Omega Days (Book 2): Ship of the Dead

by Campbell, John L.

  Rosa and Tommy emerged from below and stood on the rubberized decking, clothes snapping against them as a sharp wind rushed across the flight deck. She looked around and saw that the aircraft carrier’s superstructure, a steel high-rise bristling with antennae, was on the opposite side of the deck. There were corpses everywhere, all of them down.

  There was movement at the superstructure’s hatch, two figures locked together, stumbling out onto the deck. They separated; the bigger one’s arm moved in a quick arc and the other fell.

  TC and Carney.

  And then Rosa’s attention was snapped away by a metallic screaming and a black shape rushing at the ship from out of the sky.

  • • •

  Vladimir fought against physics, against engineering and mathematics and gravity. He gripped the cyclic and collective so hard he thought they might shatter in his hands, as the fuel-starved turbines sucked the last JP-5 from the lines. The pitch of the two engines howled higher and higher toward seizing. Screaming buzzers filled the cockpit with an unholy noise as Vlad willed the chopper to hang in the air for just a few seconds more.

  The Russian saw the wall of the carrier rushing at him on a tilted angle. They would impact right at the cockpit. The Black Hawk would crumple against an immovable, metal mass, folding the cockpit and its occupants in an envelope of torn steel. There would be no explosion—there wasn’t enough fuel left to start a campfire—but they would both be dead just the same.

  “Ben,” Vladimir said, and in that final instant the child looked up and smiled.

  • • •

  The two men lost their grips and fell apart, panting like two enraged animals hunting one another in a gray light, circling. They hunched low, grappling, arms swinging and teeth bared. There was no punching, for this was no fistfight. It was a battle of grips, and he who seized the other first would live.

  It was TC who struck first.

  Carney lunged, but he was still dizzy from being hit by the wrench, and he misjudged the distance. TC twisted and locked an arm around Carney’s head, cranking down with his bicep, forcing Carney to bend with his face to the floor. Hands batted weakly at the muscled arm. TC laughed through bloody teeth, one eye purple and swollen, his forehead split and trickling red into his good eye. He hauled Carney toward the open hatch, and the older man was helpless, choking and deprived of air, unable to keep himself from being dragged along.

  They had been here before. There were the racks of vests and helmets, rows of clipboards, and the black nylon tool belt. TC snatched a screwdriver out of the pouch and dragged Carney through the hatch, out onto the flight deck.

  As they went over the knee knocker, Carney raised a boot and smashed it against the side of TC’s knee. The bigger man let out a cry and sagged away, releasing enough pressure for the older man to pull his head free. A moment later they were locked in another dance, hands gripping wrists, throwing their weight, spinning across the flight deck.

  Carney snorted blood and mucus from his shattered nose and hawked it into TC’s face. The younger inmate roared and fell back a foot, but in that brief instant of separation he slashed and plunged with the screwdriver. The flat blade caught Carney across the belly, lodging against meat and slipping from TC’s hand. Carney staggered and fell onto his back, smacking his head on the deck.

  Something was screaming in the sunshine, a high, metallic cry accompanied by a thundering heartbeat, a THUMP-THUMP-THUMP that filled the air. Carney’s world was spinning, his head ready to detach and float away.

  TC dropped onto him, his face red and contorted by a savage lust. The younger inmate ripped the tool out of Carney’s gut. “End of the world, motherfucker!” TC screamed, raising the screwdriver over his head with both hands.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Evan heard the gunfire drop off and stop, immediately replaced by the moans of the dead. His boots hammered the deck as he charged the corridor, spotting a partially open hatch at the end, sunlight glowing at its edges. A drifter was dragging itself over the knee knocker on the way in.

  He fired on the run, the Mossberg blowing the thing’s head apart from behind, and then Evan was swinging the hatch wide, leaping over the corpse and through, into the open-air fantail. He instantly took in the high space, the daylight and the sun beyond the wide opening. He saw bodies on the deck, fresh gore everywhere.

  He saw the dead, all shambling toward an open hatch on the far wall, approaching from all directions.

  He marched into them, firing, racking, firing. A moment later a trio of assault rifles joined in with Calvin to his right, Mercy and Stone on his left. Then Chief Liebs was there, the M14 bucking, his men on line beside him, pumping rounds into the dead. Finally Juju and Dakota, blasting shotgun rounds.

  The fantail echoed with the unending ripple of gunfire, dead sailors crumpling to the deck, some turning to face the new sound only to be cut down. The group advanced with the deadly calm of professional warriors, changing magazines and feeding shells with precision, hippies and wanderers and boys in dirty uniforms, killers all.

  Within minutes not a single zombie stood or crawled, and not one of them had managed to even get close to their executioners.

  Evan saw the bloody oxygen bottle on the deck, and then there was no doubt. Why? Why had they come? He ran toward the hatch where the dead had been heading and saw a body lying half in and half out. Why didn’t you stay? he thought, tears leaping to his eyes. Calvin ran with him, making a long, low keening sound.

  They reached the hatch together, and Evan went in. The bitter, coppery tang of blood was heavy in the air, mixed with a vile putrescence. It had been a slaughter, and as he saw what was at the end of the room, he let out a sob.

  Maya stood with her legs planted in a wide stance, her body heaving as she breathed. Her hair hung damp and limp about her face, and she was bathed in blood. One hand held a glistening ice climber’s pick. The floor before her was layered with dead sailors, heads and faces pierced, motionless and staring. Behind Maya, a cluster of adults held children close to their bodies, crying and keeping their faces turned away from the massacre. The pregnant couple was there, and Big Jerry lay on the floor, propped on one elbow and holding an empty, smoking shotgun.

  Maya’s eyes, hard and deadly, met Evan’s and softened at once. With a bloody hand she signed, “I missed you.”

  Evan made a sound that was both a sob and a laugh and ran to her.

  FORTY-SIX

  It was the wind, a lovely, stiff wind across the flight deck, a naval aviator’s friend. It meant lift.

  Just before the failing Black Hawk was hurled against Nimitz’s unforgiving side, the wind cradled the bird from below and gave it lift—just enough. With less than six inches to spare, the helicopter’s wheels cleared the edge and thudded down onto the rubberized deck surface at the extreme bow end of the ship.

  Vladimir and Ben bounced with the hit, and then the pilot was changing the pitch of the rotors, using that same wind to slow his rolling aircraft and bring it to a stop. His hands moved quickly, shutting his systems down as above him the turbines died in a long, sinking whine. The rotor blades began to slow at once.

  The Russian stared out through the windscreen for a long moment, heart pounding like the hooves of a running horse, and then he let out a rush of breath. He looked over at his tiny co-pilot, who still wore the oversized ear protectors.

  Vlad held out a trembling palm.

  Ben laughed and slapped it.

  • • •

  Rosa saw what was happening at the superstructure, screamed, “No!” and started running at the two men, Tommy beside her. They both knew they would never cross the distance in time.

  As TC rose up for the kill, she saw the zombie emerge from the superstructure’s hatch. It was female and half-naked, its remaining clothing torn and bloody, galloping at the two men, both arms coming up.

  • • •


  Blood was in Carney’s mouth, leaking out the corners, TC’s weight crushing his lungs. He looked up at the face, at the man who had once been his friend and was now about to drive a screwdriver into his heart and cast him into darkness.

  The sound of the shot came at the same instant the bullet punched a hole out the front of TC’s head.

  The big inmate sagged off to one side, limp and boneless on the deck. Skye Dennison, staggering and unbalanced from her blow to the head, slashed clothing blowing in the wind, lowered her pistol as she reached the two men.

  “No, fuck you,” she said, pumping three more rounds into TC’s body.

  She dropped to her knees, then fell to the deck, landing partially on Carney’s chest. She closed her eyes and sighed, head resting against the man’s heartbeat.

  Carney spat blood and choked out, “Skye . . .”

  She found his hand and squeezed it, then whispered, “Some people just need saving.”

  Carney faded.

  When the pounding of Rosa’s boots arrived, Skye pointed back toward the superstructure. “Angie,” she said, and then she faded too.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Father Xavier couldn’t help but think of passages he had read, both biblical and literary, containing descriptions of the descent into hell. He was living it now, the stairway lit with red battle lights that cast a hellish glow on steel walls and railings. The reek of rotting flesh was thick in the unmoving air, and without air-conditioning the temperature climbed as he traveled deeper. He was sweating, and his hand was slick on the handle of the bloody fire extinguisher. He expected the undead to block his path at any moment, minions of the devil determined to stop him from getting to Brother Peter.

  Was the man truly evil, or only psychotic? Did the devil dwell within him, as Xavier had been taught, or was he just a man, violent and deranged, hopelessly trapped within a fantasy? And if Xavier did find him, would he listen to reason? What could Xavier do if he didn’t? He had just renewed his faith with God, begged Him to live in his heart once more. Would he kill Brother Peter and, in so doing, ensure his own damnation?

  Assuming he wasn’t too late. Instead of a soulless, shuffling corpse in his path, it might just as easily be a microsecond of white heat and incineration as the minister carried out his final task in God’s name.

  Xavier reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the main hall of the magazine. There were no minions, no zombies with which to contend. He would face the Beast itself.

  The blast doors to every magazine stood open, light spilling into the corridor from within. Xavier moved on the balls of his feet, breathing through his mouth to remain as quiet as possible. He looked into the compartments, eyes falling on the tools men used to destroy one another, silent couriers of death waiting to be employed.

  How fitting that he should face the Beast in such a place.

  Give me strength, Lord. Be my light in the darkness.

  Xavier didn’t have to search every compartment. After looking inside only a few, he heard the conversation echoing from the far end of the corridor.

  He moved swiftly now.

  • • •

  When you get to heaven, I think we’ll have a luau,” said God. The Lord was in the form of a beautiful, red-haired woman with heavy breasts, naked and straddling one of the MARS nuclear missiles a little farther down the row. She looked like the mistress Peter had kept in Chicago.

  “Or an orgy,” the woman said, stretching Her body across the missile in an erotic pose, stroking the metal skin.

  “Don’t talk like that,” Brother Peter said. “It’s not . . . not right. Not for you.”

  “You’re just shy,” the woman said, transforming into Angie West, trailing Her nipples across the cold missile. “I know what you like.”

  Her bare hands and feet bled with stigmata, streaking the metal skin.

  “Stop distracting me!” Peter shouted, pointing a pair of wire cutters at the figure. “I need to focus.”

  “Fuck us? Is that what you said?” Angie purred.

  Brother Peter clamped his hands over his ears. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

  God turned to smoke and drifted toward the ceiling as Peter went back to work. The first two missiles were wired to this one, armed and awaiting a charge. He finished arming the third warhead and stepped back from the weapon’s open maintenance panel. Peter smiled, looking at his work. Bands of colored wire looped between the three missiles and then connected to the wall phone across the room with a long stretch of red wire.

  “Is that pride I see on your face?” Peter’s savior was once again the Air Force shrink, standing a few feet away with His arms folded, frowning. “Is it?”

  Brother Peter hung his head. It was almost over, and then he could sleep forever in silence. “This is for you, Lord. Thy will be done.”

  The shrink shook His head and began polishing His glasses. “You’re such a schmuck.”

  Peter threw the wire cutters down. “Why do you do that all the time? Why do you always make me feel bad?”

  “Oh, did I make you feel bad?” The shrink pointed at the minister. “Go fuck yourself. I can’t stand you anymore.”

  “Stop!” Peter cried. “You love me! I’m your chosen disciple, and you can’t talk to me that way!”

  God stared and said nothing.

  Brother Peter was crying. “All I’ve ever done is serve you. But you’re cruel. Why won’t you love me?”

  God began to fade. “You’re a fool,” He said, and then He was gone.

  “But you are loved, Peter,” said Father Xavier, standing in the opening to the magazine compartment. He set the fire extinguisher down and held out his hands, palms up. “You are loved,” he repeated, walking forward slowly. He saw the missiles, saw the wires and where they ended.

  Brother Peter bolted for the phone, and Xavier charged him. The minister got there first, gripping the handset and holding it in the cradle.

  “No, no, no, no!” Peter said, pointing a finger at the priest.

  Xavier slid to a stop ten feet away. “Don’t do this, Peter,” he said. “Don’t hurt any more people.”

  “They’re not people, they’re sinners,” he hissed.

  “We’re all sinners,” the priest said. “Isn’t that what we’re taught?”

  The minister sneered. “You are, praying to your idols and make-believe saints, bowing and scraping to your master in Rome.” He stabbed the air with his finger. “You are! You are!”

  Xavier Church was no expert in nuclear weapons, but he knew they needed an electrical charge in order to detonate. If the televangelist had done what it appeared he had, lifting the phone receiver from its cradle would open the circuit. The charge would travel down the wire in a millisecond, and then there would be the slightest instant of searing heat, followed by a vast nothingness.

  “This isn’t God’s work, Peter,” Xavier said, easing forward, palms still open and empty. “Wrath is His privilege, not ours.”

  Peter bared his teeth. “He works through me. I am His instrument.”

  Xavier shook his head slowly, still gliding forward. “You’re a man of deep faith,” the priest said. “I can see that. And sometimes a man, a good man, can lose his way.”

  Peter began to cry again. “Stay there! I’m not lost. I’m doing God’s work. Just ask Him.” He gestured at the room, keeping his eyes on the advancing priest, still gripping the phone receiver.

  “We’re alone,” the priest said gently, a step closer, another. “Just you . . . just me . . .”

  “Liar!” Peter spat. “Behold the Lord our God!”

  When Peter Dunleavy glanced over to where God should be standing, Xavier Church struck. Peter looked back just in time to see it coming, and Xavier would never know who said the words, him or the minister.

  “Forgive me.”

/>   Xavier’s right fist shot out with the speed and power of a professional boxer, connecting with the minister’s chin. There was an explosive crack as the force of the impact snapped Peter’s neck, killing him instantly.

  As the body sagged to the floor, Xavier leaped for the phone receiver, clamping his hands over it and holding it firmly in the cradle as Peter Dunleavy’s hand slipped away.

  “Forgive me.”

  This time, Xavier knew that it was he who spoke.

  EPILOGUE

  Early January, the outbreak now five months past. Life on the Nimitz was chilly, and much colder on the open deck as light rains and a regular breeze came in off the bay. It was cloudy most days, but it was still California and rare for the temperature to drop below forty degrees. Everyone wore light, thermal-lined jackets, all Navy blue.

  There was little free time, and everyone had a job, some several, and all were important. Everyone traveled the ship armed, and no one went anywhere alone.

  In the months following the assault, Chief Liebs wore many hats, and his most important task was organizing and leading hunting parties. By the time January arrived, Liebs had collected nearly four thousand dog tags and compared them to the ship’s roster. By his estimation there were still close to a thousand drifters on board. Many were suspected to be trapped in sealed, watertight compartments—where they would remain—but there were countless other places they could be.

  The hunting parties went out daily. Other groups in hazmat suits, under the watchful eyes of people with rifles, scoured the ship and placed corpses in body bags, dropping them over the sides. Fire hoses were used to wash down rooms and corridors. Four more people died during the clearing process, including Juju, who opened a hatch without listening at it first and had his throat torn out by a woman in surgical scrubs.

  When he wasn’t hunting, Chief Liebs gave firearms instruction. Both he and Xavier insisted that everyone age twelve and up learn to shoot. His two best students turned out to be Stone and Mercy, and they accompanied him on every hunting party.