Under a Graveyard Sky btr-1

by John Ringo

  “This is going to be a doozy, ain’t it?”

  * * *

  “You son of a bitch,” was the first thing Isham said as he stepped onto the flush deck.

  “I feel the same way,” Steve said, holding out a respirator. “Take a walk with me.”

  “I know you don’t want me to captain this thing,” Isham said, putting the respirator on. “How the hell do you use this thing?”

  Steve showed him how to fit it.

  “You could barely figure out how to steer it,” Steve said, walking up the back deck. “However, part of the opportunity is being able to sleep on it in a very comfortable cabin.”

  “One that stinks,” Isham said, looking at the saloon. “Jesus, this is a wreck.”

  “And someone needs to clean it up,” Steve said. “Some ones. It will take a lot of people to clean it. And to run it.”

  “So you can have the big yacht?” Isham growled.

  “So that we can use it as an at-sea support base,” Steve said. “Somewhere for the refugees and the crews to fall back on for rest and refit. I don’t know if you’d realized it, but there are storms that are about to start sweeping down on this area. We’re going to have to leave soon. Our crews aren’t good enough, our boats aren’t good enough, to survive the North Atlantic in winter. Or a bad tropical. We need a base. The Large isn’t big enough.”

  “How are you…?” Isham said, shaking his head.

  “I’ll provide plenty of answers,” Steve said. “But I want you to follow me and see something, first.”

  * * *

  “Dead bodies,” Isham said. He’d seen quite a few on the way down. Since he hadn’t been working with the flotilla he’d had to stop and try not to puke at the first few.

  “Both in body armor,” Steve said. “Because there was a mutiny by the, well, mercenaries the owner hired. He wasn’t killed. They deliberately infected him with the zombie virus.”

  “Jesus,” Isham said. “Sick. What’s your point.”

  “This is why I threw you out,” Steve said, pointing. “And why I’ve thrown others out. What they wanted was the power and control. It’s what you want. But they couldn’t say ‘I’ve been given x amount of power and control and I’m fine with that.’ They wanted all the pussy and all the booze and all the gold. And they each wanted all of it.”

  “I wasn’t going to rape your daughters, Smith,” Isham said.

  “But you would have had others following you that would,” Steve said. “Or would try. Everyone talks about Faith but I would not suggest it with either one. This is the darkness that every one of us has in us, Jack. And this is what happens when we let that darkness loose. Fontana has it. I have it. And you have it but you use other means. What I understand, what Fontana understands, is that when you let it loose this is the result. No man can trust another. You desire power, control, prestige. I’m willing to give you those. But. The moment that I suspect that you are going in this direction… Then I will kill you, Jack. Without hesitation and without warning. This will not happen on my watch.”

  “You still haven’t said exactly what you want,” Isham said.

  “I want you to be the XO of the Flotilla and of this boat,” Steve said. “The operations officer if you prefer. I want you to, first, get this place cleaned up. We’ll recruit the people in Coventry for it. Which is part of the challenge because they’re not exactly self-starters.”

  “God no,” Isham said, grimacing.

  “They’re who we have,” Steve said, shrugging. “You’re a micro-manager. It will give vent to that. Then find the ones that can do jobs, actually do them, and set them to it on this boat. Others will be sent onboard that are actually skilled. I want this to be turned into a support boat, not a floating palace. And we need to get the resupply system under control, repairs to the boats, division of materials, organize salvage teams… That will all be on your shoulders. Something for you to do, Jack. Prestige, power, control.”

  “And the second I let it go to my head I get a bullet in the back of the head?” Isham said with a dry laugh.

  “I won’t say that we’re not playing fast and loose with the law of the sea,” Steve said. “But the law has always held that sedition, mutiny if you would, is grounds for the death sentence. Try to use the authority I’m giving you to take over and, yes, I will put a bullet in your head. Not because I want the power and authority and control. Because I know it will lead to this,” he said, pointing at his feet. “I don’t know if you understand that. If you ever can.”

  “I can’t exactly mutiny if you’ve got all the guns,” Isham said.

  “There will be guns,” Steve said. “I’m about done waiting for whoever that is on the phone to make up his mind. If I don’t get a call, soon, I’m going to strip that damned cutter without permission and damn to them. And one point to this is a place to put materials.”

  “You really have been talking to Washington?” Isham asked.

  “Washington is gone,” Steve said. “You know that. I heard about your trip to the coast. I don’t know who they are. Just that the subs, or some subs, follow their orders. Jack, I need someone to ramrod this, to get it done. You’re a get it done person. Can I trust you not to knife me in the back?”

  “You’re so trusting,” Isham said.

  “It is a well known fact that Australia is a nation populated entirely by criminals,” Steve intoned. “And criminals trust no one.”

  “Funny,” Isham said.

  “So you want the job?” Steve asked.

  “I dunno,” Isham said, rubbing his head. “Lemme see the cabin.”

  * * *

  “It got trashed out by the mutineers but not the zombies,” Steve said.

  The starboard side cabin was the size of a small home with a magnificent sweep of windows, and a bathroom that was worthy of any palatial home. On the other hand, some of the fixtures had been ripped out.

  “Gold?” Isham said, fingering a hole in the alabaster counter top where a faucet had been pulled out.

  “Probably,” Steve said.

  “I don’t suppose it’s still onboard?”

  “Funny story that…”

  * * *

  Steve turned the Toy away as the Alpha dropped anchor in Jew Bay and headed for the Livin’ Large.

  “Livin’ Large, Toy, over,” Steve called.

  “Toy, Livin’ Large. Just had to one up us, over?”

  “Something like that,” Steve replied. “Coming alongside for a chat.”

  * * *

  “Hey, Steve,” Kuzma said, shaking his hand.

  The Petty Officer looked much better than the last time Steve had seen him. And he had to admit that the Coasties had been a real help. Most of the refugees were being slowly moved back to Bermuda harbor. After a few days rest out of the waves they were given the choice of joining the Flotilla or going to Coventry. Those that volunteered for the Flotilla had stayed onboard the Large. The Coasties had been managing that process, taking some of the burden off of Steve.

  “How’s the personnel situation?” Steve asked.

  “Nominal,” Kuzma said. “Until we get more boats, we’ve got more volunteers than we’ve got slots.”

  “Good,” Steve said, hooking a finger. “That’s going to take some work. Any of them skilled?”

  “Two sailors,” Bobby said, shrugging. “Deckhands not captains but they know deck work and some mechanics. But I’ve got one kid you need to meet. I mean, you stopped by, want to cover that?”

  “Let me meet the ‘kid,’” Steve said.

  * * *

  “Lance Corporal, this is Commodore Wolf,” Kuzma said.

  The lance corporal jumped off his bunk and came to attention.

  “Lance Corporal Joshua Hocieniec, sir, pleasure to meet you!”

  Hocieniec was slightly under normal height, almost skeletally thin and darkly tanned, a sure sign of having been in a raft or lifeboat rather than stuck in a compartment. He had didn’t have a beard, which had
become common in the flotilla, but he did appear to have a five-oclock-shadow.

  “As you were, Marine,” Steve said.

  The crew room was neat as a pin. There was clear evidence of zombie damage but it had been scrubbed to the walls and the Marine’s blouse was washed and neatly hung on the wall. He’d even polished his boots.

  “Where’d you come from?” Steve asked.

  “Life raft, sir!” Hocieniec barked.

  “The Iwo Jima,” Kuzma said softly. “Only guy in the liferaft.”

  “Sir…” Hocieniec said. “I swear, it was abandoned!”

  “Start from the beginning,” Steve said, sitting down on a chair. “Or, rather, what happened in general?”

  “We were in lockdown, but the bug got onboard somehow, sir,” Hocieniec said, precisely. “Just the flu at first, then people started to turn, sir. We tried to maintain control but… My team leader, Sergeant Fry, he turned in the middle of a clearance, sir, and then he bit PFC Conner. Finally, the acting CO ordered abandon ship, sir. I…the boats were going over the side just…going, sir. I couldn’t even find a boat and I was clocking out, running out of ammo, sir. And I’d got the flu. I didn’t know when I was going to turn, sir. I went over the side and into the drink. I was floating when I spotted the raft, sir. I climbed aboard. I tried to paddle to some other guys who were afloat but the wind was blowing…sir, I did absolutely everything I could, sir…”

  “Calm down, Lance Corporal,” Steve said. “No worries as they say in my homeland. Nobody was able to hold onto anything. Generals, admirals, captains and commanders weren’t able to do more. And I’ll note that ‘Commodore’ is an honorary title in my case.” He considered the Marine for a moment. “How are you doing? What’s your condition in your opinion?”

  “Ready for duty, sir,” Hocieniec said. “I understand you need clearance personnel. I am ready to fight zombies any day you say, sir.”

  “Here’s the deal,” Steve said. “You might have heard rumor we’re in contact with higher. They haven’t called back in a while but the subs, which is how we communicate with them, are still out there. So, presumably is this unknown ‘Headquarters.’ They haven’t given me the right to order military personnel to provide support. But they know that military are working with us and haven’t objected. The situation is ambiguous. But we’ve got an SF sergeant, active duty, doing clearance. I don’t see them objecting to a Marine. However, it’s up to you. I can’t order you to do it. That being said, if you agree, it’s like enlisting. You then do follow the orders of whoever is assigned over you. You may just be trained in clearance by a thirteen-year-old female. Think you can handle that?”

  “I’ve…heard about Shewolf, sir,” Hocieniec said. “Shouldn’t be a problem, sir.”

  “Do you have a handle, Lance Corporal… Hoochken…”

  “ Hocieniec, sir,” the Marine said, his face very clearly not smiling. “Hooch or Burma, sir.”

  “Burma?” Steve asked.

  “If I don’t shave three times a day I get a shadow, sir,” Hooch, said, rubbing his chin. “Burma Shave, sir.”

  “All right, Burma,” Steve said, sticking out his hand. “Welcome to Wolf’s Floating Circus.”

  * * *

  “How’s the weather report look,” Steve asked. “If it chops up this is purely going to suck.”

  The ship wasn’t a tanker. It was an oil rig support ship. Which in a lot of ways was better. Support ships were designed with massive tankerlike bunkers because, oddly enough, oil rigs had to be resupplied with diesel. But it also had deck cargo room and some even had machine shops. It could be a real find. There being a few little issues. One of them was not whether it had diesel. They knew that because they could smell it. That was one of the issues. There was a leak somewhere.

  The other issue was what was on deck. Besides lashed down cargo, there were two zombies. And between the hydrocarbons and not knowing exactly what was in the cargo on the deck, they couldn’t exactly shoot them off.

  “It’s good,” PO3 Ruth Gardner said. “Again.”

  For this op, Steve simply had to have some trained people. While Isham cleaned up the Alpha, he’d pulled Geraldine and Dugan off to come try to recover the support ship. But he’d also had to dip into the Coasties for support. Ruth Gardner was a fueling expert, called POL in the military. She was trained in unrep as well as “issues” with fuel and fuel systems. What she wasn’t trained in was repairing fuel systems. Different MOS. Dugan was pretty sure that if it was repairable at all he could do it.

  “I’m okay with input on how to do this,” Steve said. “Cause I’m sort of buggered.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Fontana said. “But I don’t know if it’s a good one.”

  Steve was just fine with “normal” danger, like, say, a zombie apocalypse, for Faith. This was something different. So he’d dropped Hocieniec off on the Endeavor with Faith to go do some light clearance and brought along Fontana.

  “Which is?” Steve asked.

  Fontana went over to a bag of gear he’d brought along and rummaged through it. After a moment he brought out a machete in a sheath and drew it with a flourish.

  “You’re joking,” Gardner said, munching on a cracker.

  PO3 Gardner was pregnant. So were many of the women. There had been a noted sociologial response to societal stress called “the replacement factor.” After major disasters, women had a habit of getting pregnant at a higher rate than during good times or during the stress period. The post-war Germany was noted as an example as well as post-Black-Plague Europe.

  In the case of the zombie apocalypse, it had much more to do with men and women trapped on lifeboats and in small compartments with no access to contraceptives and exactly zero to do. In a few cases, that had definitely been due to force. Those men were on a special boat in Coventry. There were a few cases were the jury was still out. In Ruth’s case, like the young lady found with Fontana, there seemed to be no issue. The only real issue was that she was found in a compartment with two other, male, Coast Guardsman and she honestly had no clue which was the father. The “dads” didn’t really care. They were both good naturedly arguing over who was the “real” prospective dad.

  “In 1994, eight hundred thousand people were massacred in Rwanda,” Fontana said. “Mostly by having an arm hacked off by a machete and being left to die. These zombies are not walking dead.”

  “No,” Steve said. “But they do spread a blood pathogen.”

  “I’ve been exposed at this point,” Fontana said. “And I’ll wear raingear. Cause clear sky or no, it is gonna rain.”

  * * *

  “The question is how you’re going to get up close enough to chop off an arm,” Steve said, conning the inflatable closer.

  The supply ship had a midships deck that was, for a ship its size, remarkably low to the waterline. Steve couldn’t see how it wouldn’t get swamped in heavy seas.

  Low did not mean flush to the waterline. It was well above Fontana’s reach while standing on the deck of the fifteen foot, center console, inflatable.

  “No offense but I’m not going to step up on the pontoons,” Fontana said, looking up at the zombies. They weren’t howling or keening, but they were drooling.

  “Not with those down there,” Steve said, gesturing to the now familiar sharks.

  A wave caught the inflatable and pushed it closer to the ship. As it did, one of the infecteds saw its chance and jumped over the low side-rail with a shriek.

  Keeping your feet on a small boat was a skill that everyone in the flotilla had mastered at this point. And Fontana had spent two months on an even smaller raft before being rescued. He easily backed away as Steve reversed to avoid the zombie. But it had leapt well out and still managed to sprawl face down on the foredeck of the boat.

  Fontana stepped forward and cut down as the zombie was pushing itself to its feet. There was a sound very similar to a frozen melon being hit by a large knife.

  “That’s one,” Fontana
said, levering the machete out of the infected’s head.

  “It’s times like this I wonder how my children are doing…” Steve said.

  * * *

  “How do you like being back on the Endeavor, Hooch?” Sophia said, sitting down at the dinette.

  “Better than a liferaft, skipper,” Hooch said.

  “I can’t believe Da stuck me on this tub,” Faith said, crossing her arms. “Especially with you.”

  “Is that seditious speech I hear out of you?” Sophia said. “That’s lashing round the fleet.”

  “You and what army, Tiny?” Faith said. “Try it and while I won’t exactly mutiny, you’re going to have to learn to swim really hard.”

  “So, what’s the op?” Hooch asked, quickly.

  “General clearance,” Sophia said. “There are plenty of boats that can and do pick up life-rafts and life-boats. Those that have survivors, about one in ten, they just pick ’em up. Like, say, you. Which was what we were on before. But when they spot boats like, well, this, most of them don’t have the guns…”

  “… Or the guts,” Faith said, picking at her fish.

  “Or the experience or the, yeah, guts to go clear them,” Sophia said. “Which is where you come in.”

  “Roger, skipper.”

  “Skipper,” Faith said, under her breath. “Heh.”

  “Faith,” Sophia said. “You can cop attitude in front of my crew. They all know us. You can even do it with Hooch. Hooch, we’re sisters, that’s all this is.”

  “No, I get it, skip,” Hooch said. “I’ve got two sisters and they…” He stopped and his face worked.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Sophia said, frowning. “We really… Our family is the only family that hasn’t lost people to the plague. It’s hard for us to truly understand. But… I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “It’s…” Hooch shrugged. “I’m not going to count them as lost until I can’t find ’em, skip. Simple as that. But about the two of you. It’s sort of…comforting. Listening to sisters argue is sort of like being back home. Doesn’t bother me.”