Voyage of the Dead - Book One Sovereign Spirit Saga

by Forsyth, David

  “Good to have you both aboard, brothers” said Scott. “I hope we won’t need your firepower today, but if we do, I want you to only shoot zombies. Not normal people. It might be hard to tell them apart. So you need to be very selective with your targets. And you should only fire on zombies that pose a threat to us, or to Mr. Hammer and his family, assuming they aren’t already zombies too. My point is that we’re not on a zombie hunt. For all we know there might be a cure for them someday and, aside from the infection, most of them were probably good people. So, conserve your ammo. Go for head shots. Make every shot count. And keep cool. OK?”

  “Sure thing, Boss,” said Clint with a wink. Mark just nodded.

  “And one more thing,” said Scott. “George Hammer is on a short fuse. He’s got reasons. But I’m not giving him ammo for that gun until we drop him off. In the mean time you two will be riding behind him. So please make sure that he doesn’t go nuts. The critical time will probably be when he sees what’s happening down there. So keep alert.”

  “Charlie Mike,” said Mark, which meant continue mission in their private code.

  “What are you packing there?” asked Scott, pointing at what looked sort of like a backpack that Mark was carrying.

  “Parachute,” Mark replied. “In case you want to insert me without landing. Minimum altitude of 500 feet please.” He smiled and turned to stow his gear in the back of the chopper.

  “Don’t worry, Scott,” said Clint. “I’ll make sure he straps into the safety harness too. And you can count on both of us to deliver death from above; even it’s only to the undead.” For some reason he decided to give Scott a military salute before turning towards the chopper.

  “Well, Micky,” Scott said softly. “Looks like we’ve got a team dedicated to the mission. Let’s get this party started.” Mick and Scott exchanged nods before turning to climb into opposite sides of the cockpit.

  The flight towards Cabo San Lucas went smoothly. Scott, being left-handed, sat in the left seat of the cockpit where he could use his best hand on the stick and his right for the collective. Tim was right handed and preferred the right seat anyway. George Hammer sat one row behind the pilots in the center of three seats, where he could look ahead between the pilots. Clint and Mark had the nine seats of the rear passenger area, four facing to the rear and five forwards, all to themselves. They strapped safety lines between their web gear and some O rings near the doors. If they were called on to provide sniper fire they would slide those side doors open.

  As they lifted off the helipad Mark figured out how to patch his IPod into the intercom and they were all entertained by Highway to the Danger Zone from the movie “Top Gun”. That was followed by Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries of Apocalypse Now fame. After that Scott told Mark to cool it. They had some serious flying to do. The Sovereign Spirit was about 120 miles south of Cabo San Lucas when they took off. The ship would continue steaming towards Cabo at over 25 miles per hour, so the return flight would be shorter, or the rescue mission if it came to that. In the meantime the 214-ST was heading slightly east of Cabo San Lucas at over 150 miles per hour towards San Jose del Cabo. The plan was to fly over the larger town and international airport called Los Cabos, then sweep along the coat to their actual destination, observing conditions along the coast as they flew by.

  It was less than 30 minutes into the flight when Mick announced “Land ho!” Fifteen minutes later they made landfall at San Jose del Cabo and got their first personal look at zombie land. It was not very encouraging. Scott wagged the stick to let Mick Williams know that he wanted control of the aircraft. Then he nosed down to sweep low along the beach. It was only seven in the morning, but the beaches were already crowded. Everyone on the beach seemed to notice the helicopter, because they all turned and raised their arms towards it. But it soon became obvious that these were not normal tourists and they were not waving hello either.

  “Look at them!” exclaimed Mick. “They’re all fucked up. Everyone’s reaching up towards us. Like they want to grab us or something. Those are all frigging zombies!”

  “No shit,” replied Scott. “Let’s take a look inland. We’ll make a pass over Los Cabos airport and then swing back up the coast.”

  “Roger that,” confirmed Mick. “You have the aircraft.”

  “Can I whack a few of them first?” asked Mark over the intercom. He was already sighting zombie targets through the scope of the Mini 14.

  “No,” replied Scott firmly. “This is a recon flight, not an assault mission; at least not yet.” Not quite yet. But Scott had to admit that the situation looked grim and he understood why Mark wanted to shoot every damned zombie in sight. They looked unnatural. Everyone on the beach or streets that they flew over had the same reaction of turn and reach. They were all zombies. Scott was certain that there were more, many more, normal people hiding inside their homes and hotel rooms, but the streets were clearly ruled by the zombies. Not a good situation at all. But it was nothing he could hope to correct right now.

  Scott turned the helicopter inland and increased altitude to get a bird’s eye view of the city. No cars were moving that he could see. It became impossible to tell if the human specks were zombies or normals, but most of those below seemed to turn and move towards the sound of the helicopter with raised arms and gaping jaws. Then they became mere specks on the landscape, some of many little things that would return the haunt his dreams.

  Within a few seconds the helicopter was sweeping over the hills that surrounded the Los Cabos airport. The new view was no less discouraging. Only a few small private jets remained on the tarmac. A 737 had obviously crashed at the north end of the field, spreading debris across the highway beyond which was jammed with burned and abandoned vehicles. In response to the appearance of the helicopter there was movement at the terminals. Hundreds of figures moved out towards the sound of the helicopter. Obviously zombies, but not the slow shambling zombies depicted in most movies. They ran out onto the runway. This zombie horde was truly scary. They moved fast.

  Scott had set the radio to the approach control for Los Cabos and attempted contact several times since departure from the ship. Now he tried it again. “Los Cabos Approach; this is Bell November Hotel Three Two Foxtrot, over the field. Do you copy?” He repeated that message three times with no response on the radio as the helicopter circled the field. The only evident response below was more zombies boiling out of the terminal and onto the tarmac. Most of them were dressed like tourists, but some wore military, police and airline uniforms too. All of them milled around with raised arms and gaping mouths, reaching towards the circling helicopter.

  “This place is history,” said Mick over the intercom. “Let’s split.”

  “Roger that, you have the stick” said Scott. “Take us back to the coast and up to Cabo San Lucas.”

  “Looks like everyone here is infected,” commented Mark from the rear of the cabin. “You think it’s like this everywhere?

  “That airport could have been the worst place to be,” replied Scott. “Whoever brought the infection here probably came through those terminals and it would have spread out from there. Then, after the outbreak yesterday, a lot of people would have run to the airport trying to escape. Once a few zombies started biting people here the infection would have snowballed fast.”

  By that time the helicopter was sweeping up the coast at 150 mph. Cabo San Lucas was ten minutes away. Everyone aboard was struck by the view along the way. Dozens of resorts lined the coast. Zombies milled on the beaches in front of them. Many were wearing bathing suits, but none of them went close to the water. The ones closest to the ocean seemed to be acting even crazier than the rest of them, jumping up and down or rolling in the sand. Most of them were covered in various amounts of blood. All of them turned and reached towards the chopper with open mouths, reaching arms and blank stares.

  “Look there,” said Clint, pointing at a beachfront hotel. “Those people on the balconies are signaling for help! See ‘em?�
�� There were people waving sheets from one balcony and others waving their arms back and forth on another.

  “Yep,” Scott responded. “They’re probably trapped in their rooms. But there’s nothing we can do for them now, except pray.” The helicopter swept past without pause. It was a cruel decision, but a necessary one. There was no way to rescue anyone without exposing everyone on the helicopter to the risk of infection and dooming their own mission.

  They saw similar sights all along the beachfront tourist corridor. It was clear that a lot of people were holding out in their hotel rooms, but they were all surrounded by zombies and none of these tourists would have any weapons to fight their way out those death traps. The coastal highway was jammed up behind crashes in numerous locations, leaving other stretches relatively clear. But no vehicles were moving anywhere now. There were few signs of actual destruction below, but the total absence of intelligent human activity gave the landscape a truly apocalyptic feel. Here and there buildings were burning, probably due to untended fires or something knocked over by a brainless zombie. Nobody seemed interested in putting them out.

  Soon they could see the rocks of El Arco poking out of the sea ahead. This most famous feature of Cabo San Lucas, the natural arch of rock at the south-westernmost point of Baja California, was also known as Land’s End. It marked the confluence of the Pacific Ocean and the Sea of Cortez. Just east of this landmark was the picturesque harbor of Cabo San Lucas. There was one big Cruise ship anchored in front of the town, outside of the small harbor, with several tenders clustered along the shoreward side of her hull. Scott didn’t see any movement on her decks. Were the passengers safe in their cabins? Being attacked ashore? Or hunting each other along the passageways of the ship? It was just another mystery that they might or might not decipher today.

  The helicopter swooped over the last clusters of beachfront resorts, swarming with even more zombies combing the beach than they had seen previously, and banked into a turn over the harbor. Scott immediately spotted the Expiscator. The 118’ Hatteras cockpit motor yacht was one of the largest boats in the harbor and it was still tied up at the end of one of the docks closest to the ocean; Right where it should be. The yacht was very distinctive with a Jacuzzi on the forward deck and a fully equipped fishing cockpit at the stern. It had five staterooms and three more cabins for crew, plus a grand salon, a sky lounge, and flying bridge with bar and sun deck. Scott had gotten a great deal on her through a bank repo and he was glad to give George Hammer a chance to use the yacht for his escape, especially since he would bring it along on their voyage north. Although it was dwarfed by the Sovereign Spirit, the Expiscator was still a borderline mega-yacht in her own right and it would be a shame to lose her.

  There were zombies wandering along the rim of the harbor, but they did not seem to have been able to get past the security gates onto the docks yet. A closer look revealed several people coming above deck on boats in the harbor and waving, normally this time, at the helicopter. At least some normal people had taken refuge on those vessels. Nobody seemed to be aboard the Expiscator though. That made Scott worry about the skipper that he had hired to take care of her, but at least it looked like George Hammer and his family would not have to evict a bunch of refugees or, worse yet, zombies. If they could get to her...

  “OK, George,” said Scott through the intercom. “The yacht is still there and looks untouched. No zombies on the dock. All you need to do is get through the gate and close it behind you. I gave you the gate key and my spare keys for the boat. Now we just need to scout a path from the house. Find a clear road. And then hope your family is safe in the house you built for me.”

  “They better be there!” said George loudly through the intercom. “They should be staying in the RV that I parked inside the wall and used as a construction office. Or they’ll be inside your house, if they got scared. Both are protected by a ten foot wall on the street and the cliff on the ocean side. They should be safe there. So let’s go!” He was clearly getting anxious.

  “Roger that,” Scott agreed and banked the helicopter up towards Pedregal, a wealthy community perched on a small mountain overlooking the harbor. They flew rather slowly up and over the hill. Scott was looking down at the roads, searching for obstructions. There was one overturned car on the main road, but it looked like it was possible to drive around it, or push it aside with a vehicle as large as George’s RV. Mick also scanned the hill as he piloted the helicopter over the crest to the Pacific side.

  The mountain of Pedregal was covered with mansions and vacation homes for the rich and famous. Rock stars and famous actors and actresses, not to mention an overly famous talk show host or two, had all built villas and compounds on this piece of arid paradise. One thing that both Scott and Mick noticed was that few if any of the zombies were hiking up the hill. A few began staggering uphill after the helicopter, but all of them seemed to have been walking downhill before they arrived. The zombies following them were all easily identified by their raised arms and open mouths. It was clear that the helicopter attracted their attention. Scott filed that fact away as a potentially valuable aspect of the mission. But so was the fact that they were not swarming the hill, as they were on the beach.

  “You see what I see?” asked Scott to no one in particular. “The zombies seem to be thickest on the beaches. None of them appear to be climbing the hills, except the ones trying to follow us. Until we arrived, I think they were all moving down towards the harbor.”

  “So what?” asked Mick. “There’re still a lot of the fuckers all over.”

  “Yeah,” replied Scott. “But, all things being equal, if they don’t have a ‘target’ to pursue, I think they would all prefer to move downhill. It’s like they follow the force of gravity, if they don’t have a better target to fix on.”

  “That makes sense,” Mark commented. “These brainless freaks would tend to follow the path of least resistance, unless their hunter-killer mode was engaged. So how do we use that to our advantage?”

  “Just watch this,” said Scott. “I have the stick.” Mick just nodded and released control. “We’re going to attract the zombies on the Harbor side of the hill away from Pedregal. The ones on the other side should keep going down, away from us, as long as we are out of sight and mind.” Scott was breaking right along the ridge line and dropping back down towards the harbor. Then he pulled up into a hover and rotated the helicopter using the rudder pedals. “Look and see what I mean.”

  Sure enough, the few zombies that had been following them up Pedregal were turning towards the sound, or sight, of the helicopter and moving back down with their now distinctive raised arms and open mouths. Were they screaming? No way to tell at the moment. The important thing was that they were distracted by, or attracted to, the helicopter. The plan gelled in Scott’s mind. Yes, it could, even should, work. “Come to Daddy,” he unintentionally muttered over the voice activated intercom.

  “Now we’re talking,” said Clint. “Can I tap some of them now?” Good question.

  “Go for it,” said Scott. “Try for one head shot on an adult male near the front of the bunch following us. Not women or kids. And let’s see what they do.” Scott felt a tinge of guilt as he said it, but the cruel reality of the situation they faced pushed those sentiments aside. Mark growled into the intercom, but Scott knew it was because he wanted to be the one green-lighted for the first kill. However, Scott knew that Clint had the better weapon for this shot.

  Clint raised the BAR Safari 30-06 and drew a bead on the head of a zombie that had been a fat older man who was running near the front of the small crowd storming up the street towards them. The helicopter hovered at about 100 feet over the road. That put the running zombies at about 100 yards and closing fast. Perfect.

  CRACK! The first shot of their Zombie War was fired for effect. It was a head shot. The back of the fat zombie’s cranium virtually exploded. And, as Scott had hoped, it had a distinctive effect on the zombie’s companions. As brain matter s
pattered the other zombies, especially those behind who were clearly sprayed with gore, they halted their rush towards the helicopter and turned to feast on the spilled brains of the fallen zombie. Most, but not all, of them even continued to cluster around the corpse hungrily as Scott pulled the chopper up and away. Two of Scott’s preliminary theories seemed to be correct. Now it seemed that his half-baked plan had a real chance at success.

  “OK,” said Scott. “Here’s the plan. We do this one more time a few blocks down. We wait for as many of them as want to come running. Then we spill the brains of half a dozen or so, and haul ass back to drop George off at the house. Actually, I think it’s better to hover over the RV for him to jump off. OK, George?”

  “Hell, yes!” replied George. “Just get me anywhere inside the wall. But then what?”