Under a Graveyard Sky

by John Ringo

  Then the team clambered down, got out the Zodiac and the boarding ladder and approached the ship. Getting the line up would probably have been the tough part for the Wolf crews. The submariners made it look easy. Among other things, they used a line thrower. But Hooch had explained that that was not usually considered “the easy way.”

  With the ladder in place they backed off to pick up their vaccine.

  “We got to get in there before more zombies come around,” Faith said.

  “Da said wait till he got here,” Sophia said.

  “Bring us in close,” Faith said, picking up the radio.

  * * *

  “Toy, Shewolf. Da, you there?”

  “Roger,” Steve said. “Closing your position. ETA, one hour.”

  “Da, the Dallas cleared off a deck and put in a ladder. If we wait, the zombies are going to come around again. You know how they are. Permission to, I dunno . . . ‘Get a foothold’ is what Soph just said.”

  Steve thought about that and looked at Stacey. She was looking at him and bending her head as if waiting for a punch.

  “Do you have a back-up plan?” Steve said.

  “No, but I’ve got lots of guns and knives and a machete. I’m still looking for a chainsaw.”

  * * *

  “Sir,” the chief of boat, senior NCO, of the Dallas said, standing at parade rest. “Might I suggest, with no disrespect, that it is unseemly for a commander in the United States Navy, skipper of this mighty engine of war, to literally roll around on the deck laughing . . . ?”

  * * *

  “Authorized.”

  “And you had better be okay when we get there or I’ll tan your hide!”

  “Yes, Mother,” Faith said. “Shewolf out. Hey, Hooch, let’s LOCK AND LOAD!”

  * * *

  “Let me go first, at least,” Hocieniec said.

  “Hooch, you’re a Marine,” Faith said, tightening the strap on her helmet. She was wearing what had become her standard “extreme zombie fighting” kit. Tactical boots and tacticals. Firefighting bunker gear. Nomex head cover tucked under the collar of the bunker gear. Full face respirator. Helmet with integrated visor. Body armor with integral MOLLE. Knee, elbow and shin guards. Nitrile gloves. Tactical gloves. Rubber gloves. Assault pack with hydration unit. Saiga shotgun on friction strap rig. A .45 USP in tactical fast-draw holster. Two .45 USP in chest holsters. Fourteen Saiga ten-round 12-gauge magazines plus one in the weapon. Nine pistol magazines in holster plus three in weapons. Kukri in waist sheath. Machete in over-shoulder sheath, right. Halligan tool in over-shoulder sheath, left. Tactical knife in chest sheath. Tactical knife in waist sheath. Bowie knife in thigh sheath. Calf tactical knife times two. A few clasp knives dangling in various places.

  There was the head of a teddy bear peeking out of her assault pack.

  “And you’re a grown-up. That says you should go. But you’re also not back in shape, it’s been a while since you’ve done a boarding ladder, you’re still in training at zombie killing and I’ve done these things a few times lately. Just make damned sure the soft part of the boat stays under the ladder. And if I drop in the drink, you’d better get me in fast. ’Kay?”

  “No, but . . . I guess you’re in charge.”

  “Damn straight,” Faith said, clipping the safety line to her waist. “And no paying attention to my butt. Keep your mind on the job.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hooch said.

  “Here goes nothing,” Faith said, jumping up and grabbing the ladder.

  “Faith, you’ve already got company,” Sophia called from the Endeavor. “One. Male. Decent shape.”

  “No worries, mate,” Faith muttered to herself. “I hate heights.”

  “Make that two.”

  “Easy. As long as I don’t look down.”

  “Four.”

  “Six a dollar.”

  “Five . . .”

  “Target-rich environment.”

  “More . . .”

  “You have got to be shitting me,” Faith said, keying her radio and whispering. She was nearly to the top of the ladder.

  “I think they’re feeding on the ones the Dallas shot.”

  “Okay,” Faith said, looking up at where the grapnel was connected to the bulwark. She could hear them. “Okay. What’s my back-up plan? Oh . . . fuck it.” She keyed her iPod and rolled over the bulwark.

  * * *

  “Oh, shit, no,” Sophia said as Faith clambered the rest of the way up the boarding ladder and rolled over the side of the ship. She could see more zombies moving towards the piles of dead. “No, no, no.”

  Faith straightened up and started firing her Saiga to aft. Which was great except for the zombie that appeared from behind cover to her rear and tackled her.

  “HOOCH, GET UP THERE!” Sophia screamed over the loudhailer. The Marine started to climb the ladder, painfully slowly.

  Faith suddenly reared up into sight again, a pistol in her hand and firing into the deck. She stomped once or twice, then turned with her back to the landing ladder and fired one-handed to aft, where the zombies were closing, and pulled another pistol out and fired forward, turning her head from side to side like she was watching a Wimbledon match. She was missing a lot, but zombies in view were dropping. Unfortunately, not enough, and she got dog-piled.

  Then she was up again, with a pistol in one hand and a kukri in the other. She slashed down with the kukri, kicked again, shot a couple more and then went down. Again.

  And back up. This time with the Saiga. Got two more. Went down.

  Back up, holding a zombie over her head. It had a tactical knife in its eye. The zombie went into the drink. And she went down again.

  And up again, Halligan tool in a two-handed grip, pounding down. Tackled.

  “Okay, this fucking sucks,” Faith panted over the radio. There was a background of constant snarls. “Trying to reload your fucking pistol with a zombie biting your fucking ass fucking sucks . . . Quit chewing my ass, you dummy. . . .”

  There was an “open circuit” button on the radios for hands-free operation. Sophia realized that had happened to Faith’s radio in the scuffle and her sister didn’t realize that she was broadcasting.

  “Careful, careful, Faith, don’t shoot yourself in the ass. That would be embarrassing—” There was a shot. “Dinkum . . . I’m wearing fucking bunker gear, you dumbfuck.” Two shots. “You cannot bite through it. And that’s my shin pad!” Another shot. “Oooh, I’ll call you melon head. Let go of my arm or I’m going to . . . Oh, there you are, my rugged Nepalese beauty. What were you doing hiding under there? Come to Momma . . . There, I cut off your hand. Happy now? Are you ready?”

  Faith came up with a zombie on her back and shrugged it off, spinning in place with the kukri and cutting its throat as she fired her .45 into the back of one grabbing her waist.

  “I AM SICK AND TIRED OF THESE MOTHERFUCKING ZOMBIES ON THIS MOTHERFUCKING . . .” She screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Hocieniec cleared the railing and finally saw what was going on. He clearly was frozen trying to figure out what to do, pull zombies off Faith or engage the ones still closing. Faith swung the Halligan tool, jamming the claw hammer into a zombie’s skull, then overbalanced and went down again.

  “GET THE OTHERS,” Sophia boomed. “FAITH’S DOING FINE.”

  * * *

  Bradburn waved a finger at the periscope repeater.

  “COB.”

  “Sir?”

  “Remind me never to piss that young lady off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “Dibs on direct commission.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Justin Pierre had been missing meetings due to a recurrence of, of all things, malaria. He’d picked it up in Afghanistan. Doctors at Walter Reed thought they’d gotten out every trace with a new drug regime but it turned out they were, well, wrong. Which hadn’t been spotted before he was put on this assignment or he’d never have had it. In fact, malaria was now one of th
ose things that were grounds for medical retirement. Or, possibly, a letter of reprimand since you were supposed to take prophylaxis medication.

  Colonel Pierre had not been lax in his use of prophylaxis medication. He had ended up way in the back of nowhere and cut off for about thirty days until he could E&E to friendly lines. Unlike the SEALs who had ended up in a similar situation, his team had never made the news. Probably because he had managed to extract all of them without any deaths. Wounded, yes, but they had an Eighteen Delta with them. Regular medics and corpsmen were trained to stabilize a patient until they could be evacuated. Special Forces medics were trained to heal people. They admitted they were not doctors, nor anywhere close, but Sergeant Ford had gone above and beyond.

  However, they were planning for a seven-day mission. Not thirty. All of them had gotten malaria.

  But he was back in the saddle and determined to get that girl as a commissioned officer in the United States Army.

  “I’ll throw in submitting a Memo for Record to the CJCS that they waive normal restrictions against women attending advanced combat schools, set up a quicky Q course and automatically pass her.”

  “She’s thirteen, Colonel,” Brice said drily.

  “I think the youngest officer the U.S. Army ever commissioned was fifteen,” Pierre said. “I can gin up a recommendation to the Joint Chiefs that given current global conditions we can waiver some people.”

  “That’s a lot of waivers, Colonel,” Freeman said. “Besides, I think all things considered, she’s more the SEAL type.”

  “Got any available SEAL instructors?” Pierre said. “I’m a qualified Q course instructor.”

  “Actually I was thinking Marines,” Mr. Galloway said. “Colonel Ellington. I now have a better appreciation for your paladin in hell metaphor.”

  Galloway looked over at Ellington and saw that the colonel’s face was covered in tears.

  “Colonel?” Galloway said carefully.

  “She reminds me of my wife, sir,” the colonel said. “She was a lieutenant in the MPs when we met.”

  “I am . . .” Galloway said. There was an unspoken rule against speaking about family. At least in these sort of circumstances. “Sorry. I hope to have the opportunity to meet her someday.”

  “That would be difficult, sir,” Ellington said. “She was killed in Iraq. Long before this . . . debacle. Suicide bomber. I was standing about ten feet from her. Facing her, sir. They . . . picked parts of her out of my face at Walter Reed, sir.” He pointed to an odd bump on his face. “Then again, parts of her are still with me, sir. They believe it is a portion of a tooth. My wife had beautiful teeth.”

  “Holy fuck, Ellington,” Brice whispered. “That wasn’t in your service report. Just that you’d been hit by an IED in Iraq.”

  “That was personal rather than professional,” Ellington said with a shrug. “She essentially shielded me from the blast. I survived. She did not. It was tough, but we’d arranged to be on the same team, doing analysis of the Iraqi WMD program. She was commanding the security team. She was always—” His face tightened and he breathed hard.

  “I am a Marine officer. I am versed in combat. But she was the warrior, sir, General. I was, am, a geek. I can fight. I have proven that. I have direct combat action in Iraq. But she was the warrior of us, Mr. Under Secretary, General Brice. She was our warrior half. Colonel Pierre, my wife was an Army officer. I would not prevent that young lady’s career in the Marines in any way. She would make a fine Marine. I would also not be upset if she chose the Army. Some Marines might. But I have known the warrior women of the Army and they are fine warriors. Honorable and courageous warriors, all.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Pierre said. “I wish I had met her in my career. Mr. Under Secretary, a serious suggestion?”

  “Yes?” Galloway said.

  “I would recommend that a recording of this be downloaded to all the still in-contact submarines,” Pierre said. “There is damned little, currently, to build morale. Perhaps put it together with earlier bits such as Miss Smith’s response to her father’s question about back-up plans.”

  “That, Colonel, is a really sensible suggestion,” Galloway said. “Commander, can we do that, bandwidth-wise?”

  “Not an issue, sir,” Freeman said. “And, yes, I’d agree it’s an excellent idea. It sure as hell raised my morale.”

  “Let’s hope her father is as heartened,” General Brice said. “I’m betting he hits the roof.”

  * * *

  “You okay, Faith?” Steve said, clearing the landing ladder. You couldn’t walk on the deck for all the bodies. He literally had to jump into an open ribcage to get off the ladder. When he’d gotten into contact with Sophia she’d been really noncommittal about how things were going. “Faith’s still there. No bites.” Now he knew why.

  “No worries, Da,” Faith said, shrugging. She was absolutely covered in blood. “Fair dinkum scrum. Hooch handled it just fine.”

  Hocieniec’s gear, while blood-splattered, was splattered, not covered. For that matter, parts of Faith’s heavy battle gear were torn. There were teeth marks everywhere. And she had some knives missing from their sheaths. And her machete was on the deck, bent. And her Halligan tool had matted brain matter and hair on it. It was long and blond and for a second Steve wondered if she’d somehow ripped some of her own hair out with it. Except hers was thoroughly covered by her gear.

  “Trixie got a little messed up,” Faith said, reaching back to pat the teddy bear. “Trixie’s going to need a nice hot bath after this, isn’t she? Trixie says she got a little frightened but she’ll be okay. She shut her eyes during the bad parts.”

  Steve had seen enough zombies dead from wounds at this point for a twenty-year career. And he knew wounds even before this apocalypse. Zombies were cut, smashed, bashed in heads; all the shot wounds had speckling around them from close or direct contact shots. Angles were insane on some of them. Shots down into the shoulder, which could only be done from . . .

  “Okay,” he said. “No worries. Thanks for holding the high ground. You need to take a breather for a bit?”

  “What I need to do is ammo up,” Faith said. “But I think most of my mags are so . . . messed up that they sort of need to be cleaned first. And I’m down to less than one mag of Saiga.”

  “Pistol?” Steve asked.

  “Uh, I’m down to three rounds.”

  “I think that Fontana and I will hold this position while you go wash down your gear and ammo back up. Can you keep going? Seriously?”

  “Try to hold me back, Da.”

  * * *

  “These doors are locked,” Fontana said, pulling at the hatch. The massive construction was one of the doors to the lifeboat deck and it was positively unwilling to open. A Halligan tool wasn’t going to scratch it.

  “Crap,” Steve said, looking around. “That means another passcard hunt.”

  “Isn’t this Chris’s boat?” Fontana said. “Does he still have his?”

  “I don’t know,” Steve said, keying his radio. “Sophia, all the exterior hatches we’ve found are locked down. Call Chris and ask him if he still has his passkey or whatever for the boat. And tell him we’re probably going to need his help finding our way around. Dallas, you monitoring?”

  “Roger, Wolf actual.”

  “Tell the Coasties as soon as they get here they’re to coordinate the evacuation teams. These people are going to need wheelchairs, stretchers, something. And right now getting them off the boat is going to be a professional evolution. They’ll need to primarily provide expertise and security. We’ll clear the zones, then they can come in and get the people. Copy?”

  “Coast Guard personnel to organize evacuation and maintain security presence, Wolf teams to clear.”

  “Roger,” Steve said. “As soon as we can get a master key or something.”

  * * *

  “Wolf, Dallas, over.”

  “Go ahead, Dallas,” Steve said.

  “Retrans
ing a call from the David Cooper, over.”

  “Go ahead retrans,” Steve said.

  “Wolf, Chris. Got in position to observe. First of all, you know this was my ship, over.”

  “Roger, over,” Steve said. “What can you tell us, over?”

  “Good luck. The Voyage is one of the largest liners in the world. Getting into it was only the first problem. The Staff Side Acting First intended to do a complete lockdown after all lifeboats were away. A complete lockdown closes and locks all interior doors and hatches including room doors in both directions. The only way to override it is from the central control, with the right codes or correct passkey, or using passkeys locally. Then it gets complicated. I’ve sent my key over for Faith to bring over to you. But it will only open certain internal common doors and doors specifically related to my job. I can move in all common staff areas and in all the kitchen and supply areas. It won’t, for most important example, open cabins. There was no reason a chef should have unrestricted access to the cabins.”

  “Buggers,” Steve muttered.

  “You’re going to have to hunt for a senior Staff Side officer’s key . . . Standby.”

  “Roger,” Steve said, looking at Fontana with a quizzical look. There’d been something in Chris’s voice.

  “I didn’t really talk about leaving . . .” Chris said. “Or about before, much . . . By some sort of horrible coincidence you boarded right where I left. There was a . . . break . . . Standby, please. Sorry, Wolf . . .”

  “Take your time, Chris,” Steve said.

  “Steve, Paula, breaking in.”

  “Go, Paula.”

  “Look for the body or remains or clothing of a female senior Staff Side officer in that area,” Paula said. “First name is Gwinneth, don’t recall last, Third Officer, Staff Side. Last seen directly opposite boarding area of Lifeboat Twenty-Six.”

  “Cooper again,” Chris said. “With that key you’ll be able to access all areas except those specifically locked down by higher. That’s only going to be bridge and possibly engineering. If you can find Gwinn’s badge— That’ll do the trick. If not . . . you’re down to cutting torches. All the doors, including cabin doors, are steel.”