Under a Graveyard Sky

by John Ringo

  “There are probably some survivors who are not zombies,” Fontana said. “Hopefully they’ll understand . . .”

  * * *

  “Okay . . . Bloody,” Steve said. They’d checked three of the on-deck hatches. All were sealed and had some sort of electronic lock on them. They were also quite resistant to a Halligan tool.

  “There’s a set of clothes over here,” Faith said, picking up the uniform. “It’s got an ID on it. Would that work?”

  “Is it a universal?” Fontana asked, taking the ID and examining it. “And the answer is yes,” he said pointing to the small chip on the badge.

  “But will it work?” Steve asked.

  “No,” Fontana said, swiping the badge. The lock remained red.

  “Okay, let’s look for others,” Steve said. “The lock-down may be based on seniority or other access. We’ll gather them up and check them all . . .”

  * * *

  “Try this one,” Fontana said, handing it over.

  “A lieutenant’s didn’t work,” Steve said. “Why would a chief petty officer’s?” But when he tried it the lock went green.

  “It’s a Coastie thing,” Fontana said, shrugging. “Navy, too. A chief outranks a lieutenant any day.”

  “What’s a chief?” Faith asked. “What’s a lieutenant for that matter?”

  * * *

  “Any zombies?” Steve asked, banging on a hatch.

  He was rewarded by the beginning of “shave and a haircut.”

  “Close your eyes,” Steve shouted. “Understand? Close your eyes!”

  He undogged the hatch and tossed in a chem light.

  “Use that to adjust your eyes,” Steve said.

  “Thanks for finally coming,” the man at the hatch said. “Jesus, where have you guys been?”

  “It’s a long story,” Steve said. “But we’re not Coast Guard or Navy. Just a volunteer civilian group. You need water?”

  “The worst sort of way,” the guy replied. “We’ve been carefully recycling piss for . . . well, for a long time.”

  “Bottles,” Steve said, tossing them through the door. “I’m going to keep clearing. I’ll be back in about five. I need to make sure this area’s clear.”

  “Roger.”

  * * *

  “Who’s senior?” the respirator-clad man said. The voice was muffled from the respirator but he had a Commonwealth accent. Bobby couldn’t tell which. Possibly Irish.

  Petty Officer First Class Bobby Kuzma was the senior of the six survivors of the USCGC Campbell, WMEC-909, slumping on benches in the crew mess, so he raised his hand.

  The man was just about covered in lights, which were still painful to Kuzma’s eyes. From what little Bobby could see, he was just as covered in armor and weapons ranging from some sort of AK variant shotgun to a large hunting knife. He even had the head of a Halligan tool sticking up over his shoulder with the tool in some sort of holster.

  Another armored figure—a woman, from the walk, but it was hard to tell—entered behind him.

  “I found a cache of sunglasses.” Woman. Young. That was all Kuzma could make out.

  She started to hand them out. A while back, before the world came apart, Bobby would have thought it idiotic to wear sunglasses in the mess. Now, even with the lights off, they were a welcome relief from the lights the members of the group were wearing.

  The first man shut off a couple of the lights and came over to Bobby.

  “Need to talk,” he said, holding out his hand. “Can you walk?”

  “I can walk,” Bobby said, but he took the hand.

  The man led him down the crew mess and then pulled off his mask with a grimace.

  “Ugh,” the guy said, grimacing. “We use these for the smell. I’d say let’s go outside where it’s a little better but I don’t think you can handle the light, yet.” He pulled out a canister of Vicks VapoRub, rubbed it on his nostrils, then held it out to Kuzma.

  “You get used to it,” Bobby said, waving his hand.

  “Two things,” the man said. “More. First, I’m Steven Smith. Australian by birth, naturalized American citizen, former Aussie para, former history teacher and currently, and I put quotes on this, ‘commodore’ of a flotilla of small boats clearing this patch of the Atlantic. I’m called Captain Wolf or Commodore Wolf and the group has named the flotilla Wolf’s Floating Circus. Basically we range between Bermuda, where we’re using a disabled ocean-going tug as a supply base, and the coast of the U.S. We’re actually just around Bermuda right now because there’s only six of us and one of them’s a wanker who isn’t worth the cost of fuel. It’s an all-volunteer effort, which is a bit like herding roos. Which, trust me, are worse than cats. I tried it one time as a lad.

  “So, to what happens next,” Smith continued, “the normal next thing is we get you over to the boats, give you a scrub-down and get some chow in you. Usual sort of at-sea rescue thing except the scrub-down part. That was originally because we feared the virus, these days it’s because it’s, well, become tradition, and people tend to be ready for a shower.”

  “Very ready for a shower,” Kuzma said carefully.

  “And since you were by yourself in the compartment you need to get used to using your voice again,” Steve said. “And light. That takes a few days. I said that was the normal thing we do. The issue, here, is that this is the biggest boat we’ve cleared and it has about ten bloody million compartments . . .”

  “You’re not sure it’s clear,” Kuzma said.

  “I’m fairly sure we got all the zombies,” Smith said. “If there are more survivors, they’re not making noise when we do. They could be too weak. Most likely . . .” He shrugged.

  “Wait,” Kuzma said, looking at the group. “Six? That’s it? We had a hundred personnel and refugees!”

  “That explains the children,” Smith said. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

  “So . . . are you assisting the Coast Guard?” Kuzma said. “I need to get back in communication, report in . . .”

  “I think I may have missed some of the important bits,” Steve said. “Actually, I was waiting for you to get your wits to the point. The point is that there is no Coast Guard. Or, rather, you’re it. As far as I can determine, based upon radio reports and local conditions, you’re now more or less the commander of the United States Coast Guard, which consists of you and those other five persons.”

  “That’s . . .” Bobby said, sitting on the table and shaking his head. “That can’t be. No . . .”

  “I cannot prove it to you at this moment,” Smith said, shrugging. “We are in a dark hangar on a boat in the middle of the ocean. But if there were a Coast Guard, I’d assume they would find and clear their own vessels, first, just to have the trained personnel. You can feel free to verify it in various ways once you get your feet on the ground. We’ll, at some point, get you back to Bermuda. You can see the harbor. And the zombies. We find boats. Feel free to take one over to the mainland and see for yourself. There are no official governmental broadcasts. There are no land areas not held by the infected and we have thus far found no evidence of formal governmental activity.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Kuzma said, looking at the blood-smeared deck. “How long?”

  “It is the fifteenth of August,” Smith said. “I’ve found some watches amongst the crew’s belongings, you can verify that at least.”

  “Jesus . . .” Bobby said. “That long?”

  “Petty Officer,” Smith said sharply. “As I was saying, we normally let people get their feet under them for a few days. I know you are tired. Exhausted. Malnourished and dehydrated. But we either get assistance from some, preferably three, of your crew to clear the remainder of the boat or let it go for now. I’m not saying that it’s a requirement. And, frankly, I don’t see finding any more personnel. Not alive.”

  “Did they all zombie?” Kuzma asked.

  “Do you really want to know this?” Smith asked.

  “Yes,” Bobby said.

&n
bsp; “We don’t have an accurate count,” Smith said. “Frankly, we don’t keep an accurate count of dead and wounded and methods on large vessels such as this. There aren’t enough of us yet to take the time. But, no, many were infected. Some appear to have died of the infection or possibly from violence by other infecteds. Many . . . were trapped in compartments without stores.”

  “Oh God,” Bobby said, hanging his head again.

  “I don’t know if it makes it better or worse for you,” Smith said. “But at a certain point, many committed suicide. And did so in some very . . . honorable ways. But they did so as an alternative to starvation or dehydration. Which, frankly, is why we do this. And we don’t count the dead because it takes time. And the living deserve our time more. So the question is, do you wish us to continue the sweep? To do so, we will need assistance. We’ve swept all we can find.”

  “I’ll help,” Kuzma said, standing up and swaying. “As long as I can. I guess asking you to . . . collect the dead . . . ?”

  “There are, currently, one hundred and twenty-six survivors known to us,” Steve said. “One thirty-two counting your group. Only forty-six of which are willing to actively volunteer to the extent of manning boats supplied and supported by us and clearing life rafts. We have an additional six or so who are willing to go into cleared vessels to recover materials or get them operational. I have exactly three personnel willing to participate in active clearance, fighting zombies in the dark in confined spaces, as it were. Three more will if pressed. Would you care to answer your own question, Petty Officer?”

  “No, sir,” Kuzma said. “I mean, yes, sir. I understand.”

  “There are, literally, not enough of us left to bury the dead,” Smith said softly. “That is the world into which you have been reborn. What you make of that is up to you.”

  * * *

  “How the hell did we miss this area?” said “Shewolf” in a muffled voice.

  Kuzma’s “clearance specialist” was a thirteen-year-old girl. Tall for her age, tall for a girl, period, and clearly strong: she was carrying about a hundred pounds of weapons, ammo and gear. But still a thirteen-year-old girl.

  “The layout of this boat is screwy,” Kuzma said weakly. He leaned up against a bulkhead for a second. He knew he’d get his strength back eventually. But lagging behind a thirteen-year-old girl who was weighed down like an infantryman was embarrassing. “The design looked great on paper but it’s not what you call efficient.”

  “Okay,” Shewolf said, banging on the hatch. “Zombies, zombies, zombies! Hello!”

  “You sure about that?” Kuzma said, his eyes wide.

  “Let them come to you,” the girl said. “Bring them into your zone of fire, don’t go into theirs.”

  There was an odd thump from the door, then more.

  “And we have a winner,” Shewolf said. “I need you to back up into that cross corridor. In fact, I need you to back way the fuck up.”

  “Why?” the petty officer asked.

  “Because if there’s a bunch, I’m going to have to back up,” the girl said. “And you’re not moving real quick. So back way the fuck up. And around the corner so you’re less likely to get hit by bouncers.”

  Kuzma backed into the cross corridor, flashing a light around to make sure there weren’t zombies there. He had a pistol but he wasn’t sure that he could even raise it much less shoot straight. God, he was tired.

  Thinking about what the girl had said, he backed farther into the corridor. The bouncer’s point was important.

  “Olly-olly-oxenfree! Come to momma . . . !”

  Kuzma heard the hatch undog, then slam back on its latches.

  “Fudgesicle!” the girl shouted, followed by a series of rapidfire shotgun blasts.

  Shewolf backed into the cross-corridor, dropped her shotgun on its harness and drew her pistol with lightning speed.

  “Say hallo to my leetle friend!” she shouted, double tapping. She pivoted into the corridor, backing towards Kuzma, clearly covering him. “You want some?”

  Infected came around the corner after her, lunging at her as she expertly double tapped. The worst thing, for Kuzma, was that he recognized most of them. Some of them were refugees the Campbell had been ordered to rescue in the early days of the plague. They were probably how the plague had gotten onboard. Others were fellow crew members, bearded, filthy, naked, covered in sores, feces, vomit and dried and fresh blood. Houston P. Barnes, who had just reported to the Campbell before the outbreak but whom he’d known for years. He had bits of flesh in his unkempt beard and then his face buckled under when the second .45 round hit him. Tommy E. Craddock, Jr., “don’t forget the junior,” one of his closest messmates. He clutched at the round that hit him in the chest, howling the weird cry of a wounded zombie, half keen, half snarl, then was stopped by another round to the forehead, which left a round, blue hole.

  “You gonna back up or not?” Shewolf screamed. Her pistol locked back so she tossed it forward onto a dead body and ripped another from her chest holder. The plethora of weapons was starting to make sense.

  Bobby couldn’t back up, couldn’t lift his own weapon, all he could do was stare mutely at the black tide pouring down the corridor.

  And then it was done. A refugee was the last, dropping more or less right in front of him, so fixated on the light-covered girl she hadn’t even noticed the frozen petty officer.

  “That was almost too exciting,” the girl said. She reloaded both her weapons, retrieved the dropped pistol, reloaded that, then hefted her shotgun. “Real zombie apocalypse moment there. You done with your break?”

  “I think I’m done,” Kuzma said. “I think I’m just . . . done.”

  * * *

  Bobby sat on the flying deck of the Toy watching the dinghy coming back from the Campbell. He’d been in similar dinghies hundreds of times doing inspections of boats just like this one. In fact, he was pretty sure they’d done a stop on this boat. But when they were done, they went back to the cutter. They always went back to the cutter.

  This time he wasn’t going back. He was never going back. After the scene in the corridor, he was never, ever going back. Not love nor money nor orders could make him go back aboard the WMEC-909, United States Coast Guard Cutter Campbell, “Queen of the Seas.” He wished he had a Harpoon missile to sink her like her previous namesake.

  “You going to be okay?” Captain Smith asked, sitting down next to him. “I hear you had a little ZA moment.”

  “That’s your daughter?” Kuzma asked tonelessly. Shewolf was riding back in the dinghy. Second on, last off. The helmsman must have said something funny because the thirteen-year-old was grinning with her fine, blond, blood-splattered hair blowing in the freshening wind.

  “Yes.”

  “Is she . . . okay?” Kuzma asked. “I mean . . .”

  “Do you mean is she freaked out by what happened?” Smith asked. “She said it was almost worse than New York. But not quite. If you mean is she insane? She was a fairly normally adjusted girl before the plague. She never threatened to bomb her school or shoot it up. She played soccer and was starting to date. She chased boys, sometimes literally. But she’d always quip that the worst thing about a zombie apocalypse would be pretending you weren’t excited by the prospect. So . . . she was fairly well adjusted to the previous world. She is well adjusted to this one. So, yes, she is okay. She’s even sensitive, which is hard in this job. She hates to shoot the children and lets others do so when possible. I take it you’re not okay.”

  “No,” Kuzma said. “Not okay. Glad to be out of there. Just . . . glad to be out.”

  “I am sorry that you observed the termination of your shipmates,” Smith said. “That is a very close bond.”

  “I had to shoot some myself, getting to the stores locker,” Bobby admitted. “But . . . that was bad.”

  “A large group of apparently uninfected had locked down in another stores locker,” Smith said. “And then apparently had taken insufficient precau
tions to prevent spread.”

  “And then eaten each other?” Bobby asked.

  “More or less,” Smith said. “Which was why there were so many survivors. Zombie survivors, that is. I take it you don’t want to participate in the salvage operation?”

  “Salvage?” Kuzma said. “You can’t salvage a U.S. Coast Guard cutter!”

  “And there were survivors onboard,” Smith said, nodding. “But salvage it we must. For the small arms locker if nothing else. Petty Officer, I left New York with seven thousand rounds of double ought buckshot and a thousand rounds of frangible. For what I had originally planned that would have been more than enough. For this? I’m down to four thousand rounds. I’m halfway through my supply, more or less, and I have an ocean of ships and boats to clear. I can find diesel, food, water from recyclers, even parts. But munitions? Weapons? If not from your storage locker, then where?”

  “That’s a tall order,” Kuzma said, breathing out hard. “I mean . . . Will we help? Yeah, of course. But turning over the contents of a 270 to civilians . . . ? If there ever is a Coast Guard again, I can’t see them not hanging my ass for that.”

  “Well, I already purloined one thing from your boat,” Steve said. “Step out on the foredeck with me, Petty Officer.”

  Steve and Kuzma walked up to the front of the boat and Steve pulled out a Coast Guard walkie-talkie.

  “I presume this doesn’t use civilian frequencies?” Steve asked, holding it up.

  “No, sir,” the PO said, his brow furrowing.

  “U.S. Navy, this is Commodore Wolf on Coast Guard frequency. I know you’re not going to talk to me, but will you talk to a Coast Guard petty officer? Here’s PO One Kuzma, spelling, Kilo-Uniform-Zulu-Mike-Alpha. Turning over now.”

  “It may take a bit,” Steve said. He handed Kuzma the radio and walked aft.

  * * *

  “What now?” Scholz asked.

  “Get me the Hole,” Bradburn replied.

  CHAPTER 23

  “PO Kuzma, this is the U.S. Navy,” the radio squawked five minutes later.

  Kuzma had started to wonder if it was all a hoax and looked at the radio as if it was radioactive.