by Jeff Thomson
Guardians of the Apocalypse Book One:
You’re Never Ready for a Zombie Apocalypse
a novel by Jeff Thomson
Copyright 2018, Twisted Synapse Books, West Haven, UT
Library of Congress 1-6160010181
All rights reserved
Cover Art created by www.rockingbookcovers.com
The idea for this story was suggested by the scenario posited in John Ringo’s Black Tide Rising series; (Baen Books, Wake Forest, NC). As such, there are similarities: both are Military Theme Zombie Fiction, both take place in a marine environment, and both involve a viral outbreak. The plot, characters, locale, branch of service, and focus are all different. Some of the science is the same, but science is science, and you can’t just make stuff up. Having said that, the author believes in giving credit where credit is due, so thank you Mister Ringo. Well done, sir. You can find his books on Baen.com and Amazon.com
Thanks also to Mr Lane Keely, and Ms Lisa Hillman, for being beta readers, along with an extra special thank you to Mr Jim Barber for his continued support and assistance in my writing efforts. Your literary death, when it comes, shall be epic.
Feel free to contact the author: [email protected]
This book is dedicated to the men and women of the United States Coast Guard: past, present, and future. You do an incredibly difficult job, with incredibly few thanks, and are the butt of jokes from all the other services, but in my eyes (and in this book) you guys rock.
This is in many ways a love letter to the people I served with. Sorry, but with whom I served sounds far too pompous. The Grammar Nazis may feel free to kiss my ass.
I have “borrowed” the names of some of those people, because they are immortal in my heart, and so I thought I’d make them immortal in reality. You guys (and women) deserve it. You earned it.
For Frank Rosseler and Gus Perniola, just flip-flop the last names. Sorry guys, couldn’t resist.
The actions, thoughts and most of the literary personalities of those great people are of my own creation. I hope they don’t mind. As for the other names, I made them up. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead (or a zombie) is purely coincidental.
I served on two icebreakers and two of the older 180 buoy tenders. Having never been on any of the newer 225's, and because their configuration is For Official Use Only, I am unfamiliar with their layout. Also, my years aboard the ships I did serve on was a long time ago, and my memory ain’t what it used to be. So, yes, I’ll admit it, I made up a bunch of shit. Also, I took certain liberties with the rating designations, and the manning and organization of the LEDET and TACLET. Call it Artistic Licence, or simply say that I liked it better the old way. Don’t bother telling me that such-and-such a compartment was on the Port side, not the Starboard side, or that the New Guard is different. I don’t care.
I took the same liberties with some of the geographical details, as for example: there isn’t an actual pier in Midway Harbor, but I put one there, anyway. It’s good to be the King. My world, my rules. Deal with it.
Fair winds and following seas, shipmates.
********************SECRET********************
1429Z18MAY
FM: COMCOGUARDISTRICTFOURTEEN, HONOLULU, HI
TO: CGC KUKUI (WLB 203)
CGC SASSAFRAS (WLB 217)
CGC SEQUOIA (WLB 215)
CGC ASSATEAGUE (WPB 1337)
CGC GALVESTON ISLAND (WPB 1349)
CGC KISKA (WPB 1336)
CGC WASHINGTON (WPB 1331)
CC: COMCOGUARDPACAREA, ALAMEDA, CA
COMCOGUARDSECTOR HONOLULU, HI
COMCOGUARDSECTOR APIA, GUAM
COMSTA APIA, GUAM
SUBJ: POMONA VIRUS
1. SUMMARY
A: POMONA, A MAN-MADE VIRUS, RELEASED VIA AIR BORNE, BLOOD BORNE AND CONTACT VECTORS, AND WHICH HAS NO KNOWN CURE, HAS BEEN DECLARED A WILDFIRE EPIDEMIC BY THE CDC. IT HAS BEEN DETERMINED TO BE TWO SEPARATE VIRUSES.
B: THE FIRST MANIFESTS AS A VIRULENT, BUT OTHERWISE NORMAL STRAIN OF THE COMMON COLD, CAUSING AN UPPER RESPIRATORY INFECTION. THIS IS BOTH AN AIRBORNE AND CONTACT PATHOGEN, AND IS CONSIDERED HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS. NORMAL COLD REMEDIES AND OTHER PREVENTIVE MEASURES HAVE BEEN DEEMED INEFFECTIVE DUE TO THEIR INABILITY TO TREAT THE SECOND VIRUS (SEE BELOW).
C: THE SECOND VIRUS, WHICH MANIFESTS 2-5 DAYS AFTER THE ONSET OF UPPER RESPIRATORY SYMPTOMS, IS A NEUROLOGICAL BLOOD PATHOGEN, SIMILAR TO RABIES, THAT ATTACKS THE HUMAN BRAIN, DESTROYING THE FUNCTIONALITY OF THE FRONTAL LOBE, WHILE ACTIVATING THE AMYGDALA - THE SO-CALLED “LIZARD BRAIN.” SYMPTOMS OF THE SECOND VIRUS INCLUDE, BUT ARE NOT LIMITED TO: DELUSIONAL BEHAVIOR, SEVERE PARANOIA, REMOVAL OF CLOTHING, LOSS OF LANGUAGE ABILITY, LOSS OF HIGHER ORDER BRAIN FUNCTION, AND EXTREME VIOLENCE, WHICH INCLUDES BITING.
D: THESE BITES ARE HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS AND SHOULD BE AVOIDED AT ALL COSTS. TIME FROM FIRST BITE TO ONSET OF NEUROLOGICAL SYMPTOMS IS 1-3 HOURS. EXTREME CAUTION IS ADVISED.
E. THE FIRST CONFIRMED OUTBREAK OCCURRED APRIL 1ST, THIS YEAR, AT THE POMONA JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL, POMONA, CALIFORNIA.
F. CDC HAS REPORTED THE SPREAD OF THIS VIRUS THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE WORLD. CDC, WHO, ETC., HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO STABILIZE THE SPREAD, OR CONTROL ITS EFFECTS.
G. AN ATTENUATED VACCINE HAS BEEN PRODUCED, USING INFECTED SPINAL TISSUE FROM HIGHER-ORDER PRIMATES, BUT THE SCARCITY OF SUCH NON-HUMAN PRIMATES HAS MADE WORLDWIDE DISSEMINATION OF THIS VACCINE FUNCTIONALLY IMPOSSIBLE.
H. ATTEMPTS TO RESTRAIN AND TREAT VICTIMS OF THIS EPIDEMIC HAVE PROVEN TO BE INEFFECTIVE.
I: RULES OF ENGAGEMENT: STUN, TRANQUILIZE, TRANSPORT TO SECURE FACILITY (SEE ENCLOSURE 01 BELOW) REMAIN IN EFFECT.
2. ACTION:
A. COMPACAREA HAS ORDERED ALL D-14 USCG SHIPS TO ALPHA STATUS.
B. ALL LEAVE IS TO BE CANCELLED. ALL CREW IS TO BE RECALLED. STOP LOSS IS IN EFFECT FOR ALL RATES AND RANKS, FOR THE DURATION OF THE EMERGENCY.
C. YOU ARE DIRECTED TO LOAD FUEL, STORES, DISASTER SUPPLIES, AND AMMUNITION. COORDINATE WITH BASE COMMAND, SAND ISLAND, FUEL POINT, PEARL HARBOR, AND/OR NAVCOM APIA, GUAM.
D: YOU ARE DIRECTED TO BE UNDERWAY NLT 0800 LCL 19 MAY.
E: SEE ENCLOSURE 02 FOR DEPLOYMENT DIRECTION.
F: ONCE ON STATION, HOLD IN POSITION AND AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS.
1
“Fuck me sideways,” OS2 Bill Schaeffer, sitting in the Radio Room of the US Coast Guard Cutter Sassafras, said, in what most people would consider a casual tone. Anyone who knew him, and knew his laconic manner of speaking, however, might be alarmed.
He leaned back in his chair and read the message again. All was not well. Not even close.
He’d watched the news, knew of the Pomona outbreak. The CDC announced it three weeks ago, using carefully-worded political doublespeak, saying nothing but speaking volumes. It hadn’t seemed real, somehow. And he’d seen the original reports of the outbreak, the body bags being brought out of the Pomona Junior High School on stretchers, the families wailing and crying and hugging each other for support. That definitely hadn’t seemed real - just familiar.
How many times had scenes of mass death been played out on national television, over, and over, and over again, with those same images: stretchers, emergency workers, families, and with A Community Shattered in bold headlines, scrolling beneath it all? Only this time, there hadn’t been any guns involved. This time there hadn’t been the NRA to stop anything from being done about it. This time it was the anti-vaccine morons.
Pomona had only been the first. Those same images, those same scenes of death played out as twisted sequels to the original, in school after school, after school. Whatever crazy fuck did this, used children to spread the virus.
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Bill couldn’t help the comparison to Apocalypse, Now; to the scene where Brando talked about the VC hacking the vaccinated arms off the village children. The logic was deadly simple and deadly effective. Even after the virus spread, even after it had become an epidemic, what were people supposed to do: not hug their sick child?
The cold virus came first, and it was a nasty bugger. Some shook it off, many didn’t. The respiratory infection lasted a few days to a week, followed by a day or two of relatively good health. Then the fever would hit, carrying with it a microscopic passenger that attacked the human frontal lobe, taking away all higher level cognition, and leaving behind it a pissed off, insane and violent monster with an eerie resemblance to the standard Hollywood zombie - except, they weren’t dead.
Bill heard the rumors: people going crazy, cannibalism, “treatment centers” more like some twisted nightmare from a Nazi Death Camp than anything useful, or helpful, or sane. He’d even seen signs of it in Honolulu.
Two days ago (was that all it was?) he’d been out picking up beer and snacks for the party he and his roommate, BM1 Jones, were throwing at their apartment, over by Pearl Harbor - just a normal Saturday night. He’d been choosing between pretzels and tortilla chips, and had finally decided upon both, when he heard: “Help me! Help me! The bugs! All the fucking bugs!” followed by...growling.
Of course, he’d known he hadn’t actually heard what he thought he’d heard. He hadn’t heard growling. No way, Jose. He hadn’t heard anything like growling - except, he had. But it was impossible! People didn’t growl. People never growled. But then he’d heard it again, and this time it had been closer.
He’d peered around the snack aisle, towards where they kept the tequila (which he remembered he was supposed to pick up). Jonesy loved him some tequila, and there would be no small amount of bitching if he forgot it. The thought passed through his head like a will-o-the-wisp, to be swept aside when he realized he was watching a middle-aged man in what was left of a Hawaiian shirt, remove his board shorts.
Forget that the guy was far too old and knobby-kneed to be wearing board shorts, in the first place. Forget that he was dropping trou right there in the liquor store, in front of God and everybody. What Bill couldn’t forget, hard as he tried, was the look of insane rage on the guy’s face.
With a keening of such lunatic malice as Bill never wanted to hear again, the lunatic charged. Fortunately for Bill, but unfortunately for the man with anger-management issues, the middle-aged exhibitionist hadn’t quite finished taking off his shorts. They’d still been down around his ankles, and sent him straight to the ground with a splat.
From around the opposite corner of the tequila shelves, a police officer, in full riot gear appeared, took one look at the situation, then dropped on the still-snarling tourist It took place in barely more than an instant.
Bill watched in detached fascination as the cop pulled an Eppy-pen from a pouch at his side, flipped off the protective cap, then jabbed it into the still-struggling man’s thigh, pulled flex cuffs from a belt pouch and secured the man’s hands as the drug began to take effect.
The cop had looked up, then, and said: “Nothing to see here.”
“Right,” Bill had replied, and promptly headed to the checkout counter, paid for the beer and snacks, and left the store, forgetting the tequila completely.
Two days ago. Only two days.
Even with the news reports and rumors and the wild speculation at the party that night (and yes, Jonesy had bitched about the lack of tequila), the entire idea of what was laughably being called a zombie apocalypse remained just an idea - and a screwy one, just on the face of it.
Forget the technical conversations about how it couldn’t be a zombie apocalypse, because the people weren’t dead and could not, therefore, be zombies. Forget the signs that this whole thing was bigger than what the official word was making it out to be. Bill could even forget (or maybe just push aside) the incident at the liquor store. None of those things made it seem real.
But this message, and its order for all the buoy tenders and patrol boats in the entire District to get underway...? That shit was real.
He clipped the message to the SECRET board and picked up the phone.
2
“Don’t give me any zombie apocalypse bullshit,” Harold insisted, as he tossed a heavy box of lettuce up the brow to MK2 Frank Roessler. “Because there’s no such thing as fucking zombies.”
Harold F. Simmons, jr., was a tall and thin nineteen year-old African American Seaman in Uncle Sam’s Confused Group. Most days he was happy about this. Most days, his face carried an expression of perpetual mirth - just not today, and certainly not while discussing the current NON-Zombie Apocalypse.
“You’re obsessed with this not-a-zombie thing, Harold. What else can you call crazed, homicidal naked cannibals?” Frank asked, catching a box of broccoli from the young man and tossing it further up the brow. He was also tall, also thin, in his early twenties, with short, dark brown hair and the beginnings of a receding hairline. His face carried a sardonic grin as he sweated in the late morning sun.
They were taking on stores - lots of stores - which was weird, because up until today, they’d been scheduled to go into Charlie Status, which meant they weren’t supposed to be going anywhere. But first thing this morning, before Harold even had his first cup of bug juice (he hated coffee, and the powdered drink carried a shocking amount of sugar guaranteed to give even the most sleep-deprived person a rush), they announced the change in status. And then came the pipe every junior enlisted hated:
“All E-5 and below lay to the pier to load stores.”
A general cry of “What the fuck,” went up on the mess deck, like the wailing of a siren (or a big bunch of babies, as Harold was sure his BM1 would say), but it changed nothing. They’d still had to tromp out to the pier to start lifting and toting. They hadn’t even stopped to hold morning muster, just “Turn to ship’s work.” Everybody grumbled, everybody bitched, but it did about as much good as it usually did - which is to say, none at all.
And then word spread they were getting underway to go turn the “Box of Death,” out off of Kauai for an undisclosed period of time. No reason was given, but everybody knew: Pomona.
The most definitely not zombie virus had been circulating for about three weeks, by this point. Most had seen the signs: naked, crazy people running down the street, growling and trying to bite other people, was hard to miss, and just so wrong. “Don’t dare get bit,” was the most common suggestion. Like he needed to be told something so obvious.
Word from the mainland was worse. The last time he’d talked to his father in Philly, his father said there were riots and fires, and that the police had set up warehouses - fucking warehouses - to hold the infected, because there wasn’t a damned thing else anybody could do with them.
“How the Hell should I know?” Harold asked. “Zombies are the living dead. These fuckers never died.” This was true enough. Pomona usually didn’t kill its victims outright; it just drove them out of their goddamned minds.
The radio waves and the Internet were filled with wild conspiracy theories about who caused it. Some asshole had even suggested Black Lives Matter created it to take down Whitey, which was idiotic, because it was taking down black people every bit as much as white, or brown, or yellow, or whatever color you wanted to name - truly an Equal Opportunity virus.
But people wanted someone to blame, and so the conspiracy theories spread like wildfire. There was even one - told first by some Talk-Radio nutjob on InfoWars - that Obama and Hillary created it as revenge for having been beaten by Trump.
None of it mattered. Figuring out who caused it wouldn’t change a thing, because Pomona was as real as it got, and it had changed everything.
“So what do they have?” Frank asked. “Mad Cow?”
“That’s right, Frank,” BM1/OPS Socrates Jones said from his supervisory post alongside the brow. “They’re nothing but naked, human,
flesh-eating Mad Cows.”
3
“A little less bullshitting and a lot more sweat, please,” Jonesy said. Socrates (Jonesy) Jones was tall and well-built, with the sun-washed face and squint-crinkled eyes of a man who’d spent almost a third of his twenty-seven years of life at sea. He wore the Tropical Dress uniform: a short-sleeved, light blue shirt over dark blue dress pants; his shoes shined and his ribbons adorning his chest, making him look like an honest-to God war hero. All a facade, of course. He was no hero, in spite of the four rows of three ribbons, topped by two more singles, a Cutterman’s Pin, a Diver’s Pin, and a Tactical Law Enforcement Badge.
He was the Officer of the Day, put there, he suspected, because none of the Wardroom assholes wanted to deal with loading stores. They might have actually had to work for a change. Couldn’t have that!
“Come on, Jonesy,” Harold said. “What do you think it is?”
“I think you need to shut the fuck up and turn-to ship’s work,” he replied. “And don’t call me Jonesy when I’m the OD. You know better than that.”
“Aw, come on, Jonesy,” Harold said. “Lighten up.”
“You’re in the military, Harry,” Socrates said, knowing full well hos friend hated to be called “Harry.” He checked the clipboard he was holding, as if it served some purpose, which was silly, since the CS1 would be signing for all of the stores. “At least try to act like it.”
“Yes sir, Petty Officer Jones, sir!” Harold said with an exaggerated salute.
