Omega Days (Book 2): Ship of the Dead

by Campbell, John L.

  “I know!” someone else shouted, and the shotgun roared a third time. A pair of rifles fired, and the creature’s face disintegrated in a red blur, the second creature taking its place before the body even hit the ground.

  Growling came from behind again and Evan turned back to see Calvin on one knee, rifle and flashlight braced and pointing ahead toward an intersection they had been approaching.

  “Company’s coming,” the hippie leader said.

  Ahead, a mass of uniformed figures trudged toward them down the main corridor, packed in shoulder to shoulder. At the intersection, more bitten and torn bodies, some bent at crippling angles, emerged from both the right and left hallways, joining the mass. Not ten feet away and to their right, bloodied boots with tucked-in trousers stomped unsteadily down a metal stairway.

  Calvin started firing, his assault rifle letting off deafening cracks. In between shots he yelled, “How do we look to the rear?”

  Evan turned again to see the hippies unloading volleys of fire, Dakota along with a woman named Mercy and the seventeen-year-old Stone. They were kneeling or standing close together, concentrating their fire on a crowd of the undead that had emerged from the darkness beyond the two firemen and continued to grow, both in numbers and in the volume of their moaning. It looked to Evan that about half their shots were effective.

  “Not good,” the writer shouted, joining Calvin and adding his shotgun to the damage the assault rifle was doing.

  The horde at the intersection pressed in, and now the stairway corpses were tumbling down from above, landing in heaps but relentlessly disentangling themselves and crawling forward, growling and croaking, eyes smooth and filmy in the jittering flashlights.

  “We’re not going to hold this time,” Calvin shouted.

  “And we can’t go back!” Evan fed fresh shells into his weapon, a difficult job while also juggling a heavy flashlight, but he was unwilling to put it down. He couldn’t bear the thought of facing the dead in darkness.

  To his rear stood two men who had yet to fire a shot, Freeman and Juju. Both had simply been standing still and staring, and now Freeman began to cry. He dropped his rifle and tugged frantically on a nearby hatch handle. A sign beside it read WARDROOM. “We have to get out!” he screamed.

  “Don’t open that!” Calvin shouted.

  Freeman didn’t or wouldn’t hear him. He managed to bring the dog handle up and pulled hard. Evan braced for a tide of corpses to spill out and finish them all. When nothing emerged, he saw the hippie duck into the opening, still screaming.

  If something got him inside the room, Evan couldn’t hear it over the gunfire. He had a wild moment as he remembered standing next to Father Xavier in the hangar as the priest explained to the entire group how taking the aircraft carrier was their only chance at survival. He remembered nodding along with the words, smiling confidently.

  “Dad was right,” he muttered. “I’m a stupid asshole.”

  Calvin was switching fire between the corpses on the stairs and the mass in the corridor, and despite the head shots he was losing precious feet of distance. His trigger clicked on a dry magazine. To the rear, the hippies were backing up, bumping into one another as the group became a tight little knot and the firing fell off.

  The dead moaned and began to gallop.

  “Ah, shit,” Evan said, clutching his shotgun and flashlight in sweaty hands. “This way!” he shouted, and ducked through the darkened wardroom hatch after Freeman.

  He was bitten almost immediately.

  NINETEEN

  They heard the ripple of gunfire coming from the open hatch behind them, muted and echoing, one deck up. “That’s Angie and Skye,” said Carney, looking back. They had parted company only minutes ago.

  TC grinned and shook his head. “Hope that girl doesn’t get herself killed before I get the chance to fuck her.”

  Carney turned on his cellmate. “Already tried that, didn’t you?” It came out louder than he had intended, his voice carrying down the metal corridor ahead of them. The half-dozen hippies standing nearby looked at each other nervously, then into the darkness. There were wide archways on both sides with a little light spilling out, storerooms of some sort.

  TC smirked. “Nah, just jerked off a little. What’s got your panties in such a twist?”

  The older man stepped closer and lowered his voice. “What happened with you and that guy Darius, the one at the boatyard? I saw the marks on his neck when I shot him.”

  TC laughed. “Now him I tried to fuck, but he wouldn’t cooperate.” A shrug. “Things got a little out of control.”

  “You’re the one who’s out of control,” Carney said. “I told you to keep it in line, and I warned you about that girl.”

  The younger inmate didn’t step away or look down as he would have only days ago, just met his cellmate’s eyes with that annoying smirk on his face. Carney felt the change at once and understood that their relationship had taken a dangerous new turn. He also noted that the barrel of the other man’s automatic shotgun was pointed roughly at his midsection.

  “You really want to get into this now?” TC asked, his voice soft, almost seductive. “What if I do want to fuck that pretty little thing? You gonna stop me, Carney? You said you would.”

  No bro, no man, just Carney now.

  “You gonna bleed me like you said in the truck?” he asked, and grinned. “You want to do it now?”

  Carney didn’t move or react. He watched the violence dance in his friend’s eyes.

  “Right,” said TC, his voice still soft. “That’s what I thought. Hey”—his voice became jovial once more—“don’t worry, I ain’t gonna call you a bitch or nothing, cause you’re sensitive about it and I respect that.” His eyes narrowed then, and the jovial voice took on an edge. “But I run my life now. The days of you treating me like your fucking dog are over . . . bro.”

  Carney’s eyes were dark storm clouds. “It’s like that, huh?”

  “It’s like that,” TC replied without hesitation.

  Neither man noticed when the half-dozen men and women with them whispered among themselves, casting fearful looks at the two muscled and tattooed men, and then quickly moved away up the corridor, flashlights leading.

  TC abruptly flashed a charming grin and tossed his long blond hair. “End of the world, man, new set of rules. You said it yourself. We’re all gonna die in here anyway, so what the fuck?” He turned his back, clearly unconcerned that he would be attacked from behind, and propped his shotgun over a shoulder as he walked through an archway marked CATAPULT EQUIPMENT SPACE.

  Carney watched him go, suddenly more shaken and unsure of himself than he could ever remember feeling. After a moment he realized the rest of the group had left quietly, taking a turn somewhere so that their lights were no longer visible.

  From within the storage chamber TC’s echoing voice called, “Let’s go kill some zombies.”

  Carney stood in the hallway for a moment and then went inside as well.

  • • •

  Xavier’s group descended with the priest in the lead, followed by Rosa and six of Calvin’s Family members, Brother Peter at the back of the group. The Third Deck landing was like the landings above, providing choices between hatchways and stairs but empty of the living dead. The thrum of machinery somewhere made the steel deck vibrate gently, and the tang of oil and metal was more pronounced down here.

  Xavier took them deeper, down to Fourth Deck, and once again there were choices to be made. The distant echo of gunfire floated down from above, but there was no longer an urge to race off to the rescue. It had been replaced with feelings of dread and the unsettling sensation that the ship had lured them into its maw and was not about to let them go.

  It felt different this deep in the vessel. The air was closer, warmer, and more tainted with the heaviness of rotting flesh. Ceilings felt lower,
steel walls closing in just a few inches tighter than the decks above, and the cool white of fluorescent bars had been replaced with the dimmer light of wall-mounted bulbs behind steel mesh. Every footfall seemed like the crash of a drum that could be heard for miles, and every shadow was a hiding place for something eager to use its teeth.

  Xavier had expected the gates of hell to be crafted from ancient stone and black iron, awash in flames. Instead, they resembled a simple oval hatch with a lever.

  His original idea called for this team to begin at the bottom and work its way up through the ship. He supposed that he had imagined pushing through hallways and driving the enemy upward into the guns of the other teams. How simplistic and utterly moronic that plan had been, he thought now. This enemy would never be pursued; it did the pursuing and couldn’t be driven like cattle or frightened Somalis running from gunfire.

  Some Marine, he thought, and then the heaviness of what he had talked them all into came down upon him with the weight of the very steel tomb they found themselves in. Untrained people. Thousands of the hungry dead. Unmapped, unfamiliar, and darkened mazes of corridors and rooms.

  Dear God, he thought, what have I done?

  He knew the answer, and the bitter word caught at the back of his throat. Pride. Once more he had cast himself in the role of leader, of shepherd, had encouraged others to trust and depend upon him. And once more he had failed, a faithless man leading hopeful souls to their destruction. Oh, how God must despise him and his endless pretending and how Satan must be clapping his hands in delight.

  Rosa saw that he was simply standing in front of the closed hatch, staring. She moved in front of him. “Father, what’s wrong?”

  He didn’t reply, and she glanced back at the others, who were watching anxiously. Except for Peter, who only looked back with an unreadable expression on his face. “Father,” she said softly, “are you okay? You’re scaring me a little.”

  Xavier looked at the young medic, a woman who, like the rest of them, was filled with fears and doubts, haunted by her own terrible experiences. Yet here she was in this place of death, not falling to pieces, facing her fears out of a belief that she was doing something that would save and preserve the lives of others, not simply her own. They all were, and Xavier was hit by a wave of disgust for the way he was behaving, had been behaving. What would Alden think, the schoolteacher who had literally died in his arms in the lobby of a San Francisco apartment building, a man who even in his dying moments thought not of himself, but of how he could get Xavier to understand who he needed to be. And Evan, during that quiet moment by the windows in the hangar, the young writer all but telling Xavier he needed to be strong, and to give that strength to others.

  Xavier Church had been a United States Marine, had been shot at and taken lives in return, faced dangerous opponents in the boxing ring, and through his words and actions, tried to make a better life for the lost and battered children of an urban sprawl. His life had never been one of the easy path, and no one, including God, had ever assured him his journey would be without pain, without loss.

  Did he still have his faith? he wondered. Did it really matter now? Priest or not, he could no longer whine to himself about being a poor leader. And what if he had his doubts, his fears of failure? Well then he would just have to fake it and carry on. Time to man up.

  Xavier straightened and smiled, taking one of Rosa’s small hands in his own scarred paw and squeezing it gently. Thank you, he mouthed silently, and then looked back at the others. “Sorry, folks. I just got a little dizzy there for a second.”

  A young woman nodded. “It’s the smell,” she offered, hoping that he would nod back and make everything all right.

  “That must be it,” Xavier said. “Okay, let’s start on this deck. We’re far enough away from the others that we shouldn’t run into them and have any accidents.”

  There were murmurs of agreement. They all feared accidentally shooting one of their own.

  “Try to stay in single file with a little space between each of you,” the priest said. “If you see a zombie, call it out and we’ll kill it. When they come at us, don’t stop firing until you put it down; you’ll have to stand your ground. That’s about as simple as we can make it.” He looked to the back of the group. “It’s Peter, right?”

  The minister smiled and nodded.

  Xavier looked at him, a vaguely handsome man in his thirties, average build, average appearance. He wore a .45 automatic in a clip-on holster, carried a shotgun, and wore a backpack. He looked like everyone else, but there was something else about the man, a nagging something that Xavier couldn’t place. Had they met before the plague? Where had he seen this man? Certainly not in the Tenderloin. Either way, now was not the time to ask questions about his past.

  “Peter, are you okay watching the rear?” the priest asked.

  “Not a problem,” the minister said, confident that the priest couldn’t see past his pleasant mask and realize how very much Brother Peter hated him. Pretender. False prophet, the minister thought, maintaining the easy smile. He couldn’t really say why he despised the priest so much. But lately, many things had happened to him that he didn’t understand. He’d learned a few new facts about himself, however.

  The world had changed, and so had the people. Those who had survived were not the confused masses seeking a guide to lead them out of the darkness. Yes, some were still sheep, but stronger personalities had emerged to lead them, not for gain, but born from a protectiveness that Peter did not understand. He had always been careful to be the strongest personality in the room. He no longer had that luxury. These people—the priest, the biker, the medic, even the hippie—would not be swayed by clever words or wealth or power. The plague had unearthed a strange self-sufficiency in them. Peter recognized that he would never control them.

  He was, he knew, a man without friends. So why not give in and accept that God really was talking to him, really did have a plan?

  No, he would never control these people. But he could hurt them, and that was just as good. He decided that at some point before God’s mystery was revealed, he would kill Father Xavier Church personally.

  “Great,” said Xavier, giving Peter a thumbs-up. “I’m thinking that as we pass through and clear an area, we secure the hatch behind us. That will let us know we’re making progress, and hopefully keep anything from sneaking up. Sound good?”

  They said it did.

  Xavier nodded and led off, opening the hatch in front of him. Through it came the hum of distant generators, the heavy scent of oil-based lubricants, and the sickly sweet aroma of death. The hatch led to a narrow corridor lit by single-spaced bulbs, the ceiling packed with rows of pipe and cable. Xavier switched off his flashlight to save the batteries, shoved it in a pants pocket, and gripped his shotgun with both hands. The others followed, and Brother Peter shut the hatch behind them.

  The hallway was clear of bodies, moving or otherwise. At first this surprised Xavier, who had an image in his mind of the six thousand sailors on board Nimitz crowding every available space, but he realized that this was a very big ship indeed, and six thousand people needed space to move and work. Added to this was the fact that he had often seen the dead moving in packs, following one another like a herd. His real fear was that there might be no happy medium; they would encounter either emptiness or masses of corpses too great to count—or defeat.

  As he approached an open doorway on his right, the priest thought about something Skye had said. Each one we kill lowers their numbers. Xavier focused on that. Every kill would reduce the opposition and bring them closer to safety, as long as their ammunition held out. The priest tried to tell himself he was being pragmatic, not pessimistic, and turned his attention to the doorway.

  It was a machinery room, a tight space filled with pipes and pistons, electrical switches and valves. A paper coffee cup and a clipboard were the only objects on the
floor, the rest of the space clean and well maintained. He wasn’t surprised. Some chief or petty officer had been in charge of this area and, machine room or not, would never have tolerated grime. Most importantly, there were no dead sailors in here.

  “Clear,” Xavier announced, emerging a moment later and leading the group forward. There was no hatch to close behind them.

  They inspected two more chambers nearly identical to the first, these having something to do with propulsion, then explored a water heating and cooling section, spaces for hydraulic pumps and filtration for fresh water, tiny offices with desks and computer workstations, small workshops and another large space for air-conditioning. It was hours of tension, moving slowly, listening and opening doors carefully while expecting an attack at every turn, but the area was clear of the dead.

  Until they found the girl.

  It was inside a workshop that appeared to specialize in pipe cutting and fittings, lit by a pair of mesh-encased bulbs throwing shadows into the corners. The back third of the room was filled with a row of steel tool and supply cabinets, divided from the rest of the workshop by a floor-to-ceiling wall of chain link, a gate set in the center. Someone had put a padlock on the gate, ensuring that the girl would remain inside.

  Xavier and the others entered and approached the fence. She was young, maybe eighteen, and dressed in blue work coveralls, her hair still tied up in a neat bun, a name tag over her breast pocket reading SIPOWITCZ. Her skin was slate-gray, mottled with dark blotches, and her eyes were a cloudy shade of maroon. A dark patch on her left thigh showed where the bite bled through the material.

  When she saw them, she began making a soft whining noise.

  She had found or forced a small gap between the chain link and a support pole and forced her right arm through it up to the shoulder. The edges of the steel links acted like a cheese grater and, as she pushed through, efficiently shredded the sleeve of her work uniform and the flesh underneath. Now that arm, thrust outward with the fingers grasping at air, hung in tattered ribbons of gray and black, revealing bone. The girl shoved her body against the fencing, still trying to get through, face pressed against the links and jaws working slowly.