Thunder and Ashes

by Z. A. Recht

  And so Franklin had turned the ship eastward again, and headed straight for the coast of Oregon. He still had the exact coordinates where he had dropped off Sherman and his men, and intended for his crew to disembark at the same location. Franklin didn’t know what had become of Sherman, but he did know several things.

  Firstly, he knew Sherman was heading east, toward Omaha, Nebraska. For what purpose, Franklin could only guess. He knew, however, that Sherman was hoping to meet up with a doctor, one who might know a thing or two about the Morningstar strain.

  Secondly, he knew that if Sherman and his men had managed to survive heading eastward from that cold, foggy point on the Oregonian coast, his men stood just as good a chance.

  And finally, if Sherman hadn’t made it east but had instead holed up somewhere along the way, maybe the crew would run into them and join forces. That, however, was a pipe dream: the continental United States was massive, and there were hundreds of routes Sherman could have taken to get to Omaha.

  And so Franklin stood on the bridge of his vessel, looking down at the assembled sailors (and Hal), wishing that it hadn’t come to this. Wishing that the pandemic had never occurred. Wishing he didn’t have to do what he was going to do next.

  He spun neatly on his heel to face Harris, who was still standing at ease, waiting for orders.

  “Commander, are the men ready to disembark?” Franklin asked.

  “Aye, Captain. All present and accounted for,” Harris said, nodding.

  “Good,” Franklin said, settling down with a sigh into a console operator’s chair. “Go down and join them. You’re in command of them, now, Harris.”

  “Sir?” Harris asked, furrowing his brow at Franklin.

  “You heard me,” Franklin snapped, flicking his eyes up to meet Harris’ gaze. “Get down there and oversee the debarkation. Make sure everyone’s armed and outfitted properly, just like we went over, and then get them onshore and headed east. But I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving my ship.”

  Harris stood silently for a moment, opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again. He nodded curtly.

  “Aye, sir,” he said, then turned and strode off of the bridge to join the men below. He shut the bulkhead gently behind himself.

  Franklin sighed and folded his hands in front of him. It would be very quiet on the ship after the men had gone.

  He’d use the time to catch up on his reading.

  Commander Harris strode out onto the deck of the destroyer with a purpose, shouting orders and berating any seaman who wasn’t in perfect readiness.

  “Secure that weapon! Double-knot those boots, son, what do you want to do, have them come off in the mud? Oh, Jesus, give me strength, sailor! You wear the damn webgear like this!”

  Harris moved up and down the line, adjusting the equipment on the men and checking their packs. A few of the sailors were sent back off into the bowels of the destroyer to retrieve pieces of gear that they had left behind (“Decided not to pack that extra set of batteries, did you? That’s fine, sailor, that’s just fine—you’ll have to stumble around in the dark, that’s all.”)

  Hal stood apart from the sailors, leaning up against a rail with a heavy pack strapped across his shoulders and midsection and a pistol on his waist. His arms were crossed and he watched Harris’ efforts with a carefully concealed look of amusement. Being a civilian, he was exempt from Harris’ inspection and was enjoying watching the dressing-down the commander was giving the sailors.

  Finally Harris deemed the men ready to debark. Cargo netting had been lowered over the side of the ship to allow the men to climb down into the small boats that would ferry them, ten at a time, to shore. In total, there were just under fifty sailors leaving the Ramage.

  Though the men hadn’t talked it over, both Hal and Harris harbored the thought that after a few weeks ashore, that number would likely be much lower.

  One of their problems was a lack of weaponry. Months back, when they’d originally picked up Sherman and his troops off of the Arabian coast, they had already run dangerously low on 5.56 ammunition, the standard round for the M-16 assault rifle. As a result, the ship’s armory had a fair store of the rifles, but nothing to load them with. They did, however, have a healthy supply of nine-millimeter rounds and a full complement of standard-issue Beretta sidearms. Every sailor was going ashore armed, even if only with a pistol. Three of the sailors carried MP-5 submachine guns, which also fired nine-millimeter ammunition: they were the heaviest weapons the group was bringing along.

  Another problem was food. The Ramage had been running low for weeks. Even so, the men had been allowed to raid the larders. All of the canned and fresh food had been eaten, but boxes of M.R.E’s still lined the shelves in the ship’s mess. The sailors stuffed as many as they could comfortably carry into their pockets and backpacks.

  The third problem was where to go.

  Hal, Harris, and Franklin had discussed that item at length. Franklin believed that Sherman would take the most direct route to his destination—Omaha—and traced a rough route on a map. Harris disagreed, and drew a separate route that was much longer but stayed far away from any major city. Franklin’s route took Sherman near Denver. Hal elected to not speculate. He said he didn’t know enough about the situation to make a prediction that lives might depend on.

  In either case, both Franklin and Harris had agreed that Sherman would take a route that would head due East for at least fifty to a hundred miles to get away from the more heavily populated coastlines. The two Naval officers went over the roads near their drop-off point and traced the initial path the sailors would follow. Once they were far enough into the country, it would be up to them to decide which route was best for them to take.

  Hal pointed out that the officers’ path led straight through an Oregon town called Hyattsburg, but the officers shook it off. They said that if the town looked like a risk, the sailors could always go around and pick up the road on the other side. Hal had shrugged and accepted it.

  One thing that would work in their favor was communication. One of the sailors carried on his back a heavy field radio with a range of miles. If there were any operating relays in his broadcasting area, his signal would be bounced even further. Franklin had ordered the man to try and raise anyone on the radio at least twice a day, scanning the channels for transmissions. For the first few days, the sailors would all be in range of the Ramage and would be able to get updates from their home base as they traversed the terrain.

  Hal watched as the first group of sailors climbed down the cargo netting and into the boat that would ferry them to shore. He scanned the faces of the men waiting to debark, and noted anxiety, excitement, and caution displayed on the faces of the sailors. They were more than ready to leave the ship after months onboard, but were worried about what they would face once they did.

  Hal couldn’t agree with them more.

  Hal wished for a moment that he were back on his island, back in his hand-built hut, sitting in his hammock and drinking something—anything—alcoholic. Reality was getting too weird for him. He was supposed to be retired, for fuck’s sake. He dismissed the train of thought as unproductive and shifted the pack on his shoulders as the second group of sailors began to climb down the cargo netting.

  In the poet’s words, they had miles to go before they slept.

  I-74 West

  March 08, 2007

  1423 hrs_

  “YOU DO KNOW WHERE WE’RE GOING, RIGHT?!” Gregory Mason shouted over the sound of whipping wind. He had poked his head into the cab of Trevor Westscott’s pickup truck from his designated spot in the bed.

  “Hell yes,” Trev said back, barely glancing at the intruder in the cab. “Interstate 74 will take us most of the way. Then what, Juni?”

  Junko, sitting next to Trev with crossed legs, looking very at ease, reached under her seat and pulled out a faded, folded map of the nation that looked to be nearly as old as the truck itself.

  “We’l
l be getting onto Interstate 80 West,” Junko announced, nodding once to herself. “Relax. Enjoy the ride.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mason said, raising his eyebrows. He pulled himself free of the window and collapsed back into the bed of the truck, wincing a bit. “I swear, my ass couldn’t be sorer if I was riding a goddamn horse to Omaha.”

  “I don’t care,” Julie said, shaking her head as she rested against the side rail of the bed, eyes closed. “I’m just glad I’m not walking anymore.”

  Anna was busily studying her PDA. She’d struck gold when she realized the truck had a cigarette lighter; in the pack she’d taken from the safe-house in Washington was a power adapter for just such an outlet. She’d plugged the PDA in and was even now recharging the batteries, going over what fragments of research Julie had managed to download at the safe-house, and was working hard at keeping the adapter’s cord from getting into anyone’s face. The three shared the truckbed with Matt, who still didn’t seem all that enthralled at the idea of having new companions. He’d barely said a word all day.

  “So, Matt,” Mason said, trying to spark up conversation. “What did you do before all this?”

  “Student,” came the terse, one-word reply.

  “What were you studying?” Mason pressed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

  “Engineering,” Matt said. “I wanted to be an engineer.”

  “What, and you can’t be one now?” Mason asked, smiling in a friendly manner.

  “Look around, asshole. World’s gone. No need for engineers out here,” Matt said.

  “Actually, that’s not so,” Anna said suddenly. She didn’t even look up from her PDA as she continued, “The bell curve—as it pertains to intelligence and aptitude—applies in this case to fatalities as it would in any other situation. There are few enough educated people in this world and, if we assume that deaths have been taking place regardless of economic situation or geographic location, then there will be barely anyone left with any kind of real education.”

  Matt simply stared at the woman with raised eyebrows. She didn’t even glance at him, but, in her unnervingly astute way, guessed at what he was thinking.

  “What I’m saying is that most of the smart people are dead and you’re still alive. Whether or not you have a degree, that makes you one of the world’s best engineers,” Anna said, nodding once and tapping the screen of her PDA to bring up another page of data. “Just a matter of the process of elimination.”

  Julie, still leaning back with her eyes closed, shrugged at the thought. “Never did think of it like that. I guess that makes me prime material for this year’s Pulitzer Prize for broadcast journalism.”

  Mason grinned and shook his head despite himself. “I can’t believe you’re making yourselves feel better by using the deaths of all these people.”

  “Oh, don’t try and play Mister High-and-Mighty over there, Mason,” Julie said, opening one eye and staring accusingly at him. “I see that grin of yours.”

  The truth was Mason was happy because the rest of the people in the bed of the truck were happy. He was a natural morale- evaluator, always feeling what the group felt. When they were down, he was down. When they were happy, he was happy. And now that they had a truck and were putting miles between themselves and Sawyer’s last known position, they all felt a load lift off their backs—or at least, Anna, Julie and Mason did. Their new companions still didn’t know about their pursuers.

  “What about you, Julie?” Matt asked, looking over at the journalist. He seemed to be taking an interest in her—not just because there were so few people to talk to, but because he was a young man and she was an attractive woman. “What all did you do before this?”

  “Haven’t you been listening?” Julie asked. “I was in journalism.”

  “What, like Clark Kent journalism?” Matt retorted.

  “No, broadcast—” Julie cut herself off, heaved a sigh, and sat up straight, looking over at Matt. “I was a news anchor. Other people go out and find the news, bring it to me, then they turn on the cameras and I read it to the world.”

  “Oh, that kind of journalist,” Matt said, nodding. “Sounds cool. Kind of like being a movie star.”

  “Not really,” Julie said, shaking her head. “You want to hear about something you’ll think sounds cool, ask Mason about what he did before all this.”

  Matt looked over at Mason, who met his gaze with a look that said, ‘Don’t bother.’ Matt returned his attention to the journalist.

  “I don’t know, journalism sounds cool, too. I mean, it’s your job to tell the world what’s happening in the world. Or it was. It’s like you’re the entire intelligence agency for the citizens of a country. It’s a big responsibility.”

  “Stop trying to butter me up, bucko,” Julie said, grinning lopsidedly at Matt. “You need to work on your flirting technique.”

  Matt stopped trying to talk to her and faced forward, cheeks flushing. “Sorry.”

  In the cab of the truck, a more serious discussion was taking place.

  “So what do you think of them?” Trev asked Junko, glancing askance at her profile.

  The Japanese girl quirked the corner of her mouth upward as she thought, considering the question from every angle.

  “I think that if they were nothing more than thieves, they would have killed us and taken the truck by now,” she said, but ended her sentence in such a way that made Trev think she had something more to say. He was right. After a moment, she continued. “At the same time, I don’t know about their whole vaccine story. It just seems to be so convenient.”

  “I think so, too,” Trev said. “But we’re both in agreement about them not being with the demons, at least.”

  Juni turned in her seat to face Trev, a serious expression creasing her pleasant features. “Trev, we’ve talked about this. You can’t—”

  “I know, I know, I’ve heard it,” he said, furrowing his brow. “Why can’t I call them that? Why can’t I call them what they are?”

  “Trev,” Juni said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe they are demons. Maybe they’re not. But most people aren’t ready for that idea. They can barely handle the idea of them being victims of a virus. You can’t tell them what you think. Not yet. Keep it to yourself, please?”

  Trev murmured something under his breath that Junko didn’t quite catch.

  “What was that?” Juni asked.

  “I said ‘What’s the goddamn point of ever leaving that hospital if I’m back to pretending it’s all a fantasty again?’ ” Trev said, a little too loudly. Mason glanced in the direction of the cab from the bed, but otherwise seemed unconcerned.

  “You’re not pretending,” Junko hurried to explain to him. “You’re not pretending at all. You’re humoring them. It’s not about you. I’ve seen you fight the infec—the demons. You’re amazing. You just let that rage take you over and there’s no coming back for the demons once they meet you.”

  Trev sighed and shook his head. “I just don’t like calling them ‘infected’ or ‘victims’ when they’re just so clearly demons.”

  “It’s semantics,” Juni said. “Whenever you meet one, call it what it is. Call it a demon. When you’re with others, call it an infected. What is that expression you Americans have—it’s about pronunciation. Something about vegetables.”

  Trev grinned despite himself and chuckled. “You mean po-TAY-to and po-TAH-to. All right, all right, I get it. I’ll call the damned things infected if it’ll make the others feel better.”

  “Thank you,” Juni said, clasping the man on the shoulder again and breathing a deep inner sigh of relief.

  She’d come upon Trev months earlier, wandering the streets of a dead town wielding nothing more than a nightstick and wearing little more than a patient’s gown, stained with the blood of infected. At first, Juni had thought to shoot him down as one of the enemy, but then he had spoken to her.

  “Your eyes,” he’d said. “They’re not bloody. Yo
u’re not a demon, are you?”

  “No,” Juni had replied. “I’m not a demon.”

  That had been the dubious beginning of their alliance. What had begun as convenience had blossomed into friendship and friendship had blossomed into true camaraderie. The pair trusted one another and relied on one another, though Trev had never once tried to move on Junko. She suspected it was out of respect, and didn’t mind the fact that sex wasn’t there to get in the way of staying alive on the move. It also helped when she reminded herself that Trevor Westscott was a mental patient.

  The man truly believed that the infected were demons, sent by the Devil to ravage the Earth pre-apocalypse, just as Revelation had promised. He was a strange blend of a man. Junko never saw him pray, nor did she ever hear him reference God. He was wholly concerned with God’s antithesis, and never went much into his motivations for it. Junko suspected it had something to do with the reason why he was a mental patient in the first place.

  She did find it very odd that Westscott chose to call the infected demons and somewhere, in some laboratory in some other part of the world, a researcher had decided to call the virus that created the infected “Morningstar,” which was just another name in Western society for the Devil. Secretly she wondered if there might have been something to Trev’s ramblings, but just as quickly she cut herself off from that train of thought. The virus was perfectly natural. There was no supernatural force driving it, no shadowy government agency responsible for it—Trev’s choice of words was a mere coincidence, though an unnerving one.

  Aside from his odd convictions, Trevor Westscott was a solid companion and a good friend. He was intelligent, thought fast on his feet, and had a penchant for the dramatic. Junko had endeavored to keep his questionable sanity under wraps for as long as possible. After all, she reasoned, he wasn’t out to hurt so much as a fly. He was out to hurt the demons. And who wasn’t, these days?