by John Ringo
“Da, you’ve got a call from the Sea Fit,” Sophia said, over the radio.
“Gotta go,” Steve said. “Good luck.” He stepped into some shit and shook his boot. “Seriously, good luck.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
“Sea Fit, Wolf,” Steve said. It was just easier that way.
“You’re going to need you and Cooper’s team on this one,” Captain Sherill said. “Big Coastie. And I mean big. One of their Famous class. More like a destroyer.”
“Oh, crap,” Sophia said.
“Cooper, are you monitoring?” Steve called.
“Roger. Location?”
“Three one point nine one five by seventy point seventy five two.”
“Roger,” Steve said, looking at the spot. “Be there in about…three.”
“Cooper will be about six,” Chris sent.
“Victoria, Wolf, over,” Steve said. He sighed and shook his head. “Victoria, Wolf, over.”
“Uh… Victoria…?”
“Tell Victoria actual to expect company,” Steve said. “Get the Large warmed up. We may have some customers.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Tell Mike Sea Fit found a cutter,” Steve said, carefully. “Did you get that?”
“I…what’s a cutter?”
“Is there any possibility I could speak to Mike?” Steve said, calmly.
“Yeah, hang on…”
* * *
“He’s going to go back to Bermuda and kill everybody,” Fontana said. He had his feet kicked up on the helm of the Cooper and was enjoying the radio play.
“Mild Steve?” Chris said, turning the big boat to head to the reported location. “The guy who put a gun to Jack Isham’s head and pulled back the hammer?”
“Faith says when he gets real polite it’s bad,” Fontana said.
* * *
“He’s going to flip his lid,” Bundy said.
“Bet you a dollar,” Fredette said, trying not to laugh.
“Where are you going to get a dollar?” Bundy asked.
* * *
“We’re eventually going to have to work with these jokers, aren’t we?” Commander Bradburn said, leaning back in the conning chair. Pretty much the whole sub was listening in. There wasn’t much else in the way of entertainment.
* * *
“I will not go over there and kill everyone,” Steve said, calmly. “I won’t. Human life is precious. At least, uninfected human life…”
“You said you wanted to save the world, Da,” Sophia said, then paused. “Da?”
“Yeah,” Steve said.
“What’s that?” Sophia said, pointing to port.
Steve pulled down a pair of binoculars and examined the splash of spray on the horizon. They’d seen whales and even dolphins aplenty in their voyage. Lots of birds. Flying fish. But never something scooting along on the surface more or less parallel to them and putting up a whisp of spray.
“That…” Steve said, lowering the binoculars, “is interesting.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“What it is is something you didn’t see,” Steve said. “Just…we’re going to forget we saw it for now. I’ll talk to you about it later. Okay?”
“Yes, Da,” Sophia said, looking at him.
“That is…important,” Steve said, getting up and walking off of the bridge.
* * *
Bundy looked at the frequency monitor and ran back a recent recording.
“Submarine paralleling the Tina’s Toy, this is Commodore Wolf, over. Submarine paralleling the Tina’s Toy, this is Commodore Wolf, over…”
“Damn,” Fredette said. “Short ranged hand-held.”
“CO?”
* * *
“Damnit,” Bradburn said.
“Apparently they’re not quite as incompetent as all that.”
“Thank you, XO,” Bradburn said. “Drop the aerial. Make your depth one hundred meters. Come to course one nine zero. Quarter speed…”
* * *
“Bloody hell,” Steve snarled as the ESM mast disappeared below the waves. “For this I paid my bloody taxes?”
* * *
“Okay, this is going to be a bitch,” Steve said, looking up at the massive cutter.
“There’s a real easy place to board on the side,” Faith pointed out. “At least we’re not going to be climbing ten stories or something.”
“Note the surviving zombies on the helipad?” Fontana pointed out. “We got anybody but the three of us?”
“Sophia,” Steve said. “She can be my number two. You guys get things worked out?”
“He’s more or less trained,” Faith said, absently, looking through the binoculars.
Fontana and Steve traded a look as they both tried not to laugh.
“I know you’re trying not to laugh,” Faith said. “Apparently you don’t get dry humor. Yeah, he’s good to go, Da. I say we come close alongside and try popping them with an AK.”
“You know how well that went the last time,” Steve said.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve got this rolling thing down,” Faith said.
“The only people who have ever gotten ‘this rolling thing’ down were the Jedi Knights,” Fontana said.
“Jedi Knights?” Faith said, lowering the binos and looking at him in puzzlement. “I’m talking for real, not science fiction.”
“It’s the nickname of SEAL Team Six,” Steve said. “Alas, I think Faith is right. But I’m going to try it and I’ll use the M1.”
“I’ve been to sniper school,” Fontana said. “Maybe…”
“Sergeant Fontana,” Steve said. “If anyone is going to kill his crew and sink his boat, it should be the captain.”
* * *
Steve waited until the boat was on the up-lift and stroked the trigger.
“High,” Fontana said. “Again.”
“I’d rather be high than low,” Steve said, jacking another 7.62 round into the chamber. The weapon was a Springfield Armory M1A rechambered for 7.62x39, something that the gunsmith who did it considered very near sacrilege. But Steve was a big believer in ammunition commonality. He just couldn’t find any AK variants he considered accurate enough. “High means they don’t come back at us at high velocity.”
He waited, then fired again. This time he scored a hit.
“He’s down,” Fontana said. “Chest hit.”
The problem was the low rail on the side of the flight deck. It was barely knee high on the zombies but it was high enough that the flying deck of the Toy was barely at the same level. And it was steel. Hitting it would have the round come back at high velocity. And, of course, both boats were rocking in the swells, which weren’t minor at the moment.
One of the zombies tumbled off the flight deck trying to reach the yacht and splashed into the water.
Apparently, it wasn’t the first time. A shark closed in before the zombie had surfaced.
“I suppose we could try to lasso them off,” Fontana said.
“No,” Steve said. “Sophia,” he said, keying his radio.
“Da?”
“Close approach. As close as you can get and not hit the cutter.”
“Shorter range, more accuracy,” Steve said as the yacht started to pull away for a closer run. “And maybe some of them will try to jump.”
“Maybe I should tell Faith that,” Fontana said, standing up.
* * *
“Okay,” Steve said, taking another zombie down. “This is fish in a barrel.”
“More like zombie chumming,” Fontana said. “You should see the water.”
The human body, contrary to Hollywood action films, tends to fall face forwards when shot. Some of the zombies had tumbled over. One had tried to jump. She hadn’t made it. Most that were shot tumbled over the side.
“I’m trying not to remind myself that these are U.S. Coast Guard personnel who are merely infected with a horrible plague,” Steve said, stroking the trigger. “By preference,
I’d have preferred to bury them wrapped in flags, not in the belly of a tiger shark.”
“There are probably some survivors who are not zombies,” Fontana said. “Hopefully they’ll understand…”
* * *
“Okay… Bloody,” Steve said. They’d checked three of the on-deck hatches. All were sealed and had some sort of electronic lock on them. They were also quite resistant to a Halligan tool.
“There’s a set of clothes over here,” Faith said, picking up the uniform. “It’s got an ID on it. Would that work?”
“Is it a universal?” Fontana asked, taking the ID and examining it. “And the answer is yes,” he said pointing to the small chip on the badge.
“But will it work?” Steve asked.
“No,” Fontana said, swiping the badge. The lock remained red.
“Okay, let’s look for others,” Steve said. “The lock-down may be based on seniority or other access. We’ll gather them up and check them all…”
* * *
“Try this one,” Fontana said, handing it over.
“A lieutenant’s didn’t work,” Steve said. “Why would a Chief Petty Officer’s?” But when he tried it the lock went green.
“It’s a Coastie thing,” Fontana said, shrugging. “Navy too. A Chief outranks a Lieutenant any day.”
“What’s a Chief?” Faith asked. “What’s a lieutenant for that matter?”
* * *
“Any zombies?” Steve asked, banging on a hatch.
He was rewarded by the beginning of “shave and a haircut.”
“Close your eyes,” Steve shouted. “Understand? Close your eyes!”
He undogged the hatch and tossed in a chem light.
“Use that to adjust your eyes,” Steve said.
“Thanks for finally coming,” the man at the hatch said. “Jesus, where have you guys been?”
“It’s a long story,” Steve said. “But we’re not Coast Guard or Navy. Just a volunteer civilian group. You need water?”
“The worst sort of way,” the guy replied. “We’ve been carefully recycling piss for…well for a long time.”
“Bottles,” Steve said, tossing them through the door. “I’m going to keep clearing. I’ll be back in about five. I need to make sure this area’s clear.”
“Roger.”
* * *
“Who’s senior?” the respirator clad man said. The voice was muffled from the respirator but he had a Commonwealth accent. Bobby couldn’t tell which. Possibly Irish.
Petty Officer First Class Bobby Kuzma was the senior of the six survivors of the USCGC Campbell, WMEC-909, slumping on benches in the crew mess so he raised his hand.
The man was just about covered in lights, which were still painful to Kuzma’s eyes. From what little Bobby could see, he was just as covered in armor and weapons ranging from some sort of AK variant shotgun to a large hunting knife. He even had the head of a Halligan tool sticking up over his shoulder with the tool in some sort of holster.
Another armored figure, a woman from the walk but it was hard to tell, entered behind him.
“I found a cache of sunglasses.” Woman. Young. That was all Kuzma could make out.
She started to hand them out. A while back, before the world came apart, Bobby would have thought it idiotic to wear sunglasses in the mess. Now, even with the lights off, they were a welcome relief from the lights the group were wearing.
The first man shut off a couple of the lights and came over to Bobby.
“Need to talk,” he said, holding out his hand. “Can you walk?”
“I can walk,” Bobby said, but he took the hand.
The man led him down the crew mess and then pulled off his mask with a grimace.
“Ugh,” the guy said, grimacing. “We use these for the smell. I’d say let’s go outside where it’s a little better but I don’t think you can handle the light, yet.” He pulled out a cannister of Vicks VapoRub and rubbed it on his nostrils, then held it out to Kuzma.
“You get used to it,” Bobby said, waving his hand.
“Two things,” the man said. “More. First, I’m Steven Smith. Australian by birth, naturalized American citizen, former Aussie para, former history teacher and currently, and I put quotes on this, ‘commodore’ of a flotilla of small boats clearing this patch of the Atlantic. I’m called Captain Wolf or Commodore Wolf and the group has named it Wolf’s Floating Circus. Basically we range between Bermuda, where we’re using a disabled ocean-going tug as a supply base, and the coast of the U.S. We’re actually just around Bermuda right now because there’s only six of us and one of them’s a wanker that isn’t worth the cost of fuel. It’s an all-volunteer effort, which is a bit like herding roos. Which, trust me, are worse than cats. I tried it one time as a lad.
“So to what happens next,” Smith continued, “the normal next thing is we get you over to the boats, give you a scrub-down and get some chow in you. Usual sort of at-sea rescue thing except the scrub-down part. That was originally because we feared the virus, these days it’s because it’s, well, become tradition and people tend to be ready for a shower.”
“Very ready for a shower,” Kuzma said, carefully.
“And since you were by yourself in the compartment you need to get used to using your voice again,” Steve said. “And light. That takes a few days. I said that was the normal thing we do. The issue, here, is that this is the biggest boat we’ve cleared and it has about ten bloody million compartments…”
“You’re not sure it’s clear,” Kuzma said.
“I’m fairly sure we got all the zombies,” Smith said. “If there are more survivors, they’re not making noise when we do. They could be too weak. Most likely…” He shrugged.
“Wait,” Kuzma said, looking at the group. “Six? That’s it? We had a hundred personnel and refugees!”
“That explains the children,” Smith said. “I am very sorry for your loss.”
“So… Are you assisting the Coast Guard?” Kuzma said. “I need to get back in communication, report in…”
“I think I may have missed some of the important bits,” Steve said. “Actually, I was waiting for you to get your wits to the point. The point is that there is no Coast Guard. Or, rather, you’re it. As far as I can determine, based upon radio reports and local conditions, you’re now more or less the commander of the United States Coast Guard, which consists of you and those other five persons.”
“That’s…” Bobby said, sitting on the table and shaking his head. “That can’t be. No…”
“I cannot prove it to you at this moment,” Smith said, shrugging. “We are in a dark hangar on a boat in the middle of the ocean. But if there were a Coast Guard, I’d assume they would find and clear their own vessels, first, just to have the trained personnel. You can feel free to verify it in various ways once you get your feet on the ground. We’ll, at some point, get you back to Bermuda. You can see the harbor. And the zombies. We find boats. Feel free to take one over to the mainland and see for yourself. There are no official governmental broadcasts. There are no land areas not held by the infected and we have thus far found no evidence of formal governmental activity.”
“Jesus Christ,” Kuzma said, looking at the blood-smeared deck. “How long?”
“It is the fifteenth of August,” Smith said. “I’ve found some watches amongst the crew’s belongings, you can verify that at least.”
“Jesus…” Bobby said. “That long?”
“Petty officer,” Smith said, sharply. “As I was saying, we normally let people get their feet under them for a few days. I know you are tired. Exhausted. Malnourished and dehydrated. But we either get assistance from some, preferably three, of your crew to clear the remainder of the boat or let it go for now. I’m not saying that it’s a requirement. And, frankly, I don’t see finding any more personnel. Not alive.”
“Did they all zombie?” Kuzma asked.
“Do you really want to know this?” Smith asked.
“Yes,�
�� Bobby said.
“We don’t have an accurate count,” Smith said. “Frankly, we don’t keep an accurate count of dead and wounded and methods on large vessels such as this. There aren’t enough of us yet, to take the time. But, no, many were infected. Some appear to have died of the infection or possibly from violence by other infecteds. Many…were trapped in compartments without stores.”
“Oh God,” Bobby said, hanging his head again.
“I don’t know if it makes it better or worse for you,” Smith said. “But at a certain point, many committed suicide. And did so in some very…honorable ways. But they did so as an alternative to starvation or dehydration. Which, frankly, is why we do this. And we don’t count the dead because it takes time. And the living deserve our time more. So the question is, do you wish us to continue the sweep? To do so, we will need assistance. We’ve swept all we can find.”
“I’ll help,” Kuzma said, standing up and swaying. “As long as I can. I guess asking you to…collect the dead…?”
“There are, currently, one hundred and twenty-six survivors known to us,” Steve said. “One thirty two with your group. Only forty-six of which are willing to actively volunteer to the extent of manning boats supplied and supported by us and clearing life rafts. We have an additional six or so who are willing to go into cleared vessels to recover materials or get them operational. I have exactly three personnel willing to participate in active clearance, fighting zombies in the dark in confined spaces, as it were. Three more will if pressed. Would you care to answer your own question, Petty Officer?”
“No, sir,” Kuzma said. “I mean, yes, sir. I understand.”
“There are, literally, not enough of us left to bury the dead,” Smith said softly. “That is the world into which you have been reborn. What you make of that is up to you.”
* * *
“How the hell did we miss this area?” said “Shewolf” in a muffled voice.
His “clearance specialist” was a thirteen-year-old girl. Tall for her age, tall for a girl, period, and clearly strong: she was carrying about a hundred pounds of weapons, ammo and gear. But still a thirteen-year-old girl.
“The layout of this boat is screwy,” Kuzma said, weakly. He leaned up against a bulkhead for a second. He knew he’d get his strength back eventually. But lagging behind a thirteen-year-old girl who was weighed down like an infantryman was embarrassing. “The design looked great on paper but it’s not what you call efficient.”
