by John Ringo
“Let me meet the ‘kid,’” Steve said.
* * *
“Lance Corporal, this is Commodore Wolf,” Kuzma said.
The lance corporal jumped off his bunk and came to attention.
“Lance Corporal Joshua Hocieniec, sir, pleasure to meet you!”
Hocieniec was slightly under normal height, almost skeletally thin and darkly tanned, a sure sign of having been in a raft or lifeboat rather than stuck in a compartment. He didn’t have a beard, which had become common in the flotilla, but he did appear to have a five-o’clock shadow.
“As you were, Marine,” Steve said.
The crew room was neat as a pin. There was clear evidence of zombie damage but it had been scrubbed to the walls and the Marine’s blouse was washed and neatly hung on the wall. He’d even polished his boots.
“Where’d you come from?” Steve asked.
“Life raft, sir!” Hocieniec barked.
“The Iwo Jima,” Kuzma said softly. “Only guy in the life raft.”
“Sir . . .” Hocieniec said. “I swear, it was abandoned!”
“Start from the beginning,” Steve said, sitting down on a chair. “Or, rather, what happened in general?”
“We were in lockdown, but the bug got onboard somehow, sir,” Hocieniec said precisely. “Just the flu at first, then people started to turn, sir. We tried to maintain control but . . . My team leader, Sergeant Fry, he turned in the middle of a clearance, sir, and then he bit PFC Conner. Finally, the acting CO ordered abandon ship, sir. I . . . the boats were going over the side, just . . . going, sir. I couldn’t even find a boat and I was clocking out, running out of ammo, sir. And I’d got the flu. I didn’t know when I was going to turn, sir. I went over the side and into the drink. I was floating when I spotted the raft, sir. I climbed aboard. I tried to paddle to some other guys who were afloat but the wind was blowing . . . sir, I did absolutely everything I could, sir . . .”
“Calm down, Lance Corporal,” Steve said. “No worries, as they say in my homeland. Nobody was able to hold onto anything. Generals, admirals, captains and commanders weren’t able to do more. And I’ll note that ‘commodore’ is an honorary title in my case.” He considered the Marine for a moment. “How are you doing? What’s your condition, in your opinion?”
“Ready for duty, sir,” Hocieniec said. “I understand you need clearance personnel. I am ready to fight zombies any day you say, sir.”
“Here’s the deal,” Steve said. “You might have heard rumor we’re in contact with higher. They haven’t called back in a while, but the subs, which is how we communicate with them, are still out there. So, presumably is this unknown ‘Headquarters.’ They haven’t given me the right to order military personnel to provide support. But they know that military are working with us and haven’t objected. The situation is ambiguous. But we’ve got an SF sergeant, active duty, doing clearance. I don’t see them objecting to a Marine. However, it’s up to you. I can’t order you to do it. That being said, if you agree, it’s like enlisting. You then do follow the orders of whoever is assigned over you. You may just be trained in clearance by a thirteen-year-old female. Think you can handle that?”
“I’ve . . . heard about Shewolf, sir,” Hocieniec said. “Shouldn’t be a problem, sir.”
“Do you have a handle, Lance Corporal . . . Hoochken—”
“Hocieniec, sir,” the Marine said, his face very clearly not smiling. “Hooch or Burma, sir.”
“Burma?” Steve asked.
“If I don’t shave three times a day I get a shadow, sir,” Hooch said, rubbing his chin. “Burma Shave, sir.”
“All right, Burma,” Steve said, sticking out his hand. “Welcome to Wolf’s Floating Circus.”
* * *
“How’s the weather report look?” Steve asked. “If it chops up this is purely going to suck.”
The ship wasn’t a tanker. It was an oil rig support ship. Which in a lot of ways was better. Support ships were designed with massive tankerlike bunkers because, oddly enough, oil rigs had to be resupplied with diesel. But they also had deck cargo room and some even had machine shops. This could be a real find. There being a few little issues. One of them was not whether it had diesel. They knew that because they could smell it. That was one of the issues. There was a leak somewhere.
The other issue was what was on deck. Besides lashed down cargo, there were two zombies. And between the hydrocarbons and not knowing exactly what was in the cargo on the deck, they couldn’t exactly shoot them off.
“It’s good,” PO3 Ruth Gardner said. “Again.”
For this op, Steve simply had to have some trained people. While Isham cleaned up the Alpha, he’d pulled Geraldine and Dugan off to come try to recover the support ship. But he’d also had to dip into the Coasties for support. Ruth Gardner was a fueling expert, called POL in the military. She was trained in unrep as well as “issues” with fuel and fuel systems. What she wasn’t trained in was repairing fuel systems. Different MOS. Dugan was pretty sure that if it was repairable at all he could do it.
“I’m okay with input on how to do this,” Steve said. “’Cause I’m sort of buggered.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Fontana said. “But I don’t know if it’s a good one.”
Steve was just fine with “normal” danger, like, say, a zombie apocalypse, for Faith. This was something different. So he’d dropped Hocieniec off on the Endeavor with Faith to go do some light clearance and brought along Fontana.
“Which is?” Steve asked.
Fontana went over to a bag of gear he’d brought along and rummaged through it. After a moment he brought out a machete in a sheath and drew it with a flourish.
“You’re joking,” Gardner said, munching on a cracker.
PO3 Gardner was pregnant. So were many of the women. There had been a noted sociologial response to societal stress called “the replacement factor.” After major disasters, women had a habit of getting pregnant at a higher rate than during good times or during the stress period. The post-war Germany was noted as an example as well as post-Black-Plague Europe.
In the case of the zombie apocalypse, it had much more to do with men and women trapped on lifeboats and in small compartments with no access to contraceptives and exactly zero to do. In a few cases, that had definitely been due to force. Those men were on a special boat in Coventry. There were a few cases were the jury was still out. In Ruth’s case, like the young lady found with Fontana, there seemed to be no issue. The only real issue was that she was found in a compartment with two other, male, Coast Guardsmen and she honestly had no clue which was the father. The “dads” didn’t really care. They were both good-naturedly arguing over who was the “real” prospective dad.
“In 1994, eight hundred thousand people were massacred in Rwanda,” Fontana said. “Mostly by having an arm hacked off by a machete and being left to die. These zombies are not walking dead.”
“No,” Steve said. “But they do spread a blood pathogen.”
“I’ve been exposed at this point,” Fontana said. “And I’ll wear raingear. ’Cause clear sky or no, it is gonna rain.”
* * *
“The question is how you’re going to get up close enough to chop off an arm,” Steve said, conning the inflatable closer.
The supply ship had a midships deck that was, for a ship its size, remarkably low to the waterline. Steve couldn’t see how it wouldn’t get swamped in heavy seas.
Low did not mean flush to the waterline. It was well above Fontana’s reach while standing on the deck of the fifteen-foot, center-console inflatable.
“No offense, but I’m not going to step up on the pontoons,” Fontana said, looking up at the zombies. They weren’t howling or keening, but they were drooling.
“Not with those down there,” Steve said, gesturing to the now-familiar sharks.
A wave caught the inflatable and pushed it closer to the ship. As it did, one of the infecteds saw its chance and jumped over the low side-
rail with a shriek.
Keeping your feet on a small boat was a skill that everyone in the flotilla had mastered at this point. And Fontana had spent two months on an even smaller raft before being rescued. He easily backed away as Steve reversed to avoid the zombie. But it had leapt well out and still managed to sprawl face down on the foredeck of the boat.
Fontana stepped forward and cut down as the zombie was pushing itself to its feet. There was a sound very similar to a frozen melon being hit by a large knife.
“That’s one,” Fontana said, levering the machete out of the infected’s head.
“It’s times like this I wonder how my children are doing. . . .” Steve said.
* * *
“How do you like being back on the Endeavor, Hooch?” Sophia said, sitting down at the dinette.
“Better than a life raft, Skipper,” Hooch said.
“I can’t believe Da stuck me on this tub,” Faith said, crossing her arms. “Especially with you.”
“Is that seditious speech I hear out of you?” Sophia said. “That’s lashing round the fleet.”
“You and what army, Tiny?” Faith said. “Try it, and while I won’t exactly mutiny, you’re going to have to learn to swim really hard.”
“So, what’s the op?” Hooch asked quickly.
“General clearance,” Sophia said. “There are plenty of boats that can and do pick up life rafts and lifeboats. Those that have survivors, about one in ten, they just pick ’em up. Like, say, you. Which was what we were on before. But when they spot boats like, well, this, most of them don’t have the guns . . .”
“. . . Or the guts,” Faith said, picking at her fish.
“Or the experience or the, yeah, guts to go clear them,” Sophia said. “Which is where you come in.”
“Roger, Skipper.”
“Skipper,” Faith said, under her breath. “Heh.”
“Faith,” Sophia said. “You can cop attitude in front of my crew. They all know us. You can even do it with Hooch. Hooch, we’re sisters, that’s all this is.”
“No, I get it, Skip,” Hooch said. “I’ve got two sisters and they—” He stopped and his face worked.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sophia said, frowning. “We really . . . Our family is the only family that hasn’t lost people to the plague. It’s hard for us to truly understand. But . . . I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It’s . . .” Hooch shrugged. “I’m not going to count them as lost until I can’t find ’em, Skip. Simple as that. But about the two of you. It’s sort of . . . comforting. Listening to sisters argue is sort of like being back home. Doesn’t bother me.”
“I get it,” Sophia said. “But, Faith, don’t give me crap, at least at first, if we find survivors. If there’s an emergency, I don’t want them doubting my orders. I can’t have that. We can’t have that. Okay?”
“You and what army?” Faith repeated. “Yeah, yeah, got it.”
“Seriously.”
“I said I got it,” Faith snapped. “What is it about ‘got it’ you don’t understand?”
“You can just feel the love,” Paula said, laughing.
“I just love you so much, sis,” Faith said. “You’re just the biggest baddest captain of a dinghy in the whole fleet!”
“I sooo want to rename it Minnow,” Sophia said. “Next time we get time, I swear. But it’s mine, all mine.”
“The captain she was a mighty sailing man,” Paula caroled. “The mate, that’s me, was brave and true . . .”
“Hey!” Patrick called from the helm. “I thought I was the mate?”
“We’re all mates,” Sophia said. “Well, actually, I think me and Paula are sheilas.”
“God, I hope so,” Hooch said. “’Cause you look like sheilas. And one deployment to Okinawa was enough . . .”
CHAPTER 27
“Hydrocarbons, sure enough,” Gardner said. Her voice was barely audible between the silver suits they were wearing and the air-pak. She knew this so she tapped Fontana on the shoulder and made sure he saw the blinking indicator. “Take off your mask in here and you’re going to hit the deck, fast.”
“No worries,” Steve shouted. “The same could be said for the zombies. There is some good news.”
“And one spark and we’re going to go sky high,” Fontana noted. He used his hand to bang on the next hatch. “Anybody home?”
There was an answering banging, regular, not frenzied like zombies.
“I knew we forgot something,” Steve said. “Spare air.”
“How many!” Fontana shouted. He put his ear to the hatch to hear the reply. “I think they’re saying four.”
“Stand by here,” Steve said. “I’ll take Gardner back to the ship. But I’m not sure how to . . . We’d have to fit them . . .”
“They must have a clear, or reasonably clear, air supply in there,” Gardner said. “And if there are females, they’re probably pregnant. Not good to have them exposed. I suggest we run blowers down here and clear out this passage, then extract them.”
“And we get blowers, where?” Fontana asked.
“There are some on the cutter,” Gardner said.
“Which we already had to do a six-hour run up to and a seven-hour run back,” Steve said. He was either going to have to figure out how to tow the damned thing or strip it soon. That was one of his nagging issues.
“It’s a supply ship,” Fontana said. “Would they have some?”
“We can try to ask,” Steve said.
“Do you have blowers?” Fontana said. “Blowers! Where are the blowers? If they’re answering, I can’t hear. They’re saying something . . .”
“We passed an aid station,” Gardner said, pointing back the way they came.
“Which would have blowers?” Steve said.
“No,” Gardner said. “But it might have a stethoscope.”
* * *
Fontana ripped off his mask and leaned into the hatch.
“Where do you have air blowerthisairyoucan’tbreatheitwhereARETHEAIRBLOWERS!”
“OW!” Gardner snapped, holding her ears that the stethoscope was inserted into. “That hurt!”
Fontana quickly redonned his mask and took a deep breath.
“Wow, that really is foul.”
Gardner waved a hand for silence as she listened.
“Ask them if they said ‘locker by engineering’?” She pulled the stethoscope away from the hatch and covered it with her hand.
“LOCKER BY ENGINEERING?” Fontana shouted through his mask.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Gardner said, nodding and taking off the stethoscope. “Okay, you can bellow as loud as you want, now.”
* * *
“You got a clue how to use these?” Steve asked, looking at the fans and big, coiled duct stuff. Mechanical wasn’t his gift any more than singing was.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Gardner said. “But I’ll need some help moving them. Oooh, oooh, My. Poor. Pregnant. Back.”
“There’s a reason Sadie is back on the Large,” Fontana said.
* * *
In the end, Gardner did pretty much all the work but the toting. And in thirty minutes, they had the blowers evacuating and replacing the air in the corridors to the survivor compartment.
“How long?” Steve asked, looking at the descending sun. It wasn’t red. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad sign. A bad sign was if the dawn was red.
“When this says it’s okay,” Gardner said, holding up the hydrocarbon meter.
“Picky, picky,” Fontana said. “Women!”
“You know, Fontana, on a boat like this I know ways to just catch you on fire. Ah, God. Not now . . .”
“What?”
“I gotta puke again,” she said, hurrying to the rail. “Be right back.”
* * *
“You gonna be okay?” Faith said as Hooch puked over the rail.
“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry, that’s not what . . . I mean . . .”
“
I’d say I puked the first time but I didn’t,” Faith said, then shrugged. “I mean, I have puked. Trust me. But I’ve seen worse than this. You should have seen some of the stuff on the Alpha.”
“How many of these have you done?” Hooch asked. The scene in the lower deck was fucking awful. The male of the group, presumably the dad, had survived. By feeding on his family in what had been the master’s cabin. From the looks of it, they’d all zombied and had been fed on one by one. As he’d killed them he’d brought them down into the cabin as a nest and slept with the dead and decomposing corpses. Hooch had managed to hold it in until he noticed one really totally “what the fuck?” detail. At the head of the bed, not covered in filth, almost like a little shrine, was a teddy bear. Like somewhere in the thing on the boat’s brain it almost remembered that it had somebody it cared about. It just couldn’t recognize that it was the tiny little corpse it was feeding on.
“People keep asking me that,” Faith said. “I need to get a count . . .”
* * *
“Five,” Steve said, nodding. “That’s not bad for a boat this size. Come on, we’ll get you over to the rescue boat.”
“Wait,” one of the men said, holding up his hand. “I’ll stay onboard.”
“Why?” Fontana said.
“If we leave the boat it’s salvage,” a woman said.
“Heh,” Steve said, grinning. “It’s salvage already. You’re not going to get screwed, but you kind of want to sit down and have a chat about the new reality.”
“You do, you really do,” Gardner said. “And I’m saying that sort of officially as a member of the Coast Guard. In fact, as far as we can tell, I’m the number four senior United States Coast Guard officer. ’Cause there’s only six of us left.”
“What?” the man said, his face going ashen.
“Just come on over to the boat and get some fresh air,” Steve said. “We’re not going to pirate your boat.”
“Not exactly pirate,” Fontana said. “Hey, I wonder if I’m, like, senior NCO of the Army.”
“In that case, I think Hooch is the commandant . . .”
* * *
“How much fuel in the tanks, Hooch?” Faith asked, looking at the form. She was letting him do it for the experience. Besides the post-clearance tasks were getting old.
