by Jeff Thomson
She leaned in and put her ear to the door, then mentally smacked herself upside the head for being an idiot. This was a soundproofed room. That was a security door, meant to keep people out and secrets in. Of course she wouldn’t hear anything. Or if she did, it meant she was more screwed than the most screwed person in the history of being royally fucked. So how could she find out what was on the other side without opening it onto the aforementioned crazed and hungry hoard?
She actually did smack herself upside the head. There was a security camera.
“Pull your head out, Amber,” she said aloud, then shook her head at the potential psychological ramifications of talking to herself in an empty (corpse notwithstanding) room. She could be here like this for a very long time. Talking to herself was the pathway to madness, and she’d only been there a few days. She paused, wondering how many days it had been: four...? Five...? More...? What would she be like a week from now? Or a month? Sheep, comma, not shorn, comma, one each. Get your ass moving.
She skirted the front side of the console and strode to the monitor that showed a view of the outside corridor. It was empty - the corridor, not the monitor. The monitor showed a hallway utterly, blissfully devoid of zombies, naked maniacs, creatures from Hell, or any other denizens of her worst nightmares.
Okay...So...Now what?
She could open the door fast as possible and drop the body right outside. It would solve the first problem. No zombie, no zombie rot, no potential health hazard. On the other hand, if she just left it there, it would provide a tasty and readily accessible snack for any other zombies wandering around in the building, thus bringing them quite literally to her doorstep. Would they eat and go? Or would they eat, decide they liked the ambience of the place, decide there might be some other future morsels tossed their way, and wait till Hell freezes over, or they drop dead from hunger and/or thirst?
Sometimes she really hated having such a great imagination.
She was going to have to drag the body and dump it well away from the door, preferably in some other empty room. She was going to have to go out there, beyond the scope of the camera. Her great imagination conjured up a schematic map of the Comm Center building. On it were written the words: Here there be Dragons.
115
The light of the three-quarter moon cut a swath across the calm sea, giving lie to the tumult within Jonesy’s chest. It felt like John Bonham, Buddy Rich, Neal Peart and the entire percussion section of Carlos Santana’s band were jamming inside his heart muscle. And yet, nothing was happening. That was the problem.
During the battle inside the Bridge, and the rush to get onto the Flying Bridge so they’d have room to fight, and even watching Molly take out Saigon Ron, his heart remained relatively docile, under the circumstances. Training and adrenaline and the need for action kept him from thinking about what was happening. He’d just reacted, going from one problem, to the next, and then the next, because it wasn’t like he’d had any other choice. Now that they had a bit of breathing room, however, the total fucked-up-ness of their situation began to take its toll.
“Nice night,” he said to Molly, trying to test his voice, to see if it had risen by several octaves into a girlish soprano. It had not. He sounded normal.
“Oh, yeah,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m having the time of my life.”
She seemed calm, which was just wrong, on so many levels. She was a girl. Okay... Political-Correctness check...she’s a woman... But damn it! He was the man, here. The masculine one, the tall and brave and strong one. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to work? How in the fuck, then, was she so calm?
He was babbling inside his head, and he knew it. The problem, it seemed, was that nothing was happening. There they were, ready for action, armed (as best they could be) and ready to fight off the zombie hoards. But there were no zombie hoards. There was no enemy. There were no creatures from the bowels of Hell trying to kill them, and it was driving him out of his ever-loving mind.
“I wish they’d show up and get this over with,” Molly said.
“I know, right?” he said, relieved he wasn’t the only one feeling the strain. “You’d think zombies would be less rude.”
“I blame TV,” she said.
“And the media, and video games,” he added. “Don’t forget them.”
“Might as well add the AIDS Quilt, while we’re at it.”
“And the War on Christmas.”
She snapped her fingers as if she’d finally gotten the answer. “Global Warming,” she said.
“Gotta be,” he replied.
He walked to the port edge of the Flying Bridge and looked down. The crowd at the door had vanished, presumably inside the Bridge. He didn’t like to think of what damage they might be causing in there.
Movement caught his eye: something down on the Boat Deck, milling around near the bottom of the ladder, just out of view. He glanced over at Molly, saw that she was looking at him, expectantly. He shrugged.
“Might as well invite them to the party,” he said, then flipped his right-hand baton over and started banging on the rail with the thicker handle. “Hey, Zombies! Hello Zombies!”
Two things happened, almost simultaneously: SKC Robinson, his uniform shredded, but still more or less intact, and his face and hands covered in blood, popped his head out the Bridge door; and LT Richard (Dickhead-fuckface-asshole, and whatever other nasty epithets might come to mind) Medavoy peered up from the bottom of the Boat Deck ladder. Both of them were zombies.
Of course, from that distance, Jonesy couldn’t say with absolute certainty that Medavoy had turned, but he discovered (with a mildly gut-wrenching feeling of glee) that he hoped the arrogant prick had - if for no other reason than it would give him a reason to kill the son of a bitch. Time to get the show on the road.
“Are you assholes waiting for an engraved invitation?” he yelled.
Robinson moved first, snarling to start the festivities. He was followed by Seaman Donelly, Fireman Carnegie, and EM1 Sinstabe. DC1 Holdstien did not, at first, put in an appearance. A quick glance down below the ladder caught Medavoy heading up, as well. Jonesy looked at Molly and gave her a wan smile.
“Be careful what you ask for,” he said.
“Because we might get a gang of zombies, instead?”
“Exactly,” he replied. If he hadn’t already liked her, hadn’t already had the hots for her, and hadn’t already admired the living Hell out of her, he certainly would have then.
They backed away from the rail and each took a stance, and waited.
And waited...
And waited...
Nothing happened. No zombie heads appeared above the combing. No deranged fiends climbed the ladder to do battle. They waited in silent anticipation.
Finally, Jonesy uttered: “Whiskey Tango, Foxtrot, over?” Then he moved back to the rail and looked down. The hoard of would-be attackers looked back up at him, then at the ladder, then at him again, and growled. The straight ladder from the 02 Deck, so unlike the stair-type ladder any idiot could fathom, seemed to be beyond their capability.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he said.
Molly joined him at the rail and peered down. “Huh,” she said, in wonder. “Will you look at that?”
“Never thought I’d want a bunch of bloodthirsty zombies to get closer, but...”
“Yeah,” she replied.
“Come on...” he said to them. “You can do it. Hand over hand. Easy as pie.” He demonstrated the maneuver, pantomiming his hands reaching upward toward an imaginary rung and pulling on the air.
Sinstabe - who seemed to be the leader of this band of flesh-eating Village Idiots - gaped at Jonesy, slack-jawed, then slowly brought his gaze to the ladder in front of him. He looked up at Jonesy, down at the ladder, up at Jonesy, down at the ladder, and then reached out and grabbed the rung just above his blood-covered head.
“That’s it,” Jonesy said, unable to believe he was encouraging a zombie. The
idea was insane, on the surface of it. But if they couldn’t get them to come up, they would have to go down. Up on the Flying Bridge, they had the high ground, the zombies would have to squeeze thru the gap in the rail to get at them, and so Jonesy and Molly could engage them one at a time, without getting swarmed. As crazy as it sounded, they needed the zombies to climb up. “You can do it,” he encouraged.
“You sound like you’re talking to a puppy,” Molly said.
He looked at her. “Thanks. I really needed that image.”
“Just trying to help.” She grinned at him. There was a touch of hysteria in that grin.
“When this is over,” Jonesy said, marveling at the idea there might actually be an end to all of this, “I do believe I’m gonna need to get shitfaced.”
“I’ll buy the first round,” Molly replied.
“Deal,” he said, as Sinstabe finally figured out the complex intricacies of a vertical ladder, and began to climb. “Oh, and look who decided to join us!” Medavoy arrived, and yes, he was infected - or, at least, he looked thoroughly insane - which was confirmed when Robinson growled at him and he growled back. Yep, definitely batshit.
“So...” Molly began. “Do we salute, or...? Not sure what the protocol is in this situation.”
“I think we just kill him,” Jonesy said. “And if you would... Let me do it.”
Sinstabe’s face appeared at the gap in the railing leading to the Flying Bridge. Jonesy did his best to punt the zombie’s head into next week with his steel-toed boot. The head remained more or less intact, but the former Electrician’s Mate’s nose splattered like an overripe pomegranate, spraying blood as he/it flew backward into Donelly, who staggered, but retained his footing and charged at the short ladder. Carnegie joined him, and both tried to climb it at once, which might have been hilarious, except that the combination of four clutching hands managed to block Jonesy’s next kick, and sent him tripping backwards, where he landed on his ass.
This, too, might have been a bit on the funny side, since pratfalls were as old as comedy itself, but his flailing attempt to stop his fall, knocked Molly aside, leaving the ladder wide open. Donelly and Carnegie were up it in a flash, both headed straight for the brand new Ensign. She shoved the still leather-covered axe blade forward, hitting Donelly with it’s flat end just under the chin. He/it gave a strangled cough and took one step backward, but he was far from out of the fight.
She launched a solid front kick into Carnegie’s chest, sending him into the rail, but by then, Robinson had arrived, so she now found herself facing three zombies, with what was effectively a blunt instrument. She swung it at the SKC, smacking him just above the left ear, and then Jonesy was by her side.
He sent one baton swinging into Robinson’s knee, the other into his/its elbow, and the first into almost the same spot Molly had hit - whap, whap, whap in rapid succession. It proved to be too much for the large ebony zombie, who dropped like a stone onto the deck at their feet.
Molly dodged Donelly’s crazed attempt to rip her face off with his clawed hands, but the spin brought her straight into Carnegie. She avoided his bite toward her ear, then slammed her head back into a reverse head butt, plastering his nose much the same way Jonesy had rearranged Sinstabe’s face, but with less deadly effect. She side-slipped, then jabbed the axe handle straight back into the Fireman’s gonads. The young zombie whimpered, but did not stop trying to bite her ear. She spun away from him and found herself face to face with LT Medavoy. This was for but a moment, until Jonesy punched their new CO right in the eye, snapping its head back.
He followed with a combination of rights and lefts, driving the despised ex-man into Donelly, who stumbled backward, hit the rail high on his/its thigh, and tumbled over the side and into the sea. Medavoy crashed into the signal light, but the blows didn’t seem to be doing him/it any harm. Jonesy felt a mad rage building inside him. He dropped the batons, wanting to feel the impact with his own hands, wanting to pound the son of a bitch into putty.
The fucker had been crawling up his ass since the day he reported aboard. He’d given him every shit detail he could think of, made him take duty on the first day of every single liberty port, and the last day of all five of the AtoN trips they’d taken in the past six months. He missed not a single opportunity to make some snide or otherwise derogatory comment, and had been as much of an asshole as he possibly could. At least, that ‘s how Jonesy saw it, as he kept pummeling the bastard he’d come to view as his nemesis aboard the ship he had grown to love. Plus, the stupid motherfucker refused to take any steps to insure the safety of her crew. He should die. He deserved to die. And Jonesy wanted to be the one to do it.
Molly nailed Carnegie in the nuts again - this time with a kick, and the zombie-kid dropped to its knees. She brought the axe, blade first into the top of its skull, with exactly the same result as with Saigon Ron. The skull splattered and the zombie crumpled. But this time, the axe penetrated the bone, and the falling zombie took her weapon with it.
She glanced at Jonesy in time to see him execute a maneuver straight out of The Karate Kid - just without the silly arm waving. He brought his left knee up, then sharply down again, using it to power his right leg’s kick square into the bottom of Medavoy’s jaw. The XO/CO/ pain in the ass zombie flew into a back-flip, straight over the starboard rail and out of sight.
And then it was over. All the zombies were dead.
Jonesy came to her side, but kept glancing toward the starboard rail, as if half-expecting to see Medavoy climb right back over. He looked at her and gave her a half-guilty/half-sheepish grin.
“I think I enjoyed that just a little too much,” he said, looking to starboard again. Then he stiffened, hearing the sound of movement below. No! It can’t be! He can’t be coming back!
He wasn’t - at least not Medavoy. DC1 Holdstien’s face appeared at the head of the ladder from the 02 Deck. “Oh for Christ’s sake!” Jonesy swore, looking up toward the Heavens. “Enough is enough, already!”
He pulled his large Bowie knife, with its eight-inch blade from the sheath on his right thigh and hopped down onto the Signal Bridge, holding the blade flat against his forearm. Holdstien-Zombie’s head, shoulders and chest were now in view. Knocking aside the grasping hand with his foot, as if nudging away an annoying puppy dog, Jonesy squatted and stabbed the knife into its chest twice, in rapid succession. Blood spurted from both wounds and the Damage Controlman-Zombie’s mouth opened and closed like a bleeding goldfish, before the former shipmate slipped down the ladder and onto the deck below with a finality of sound, signalling the real end to their battle on the Flying Bridge.
He looked up at her, and she looked down at him. A moment passed in silence, then two, then three.
Finally, Jonesy gave a shrug and a smile and said the last thing she could have or ever would have expected: “What are your orders, Captain?”
116
“...Doctor Floyd to the Port Boat Deck on the double!” John Gordon’s voice boomed over the True North’s PA system, and Stephanie Barber saw the mad scientist look up at the speaker and frown. But that’s all he did - just frown. He did not jump to his feet and go rushing off toward whatever emergency awaited his attention. He did not start barking orders and taking charge like any doctor on any medical TV show. He just sat there, staring at the now silent speaker.
“Professor Floyd,” Marcie Gordon began. She was white-faced with worry about her missing son, and clutching her teen-aged daughter as if to prevent her from getting out of her sight ever again, but still collected enough to see a problem and want to fix it. “They need you on the Boat Deck.”
He flicked the statement away with the back of his hand as if swatting at an annoying insect, but still did not move.
Stephanie Barber was nineteen, tall, slim, pretty, and had no real idea what she would eventually be majoring in at NYU. At the moment it was (or had been) Journalism, but she’d been thinking of maybe switching to the Film School, or perhaps Psychology. Tha
t last was what she told her father she was studying, partly because she knew it would annoy him, and partly because she wasn’t entirely sure a career in the arts was really what she wanted to do. On top of all that, what she had actually been taking classes in was Biology, Chemistry, and Human Anatomy, because she had also been playing with the notion of becoming a doctor. This may or may not have had something (or everything) to do with a certain James O’Bannon, who just happened to have also been taking those same classes, but the strategy had gotten her exactly nowhere with the toothsome young New Yorker, and now - given the zombie apocalypse - it never would.
But it had also caused her to take a course in Advanced First Aid. She might have been head over heals in unrequited love or (more likely) lust, but nobody had ever accused her of being stupid. Since she was toying with the idea of Medicine as a career, she’d taken the course to make sure she wasn’t, ultimately, too squeamish for the profession. Turned out, she was not.
This autobiographical stream of consciousness flashed through her mind in but a moment. She’d heard the call, and the sense of urgency behind it. Somebody needed help. Floyd wasn’t a doctor, but he was the closest thing they had to one, and she was the closest thing to a nurse. She rose and walked to him.
“Come on, Doc,” she said, gently but insistently grabbing his arm. “They need us topside.”
Another thing Stephanie Barber was, was a hottie. She knew it, and had found it both annoying, and occasionally useful. Men were such pushovers when you goosed them with even the slightest glimmer of a hope of the possibility of maybe getting laid sometime in the as yet to be determined future. She was wearing a skimpy bikini top that did nothing to hide her boobs, and an almost skimpier pair of shorts that did the same for the other important bits. She’d done this - again - to annoy her father, but also because they were on a tropical cruise and it seemed the right thing, the natural thing. That it was also the perfect thing for a bit of male manipulation was not lost on her.
