by Jeff Thomson
Jonesy had always heard the cliche of the color draining from someone’s face. He’d never seen it, and never felt it. Until now. The color drained from his face. He couldn’t see it happen, obviously, but he felt as if someone had opened a valve in his head and drained all the blood from his skull.
Terminate? What the fuck? And why the Hell is he telling me?
He knew the answer, of course. He was the obvious choice, the only choice, but it didn’t change the situation away from one gigantic bitch of a shit sandwich.
“Get with Petty Officer Peterson, and make sure,” he said, and made as if to reach out to Jonesy, but then pulled back and brought his arms to his chest, as if holding them away from the temptation to touch anyone else - to infect anyone else. “Make fucking sure you avoid getting bitten,” he said. His voice was quiet, though urgent, but he might as well have yelled it through a loud hailer, for the impact of his words. The man never swore - never - and he certainly never dropped an F-Bomb, but he had then. Jonesy paid attention.
“The bites are extremely infectious. If you get bitten, there’s about a ninety-nine percent chance you’ll turn. And Jonesy,” he said, his voice taking on an even more urgent tone, which Socrates hadn’t thought possible. “You can’t turn. This crew is going to need you - maybe more than anyone else on board.”
His eyes softened, and Jonesy saw the regret in them again. And it was regret - the gut-wrenching regret of someone whose job it is to order someone else to do something both completely necessary, and completely horrible. “You’re a strong man, Jonesy. I’ve seen you. I’ve watched you. You joke a lot, and you’re way too much of a smart-aleck, but there’s a strength to your character few other people I’ve known possess.”
He hated praise - almost as much as he hated getting his ass chewed - and he especially hated praise in front of witnesses. But this time, in this circumstance, he didn’t feel the flush, didn’t feel the embarrassment, didn’t feel anything, other than a cold, hard resolve.
“You’re going to need that strength Jonesy,” Sparks said again.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re going to want to be in full rig. No exposed flesh. Don’t get bit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Captain, sir,” Medavoy said. “Are you putting him in charge of our security?” It was said with the proper degree of respect - Medavoy would never smart ass the CO - but Jonesy could hear the underlying tone of incredulity, as if the very idea of Jones - an enlisted man - being in charge of something so vital as the security of the ship and her crew was ludicrous.
Fucking asshat, Jonesy mused.
“Yes, XO, I am,” the CO said. “He and Peterson are the only ones even remotely qualified for this. And Peterson is, well...”
“Duke will be alright, sir. He acts crazier than he is,” Jonesy assured him.
The Captain nodded.
“But, sir,” Medavoy protested.
“Those are my orders, Lieutenant,” he replied, in no uncertain terms. “And Jonesy...” He sighed. “I’m sorry to put you through this. But it’s got to be done. All your lives depend on it.”
“Our lives, sir?” Jonesy asked. It seemed ridiculous, incongruous, to be having this conversation, with all its dark connotations, under the sunshine and soft breezes of one of the most beautiful places on the planet. Okay...Sand Island was a bit of a shit-hole, but Oahu wasn’t, Hawaii wasn’t. In any case, the alternative of not continuing this conversation, of not forcing some structure onto the abject insanity of the very real possibility he would be called on to kill one or more members of his own crew, was to dwell on that possibility; to swim in the idea of it, to drown in the horror of this new reality. And so he kept talking.
“Our lives, sir?” Jonesy repeated. “Not yours?”
Sparks didn’t answer at first, just turned to gaze out at the harbor. His eyes once again held that blank look. Finally, he sighed and said, in a near-whisper: “No. Not mine.”
“Captain?” Medavoy said. There was real alarm in the man’s voice.
He turned to look at them again. “I could be infected,” he said. He gazed down at his bloodstained shirt. “I probably am.”
“We can give you the antibody test, sir,” Doc Harris said, a note of panic creeping into his voice. “Then we’ll know.”
Sparks shook his head, then looked at his watch. He had to rub at the crystal face to clear it of blood. “I was exposed less than two hours ago,” he said.
“It still might present,” Harris argued.
Sparks shook his head again. “Can’t take the chance.”
Jonesy felt the shift in Medavoy, could almost hear the gears clicking and turning at the realization of what the Captain’s words meant. He would now be the CO. He peered at the man out of the corner of his eye. Goddamned if the bastard hadn’t puffed out his chest.
“Sir, does this mean...?” The arrogant prick began.
He’s happy about it. He’s glad the CO could be on the verge of turning into a mindless, insane, naked ball of arms and legs and gnashing teeth. What a fucking asshole!
The Captain nodded. He didn’t look happy about it. He didn’t look happy about anything. “I’m trusting you, Lieutenant,” he said. “Take care of my crew.”
This last was said with true steel in Sparks’ voice, as if failing to follow his order would result in grave consequences. Jonesy suspected grave consequences were exactly what they would be, should LT Rat Fuck not do what he was told. They would come from the grave, because that was surely where LCDR Russell Sparks was headed.
13
“Want to tell me again why we’re doing this?” Teddy Spute asked, for what John Gordon felt sure had to be the tenth time.
“No, I really don’t,” John replied. He looked at his friend in the passenger seat. Teddy was a wiry, skinny, small ball of energy, with salt and pepper black hair and deep-set eyes which, in the right light, seemed almost as black as what his hair used to be.
“Do it anyway,” Teddy said.
“You know we have vaccine, right?”
“Yes!” Teddy smiled.
“And you know where it comes from, right?”
“Yes.” Teddy’s voice wasn’t so enthusiastic, this time, and John really couldn’t blame him.
When his “colleague,” (a loose term, at best) at the college had first approached him about the vaccine, and had then explained to him how it was obtained, John had been appalled. Human spines? Human beings? The very idea had been out of the question almost before the question had been asked.
But then he thought about it, and about his family, and about his friends. The CDC declared the effects of the neurological pathogen were irreversible. Once a zombie, always a zombie. It didn’t make the killing of human beings to create vaccine less abhorrent, but (when coupled with concern for family and friends) had made it more palatable. And so he agreed to Christopher Floyd’s “terms.”
Which was why they were headed to the Oregon State - Astoria campus to steal a dental x-ray machine.
14
“Okay, now, you know we don’t trust this guy, right?” Gus asked. They were parked in the alley behind Farcquar Guns and Ammo. The air was cold, even though official summer was days away, and he was wearing a light grey jacket over a long-sleeved blue shirt.
“Yes, Dear,” Jim Barber replied. He was a burly, stocky man with a full head of dark hair and a full beard; in his fifties, like Gus, and John, and nearly everyone else who was about to become the crew of the M/V True North. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt, untucked over his belt line.
They’d already had this discussion, several times. He’d known Gilbert Farcquar since their days on the Polar Star. It seemed like centuries ago, but was only fifteen years. The man was a squirrely, untrustworthy little pudfucker then, and time had not changed him. They still saw each other occasionally (Astoria, Oregon, not being the biggest town in the world), and each occasion had left Jim feeling in serious need of a disinfecting shower.
They could have been friends, he supposed. They both shared fairly hard core conservative values, but Jim’s were based on the Constitution, and Gilbert’s were based on God only knew what. The shit that came out of the man’s mouth was so divorced from reality, they may as well have been discussing different planets.
“Are we going inside, or just sitting here enjoying the ambiance of this alley?” He asked.
Gus shook his head. “I don’t like it,” he said. “But I guess it’s gotta be done.” He made as if to open his door, then stopped and looked at Jim. “Don’t we already have enough guns? Hell, you’ve got your own arsenal.”
This was true - the arsenal bit, anyway. Jim had four shotguns, including a Saiga, five hunting rifles, including a World War II vintage M-1 Garand, and ten handguns, including two Colt 1911 .45's, four Baretta 9mm, two S&W .44 Magnums, a .22 target pistol, and the S&W .38, tucked into its holster behind his back. But no, it wasn’t enough.
“No such thing,” he said. “Hello...Zombie Apocalypse.”
The general absurdity of the current situation still hadn’t sunk in. He understood it, at a gut level, anyway, but intellectually, it was damned hard to wrap his head around.
He’d never considered himself a “Prepper,” (a sub-set of humanity convinced the end was truly nigh, and the shit would hit the fan any day now) but he did like to keep himself prepared. He had a stash of disaster supplies, including MREs and other freeze-dried foodstuffs, and a general shitload of other items one would need in a bad situation, but he had never been able to bring himself to go full-on commando.
He did know a fair number of people who had (Gilbert Farcquar being among them), but in general, they were too damned silly to take seriously. Most, he suspected, were just “playing soldier.” And not a single Goddamned one of them was prepared for a Zombie Fucking Apocalypse.
“Let’s go, if we’re going,” he said, and opened the car door.
15
Jonesy, now decked out in full tactical gear, including tactical uniform and boots, ballistic armor, knee and elbow pads, with gloves tucked into his harness, and holding his helmet under his arm, watched from the flying bridge as the crane lowered the buoy deck plate back into position, then climbed back down the ladder and entered the bridge. The first thing he saw upon entering was Scoot, standing at the chart table, staring at a rectangular piece of columned paper, set into a frame.
Scoot was BM2/OPS Ricardo (Ricky) Scutelli, Jonesy’s twenty-two year-old right hand man. He was medium height and build, with dark hair and eyes, and the olive complexion of his southern Italian ancestors.
The paper he contemplated was the Watch, Quarter, and Station Bill, upon which all members of the crew were listed by billet, along with their assigned positions for evolutions such as Duty Section, Special Sea Detail, General Quarters, Shipboard Firefighting, etcetera. Why he should be looking at it remained a mystery.
He looked up as Jonesy entered, eyeing his rig. “Bold fashion statement,” he said.
“It’s what all the best ninjas are wearing this year,” Jonesy replied.
“I’m assuming you have a reason for it...?”
Jonesy paused for a moment. You can’t turn. This crew is going to need you - maybe more than anyone else on board. The Captain’s words - and their implication - swirled around in his head. He might have to kill his shipmates. He might have to kill Scoot.
“You don’t want to know,” he said, finally.
“Secret Squirrel shit, then,” Scoot said.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Jonesy asked, eyeing the Watch, Quarter and Station Bill.
“You know,” the BM2 began. “I’ve been looking at this thing and I can’t for the life of me find where I’m supposed to go in the event of a zombie apocalypse.”
“Very funny,” Jonesy said, dryly.
“I thought so.”
“You thought wrong,” Jonesy said. “Did you get all the tracks laid down, or have you been too busy fucking off?”
“Done and done,” Scoot said, patting a stack of nautical charts on the chart table with one hand, as he replaced the WQS onto the wall with the other. The tracks were the course lines they’d be following, once they got underway. They had the Electronic Chart Display on the bridge, but Jonesy remembered what Chief Gordon (Molly’s uncle) always said: Paper doesn’t break, and so he insisted on paper chart backup to the electronic versions. His boys weren’t too thrilled, but he was in charge, so he just didn’t care.
“Box of death. What fun!” Scoot said, and let out a short, dry cough.
“Did you hear about the Skipper?” Jonesy asked, ignoring the cough, and praying to the God he didn’t believe in that it was just something caught in his friend’s throat.
“You mean that Lieutenant Fucktard is now the CO?”
Technically speaking, Jonesy should probably ream Scoot’s ass for such a disrespectful attitude, but number one, he was too damned tired, and number two, he had himself to blame for it.
As to the first, this had been one bitch of a long day, filled with more emotional ups and downs than any sane man should have to deal with without benefit of alcohol. The Captain’s condition, and subsequent abdication, were just the tip of the iceberg - which meant this particular iceberg was one whorey mother of a chunk of ice. Toss in seeing Molly again for the first time since their not-pleasant breakup a little more than a year ago, the fact Medavoy was now the Big Kahuna, and the dawning reality that they were in a real, By God Zombie Fucking Apocalypse, and what appeared was one FUBAR situation.
As for the second, well, he had to admit he’d called the XO “Lieutenant Fucktard” in the presence of junior people before. He knew he wasn’t supposed to, knew it went against all good order and discipline. But the weasel was a fucktard. To deny this clear fact, was to lose credibility with one’s subordinates. Jonesy had always at least tried to ameliorate his sin by saying: You ain’t gotta like it, you just gotta do it. As solutions went, it was pretty pathetic, but it was also true.
He knew he’d have been shit-canned for such lapses in discipline faster than yesterday’s Pork Adobo in any of the other services, but he wasn’t in any of the other services. He was in the United States Coast Guard - Uncle Sam’s Confused Group - and he was both damned glad and damned proud of it.
The phone rang.
“Bridge, Jones,” he said, after snatching it from its cradle on the center console.
“Get your ass down to the Wardroom, Jones,” Medavoy snapped on the other end. “Now.”
Case in point...
16
“Do you know what a millicurie is?” Christopher Floyd asked, in response to John’s question of why, exactly, they needed to steal a dental x-ray machine. They were in the Professor’s lab/classroom at the college. Several lab tables, covered with test tubes, Bunsen Burners, and various other chemistry-type items of which John had no clue, were arrayed in a rectangle in front of a standard rectangular desk. It was dark, since the mad scientist kept the light off (for security reasons - or so he said) but John could still make out two large crates on one side of the desk, as well as a dozen smaller boxes stacked more or less neatly on the other.
“A sexually ambiguous pop group from the late Eighties?” John answered, meaning Milli Vanilli.
“How amusing,” Floyd said, not amused at all.
“Didn’t they get caught lip-synching, or something?” Spute asked.
“A millicurie,” the professor continued, ignoring the pathetic attempt at humor, “is one thousandth of a curie.”
“Glad we cleared that up,” Spute said.
“It refers to the rate of decay of certain radioactive isotopes, and is used as a unit of measure,” Floyd explained, clearly making no effort to hide his contempt for having to explain what he thought should be simple enough for the common low-grade moron to understand.
John had never liked him. To his knowledge, no one at the College did. Presumably he had a mother and/or father who
didn’t find him infuriating enough to strangle the life out of, but maybe not. In any case, the man knew how to make vaccine, had made it, had given several doses of both primer and booster to John, and was thus the savior of John’s family and friends, so liking the man dropped in significance.
“And it has what to do with x-raying people’s teeth?” John asked. He had worked his way over to the desk and was examining the cardboard boxes. One of them was partially open and revealed gallon-sized blue plastic bags. “What’s all this?” He asked, pointing.
“Polyacrylamide gel powder,” Floyd said, walking up to John and none-too gently escorting him away from the boxes. “It will allow me to make more vaccine.” He pointed to the two crates on the other side of the desk. “Along with the centrifuge and scanning electron microscope.” He turned and pointed toward a door John had not noticed, which apparently led to a closet. “And in there are test tubes and assorted equipment I will need for the procedure.” He looked back over at John. “I’m assuming you can provide a blender?”
“Virus margaritas?” John asked.
“Grinding infected spinal tissue.” Floyd replied, his expression becoming more irritated by the moment.
“And the x-ray machine?” Spute asked. He stayed in the middle of the room, afraid to move lest he knocked something over and made it explode.
“We can do without it,” the professor said, pausing in his reply for effect. “If you want me to make vaccine guaranteed to make you turn into a zombie.”
“We’re already vaccinated.” Spute said. “Why do we need more?”
John stared at Spute, amazed at the level of his friend’s stupidity. “How much do you think vaccine will be worth, numbnuts,” he snapped, “in a world overrun by zombies?”
“Ah!” Spute said, the understanding dawning upon his face. “Greed I get. Science...not so much.”
“And besides,” John said. “This was part of the deal to get our vaccine.”
“And if all that is finally cleared up,” Christopher Floyd said, wheeling a dolly out of the closet. “Let’s get this stuff loaded into your truck so we can steal the x-ray machine.”
