*****
Interludes in Hell
El Segundo Water Tower: 6:26 PM, April 1, 2012
Carl was sitting atop a hundred foot water tower watching the world disintegrate around him. There was a cool breeze coming off the ocean, but he was pretty sure that the chills he felt were more related to the horrific events he was witnessing than any wind chill factor on this mild spring evening in Southern California. In fact, Carl was numb to most external stimuli at that point. He had spent most of the day watching a city die.
He had watched helplessly as throngs of zombies pursued men, women and children up and down the nearby streets. Then he listened in silently as the screams of victims were overwhelmed by the ravenous moans of their killers, only to be joined by the moans of the victims when they rose again to become killers themselves. He had watched in shock as cars crashed and buildings burned. He had even seen airplanes fall from the sky. But the worst memories of that day were of watching a family – husband, wife, and three children – get attacked and devoured by at least a dozen zombies who surrounded them between the water tower and the abandoned ambulance. No, on second thought, the worst memory was when the partially eaten kids had come back as zombies a few minutes later and staggered back down the street, probably in search of more family or friends to convert to their new condition.
Now, as dusk faded into night he could see the glow of hundreds of buildings burning out of control across the city. He knew that there would not be any firemen coming to fight those fires. A few hours in the ambulance listening to their radio traffic had made that point abundantly clear. By mid morning the dispatcher had ordered all surviving fire department assets to return to their fire stations. Those that could were encouraged to make their way to County Fire Headquarters, which was located next to the Sheriff’s HQ in East LA. Although Carl was sure that 911 calls kept coming in, it became clear that nobody would be sent to help them. That fact, more than everything else he had seen that day, convinced Carl that he was witnessing the end of civilization.
He had heard sirens for most of the morning and into the afternoon, indicating that some emergency service personnel were at least still on the move. But even that had died out now. Nevertheless, in the growing darkness Carl could see the flashing red and blue strobe lights of numerous police and fire vehicles scattered across the city. Unfortunately they all appeared to be stationary. Carl had to assume that they were abandoned or overrun by now. The lights would probably keep flashing until all the batteries died. It was an eerie sight that might have been beautiful, if it hadn’t marked another nail the coffin of civilization.
The zombies that Carl had killed by the fence were still lying there, unmoving, so he had to assume that they were truly dead. Many other zombies had walked past the water tower that day, but none of them had lingered or tried to get through the fence. Nor had they shown any sign that they realized Carl was perched on the tower above them. This gave Carl a little comfort and confirmation that he had chosen one of the better places to hide in this neighborhood.
With nothing better to do, Carl decided to see what was inside of the ‘Search and Rescue Kit’ that he had snatched from the ambulance. Opening the backpack, he found a plethora of valuable survival gear. First out was a bundle of climbing pitons with a combination rock hammer and ice axe to go with the rope and rappelling harness tied to the outside of the backpack. Next he pulled out a compact first aid kit; then a waterproof LED flashlight with a hand charging crank; a small pouch containing a foil survival blanket; a box of dehydrated emergency rations; a coil of monofilament wire; two road flares; two signal flares; four chemical glow sticks; waterproof matches; a pair of binoculars; and last, but certainly not least, a handheld fire department radio in a carrying case that also held a headset and spare battery. Carl had never been a survivalist but, if he were, this backpack is what he would ask for from Santa Claus.
Carl was smiling until he thought about the things he wanted the most. At the top of the list, of course, was his wife, Pricilla. But he had come to grips with the fact that she was either dead or one of the monstrous living dead by now. And that just made him want the other thing on his wish list more. A gun. Any gun. With lots of ammo.
The pick axe was a nice weapon and had already proved capable of dispatching zombies face to face. Carl had no doubt that the combo rock hammer and ice axe would produce equally effective results. But he didn’t want to have to attack every zombie hand to hand and face to face. He knew that he would be bitten, even eaten alive, if he ever tried to take on too many of them at once. But he really wanted to kill them all, or at least as many of them as he could find. Axes and hammers were not up to that task. What he really wanted was a machine gun, or a tank, or God damned atomic bomb!
Having none of those things, however, Carl contented himself with repacking the Search and Rescue Kit, making sure to keep the ice axe and handheld radio on top where he could access them quickly. Then he paused and decided to make sure the radio was working. He plugged in the headset, put the little speakers in his ears, and turned on the radio.
“All units, be advised, the city and county of Los Angeles are under martial law and curfew. All emergency services personnel are ordered to muster at police, sheriff, or fire stations to await orders. Do not attempt to approach any hospital, urgent care, or medical center. Do not attempt to assist any victims of violent assault, especially anyone who has been bitten by another person. Avoid contact with anyone who shows any indication of violent intent, or does not respond to verbal commands. All emergency service personnel are authorized to use deadly force to defend themselves from anyone, regardless of age or appearance, who poses any sort of physical threat. Beware of and avoid any large groups of people. It is believed that many citizens have been infected with a virus that produces homicidal rage and spreads on contact.”
Carl whistled very softly. In a way it was nice to know that the authorities had finally figured out at least some of what was happening. But it was terrifying to know that no police or firemen were out there to help people anymore. Carl might have learned more if he kept listening, but he decided to save the batteries. He put the radio away, pulled out the thin metallic space blanket, and lay down on top of the water tower to stare at the stars and listen to the echoing moans of prowling zombies below.
Chapter 4: Dead Men Walking
“When there is no more room in hell the dead will walk the earth.” Dawn of the Dead
Shortly before dawn on April 2, 2012, the Sovereign Spirit’s flight crew began preparing the helicopter for its recon flight over Cabo San Lucas. The bird was already fully fueled and had been in perfect operating condition when used for sightseeing flights over the Galapagos last week. But this flight would be longer and of a totally different nature. They would be flying more than a hundred miles over the ocean to reach Cabo and could not expect any help, or safe place to land, when they got there. Luckily, the helicopter was a twin engine Bell 214-ST with long range tanks and emergency floatation devices mounted under the fuselage. It had been used to support off-shore oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico until the 2010 oil spill closed them down. Scott had purchased it for a good price and refitted it for another quarter million to make it virtually better than new. The upgrades included new leather seating for twelve passengers, including a five seat bench at the rear that could fold out into a bed for air ambulance or camping applications. Every passenger had access to Bose noise cancelling headphones and there were video screens that could show in-flight DVDs, streaming internet video, or views from the camera on a swivel mount below the nose of the chopper. They could also transmit those images back to the ship if they wanted to. The twin engines added an extra measure of safety for overwater flights. All in all, this was one of the best helicopters they could have asked for in these circumstances.
There were two pilots inspecting the aircraft as Scott emerged onto the helicopter pad and waved them over. “Hi Mick,” he said to his chief pilot. “It’l
l be you and me up front on the sticks today. I want Sam to stay here and get the Seawind ready to launch in case we call for help.” Scott meant that he would act as copilot for the helicopter and leave the second pilot on the ship in case they needed the amphibious airplane to come to their rescue. With a single pilot the Seawind could pick up four passengers if necessary, at least in a calm sea. Scott didn’t expect any problems with the helicopter, but he was a firm believer in being prepared for the worst. If they did encounter any mechanical problems, they couldn’t expect help from anybody on the ground. If something went terribly wrong with the flight, Scott planned to set down on the beach, or ditch in the ocean, after calling in a Mayday, then swim away from shore until the Seawind arrived.
“Sounds like a good plan, Scott” responded Mick Williams. He and Scott had been friends since childhood and he had been very happy to sign-on as chief pilot for the Bell 214-ST. It was a very rare and impressive helicopter that had been designed for export to the Iranian air force before the 1979 revolution. Now it was known as a prized support helicopter for off-shore oil rigs and remote locations. The 435 gallon fuel tank gave it a range of 500 miles and that could be extended to 750 with the auxiliary belly tank. With its new black on blue paint job, it was a real head turner at every airport it landed at. Mick loved to fly it. Being Scott’s friend meant he also got a nice big stateroom on the ship and was treated more like one of the guests than a member of the crew. “So who’s gonna ride door gunner on this sortie? We might have to plug some zombies if that Hammer guy runs into trouble, right?”
“Yeah,” replied Scott. “I’ve asked Clint and Mark to come along. They both have military training. And I gave each of them a semi-auto hunting rifle with scope. But we’re only going to open fire if we’re sure the targets are zombies and Hammer really needs help. This is supposed to be a scouting flight anyway. Not a combat mission.”
“From the look of things on TV, just surviving is a combat mission now,” commented Mick. “I’m bringing my own Winchester 300 magnum rifle in my duffle bag, and you can bet I’m packing my Colt 45 whenever I leave this ship!”
“No shit,” Scott agreed. “I’m bringing a Desert Eagle and a 12 gauge just in case.” He hefted the gym bag in his hand slightly for emphasis. The Sovereign Spirit was certainly not a war ship, but Scott did like his guns. Considering the fact that their round-the-world voyage had taken them through some seas that were known to be infested with modern day pirates, he had decided to increase his gun collection at the same time as he bought all of his other “toys” for the trip. Of course many of the countries that they visited had rather strict gun laws, but a ship that was more than one and half football fields long had a lot of potential stash spots.
Scott had constructed three arms caches aboard the ship. Two were hidden and one was actually quite obvious and “official”. The latter was the gun safe on the bridge where he kept most of his shot guns and hunting rifles. The shot guns were officially used for skeet shooting, since the ship had skeet launchers near the stern, or bird hunting on shore excursions. The hunting rifles were officially for safaris ashore and defense of swimmers from shark attacks. That explanation was good enough to get them accepted by most authorities. If not, Captain Fisher was always happy to let the locals put their own lock on the gun safe until the ship departed their jurisdiction.
The two hidden arms lockers were less innocent. One was a concealed compartment in Scott’s master suite that held several dozen hand guns and assault rifles, along with thousands of rounds of ammunition. The real armory was a larger cache below the vehicle deck that held even more impressive hardware. It was all hidden inside of an old sewage tank to discourage inquisitive customs inspectors. Scott had not broken out any of the really heavy metal yet. After all, this flight was only supposed to be a scouting mission.
“So what do you expect to find ashore?” asked Sam Waters, the other pilot who had been listening to their discussion.
“Don’t ask,” said Scott with a frown. “Probably the living dead, if not a living Hell. If things are as bad as they look, it’ll be bloody too.”
“Do you have any real news from Cabo yet?” Sam persisted.
“Not really,” Scott replied in a concerned tone. “We did have brief radio contact with the local airport in Cabo San Lucas that caters to private jets. I know it well. The control tower there is right next to a small military base. It sounded like they were fighting off hordes of attackers. That might be the only secure area left in Cabo. They requested our assistance, but I don’t want to land there. You can bet those soldiers would commandeer any aircraft they can find, and who’s to stop them now?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “Those Federalies were always highway robbers. It must be pure anarchy there now.”
“I don’t think the Federalies are the reason for anarchy today, Sam,” said Scott with close to a grin. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if they are more interested in saving themselves than anyone else right now. And, as the saying goes, if you’re not part of the solution you are part of the problem, especially when shit hits the fan.”
“Well,” said Mick, “I guess we’ll find out soon enough, Scotty. Here comes your special passenger.” Mick gestured towards George Hammer who had just climbed the ladder onto the helipad. He was followed closely by Scott’s friends Clint and Mark. The latter two were carrying rifles strapped over their shoulders and had military style web gear with ammo and cargo pouches hanging across their chests. Scott had asked them to wait for Mr. Hammer and keep an eye on him throughout the flight. So far, so good.
“George! Right on time,” Scott called out. “And I’m glad you decided to leave your wife aboard the ship. If all goes well, she can join you and the rest of the family on the Expiscator, or stay here until you clear quarantine. But at least she’ll be safe when you go ashore.”
“Can’t argue with your logic, Mr. Allen. You’re clearly the brains of this outfit,” said George Hammer in a jovial tone. “I’ll be the first to admit that I look at every problem like a nail begging for a hammer. No pun intended of course.” The obviously practiced joke was corny, but seemed to convey honest sentiment. Scott smiled and nodded. He had a lot of experience with construction workers in his past life – pre-lottery that is – and was used to their straight forward approach to obstacles in their path, as well as their ability to set aside differences once their path was clear. Now that Scott had offered George a ride to Cabo and possible salvation afterwards, instead of being the obstacle keeping him from his daughter and grandchildren, Hammer was all smiles.
“I’m just anxious to get to Cabo,” George continued. “When can we get this show on the road, uh, I mean bird in the air? And where is that gun you offered?” Scott had expected both questions.
“We’ll be leaving in about five minutes, George. You can climb aboard and get comfortable in the middle seat of the first row behind the flight crew. That’s the VIP seat, by the way. As for the gun,” Scott said as he pulled a deadly looking automatic pistol from behind his back, “this is a three-fifty-seven magnum Desert Eagle. It’s one of my favorites, part of a matching set,” Scott patted his shoulder holster. “So I hope you bring it back. You can hang on to it and practice working the slide and trigger during the flight. I’ll give you three full magazines and an extra box of hollow point rounds before we drop you off.”
“What?” George replied sharply. “You don’t trust me with a loaded gun?”
“It’s not quite like that, George. But I want you to practice with it empty while we’re in the helicopter and,” here Scott tried to sound sarcastic, “we all know that you have your own agenda. So I think Micky and I will be able to make better and safer piloting decisions without the idea of a loaded pistol behind our heads, even if you have no intention of pointing it at us right now.” Scott shrugged and said, “But who knows what you will want to do when you see what’s happening on the ground?”
The glare George gave Scott for a second could have
doubled for landing lights, but the expression passed quickly into unwilling acceptance. He nodded sharply, but politely took the proffered empty gun. Hammer turned towards the helicopter and Scott exchanged glances with Mick. Then Scott turned towards the two riflemen he had chosen to accompany them.
Clint was a former M60 machine gunner in the 82nd Airborne Division. He had been part of the invasion, or liberation as he would be quick to correct, of Grenada in 1983. In that “weekend war” he had shot a few Cubans who were trying to defend a bridge. That gave him seniority in the trained killer category aboard the Sovereign Spirit, as far as Scott knew. He was certainly a trusted and confident friend. That morning he carried a Browning BAR Safari 30-ought-6 semi automatic rifle with high power scope. He appeared ready and willing to use it.
The other gunner, Mark Argus, was one of Scott’s best friends with a unique background that included unofficial membership in the elite airborne battalion of a friendly nation in Central America. It was a position he had earned with more sweat than clout, even though he dished out a lot of both down there. Mark loved guns and adventure, which Scott had learned when they were still too young to drink legally, so Scott knew that Mark wouldn’t have missed this flight for anything. Mark had chosen to carry a Ruger Mini 14 with sniper scope and 20 round magazines. Scott saw he was also packing a pistol and was sure he had several other nasty surprises stashed in the cargo pouches on his web gear. It was nice to know that Mark had his back.
Voyage of the Dead - Book One Sovereign Spirit Saga Page 6
