Voyage of the Dead - Book One Sovereign Spirit Saga

by Forsyth, David

  First they had to face the tricky boarding process. The lead Amtrac nosed up the piled rocks with ease and paused before venturing out onto the ship’s ramp. Scott knew that the ramp was rated for 50 tons, but he still held his breath as the big machine inched across into the mouth of the vehicle deck. It was an awesome machine. He couldn’t help staring at the small weapons turret with its grenade launcher and coaxial 50 caliber machine gun. That was the kind of firepower that would turn mobs of zombies into hamburger. The turret cleared the top of the doorway by only a few feet as it moved smoothly into the vehicle deck.

  Scott had moved cars and trucks around to make plenty of room for the Amtracs. As arranged previously, the AAV stopped and began to pivot on its treads, one rolling forward and the other back, to turn on a dime as it were. The maneuver made a shrieking sound of metal on metal, but it was music to Scott’s ears. When it had completed a 180 degree turn, the Amtrac backed slowly away from the door to take its place 150 feet down the center lane.

  Then the second Amtrac made its way over the rocks and carefully onto the boarding ramp. This one was fitted with a bulldozer blade on the front of the hull. That would come in handy for clearing traffic jams of abandoned and crashed vehicles off roads and highways. They would probably need to do a lot of that on provisioning trips. It also had extra strips of metal tread and other less obvious tools and equipment strapped to the upper side of the hull. Scott assumed, correctly, that this amphibious vehicle was a recovery and repair variant. It would have more tools and spare parts inside, with less room for passengers or cargo. But that was a great trade-off as far as Scott was concerned. There wouldn’t be any service stations for these big machines where they were going. O’Hara was wise to have chosen that machine.

  The second AAV made it smoothly into the ship, but Scott felt a slight thump as the Sovereign Spirit’s stern dug into the mud or sand of the harbor bottom. It was nothing to worry about though. The Amtrac made the same pivot maneuver as the first one and backed down the center lane amidships. Scott ordered the vehicle ramp raised a few feet off the rocks and instructed Captain Fisher to order ahead slow. Scott walked out onto the partially raised ramp and looked over the side. Clouds of mud and sand were billowing up, but there was no sign of movement yet. Using his radio, Scott asked for a little more power to the engines. More mud clouds erupted and Scott felt a slight shudder as the ship inched ahead. Then it broke the grip of the mud and they surged away from the rocks and back into deeper water.

  *****

  Billy Allen stood with his friends Mitch and Justin, along with Mark’s younger son Jake, at the fantail on the pool deck as they watched the two big Amtracs crawl over the rocks, across the ramp, and disappear into the belly of the ship. They noted the heavily armed Marines who escorted the tracks and rode on top of their roofs. All of them were scanning the area with weapons at the ready. Luckily the local zombies had not yet breached the Marine’s side of the harbor. Strong and tall fences kept them on the civilian docks. To the college aged boys, this was becoming quite an adventure.

  “You see that!” exclaimed Justin. “Those things are packing heavy machine guns and cannons!”

  “Those aren’t cannon,” Jake rebuffed. “They’re too short and stubby; that’s more like a mortar or grenade launcher.”

  “Who cares?” Billy said excitedly. “They blow shit up, right?”

  “Yeah,” conceded Jake.

  “That’s all that matters; that and the fact that we could drive around in those things no matter how many zombies got in our way,” Billy interjected. “Remember that video game where you had to save people from zombies?”

  “There’s been a few of those,” Mitch said.

  “Yeah, well, the one where you go to a mall and you can get into an ambulance and drive back and forth in the underground garage plowing zombies down. My brother kicked ass at that game on the kill list. He just drove around and around and kept squashing zombies. He scored thousands of kills. Think what we could do with one of those tanks!”

  “They’re not tanks,” Jake pointed out. “And did he actually win the game doing that?”

  “Uh, no,” Billy conceded. “He got the highest kill scores but he didn’t reach the other objectives. And there were always more zombies pouring into the garage than he could actually crush. So I guess I get the point. We wouldn’t be able to run over enough of them to really win.”

  “That’s true,” Jake agreed. “But the Zombie Survival Guide I’m reading says that the goal is not to win, just to survive. I think those vehicles will help us survive.”

  “Listen to the expert,” said Justin. “But I’m with him. That’s what I want to drive the next time we go to Costco.”

  They all laughed and turned to go back into the ship when the ramp rose, the engines started and, after a few moments, the ship began to move out to sea again.

  *****

  O’Hara came up beside Scott as they pulled out of the harbor. He gazed back to the left of the breakwater at Camp Pendleton. “Sort of like leaving for a war,” he muttered. “I always wonder if I will ever see this place again.”

  “You spend much time here?” Scott asked.

  “On and off for about thirty years, sir” replied the Sergeant Major. “First time I deployed from Pendleton was to Beirut, Lebanon, in 1983. A lot of the boys that went with me didn’t make it home. I wasn’t much more than a kid myself then. Probably should have had the good sense to get out of the Marines after seeing 241 of my buddies blown up by a suicide bomber, but it just made me angry, you know?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major,” Scott answered with steel in his voice that caused O’Hara to turn and look as he continued. “I feel exactly the same way every time I see one of these zombies who were all normal people last week. Anger doesn’t even begin to describe my feelings when I think about the bastards who did this to us.”

  “What bastards?” asked O’Hara. “Isn’t this a disease? An act of God or Nature? An apocalyptic plague for the sins of the world?”

  “Fuck no,” said Scott with passion. “Don’t you know? This zombie plague is a genetically engineered bio-terror weapon. Somebody planned this and I want to see them burn in Hell!”

  “You’re sure about that? This was all caused by an act of war or terrorism?” O’Hara asked skeptically.

  “No doubt in my mind,” replied Scott steadily. “Nature doesn’t create or release a virus simultaneously in dozens of airports around the world, especially a virus that mutates during a two week incubation period from a highly contagious but apparently benign airborne virus into a form of super rabies that can only be passed along through blood and saliva. It’s a diabolical weapon of terror and genocide. I’m surprised your superiors haven’t told you that yet.”

  “I’m not surprised at all,” replied the Sergeant Major coldly. “Good old Bastard Butch Barstow might have wanted to tell us. I think I can even recognize the hints he gave me a few days ago, now that I hear you lay it out, but that Admiral Winchester, he’s got another story: Full of fire and brimstone, wrath of God kind of thing. He’s been trying to convince all the troops that this is God’s punishment and we are all his Christian soldiers with a mission to put the condemned souls to rest by blowing their brains out, to release them from the grip of evil. And I’ve got to say it’s working on a lot of the men, keeping them from blowing their own brains out after having to cut down women and children who only want to sink their teeth into us.”

  “Damn,” said Scott. “I can’t say he’s totally wrong either. I think it probably is a mercy to put any zombie down. But God and the Devil didn’t do this to them. Evil men did. I don’t know who they were, but I hope to find out someday. The first step might involve the rescue mission we have been tasked with by the CDC. Our authorization is countersigned by the DHS Assistant Secretary for Counterterrorism. So I hold some hope that the scientist we plan to rescue has a clue as to who did this to us.”

  “Me too, sir,” agreed O’Hara.
“The general told me that this assignment would be more important than babysitting boat people. He wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell me much more, except that you would fill me in when I needed to know. I guess this is it, huh? No wonder he picked me to go with you. Damnedest thing, but you’re right, this makes me feel exactly like I did after those fuckers blew up the barracks in Beirut, but a million times more pissed off!”

  “Now you know how I feel too,” Scott commented. “Now let’s see about getting you and your Marines settled in. This is your new home, until Butch Barstow says differently, and I think you’ll find it more interesting and comfortable than your average troop transport.”

  “I have no doubt about that,” O’Hara agreed. “Just one look at your motor pool gave me a hard on. I can’t wait to see what other wonders your ship has to offer.”

  “In that case,” said Scott. “Let’s start with the bowling alley.” He took a little satisfaction from the startled look that comment brought to the face of the old warrior. “I’m turning it into a firing range,” Scott explained. “And I could use your advice on how to set it up properly.”

  “Oh, yeah,” O’Hara recovered smoothly. “That job sounds right up my alley.”

  Scott grinned at the pun and said, “Right after you introduce me to your men and let me welcome them all aboard.”

  Scot and O’Hara walked back towards the Amtracs. The rest of the Marines were all busy unloading weapons and supplies, while the ship’s crew stood around with slack jaws or envious glares. These newcomers were bound to upset the shipboard routine and cause at least a minor rift in the chain of command, unless Scott could figure out a way to defuse any confrontations immediately. He glanced at the sergeant major and was pleased to notice that the man seemed to read his mind, might even have been waiting for Scott to make the realization.

  “Marines!” O’Hara barked. “Fall in!” They all snapped to obey that order. In less than ten seconds there were thirty Marines lined up in front of the Amtracs in three rows of ten each. “Second Platoon!” O’Hara called out in his best parade ground voice. “You are now aboard the Sovereign Spirit, the flag ship of a new civilian survival flotilla. We have been seconded to serve under the command of Commodore Scott Allen. Our mission is to defend and assist this ship and all aboard her. That may seem like a cushy job, but you will get plenty of action, because part of this mission includes providing security for shore parties that will be conducting rescues and gathering supplies. Since we don’t want to take anything away from the survivors ashore, all of our missions will be conducted in unsecure and zombie infested areas. So don’t even think about losing your edge, men. You’re gonna need it big time.

  “Now I’m going to introduce Commodore Allen,” the sergeant major continued. “Make no mistake, men, he is your new C.O. My orders from General Barstow are to follow Commodore Allen’s orders, and that means you all follow those orders too, even if I become a zombie snack someday. Do I make myself clear, Marines?!”

  “YES, SERGEANT MAJOR!” thundered thirty voices in unison.

  “Outstanding!” barked O’Hara. “Platoon! Atten-tion! Pree-sent Arms!” Those carrying weapons brought them up to inspection position. The others saluted. “Commodore Allen, I present you with command of the Second Platoon of Force Recon Company Bravo, Second Brigade of the First Marine Expeditionary Force, United States Marine Corps, detached and at your service, SIR!”

  Scott fought down a lump in his throat as he stepped forward to look over his new “command.” They were young and tough, lean and mean, Marines with the look of trained killers and proud warriors from a wide variety of racial and ethnic backgrounds. To think that they would now be under his command was a daunting and humbling thought. Scott snapped to the best position of attention that he could remember after three decades out of uniform, snapped off an acceptable imitation of a salute, and said, “Stand at ease! And welcome aboard the Sovereign Spirit.” The men lowered their weapons and salutes, but remained at parade rest. “As Sergeant Major O’Hara explained, this is a civilian ship and you will have many amenities and privileges that you wouldn’t find on a military vessel. But we are operating under a mandate from the Center for Disease Control, FEMA and the Department of Homeland Security. We have a high priority search and rescue mission that could contribute to our nation’s battle against this virus. And we will also be serving as the mother ship, uh… the flag ship, for a civilian survival flotilla.

  “In the meantime, I want you to familiarize yourselves with this ship. As I said, she’s not a war ship, but she does have some tricks up her sleeve. And you have just brought a few more aboard.” Scott gestured towards the Amtracs and weapons behind the Marines. “One of your duties will be to help train my crew and other volunteers to use the weapons you brought with you. Some of you may be assigned to lead additional squads of volunteers and I will be counting on all of you to set an example that the rest of us can follow in terms of combat training and discipline.” Scott paused and looked up and down the lines of hard faced Marines.

  “For the moment, let’s move the extra weapons and ammo into the old armored car behind your Amtracs. That’s as secure as they can get aboard this ship. Then we’ll get you settled into your new quarters. We don’t have any problem with overcrowding yet and, if we’re lucky finding a safe haven to take survivors, that won’t become a problem. So, I’ll assign 16 staterooms on the guest deck to you Marines. That’s two of you per room, with another for the sergeant major. There’ll be a queen size lower bed and a fold down single bunk. You’ll have to flip a coin, arm wrestle, or take turns to decide who gets which.” This brought a few smiles from the Marines.

  “I mentioned amenities,” Scott continued. “You’ll have satellite TV and DVR programs in your rooms, as well as computer terminals with internet access and satellite telephones. All of those things still work on this ship, but a lot of the stuff ashore is gone now. You can try to contact your friends and family, but don’t lose hope if you can’t get through. More and more utilities are failing ashore and there are a lot of people who are just fine, but cut off from all forms of communications. However, even if you do get to speak, chat, or email with your mother, sister, wife or girlfriend in Montana, don’t think that means you can jump ship and go to their rescue. Your duty is here. To this ship and the people we will rescue and protect. Is that clear?”

  “Yes Sir!” was the slightly less thunderous response.

  “Okay,” said Scott. “One more thing. Do any of you have families on Camp Pendleton, or in Oceanside, or anywhere near here? Raise your hand if you do.” Ten of the Marines raised their hands.

  “Do you know where they are and that they are uninfected?” Scott asked. Six hands remained raised, including that of Sergeant Major O’Hara. “In that case, I think we should bring them with us. It looks to me like we have another high priority rescue operation to conduct before we leave this area. Do you all agree?” Scott could think of no better way to gain the loyalty of all these Marines than to rescue the families of those who were within reach of their assistance.

  “YES SIR!” Thunder was too tame a term for the response.

  *****

  Interlude in Hell

  Chevron Refinery, El Segundo, CA – 1:45 PM, April 6, 2012

  Carl was sitting in the Suburban, listening to the radio for any news he could find, while the rest of the refinery workers were celebrating and doling out their loot from the Big 5 store. He had already claimed a 12 gauge shotgun and plenty of ammo for it and the 9mm Beretta pistol he had liberated from the zombie cop. He also took a sleeping bag, an inflatable mattress, a backpack into which he shoved some clothes, a camp cook set, and a carton of dehydrated camping food, all of which he loaded into the rear cargo area of the Suburban. He wasn’t planning on bugging out of the refinery, at least not yet, but he felt the need to be prepared for escape at a moment’s notice. The news on the radio only reinforced his decision.

  “The situation continues to dete
riorate as we lose contact with more and more evacuation centers throughout Southern California. All hospitals in Los Angeles, Orange and Ventura counties have been closed. Clinics and urgent care facilities are also closed until further notice. Government agencies and local officials continue to instruct all citizens to remain at home, or wherever you are right now. Secure all doors and windows. Do not attract attention to yourself and wait for relief to arrive.”

  “Shit,” Carl muttered. By listening to the Fire Department radio he knew that there wasn’t any type of relief coming for anyone, at least not for the average Joe. Any normal people still out there needed to assume responsibility for their own survival, but the government and media were telling them to wait for help that would never come. At least not from the authorities they were being told to rely upon.