01 Voyage of the Dead

by David P Forsyth

  The pickaxe was a nice weapon and had already proved capable of dispatching zombies face-to-face. Carl had no doubt that the combo rock hammer and ice axe would produce equally effective results, but he didn’t want to have to attack every zombie hand-to-hand; he didn’t want to have to get that close. He knew that he would be bitten, even eaten alive, if he ever tried to take on too many of them at once. But he really wanted to kill them all, or at least as many of them as he could find. Axes and hammers were not up to that task. What he really wanted was a machine gun, or a tank, or a goddamned atomic bomb!

  Having none of those things, however, Carl contented himself with repacking the kit, making sure to keep the ice axe and handheld radio on top where he could access them quickly. Then he decided to make sure the radio was working. He plugged in the headset, put the little speakers in his ears, and turned on the radio.

  “…units be advised, the city and county of Los Angeles are under martial law and curfew. All emergency services personnel are ordered to muster at police, sheriff, or fire stations to await orders. Do not attempt to approach any hospital, urgent care, or medical center. Do not attempt to assist any victims of violent assault, especially anyone who has been bitten by another person. Avoid contact with anyone who shows any indication of violent intent, or does not respond to verbal commands. All emergency service personnel are authorized to use deadly force to defend themselves from anyone, regardless of age or appearance, who poses any sort of physical threat. Beware of and avoid any large groups of people. It is believed that many citizens have been infected with a virus that produces homicidal rage and spreads on contact.”

  Carl whistled very softly. In a way it was nice to know that the authorities had finally figured out at least some of what was happening. But it was terrifying to know that no police or firemen were out there to help people anymore. Carl might have learned more if he kept listening, but he decided to save the batteries. He put the radio away, pulled out the thin metallic space blanket, and lay down on top of the water tower to stare at the stars and listen to the echoing moans of prowling zombies below.

  Chapter 4: Dead Men Walking

  “When there is no more room in hell the dead will walk the earth.” Dawn of the Dead

  Shortly before dawn on April 2, the Sovereign Spirit’s flight crew began preparing the helicopter for its recon flight over Cabo San Lucas. The bird was already fully fueled and had been in perfect operating condition when used for sightseeing flights over the Galapagos last week. But this flight would be longer and of a totally different nature. They would be flying more than a hundred miles over the ocean to reach Cabo and could not expect any help, or safe place to land, when they got there. Luckily, the helicopter was a twin engine Bell 214-ST with long range tanks and emergency floatation devices mounted under the fuselage. It had been used to support off-shore oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico until the 2010 oil spill closed them down. Scott had purchased it for a good price and refitted it for another quarter million to make it virtually better than new. The upgrades included new leather seating for twelve passengers, including a five seat bench at the rear that could fold out into a bed for air ambulance or camping applications. Every passenger had access to Bose noise cancelling headphones and there were video screens that could show in-flight DVDs, streaming internet video, or views from the camera on a swivel mount below the nose of the chopper. They could also transmit those images back to the ship if they wanted to. The twin engines added an extra measure of safety for overwater flights. All in all, this was one of the best helicopters they could have asked for in these circumstances.

  There were two pilots inspecting the aircraft as Scott emerged onto the helicopter pad and waved them over.

  “Hi, Mick,” he said to the chief pilot. “It’ll be you and me up front on the sticks today. I want Sam to stay here and get the Seawind ready to launch in case we call for help.”

  With a single pilot, the Seawind could pick up four passengers if necessary, at least in a calm sea. Scott didn’t expect any problems with the helicopter, but he was a firm believer in being prepared for the worst. If they did encounter any mechanical problems, they couldn’t expect help from anybody on the ground. If something went terribly wrong with the flight, Scott planned to set down on the beach, or ditch in the ocean, after calling in a Mayday, then swim away from shore until the Seawind arrived.

  “Sounds like a good plan, Scott,” responded Mick Williams.

  He and Scott had been friends since childhood and he had been very happy to sign-on as chief pilot for the Bell 214-ST. It was a very rare and impressive helicopter that had been designed for export to the Iranian air force before the 1979 revolution. Now it was known as a prized support helicopter for off-shore oil rigs and remote locations. The 435 gallon fuel tank gave it a range of 500 miles and that could be extended to 750 with the auxiliary belly tank. With its new black-on-blue paint job, it was a real head turner wherever it landed. Mick loved to fly it. Being Scott’s friend meant he also got a nice big stateroom on the ship and was treated more like one of the guests than a member of the crew.

  “So who’s gonna ride door gunner on this sortie?” Mick asked. “We might have to plug some zombies if that Hammer guy runs into trouble, right?”

  “Yeah,” replied Scott. “I’ve asked Clint and Mark to come along. They both have military training, and I gave each of them a semi-auto hunting rifle with scope. But we’re only going to open fire if we’re sure the targets are zombies and Hammer really needs help. This is supposed to be a scouting flight anyway, not a combat mission.”

  “From the look of things on TV, just surviving is a combat mission now,” commented Mick. “I’m bringing my own Winchester in my duffle bag, and you can bet I’m packing my Colt 45 whenever I leave this ship!”

  “No shit,” said Scott. “I’m bringing a Desert Eagle and a 12 gauge just in case.” He hefted the gym bag in his hand slightly for emphasis. The Sovereign Spirit was certainly not a war ship, but Scott did like his guns. Considering the fact that their round-the-world voyage had taken them through some seas that were known to be infested with modern day pirates, he had decided to increase his gun collection at the same time as he bought all of his other “toys” for the trip. Of course many of the countries that they visited had rather strict gun laws, but a ship that was more than one and half football fields long had a lot of potential stash spots.

  Scott had constructed three arms caches aboard the ship. Two were hidden and one was actually quite obvious and “official”. The latter was the gun safe on the bridge where he kept most of his shotguns and hunting rifles. The shotguns were officially used for skeet shooting, since the ship had skeet launchers near the stern, or bird hunting on shore excursions. The hunting rifles were officially for safaris ashore and defense of swimmers from shark attacks. That explanation was good enough to get them accepted by most authorities. If not, Captain Fisher was always happy to let the locals put their own lock on the gun safe until the ship departed their jurisdiction.

  The two hidden arms lockers were less innocent. One was a concealed compartment in Scott’s master suite that held several dozen hand guns and assault rifles, along with thousands of rounds of ammunition. The real armory was a larger cache below the vehicle deck that held even more impressive hardware. It was all hidden inside of an old sewage tank to discourage inquisitive customs inspectors. Scott had not broken out any of the really heavy metal yet. After all, this flight was only supposed to be a scouting mission.

  “So what do you expect to find ashore?” asked Sam Waters, the other pilot who had been listening to their discussion.

  “Don’t ask,” said Scott with a frown. “Probably the living dead, if not a living hell. If things are as bad as they look, it’ll be bloody too.”

  “Do you have any real news from Cabo yet?”

  “Not really. We did have brief radio contact with the local airport in Cabo San Lucas that caters to private jets. The control tower there is righ
t next to a small military base. It sounded like they were fighting off hordes of attackers. That might be the only secure area left in Cabo. They requested our assistance, but I don’t want to land there. You can bet those soldiers would commandeer any aircraft they can find, and now there’s not even anyone to stop them.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “Those Federales were always highway robbers. It must be pure anarchy there now.”

  “I don’t think the Federales are the reason for anarchy today, Sam,” said Scott with something close to a grin. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if they are more interested in saving themselves than anyone else right now. And, as the saying goes, if you’re not part of the solution you are part of the problem, especially when the shit hits the fan.”

  “Well,” said Mick, “I guess we’ll find out soon enough, Scotty. Here comes your special passenger.” Mick gestured towards George Hammer, who had just climbed the ladder onto the helipad. He was followed closely by Clint and Mark. The latter two were carrying rifles strapped over their shoulders and had military style web gear with ammo and cargo pouches hanging across their chests. Scott had asked them to wait for Mr. Hammer and keep an eye on him throughout the flight. So far, so good.

  “George! Right on time,” Scott called out. “And I’m glad you decided to leave your wife aboard the ship. If all goes well, she can join you and the rest of the family on the Expiscator, or stay here until you clear quarantine. But at least she’ll be safe when you go ashore.”

  “Can’t argue with your logic, Mr. Allen. You’re clearly the brains of this outfit,” said George Hammer jovially. “I’ll be the first to admit that I look at every problem like a nail begging for a hammer. No pun intended of course.”

  The obviously practiced joke was corny, but seemed to convey honest sentiment. Scott smiled and nodded. He had a lot of experience with construction workers in his past life – pre-lottery that is – and was used to their straightforward approach to obstacles in their path, as well as their ability to set aside differences once their path was clear. Now that Scott had offered George a ride to Cabo and possible salvation afterwards, instead of being the obstacle keeping him from his daughter and grandchildren, Hammer was all smiles.

  “I’m just anxious to get to Cabo,” George went on. “When can we get this show on the road, uh, I mean bird in the air? And where is that gun you offered?”

  “We’ll be leaving in about five minutes, George. You can climb aboard and get comfortable in the middle seat of the first row behind the flight crew. That’s the VIP seat, by the way. As for the gun,” Scott pulled a deadly looking automatic pistol from behind his back, “this is a 357 magnum Desert Eagle. It’s one of my favorites, part of a matching set.” Scott patted his shoulder holster. “So I hope you bring it back. You can hang on to it and practice working the slide and trigger during the flight. I’ll give you three full magazines and an extra box of hollow point rounds before we drop you off.”

  “What?” George replied sharply. “You don’t trust me with a loaded gun?”

  “It’s not quite like that, George. But I want you to practice with it empty while we’re in the helicopter, and we all know that you have your own agenda. So I think Mickey and I will be able to make better and safer piloting decisions without the idea of a loaded pistol behind our heads, even if you have no intention of pointing it at us right now.” Scott shrugged. “But who knows what you will want to do when you see what’s happening on the ground?”

  The glare George gave Scott for a second could have doubled for landing lights, but the expression passed quickly into reluctant acceptance. He nodded sharply, but politely took the proffered empty gun and turned to board the helicopter. Scott exchanged glances with Mick, then motioned towards the two riflemen he had chosen to accompany them.

  Clint was a former M60 machine gunner in the 82nd Airborne Division. He had been part of the invasion--or liberation as he would be quick to correct--of Grenada in 1983. In that “weekend war” he had shot a few Cubans who were trying to defend a bridge. That gave him seniority in the trained killer category aboard the Sovereign Spirit, as far as Scott knew. He was certainly a trusted friend. He was carrying a Browning BAR Safari 30-ought-6 semi-automatic rifle with high power scope, and appeared ready and willing to use it.

  The other gunner, Mark Argus, was one of Scott’s best friends, and could boast a unique background that included unofficial membership in the elite airborne battalion of a friendly nation in Central America. It was a position he had earned with more sweat than clout, even though he dished out a lot of both down there. Mark loved guns and adventure, which Scott had learned when they were still too young to drink legally, so Scott knew that Mark wouldn’t have missed this flight for anything. Mark had chosen to carry a Ruger Mini 14 with sniper scope and 20 round magazines. Scott saw he was also packing a pistol and was sure he had several other nasty surprises stashed in the cargo pouches on his web gear. It was nice to know that Mark had his back.

  “Good to have you both aboard, brothers” said Scott. “I hope we won’t need your firepower today, but if we do, I want you to only shoot zombies. Not normal people. It might be hard to tell them apart. So you need to be very selective with your targets. And you should only fire on zombies that pose a threat to us, or to Mr. Hammer and his family, assuming they aren’t already zombies too. My point is that we’re not on a zombie hunt. For all we know there might be a cure for them someday and, aside from the infection, most of them were probably good people. So, please hold your fire, and try to conserve your ammo. Go for head shots. These suckers are hard to kill. If you have to shoot, make every shot count. And keep cool.”

  “Sure thing, Boss,” said Clint with a wink. Mark just nodded.

  “And one more thing,” said Scott. “George Hammer is on a short fuse. He’s got reasons. But I’m not giving him ammo for that gun until we drop him off. In the meantime you two will be riding behind him. Please make sure that he doesn’t go nuts. The critical time will probably be when he sees what’s happening down there, so keep alert.”

  “Charlie Mike,” said Mark, which meant continue mission in their private code.

  “What are you packing there?” asked Scott, pointing at what looked sort of like a backpack that Mark was carrying.

  “Parachute,” Mark replied. “In case you want to insert me without landing. Minimum altitude of 500 feet please.” He smiled and turned to stow his gear in the back of the chopper.

  “Don’t worry, Scott,” said Clint. “I’ll make sure he straps into the safety harness too. And you can count on both of us to deliver death from above, even it’s only to the undead.” For some reason he decided to give Scott a military salute before turning towards the chopper.

  “Well, Mickey,” Scott said softly. “Looks like we’ve got a team dedicated to the mission. Let’s get this party started.” Mick and Scott exchanged nods before turning to climb into opposite sides of the cockpit.

  The flight towards Cabo San Lucas went smoothly. Scott, being left-handed, sat in the left seat of the cockpit where he could use his best hand on the stick and his right for the collective. Mick was right-handed and preferred the right seat anyway. George sat one row behind the pilots in the center of three business class seats, where he could look ahead between the pilots. Clint and Mark had the nine seats of the rear passenger area, four facing to the rear and five forwards, all to themselves. They strapped safety lines between their web gear and some O rings above the doors. If they were called on to provide sniper fire they would slide those big side doors open.

  They lifted off the helipad. Mark figured out how to patch his iPod into the intercom and they were all entertained by Highway to the Danger Zone from the movie Top Gun. That was followed by Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries of Apocalypse Now fame. After that Scott told Mark to cool it; they had some serious flying to do. The Sovereign Spirit was about 120 miles south of Cabo San Lucas when they took off. The ship would continue steaming towards Cabo at over 25 mi
les per hour, so the return flight would be shorter, or the rescue mission if it came to that. In the meantime the 214-ST was heading slightly east of Cabo San Lucas at over 150 miles per hour towards San Jose del Cabo. The plan was to fly over the larger town and Los Cabos International Airport, then sweep along the coast to their actual destination, observing conditions along the way.

  It was less than 30 minutes into the flight when Mick announced “Land ho!” Fifteen minutes later they made landfall at San Jose del Cabo and got their first real look at zombie land. It was not very encouraging. Scott wagged the stick to let Mick Williams know that he wanted control of the aircraft, then he nosed down to sweep low along the beach. It was only seven in the morning, but the beaches were already crowded. Everyone on the beach seemed to notice the helicopter, because they all turned and raised their arms towards it. It soon became obvious that these were neither normal tourists, nor were they waving hello either.

  “Look at them!” exclaimed Mick. “They’re all fucked up. Everyone’s reaching up towards us, like they want to grab us or something. Those are all frigging zombies!”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” replied Scott. “Let’s take a look inland. We’ll make a pass over Los Cabos airport and then swing back up the coast.”

  “Roger that,” confirmed Mick. “You have the aircraft.”

  “Can I whack a few of them first?” asked Mark over the intercom. He was already sighting zombie targets through the scope of the Mini 14.

  “No,” replied Scott firmly. “This is a recon flight, not an assault mission; at least not yet.” Not quite yet.

  But Scott had to admit that the situation looked grim and he understood why Mark wanted to shoot every damned zombie in sight. They looked unnatural. Everyone on the beach or streets that they flew over had the same reaction of turn and reach. They were all zombies. Scott was certain that there were more, many more, normal people hiding inside their homes and hotel rooms, but the streets were clearly ruled by the zombies. Not a good situation at all. But it was nothing he could hope to correct right now.