Pirates and Zombies (Guardians of the Apocalypse Book 3)

by Jeff Thomson

  Wheeler wasn’t sure what he should expect - whether the office would be trashed from the man’s earlier rage, or what they might see, but the reality - as usual - proved to be far more mundane. Hall stood there, on the far side of the table, smiling, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “Good morning,” he said. “Please, come in.”

  The one unusual thing neither LT Wheeler, nor, he suspected, either of the other two could have predicted, was the presence of LTjg Sam Bonaventura, the ship’s direct-commissioned Physician’s Assistant. He stood, as well, smiling awkwardly as they entered.

  Most people of his designation filled shore duty billets, at the various base clinics, there being no actual need for Medical Doctors, since the Coast Guard availed itself of the various VA facilities on the larger bases of the larger services. Polar Icebreakers - of which there were just the Star, and the Healy - were the only cutters in the fleet to have PA’s aboard, the thought being that since they spent a good portion of their time beyond the reach of anything resembling immediate assistance, having someone with a bit more experience and training than a Corpsman, would come in handy. Bonaventura, in fact, began as an enlisted Health Services Technician, before going through the necessary courses and receiving his commission. He was of medium height and build, with sandy brown hair and a friendly expression - virtually a required qualification. Seeing a sour, disgruntled face when sick or injured didn’t tend to lift the spirits.

  “I asked the Good Doctor to join us,” Hall said. “Take a seat.” He began his typical pacing. Wheeler suspected this was usually done for theatrical effect, to add to the gravitas of the exalted position of Sea Captain, but he didn’t think the cliche applied here. Hall seemed...off. He nodded toward Bonaventura.

  “As I told the Captain,” Sam began. “Proceeding to Honolulu before we’re inoculated would be...” he paused, searching for the correct word. “...ill-advised, given the nature of Pomona and the fact we remain clear of infection.” It sounded rote, and probably was. “At least until we’ve all had both the primer and primary booster.”

  “This means,” Hall broke in. “We’re stuck here for at least a week, and probably longer.” He stopped his Great White Shark-like constant movement, and stared out the nearest porthole, facing away from them. “I’ve been given to understand there are only seventy-five doses of the primer available, and that more - what was the word the woman used?” He asked, turning to the PA.

  “Specimens,” Sam replied.

  “More specimens are required.” He turned back toward the table.

  “You mean dead zombies,” Master Chief clarified, in his usual no-nonsense manner of cutting through any and all bullshit.

  “Yes,” Hall agreed. “Unfortunately, the seaplane they’ve been using is down with a burned out engine. They’re working on the repair now, but Midway isn’t exactly well-stocked in parts for a sixty year-old aircraft.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wheeler said, mainly because he didn’t quite know what to say.

  “This woman - whom I believe is the daughter of the man, Barber, who brought us news of the vaccine - has said she may be able to produce enough of the booster to innoculate the team we plan on sending to Sassafras.”

  That’s why we’re here, Wheeler thought. At least, it explained himself and Ms Montrose. The Master Chief wouldn’t be going to the buoy tender, so his presence was a bit more vague, but as the senior enlisted man on board - and thus the senior enlisted man in the entire Coast Guard, so far as anyone knew - it could be explained.

  “I want you to gather your team,” Hall said to Wheeler. “We’ll have you flown over to Midway, so you can start the regimen.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wheeler said, with more enthusiasm, this time. He flicked his eyes toward Amy, saw her grin, and chose to remain professionally aloof - at least until they left the Cabin. Then it would be whatever the alcohol-free equivalent of Party Time was called. They were headed to the Sass.

  “As for what you’ll find once you reach Honolulu...?” Hall continued, pausing, as if to gather his thoughts. “As the Master Chief pointed out to me earlier...” Here it comes, Wheeler thought. “There’s no telling in what condition you’ll find your new crew.” The statement sat like a rock in the pit of Wheeler’s stomach. What condition, indeed? “We can only guess at what they’ve been through.” Understatement. His eyes drifted toward the Master Chief, who sat, expressionless. The Captain shook his head, slowly, as if in disbelief. “The fact they’re functioning at all is...”

  “A bloody miracle,” Bonaventura ventured.

  “My initial reaction was, perhaps, hasty,” he said, ignoring the PA’s two cents. and Wheeler would have bet all the money in his wallet - useless though it may be - that such words hadn’t crossed the Captain’s lips since he made Commander. “Pending my arrival, I leave it to your discretion.” Hall stared straight into Wheeler’s eyes. “The Sassafras is your ship. Do whatever you deem necessary.”

  11

  USCGC Sassafras

  Honolulu Harbor

  “Holy shit!” John exclaimed, hitting the deck as the Bridge windows rattled from the explosive over-pressure.

  Molly ducked, as well, her mind at first blank from the sudden shock, but it didn’t take long for her imagination - and her heart - to focus: Jonesy...

  He was out there, at the point of the explosion. Was he hurt? Was he dead? Or was he safely laughing at the extremity of what they’d just caused? She didn’t know.

  After the other night - last night - after their shower, after they made love, she ran like a scared little girl, too afraid to face the consequences of her actions. They still hadn’t dealt with it, still hadn’t discussed what happened - primarily because she purposely avoided being alone with him. She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to go there at all.

  But it had been wonderful.

  And now he might be dead.

  John apparently had similar feelings, though his were about someone else. “Sam,” he said, scrambling to his feet and rushing out the port door, as she regained her own feet and strode toward the radio.

  “Sass Two, Sass Two, Sassafras...”

  12

  COMMSTA Honolulu

  Sand Island, Oahu

  “Zombie flambee!” Scott Pruden shouted, pumping his fists over his head, as the orange ball of fire shot easily two hundred feet into the air.

  Amber stared in wonder at the spectacular explosion, ignoring the insistent ringing in her ears. She’d barely heard Scott’s exclamation, but it didn’t matter. “Glorious!” she yelled, her voice sounding muffled. She didn’t care.

  Until the rocks began falling all around them.

  “Incoming,” she screamed, ducking below the parapet and covering her head. Debris, ranging in size from a pebble to a quarter pelted the roof and her body. One, the size of a nickle, but feeling more like a basketball, zipped by her left ear and landed in front of her cowering face.

  The rock rain didn’t last long, and none of the pieces were any too big, but it still managed to scare the jubilation right out her. “Fuck me,” she swore, rising to her feet and dusting herself off.

  Pruden grinned at her, his eyes wide and excited - but also a little freaked out. She couldn’t blame him. She laughed. She screamed. She laughed again.

  Reality dropped on her like a boulder.

  What about Assateague?

  13

  Sass Two

  Kapalama Basin, Oahu

  “What the flying blue fuck was that?” Jonesy snapped, slapping the side of his helmet, trying to clear his ears. It didn’t help. He knew it wouldn’t.

  He’d fallen in a heap, tangled with the prone body of Duke in the bottom of the still-rocking RHIB. Lifting his head, he could see Gus, struggling to his feet. The older man was staring at something, his eyes, behind the plexiglass lenses of the gas mask, growing wider and wider as Jonesy watched.

  “Get the fuck off me,” Duke said, his voice sounding as if on the far end of a long
tunnel. The large bosun shoved at him for emphasis. Jonesy got the hint.

  Water splashed up onto his face shield as his head topped the black and red rubber sponson of the boat. This didn’t make sense, at first, until something large and heavy dropped into the water in front of him, sending a geyser of salt spray in all directions.

  “Get us out of here,” he yelled at Duke, giving him a hand up.

  “Where?” he replied. Valid question.

  “I don’t care,” Jonesy replied. “Anywhere but here,” he added, as another chunk of concrete fell from the sky. He shook his head, trying to clear it, as he’d tried with his ears - and with the same result. His skull pounded, his ears rang, and his entire body felt like he’d just gone twelve rounds with Godzilla.

  Gus pushed past him, heading toward the bow. He turned, to see what disaster the next moment would bring. Then he did see, and wished he hadn’t.

  Dan McMullen lay sprawled across the inverted “V” of the bow, laying on his back, staring into the debris-filled sky. Or, rather, he would have been staring, if he still had a face.

  14

  Seaplane Wallbanger

  Midway Harbor

  “Is this thing gonna blow up in our face?” Jim Barber asked, as Harvey Walton moved his hand toward the control panel.

  “Maybe,” the functional lunatic replied with a grin, flicking the starter switches for engines one and two.

  Jim stared at him for a moment before replying. “You’re an asshole.”

  Walton smiled. “Perhaps,” he agreed, feathering the overhead throttle controls as first one engine, then the other caught, with no sputtering, no billowing smoke, and no sudden, fatal explosion. “But I’m a useful one.”

  Harvey gave a thumbs up to the two enlisted Coast Guard aviators, Kyle Rogers and Mark Columbus, who’d agreed to act as line handlers, after helping them repair the engine with cobbled together gear from the seaplane hanger and spare helicopter parts from the Star. Revving the engines, he manipulated the rudder, pointed them into the harbor, and maneuvered toward the Channel. The aluminum fuselage hummed. The seat beneath Jim’s butt vibrated.

  The flight plan consisted of three things: fly back to Kauai, kill as many zombies as they could, then return with fresh spinal tissue to Midway. On paper, it almost looked routine. On paper. Both men carried newly-cleaned Thompson Submachine Guns. They were the last two, the other four already having been distributed to Jonesy, John, Gus Perniola, and Duke Peterson - although the large bosun mate much preferred to use a shotgun.

  Teddy Spute, far more uncomfortable on the wooden bench seats in the compartment just aft of the cockpit, carried two nine millimeter pistols, and a shotgun of his own. Jim didn’t feel the least bit reassured that they’d have a third person for the coming operation - at least not that particular third person. He’d been a decent enough Coastie and a nice enough guy, but Teddy hadn’t exactly ingratiated himself since their departure from Astoria. The reason was - of course - that ignorant slut, Clara, he’d brought along, bring trouble and misfortune with her. Then the conniving bitch had stolen one of the sailboats and all of the remaining vaccine. Jim sincerely wanted to get his hands on her throat, but such thoughts weren’t going to do him any good at the moment.

  They were returning to the airport in Lihue, sight of the near total disaster at the FedEx Shipping Center. They would not be going inside. The reasoning - such as it was - seemed questionable, but logical. They knew where the place was, they knew what was there, it had an airstrip on which they could land and - more importantly - takeoff in a hurry, and there was nothing nearby. Nothing could come at them from around a blind corner, no great horde of homicidal fiends could catch them unawares. Also, there were plenty of zombies.

  Walton steered them through the Channel, turned South, and East, and pushed the throttles slowly to full. The obligatory line from Shakespeare ran through Jim’s head: Once more into the breach...

  15

  S/V Annie’s Birthday

  20.551521N 174.202223W

  “To be or not to goddamned be,” Clara Blondelle said, doing a truly horrible imitation of Robin Williams, imitating Jack Nicholson, quoting Shakespeare. Her brain felt fuzzy, but clear. The premium alcohol she’d stolen from the stores on Midway now resided on the ocean floor, some two or three hundred miles behind her. Didn’t stop the absolute boredom of sailing alone on the Great Wide Sea from turning her mind to goo, though.

  Three days since she left the Atoll. Three days since she turned her back on what remained of hearth and home and remembrances of the life she once had. She didn’t miss it.

  Well, now, that wasn’t exactly true, now was it? She missed a lot of things. Couldn’t think of any of them right at the moment, but there had to be some, somewhere. Right?

  Sex. Yes. She missed sex. Teddy Spute would never be accused of threatening Casanova’s reputation - or, for that matter, John Holmes - but any cock in a storm, right? Or something...

  She checked the compass on the mid-deck steering console. One-six-three. Right where it ought to be.

  To be fair, Teddy served more purpose than just as a plaything. He had taught her to sail and navigate, after all, and (hopefully) not die out there in the middle of nowhere. But he hadn’t defended her against the cold stares and hot accusations and outright bitchiness of those goddamned women on that goddamned True North. He should have, but he didn’t.

  Fuck him. Fuck all of them.

  She did fuck them, didn’t she? The cooler in the cabin below proved it. “I took all your vaccine..” she sang to no one.

  She’d need to get it on some more ice, or it would certainly go bad. Johnston Atoll should be somewhere more or less straight ahead, if Teddy taught her right - and she knew he had. The calculations for stars and sun lines and such - though they made her head hurt worse than the nastiest hangover - and the positions those calculations fixed upon the chart she’d stolen, along with everything else - had her tracking on a more or less straight line. If she wasn’t doing them right, they’d be spread all over the place, wouldn’t they? Yes. Of course they would. She thought. She hoped.

  So Johnston Atoll, with its solar power and refrigerators and freezers, became her short term destination. Wouldn’t be staying there. The place was abandoned. But if she didn’t get the vaccine on ice soon, it wouldn’t be worth the trouble it took to steal.

  Her final destination remained Palmyra, though she couldn’t really explain why. Seemed like the right idea. She’d find people there. Right? Right?

  If not...?

  16

  USS Paul Hamilton

  12.829952N 165.531586W

  “If he doesn’t answer, cut his ear off,” Blackjack Charlie Carter said. Whether he meant it or not, was for him to know, and for the Lieutenant Commander to be scared shitless about.

  They had the man tied to a steel chair in one of the lower holds on the Arleigh Burke-Class Destroyer. Dirk Parker, the Aussie he’d liberated on Palmyra, held a very large, very scary knife just below the Navy man’s right eye. Slowly, painstakingly, he slid the blade point along the bastard’s cheek and toward his ear.

  Behind them, Doug Hennessy stared at Charlie, mouthing the words are you sure?

  Don’t wimp out on me now, Charlie thought. He needed the man - he needed all the men - to stay strong.

  Hennessy and Davis McGee had witnessed the death of that asshole, George and said nothing. They went with him on it, even though they had to know the Honorable Henry David Goddard would be awfully upset if and when he found out about it. George had been his Butt Puppy, following him around, hanging on his every asinine pronouncement, and kissing his flabby ass, whenever the opportunity presented itself. Losing his sycophant would not make him happy.

  Fuck him, Charlie thought. And fuck George. Fuck all of them. Let Goddard play President, if he wanted to. Didn’t matter. Didn’t affect the situation one bit. They had a Naval warship. It had weapons. And when Charlie got the information he needed, he’d
have weapons.

  “Cut him,” Charlie said, looking straight into Lieutenant Commander Abernathy’s fear-widened eyes. He didn’t really want to mutilate the poor fucker. Blackjack Charlie knew he was an asshole, knew he might even be a bit of a sociopath, but he wasn’t a sadist.

  He might become one, though, if he didn’t get what he wanted. Because what he wanted - what he needed - was nothing more or less than access to the weapons store on the Paul Hamilton. Who needed a President, if he had an army? And what was an army without weapons?

  Then again, even without this officer, he probably had a way in. He looked toward the stocky man who’d been hogtied in the hold with the rest of the prisoners: Minooka-something...Minachooka-something...? Didn’t matter. What did, was the man’s willingness to cooperate.

  Turned out the Officer had just arrested the kid for daring to suggest they ought to do what Charlie wanted. Smart man. Or, at least, a guy with a good sense of self-preservation. Either way worked.

  He didn’t need the informant there, didn’t require him to watch the... torture... But maybe it would serve as an abject lesson: Give me what I want, or this is what’s in store for you.

  “Can you tell me how to get in there?” He asked the white-faced squid.

  “N-no,” he replied.

  “Then what the fuck do I need you for?” Charlie asked. Sooner or later, he’d find someone to give him what he wanted. And if he didn’t...?

  The second class Petty Officer blinked, then seemed to draw himself up. “You need me for the same reason you kept me alive in the first place,” he said, his voice still quavering - but only slightly.

  Guy’s got balls, he thought. I’ll give him that.

  “Which is?” Charlie asked.

  “I’m a fire control technician,” came the reply. The quavering voice was gone. “I can give you the missiles.”

  “Fucking traitor!” The Lieutenant Commander spat through broken and bloody teeth.

  Minooka (or whatever) stared at him. Then he smiled. “You shouldn’t have tried to arrest me.”