Pirates and Zombies (Guardians of the Apocalypse Book 3)

by Jeff Thomson

  Add it to the list of ways she’d let the crew down.

  Wheeler hadn’t explained what he planned, nor his specific reasoning for taking station where they did. He hadn’t said much of anything to her, and this sent her own paranoia through the roof. She knew it would be bad, knew the hammer was going to fall upon her head, as if wielded by Duke against a zombie. Not knowing when, or to what extent she would be disgraced was just icing on the cake. The only thing her suspicious mind could think of was that he wanted to disgrace her in front of the entire crew, which meant it had to be held outside, since the Mess Deck would be too cramped, and the Wardroom was simply out of the question. Outside meant either gas masks, to avoid everyone choking on the stench of Honolulu, or going far enough offshore to alleviate the problem.

  Wheeler had the newly augmented crew assembled on the Buoy Deck, save for herself, Jonesy, and now, LTjg Montrose. Her eyes flicked downward to the woman’s collar devices, and paused. Montrose was a Lieutenant Junior Grade. Of that she was certain. She might be disgraced and about to be defrocked, but there wasn’t a single damned thing wrong with her memory. The woman had been introduced as an LTjg. She’d been wearing Junior Grade collar devices. So why was she now wearing the insignia of a full Lieutenant?

  “Ms Gordon?” Montrose said, snapping Molly’s confusion. Her eyes went from the devices to the woman’s eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Wheeler–“ she paused, gave a slight, apologetic smile, then amended: “the Captain, would like you down on the Buoy Deck.”

  Great, Molly thought. Bad enough to be drummed out of the service. Now she knew Wheeler wanted to do it in front of the assembled crew.

  “She ain’t going anywhere without me,” Jonesy said, the anger in his voice obvious as a neon sign.

  Molly laid a hand on his arm. “No sense in both of us going down in flames,” she told him.

  “Like Hell,” he replied.

  “He wants you down there, as well,” Montrose said to him.

  And now Molly’s own anger welled inside her like a living, fire-breathing dragon. Not Jonesy, too! No fucking way! Time to give the new CO a piece of her mind the size of the Sassafras.

  66

  M/V Point of Order

  09.793871N 164.171898W

  “The Hell you say!” Blackjack Charlie Carter said. Of all the things he thought to hear coming out of Hennessy’s mouth, the Destroyer is sinking didn’t even appear on the list.

  “You heard right,” the man replied. “Found it in the port side bilge, way down low. Creswick is pretty sure there’s a split seam down near the keel.”

  “How bad?”

  Hennessy shrugged. “Not bad right now,” he said. “But we’re in a calm sea. First nasty weather we hit, first time we get pounded by the waves, the keel could split.” He shrugged again. “Glug, glug.”

  “And it’s down in the Devil?” Charlie asked. The old saying between the devil and the deep blue sea had a variety of attributions, most of them nautical, though the exact position of the Devil remained the subject of some debate - usually when old sailors got to drinking. Charlie liked to drag out his arcane knowledge of such terminology, from time to time, both as a way of demonstrating his own intellectual superiority, and to gauge the same in others. His favorite definition of the term was that it was the lowermost seam on the hull, down nearest the keel. In the days of wooden ships, seams frequently needed to be sealed with pitch, to keep from leaking, and of all the places on a ship, the Devil was the biggest bitch to seal. Down that low, the only thing between it and the deep blue sea, was the keel, itself. Hence, the term.

  Hennessy’s face showed momentary confusion, but then he smiled. “Aye, me hearty,” he said in his best pirate imitation. “Tis the same.”

  So the man passed the test. Good. But enough of such foolishness. “Okay...” Charlie began, scanning the sky in search of storm clouds, and seeing none. “We’re about a day and a half out from Palmyra.” He was more or less thinking out loud, but Hennessy nodded, anyway. “Weather seems to be cooperating. Once we get there, the offshore anchorage is about fifty feet deep. More shallow as you go in, so we could beach it, but...”

  “No guarantee how it would sit on the bottom,” Hennessy said. “If it goes over, everything will go sideways. Be a Hell of a mess.”

  “Exactly,” Charlie said. “And with a nuclear reactor on board...”

  “That would be bad.”

  “And then some.” Charlie nodded. “Best just to strip her, then scuttle her.” He waggled a finger at Hennessy. “That means we need to get the wombat to tell us about the nukes,” he said, referring to the crazy Lieutenant Commander who kept reciting what they were becoming increasingly sure was a positive action code. “Get somebody on that,” he said, then changed his mind. “You do it. But first, organize a party to start stripping the missile systems. There’s that Fire Technician whose been cooperating, right?” Hennessy nodded. “Have him show them how. If he argues, cut his balls off.”

  Hennessy looked as if he were about to respond, when the exterior door opened, and the Aussie, Dirk Parker, entered, followed by a blonde woman, Charlie had never seen, followed by Felix, who was carrying two coolers, with difficulty.

  Parker thumbed toward the blonde. “This is the chick from the boat.”

  Figured that much out on my own, moron, Charlie thought. He eyed the woman for about half a second before he made the connection. He knew her voice - had known it from the moment it came over the radio. She was the bitch from that first boat they tried to hijack, where he’d lost most of the men from Soledad. Good riddance to those fuckers. He couldn’t care less about them. But those two coolers, on the other hand...

  She brought vaccine.

  Blackjack Charlie smiled.

  67

  Ahukini Road

  Lihue, Kauai

  “You gotta be fucking kidding,” Barber said, staring at the familiar sign.

  “Welcome Walmart shoppers,” Yardly said.

  “Would you like to go shopping...?” Walton chuckled, repeating the man’s words. “Oh, well done!”

  They were squeezed into the cab of one of the pickup trucks the survivors had ben using to get around. The back was half full of refugees from the Coast Guard base, along with Teddy Spute, and half with townspeople. Another truck, similarly loaded, idled on the road behind them. A third truck - this one larger and with an empty bed - pulled out of one of the side streets and took position behind them.

  They were staring at the back of a large, white, masonry building, at the edge of a large field. The road ran along the south side, with a residential district beyond, and to the North, there was a good half-mile to the next structure, which looked like a hospital. The red cross and caduceus symbol - the bird and snake-looking sign of the medical profession - were the biggest clues.

  “You want to raid a Walmart.” Jim said as a statement, though the incredulity in his voice turned it into a question.

  “Yes,” Yardly replied. “We would have done it already, but...”

  “It’s full of zombies?” Walton asked, that idiot grin still on his face.

  Yardly thumbed toward the pilot. “What he said.”

  “And, what? You want us to be bait? Get eaten by the zombies while you pick up a few items?” Jim asked, with no more sarcasm than would fill the giant store.

  Darren Yardly laughed. Jim Barber wasn’t amused.

  “We needed more bodies,” Yardly said, still laughing. “We didn’t have enough to do it without...” he let the sentence trail.

  Walton picked it up. “Getting killed?”

  Yardly thumbed toward him again.

  Jim thumbed toward the back of the pickup. “We don’t have weapons for those guys,” he said, meaning the refugees. Spute still had his shotgun and nine millimeter - not that it would do much good, based on prior performance. Jim cradled his Thompson in his right arm, and Harvey, sitting in the middle, held his between his legs, pointing t
oward the floor. Hope the crazy fuck doesn’t blow his foot off, Jim thought.

  Yardly shrugged. “We could dig up a couple weapons for them, but what we really need is people who can run.”

  This just keeps getting better and better. “Run...” Another statement that might as well have been a question.

  “Yep,” Yardly said. “And be fast shoppers.”

  68

  USCGC Sassafras

  10NM off Honolulu Harbor

  “If he tries to relieve you, the crew will walk,” Jonesy said, as they made their way down from the Bridge.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Molly replied. Between the swelling in her heart and the fear in her belly, it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears - which she absolutely would not do. “If I’ve got to go down,” she continued, swallowing a sob. “I’ll go down alone.”

  Jonesy stopped, dead in his tracks, grabbed her arm and nearly toppled her. She managed to maintain balance by clutching one of the lines from the Utility Boat.

  Didn’t he understand? Didn’t he see? It had to be her. She had to go down to keep the rest of them from getting into the trouble she caused by disobeying Captain Hall’s order. If that weren’t enough, she was the one whose wrestling match with that asshole Lieutenant from the base caused the gun to go off.

  Her fault. All her fault.

  No amount of loyalty, no amount of solidarity would change those two facts. Or the fact that Dan McMullen was her fault, too, and the near disaster at the pier, and everything else since she assumed command. And if they decided on some direct action in response to her impending disgrace, it would only land them in even deeper trouble than she now faced. She couldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t allow it.

  “There’s no fucking way we’re going to let you face this alone,” Jonesy said, staring into her eyes.

  His grip on her arm was painfully tight. “You’re hurting me,” she said.

  He released her, providing the exact opportunity she hoped it would. She turned and ran for the ladder to the Buoy Deck.

  Almost the first skill one learned on a ship was how to descend a ladder quickly. There were so many of the damned things, all over - both inside and out - that a person could spend the better part of the day, first climbing up, then back down ladders. The trick was to grab both railings, lean back, and leap downward, holding the rails just enough to guide the descent as the steel pipes slid through the hands, then tightening the grip to stop just before the stanchions attaching those rails to the ladder itself, so as to avoid breaking one’s fingers. The result was a ladder that could be traveled downward in just three steps: one at the top, one in the middle, and one at the bottom.

  Molly landed on the Buoy Deck before Jonesy - stunned by her crafty escape - even reached the top. The crew - LCDR Wheeler included - turned and stared at her as she strode forward, saluted, and said, in a loud and clear voice, the origin of which she hadn’t a clue, said: “Reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Jonesy landed behind her, but neither she, nor, apparently, the crew paid him any attention. Every eye remained focused on her.

  Wheeler blinked, regained his composure, returned the salute, and replied: “Front and center, Ms. Gordon.”

  She walked directly in front of him, executed a parade ground right face, and snapped to attention. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jonesy, out of breath, take his place at the edge of the ship’s company. He joined them at parade rest - legs shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back.

  She fixed her gaze at a point somewhere just to the right of the new Commanding Officer’s left ear. Here it comes, she thought. The moment of truth.

  “There should be more ceremony for this,” Wheeler began. “But we’re too busy. There’s too much to do - the fact of which, Ensign Molly Gordon, perhaps more than anyone else, is acutely aware.” He tried to catch her eye, but she refused to play along. If he was going to shitcan her, she wasn’t going to make it easy. “Beginning mere days after reporting aboard, fresh from the Academy, Ms. Gordon took a crew ravaged by the Pomona Virus, and traumatized beyond all understanding by the effects of that disease, brought them to safety on Midway, reformed them into a cohesive unit, and set about the seemingly impossible mission of rescuing humanity.”

  What kind of bullshit is this? She thought, with rising anger. Build me up, right before chopping my legs off? What an asshole!

  “With a skill belying her level of experience...”

  What level of experience?

  “...and a determination that embodied the finest example of the Coast Guard motto, Semper Paratus, Always Ready...”

  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

  “...Ms Gordon performed beyond all expectations.”

  What kind of condemnation is this?

  “In recognition of which, by the power vested in me by the Acting Commander, Pacific Area, Captain Gideon D. Hall, Ms. Gordon is hereby promoted to the rank of Lieutenant, Junior Grade.”

  69

  The Walmart

  Lihue, Kauai

  “Cleanup in Aisle Nine,” Jim said, as his .45 pistol barked and blew out the back of a zombie head. He held his Thompson strapped across his shoulders, in reserve, conserving ammo, in case shit went sideways. He glanced upward to the sign denoting what was in the aisle, noticed it was actually aisle thirteen, then ignored the mistake, entirely, and carried on with the task at hand.

  He and Walton were fore and aft of a line of five shopping carts being shoved at a run by Anna Duchenne (the MST), DeShaun Tanner (the Storekeeper), and the three Yeoman: Denninger, Panelli, and Rosette. Getting them to be quick had not been an issue. Getting them to stop long enough to grab useful items and throw them in the carts, on the other hand,,,

  “Coffee!” “ Jim shouted, skidding to a halt on the slick tile floor. “Grab all of it.”

  “And the tea,” Walton said from the back of the running bus. “Don’t forget the tea.”

  “Fuck the tea. Kill the zombies,” Jim countered, pointing at the three infected fucks coming around Harvey’s end of the aisle.

  “Quite so,” the Brit replied, opening up with his Thompson.

  Three down, a shitload more to go.

  Jim pulled his other .45 and held them both at the ready. He could hear gunfire from all over. It was sporadic, so it wasn’t like the zombies had developed a strategy and were combining forces, but - as the saying went - the only good zombie was a dead zombie. One was too many. They had to kill them all.

  But how were they going to do it? There were sixty-five hundred people in Lihue alone, before Pomona. Some died from the respiratory infection or the fever, some were killed when others turned zombie and ate them, and some were killed by non-infected survivors, after they turned. Yardly mentioned three suicides that happened after it became clear the world was toast, and one more chose the self-inflicted dirt nap while they were holed up at the high school. But even with all that, there still had to be thousands - literally thousands - of the crazy fuckers left, wandering the streets - added to the tens of thousands stumbling around the island, eating everything (and every one) in sight. Yardly’s group had a couple dozen in it. What chance did a couple dozen have against thousands? None. Ice cube’s chance in a blast furnace.

  “Grab the creamer,” Jim said to Sarah Panelli. She scooped them up by the arm-full and dumped them into her cart.

  That side of the aisle was pretty much picked clean. The other side held toaster pastries and instant oatmeal, syrup and breakfast bars, and those little fruit and pudding cups he liked, but which may or may not have already passed their Use By date. Fuck it. Grab them anyway. He pointed. They grabbed.

  Both sides were now picked clean and all five carts were filled. Hell of a way to go shopping.

  70

  USCGC Polar Star

  26.671202N 172.613693W

  “Running fix on the hour holds us slightly to the right of track,” BM1/OPS Jeff Babbett reported. “Recommend we maintain course and spe
ed.”

  “Very well,” LTjg Carol Kemp replied, without looking away from the forward windows. Anyone calling her preoccupied would not get accused of crazy talk - at least not by her. The world had suddenly become a bit overwhelming.

  Sure, yes, everything held an overwhelming air to it, ever since they came out of the ice. Granted. This was an apocalypse - a zombie apocalypse, no less - and the world as she had known it was dead and gone. Fine. Accepted. But the old belief held that when the shit came down and the world fell apart, everything would automatically revert to basics: survival, rebuilding, recovery, growing your own food, making babies to repopulate the species - all of which would mean a simplification of life in general.

  So why did everything keep getting more complicated?

  And okay, Hello, promotion to Assistant OPS Officer. That was great. That was something she’d wanted, but thought unlikely, at best, given both LT Wheeler and Amy Montrose outranked her. She liked Montrose well enough. Certainly no jealousy there - professional or otherwise. The woman was a bit hard core for her tastes, but it takes all kinds, right? Now Montrose was gone, and Wheeler was gone. And, yeah, Peavey, too. Good riddance.

  Ten of their crew was also gone, plus two pilots, two air crew, and their Physicians Assistant. So from a crew of one twenty-four, minus the kid who hung himself, minus the eighteen, the ship’s company was now down to one hundred and five.

  The Pacific Ocean spread out before her like an undulating blanket. The early afternoon light sparkled on the surface. The horizon looked at once both close enough to touch and so far away, they’d never reach it in a million years.

  Perspective is what she needed. One hundred five was still a pretty damned large crew - especially when compared to the eight - only eight, for God’s sake - survivors from the Sassafras. Compared to them, the Star was fat and happy. So why the feeling of nervous despair?