Islands of Rage and Hope

by John Ringo

  “From what your crews say, one of the better,” Serge Lamar said.

  The former chef had worked at the Eden Rock Hotel and had, like most survivors, fallen back on food stores immediately. There hadn’t, apparently, been many visitors at the resort when the Plague broke out or they had gone home while air-travel was available. All the survivors had been workers at the hotel.

  “Did you have many turn?” Bowman asked. “Although if you don’t want to talk about it I understand. What happened in the compartment, stays in the compartment.”

  “We had some,” Lamar said, shrugging. “We had to put them outside. Most . . . did not survive long. We tried not to joke about ‘throwing them off the island’ but just before the plague they were filming a Survivor episode here. The joke was too obvious however black, no?”

  “I suppose it’s better than most alternatives,” Bowman said. “I was the compartment’s official strangler.”

  “Oh,” Lamar said. “I believe the term for that in English is the same as French. A non sequitur.”

  “It’s become sort of a . . . mixed blessing,” Bowman said, turning the Zodiac back out to the channel. “Someone in each compartment or lifeboat had to do it. While nobody liked it . . . The people who were able tended to also be the ones who ended up running the compartment. Which means most of the captains of these boats were the official stranglers. Because the sort of person who could do that, even if they hated it, are the sort of people who can run a boat. If for no other reason than at a certain point everyone is fully aware that you’re not going to take any more shit.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Lamar said. “Would it be giving you shit to ask if we could pick up one of the lobster traps?”

  “Not at all,” Bowman said. “I could do with some lobster for supper. Where?”

  “You sure you can get this in there, Chief?” Ensign Gary Poole asked as the chief carefully negotiated the Noby Dick through the channel.

  “She’s a tight one, that’s for sure, sir,” Chief Schmidt said. “That’s why I chose your boat to go first, sir. Get ready, we’re probably going to grind on the catamaran.”

  “Oh, joy,” Poole said as there was a scraping sound from underneath the boat. “You’re going to get me the same reputation as Buckley, Chief!”

  “Think of it as a quicky way to clean off your hull, sir,” Chief Schmidt said as they cleared the worst part of the channel. “Your boat, sir. I need to go get the Guppy . . .”

  * * *

  “Permission to speak, ma’am?” PFC Jesse Summers said as the platoon awaited the go order. There were seven Zodiacs filled with heavily armed Marines idling just off the point of Gustavia peninsula.

  Faith was sitting in the front of the lead Zodiac in a full lotus position despite her gear, her eyes closed, and appeared to be meditating. The iPod buds in her ears were emitting a pulsing beat that could be heard over the putter of the idling motor.

  “Speak,” Faith said, loudly.

  It was finally done. All the op orders had been written, issued, re-written, re-issued, lather, rinse, repeat. The platoon had gone over a map table of the upcoming landing. Everybody had been shown the primary and secondary routes to the objectives. Probable infected routes of attack had been analyzed, spun, folded and mutilated. Fire objectives and primary defense points had been defined, designated and resignated.

  Now all that was left was killing zombies. But the final, final, really final, no, seriously, this is the absolutely last, frago had just taken it out of her. She could not even muster interest in rescuing people. They were probably French, after all. And her dad was already having a hard time with the French collective in the squadron. And all the people at the police station looked to be girls. There was no fun to rescuing girls. Cute guys, maybe. Girls not so much.

  “May I ask what you’re doing, ma’am?” Summers said.

  “Centering my aggression,” Faith said.

  The song changed and she glanced at her watch. A few seconds later, the gunboats opened fire. She could hear it even over the pounding music in her earbuds.

  “That’s our cue,” she said, holding her finger over her head. She made a circling motion then pointed at the shore. The Zodiac started moving forward, gaining speed quickly. “Once upon a night we’ll wake to the carnival of life . . . LOCK AND LOAD!”

  She slid out her left earbud and slid in her radio bud, seating it hard to ensure it stayed. She knew she should use cans, full headphones that slid under her helmet. But the hell if she was going into battle without her tunes.

  “And you keep your muzzle up in a boat, PFC,” Faith said, pointing Summers’s muzzle skywards. “That way you don’t shoot a hooole in the bot-tom.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Summers said.

  “First Platoon, do you require fire support, over?”

  “Better over than on,” Faith muttered, then keyed the radio. “Negative. Position is currently clear.”

  “Ish,” she added as an infected loped into sight from around the corner. She switched frequencies without thinking about it. “Gunny, can you bag that one?”

  There was a shot from the gunny’s boat and the infected dropped from a headshot.

  “Show-off,” she said as they arrived at the jetty. She stepped off the Zodiac and waved for the rest of the team to pass her. God knew she didn’t want most of them behind her.

  She and the gunny were in the lead and center boats. But one of the “revisions” to the op-order had subtly moved the teams that were “Iwo heavy” to the outside of the formation. The flanks were where infected were most likely to leak through and the reality was that the Iwo Marines were just steadier.

  Colonel Hamilton had finally come to the conclusion that was the case when the gunny asked him to review comparative combat times. Which Faith should have thought of given her discussion with Staff Sergeant Barnard. When Colonel Hamilton realized that despite his eight tours in the Sandbox, three in “combat leadership” positions, and nearly twenty years in the Corps, Sergeant Smith’s combat time had surpassed his own in a matter of months, he accepted the disparity.

  Of course, their own combat time started from when the unit’s boots hit the ground here in Gustavia. Which wasn’t real combat time in Faith’s opinion. It should start from the first shot at confirmed infected.

  ’Course, the gunny had shot one on the way in. She wasn’t sure if that counted or not.

  “First Squad, get started on finding useable vehicles,” Faith radioed. “Second Squad, let’s roll.”

  The gunny was going to stay behind with First Squad, squad leader still Staff Sergeant “I’m so Salty I squeak” Barnard while Faith took Second Squad, led by Hooch and with Smitty as his Bravo Team leader, up to the police barracks.

  They had landed right in front of the L’Hotel De Colectivite, which sounded like something commie to Faith. Probably not, since nothing commie ever looked that good. At least before it burned.

  There was a narrow dirt path between the northwest side of “L’Hotel” and the bay which the squad followed. Hooch had put Lance Corporal Quade on point, then Hooch to make sure he could figure out the way. Faith was between the two teams. She’d quietly moved Kirby to the lead position in the rear team since the alternative was Sergeant Hoag and she didn’t want Sheila behind her with a loaded weapon. Smitty was following at the rear and keeping an eye on his team’s movement and weapons control while she was doing the same with Alpha Team.

  “Curran, your sector is right,” Faith said. “Keep an eye on your sector. Filipowicz, you’re up, not left. They do occasionally get on balconies . . .”

  The area behind the burned building was cluttered with equally burned vehicles and the usual materials, dumpsters, carts, you found behind commercial buildings. It looked as if somebody had tried to barricade the road at one point. And it looked as if it had flooded for some reason. What it didn’t have was infected.

  The drive behind L’Hotel connected directly to Rue Shkelche
r. She’d wondered about that name, it didn’t sound French, until she recalled her own briefing on the Swedish heritage of the town. The fort was right above them and they could just climb the steep ass hill through the thick ass jungle foliage. Which was the “by the book” route the staff sergeant pointed out since it “avoided paths and potential ambushes or IEDs.”

  The staff sergeant had been reading the Marine Infantry manual. “With supplements.” Unfortunately, everybody in the current Marine Corps had been too busy to write many supplements on zombie fighting. They had some for clearance operations on ships. Ground was still come-as-you-are without the “assistance” of properly written manuals. Faith pointing out that zombies don’t prepare L-shaped ambushes—they just hit you randomly no matter where you moved, and getting hit in constricting foliage, where they could come to grips, negated the effect, such as it was, of their Barbie guns—didn’t seem to faze the experienced USMC Staff NCO.

  Honest to God, Faith was starting to get the thing about second lieutenants. Every time Staff Sergeant Barnard said “In my experience” Faith wanted to laugh out loud. Thank God her first Staff had been Januscheitis. Otherwise she’d have assumed all Marine staff sergeants were given a lobotomy along with their certificate as a Staff NCO in the United States Marine Corps. Fontana had been a Special Forces staff sergeant and he didn’t make any big deal about it. Barnard’s attitude seemed to imply that Staff NCOs in the United States Marine Corps automatically shit gold bricks.

  Faith realized she needed to center her aggression again. Not to mention keep an eye on the fire team, which was technically an NCO’s job.

  “Curran, I am going to fucking shoot you if you don’t keep an eye on your sect—”

  She fired five times in rapid succession. At an infected. That burst out of cover in Curran’s sector. Headed for Curran.

  “Clear!” she yelled. “Keep moving. Haugen, cover Curran’s sector. Curran, you swept the fuck out of Randolph. Again. Drop your mag and jack out your round. You are limited to support for the rest of the mission.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Curran said, unloading his weapon.

  “Cover your own damned sectors, people!”

  CHAPTER 24

  “. . . can still see zombies moving on the Grapevine. It’s like they’re never going to end! Where the hell is the government . . . ?”

  From: Collected Radio Transmissions of The Fall

  University of the South Press 2053

  “Holy crap,” Smitty said, looking through the binos. “I would swear that’s Christy Fucking Southard!”

  The group of women on top of the police station were still up there and didn’t seem in a mood to get down. Most of them were throwing kisses to the Marines. Faith had put the unit in a circular perimeter while she and the NCOs considered the situation from the road a couple hundred meters away.

  “Really?” Curran said, turning to look.

  “Your fucking sector, Curran!” Faith barked. She didn’t see him turn, she just knew he would. She knew most of the Marines were going to be looking around. “Keep on your fucking sectors, oorah? Yes, that looks like Anna Holmes as well . . .”

  “Holy shit,” Hooch said. “That’s Sarah Cassill! I’m sure it is.”

  “Dibs on inviting a star to the Marine Corps Ball,” Kirby said.

  Faith didn’t bother to check. She knew Kirby was still covering his sector.

  “Sector, Lance Corporal, with respect,” Kirby continued. Freeman clearly wasn’t.

  “So why aren’t they coming down?” Faith said. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair. People, keep a very sharp lookout for not just infected, oorah?”

  “You thinking a Money for Nothing thing, ma’am?” Smitty asked.

  “Possibly,” Faith said, referring to the Russian oligarch who had tried to hijack her sister’s boat. They’d ended up with his megayacht instead, which was now the support yacht for this mission. “Or they’re just too God-damned dumb to be able to figure out how to open their own doors. So much for being belle of the damned Ball.”

  “You’ll always be the Belle of the Ball, ma’am,” Smitty said. “You’re Shewolf, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Smitty,” Faith said, lowering the binoculars. “You’re just bucking for a promotion to Staff, right? Don’t worry, it worked. Why aren’t they coming down? Who has a good throwing arm?”

  “I used to play baseball, ma’am,” Hooch said. “Semi-pro on the Marine team.”

  “How long have we known each other and I didn’t know that?” Faith asked, pulling off her ruck. “Take one of the Coastie radios and toss it to them. It’s shock resistant so it should handle landing on the roof.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Hooch said, taking one of the radios.

  “Better turn it on in advance,” Faith said. “They probably can’t operate it with their fingernails and all.”

  The first toss by Sergeant Hocieniec was a perfect parabola that would have landed on the roof. Had not Christy Southard done a flailing attempt at a catch that batted it out into thin air.

  Fortunately Hooch was as good a fielder as a thrower and caught it. Despite being shock resistant the three-story fall probably would have broken the radio.

  He waved for the women to clear a path, then threw again, this time getting it onto the roof.

  Faith waited until one of the women came into view with the radio in hand.

  “Listen carefully,” Faith said. “The way that a radio works is there is a button on the side that’s red. You press that and speak into it. But when you press it, you can’t hear me so you have to let up. Press it, say something, say ‘over’ to tell me you’re done, then let up on the button, over.”

  “I am familiar with the operation of a radio,” the woman said. She had a cultured accent that was a mixture of English and something Germanic. “I am Princess Julianna Gustavason, Baroness Chelm. Princess of Bad-Werschtein und der Uld. To whom am I speaking, over?”

  “Jesus,” Smitty said. “A for real princess?”

  “Dibs on being Prince Charming,” Quade said.

  “Can it!” Faith barked. “Second Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith, United States Marine Corps. Are you trapped on the roof, Rapunzel, or just enjoying the sunshine? Over.”

  “Oh, snap,” Sergeant Hoag said, trying not to laugh.

  “Many of the interior doors are sealed and there are shutters on the windows which have been resistant to our efforts to open them. There is only a small area we can access. We can access the roof and a few interior areas but have thus far found no means of egress. Over.”

  “Egress?” Smitty said.

  “Exit,” Faith said. “Stand by.” She switched radios. “Hooch, is that front door as solid as it looks?”

  “Yes,” Hooch radioed. “Solid steel construction and a keypad entry. We’re gonna need a cutting torch, over.”

  “Roger,” Faith said, then switched back to the handheld. “Can you get to one of the windows, over?”

  “Yes, over.”

  “Put one or more persons on the roof, oorah, over where that is, oorah? Then somebody go down to the window and bang on it. We will move to that window and see if we can get in that way. Over.”

  “I understand, over.”

  “Go,” Faith said, waving a hand. “Which side of the building, over?”

  “The seaward side, over.”

  “Hooch, we’re moving seaside,” Faith radioed. “On your feet, Marines. Swing this caravan to the sea-side of the building . . .”

  * * *

  “Ma’am,” Hooch said. “Please don’t say ‘Get this window open, Sergeant.’ ’Cause I am clueless, ma’am.”

  The hurricane-shuttered window was nearly a story off the ground at its base and the shutter was made of heavy steel construction.

  “What the fuck was this place?” Faith said. “This is like no police station I’ve ever seen.”

  “Don’t know, ma’am,” Hooch said.

  “That was a reticle ques
tion, Sergeant,” Faith said. “Form a human pyramid up to the mechanism,” she said, pointing to the metal-box-covered lifting system. “Then we’ll get that open and break it if necessary. If that don’t work, we’ll go get a cutting torch from the Grace. Oorah?”

  “Oorah, ma’am,” Hooch said. “Quade, Randall, Curran, Haugen, get lined up side by side, palms against the wall, shoulder to shoulder . . .”

  “Sandman, Shewolf,” Faith radioed.

  “Sandman, over,” the gunny replied.

  “Status on wheels, over.”

  “Negative item. All vehicles surveyed so far are suffering from water or fire damage or both. Over.”

  “Roger,” Faith said, watching the squad build the pyramid. “Move your unit up to this location. We will extract ground mount. Over.”

  “Roger.”

  “Be advised, group is . . . persons of interest. Female celebrities. Discipline issues are cropping up. Request movement this AO soonest.”

  “Wilco.”

  “Shewolf out.”

  * * *

  “Look out below,” Faith said as she prized the cover off of the mechanism. It sprung loose under the leverage of the Halligan tool and hit Sergeant Hoag in the helmet.

  “Thank you, ma’am!” Hoag said. “Can I have another?”

  “Oh . . . crap,” Faith said, trying to balance on the sergeant’s shoulders. “This is when we need Janu or somebody.” She had no clue how the mechanism of the door worked. It was just gears and stuff to her. “Well, I think there’s no such thing as too fucked up . . .”

  She stuck the Halligan tool into the mechanism and prized until something sprung loose, almost overbalancing her. But a push on the roll-top shutter showed it was loose.