So that took care of three. To run properly - by pre-apocalyptic standards - there should have been at least three more. The question of whether they killed each other, killed themselves, or been killed by Goddard was never answered, and the answer could be important. It wouldn’t do to have a homicidal maniac on board while Charlie was trying to sleep. On the other hand, if the man was right, and if he was, in fact, the new President of the United States, then having him around might prove useful. It might prove useful even if the guy was as full of shit as an overflowing septic tank. Time would tell, and in the meantime, Charlie would be keeping his cabin door locked at night.
“We are going to board and seize this vessel,” he said, indicating the sailboat, then adding: “Sir,” as an afterthought.
“Why are we doing that?” Goddard demanded, scowling.
“Force Majeure, sir,” Blackjack said. The term actually referred to contract law, such that, in an emergency, the terms of a contract might be impossible to fulfill, due to circumstances beyond one or both parties’ control, thus rendering the contract momentarily suspended, so it didn’t apply in this current case, even a little bit, but Blackjack was counting on the term being sufficiently legal-sounding for the moron to buy it anyway.
Goddard clasped his hands behind his back, looked toward the steadily nearing boat, then began to bounce on his toes. “Quite so!”He decreed. “Quite so, indeed. Time of National Emergency, and all that.”
“Yes, sir,” Blackjack said, trying to hide the smirk, and almost succeeding. This was going to be so fucking easy...
7
M/V True North
Midway Atoll
Samantha Drummond (daughter of John Drummond, owner and CO of the M/V True North), sixteen years-old, going on who-cares-my-life-is-over, swung the monkey’s fist and got ready to toss the heaving line toward the USCGC Sassafras. She’d been practicing, and it now felt almost natural.
Of course, nothing about this was natural. The fact she was on an ex-Canadian Coast Guard Buoy Tender, refitted into an Expedition Yacht was not natural. The fact she was on a boat heading into Midway harbor, in the absolute middle of nowhere Pacific Ocean, was not natural. The fact she was doing those things because the world had fallen in a zombie apocalypse was not natural.
She should be thinking of driving to the beach in her new birthday-present car. She should be thinking about shopping and hanging with her friends, and whether or not she should go out and get a job. She should be thinking about concerts. She should be thinking about boys.
She absolutely, positively should not be thinking - never, ever be thinking - about Justin Blaisdell sucking face with Cheyenne Drummond moments before they got eaten by a gang of zombies, but she was. Flip a coin ten times, and nine of those times - okay, eight...maybe seven - she would wonder which made her feel worse: the zombies, or the face-sucking. Justin was supposed to be her boyfriend. He was supposed to be her date to the Green Day concert she still had tickets for, stuck into her drawer in her cabin. The fact he didn’t know - hadn’t known - would never know - those things made no difference. She should be tweeting on Twitter, or texting on Facebook, or posting inappropriate photos on Snap-Chat at two in the morning. Not this. Never this.
Samantha had heard Green Day playing through the ship’s speaker system earlier that day. No idea which insensitive bastard (oops - dollar for the swear jar) put on their American Idiot CD, but whoever it was should be shot. She’d be willing to bet it was Clara Blondelle. The woman was a slut. Cheyenne Drummond had been a slut. Cheyenne Drummond had been playing Green Day on her I-pod - dock speakers in the park, the night they...
Not going there, she insisted to the multiple personalities inside of her head. She took another couple of practice swings with the monkey’s fist, to give herself something other on which to focus.
It actually looked not one tiny bit like its name. A small, lead ball, about the diameter of a quarter, had been weaved into layer after layer of three-eighths-inch cotton line, at one end of that line, with the other end tied to the three-inch nylon mooring line, that would then be pulled over toward whoever caught the tossed heaving line. It was all very nautical, and in her deepest, darkest, never-tell-anyone heart, she actually felt kind of proud. Not that she’d made the knot, herself - because she hadn’t. Mister Keely made it, but he’d shown her how it was done, and that counted, right?
The ship, with her father driving, was now in the process of doing a donut in the harbor basin, so it could then back into position alongside the Sassafras, which was tied to the pier. Large, black, rubber fenders, which looked like three-foot diameter cylinders, about four feet long, were held over the side on both ships, so they didn’t dent each other when the True North came alongside. It had been explained to her, and she understood the process without needing to ask a thousand stupid questions. She hated not understanding things, and luckily, most of this nautical stuff seemed to be common sense. It was just common sense that seemed like alien architecture, until it was explained. Rocket science, however, this was not.
She saw a big brute of a man waving at her, as the back end of the True North slipped past the front end of the Sassafras. She waved back, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She hadn’t really thought about it, but perfect strangers were going to see her throw the heaving line, and she knew, beyond the shadow of a wishy-washy doubt, she would botch it completely, fall over her own clumsy feet, and drop into the water, to be crushed between the two ships and forever lost to the world. That would probably be best. Otherwise, the shame might kill her.
“Stand by!” Mister Keely, there on the fantail with her, said. Davy, her brother, was there, and so was Stephanie Barber. Those people, at least, she knew. They might forgive her incompetence. Maybe. Hopefully.
The fantail of the other ship slid into view, and sure enough, there was another, younger man, standing there. He was tall and thin and black, and had a friendly smile on his face. He was in uniform, as was the bruiser on the forecastle, and she was used to that, having grown up in a Coast Guard family, but these guys were professionals. They actually knew what they were doing. Why did I agree to this? She thought. Then she corrected herself. She hadn’t agreed. She’d volunteered.
“Put over Line Three!” Mister Keely shouted. Samantha hesitated, looking at him. “That means you, honey,” he said, in a soft and quiet voice. She just knew everybody heard it. She might as well be wearing a blinking neon sign that said IDIOT, IDIOT, IDIOT.
“Heads up!” she shouted - at least remembering to do that much. The thirty foot line soared over the head of the waiting sailor, and landed with an audible CLUNK on the pier beyond.
He smiled at her. “Good toss,” he said, grabbing the thin line that stretched across the deck. He pulled on it, bringing the mooring line through a hole in the side of True North (called an open chock, if she remembered correctly) and feeding it through a similar one on the Sassafras. The wet nylon line drained water like a washrag being twisted, as he tossed the end over the bollard, and as Mister Keely, Davy and Stephanie wrapped their end around the capstan, and spun the mechanical drum, making the line taught, and pulling the two ships together.
It worked like clockwork and she was mildly surprised to discover she had not tripped and fallen to a crushing death into the water. She might actually get good at this one day. Or not...
As Davy and Stephanie and Mister Keely finished tying off all the lines, Samantha looked up toward the bridge, where her father stood, talking across the gap with Molly. It was not until that exact moment she realized just how much she’d missed her cousin. Her heart soared.
And then it fell and fluttered and did triple back flips - some with a twist and some without, in a bizarre parody of that silly game her father used to play, Pong. Stepping out from behind her cousin was none other than the first guy she’d ever crushed on. Of all the ships in all the sea, in all the world...
GULP...
8
USCGC Sassafras
<
br /> Midway Atoll
“Socrates Jones!” John Gordon said, smiling even broader than he had been. “Of all the people to survive...”
“Hi, Chiefy!” Jonesy said, genuinely glad to see his old boss.
“Good to see you made it, boy!” John said.
“I got your boy dangling,” Jonesy said, coming back with the appropriate response.
“Sorry,” John said. “Didn’t have a strong enough microscope. Musta missed it.”
“Okay...” Molly said. “Secure the testosterone, if you please.”
“Seriously, Jonesy,” John said. “Thanks for taking care of my girl.”
“More like the other way around,” Jonesy said. “Chief Gordon, may I present the Commanding Officer of the United States Coast Guard Cutter Sassafras,” he finished with a flourishing hand in Molly’s direction.
“No shit?” John asked.
“Not a single one,” Jonesy replied.
Molly waved it off with a wave of her hand. “So tell me, Uncle John,” she said. “What was with the cryptic stuff about unfriendly ears?” she asked, referring to the conversation they’d had over the GSB 900 when they first established contact. Seemed like weeks ago, but Jonesy knew it had only been a few days.
“Pirates,” John replied, his face growing dark.
“No shit?” Jonesy echoed.
“Not a single one,” John said, but he wasn’t smiling. “We killed most of them, but at least one got away, and they killed two of ours.”
“Did you get a name on their boat?” Molly asked.
“Nope,” John shook his head. “Came at us in a RHIB,” he said. “Should have expected it, though.”
“On what planet?” Jonesy asked.
“This one,” Jim Barber said, coming out of the True North’s Bridge, “Good to see you, Jonesy,” he added, then said: “Molly.”
Barber had been the Second Class Quartermaster (navigation), to John’s First Class, and Jonesy’s Third on the Cutter Planetree, up in Alaska. They’d gotten along well enough, but being the Second on a ship the size of a Buoy Tender was not the easiest gig. The position served as the connection between junior enlisted and senior enlisted, which meant the person tended to get kicked by both. Still, Jonesy thought, the guy hadn’t been too much of a dick, and there were a few...incidents...like the memorable night in Pelican, Alaska when John was made Chief. They had all gotten uproariously drunk (which was about the only thing there was to do in Pelican), and it created a bond.
Jonesy discovered, early on, that the best and fastest way to get to know new shipmates on a new ship, was to go out drinking with them. Something about the loss of inhibition, coupled with certain potentially embarrassing moments of public drunkenness, that bonded people together. Whether this was from a shared experience of the events, or shared misery of the monumental hangover to follow, he wasn’t sure, but time proved the technique’s effectiveness.
“What’s up, Jim?” Jonesy asked.
“Oh, you know,” Jim replied, shrugging. “A little underway time, a little shore time, repel a few pirates...”
“Zombie apocalypse...” Jonesy concluded the thought.
“Exactly,” Jim replied. “Zombies, huh?”
Jonesy nodded. “A real shit sandwich.”
“I heard that,” Jim replied.
“Now that we’ve exchanged the pleasantries,” Molly began. “Tell me more about these pirates.”
Jonesy had to admire how well she assumed the mantle of leadership. She could have crumbled into pieces. She could have fallen back on other people with more experience, as, for example, himself, or (now that he was here) her uncle. He knew plenty of male officers, with more time in service who would have done exactly that, but not her.
“Happened about...” John began, but then he stopped, and cocked his head to the side. “Do you hear that?” He asked, looking skyward. “What is it?”
And then Jonesy could hear it, too: a deep drone - far off, but getting closer. He and Molly both ducked into their Bridge, and John and Jim both ducked into theirs, and all four came back out holding binoculars. Four pairs of eyes scanned the sky. Molly was the first to spot it.
“There,” she said, pointing to the South at about a thirty degree angle to the sky. A reddish, greenish dot appeared, growing nearer, more distinct, it’s color scheme resolving itself into a two-toned, green-over-red aircraft, its wings extending over the top, rather than out the sides. Two engines perched on those wings, to either side of the fuselage. One of them seemed to be smoking.
“Looks like an old Catalina,” John said.
“Or an Albatross,” Jim countered.
“Catalina,” John said, shaking his head. “See the nose.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jim replied.
“It could be a 747, for all it matters,” Jonesy said. “I think one of its engines is on fire.”
Thick, black smoke poured from the starboard engine, and they could hear a sputtering, coughing and revving of the other engine as it tried to compensate.
“Jonesy,” Molly said. “Get Duke and Harold into the small boat,” she ordered, then hesitated, and glanced aft, where the two ships were tied together - with the Sass on the inside. “Shit,” she swore, then looked at her uncle.
John looked to Jim, and barked: “Get Lane and drop the Zodiac.”
Molly looked to Jonesy and barked: “Get Duke and Harold armed up. You, too.” She glanced at John and shrugged. “You never know.”
“Roger that,” John, Jim, and Jonesy all said at the same time. They headed off to their assigned tasks.
The aircraft weaved and swooped, rising and falling like a drunken goonie bird as it made the approach to the entrance channel. Turned out it was, in fact, an old Catalina Flying Boat.
Widely used in the 1930's, it saw plenty of action during the Second World War, particularly in the Pacific. Built by Consolidated Aircraft, and dubbed the PBY, it was used for a variety of missions, from anti-submarine warfare, to at-sea rescue. The “PB” part of its name stood for Patrol Bomber, and the “Y” was just the designation given to it by Consolidated. The aircraft remained in service till the 1980's, but had mostly disappeared by the time of the apocalypse. Seeing one now was a rarity.
It was also an emergency situation (since it appeared to be on fire) and a potential security situation, given the True North’s recent encounter with piracy. In either event, the plane looked as if it had seen better days.
The True North’s Zodiac, loaded with Lane, Jim, Jonesy, Duke and Harold, skipped across the light swell, then waited, just inside the twin breakwaters of the harbor, as the PBY bounced to a landing, amid great gouts of spraying water in the north/south approach channel, then turned left into the harbor entrance.
Duke held a shotgun, as did Lane. Harold and Jonesy each had M-4's, and Jonesy had his two .45's, in thigh holsters, and two nines, in a shoulder rig. Jim wore a .357 in a belted holster, and carried his M-1. They all wore body armor, though only that worn by Jonesy, Duke and Harold carried the words: US COAST GUARD across their chests. They looked, in Jonesy’s estimation, ready to storm the beaches at Guadalcanal. None wore helmets, though It was simply too damned hot.
The Catalina taxied to a sputtering stop twenty yards from the Zodiac, the engines cut, and a plexiglass hatch flipped open over the pilot, who reached a hand, holding a fire extinguisher dangerously close to the still-spinning propellers, and sprayed thick, white CO2 onto the burning engine. As the props came to rest, the hand was followed by the body of a man, wearing a faded blue Hawaiian shirt, over thigh-length, used-to-be-white shorts, frayed, tan, knee-high socks, and calf-high, light brown combat boots. He appeared to be bald, although most of the top of his head was covered by a faded green WW2-style pilot’s cap, with a dark brown brim.
He climbed onto the crossover wings, sprayed the top of the offending, still smoking engine, then tossed the now empty fire extinguisher back through the plexiglass hatch. He looked at the black smoke still cur
ling upward, then gave the engine housing one, really good kick. He stepped back to survey the damage, with hands on hips, then turned his gaze toward the Zodiac.
“Just like Americans,” he said, in a thick British accent. “Always waving their guns around.” He shook his head in friendly disapproval, then smiled. “Would one of you Yanks care to give me a hand?”
And thus, they met Harvey “Wallbanger” Walton, functionally insane citizen of the world.
9
COMMSTA Honolulu
Oahu, Hawaii
Amber Winkowski kicked out at the face of the former Chief Operations Specialist as the zombie tried to claw its way upward into the exposed false ceiling. On the one hand, it wasn’t having much success. False ceilings weren’t the type of thing you could leap up into with wild abandon and not have the laws of gravity affect the ability to remain airborne. On the other hand, it had managed to grab the side of the catwalk platform when it lunged upward at her, and now she was hoping like Hell those tiny, thin, almost invisible wires would hold both its weight and hers. She was not hopeful.
Her first kick missed. Her second did not. She felt her foot connect with flesh, heard the grunt of pain and surprise, and the scream of rage, and felt the catwalk begin to sway. It didn’t swing back and forth like a porch swing, though. Oh no. That would have been too simple, too safe. It jerked and corkscrewed and threatened to toss her off and onto the false ceiling, plunging her into the death zone of angry, hungry zombies, who had apparently not found any other food source.
Dust and chunks of whatever fire-resistive material replaced the asbestos of days gone by fell from over head, showering her body, her face, her hair. She grabbed onto the metal platform and hung on for dear life, laying her body flat. She felt a downward jerk, as one of the anorexic wires gave with a vibrating sproing of sound. It fell onto her leg, the snapped end slapping her butt like the riding crop of some twisted horse master. She took the hint.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Zombies In Paradise Page 3
