LCDR Sparks had been one of those. And so was Ensign Molly Gordon.
22
USCGC Polar Star
14-7-25N/177-12-34W
“We have arrived at the Box of Death, sir,” LCDR Stubbelfield said, in his quiet, even voice. His voice was always quiet and even. LTjg Amy Montrose noticed it on her very first day aboard, which seemed like a lifetime ago, but she’d also noticed time had a funny way of passing when life as they’d known it slipped away into the maelstrom of a zombie apocalypse.
Her mind had a tendency to ramble when she was tired. It felt like days since she last slept, but this, too, was an illusion. She struggled to focus on the meeting.
They were gathered in the Cabin: LCDR Stubbelfield, LT Wheeler, herself, and Master Chief Wolf, along with the XO, CDR Swedberg, and the Captain, of course. She didn’t know with any certainty why she’d been included, but she had her suspicions.
“Very well,” Captain Gideon Hall replied, leaning back in his chair. He’d been examining the chart on the table in front of him. “The question is, how much point is there in our remaining here?” He looked at the assembled people, one at a time. “I am asking for your opinions.”
“Well, sir,” Wheeler began. “We haven’t heard a peep from any of the High Endurance Cutters, or anybody else, for that matter, in days.”
“I am aware, Mister Wheeler,” Hall said. “But this is where they told us to take station. We have now done so. The question stands, however.”
“Not much point in sitting around burning fuel,” Master Chief Wolf said. “Sooner or later, we’re going to have to find ourselves some land.”
“Radio did overhear chatter between COMMSTA Hono and the cutter Sassafras, but that was days ago, and the news had not been good,” Stubbelfield said.
“I was not aware of that,” Hall said, cocking an eyebrow at his Operations Officer. “Was there some particular reason you did not share the information?” He didn’t look angry, at least not as far as Amy could see, but the cocked eyebrow was as much of a tell as the man ever gave. The expression reminded her of a dog her cousin had, years ago: half-Husky, half-Timber Wolf. It had the oddest grey-blue eyes, and it never barked. It didn’t growl either, but if it scrunched its front shoulders and looked at you, it meant your ass was about to become dinner.
Stubbelfield seemed unmoved by it. “The transmission was garbled, from what I was told. The operator caught perhaps one word in three, but from it, he was able to gather the Sass was somewhere between Kauai and Midway, that they had suffered severe casualties, and would, in all likelihood, be unable to assist the lone person who appeared to be manning the COMMSTA. This was, by the way, shortly before we witnessed the detonation.”
“I see,” Hall said, his eyes not focusing on anyone in particular. Then he looked at the Master Chief. “How far are we from Honolulu?”
Wolf scratched his chin, calculating. “Thirteen hundred nautical miles, give or take.” Amy knew - in fact, placed a small bet with herself - that if she went to the Bridge and worked it out on her own, the actual distance wouldn’t be off Wolf’s assessment by more than twenty miles.
“So...Three and a half days on diesels, two and a half on turbines?” Hall replied, his eyes staring at the overhead.
“Honolulu has fallen, sir,” CDR Swedberg said.
Hall nodded. “It has, XO,” he said. “Which is not the same as there being nobody on it.”
“And even if there is, sir,” Wheeler said. “What can we do about it?”
Hall nodded. “You’ve hit upon the basic dilemma,” he said. “The essential problem we had in Guam remains.” He paused. “We are not infected. Anyone we find ashore almost certainly is.”
“Can’t just sit here with our thumbs up our asses,” Master Chief growled.
“No,” Hall replied. “We cannot. Hence, the dilemma.”
He looked at everyone around the table, his eyes coming to rest on Amy Montrose last. He stared at her for a moment, then said to one and all: “Sitting in the middle of the ocean doing nothing will be...detrimental...to crew morale.” He addressed Amy. “What has been the response to last night’s suicide?”
This was what she’d been expecting all along. They hadn’t needed her for her navigational experience, nor her administrative skills, nor her command skills. Each and every one of those things registered so far down in the hierarchy of this table, they might as well have been non-existent. She was, however, the Morale Officer.
“In a word, sir, morale sucks.” She heard a sharp intake of breath from the XO’s end of the table, but ignored it. She thought she could detect the slightest twitch in Hall’s eyebrow, but he did not give her the full treatment. “Which is to say, about what I’d expect, given the circumstances, sir. Some are stoic about it, some are upset, a few are freaked out.” She shrugged. “They are responding according to character, more or less. With one exception.”
“Petty Officer Claire,” Wheeler interjected.
“She found him?” Hall asked.
“Yes, sir,” Amy replied.
“And how is she reacting?” Hall asked.
“Therein lies the problem, sir. She’s not. And she should be,” Wheeler said.
Hall looked at the XO. “We have Prozac on board, sir,” Swedberg suggested. “I’m sure Doc would—“
”No,” Hall said, cutting him off. “We don’t need to be doping the crew.” He stared at the overhead for another moment, then straightened in his chair. “We will remain here for seventy-two hours.” Master Chief Wolf gave a derisive snort. Amy felt sure he was the only person in the entire crew who could have gotten away with it. The Captain glanced at him. “We were ordered to this position, Master Chief, and I intend to obey those orders,” he said. “For three days,” he added. “Mister Stubbelfield, I want constant radio calls going out. We need to let our people know we’re here. Every thirty minutes, until we get a response, or the three days is up. Then we head for Honolulu.” He looked at each person in turn. “Understood?”
There was a chorus of “Yes, sir,” from around the table - even from the Master Chief. Hall stood, and so did everyone else.
“Dismissed,” Hall said, then watched as they all replaced their chairs beneath the table, and departed. Amy, the junior-most (she technically outranked the Master Chief, but wasn’t about to act like it), was the last to leave. “Keep an eye on her, Miss Montrose,” he said, in a voice not meant to carry. She wasn’t sure why he didn’t want the others to overhear, but Hall, like Master Chief Wolf, wasn’t someone she wanted to question.
“Yes, sir,” she said, and exited the Cabin, wondering just how she was going to do it.
23
USCG ISC Honolulu
Facilities Engineering Building
Another building, another damned catwalk, Amber thought, as she followed her new-found companion, Scott Pruden, through the maze of conduits, vent shafts, and wires, above the false ceiling of the Facilities Engineering building. Her knees hurt, her back hurt, and she hoped like Hell young master Pruden didn’t need to fart anytime soon.
Okay...Unkind...And unfair. The man saved her life.
“How you doing back there?” he asked, in a stage whisper. She could hear him, and it was at least possible the zombies below could not, but it still felt wrong.
“Fine,” she whispered.
Juergen McAwesomeness, he’d called himself. And sure, okay, it had been a joke, no doubt meant to lighten the mood after the near-death experience of getting into the Maintenance Room, but it was pretty fucking weird. There, she’d said it - or thought it, anyway. The guy was weird.
So? People are strange, if the words to Jim Morrison’s song had been correct. Everybody was weird to someone else - including a certain Miss Amber Winkowski. She didn’t like crowds. She didn’t like being social. She didn’t like being on this goddamned catwalk.
He came to an abrupt stop ahead of her, causing a near-collision between her head and his butt. What now? She a
sked herself. Peering around his buttocks, she saw nothing but darkness, a bundle of wires, and his left arm yanking at something, which made far too much noise. “Be quiet,” she hissed.
“Just a bit more,” he replied in a strained voice, followed by a distinct CLANK.
A howl rose up in the distance, somewhere behind and to their right, answered by another below and in front of them.
“Are you trying to get us killed?” She snapped. This was a rhetorical question, of course; one she did not expect to be answered.
“No,” he replied, shattering her expectations. She detected a note of frustrated snottiness.
You’re being a bitch, Amber, her inner-nag said.
He glanced back at her, his ruddy face not looking happy. “Sorry,” she whispered. He smiled.
“Now comes the fun part,” he said, and pushed at the access door he’d opened. Light - blessed light - filtered in through the darkness. Dust motes floated and swirled, as a delightful, cool breeze wafted in, caressing her sweating face. Then the stench hit her, and she thought of its cause.
He crawled forward and out. She followed, and found herself on another catwalk - but this one was in the open, ringing the huge warehouse beneath. She stood on creaking, sore, stiff knees, reveling at the sudden ability to be upright. “Okay,” she said, still in a whisper. “I take back every bad thing I thought about you.”
She looked out into the vast room. There were piles and piles of stuff - most she couldn’t identify, but some she could. There were pallets of what looked like grain or rice. There were pallets of stacked boxes. There were full shipping containers, and pallets of bottled water, and something she thought might be a generator. And there were vehicles - all sorts of vehicles - from cars to trucks to big-ass trucks, capable of hauling away the shipping containers. Off to one side sat the biggest forklift she’d ever seen, squatting there like some prehistoric beast.
And there were zombies. But not many. She could see three - no - four of them, stumbling around with no apparent destination or design in the unfocused way they had. They were not clustered, however, which was a good thing.
“You are forgiven,” he said, and smiled again. “And I hope you can return the favor.”
“What?”
He gave her a sheepish grin. “I never said thank you,” he replied.
“For?” She asked.
“For getting my sorry as out of that Maintenance Room.” He looked at her, his face serious and...was that chagrin? “I’d have starved to death in there, if you hadn’t come along,” he said. “I’d have just sat there and died - if the zombies didn’t get in the way you did, first.” He shook his head in wonder. “I can’t believe I didn’t think to block the door. What an idiot!”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” she replied. “If you had, I’d be Zombie Chow right now.”
He rubbed at his belly, as it growled. “Let’s not talk about food just yet, okay?” She laughed. “You do have enough in the COMMCEN?”
“Enough, and then some,” she assured him. “Especially if you can get the power back on and the radios back up.”
Turned out, Juergen McAwesomeness was in reality, Electronics Technician Second Class Scott Pruden. Also turned out, he not only knew where the manuals for the solar panels were, he didn’t need them - and neither, therefore, did she, because she had him.
And, okay, being honest, she had to admit her snarky behavior was, to a large degree, her own anger over having been saved by a man - having needed to be saved by a man. How many movies had she seen, how many books had she read, where the heroine battles the evil forces, almost unto death, to be saved at the Ta-Da last moment by some guy? She hated those stories, hated the cliche, and so hated the fact, and - by extension - the man. Unfair, to be sure. Wasn’t his fault her fiction choices had been limited. Wasn’t his fault she festered a deep dislike for the trope. He’d been in the right place, at the right time, and when faced with death by zombie, any port in the storm was more than acceptable, and deserved her gratitude.
Thinking on it, in the cool (albeit death, decay, and petroleum-smelling) breeze and the delightful capacity to remain vertical, there had been, and would be, an exchange of savior-like activities. Yes, he rescued her by slamming the door shut on the clutching zombie bent on turning her into Amber Tartar. Yes, he would be fixing the solar panels, and restoring the power. Yes, he was (or so he claimed) going to get them out of this building and back to the COMMCEN in one piece. All of those things were true. It would not be, and was not, however, one-sided.
She had pointed out (quite by accident) the fatal flaw in his defense plan. She would be giving him his first meal in almost four days. She knew how to get them back into the Comm Center, knew how to operate the radios and knew (roughly) where the Sassafras was - or at least where it had been.
The Sass would be their lifeline. Whether or not their diminished crew could, in fact, do anything to rescue herself and Mister McAwesomeness, remained to be seen, and in any event, was out of her control. There had to be somebody out there, had to be somebody who could assist them.
“Okay,” he said. “Now’s the fun part.”
“Oh?” she replied, her blood pressure rising.
He pointed into the warehouse. “You see the forklift?”
“How could I miss it?” she answered.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large key. “Guess what this is?”
“A miniature laser cannon?” She asked.
“No,” he laughed. “Though that would be cool.”
“In that case, I’m going to guess it’s the forklift key,” she said.
“And you would be wrong,” he said, causing her heart to sink into her toes.
“Enough with the joking,” she said, the droll in her voice dripping like molasses.
“It’s the key to the big-ass truck next to it.” He pointed to a large, white, behemoth with a stake bed and dual tires on the back. “The doors are unlocked, it’s full of fuel, and it has a garage door opener, set to the large bay door off to the right.” He indicated the door in question, where she could now see a fifth zombie lurking in the shadows. “All we have to do is get there.”
24
Seaplane Wallbanger
26.06629N 173.966489W
Jonesy peered out the window as Lisianski Island passed beneath them - a dot, in the middle of a blue pool, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. He’d steamed past it many times. Okay...maybe not many...maybe once or twice...but the point remained. Steaming by it as the ship made its way on a West/Northwest course along the path of the volcanic hotspot that created - was still creating - the Hawaiian Island chain, felt serene, even stately in its slow pace. But down there, on the water, he’d never really gotten the sense of scope provided by air travel. Granted, they were flying at no more than a few hundred feet (for fear the engine repair might not hold), but the little green dot in the slightly larger blue dot of the reef, demonstrated beyond question, the vastness of the Pacific Ocean. It was big. Really big. Ludicrously big. And they were so, so small.
They had taken off, just after dawn, into an impossible, blue sky. Walton, Jonesy, Jim Barber, Gus Perniola, and Duke, crammed themselves and their gear into the not-even-a-little-bit luxurious aircraft, with Walton in the pilot seat, Jonesy in the co-pilot seat, and the rest squeezed onto the glorified, two-tiered benches in the back. Beyond them lay the cargo compartment. None of them had any idea what Harvey had back there, under the concealing tarps, and he wasn’t volunteering the information. It could be drugs, it could be weapons, it could be cases of Gummy Bears, for all anyone knew, though the latter possibility was considered quite far down the list of potential contraband.
The Sassafras would be getting underway about now, he thought, consulting his watch. They had augmented the crew with Mister Keely, John Gordon, and (to Jonesy’s great reluctance) Samantha Gordon. They would rendezvous with the ship at some point as yet undecided, once they’d reconnoitered Kauai and - it wa
s hoped - after they’d found the Assateague.
His reluctance about Samantha had nothing to do with her being a girl. Far from it. He was more than happy to work with - in fact, take orders from - Molly. His objection to Samantha had everything to do with her being sixteen years old. They had no idea what they would find, no idea what dangers there were, or what might lay ahead.
But John argued that she needed something to do, some way to contribute, some way to keep her out of trouble on a deserted island filled with who knew how many things a sixteen year old should not be messing with. Molly agreed, stating the obvious: they needed the extra body so Harold (the soul lookout/helmsman) could maybe get some sleep during the voyage. Samantha was both available and willing - even eager - to help. Jonesy had been outvoted.
It would take the Sass close to four days to reach Kauai. If they hadn’t located the Assateague by then, they never would. Simple, deadly math. But there were other things they could do on the island. Jonesy pushed for - and got - permission to scout out the town of Lihue, on the southeastern shore. Both Molly and John questioned the sanity of such an obscure request, until Jonesy pointed out FED-EX had a shipping center - a rather large shipping center - at the airport, well-removed from the town proper. He argued on the odds the place would be almost empty - at least empty compared to the town - and that it would contain all sorts of useful items. All they had to do was secure the building and search the place.
Of course, this would be easier said than done, for a variety of reasons, but he had - by coincidence - failed to bring up those objections. They needed supplies. It would provide supplies, so it was worth the risk. And they might find survivors. At least he hoped so. Time, as with all things, would tell.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Zombies In Paradise Page 8
