The Pilothouse door stood ajar. Duke pushed at it with his shotgun and it opened onto a scene of carnage. One body lay on the deck, just inside the door. The man’s head had been twisted Exorcist-style, so it looked at them with wide open, staring eyes.
Duke examined the blank screens of the command console. Assateague had clearly received the systems upgrade. Gone were the ship’s wheel and the analog dials, having been replaced by the joy stick and computer screens. No power fed the console, so nothing could be discovered from the screens. They would have to go below.
They had each taped two flashlights to either side of their helmets. Jonesy flicked his on as they proceeded.
The Mess Deck was a charnel house. Four men lay dead, torn apart. Blood decorated the bulkheads, like sick modern art. One of the men, Jonesy recognized as the CO, though he couldn’t remember the man’s name. Someone had thrust a butcher’s knife into his chest. It protruded there, what remained of the visible stainless steel catching the light of the late afternoon sun as it streamed through the port holes.
“This is gonna be a bitch to clean,” Duke said, through the radio.
“If we decide to clean it,” Jonesy replied.
“Looks like this is where the worst of it happened,” Duke said, sticking his head into the serving window of the galley. “Right as they were eating lunch, too.”
“Just like a fucking zombie,” Jonesy retorted. “Getting all psycho, right in the middle of chow.”
“No manners,” Duke agreed, off-handedly.
“Engine Room?” Jonesy suggested, then stopped as he heard a distinct banging from forward and below.
Duke un-slung the twelve-gauge from its over-shoulder sheath, but Jonesy waved him off.
“Shoot that thing in here and you’re likely to kill us,” he said.
“Good point,” Duke agreed, sliding the shotgun back in, then pulling his sole nine millimeter.
They proceeded forward, found the ladder going below, and headed down. “Any non-zombies down here?” Duke called. Whoever it was replied by banging on something metal three times.
They located the source of the noise behind a door marked Dry Storage. Made sense, Jonesy thought, pulling one of his .45s. Duke tried the door, found it locked. He glanced at Jonesy, who shrugged.
“If you’re not a zombie, better open the door,” he yelled, which hurt Jonesy’s ears through the radio. The handle began to turn, meaning the person turning it had not gone insane - probably - but Jonesy did not feel in the mood to take chances. They both stepped back.
In a rush, the door was flung open, revealing a medium sized man in a uniform shirt, hard hat, round, sun-protected safety goggles, and boxer shorts. He held a red-painted Halligan Bar at the ready. The tool, which consisted of a crow bar at the bottom and what looked like a climbing hammer/mini-hatchet at the top, could easily have caved in either of their skulls, if the man managed to get it below the protection of their helmets. He did not try, however, which was good, because Jonesy would have felt bad if he’d had to kill the poor bastard.
And then the smell of the compartment reached them. This man would definitely need a sea shower before they let him anywhere near the sea plane.
“You smell like shit,” Duke said, with his usual lack of tact.
The man lowered the tool, and smiled. “You would too, after...how many days?”
“No clue,” Jonesy said. “You appear to be the only survivor.”
The man sighed, then extended his hand. “HS3 Jeri Weaver.”
They had themselves a new shipmate.
36
M/V True North
Midway Atoll
Clara Blondelle stalked out of the Crew’s Lounge, almost running, but forcing herself to walk. She wouldn’t run. She wouldn’t give the bitches the satisfaction of letting them know just how much their words were cutting into her flesh like a thousand knives. But oh, what she’d like to do with those knives!
They slice! They dice! They cut through the arteries of cold hearted Harpies like butter! Only Nineteen-Ninety-five! She thought. But wait! There’s more! Act now and receive a free gift!
The gift she wanted, the gift she craved, was simple: to be left alone. They’d been on her back since she made that one, tiny mistake. Could have happened to anybody. John Gordon said so, hadn’t he? Yes. He had. But those fucking bitches just couldn’t - wouldn’t - let it rest. They had to keep picking away at the scab, exposing the wound, refusing to let it heal. Well, Clara was officially through with that bullshit!
She tromped through the Mess Deck, looped around the vestibule to the Buoy Deck, then headed back aft, toward the ladder heading up. She saw no one. She heard Bob Stoeffel, and almost stopped, almost stuck her head into the Galley, almost... But what would have been the point?
The only purpose - the only use she could put him to - would be to seduce him, offer him her body, offer to give him a sloppy wet blowjob if he’d just help her. But he wouldn’t help her. Hell, she doubted he’d take her offer. He wasn’t gay. It wasn’t that. But the gorgeous hunk of a widower wouldn’t have let himself be seduced - certainly not by the likes of Clara. He would be too dignified, too polite, too much in mourning for his dead wife. And besides, she doubted he could do more than scratch her itch.
Teddy had been good enough, had been lover enough to satisfy her needs, as far as it went. But he could never be more than just a means to an end: a cock with legs. Never the Big Dog. Never the Man in Charge
She took the ladder steps two at a time, thrust open the exterior hatch, and exited onto the Boat Deck. The breeze felt cool on her burning cheeks. A bit cooler than it should have. Something didn’t feel right. She swiped at her face, just below her eyes, where the air felt coolest. Were those tears? Could she have been crying? Oh, Hell no!
Anger welled up inside her chest, like some living creature - a feral beast, seeking blood. Those women weren’t worth her tears, weren’t worth any emotion beyond cold hatred. She wanted to hit something, cut something, kill something.
What are you going to do, Clara? She heard the voice of Denise Barber, dripping with malice and sarcasm. Tell the pirates where we are? It had been catty, unnecessary, heartless, and not the least bit funny. But it hurt, it cut, it wounded her to the core. It had also been the final straw.
They didn’t do it in front of the men. Or the children. Marcie Gordon didn’t do it at all. But Denise Barber did, and so did Janine Keely. She wouldn’t have thought the woman had it in her. Not that Janine did it often, or in any overt way, and certainly not to the degree of the Barber bitch. Didn’t change a thing. Didn’t stop it from hurting.
She stepped onto he fantail and found Teddy, sitting on a bollard, doing something incomprehensible with a rope. She would need her ignorance to change, would need those things to become comprehensible. She would need to learn.
Her plan - wasn’t really a plan, wasn’t really much of anything - felt vague and unfocused, but necessary. Oh so necessary...
“Hi, lover,” she said in a husky voice - her best Mae West. Is that a pistol in your pocket?
“Hey, Clara,” he said, barely looking up from his work.
She sat onto the bollard beside him. Her hand slid to his thigh, then to his crotch. She squeezed.
“Hello,” he said, in sudden interest.
She felt him growing beneath her palm. Good. Whoever said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, didn’t know their ass from a sky-scraper. The way to a man’s heart - the way to a man’s everything - was through his cock. She might even let him do that one thing she’d resisted - not out of any moral or physical objection. But she’d also learned to hold off, to use it as a wedge, as an enticement, as a magical goal to be achieved, rewarded, won - the carrot to turn his stick hard as a rock and keep it pointed where she wanted, and to what she wanted.
She looked out into the harbor, toward the three sailboats sitting at anchor on the far side. There wasn’t a single thing wrong with them, if
that brute, Jim Barber, could be believed. They even had fuel. They were her ticket out of this place. They were her freedom. But she didn’t know jack about sailing. She needed Teddy to teach her, but she couldn’t come right out and say so. First things first.
She leaned in close, increasing the pressure of her fingers. “Fuck me,” she whispered.
He stared at her in surprise and wonder and lust. “What? Right here?” He said.
She nibbled on his ear lobe. Always drove him wild. “Why don’t we go over there?” she said, pointing with the hand not busy unzipping his pants.
“To the sailboats?” He asked.
“Exactly,” she replied.
“I don’t know,” he hesitated. “John said to stay away from those.”
John said...John said... Why couldn’t she find a man who thought for himself?
She reached into his zipper, found his cock, stroked it. With her other hand, she guided his hand to the cleft separating the two halves of her backside. “I’ll let you put it here,” she said, and hooked him like a grouper.
37
USCGC Sassafras
23.342659N 172.880859W
Samantha Gordon’s heart fluttered. Her skin felt warm, in spite of the cool wind blowing through her hair. Thinking of her hair made her glad he couldn’t see it. She must look like some scary creature out of a gothic horror movie. She flushed in embarrassment, but there couldn’t be any need. He wasn’t there, wasn’t anywhere near. But, oh, how he filled her heart!
She stood on the Flying Bridge, supposedly on lookout, but her mind, her head, her entire being was a million miles away. Mrs. Socrates Jones... It had a nice ring to it. And why not?
Brave New World, right? New world, new rules. And sixteen wasn’t so young - not too young - not anymore. Right?
Right?
And he liked her. She knew he did.
So why hadn’t he done more than say hello?
Okay...sure... He’d been dressed in workout clothes and he’d been all sweaty, so he hadn’t hugged her - or anyone else. There was a fact she could wrap her head around. And then they’d been busy with that screwy pilot guy - Harvey...something. And then they’d flown out at the crack of dawn.
She’d tried to be up in time to say goodbye, to get the hug she’d spent hours of fevered dreams obsessing over, wanting, desiring, desperate for the touch of his hands, a hug, a...
Kiss...!
But they’d flown off just as she’d gotten out on deck. Too bad. So sad. No loving for Samantha.
Story of her life.
So maybe he didn’t like her. Maybe he just thought of her as some snotty little kid, no better or more important than Davy. Maybe he’d laugh if he knew. Maybe he’d pat her on the head and send her on her way.
But what about the rose?
He’d given it to her when she was eleven. No... She’d been ten. Not quite eleven. But it had been Valentine’s Day, and he’d made a special trip out to their house in Alaska to give her the flower. And okay...he’d been to their house for dinner the night before, and she’d been moping like some pathetic, love-sick pile of useless goo.
Kiefer MacGruder, the cutest boy in her Fifth Grade class (not as cute as Jonesy - nobody was cute as Jonesy - but the cutest boy in her Jonesy-less world) had ignored her in school, same as he’d always done - utterly oblivious to her undying love for him. And it was Valentine’s Day, or would be, and she had no one, no special guy, no one who thought her special enough to give her a card or...GULP...a flower.
And then Jonesy knocked on their door. Her Dad had the duty, her Mom was out shopping, and Davy was being his usual nuisance self, gabbing on incessantly about Sponge Bob and - horror of horrors - Barney. She’d heard the knock, and answered the door, figuring it might be the mail man or their nosy bitch of a neighbor, Mrs. Canarski. But it hadn’t been. It had been Jonesy, and he’d been there to see her.
“Hey, Chrys-Samantha-mum!” he’d said, calling her by that silly combination of her name and Chrysanthemum. Outwardly, she feigned annoyance whenever he used the name, but inwardly her heart soared like the eagle who lived in the tree down the block from their house.
“Just came by to give you this,” he’d said, pulling a single, red rose from behind his back with a dramatic flourish. Her heart had stopped. Her brain had exploded. Not really, of course, obviously, but it had sure felt like it. “Happy Valentine’s.”
She’d stood there, mouth open, trying and failing to form coherent sentences, or incoherent ones, or maybe even just a single word. But nothing came, and she’d been sure she looked exactly like a grouper. Oh! The shame! The embarrassment! The humanity! She could see herself as the Hindenberg, crashing and burning and disintegrating, right there on the front porch.
He’d taken her hand, wrapped her numb fingers around the paper-wrapped flower, and then he’d done it. The one thing she’d dreamed of since the first time she’d seen his gorgeous eyes. He kissed her!
And, okay...It hadn’t been on the lips. She’d been ten, for God’s sake. Of course he hadn’t kissed her lips. But he had kissed her forehead. Then he’d smiled, and turned, and walked away, leaving her stupefied and staring at his retreating back in stunned amazement and flushed, fevered ecstacy.
She’d been in love, from then until now. Only now, she wasn’t a gawky, uncoordinated, ten year-old. She was sixteen - sweet sixteen - with breasts and everything! Okay...her boobies weren’t big, or voluptuous, or more than just this side of barely noticeable, but she had them, by God.! She was a woman, and this was a Brave New World.
“Hey, Sammy!” a voice came from behind her.
She whirled, as the sudden flash of a cartoon filled her head: a silly looking dog, or coyote, or whatever the Hell it was, getting startled, scared right to death, the ghost separating from its body and floating away, a harp appearing in its hands out of nowhere.
Molly stood there, at the bottom of the ladder leading from the Signal Bridge. “Would you like some company?” her cousin asked.
“Sure,” Samantha said, cool as could be. The very last person she’d let in on her thoughts about Jonesy would be Molly.
She felt a pang of jealousy, which was weird. She loved Molly. She trusted Molly. Molly would be the first person she’d confide in, if the confidence had been about anybody other than Socrates Jones.
“Any word from the plane?” She asked, her voice the epitome of nonchalance.
Molly glanced at her watch: a big thing, for divers, or something. It looked too masculine, on her thin wrist, but cool, at the same time. Molly had always been that way, somehow. A tomboy, from the moment they’d met, but also a girl, beyond question. She’d been popular, whereas Samantha had been a geek, pretty, to Sam’s troll-like features, feminine and curvy, to Sam’s stick-figure. but there had never been even the hint of jealousy between them - until now.
“Nope,” Molly replied. “They should be on their way back by now, though.” She scanned the sky, as if the Catalina might appear, but there wasn’t a single bird in sight - let alone a seaplane. “They’ll head straight back to Midway,” she added. “Won’t see them till some time tomorrow.”
The pang of loneliness and loss hurt - actually hurt - but she knew it was stupid. He’d be back. And when he was...?
“What’s that?” Molly asked, pointing toward the Southern horizon.
Samantha snapped her head to the side, didn’t see anything, and then she did. There, far away, sat a tiny speck. She squinted at it, but couldn’t see any detail.
“Why don’t you use the binoculars?” Molly said - a question, just a question. It could have been hurtful, it could have been said with malice or venom or accusation, it could have had the words, you idiot, tacked on at the end, but that wouldn’t have been her cousin.
Feeling every bit like an idiot, regardless, she put the binoculars to her eyes, focused the lenses, and saw: “It’s a sailboat,” she said.
38
M/V Point of Order
18.
785117N 154.625741W
Blackjack Charlie triple-tapped the charging zombie, twice to the chest, once to the head. It dropped like a sack of potatoes.
They’d come upon the freighter about an hour before sunset, and it was a monster: six hundred feet long, its deck covered in sealed containers, and covered with zombies. He hadn’t wanted to board the thing himself, but he needed to demonstrate his ability to the rest of the men in his new crew. He couldn’t keep ordering them to fight and maybe die, if he didn’t show them he was just as willing, just as capable of doing it himself; more capable, more willing, more deadly than the rest.
He took a risk, leaving the Point of Order, their command ship, in the hands of others - especially George Potter - but Goddard remained aboard (Charlie didn’t want the idiot anywhere near a gun, if he could help it), and George followed Goddard like the minion he seemed meant to be. He had to have faith - had to trust - Goddard would keep the man in line.
Trust had never been easy for him, and it had only gotten worse as he’d gotten older. Sleazy bastards on the ships he’d sailed, who’d steal his dick, if it wasn’t attached; deranged, power-mad skippers who reveled in treating their men like shit, keeping them down, keeping them under his thumb; the asshole Public Defender, who shouldn’t have been allowed to defend a case of jaywalking, let alone Manslaughter; the prison guards at Soledad; the prisoners who wanted a piece of Charlie’s ass in the shower room, who’d shank him, if he didn’t give in; all those fuckers had chipped away at his faith, his trust, his soul, day after day, incident after incident, until it dwindled away to nothing.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Zombies In Paradise Page 12
