Pirates and Zombies (Guardians of the Apocalypse Book 3)

by Jeff Thomson

  And of course, it was surrounded by zombies.

  24

  USCGC Sassafras

  Sand Island ISC

  “We need more guys,” John said, as he watched Harold Simmons and Lane Keely lower away in Sass One, their utility boat. Gary King - a cook, of all people - was manning the small boat crane doing the lowering.

  “Which is the one thing we don’t have,” Molly replied. As it happened, she agreed with her uncle’s assessment. Okay, understatement. They needed a bunch more guys - a shitload more guys. “And hopefully, we’ll find them once we clear the base.”

  “The odds–“ he started to say, but she cut him off.

  “Please don’t tell me the odds,” she begged. “Let me enjoy this delusion a while longer.”

  It was delusion - pure fantasy - and she knew it, knew the odds, maybe better than he did. While he had far, far more experience in the Coast Guard than she did, his was in the past. She knew more about the Coast Guard now - or, rather, what it had been before the world fell to the zombies.

  Constant budget cuts by a Congress that didn’t understand the role played by the nation’s smallest service, beginning as far back as the Clinton Administration, forced the Guard to “cut the fat” off of an already anorexic carcass, made skinnier in the wake of 9/11. When John was in, they were under the Department of Transportation. In the chaotic scramble after the Twin Towers, and the resultant creation of the Department of Homeland Security, they were shifted into that bureaucratic cluster fuck, and asked to perform a slew of new or enhanced missions, while maintaining, and in some cases increasing, the pace of those they already had. Multitasking had taken on a whole new meaning.

  The geniuses at the Pentagon and at CG Headquarters gave it a new euphemism: Minimal Manning. The idea was to automate as much as possible through new technology, thus freeing the individual human components to focus on more important tasks. On paper, it sounded good. In reality, it worked as well as the theory that computerized filing would create a paperless society. And just as society killed more trees than ever before, once it became clear paper backup of everything was a necessary evil, freeing up the components through minimal manning allowed the idiocy of paper-pushing weasels in air conditioned offices to devise new and unusual missions for those components to perform, thus increasing their workload, while decreasing their numbers. The problem - the Wicked Bitch of the North Catch Twenty-Two - was that it ended up working, which gave those same air conditioned weasels the confidence to pile on.

  It worked because good people made it work - in spite of, not because of, the idiots who came up with the idea in the first place. The old saw about being part of the problem if you weren’t part of the solution, in Molly’s estimation, quite often had it backwards. Sometimes, being part of the solution - making things work in spite of comfortable paper-pushing weasels - encouraged that problem to continue. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?

  Well, she thought ruefully. The zombie apocalypse sure changed that, didn’t it? This world is as broke as can be.

  The utility boat cast off its lines and pulled away, leaving just herself, John, Gary King, Bill Schaefer, and sixteen year-old Samantha Gordon to operate a two hundred twenty-five foot-long buoy tender, designed for a crew of forty-eight. Talk about minimal manning...

  They needed all sorts of extra bodies, with all sorts of skill sets. Back in the day - four or five weeks ago - it would have been a simple matter of putting in a TAD (Temporary Assigned Duty) request for this or that specialty, this or that rating. The wheels of bureaucracy would turn, a few truckloads of red tape would be sorted, sifted, folded, spindled, mutilated, sent via email, accidently deleted, re-sent, printed out, collated, filed, lost, sent to committee, voted on, and - eventually - acted upon, thus producing the requested replacement. The administrative ballet would pirouette its way through the daily operation of the United States Coast Guard, and they would pivot to face whatever the sea or the US Government saw fit to drop in their laps. Back in the day...

  Now, however, they had four guys in the RHIB, two on Assateague, two in the utility boat. All their engineers were away. Frank, Gus and Dan had been keeping the engines running, well enough, the computers maintained a watch down in Main Control, and the Bridge console was covered in digital readouts showing everything in the green - so far. There were five - count them, five - people currently on board. They needed engineers and electricians, deck hands and bosun mates, cooks, navigators telecommunications specialists, damage control people, chiefs, indians, and, yes, even officers. What they were likely to find on Sand Island were Yeoman and Storekeepers - maybe a few cooks. What could possibly go wrong?

  “Now that we’re spread thin enough to be considered transparent...” John said.

  “Let’s weigh anchor and maneuver over towards the pier,” Molly completed the sentence.

  25

  CG Station Honolulu

  Sand Island, Oahu

  “Tie us off,” Lane said, holding the boat steady, nose-in to the dock.

  “Are you nuts?” Harold snapped. “There are zombies out there.”

  “Yes,” Lane replied, deadpan. “I was aware of that. And the longer we fart around, the greater the chance we have of meeting some.”

  Their mission was to commandeer one of the Station’s two Defender Class Response Boats - assuming either one of them could be started. The utility boat carried tools, a few spare parts, two, five gallon cans of diesel, a fifty caliber machine gun, and an M240 machine gun, with a whole bunch of ammo for both. Lane felt a bit surprised there remained enough room in the boat for himself and Harold.

  “It’s still nuts,” Harold said, tying off, as directed.

  Lane liked the kid. He bitched and complained about everything, at every available opportunity, but he worked his ass off, in spite of this. As an ex-bosun mate - if any such thing existed - he was more than a little used to griping sailors. Came with the territory. And as long as they did their job, that’s all that mattered.

  He’d run into plenty like the young man - though a significant majority of them just bitched, and nothing else. They took it upon themselves to point out every flaw, every mis-step, every failure of this, that, or the other person, while doing none of the work themselves. At least Harold wasn’t one of those.

  He scanned the empty parking lot next to the Station building. No zombies. Not yet, anyway. Good sign.

  Harold hopped off the boat and onto the dock. Lane handed him first one, then the other can of diesel fuel. He thought about grabbing the weapons and ammo, but first things first: get the twin two hundred and twenty-five horse outboards started. If they could do that, if they could make one of the boats operational, then they could pull away from the dock and the zombies could do whatever they liked with the utility boat, as far as he was concerned.

  “Check the outboards for fuel,” Lane ordered, heading into the enclosed cabin of the nearest Response Boat. Compared to the older boats he was used to, these things were plush. Padded, shock-mitigating cabin seats, joystick controls, digital readouts - even a small table. Outside, they looked like a RHIB on steroids, even though they were made of aluminum and carried a foam collar, rather than inflatable sponsons. And oh my, were they fast: forty-six knots max, and thirty-five cruising, which was why they had the shock mitigating seats. At that speed, in that small of a boat, anyone in it would otherwise be beat to shit by the time they got to their destination.

  “Looks good,” Harold called.

  “Starting,” Lane called the warning so the young man wouldn’t lose any body parts. Engine One Start, Engine Two Start - all readouts in the green. “We’re in business,” he yelled over the engine noise. “Grab the ammo.”

  26

  USCG ISC Honolulu

  Sand Island, Oahu

  “Your truck better fucking start,” Jonesy said, hacking at an approaching zombie with his left-hand kukri-machete. They were in stealth mode, so as to avoid attracting any more of the
crazy diseased bastards, and stealth mode meant slicing and dicing. Blood spouted from the gaping neck wound, some of it splashing his face shield. I need windshield wipers, he thought, holding back the twisted laughter struggling to break free.

  “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Duke replied, backhanding a hammer into the skull of another zombie.

  The fuckers were everywhere - or, at least, they seemed to be. There weren’t actually that many of them. All the noise they’d been making at the Container Port saw to that.

  He tried not to think of the consequences of creating that noise, failed, and chose instead to engage in more homicidal therapy, kicking one naked man in the chest and chopping the arm off a clothed woman. He spun and drove the tip of his right hand blade into the naked asshole’s eye.

  As usual, his mind viewed this all through the disconnected inner blood-colored glasses of a psychic filter trying desperately to shield its owner from the true horror of what he was actually doing. Most of time, it worked. Most of the time.

  Duke unlocked the door and hopped into the truck. Fitting the key onto the ignition and making a theatrical sign of the cross, he clicked it to the start position. The engine gave a hesitant whir, whir, whir, then caught with a roar.

  “Hot diggity!” Duke shouted.

  “Bout fucking time,” Jonesy replied, sheathing his twin blades, and unlimbering the Thompson from around his shoulder. A gang of five zombies stumbled right at him. A rapid fire burst of .45 ACP took them down.

  “Get in!” Duke prompted.

  “You think?”

  “You could hang out if you want to,” the large Bosun Mate replied, thumbing toward another gaggle of approaching homicidal maniacs. “I’m sure they’d like it.”

  Jonesy hopped in the passenger side, barely getting the door closed before Duke slammed his foot down onto the accelerator. They roared off, plowing through three assholes in a group. The Skull Mobile hardly noticed.

  He grinned at Duke, happy to not be surrounded by crazy fucks trying to kill him. “What do you say we go rescue some people?”

  “I suppose we could,” Duke replied, steering toward another zombie with one hand, while searching through the storage compartment between the seats with the other.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  He waved a plastic CD case in answer. “A little music to lighten the mood.”

  Jonesy saw the cover: Never Say Die, by Black Sabbath. “Lighten the mood?” He asked. “Looks more like you’re trying to shove it into a killing frenzy.”

  “You say potato...” the big man replied, fumbling with the case on his thigh. He thumbed it open, clumsily removed the CD, and stuck it into the stereo. The opening strains of the title track came through the supercharged door speakers. He turned the volume all the way up.

  A zombie popped up in front of them. Duke ran her over. They headed toward the Mess Hall.

  27

  Lihue Airport

  Lihue, Kauai

  “I do believe the cavalry has arrived,” Harvey Walton commented in a conversational tone, as if the sudden appearance of two pickup trucks filled with armed men, on an airstrip filled with attacking zombies were as commonplace as a goonie bird on Midway. Jim Barber barely noticed. He was far too happy to see the newcomers, and far too busy killing the still advancing zombie horde.

  The trucks screeched to a jerking halt and three men jumped out of the bed of one, and four men out of the other, followed by two each from inside the cabs. They carried a profusion of weaponry, from hunting rifles and shotguns, to revolvers and semi-automatic pistols, and one - the lumberjack-looking fellow, who appeared to be in charge - had an Uzi. They seemed to positively relish the opportunity for a bit of zombie killing.

  Jim didn’t waste time with introductions, since they didn’t either. He just opened up with his Thompson and continued the slaughter that had come far too close to going in the opposite direction.

  By the time he reached for his last loaded magazine, the killing was done. The silence felt like a physical thing. Of course it was physical - he needed ears to hear it. But this particular silence was palpable, almost solid in its absence of any noise beyond the constant ringing in his ears. Wafts of blue gun smoke drifted over a tarmac covered in dead bodies.

  Harvey Walton appeared at his side. “I think we’ve got enough material to meet our needs,” he said, surveying the carnage.

  Spute - who’d finally started firing after the appearance of the pickup truck cavalry - came up to his other side. “I think we’re gonna need some more coolers.”

  Jim shuffled his feet, stepping on piles of .45 ACP cartridges. They littered the ground. So did his empty magazines. He stooped to pick them up as the lumberjack joined them.

  “Bob McMartin,” the man said, extending his hand.

  Jim stood and shook it, while precariously balancing the mags in his other hand. One of them dropped to his feet. Spute bent to pick it up.

  “Not to kick a gift horse in the teeth,” Jim said. “But where the Hell did you guys come from?”

  The newcomer thumbed toward the general direction of the town. “Up until a few days ago, we were all holed up in the high school,” he said. “The place was surrounded by these fuckers, so we were stuck.” He waved his hand at the dead zombies. “But then there was a bunch of gunfire from down this way, and they all moved away from us.”

  “We might have had something t do with that,” Harvey told him.

  “Tried to find out what was in the Shipping Center,” Jim said, nodding toward the FedEx building. “Thought there might be something useful in there.” He smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. “Found zombies, instead.”

  McMartin cocked his head toward a group of his compatriots who’d been listening in. “Told you we should call them zombies.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” a tall, rail thin man said, as if this was an old argument.

  “So what brought you here this time?” McMaster asked.

  Jim’s eyes narrowed, his paranoia alarm sounding in his head like a fog horn. But then he thought about it. Should we tell them? They’d pitched in and helped when they could have stood off in safety to see what happened. But they hadn’t. Fact was, these strangers saved their asses. He cast a glance toward Harvey, who shrugged. Why not?

  He waved at the piles dead bodies. “We’re here to collect spinal tissue.”

  The man took a step back. Cocked his head. Then he grinned. “You guys can make vaccine.”

  28

  Medical Clinic

  Midway Atoll

  “Ouch!” CWO2 Francis Peavey exclaimed, as Stephanie injected him with Primer. She barely knew the man, and already didn’t like him.

  Ordinarily, she was a benefit of the doubt type-person, shunning stereotypes, ignoring preconceived notions, and taking individuals as they were meant to be taken: one at a time. To her, you were good until you proved otherwise. Francis Peavey was well on his way toward the latter.

  “There, there, Francis,” LT Wheeler said in his pronounced accent - Boston, unless Stephanie missed her guess. Peavey wanted to be called Frank, so he told her, as if the name were more masculine, more butch, somehow, thereby making him more masculine by extension. She had quickly come to realize the name on his ID card came closer to the true nature of the man.

  He was a whiner, busily proving himself to be a pompous pain in the ass. Cringing away from the needle should take him down a few pegs, she thought, since he was committing this military faux pax in front of the troops, as it were.

  Said troops were watching the procedure. Some seemed a bit nervous, and Stephanie couldn’t really blame them, all things considered. They’d been cut off from the rest of humanity - or what’s left of it - for weeks. Months, come to think of it, since they’d spent two months down in the icy purgatory of Antarctica, before it all began. During that time, the world had fallen, forever changed by the Pomona Virus. Everything they’d known was gone.

  Of course, the same could be said for eve
rybody else, on the planet, she supposed. They were all, now, survivors. She found it odd to consider herself as being included under that title, but reality was reality. They had survived - were surviving - the end of life as they knew it.

  So, yes, they were now strangers in a strange land. Nothing was how they left it before heading into the ice. From that perspective, nervousness was to be expected. But wait, there’s more...

  Polar Star was entirely uninfected, probably the largest single group on the planet to be so. Well, maybe not. Didn’t matter. They’d been insulated from the plague by orders of the Pacific Area Commander, directed to take station, remain uninfected, and wait. Now, the waiting was over, and here were a group of them taking their first steps into this Brave New World.

  And being inoculated by a twenty-something woman in cutoff shorts and a tee shirt.

  She finished swabbing the injection point on Peavey’s arm, tossing the wet cotton into the wastebasket. This, too, was new. Since the discovery of the AIDS virus, it had become standard practice - dictated by the CDC, and US Surgeons General, no less - to dispose of any items exposed to blood, or any other human body fluids, into specially designated containers, for proper disposal at a later time. The red receptacles, emblazoned with the infectious disease symbol, were everywhere - a ubiquitous reminder that nothing was safe anymore, relatively speaking. Post-Pomona, however, a wastebasket would do just fine. Relativity could be a useful bitch.

  “You’re all set, Mister Peavey,” she said, putting a checkmark next to his name on the list they’d brought with them. A total of thirteen names were on the list. Bad luck. The superstitious thought flashed through her mind, where it was promptly ridiculed, and cast aside. The whole world was full of badness - real, tangible, bad shit, perfectly capable of killing you, or, at least ruining your day. Being frightened of a number was absurd.