infected stopped struggling.

  It was only when he pushed it off that he realized the infected was a teenage boy, shrunken and emaciated by privation and covered in scars including bite marks.

  “Fuck,” Mcgarity said, shaking his head. “Looks like fucking Gollum . . .”

  He rolled over, then reloaded and holstered his 1911, looking around to see if the scuffle had attracted any attention. None immediately apparent.

  “Gimme a hand getting this body in the harbor . . .”

  * * *

  Between the two of them and a rope, and Paula pushing on his ass and boots, they managed to get Rusty over the side.

  “We gotta figure out a better way to do this,” Anarchy said. “Olga, get the ropes.”

  “Okay,” Olga said, drawing her machete.

  An infected came down the wharf, on hands and knees, snuffling at the boards of one of the buildings.

  “Target,” Rusty said, raising his weapon.

  “No,” Anarchy said. “And inside voice. Just be quiet. Olga!” he hissed.

  Olga lifted her head and looked at him. She was just about to chop one of the ropes.

  He held his finger up to his lips, pointed at the infected, which was no more than thirty yards away, then motioned for her to cut with a knife.

  There were six thick lines to cut. Anarchy watched her cutting through one then tapped Rusty and pointed to another.

  Rusty pointed at his chest, puzzled, then made a cutting motion.

  Anarchy nodded, furiously, and made another cutting motion and pointed at the line.

  Rusty made the same cutting motion then held out his hands.

  Mcgarity rolled his eyes and pulled out a tactical knife, handing it to him.

  Rusty started cutting lines while Mcgarity watched the infected. It finally found what it was looking for and grabbed something. It was a rat. The infected didn’t bother with cleaning. The squeaking rodent went down pretty much whole.

  The building was some sort of convenience store. The doors were locked and there were bars on the windows. Even if there had been infected, or noninfected, in there, they were long dead. But the rats could get in and eat. Then the zombies ate the rats.

  Zombies could probably survive a long time on rats. And there was going to be lots of food for rats.

  Mcgarity suddenly realized that some of the assumptions people were making about zombies running out of food were optimistic. Maybe on ships. Land, not so much.

  The infected continued sniffing, then looked around, searching for another source of food. It looked at the people on the boat and appeared puzzled for a moment. Then it scurried away around the corner.

  “What the fuck?” Mcgarity whispered. He’d been fully prepared to start the party. But the zombie had just run off. They’d pile into a wall of bullets but this one had just run off. “Seriously, what the fuck?”

  The last line was cut and he stepped, quietly, to the side and waved for the boat to pull the yacht out of its slot. They bumped a couple of times on the way into the basin but not bad. It was still seaworthy, anyway.

  Once it was clear of the slot they tied it off to one of the pilings, away from any other boats, and the engineer from the Wet Debt boarded carrying a toolbag.

  “Can you get it running?” Anarchy asked.

  “How the hell should I know?” the mechanic said. “I don’t even know if it has fuel.”

  “It has fuel,” Olga said. She’
d pulled the cap on the tanks and sniffed. Then she looked in. “It’s mostly full.”

  “Which means it’s probably got water in it,” the mechanic said, handing her a bottle. “And it will have separated. Pour this in the tank. It might help. I’m going to be at this a while. After I get the door open,” he added, pointing to the hatch.

  “I’ve got a hammer,” Rusty said.

  “You’ve got a hammer but you don’t got a knife?” Mcgarity snarled. “We need to talk about your priorities!”

  “I’ve got a jimmie,” the mechanic said. “If that don’t work, then I maybe need a hammer. I’d rather be able to use the door, you know?”

  The mechanic was able to get the door open without too much damage, then he waved at the interior.

  “I don’t do dark spaces that might have zombies in them.”

  “I’ll check it,” Anarchy said. “You two, don’t fire unless a zombie swims aboard.”

  “Sharks,” Olga said. “Don’t think they’ll make it.”

  “Then don’t fire,” Anarchy said.

  He swept the interior of the boat but it was clean. Probably nobody had been aboard since the Plague.

  “All clear,” he said, stepping out of the saloon. “What’s next?”

  “Get me the batteries out of the boat and I’ll see if it will crank,” he said. “I’m still gonna need somebody to keep an eye out. Not going to have time to be looking around for zombies.”

  “Olga,” Anarchy said. “Rusty, get back in the boat and hand me up the batteries.”

  * * *

  “You got lights?” the mechanic said. “I got a headlamp but you’re gonna need lights.”

  “I’ve got lights.” Olga turned on her rail light and pulled out a headlamp. She also had a hand taclight.

  The mechanic checked the oil, humming in apparent satisfaction, then disconnected the batteries from the engine.

  “How’s it going to run with no batteries?” Sophia asked.

  “I’m going to install the ones I brought,” the mechanic said. “These have been sitting for so long, not only are they D-E-D, dead, they’re probably shot. I’ll check ’em back on the Debt. The way things are going, we’d better find a container of batteries soon. So, you’re the Ukrainian chick? Why no accent?”