It was on her far sooner than she expected, but the zombie seemed even more surprised than she was. She did not wait for it to recover from the shock. With a forehand swing that would have made Serena Williams green with envy, she brought the crowbar down onto the Storekeeper’s head, suddenly remembering that the woman’s name had been Felicity.
The iron bar thudded into Felicity’s skull with a sickening CRACK, as blood and bone and brain matter splattered outward in a thick spray of horror. She/it staggered back, its forehead misshapen and streaming blood over her stunned face and into her open mouth, then she crumpled to the ground with a barely audible thump.
Felicity. Her name was Felicity. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, Amber’s mind reeled, repeating the heartbreaking mantra over and over again. Her heart pounded in her chest, like a battering ram trying to break through her breastbone. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill forth like the relief valve on a hydroelectric dam.
Silence fell. Moments ticked by, one excruciating second after another. Her breathing eased. Her heart stopped trying to explode. She lowered the crowbar.
In the distance, another zombie howled.
19
M/V Point of Order
19.420157N 15.301154W
George Potter took the shot, and the male fell to the side. Blackjack had to hand it to him. A rifle shot from a moving platform, at night, at sea, and he took the rapist motherfucker out with a single round.
They came across the sailboat - a really nice sixty-five footer named the Island Dream - as they were heading southward. Doug Hennessy, the man they’d taken from the Utility Supply Vessel Corrigan Cargo III, spotted it. He’d also been the first to notice what was happening on the sun deck of the sailboat in prospect.
The man had a naked woman, tied face down, across what looked like an emergency life raft container, and he was banging her from behind. She did not appear to be enjoying the experience, judging from the screams they could hear, even over the engine noise of their own ship. And he didn’t appear to be a zombie, though it was fifty/fifty as to whether the woman was. The man was clearly an asshole, though, and Blackjack Charlie already had enough of those in his steadily-growing crew, so he told George to take the shot.
“Good shooting,” Hennessy said.
“Thanks,” George replied. “Four years in the Marine Corps, a whole lot of years ago.”
“Semper Fi, then,” Hennessy said, with a smile.
Blackjack watched the exchange and updated his assessment of their new crew member. Hennessy had been a Merchant Mariner, like himself, before the Plague, and seemed to be competent enough. The other four men from the Corrigan Cargo looked up to him, which could be both a plus and something he was going to have to watch.
The five men and two women they’d “rescued” came willingly enough, after Blackjack put a bullet in their former Captain’s skull, and hadn’t complained when he separated them between their vessel and the Point of Order. They didn’t even argue when he declined to give them weapons. It was easy - too easy - and that bothered him.
He’d put Hennessy on Point of Order precisely because they looked up to him. Anyone with that much support from the men who now technically outnumbered Blackjack’s crew (if he discounted the Honorable Mister Goddard - and he did) needed to be watched.
Of course, the same held true for George Potter, who Charlie expected would happily stick a knife in his back if given half an opportunity. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, the old saying went, and Charlie learned long ago that old sayings stuck around for one simple reason: they were true. So he had George and Hennessy with him - in front of him - and only George held a weapon. Charlie had his out as well, and it was cocked, locked and off safe, with a round in the chamber.
“I was Navy,” Hennessy said, in an affable tone.
Charlie could see why the other men looked up to him. He had a quiet confidence, coupled with an easy manner that tended to make men like him. Blackjack had noticed even the women liked him. Granted, they were a couple of Crew Sluts, like he’d seen at major sea ports all over the world, but one fact didn’t change the other.
They weren’t whores, per se. The closest non-maritime equivalent he could think of was groupies. He’d always found it amusing that he, as a sailor, had groupies, like a rock star, but such was life, wasn’t it? And as for the women? They were no longer simply toys for the entertainment of a few. In this Brave New World, there needed to be a new currency, a new foundation for trade, a new set of priorities. They had, therefore, become commodities.
He picked up the handheld radio. “Felix, send the boat over,” he said.
Felix had been left on the Corrigan Cargo. He was a fool, to be sure, but a smart fool, and he was loyal to Blackjack Charlie. That made the difference. Plus, he was a friendly sort, if a bit annoying, and he had the backing of the people with the guns, so leaving him in charge was a calculated, but still manageable risk.
He didn’t know shit about boat handling, however, and that would have to be taken into consideration for the future. Charlie decided to turn this little escapade into a test, of sorts. He’d told Felix to give one of the other men a weapon, and let him be in charge of the boarding party. Hennessy suggested an oiler named Davis McGee, and hadn’t seemed to be trying to pull any bullshit in the recommendation, but Charlie wasn’t about to take anything at face value, so this would, in effect, be a double test. If McGee worked out, great. If he tried anything, in any way, at any time, both he and Hennessy would very quickly turn into fish food.
And if Felix got himself killed? Well... He could always find himself another chemist. George Potter, on the other hand...? A mechanical engineer would be worth his weight in gold, in this new economy. Time to mend fences.
“That was good shooting, George,” he said, and judging by the man’s surprised expression, it hadn’t been expected. He’d had an ulterior motive in saying it, but that didn’t make the statement any less true. It was an excellent shot - especially since the man was (as usual) drunk. “Now see if you can’t match it,” he added. “Take out the woman.”
Both men looked at him, shocked. He held up two fingers. “Two reasons,” he said. “One, I think she’s a zombie.”
“And if you’re wrong?” George asked, darkly.
“Then, two, if things on that sailboat devolved to the point that the motherfucker tied the bitch down and raped her, then what do you suppose the state of her mind might be?” He looked at them and let the idea ruminate for a moment. “Are either one of you a shrink? Is anybody on either boat a shrink? Do we have any drugs that might keep her calm?” Neither man argued. “Do we really need a basket case on our hands? Killing her would be a mercy.”
George Potter thought about it for a moment. He opened his mouth twice, as if about to say something, but shut it both times, without uttering a word. Finally, he steadied himself, put the AR-15 to his eye, and took the shot.
20
USCG Integrated Support Command
Honolulu, Hawaii
The crowbar smashed down onto the zombie’s head, cracking it like an egg. Blood sprayed Amber’s face and hair. She might have puked (again) if she hadn’t been too goddamned busy. The body of an officer in work blues, wearing LTjg collar devices, and carrying the name tag: Costello, dropped at her feet. Two more came behind him.
Why couldn’t they have left a machine gun in the tool bag? She asked her overtaxed brain, as she ran in the opposite direction. It came as no surprise when she failed to receive a reply.
She had raced across the road and through the parking lot, with several zombies on her heel, only to find the first door of the Facilities Engineering Building locked tighter than her own sphincter, which seemed to be doing its best to shit diamonds. That had been at the nearest leg of the U-shaped structure. She’d kept running, every second feeling as if it might be the last of her waning energy, past the fifty-foot gap between the legs. She co
nsidered running into the courtyard created by the two legs, but dismissed the idea out of hand, feeling certain it would only leave her trapped.
Her strength was failing and the zombie hoard behind her was gaining when she reached the next door and found it blessedly, miraculously unlocked. She’d darted inside, slammed the door behind her and threw the deadbolt, as her heart beat like the jungle drums of every Tarzan movie she’d ever seen.
And then she’d turned. And then she’d seen the zombie staggering toward her.
That had been the worst, the most nightmarish. Her instinctual swing of the crowbar caught the naked female in the left eye, ripping the organ from its socket with a gout of gore. Her gag reflex let loose with a stream of more vomit than she thought her stomach could possibly contain, and it just kept coming, heave after heave, until her throat and back and ribs ached from dry spasms.
But she was alive. She survived. And the zombie hoard had taken to pounding on the door behind her, so she’d thrust herself off the wall and moved into the building.
It was quiet at first, the air stuffy, after being shut for who knew how many days. She registered the fact of its stuffiness, mulled it around in her head for a minute or two as she searched for the ET Shop, added two plus two, and came up with the answer: the building was secure. There were no breaches to the outside. She was safe, or at least safer than she had been. Unfortunately, the brief sense of security the knowledge gave her turned out to be false.
She’d reached the bottom of the U, and turned down the cross corridor without incident, and without finding the ET Shop her mind had convinced her would have the manuals she needed.. She’d turned at the other end, one hundred and fifty feet further on, and ran smack into LTjg Costello.
Now she was running for her life again, only this time, the brief respite had caused her exhausted, oxygen-starved muscles to stiffen. She staggered, stumbled, and nearly fell, but kept her balance only by the sheer luck chance of grabbing onto the horizontal door handle of a room marked: Maintenance. She discovered it was unlocked, when the door suddenly popped open and spilled her inside.
With an agility she had not been aware she possessed, Amber continued the fall into a roll, and kicked the door shut behind her. It bounced right back open, due to the zombie hand reaching through the gap and into the room. She kicked it again, and again it remained stubbornly open, and each time she kicked, she slid further and further back into the room on the smooth tile. She needed to get up. She needed to close that damned door. She needed to keep her heart from exploding in fear as the form of a uniformed man leapt over her prone body and slammed his shoulder into the door.
The door popped open yet again, but the man took a screwdriver from his back pocket and stabbed it into the grasping forearm. It jerked back, the zombie attached to it howling in pain. He slammed the door finally shut, but the problem was far from over. He slammed his shoulder into the door and held it there, leaning into it, holding it closed with his weight.
“A little help would be appreciated,” he said.
Amber scrambled to her feet, her brain roiling in confusion and relief and gratitude and the simple joy of not being eaten by hungry zombies.
“That locker should tip,” he said, indicating a gray metal cabinet standing in a small alcove beside the door.
She moved to it, with barely enough room between them, and grasped the only thing she could see to grab hold of: a towel, hanging from a thin, U-shaped bar across the top of the locker. Twisting it in her hands, she yanked once, felt the cabinet begin to tip, then yanked again. It wobbled, leaning toward her as she leaned back with all her weight.
The man tried to give her room, tried to slide along the door, but it didn’t help much. She yanked one more time, and the locker began to tip, slowly at first, as if deciding which way gravity would take it, and then all at once, knocking her into him, and the two of them onto the floor, scrambling to get out of the way of the toppling metal behemoth threatening to crush them both.
It crashed to the ground, right where the mystery man had been standing, the monstrous sound echoing through the room like a twenty car pileup. A two-inch gap lay between the fallen cabinet and the door, which slammed open, but didn’t move the obstruction an inch.
The two of them looked at each other in silence. The man had short-cropped red hair and a ruddy, friendly face. He looked at her, and she at him. Amber was the first to get up, and she held out her hand to help her unknown assistant.
“Amber Winkowski,” she said.
He wore blue Coast Guard coveralls, with the name tag: Pruden. “Scott,” he said, tapping his finger on the tag. “It’s spelled Pruden, but it’s pronounced: Juergen McAwesomeness,” he added with a smile. “And boy, am I ever glad to see you.”
21
USCGC Sassafras
Midway Atoll
“I need to stay here and set up the lab,” Professor Christopher Floyd said, not-quite whining. Jonesy disliked the man with every passing moment. He was arrogant to the point of damned-near begging to be punched in the head, and Jonesy stood at the front of the line of people waiting to do it.
“You need to do what you’re told,” Barber growled.
Well, maybe not the front. One look at Mister Jim Barber and it became clear the man had a prior claim to the position. So, okay, second position. No point in picking nits.
“And you need to stop and think for a moment,” Floyd retorted, the contempt in his voice as subtle as a Death Metal concert. “While you’re out gathering the specimens I need for the vaccine, who’s going to be putting the lab together?” He glared at Barber. “You?” He looked at John, and Duke, and Molly, then finally at Jonesy. “You?”
Oh yeah. He so wanted to punch the fucker’s lights out.
They were gathered around the Wardroom dining table: himself, Molly, Duke, Frank Roessler (who, along with Gus, had finished repairing the seaplane), John, Jim, and Harvey Walton, who sat there with a bemused expression on his face as he watched the tense exchange. Jonesy hadn’t made up his mind about the latest addition to their band of misfits. What was the Churchill quote they used in the movie about the Kennedy assassination? A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma? Something like that. He often found his memory jumbled in the wash of history, mixed with pop culture. In this case, however, it fit.
“Let’s stay calm,” Molly said. As the senior representative of the US Government (such as it was), she was in charge, and he’d found himself growing more and more impressed with her each passing day. Each passing moment. She had done a Hell of a job, thus far.
He still stared at her butt when her back was turned, of course, but that only meant his eyes were open and he was conscious. It did not mean anything resembling disrespect. Keep telling yourself that, boy, he chided his inner misogynist.
“What do you need for the lab?” she asked.
Floyd glared at them all a moment longer, then fixed his gaze on Molly. “I need a stable platform,” he looked at John. “Not the ship.” Back at Molly. “I need a place with electricity. One I can split into hot and cold zones. That means somewhere I can seal.” He leaned back and pointed to the map of the island laying on the table. It included names and descriptions of all the structures. “The medical clinic should do. I’ve looked at it, and I think I can make it work.” He glared at Barber again. “But I can’t do that if I’m flying around the Greater Hawaiian Islands with this lunatic,” he said, thumbing toward Walton.
“I prefer Bloody Lunatic, if you don’t mind,” Harvey said, with a pleasant smile.
“Well, La de Fucking da,” Floyd snapped.
“This lunatic, as you call him,” John said, “is going to get you the materials you need. You might want to be a little more pleasant to the man.”
“Or what?” Floyd asked.
“Or we’ll see if you can make vaccine with your head forcibly shoved up your own ass,” Duke growled, beginning to rise. Jim started to stand, as well, as Floyd slid back his cha
ir.
“Enough!” Molly shouted. She looked to Duke and Jim. “Sit your asses down.” She stared at them for a few beats, until they did as ordered, then slowly turned her gaze to the professor. “And you, sir, need to think about this.” He returned her gaze with a defiance that made Jonesy want to pound the living shit out of him. She, however, remained calm and steady.
“Can any of you make vaccine?” Floyd snarled.
“No,” Molly replied. “We cannot.” The professor sat back in his chair, a look of smugness on the face Jonesy really wanted to punch. “Can you get the electricity going?” She asked. “Can you forage for your own food? Can you kill the zombies needed to make the vaccine? Can you fight off the pirates, if they come again?” She stared at him in expressionless silence for almost a full minute, as the arrogant fuck rolled her words around in his head, then she leaned toward him. “And do you not also need the secondary booster? Do you not need to make more vaccine to ensure your own survival?” She locked eyes with him, not blinking. “And what do you suppose will happen after you’ve made enough vaccine and booster for everybody? Do you think we’ll cuddle you in our warm embrace, shower you with everything you need, cater to your every whim and desire out of sheer gratitude?” She leaned even closer. “Or do you think we’ll remember what a difficult prick you’ve been?” She sat back, folded her arms across her chest, and waited for his response.
Floyd shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.
Now would be a really good time for a mic drop, Jonesy thought in absolute admiration for his former lover and new Captain.
He had known many people - mostly men - who wore the mantle of leadership like a jack-booted Nazi Stormtrooper, and they were universally reviled by their crews, mainly because the overbearing micro management tended to hide an undercurrent of incompetence. Every now and then, though, he came across individuals who, through quiet, calm leadership proved they deserved the title of Ship’s Captain.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Zombies In Paradise Page 7
