Omega Days (Book 2): Ship of the Dead

by Campbell, John L.

  Even in daylight, the red battle lights of Nimitz’s bridge remained on, as they had ever since the supercarrier came to rest with its ruptured hull mired in the silt off western Oakland. The lights revealed that a slaughter had taken place here, splashes of gore covering the deck and control stations, black in the red glare. There was only one occupant, a short, female quartermaster standing next to a comfortable-looking, elevated chair marked CAPTAIN. Her arms hung at her sides, and she seemed to be staring forward, out through the blue glass.

  Skye stepped up beside Angie and without hesitation shot the woman in the back of the head. The bullet passed through her brain and exited the front of her skull, punching a small hole in the window, creating a spiderweb of cracks.

  “She’s alone,” said Angie.

  • • •

  Lieutenant (junior grade) Doug Mosey no longer remembered when the ship under his temporary command steamed into San Francisco Bay. He didn’t remember ignoring the now-dead—for the second time—quartermaster demanding that he stop staring at a city in flames and attend to his duties. He was already dead and beyond noticing when the carrier first scraped against the rocks of Alcatraz and then, later, rubbed hard against the Bay Bridge.

  Mosey didn’t remember graduating from Annapolis, the faces of his parents or their home in Michigan, had lost all memory of school and friends and movies he had seen, of Christmas mornings or pedaling his tricycle in the driveway. The passage of time held no meaning, and he could not appreciate the cleansing breeze coming in off the water.

  Standing in the small navigator’s plot room behind the bridge, he did, however, recognize food standing just on the other side of the open doorway. Forces beyond his control or understanding compelled him to eat, and with a snarl, Doug Mosey lunged through the opening and grabbed the arm holding a rifle, sinking his teeth deep into the flesh, blood splattering what was left of his face.

  • • •

  Skye screamed and jerked away, but the zombie hung on with his bite alone, making a groaning sound deep in his throat as Skye’s blood ran down his chin.

  “Fucker!” Angie screamed, shoving the muzzle of the Galil against the officer’s temple and blowing his brains across the bridge. Mosey collapsed, his jaws still clenched on Skye’s left forearm as he fell.

  Skye forced the creature’s mouth open and freed her arm, then skittered away to the far side of the bridge, her rifle hanging loose by its strap and banging against her chest, right hand clamped down over the bleeding wound. “No, no, no, no. . . .” The girl’s gravelly voice climbed octaves, sounding like the shriek of metal on metal. “No, no, no. . . .”

  “Oh, God, Skye!” Angie cried, moving toward the girl.

  Skye’s good eye was wide, darting about, and it came to rest on Angie. “No!” the younger woman cried, pointing at her friend.

  Angie froze in place.

  Skye’s finger wavered, blood from her outstretched arm dripping onto the deck. “Stay there,” she said, “you stay away from me.”

  Angie held up her hands. “Honey, don’t, we can—”

  “Nothing!” Skye shrieked. “There’s nothing we can do!”

  Angie’s hands went to her mouth. She wanted to cry, wanted to shake her head and refuse to believe it, but she had seen and done so much killing, had lost so many people she knew. The tears wouldn’t come. She simply stared.

  “Nothing,” Skye repeated, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. She looked at the red, torn flesh peeking between her fingers. Then she bolted across the bridge and through another hatchway.

  Angie ran after her, catching sight of the girl’s boots as she pounded up an interior stairway. “Skye, wait!”

  Skye’s voice echoed down from above. “Keep away from me, Angie. I mean it.”

  Angie stood at the foot of the stairs, heart aching not only for this young woman who had quickly become a friend, but for what would now have to be done when Skye turned.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  With Brother Peter in the lead, they climbed, rising steadily from the depths of the ship. They were low on ammunition, some down to a handful of shells or a single magazine. Xavier was armed only with a fire axe he took from a wall bracket. They killed the zombies they encountered, thankfully as singles or in pairs—a mob would snuff them out—and kept moving. Each successful kill cost ammo, however, bringing them closer to being completely defenseless.

  They moved vertically up the port side of the ship, taking whatever stairways they could locate, and finally reached the 03 Gallery Deck, just below the flight deck. Here they found no more stairs leading up, and so they pushed forward.

  This level of the ship was different from the others, not necessarily cleaner—there was still battle damage and dried gore on the deck—but somehow more squared away. Xavier thought it had a familiar feel but couldn’t identify it at first.

  Xavier looked at the hatches they passed, each painted with a logo like medieval coats of arms: Black Knights, Death Rattlers, Blue Diamonds, Argonauts. He saw Grey Wolves, the Screaming Indians, and the Wallbangers. Boards mounted to walls displayed columns of information, like types of aircraft and incomprehensible tangles of acronyms and abbreviations, like Teceleron and Heltraron. He stared at the logos, so colorful and out of character for a military operation, where things were usually stark and bare bones. It felt almost tribal to him, and then he realized what they were. Squadron designations. These were places for officers, and in particular, the naval aviators for which this ship had been built. The elite, and therefore allowed special privileges.

  But there weren’t any corpses in flight suits slouching through these passageways. According to Rosa, the aviators would have all departed when the ship reached Hawaii, and that was a good thing. Had they not, then this was where they would be lurking, and a handful of shotgun shells and a fire axe would not have been enough to keep them at bay.

  Officer spaces or not, Xavier thought, the lighting here was just as inadequate as it had been below, and the stench of rotting meat was no less pungent. There were still dead things in this place and so the group moved slowly, nerves strained to the breaking point as they approached each hatch and intersection. Rosa picked up on the tension.

  “We need to rest,” she whispered to Xavier. “We can’t go on like this, we’re going to get careless.” Her eyes were still burning from exposure to jet fuel.

  Xavier nodded and touched Peter’s shoulder. The man jumped as if hit with an electric shock, and he whirled with the shotgun. Xavier caught it by the barrel and forced it away. Peter didn’t fire.

  “Easy,” said the priest.

  Peter peered at him for a long moment as if trying to remember who he was, and then lowered the weapon.

  “We need to find a safe place to hole up for a while,” Xavier said. “Let’s start looking for one.”

  Peter’s face flashed a brief expression of annoyance, and Xavier saw it. Once again he was struck with the thought that he knew this man somehow, had seen him before. But where?

  Peter stepped aside so that Xavier could take the lead, and the big man did, holding his axe in both hands and squeezing his eyes tightly, trying to shake off the dry burning affecting him too. He led the group down a passage, pausing once to prod at a corpse on the deck—a middle-aged officer with a bullet hole in his head—to be certain it was harmless. A short while later he froze when he saw a dead sailor lurch crossways to their corridor beneath a pool of light, unaware of their presence and quickly moving out of sight.

  Ten more minutes of creeping brought them to a broad intersection of corridors, with angled walls at each corner forming an octagon. Set in each angled portion was a window and counter, each with a roll-down security gate firmly closed over the opening. Stenciling on the walls proclaimed these to be the squadron shops. Beyond the gates, shelves of merchandise could be seen in the gloom: mugs, T-shirts, patches, all bea
ring the emblems of the carrier’s air squadrons.

  “Anyone want a souvenir?” Lilly whispered.

  The others decided that stalking the hallways of a dead aircraft carrier would provide memories enough.

  Just beyond the shops, the gray tiles underfoot changed to blue. Rosa pointed at the tiles. “This means that we’re in officer and combat country now.”

  Twenty more feet forward brought them to a space with a ladderway on the left and a mahogany door on the right. Xavier stared at the fine wood, so out of place among all the gray steel. He thought it looked like something that belonged in a library or the private study of a banker. A brass plate next to the door read Jacob Beane, Rear Admiral.

  Xavier pushed at the door with the head of his axe, and it swung open.

  It was one of the ironies of sea life that, especially among officers, the higher one’s rank, the more spacious and well-appointed the quarters one received, but because of the increased responsibilities, the less time the occupant had to spend there. Admiral Beane’s quarters were first class.

  The center of the space was a briefing room and private mess filled with a conference table, leather chairs, and sofas. The admiral’s small, personal galley was to the left, his actual quarters and head on the right. Both the briefing room and bedroom were carpeted and fitted with wood paneling, and high-quality, solid wood furniture was tastefully matched to framed oil paintings of warships at sea. Brass featured heavily in the décor.

  Someone had died in here.

  There was a broken lamp, bullet holes in the paneling, gunfire splinters along the length of the conference table. A large, rusty patch stained the thick gray carpet.

  “This will do,” said Xavier, as Tommy secured the door with the deadbolt before he and the other hippies went off to raid the admiral’s galley. They returned with bottled water and boxes of crackers, as well as a brick of moldy cheddar cheese, from which they pared away the green.

  “The admiral had lots of fresh fruits and perishables,” said Lilly, making a face. “You don’t want to open the fridge.”

  They ate in silence and then muscled a heavy credenza in front of the door before seeking out places to sleep. The hippies took the bedroom while Brother Peter curled up on a short leather sofa near the door, and Rosa and Xavier dropped onto a long leather couch, sinking into its cushions.

  The priest couldn’t remember being so tired, not even after a long match in the ring, pounding and getting pounded back. He now knew what it meant to be tired to the bones, and yet, as much as he desired it, sleep was elusive. Instead his mind gnawed at the magnitude of what it would take to reclaim this massive ship from the dead. They had only been at it for a day, and already their numbers were down by a third, their ammunition all but gone. He wondered if the other groups were faring better. Had any of them even put a dent in the thousands of creatures infesting this floating maze?

  “You know who he is, don’t you?” whispered Rosa.

  Xavier was pulled from his thoughts. “Who?”

  She tilted her head to the figure on the couch across the room, already still and snoring. “You were staring at him.”

  “Was I?” Xavier shook his head. “I didn’t realize.”

  She nodded, keeping her voice low. “It took me a while to figure it out, because now he looks just like any regular guy who needs a shave. He’s different without all the glitz, but it’s him. I just now got it.”

  Xavier wasn’t following. “Who? What are you talking about?”

  Rosa lifted her index finger and pointed at the sleeping man. “That’s the Reverend Peter Dunleavy. Brother Peter, to the faithful.” Her lip curled when she said his name, as if she had tasted something foul.

  Xavier stared at the man, who was sleeping with his back toward them. “That’s Brother Peter?” He had to force himself to keep his voice down. “I thought he was in prison.”

  “He should be,” Rosa said. “As big a fraud and crook as Bernie Madoff. Prison’s too good for him.”

  Xavier nodded slowly. Now he remembered the man from television, a well-groomed holy roller with an international following, wealthy beyond reason. Brother Peter, his ministry called him, a slick, charismatic showman peddling salvation at an affordable price. Except it had all come crashing down: charges of tax fraud and illegal real estate deals, witness tampering and money laundering. There had also been claims of inappropriate sexual behavior and even outright rape. Xavier couldn’t remember all the details, despite the media’s ceaseless attention to the scandal. For Xavier, Peter Dunleavy had been like any of the other celebrities caught up in corruption and vice, desperately insecure people in need of constant attention, who permitted their private lives to be plastered all over the tabloids for the world to see. They were like background noise. It wasn’t that Xavier bore them any ill will or resented their money and fame. It was simply that he had difficulty mustering much sympathy for the dramas of the rich and famous when he was dealing with people who didn’t know where they would find their next meal or were afraid to fall asleep next to a violent spouse.

  “I met him once,” Rosa said, still whispering and looking at the sleeping man. “About a year and a half ago, at the club where I was dancing. He was wearing sunglasses and a fake mustache so no one would recognize him. There were two big thugs with him.”

  “If he was in disguise then, how did you recognize him now?”

  “Because I took off his disguise.” She smiled thinly.

  “What happened?”

  “He watched the dancing for a while,” Rosa said, “me and some of the other girls, then he sent one of his thugs to talk to us, tell us who was watching and that he liked what he saw. The reverend had picked out his favorites and wanted us to go back to his hotel with him in his limo. Some of the girls agreed.”

  Xavier looked at her.

  Rosa shook her head sharply. “I’m a lot of things, Father, but I’m no whore. I told his thug to go get fu . . . to get lost.”

  Xavier smiled. “I know you’re not, Doc. And I’ve heard the word fuck before.”

  She blushed. “Yeah, well, not from me while I’m talking to a priest, you haven’t.”

  “Go on.”

  “So the good reverend gets annoyed that I turned him down and walks up to me. ‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ he says, and then he squeezed my breast. I slapped the glasses off his face and tore that stupid caterpillar mustache out from under his nose. I think it took some skin with it. He squealed like a little girl.”

  Xavier struggled to control his grin, and it was not so much for the picture she created as the moment of delight he saw in her eyes. He was chuckling as he spoke. “What did the reverend do?”

  Rosa crossed her arms. “He ran out to his limo. I ran to the back, and his thug tried to follow me, but our bouncer, this huge guy named Shy, made him change his mind.”

  Xavier glanced at the man. “He doesn’t seem to have recognized you yet. That’s surprising. That’s a pretty memorable moment.”

  Rosa’s face darkened. “I’m not surprised. He’d been drinking, and when they do that, most men turn into assholes who think they can do and say whatever they want to the girl on the stage. Besides, I’ll bet he’s cruised so many strip clubs that all the faces just run together.” She looked away.

  The priest was silent for a moment and then patted her leg. “That was another life, Doc. There’s no shame, and there’s nothing you need to go back to.”

  Rosa looked at him and shook her head slowly. “No shame, huh? Father, you are the strangest Catholic I’ve ever met.”

  “Amen.”

  Her index finger came up again and she pointed, her voice dropping so low that Xavier had to strain to hear her. “You want to watch out for him. He’s no good.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” the priest said. “Try to get some sleep.”

&n
bsp; Rosa faded out a short while later, but it was a long time before Xavier was able to escape into his own dreams. When he did, he found them populated by endless corridors and shadowy, moving figures.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Time had become an intangible thing down here in the dark. They might as well have been underground. A digital clock on the wall of the berthing space read 03:15, but the numbers meant little to Evan Tucker. His sleep had been restless and sporadic, and now he simply lay in the bunk, looking out toward the hatch where Stone, the seventeen-year-old, was standing watch. The sound of deep breathing came from around him, and Evan envied the others their ability to rest.

  Calvin hadn’t said much after he put Freeman down, and Evan learned from the whispers of the other hippies that the two men had been friends for over twenty years. Evan tried not to think about this new heartbreak added to the existing load on Calvin’s shoulders, and he had taken charge of the group, leading them on through Second Deck.

  They had all entered the ship practically staggering under the weight of extra ammunition, and already more than half had been expended. Although they had not run into another swarm as they had back at that lethal intersection, the dead remained plentiful on this deck, and the group left a trail of bodies as it pressed forward.

  Staring at the bottom of the bunk above him, Evan thought about their journey. They encountered and shot down three sailors outside the ship’s post office, and two more near a long bank of satellite phones. Half a dozen zombies had to be hunted down amid the giant washers and dryers of an industrial laundry, a frightening cat-and-mouse game that ended with the big, white machines punched through with bullet holes and smeared with dark blood and rot. Fortunately, the only casualties had been the already dead.