by John Ringo
“You think they’ll go for it?” Stacey asked. “Tina’s a lovely child but she’s not going to be much help. They’re all going to be traumatized, terrified . . .”
“Some will,” Steve said. “Those that don’t . . .” He shrugged. “Cross that bridge when we come to it. We’ll cross every bridge when we come to it. We’re going to win and I’m not going to let the bloody damned zombies stop us. I will not bow.”
CHAPTER 16
Cleaning the Toy was an unimaginable pain.
The two zombies had crapped and pissed everywhere. Not just on the floor but on the seats and walls. Stacey had taken over checking the electronics and engineering while Sophia did an inventory of stores. Which left Faith and Steve to clean up, ripping up the carpet and ripping out the seats. The Fairline wasn’t going to be nearly as comfortable when they were done but it was going to be livable.
The bunks in the port cabin were ruined. But they were the same size as the ones on the Mile Seven so they could be switched out. It was mostly a matter of ripping out the fabric and then application of elbow grease.
Tom took a break after two hours and went up to the helm. The seats there were just as messed up as the rest of the saloon but Stacey had ripped them out, stuffed in some pillows and started to work on the electronics.
“Figuring it out?” Steve asked. The console was so much more complicated than the Hunter’s he found it intimidating.
“Fortunately, Tina’s father was detail oriented,” Stacey said. “There are manuals for everything. He wrecked a couple of the screens, but they were for peripheral systems. The whole thing is networked and it was mostly the secondaries that were damaged. So, yes, figuring it out. Here’s one thing that you’ll find interesting, given our conversation last night.”
She flipped through a touch-screen menu on one of the screens, then brought up one that was a map of the Atlantic. A false-color image of weather.
“What’s that?” Steve asked.
“Tina’s dad was a techie,” Stacey said. “It’s a weather satellite image.”
“A file copy?” Steve asked.
“No,” Stacey said. “Current. The GOES for the Atlantic. And here . . .” she said, changing screens. “That’s North America.”
“We’ve, sort of, got weather reports,” Steve said, sighing in relief.
“Sort of,” Stacey said. “All it gives us is the satellite.”
“I can’t believe it’s still transmitting,” Steve said. “They’re still transmitting. I thought they had to have ground stations.”
“I guess it’s like the GPS,” Stacey said, shrugging. “That should have gone down with Boulder. Didn’t. Secrets of the universe I guess. But then there’s this,” she added, bringing up a screen filled with red dots.
“Okay, lots of red,” Steve said. “That’s bad.”
“Little context,” Stacey said, zooming out. As she did, the outline of the North American continent came into view. The dots were in the Atlantic. And they were everywhere.
“Distress beacons?” Steve asked.
“Two different types,” Stacey said. “Three, really. One is EPIRBs,” referring to Emergency Position Indicator Radio Beacons, “the other is AIS.”
“AIS?” Steve asked.
“Automated Indicator System,” Stacey said, hitting a control. Most of the indicators disappeared. “AIS is a system on large vessels. Those are big ships or boats that are in distress.”
“Jesus,” Steve said, shaking his head. “I didn’t realize there were so many ships at sea at any time.” He leaned in and looked at something. “What are those clusters?”
“I wondered the same thing,” Stacey said, zooming in on Bermuda. There were a cluster of distress beacons along its southern shores. “Those are run aground. Seen enough of those.”
Every time they had run in sight of shore there had been ships and boats run aground. One time they even saw what looked like a submarine. It was partially submerged and it might have been the bottom of a boat turned turtle. But it looked like a sub. And not an American one.
“EPIRBs are going to be lifeboats,” Steve said. “We might find survivors on those.”
“And then there’s the third system,” Stacey said, zooming in on their position and hitting the menu again. “You know that emergency GPS thingy on the Hunter?”
“Right,” Steve said. “Push the button on the radio for five seconds and it sends out your location? Is that AIS?”
“No,” Stacey said. “That’s Digital Selective Calling. And that is . . . these.”
“How far?” Steve said, looking at the screen. There were at least twenty indicators on the screen.
“That’s fifty miles,” Stacey said. She pointed to an indicator at the bottom. “Twenty-four DSC in one hundred miles. And . . .” She touched another control and more dots popped up. “Sixteen EPIRBs, four AIS. So . . . there. Boats and potential survivors.”
“It’s going to take all day to get this boat even vaguely livable,” Steve said. “Then cross-loading. After that, we’ll get to the real work. Thank you, milady. That would have taken me days and I’d have been tearing my hair out.”
“That’s why you have me around, my charming knight,” Stacey said, patting him on the arm. “I’d kiss you but then I’d have to take off my respirator.”
“And from the little bit that’s been getting through, you don’t want to smell this,” Steve said. “Or me.”
“And that is what saltwater showers are for . . .”
* * *
Steve took off his respirator and took a whiff.
“Ugh,” he said, shaking his head. “Still stinks. What did we miss?”
“I think it’s just baked in,” Sophia said, grimacing.
“I think we’re just going to have to get used to it,” Stacey said. “Once we get moving we’ll get some of the forward hatches open and air it out. Maybe that will help.”
“Hopefully,” Steve said. “Well, it’s as good as it’s going to get for now, and people are waiting. Time to cross-load . . .”
* * *
“What are those?” Tina said, wrinkling her brow at the small and obviously heavy cases.
“Ammo,” Faith said. “Bullets.”
“You’ve sure got a lot,” Tina said. She’d asked if she could help but had been told to just keep building her strength. She still could barely totter around.
“Not as much as we used to have,” Faith said, hefting two cases of 7.62x39. “And I think we’re going to need lots more if Da’s going to seriously clear every boat in the Atlantic.”
“Can you do that?” Tina asked, following along behind as Faith carried the cases up on deck.
“One boat at a time,” Faith said. “But I’m going to rebel if I also have to clean them all up.”
* * *
Sophia sounded the bullhorn as they pulled up to the inflatable life raft. There was no response but they hadn’t really expected any. They could see a zombie onboard.
“So how do we handle this?” Faith asked. She was rigged up and had her respirator on.
“Carefully,” Steve said, drawing his .45. He fired twice, missing both times. The combination of the roll of the boat and the lifeboat, called “catenary,” was something he was still getting used to. It wasn’t something he’d trained for in the paras or since. He hit the zombie on the third try. It clawed at the wound in its stomach and dropped back into the lifeboat.
“Mark this one for later,” Steve said. “He’ll bleed out or die of sepsis. We’ll clear it later.”
“She,” Faith said.
“Easier for me to just call them all he or it,” Steve said, waving to Sophia. “Next beacon!”
* * *
“I don’t think anybody’s home,” Faith said.
The lifeboat was much more substantial. There was a deck aft and a solid covered area with portholes. It was marked “Carnival Cruise Lines 4416,” which meant that some cruise ship had, not surprisingly, ordered
abandon ship. The one problem, indicated as Sophia had circled the boat, was that there was a hatch and it was shut. Which meant anything could be inside.
“Get the grapnel,” Steve said. “We’ll see.”
* * *
Moving from the Toy to the lifeboat in armor was unhappy-making. The waves had increased, probably because of a distant storm, and Steve had to be careful jumping from one boat to the other. If he went in the drink, the combination of armor and equipment would carry him down fast.
“We need to figure out life vests for this or something,” Steve said as he landed on the deck of the lifeboat.
He tapped the hatch with the butt of his Saiga and waited. He was fully expecting a zombie to hit the hatch running.
He opened the hatch and looked inside, then stepped back, turned to the side, took off his respirator and puked over the side of the raft.
After a bit he spit to clear his mouth, put his respirator back on and entered the cabin.
There were shots from the interior. Steve hurried back out, unhooked the grapnel and crossed back to the Toy.
“What were you shooting?” Faith asked.
“The deck,” Steve said. “I think that’s one of those no-sink hulls but it was the best I could do. I pulled the EPIRB before I shot. Hopefully, nobody else will have to see what I just saw.”
* * *
1436 26JUL EPIRB 1164598, loc: 33.797409,-70.927734. Four dead, no survivors.
1623 26JUL EPIRB 2487450, loc: 33.797326,-70.926289 2KIA. Nosurv.
0814 27JUL DSC: Cost Estimate, 45ft sportfisher. Loc: 33.797298,-70.926327. 1 H7. 2KIA. Nsv. Cleared. Disabled. salvaged materials, fuel, water (see inventory). Scuttled.
* * *
“EPIRB,” Sophia said from the helm. “Looks like one of those good lifeboats.”
“I hate those,” Faith said. “I’m getting to hating this whole idea.”
“There are survivors,” Steve said. He was starting to realize what luck finding Tina on their first boarding had been. “And it’s not about how many dead we find but how many alive.”
“If we find anyone alive,” Faith said.
“Faith,” Stacey said from the galley.
“Well, I keep getting rigged up!” Faith said. “And for what? There’s nobody!”
“I survived,” Tina said. She was carefully cutting up a blackfin they’d caught earlier in the day. They always had a line running behind the boat.
“I’m sorry, Tina,” Faith said. “I’m just frustrated.”
“What you’re doing is important,” Tina said. “You don’t know what it’s like, thinking somebody is going to come and they never do . . .” She paused and wiped her eyes. “And then you did. Faith, you’re a miracle to somebody. You were a miracle to me. You just have to keep looking.”
“Horn,” Sophia said a minute later. She’d started to slow to come alongside.
The horn blasted, then blasted again.
“Bloody hell!” Sophia said. “Survivors!”
* * *
“Chris Phillips,” Chris said, holding out his hand. “Thank you.”
“Steve Smith,” Steve said, taking his hand and pulling him aboard. “Are you the last off?” Steve asked.
“Last off,” Chris said. “Pulled the EPIRB as you requested.”
“We’re going to be tight as hell,” Steve said, looking at the group on the aft deck. There had been seven survivors from the lifeboat. “And we’re going to have to be careful with rations. You’re the senior officer?”
“As such,” Chris said. “I was a chef onboard the Voyage Under Stars.”
“Damn,” Steve said. “No offense, but I was hoping for engineering or ship’s officer.”
“They scarpered long before,” Chris said. “Aussie?”
“Got it in one,” Steve said. “Brit?”
“Former RN,” Chris said.
“Para,” Steve said. “Okay, as we announced, we need to do a saltwater washdown. We got some slops from the boats we’ve cleared and we’ll try to find clothes for everyone. Males are forward . . .”
“We’re a bit past that,” Chris said. “We’ll just wash down here.”
“Uh . . .” Steve said.
“Sir,” one of the ladies said. “Captain. First, again, thank you. Second, we’ve been on that tiny little boat for two months. There is absolutely nothing we don’t know about each other including what we look like without clothes.”
“Well, then,” Steve said, shrugging. “We’re already rigged for washdown . . .”
* * *
“You’ll probably get tired of us saying thank you,” Paula Handley said, sipping tomato soup. Not only had they included it as a major store item, they’d found more on the Toy and the one other boat they’d cleared. Paula was the lady who had pointed out that group washing was not going to be an issue. In her late twenties with fine, reddish-blond hair, she looked as if she might once have been plump. Two months under starvation conditions had changed that. “But thank you, thank you, thank you . . .”
“Where the hell is the Coast Guard?” one of the men asked truculently.
“Gone,” Faith said. She was looking nervous with all the people on the boat and had kept her sidearm. She was clearly trying not to tap it. “No shortwave from any governmental agency. The few ham radio operators on land say that they can’t move outside of their compounds and spend a lot of time hiding even then. There are some towns that survived in the high arctic but they’re back to basically living like Indians.”
“Show a light, have a gen and you’re hit by the zombies,” Steve said. “I’m wondering about my brother. He had a professional fall-back point. But I just hope it was strong enough.”
“Everything can’t be gone!” the man said. “That’s not true!”
“Mister . . . sorry, name?” Steve said, calmly.
“Isham,” the man said. “Jack Isham.”
“Mr. Isham, I can’t prove to you that it’s gone,” Steve said. “But there is a shortwave receiver. I can pull up the frequencies of the few hams that are out there. If they’re broadcasting. If they’re not gone as well. And you can then check the Beeb, FEMA, what have you. They are gone. Check for yourself.”
“Well, where are we going to go, then?” Paula asked, looking around. “There’s not enough room on here for us to stay forever. I appreciate the hospitality, but . . .”
“Other boats,” Steve said. “There are more. Some of them larger. For the time, we’ll need to be a floating community, as it were.”
“I want to get my feet on dry land,” one of the women said. She was probably a well-preserved sixty and had the remains of a strong dye job. Her natural hair color was now clearly gray.
“I’d say I’d be happy to drop you off on some nearby landfall,” Steve said, shrugging, “where you can compete for resources with the zombies. But we’re still in clearance mode. We are, clearly, going to have to find more boats. But that is the point. There are other people out there who need to be rescued as much as you did. Once we find another boat, it will go to people who want to continue the rescue. If we find an excess, I’ll be glad to turn some over to people who don’t support rescuing others. They can then go do whatever they’d like. But in the meantime, there are people to be saved. We’re currently on our way to another distress call . . .”
“‘Wherever a Tardakian baby cries out . . . ’” a young man said, grinning.
“Oh, please, Pat,” Paula said, despairingly. “Not that again.”
“Well, it’s what he’s saying,” Patrick Lobdell said.
“I’m sorry?” Steve said.
“As Paula said, we’ve been in each other’s pockets for two months,” Chris said drily. “Pat is an SF movie nerd par excellence.”
“I can quote over thirty movies,” Pat said. “Verbatim.”
“As he has repeatedly demonstrated,” Chris said. “If I recall correctly, that was a quote from Galaxy Quest. One of his favorites.”
“�
��Whenever a Tardakian baby cries out,’” Patrick said, thrusting his fist in the air. “‘Wherever a distress signal sounds among the stars, we’ll be there . . . This fine ship . . . ’”
“‘This fine crew,’” Paula said, shaking her head.
“‘Never give up,’” the entire group chorused, tonelessly. “‘Never surrender.’”
“Oookay,” Steve said, putting his hand over his mouth to contain the chuckle. “I can see that it’s a bit of a sore point . . .”
“And, Jack,” Paula said, dangerously, “don’t get started on football scores . . .”
“If you will stop talking about sewing,” Jack snapped.
“And we’re going to go back to the original discussion,” Chris said firmly. “In which Mr. Smith was outlining his plan to clear . . . How much?”
“You want to see the EPIRB map for the North Atlantic?” Steve said. “There are over two thousand distress beacons. About ten percent are hard aground and, well, they’re screwed.”
“One boat of people cannot clear two thousand lifeboats,” Isham said.
“When we find a functional boat,” Steve said, “as previously noted, it goes to someone with something resembling experience and agreement to keep searching. And so on and so forth. I’d guess Mr. Phillips.”
“I’m a cook, not a ship’s officer,” Chris protested.
“Ever conned a boat?” Steve asked. “Something this size?”
“Well, bigger, actually,” Chris said. “But . . .”
“Sophia, what had you driven before you started conning the Mile?” Steve asked.
“My bike?” Sophia said from the helm. “You might remember I’m still fifteen, Da.”
“Fifteen?” Paula said.
“Faith’s thirteen,” Steve said, gesturing to the girl lurking in the corner. “And she plowed the road out of Washington Square.”
“Excuse me?” Isham said. “Washington Square Park?”
“We are four of the ten survivors from the last concert in New York City,” Faith said. “Which we got out of by blowing away so many zombies you could follow our path by the bodies. So don’t get me started on how hard it’s going to be to clear a bunch of boats. Boats are easy. Hey, Patrick, is it? Bet you’ve played all sorts of video games. Want to fight some real zombies?”
