by Jeff Thomson
She backed away from the windows, walked around the center console and sidled up to Babbett at the chart table on the Starboard console. He was bent over the table, examining a chart, his muscular body blocking her view. He stood, and she saw: Honolulu Harbor.
An involuntary shudder tried to work its way through her body. She pushed it back down, but it lingered, just below the surface. A spot on her right shoulder itched, so she started to scratch. Then she stopped. The vaccination. Everyone on the crew had received the Primer. Three days from now they’d receive the Primary Booster. A day and a half from now, they’d be in Honolulu.
She knew what bothered her: They were sailing into Hell.
71
M/V Point of Order
09.69587N 164.172903W
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just take the vaccine and kill you?” Blackjack said, in a conversational voice. The woman didn’t seem to be intimidated by him, which he found both odd and oddly appealing, and his instincts told him there could be some value to be gained by moderation. Threats were great and easy - since everybody was afraid of something, and for most people, that something was pain and/or death - but they weren’t always either necessary, nor wise. So his question was more out of curiosity than a show of menace.
“I’ll give you three,” Clara Blondelle said, taking the chair he’d offered in the Master’s Suite aboard the luxury yacht. The room was a bit too gaudy, for Charlie’s tastes, which generally ran to the Spartan. But the bed was large, the carpet was lush, and the private head - though opulent, with it’s gold fittings and polished marble counter tops (with African Bloodwood inlays, no less) - was, after all private. After living on one freighter or another for so many years, in the Merchant Marine, and sharing a head with multiple people of questionable hygiene habits, followed by the stint in Soledad, and having to keep watch on everything at once to avoid being raped in the communal shower room, a private head was a luxury beyond measure.
The desk, which separated him from her, was polished mahogany, if he was any judge, and large enough for three offices. It’s bare exterior, without a single scratch on it, led him to believe the Honorable Henry David Goddard, whose yacht this had been, kept it as empty as his head, and used it just for show - as if he thought such size and grandeur were expected, rather than needed - which was undoubtably true.
“Do tell,” he said, giving his best non-intimidating smile.
“The first is, I brought you the vaccine as a gift, voluntarily. You didn’t need to take it. You didn’t need to use force or violence,” she began. “You don’t appear to be crazy, so you must understand that such things aren’t always necessary.”
She paused, and he nodded, since that appeared to be what she expected. Give them what they want, as the saying went. Plus, it felt a bit uncanny, in that she seemed to be plucking these thoughts out of his own head.
“Second,” she said, holding up two fingers. “I know where the people are who can make more of it.” This was what he expected, and she smiled, as if knowing this to be the case.
“I could get the information out of you,” he said, keeping his voice and expression neutral.
“You could,” she said. This was where the fear usually came in, but she seemed almost excited by the prospect, judging by the flush that grew from below the collar of her blouse, and the shine in her eyes.
Interesting, he thought. The woman was nice to look at. Her tits were smaller than he generally preferred, but she had an ass that’d make a dead man sit up and take notice, and her lips looked just about right. Not Angelina Jolie lips, mind you, but still quite...serviceable.
“But torture is a tricky business,” she continued. “Go too far and you could kill me before you knew for sure whether or not I was telling the truth.” The chick was playing this awfully cool, he thought. Maybe too cool. But maybe not. Maybe she was just being realistic, or maybe - just maybe - she had something more entertaining in mind.
“And the third reason?” He asked.
She smiled, stood, and came around to his side of the desk. He turned the swivel chair to face her. Kneeling, she said: “Unzip your pants and I’ll show you.”
72
USCGC Sassafras
10NM off Honolulu Harbor
What the Hell? Samantha Gordon swore to the inside of her head, as she watched her cousin, Molly Gordon (the conniving bitch) get promoted.
How was this possible? On what world was this fair?
She tore her eyes away from the scene unfolding down on the Buoy Deck, tore her body away from the rail, and began pacing the deck of the Flying Bridge. Cold fire flowed through her veins. Cold revenge swirled through her mind, spinning, gathering speed. Hot anger threatened to burst forth into a scream of rage - only this time, it wouldn’t be muffled by the gas mask. She wore no gas mask, needed no gas mask, which was the whole point to them steaming ten miles offshore.
The stench was still there, of course, since they were still downwind of Honolulu, but ten miles of ocean turned out to be a pretty good filter. It wasn’t perfect, the smell lingered, but that could also be because it had permeated everything around her: the neoprene tarps covering the steel bags of signal flags on the Signal Bridge, the nylon lines in the rigging, her clothes, her hair- probably even the inside lining of her nostrils, come to think of it.
And it wasn’t just the smell. The sights she’d seen, the knowledge of what those sights meant, the sheer cost in human life... Those things were seared into her brain. No amount of washing, no amount of painfully hot water, could wipe it away from the inside of her own memory.
Wet hair, nipples poking through the tee-shirt, the familiar aroma of Jonesy’s shampoo... Those things would never leave her memory, either.
Clarity, like a shocking pink neon sign in the distance, flashed across her mind. Snap out of it, Samantha, her Inner Nag said. They’re adults. You’re not. They have a history. You don’t. Molly is a grown woman...
“And what? I’m still a little girl?” She asked aloud. Suddenly, she wanted the gas mask back, wanted it’s rubber and charcoal smell to fill her nostrils, wanted its plexiglass lenses to hide the tears welling up in her eyes. But no. She couldn’t even have that, could she?
73
The Mess Hall
Midway Atoll
“This is tasty,” Clarence Duprovnik said, chewing a morsel of food with a contemplative expression on his face. “It’s not turkey, so...?”
“Goonie bird,” Bob Stoeffel answered, placing a serving dish full of canned green beans onto the table, while also filling the water glasses of the diners in his vicinity.
“What?” Duprovnik exclaimed, spitting his mouthful back onto his plate.
Stephanie Barber watched this unfold with mild interest. She’d have bet money on the survivor from Johnston Atoll doing something idiotic as he was - had money been worth anything more than to blow one’s nose. He’d been whining since her father and Walton brought him to Midway, and almost all of his complaints had been food-related.
Himself, his wife, Tiffany, and the lone survivor of the sailboats that unknowingly brought Pomona to that speck in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, Miss Shiloh Grant, had been on recovery rations since their arrival. These consisted of soft foods, such as instant oatmeal and soup. Tonight was their first solid meal
“They’re a protected species!” Duprovnik stormed.
“Easy, dear,” Tiffany soothed, placing a hand on his arm, which he promptly shook off. This had become routine. He’d blow up about something or another, she’d try and fail to soothe him, and eventually, he’d find something else to complain about.
1
“Lighten up, Clarence,” Shiloh said, scooping a fork-full of the fowl into her mouth.
She was a pretty woman - gorgeous, if someone happened to be into that statuesque, golden brown-haired, green-eyed, athletic sort of look. Stephanie tried to hate her for it, decided that was too catty, and chose, instead to accept her as she
was, and reserve judgement until such time as the newcomer became either a friend or a competitor.
The object of said competition, one Mister Sam Bonaventura, Physicians Assistant, sat at Stephanie’s side, as he had been for the last few days. He noticed the other woman, of course. Hard not to, since they were so few women or men, but he wasn’t exactly drooling, and he was sitting nicely close. She ever-so nonchalantly brushed his knee with her own. He smiled at her. Score one for Miss Barber...
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Mister Duprovnik,” Stephanie said, in her most diplomatic voice. “Humans are an endangered species.”
“And humans need to eat,” Bob-Bob added, slightly looming over the man. He loomed so well, being large enough to do it without the typically-added display of testosterone. “So either stick to vegetables–“
”Or shut your damned mouth and eat the food,” Shiloh cut in.
“But–“ he sputtered.
Stephanie decided to try a logical approach. “Let’s do the math, shall we?” She began, ticking items off on her fingers. “Right now, there aren’t too many of us on this island. There are more coming when the seaplane gets back. Even that won’t add much.” The third finger went up, and she brought it closer to his face. “But there are hundreds, maybe thousands of people in Honolulu, who are going to start being plucked off of rooftops just as soon as the Star gets in helicopter range.” She let the idea sink in for a moment. “Really think you should be such a picky eater?”
74
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
“We’re about to do something completely insane,” Jonesy said to the new “team” assembled in the Wardroom. Duke, Harold, and Jeri Weaver were there, Frank - who would be going back to Assateague with Jeri, and the injured Gus Perniola, who’d be remaining on the Sass - sat in, simply because they were still part of his crew. To them had been added: SN Pat Querec, BM3 Tim Luton (also going to Assateague), ET1 Glenn Newby, BM3/OPS Greg Riley, SN Sherman Malone, SA Jerry Nailor, SN Jennifer Collins and SN Tara McBride. Lane Keely sat on the sofa with John Gordon. CWO2 Peavey scowled from the far end of the table. LT (newly promoted) Amy Montrose had the Bridge watch, along with Samantha Gordon, and BM3/OPS Rees Erwin. And LTjg Molly Gordon sat at the head, with Jonesy to her right.
Her elevation in rank came with her demotion from Commanding Officer to OPS Officer. Along with her, every member of the original Sass crew had received a bump in rank. Jonesy now had Chief’s anchors on his collar, Duke was a BM1, Harold, a BM3, Frank, an MK1, Bill, an OS2. The only one who hadn’t been promoted was Gary King, who’d turned it down flat, explaining his refusal by saying “I’m just a cook. Leave me be and let me cook.” Judging from the swelled ranks of the new crew, letting the man just be a cook was an actual possibility.
What are you thinking? He thought. You know something’s going to go horribly wrong and throw this new equilibrium into a cocked hat. He marveled at his sheer pessimism, then ignored it, in favor of concentrating on the meeting.
Wheeler, now a Lieutenant Commander, had elected to stay out of this meeting, though Jonesy suspected the man wanted to be there. But, apparently, he was leaving his subordinates to create the plan first, without his interference, before adding his two cents. Had to hand it to the guy. It was a smart move.
“A little less hyperbole, Jones,” Peavey said. The fact he hadn’t included the honorific Chief, was noticed by at least the Sass crew - if not also by the new additions. This could easily be considered an insult. Jonesy, who’d been insulted by the best of them, chose to ignore it.
“Well, sir,” he began, adding a touch of insubordination to the final word. “If you’d like to accompany us, I suspect you’ll be finding a new definition for hyperbole.”
Harold sniggered, and Duke - unsurprisingly, smacked him for it. Peavey was now the First Lieutenant, in charge of Deck Force (such as it was). Harold was in Deck Force. Prodding his new department head with a stick wasn’t the smoothest move the young man could have made. Besides, that was Jonesy’s job.
“What else would you call the act of killing a whole bunch of creatures who used to be human?” He asked. “Because that’s what it’s going to take to clear this base.” He paused to let it sink in, then asked: “Unless you’ve got a better idea?”
“I don’t like your attitude, Jones,” Peavey said. It was beginning to sound as if this condemnation was the man’s go-to response whenever Jonesy got one up on him.
“Chief Jones,” Molly said, adding the necessary emphasis. “Is correct. This will be something beyond all your experience.” She was addressing all of the newcomers, but everybody seemed to know her words were meant for just one of them.
Peavey raised his hands in mock-surrender. “Very well. Let’s hear the plan.”
“Kill a shitload of zombies,” Jeri Weaver said, to mixed laughter. It was more the delivery, than the words, Jonesy thought, admiring the deadpan tone. He was really beginning to like this lone survivor from the Assateague.
“He’s not far wrong,” Jonesy said, chuckling.
“Why don’t you provide the details?” Molly said, clearly trying to keep herself from laughing as well.
So he did. They all stopped laughing.
75
Rapid Response Boat
USCG Station Honolulu
“If anybody shoots me in the ass, I’ll introduce you to my hammers,” Duke growled, his voice muffled once again by the gas mask. Greg Riley found it interesting that the growl still managed to translate into a credible threat. Of course, the fact the man was built like the proverbial brick shit house, had firearms strapped all over his armor and MOPP-clad body, and was fingering those very same hammers in question, lent credence to the threat.
The big bosun hopped off the boat and onto the small boat dock, unlimbering his shotgun and facing outward, toward any potential incoming zombies. Greg jumped after him, followed by Pat Querec. Greg carried the M240 machine gun, while Pat had the unenviable task of hauling all the ammo. The boat, with Lane Keely, Seaman Sherman Malone, and Seaman Jennifer Collins, roared off, continuing their part of the mission, and leaving the three of them all alone in the wilderness.
Okay, calling a Coast Guard Base on a sunny day in Hawaii, the wilderness was a stretch worthy of the Fantastic Four , but it sure felt like they were being abandoned to their fate. Welcome to the New Guard, he thought.
How the Hell did he go from being a navigator on a Polar Icebreaker to Greg Riley, Zombie Hunter? It didn’t make a single bit of sense. Except it did. All things lead to Rome, as they say. Only in this case, all things led to a suburb of Los Angeles: Pomona.
While they were still on the Star, still thousands of miles from anything resembling a zombie apocalypse, it was fairly easy to compartmentalize. Totally fucked up, of course, but still...easy. Everything is relative, right? So news of the virus, of the horror show at Pomona Junior High School, and everything that followed, had a disconnected feel to it. Sure, he and everyone else aboard knew the world was fucked. The simple fact they were told to grab fuel in Guam, under MOPP conditions, then head to the middle of nowhere to take station and wait, said so, loud and clear.
They also knew their families were fucked. That hadn’t sat well with the crew - not one bit. They’d all tried to act as if they could ignore it, all tried to seem as if it didn’t bother them, but it was all the purest, most self-deceptive bullshit, and everybody knew it. But what else could they have done? What possible thing could they have tried to change the fact that life as they knew it was dead and gone? There wasn’t one, so they carried on, in blissful self-delusion.
And sure, the debacle at Guam gave them a taste of the extent to which the world had fallen. But the pre-plague Marianas Islands were a nothing spec in the middle of the vast Pacific Ocean, no more connected to life in the world than...well...shit...anything. But this place - Honolulu, on their own base, their own home turf, in the actual by-God United States of America - that shit wa
s real.
Their part of the Grand Plan was fairly simple, straightforward, and had Greg’s balls seeking safer accommodations, because it was also batshit crazy. They were to grab a vehicle called the Skull Mobile, attach a bracket onto the sunroof for the machine gun, then drive around like a trio of maniacs, intentionally trying to get zombies to follow them.
The vehicle in question looked like a twisted form of modern art, created by a man trying desperately to compensate for a small penis. Looking at the huge, muscled back of the artist, however, Greg had no intention of voicing that particular opinion.
Duke hopped in the truck, started the engine with a roar, then turned to look at Greg and Pat. “You just going to stand there, waiting to get eaten, or shall we get this show on the road?”
76
USCGC Assateague
Kapalama Basin
“I’ve got stars in my beard and I feel real weird, for you,” Frank Roessler, newly-promoted MK1 sang to the zombies, doing a not bad job of the T-Rex classic Mambo Sun, as the Electric Warrior album blasted over the loud hailer. He’d won the music toss this time - and thankfully so. Weaver had wanted to put on some rap bullshit, and Frank hated rap with an un-abiding passion.
“We get the fun job,” Jeri Weaver shouted into the integrated microphone within his gas mask. Once again, he didn’t really need to, since the receivers in everyone’s ears conveyed the sound of his voice quite well, but shouting seemed appropriate. “We’re here to make a whole bunch of noise, attract a whole bunch of zombies, then kill them with Belinda,” he added, patting the 25mm auto cannon.
Frank was, of course, in charge, but allowing Jeri to take the lead in explaining the process to the two newcomers - BM3 Tim Luton (from the Star) and SN Dixon Grimes (from the base). Besides, Weaver had so much more enthusiasm for this stuff.
