World of Ashes II

by J. K. Robinson

  Daniel didn’t know what to say to that, other than thinking that after all of this was over someone was going to have to re-cast Star Trek. Again. “Know of any other celebrities that made it? I mean, before the net went dark?”

  “Um… The Disney Compound turned into the world’s unhappiest place when a mob trying to get in accidentally trapped everyone inside the Epcot Center and set it on fire. That one kung-fu guy, the one who got fat…”

  “Steven Seagal?”

  “Sure, I don’t know. He got eaten filming an episode of his stupid sheriff’s show, you know, the one nobody watched? If Youtube worked I’d show you. But seriously, where the hell were you when Hollywood was eaten? Everyone saw it.”

  “Washington, DC.”

  “Really? How’d you get here?”

  “Limony Snickets, bro. Just a series of very unfortunate events. I was on holiday in England with my father when the riots, or outbreak I guess, started in DC. We were supposed to refuel at Reagan International, but we ended up in a field on the outskirts. I picked up the Sitton’s granddaughter near there, brought her here when I ran her name through a FEMA database in West Virginia. It was a fuckin’ crazy time.”

  “That is one hell of a story. So why’d she call you Private?”

  “Because I’m a Private First Class in the Wyoming Army National Guard. Just got sidetracked trying to get home is all.”

  “I’m from Willoughby, Texas. Scott Fife, former US Navy.”

  “Well at least someone’s qualified to be here.”

  “Meh.” Fife shrugged, “I only spent the minimum required time on a ship. I was stationed in Michigan, went to Boot Camp and got assigned all at the same place. Longest four years of my life.” He joked, but not really.

  Daniel completely understood. A shitty duty station could turn a good fighting man into a useless malcontent in short order. “So how long do you think it’ll take for the government to get its shit together? You know, send a unified force to rescue people?”

  “You heard the Captain. They’re trying new tactics at the Rocky’s. Maybe a year or so before a land force gets here.” Fife didn’t sound very convinced of what he was saying. He just didn’t want to sound too optimistic and jinx everything.

  Another transmission from the stricken cruise liner broke through the silence of the bridge as the men ran out of things to talk about. Daniel took a pen out of his pocket and started scribbling shorthand. He could see the others watching, so he unplugged the headset and put it on the speakers for the rest of them.

  “…contained to the lower decks. Nobody else has been infected. Please send help, we’re running out of fresh water. The pumps are below and we can’t reach them. Repeat…” The transmission cut out, overpowered by a local automated broadcast before again breaking through. “…off the shore of Florida. I don’t know our coordinates, we’ve lost main power…”

  “Kuzma’s right. Even if we could find the ship we know she’s got to be big. That many people, let alone that many infected, we don’t have the resources to mount a rescue.” Daniel plugged the headset back in, silencing the plea for help so as to not torture the others.

  The shouting contest between Captain Harrisburg and Chief Kuzma reached through the steel deck. The hatch outside swung open and the argument spilled into the open air. They were arguing both in Russian and English until finally Harrisburg had had enough, picked Kuzma’s scrawny ass up by the seat of his pants and threw him overboard. He flopped into the manatee laden waters to swim with the sea-cows.

  Chapter 7

  The weather was changing, turning cool and stormy in late August rather than October. The internet had been down for weeks, satellite television was nothing but reruns or FEMA warnings, no new news was being broadcast in their region. Radio transmissions from the mainland were thinning out too, nobody helpful was within reach. After another day of pleading for help they never heard from the cruise liner again, nor did they catch her name. Occasionally Captain Harrisburg would force Daniel to spend time on the mainland. Other people rotated into his position and he started to get his land legs back when he’d spent almost five days straight on the boat. Kaylee had really come out of her shell too, and gave no indication she that she had any delusions about her parents coming back for her. She hadn’t said it directly yet, but the probability was she’d seen her parents die and in some small way already come to grips with that.

  “Checkmate.” Kaylee said smugly.

  “Kaylee, dear, we’re playing Checkers, not Chess.” Joanne tried to argue.

  “Fine. I’m all in.” Kaylee pushed all of the red checkers into the center of the board. Daniel put the book his was reading down because he was laughing so hard. He had volunteered for security for a fishing expedition outside the bay and was heading out in an hour or so. He put his tan uniform back on, but this time with an arm band Joanne had sewn for him that read DEPUTY in gold on black. He’d been deputized along with a hundred other men, so the patch wasn’t just for looks. Jose didn’t join in on being deputized, he’d met a girl and almost immediately joined her at the hip to become some sort of grotesque, domesticated suburban unibeing like Bradjolina or Stimi*. If Facebook still worked in their area their separate profiles would have become one. We’ve all seen it, it’s horrible. Daniel didn’t blame his buddy for being head over heels for Camilla, she was the perfect example of the almost unobtainable girl next door whose father scared you too much to get to know her. They had become… Josmilla!… (*See CW’s Jericho)

  “Daniel.” Kaylee came running up behind her personal savior the morning he was set to leave on his three day mission. She hugged him and even with his heavy backpack on he picked her up for a better hug. “You can take this. It will keep you safe.” She handed him a small teddy bear wearing an old Army uniform. “Gramma gave it to Daddy when he went to Afgan’stan. I want you to have it now.”

  Choking back tears and tucking the small bear into his pocket, Daniel hugged Kaylee and left her with Joanne and John. He had a few minutes to himself on the early morning walk, a fog had settled over Crystal River and the air was crisp enough to be refreshing. Walking with his backpack reminded Daniel of being in school again, hiking to the on-base school from the officers housing area… Then getting his ass kicked by the enlisted men’s kids, but that was only for a brief time when his mother was stationed at Cherry Point. After that they kicked his ass because they would inevitably find out through the rumor mill that his dad had left because he was a homo, that instead of the completely normal 20 year retirement he’d been discharged for whatever reason. It was all lies, but at some point Daniel had gone from victim to conquering nomad. By his senior year nobody but the unkempt, clannish progeny of lifer NCO’s would speak to him. He was, after beating a Major’s step-son half to death, at every base told not to bother joining the JROTC with the other legacy brats.

  “You might want to look behind you.” Lea said, appearing out of the fog just in front of Daniel. Was he dreaming again? Still in bed maybe?

  Not this time.

  The rotten breath smell of a zombie with flesh oozing from his mouth was all the momentary warning Daniel got before its putrid teeth sank into the shoulder strap of his backpack, just inches from his neck. He’d been so preoccupied by the trip down childhood lane he’d completely neglected to be as paranoid as he should have been. The weight of the zombie dragged him to the street, landing on his holster so he couldn’t draw the gun. With all the fury he could muster Daniel punched the zombie in the temple with a mean right hook. Its grip loosened some and so he did it again and again, each time with more strength than he had previously known he possessed. With a sloppy smacking sound the zombie’s jaw and dentures broke loose, stunning it enough that it actually let go. Grabbing a bayonet he’d found on the ship he buried the blade through the zombie’s eye socket.

  He looked around, but Lea’s ghost was gone. Daniel lay in the leaf covered road and breathed, sweat pouring down his shirt and sticking small
pebbles to his face. Leaning his head to his left he eyed the dentures still clamped firmly to his pack’s strap. Flipping his uniform collar up for just that little extra bit of protection, Daniel got up and thanked his lucky stars, God, the Buddha, Sheeva, Odin, Zeus, the Lords of Kobol, but not the Muslim god. His followers did this, they boasted of it even. Fuck them.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” Deputy Gifford asked. He was providing overwatch for the marina when Daniel made his way there looking like he’d just crawled in the mud.

  “Found General Washington’s false teeth.” Daniel tossed the dentures to the cop, who dropped them like a hot potato as soon as he figured out what they were. Of course Daniel had washed them off on his way to the marina, but it was still gross to think about.

  “You found an infected person inside the perimeter?” Gifford actually seemed surprised.

  Daniel showed him the gnawed looking strap. “I stuck my blade in his head. You’ll find him about a quarter mile from John’s house. I looked around me, I didn’t see any more though. Hey, if I don’t get a chance, like if I don’t make it back, you should suggest we start a buddy system.” Daniel couldn’t help but try to be useful to the group. It was in his nature already, cemented by the crucible training, “I know we’re stretched thin, but a second man would have been a lot safer.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Gifford gave Daniel his macabre war trophy back, waiting for the boy to walk away before he flipped his own collar up, checking behind him more often now for geriatric cannibals with dentures. Being gummed to death wouldn’t be a very manly end.

  The boat Daniel was assigned to was reasonably impressive by his standards, but then again the largest ship he’d ever been on was Sonya. This was just a reasonably large private fishing boat with enough room for people to spend a weekend trophy fishing on the sea. The boat’s captain, which was a loose term for the most experienced sailor in the group, was a dorky looking man who was entirely too comfortable wearing short-shorts. He also fancied himself quite the sea fairer. Daniel thought he was an effeminate schmuck, but kept his opinions to himself for now.

  With an amount of caution that kept them going quite slow, Captain Ricci piloted the boat out of King’s Bay before he announced a battle drill while posturing. Daniel and the others looked at him like he was a moron, trying not to laugh. Finally Captain Ricci had to explain that Daniel was to take position on the M249, currently stowed in a water tight ammo box, and the others were supposed to take up prone positions on the outer deck to shoot with small arms. Daniel knew all about being a good right arm to someone who’s position is above yours, so rather than fuck with Ricci as he so desperately wanted to he agreed to work out a battle drill plan. Part of that plan was to stop at a nearby boat launch and grab some of the sandbags FEMA had seen fit to stockpile (for no reason they could readily imagine) and armor the boat with that. The thin fiberglass boat would offer virtually no protection in a gunfight. Daniel put the sandbags around the edges of the boat and kept the other three crewmen below while he and their skipper took care of any hostiles in the next drill by basically sitting back to back to cover the boat’s bow and stern. No need to expose crewmen who would only make convenient targets for snipers, Daniel argued. Captain Ricci also wanted all the guns stored below deck, him with the only key to that lockbox. Nobody obeyed that suggestion, and Daniel glared him down. This was going to be a long fucking trip, and if Ricci kept his shit up they could easily return to King’s Bay with at least one fewer crewman than they had departed with.

  They’d wasted several hours of the early dawn to armor their boat, but despite the sun being high in the sky the temperatures were below average and a storm out at sea brought fog as part of its leading edge.

  “This shit is impossible.” Clair complained. They only had fishing sonar, which was useless except for finding their depth. Sticking close to the shore, they’d patrolled only perhaps two miles to the South of the ruined FEMA launch when they found their first derelict. Another fishing boat, similar size and class, half submerged at the bow, her propeller blades just tipping the crest of the waves. Seagulls gathered on the boat, picking at something on the other side of a broken window. Whoever had been on that boat was either dead or no longer aboard. Either way it should have been an omen, but the brave voyagers continued on their way.

  “Just do what you can.” Daniel kept reading the book he’d found in the hold. It was a self-help book for people who wrote unsuccessful self-help books. If it was not meant to be satire Daniel wouldn’t have been surprised, but reading it in Robin William’s voice helped.

  “I worked for GNN before this. Spent four years in college to work a Doppler Radar System… Now I’m reduced to fishing sonar a child could operate. I guess it’s just disappointing.” Clair admitted.

  “I get it, I think. Before this shit people like me weren’t very useful. I can fight, I can shoot, it’s not rocket science, and my life was probably going to reflect that. Now suddenly my skills are in high demand, and yours are almost useless, no offense. But it won’t last. Eventually we’ll all either be eaten, or we’ll sort this shit out and warriors like me will just go back to having a very short useful span before the military wears our bodies out and we are relegated to spending the rest of our miserable lives working at gas stations, all the while wishing we had died gloriously in battle instead. Eventually Radar Operators are going to have to teach a whole new generation how to do it again. Then you can tell them how much this sucked, inspire them to make a better system, and so on and so on… Just hopefully without all the zombies.” Daniel sighed. He’d also been accused of overthinking things.

  The other two crewmen on the trip, an experienced salvager and his stoner son, were hanging out on the prow of the boat, tossing back a couple beers when the hull hit something that made a loud clunk noise. Daniel looked behind them and saw a white sneaker bob to the surface in their wake. “Slow down, I think we hit a body.” He said quietly, not wanting to alarm anyone, but Clair was piloting and therefore started to freak out enough to set “empowered women” back at least a decade.

  “Chill out, it’s just a body.” Leon, the fisherman’s son said as Clair went on frantically babbling about hitting a survivor. He gave her what she thought was a cigarette, but after some furious coughing she was a bit calmer, and really thirsty.

  Daniel picked up their binoculars and looked back into the wake of the boat, but the debris was hard to spot. Inside a wake trough he saw the hacked up corpse the twin outboards had made short work of. The life preserver the body had been wearing was white foam confetti on the water, the bloated blue-green corpse split open in several places started to slip beneath the waves again, the last thing to go under was a pale, unmoving hand. The way the hand was decomposing reminded Daniel of the final moments of Terminator 2, when John Conner’s first and only friend slipped beneath the boiling metal and every fanboy died a little inside.

  “What the fuck was that?” Captain Ricci asked, stepping out of his private bunk for the first time since their last battle drill.

  “Hit debris, Sir.” Daniel said, sharing a look with Leon Jr.

  “Well cut it out. You break a propeller blade and we’re crawling home at half speed.” Ricci slammed the thin hatch to the inside of the ship and left the boat again in Daniel’s care. For hours longer they saw nothing, just Florida swamplands, until light started to fade and the decision was made to anchor just off shore. The chances of the storm front pushing their way seemed mild and the risk decidedly acceptable.

  That night Daniel didn’t remember taking his pills, in fact he thought he’d specifically left them at the house so he didn’t take a long walk off a short pier during a dream. Despite what he thought he remembered, when he opened his eyes again he was met with Lea sitting Indian-style on the helm’s dashboard. She didn’t say anything, just smiled and met his gaze. They didn’t say anything to each other for a while, what was there to talk about after all?

  “Go away.” Dan
iel finally said, rolling over on the bench seat behind the pilot’s chair.

  “You have the powah!” Lea imitated Prince Adam.

  Daniel didn’t roll to face her. “I’m too young to remember He-Man.”

  “Oh, c’mon.” Lea pouted. “You’re insane, congratulations. Try enjoying it for once.”

  This time Daniel did roll over. “I’m not even on anything. Why am I seeing you?”

  Lea looked at Daniel with an incredulous expression, “You’re the crazy one, why are you asking me this?”

  “…fuck me…” Daniel said in exasperation.

  “We could.” Lea raised her eyebrows a couple times.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because at the end of the day I’m still just fucking myself.” Daniel smiled. Lea laughed. That joke would have made her laugh if she were still alive. “I miss you.” He said finally. Lea’s ghost didn’t have anything to say after that. Daniel blinked and she was gone. He blinked again and dawn was beginning to break over mainland Florida, his bones and indeed very soul felt more rested than he could ever remember, like the gentle rocking of the waves as a cradle. Daniel would need that energy as he and the crew found that their safe place to anchor had in fact been on the doorstep of the most nightmarish scene no sane person could ever have believed without seeing.

  “Did one of you spike my coffee?” Captain Ricci asked, pinching himself.

  “Yeah, because I’d waste my shit on you.” Leon Jr said, snapping a picture of what lay before them. It was an old Kodak instant camera, the image it spat out on the developing film was concrete evidence that they were in fact looking at a beached cruise liner and not tripping balls on Leon Jr’s supposed stash. This was not just any liner though, the lovechild of an eccentric Australian billionaire, the RMS Titanic II was supposed to be the namesake’s second chance to prove to the world that if handled properly the Olympic-class liners were in fact the grandest of the turn of the century luxury liners. Almost small by modern shipbuilding standards, compared to their fishing boat this infamous vessel still lived up to her namesake.