You're Never Ready for a Zombie Apocalypse (Guardians of the Apocalypse Book 1)

by Jeff Thomson

  In the first place, the XO was a dick (so his name was not just a happy coincidence), and he felt sure the bastard had done his level best to intimidate the crap out of her in the hour or so since Jonesy dropped her off at the Ship’s Office. In the second place, everything about this situation was new to her: the ship, its officers, the fact they were rushing to get underway in response to a zombie apocalypse... Anybody would be intimidated by it all.

  “I’d say I was looking forward to all this, but under the circumstances...” she said, squaring her shoulders and making eye contact with each person around the table in turn.

  And in the third place, Jonesy thought, she’s baring up pretty well, all things considered. There was a reason he’d liked her when they were on the Healy.

  Yes, he had known her from his days in Alaska, and yes, he had liked her then, even though she was both jailbait, and the niece of his QM1, but that was beside the point. And okay, he had really liked her butt, he thought, in the interests of full disclosure to his own psyche. She did have a really nice butt. However; she was also intelligent and funny and cool and, as it happened, a real badass on the sparring mat, which was how their affair started, in the first place.

  The thing about standing watch in the middle of the night in the middle of the ocean, is that you end up with lots and lots of time to either wax selfish in the dark-clothed self-absorption of a ship’s bridge, while the rest of the crew is dreaming sailor’s dreams, or you can talk (albeit quietly) with the other people on watch. And so they had talked. And in talking, they discovered each had been into martial arts during their respective childhoods.

  He hadn’t known this about her before - hadn’t really thought of her as anything but a cute kid before (primarily because of her persona non nookie status as his boss’s niece), and found it rather compelling when he did find out. One more thing they had in common.

  She had learned Krav Maga, the Israeli fighting technique developed by Imi Lichtenfeld, during his defense of the Jews in Czechoslovakia in the 1930's. Jonesy, on the other hand, had the great fortune to be living in Santa Monica as a kid, and so had access to the Inosanto Academy, where he trained in Filipino Kali and Escrima, as well as bits and pieces of Jeet Kune Do, the art created by the immortal Bruce Lee, and then passed to Dan Inosanto. Jonesy liked to boast he’d been given the honor of having his ass royally kicked by Dan Inosanto, himself.

  Okay... bullshit. He wasn’t anywhere near good enough to spar with The Master. He had, however been good enough to spar with Molly, who successfully kicked his ass the first time they met on the mat.

  This might have been because, during the match, he’d been trying to cover the unsightly bulge in his sweat pants all the tussling with a really good-looking woman had caused, but she’d still kicked his ass. One thing led to another, however, and the temptation had just been too damned, well, tempting, so he put the moves on the not yet commissioned cadet, and the rest, as they say, was history.

  Technically speaking, they violated all sorts of regulations against fraternization, but the Healy, with its mixed male and female crew, had been a big, red, Love Boat, adorned with a Coast Guard racing stripe. The Command wisely kept to the adage Never give an order you know won’t be obeyed, and so everybody turned a blind eye to the many and varied hookups during their deployment.

  But now she was here, sitting next to him again, and he could smell her scent, and feel the warmth and nearness of her body, Jonesy had to admit (if only to his innermost self) that their four month trip to the Arctic had been more than just a hookup.

  Gulp, he thought, then turned his attention to the meeting.

  “Did you run into any...difficulties...during your flight?” LTJG Bloominfeld asked. He was an affable officer: tall and thin and (prior to the insanity of their current situation) only concerned with getting flight school, the odds of which were now slim, indeed.

  One plane crashed, they knew for sure, when apparently one of the pilots turned and went zombie during the flight. The plane ended up spread all over a field in Pennsylvania. Another flight simply disappeared. One minute it was there, crossing the Atlantic; the next, it was gone. And now, apparently, the flight from Honolulu to San Francisco, carrying one of their own, had crashed. No survivors.

  “None,” Molly replied. “They gave us all nasal antibody tests prior to boarding.” She paused to let the information sink in. “That means I’m not infected, in case anybody was wondering.”

  What she did not include, could never include on penalty of going to prison for capital murder, was that the nasal tests were for common cold antibodies, not the blood pathogen. If they’d tested for the blood pathogen, she would have lit up their tester like the Vegas Strip. It would have done so because she, unbeknownst to almost everyone everywhere, had been vaccinated with attenuated vaccine, made from the spinal chords of infected human beings.

  Conflicted, thy name is Molly. On the one hand, the antibodies coursing through her bloodstream and giving her immune system the necessary target to fight off the neurological pathogen, originated in the spinal column of what had once been a live, vibrant human being with a family and a future and dreams and all the other life-stuff she, herself took for granted. That person had been killed - murdered - to provide vaccine. On the other hand, the vaccine kept her from turning into a naked, raving, homicidal lunatic, so...

  The assembled officers and chiefs (and Jonesy) didn’t actually sigh in relief, Molly thought, but she did detect the slightest relaxing of tensed shoulders around the table.

  She supposed she should feel guilty, as well as conflicted. In the first place, she’d just come aboard, just met these people who would be her shipmates (Jonesy notwithstanding), and who would need to trust her, and she was starting out by hiding something monumental about both her character and her physical well-being. In the second place, she was in possession of knowledge that could very well save their lives, and she had no intention of ever telling them about it. Because, in the third place, if they knew, they’d probably arrest her on the spot for conspiracy to commit murder.

  She would debate her lack of guilty feelings later. In the meantime, she was keeping her mouth shut.

  “They’ve been talking about closing both Portland and Seattle to air traffic,” she continued. “The jury was still out, but it could happen any time now.”

  Jonesy sensed a certain wariness in her voice, but he supposed it could just be the stress of the current situation. He was delighted and impressed to see her power on, regardless.

  “Whidbey Island was still operational,” she added, referring to the Military Airlift Command field at the combined Army and Air Force base.

  “Yeah, well, welcome aboard,” SKC Robinson said. He was a very large, very in shape black man, with a deep, sonorous voice. “God knows we need you, what with Mr. Ryan...” His voice trailed off.

  “Yes, yes,” the XO said. “I’m sure we’re all saddened by it,” he added, not sounding the least bit bothered. “But we have more important matters to discuss.”

  Bastard, Jonesy thought. Everybody liked Ryan. Hard not to. The kid had been eager and helpful, and willing to learn. He’d gotten a lot of ribbing when he became the senior Ensign, after Bloominfeld made JG, but he’d taken it all in stride. The “promotion” (a military in-joke, if ever there was one) to Bull Ensign made him OPS Boss, but it hadn’t gone to his head.

  The same could not be said for Rick (the Dick) Medavoy.

  The fucktard positively delighted in the power of being the Executive Officer. In the Navy, he’d have been just another fucking Lieutenant - just another zero to be bypassed if you wanted to get anything done. But in the Coast Guard, and with a crew of only seven officers and forty-one enlisted, being a Lieutenant meant something.

  Some managed the power just fine. Jonesy suspected their CO, LCDR Russell Sparks, had been a decent LT. He made a decent skipper, and wasn’t a martinet like some of the power-mad assholes he’d met. Medavoy, on the other hand.
...

  “We’re scheduled to fuel at the Pearl Harbor POL at 0300 tomorrow. We need to be underway not later than 0030,“ the slimy bastard continued.

  There goes a good night’s sleep, Jonesy thought. What else was new? Having duty the day before getting underway always sucked. This went double for getting underway in an apocalypse.

  CWO4 Chuck Kincade said: “Actually, they decided to send the barge over, so we won’t need to get underway. Same time, though. 0300.”

  “That would have been good information to have before the meeting,” Medavoy snapped.

  The man liked to rule by intimidation. This worked with the junior officers, and certainly worked with the enlisted, who had no recourse against whatever fucked up thing the asshole dropped on their poor heads. The same could not be said for Chief Warrant Officer Kincade.

  “I got the information just before the meeting,” he said, with barely-disguised contempt. He was in his early forties, with mousy brown hair and eyes, and an expression that always made Jonesy think he was suffering from constipation. “And you didn’t need to know about it until the meeting.” He said this last with a tone of challenge in his voice. But then (discretion being the better part of valor) he continued in a conciliatory tone, shrugging. “Figured you had enough on your plate, so I didn’t bother you with it.”

  Kincade stopped short of apologizing, or of seeming in any way contrite, and Jonesy admired him for it. The XO, on the other hand, did not seem placated (if his sour expression was any indication), but there wasn’t a whole lot he could do. Warrant Officers were commissioned by an Act of Congress. Medavoy might be the Big Fish in a two-hundred-and-twenty-five-foot pond, but against Congress, he wasn’t jack.

  Medavoy glared for a moment, as if trying to regain his dominance, saw it wasn’t working, and then, with a near-growl, said: ”Where are we on stores?”

  The question was barked, and Jonesy knew perfectly well at whom the dog yapped: BM1 Socrates Jones, junior-most person in the room. If the self-important prick couldn’t throw his weight at a Warrant, then he’d just take it out on the enlisted pukes. The knowledge pissed Jonesy off, and, being the ornery, contrarian son of a bitch he had always been, he decided on a bit of passive resistance.

  “Oh! You’re asking me,” he said, in mock-surprise. He shrugged. “The stores are coming in, the crew is loading them up the gangway.” He shrugged again. “What else is coming or where we are, as far as completely loaded, I have no idea.” He looked around the table, his eyes falling on the none-too pleased XO last. “Nobody bothered to give me the information. The trucks come in, I get them unloaded. Beyond that, I haven’t got a clue.” This did not make Medavoy happy, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it, either. The facts were as Jonesy had stated them. Nobody had felt he needed to know. He was okay with that. If the XO wasn’t...?

  The XO stared at him a moment longer, then turned his baleful glare on Chief Robinson. “Well?”

  “How many trucks have we unloaded?” Robinson asked, looking at Jonesy.

  “Two,” he replied. “One of produce, and the other of canned goods, which they’re working on now.”

  Robinson nodded. “We have another one of meat, which should be here...” He looked at his watch. “...any time now. And then we’ve got pallets of disaster supplies coming this afternoon.” He looked at CWO2 Larsen, the Bosun. “We’ll need to pop the buoy deck hatch.”

  Eric Larsen was a medium man: medium height, medium weight, medium looks. If you looked away from the guy, you might forget what he looked like. He nodded. “We also have the ammo load coming in at 1700,” he said. “And while we’re on the subject...Judging from the manifest, it looks like we’re getting ready to go to war.”

  “How so?” Medavoy asked.

  “We’re already fully loaded,” he said. “With what we have coming in, we’ll have twice our normal compliment.”

  “And?” the XO snapped.

  “And isn’t it about time we discussed the elephant in the room?” CWO4 Chuck Kincade said.

  “Which is?”

  “What’s our mission, sir?” Jonesy asked.

  8

  “Your mission,” Captain Clark Winstead said to the assembled officers, “is threefold.” He looked pale and nervous. And he kept flicking glances at his boss.

  Rear Admiral Charles Deguine normally looked like the male subject of the painting American Gothic - an impression that belied his bright mind and good nature. Now he looked distracted and flushed, and...scared.

  None of this boded well for LCDR Russell Sparks, Commanding Officer of the USCGC Sassafras. He looked the way a skipper should: tall and strong and confident, although confident was not what he felt at the moment.

  The Captain continued. “First, preserve Force Continuity. We’re not going to do anyone any good if we don’t remain operational.” They were assembled in the District 14 Conference Room - a long, narrow office space, with the required nondescript white walls, unimaginative framed posters of sailing ships, and the ubiquitous motivational screeds about teamwork and perseverance. Included in the meeting were the skippers of the Kukui, Assateague, and Galveston Island.

  “Second, conduct Security and Search and Rescue as needed. There are a lot of people in boats heading out to sea in an effort to escape the plague. As usual, about two-thirds aren’t going to be experienced. Accidents will happen. Because there is panic, and because panic breeds chaos, there will be people more than willing to take advantage. Stomp on it - hard. Zero tolerance of piracy.”

  Zero Tolerance? What the Hell did that mean? Free fire? Kill ‘em all and sink their boats?

  “Uh, sir...?” LCDR David Gaffney, CO of Kukui began. He was a small man, with sandy blonde hair and alarming blue eyes.

  “And before you ask,” Captain Winstead interrupted. “Yes. Prosecute with prejudice.” He paused, cast another worried glance at the Admiral, who thus far had remained mute, though he squirmed in his seat. “We can’t officially say it’s open season on pirates, but you’re going to be out there on your own, and we’re going to have our hands full here.” Another glance at the Admiral, who seemed about ready to climb out of his own skin. “Use your best judgement.”

  Vague orders with unrestricted power...Not a good precedent, Sparks thought, but as usual, he kept his own council. Best way to do things. Coast Guard commands afloat were independent by their very nature, what with operating in remote areas, reacting to conditions at the scene, and the only real supervision coming from a voice on the radio hundreds, if not thousands of miles away. Of course, you were up shit creek if you screwed the pooch, but as long as you got the job done, all sins were usually forgiven. Usually.

  “And third, Disaster Response. We don’t know - nobody knows - how bad this is going to get. We don’t even know if Honolulu will remain viable.”

  That one word: viable, spoke volumes.

  Sand Island, in Honolulu Harbor, was their home base. The District Office, itself, was housed in the Federal Building in downtown Hono, but everything else was on The Island, which housed the ships, the small boat Station, the Communications Station, and the District Command Center, along with the Logistics Command, Office of Aids to Navigation, the Marine Environmental Response Team (MERT), the Tactical Law Enforcement Team (TACLET), and Sector Honolulu. The Air Station, with its compliment of HH-60 helicopters and two C-130 airplanes, was over on Barber’s Point. Toss in the Air Force Base at Hickam, the Army Base at Schofield Barracks, Marine Base at Kaneohe, Navy Base at Pearl Harbor, the Submarine Base, and various other military installations spread throughout the Island of Oahu, and what you had was one heavily armed piece of real estate.

  If the Captain was questioning whether or not Honolulu would remain viable...?

  “And the infected?” LT Gary Rhiannon, skipper of the Assateague asked.

  Winstead flicked his nervous eyes toward the Admiral, who was scratching his arms and chest, and wore an almost feral expression on his flushed face. The
man moaned.

  “Rules of Engagement are...uh...” the Captain began to say, but then the Admiral let out a howl, and started to tear at his uniform shirt. The fruit salad of ribbons popped off his chest and bounced across the table, knocking a water glass into Winstead’s lap.

  There was a moment of stunned immobility, as the sheer irrationality of the situation sank in, before everybody seemed to act at once, thrusting up and away from the table, tossing chairs aside in their haste to get the Hell away from their insane Flag Officer - a scene straight out of Bedlam.

  The thought he’s turning flashed across Russell Sparks’ forebrain as he bounced against the wall and nearly tripped over the chair Rhiannon had just vacated. Everyone was up, everyone moved in seemingly every direction at once, except for the Yeoman First Class, who’d been taking the meeting minutes. She sat, dumbfounded and frozen, a look of both confusion and horror on her face.

  “Move, damn you!” Sparks yelled at her, but too late.

  The Admiral leapt, teeth flashed, and Sparks heard the flesh on her neck rip, as a fountain of blood spurted through Charles Deguine’s snarling mouth. A jet of it arced across the table, right into Captain Winstead’s face. He jerked back, as if to avoid what already happened, and smacked his head against the far wall with an audible thunk.

  The others hesitated to act, either from shock, or years of ingrained obedience to the military hierarchy. They all looked toward the Captain for guidance, but the Captain just stared and blinked at the blood coursing down into his eyes.

  Move, you idiot, a voice shouted inside Sparks’ own brain, and he lunged toward the snarling Admiral. He had always considered himself a man of action - whatever the Hell that meant - and so he’d acted, and the result was to be tangled up on the ground with a one hundred and ninety pound, fifty-eight year-old screaming animal, who had once been the District Commander.

  The keening mass of arms and legs and snapping teeth (even there, in extremis, Sparks couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the word zombie) felt like he held a pissed off banshee in his arms. “Help me, Goddamnit!” he shouted, as teeth snapped a scant half-inch from his fingers, which were slick with the still-spurting blood. His free hand grabbed the man by what little hair he had on his head and yanked the snarling mouth away, as somebody - Chambers, from the Galveston Island, he thought - piled onto his back.