“I hate this idea,” Harold repeated.
“So do I,” Jonesy agreed. “But I don’t see another way.”
“How do you propose to get them there?” Molly - sorry, Ensign Gordon, Captain of the USCGC Sassafras - asked, her voice all business.
“That’s gonna be the tricky part,” Jonesy replied. “We can give them bait - a rabbit to chase. Simple enough. The hard part will be not killing the rabbit.”
60
M/V Point of Order
Palmyra Atoll
“Kill them all!” Blackjack Charlie screamed, as he leapt off the RHIB and onto the shore, firing the AR-15. The added bump stock turned the thing into an automatic weapon, for all intents and purposes, and firing it felt fucking awesome! It chewed Hell out of the big Samoan bastard charging in his direction.
A faded wooden sign reading Palmyra Atoll, 05-22 N 162-05 W, Elevation 6 Feet, Population: 24, adorned with a cartoonish palm tree to one side, stood to his right. It wasn’t doing anything, wasn’t blocking anything, wasn’t in the least bit offensive or assaulting upon the eyes. Charlie blew it apart with a burst of auto-fire.
They arrived about an hour before dark. Cooler heads wanted to wait for sunrise before landing, but Charlie hadn’t been among them. And since he was in charge (President Goddard, notwithstanding), his opinion carried the most weight. The Chief Executive had been on the fence, until Blackjack pointed out that the sooner they planted the US flag upon the island, the sooner Henry David Goddard could assume his newly-sworn office.
This was all bullshit, of course. Goddard was as much President as Charlie was King of the Universe, but the man held a certain amount of gravitas, when it came to the growing number of salvage experts, so the swearing in ceremony had been held, with whatever pomp and circumstance they could cobble together.
Okay, so, fine... He was President. Hail to the Chief, and all that happy horseshit. As long as the pompous idiot stayed out of Charlie’s way, he’d let him have his dog and pony show.
Hennessy blasted his shotgun straight into the chest of a small woman who’d scrambled out of the trees in front of him. It blew the bitch apart. Blood sprayed everywhere.
George fired his own AR-15 into three of the fuckers, coming out of the so-called Palmyra Yacht Club - a glorified shack fronted by a long table and round stools. The walls behind and to the sides were covered in decades worth of graffiti. Now they were also covered in blood and gore.
Five smaller sailboats were anchored in the lagoon, and three larger ones were likewise hooked offshore. The population of “twenty-four,” written on the now-defunct sign, had risen in recent days. They had no idea as to the current total, but it didn’t matter. Every last zombie had to die.
So far, they’d been lucky, and not one of the rescued pirates had turned. The virus missed some, spared some, and totally fucked the rest. Nobody was sure why - at least nobody Charlie knew. He doubted their luck would hold much longer, though. He wasn’t taking it for granted, either. A double-layered filter mask covered his mouth and nose, and he’d dressed in as much clothing as he could, given the heat, and the need for mobility. Most of the two crews had done the same, but not all of them. Some decided they were too manly (too stupid, more like, he thought) for such nonsense. They’d be the first to turn.
And as for the survivors, if they found any...? Charlie would give them the same option he’d given the crew of the M/V Corrigan Cargo III: Join or die. This, finally, was where Goddard would come in handy.
A young kid of maybe thirteen or fourteen lurched into the path in front of Charlie and George. The engineer hesitated. Charlie did not.
Goddard was a crazy fuck, no doubt about it. Even before the world went to shit, his insistence that the Earth was flat, and his attempts to legislate teaching of this idiotic theory in public schools, branded him a nutcase. Toss in his claim to the Presidency, and the guy was an absolute wombat.
But people who’d lost it all - family, friends, society, the entire fucking world - needed somebody or some thing to follow. Basic history and psychology taught there were two types of leaders people followed: religious and political. The last goddamned thing this world needed, in Charlie’s opinion, was a religious zealot spouting scripture about the End Times - regardless of how much like them the world appeared to be. This left the political option, and Goddard - moronic lunatic though he might be - fit the bill. All Charlie had to do was make sure the bastard led in the right direction.
Gunfire sounded all over the tiny atoll. The killing went on.
61
Seaplane Wallbanger
Johnston Atoll
“Just shoot the fucker,” Jim growled, as he strained to keep the last zombie from biting his face off. The guy was a big son of a bitch, while he was still human. Now that it had Pomona Virus Super Strength, however, the goddamned thing fought like a combination all-pro wrestler, championship boxer, MMA freak, and NFL middle linebacker.
It lurched out of the shadows after Jim thought he’d killed them all, and tackled his ass onto the ground, where he now struggled. Harvey Walton stood off to one side, as if he were observing an interesting Cricket match.
“Oh very well,” the functionally insane pilot said, pulling his sidearm and walking to stand next to the scrumming pair. In one quick, yet nonchalant, movement, he pulled back the hammer, placed the barrel mere inches from the zombie’s temple, and pulled the trigger. The behemoth flopped over onto the crushed coral path, as Jim finished the job of heaving it off of him.
He lay there, panting. Upon catching his breath, he groaned to a sitting position, scooped up his Thompson Submachine Gun (which the zombie so rudely knocked from his hands) then stood on unsteady legs and glared at Walton. “What took you so fucking long?”
“You seemed to be doing alright on your own,” the Englishman replied. “I know how you yanks feel about being rugged individuals. Didn’t want to get in the way of you proving your manhood.”
“You’re a lunatic,” Jim spat.
“Indeed!” Walton replied. “Perhaps I am,” he said, scratching his chin, as if pondering some tricky puzzle. “Enough people have told me so.”
They’d landed the Wallbanger in the lagoon on the Northern side of the main island, and traipsed inland. From the air, they’d seen six zombies milling around in their uncoordinated way, and had then killed them all in minimal time - or so they thought, until Jim got pummeled to the ground. The body at his feet appeared to be the last of them, though he wasn’t about to take any chances.
They were standing in the deepening shadow of the antennae-topped building they’d identified as the most likely refuge of the man on the radio. The bottom of the orange sun perched upon the far horizon. A soft breeze played across their faces. Silence ruled the evening. Naturally, therefore, something bad was about to happen.
It came in the form of a gunshot, followed by the ricochet of a rifle round pinging off the pavement, which, in turn, was followed by the voice of a man:
“Walton, you asshole! I told you never to come back!”
Harvey and Jim plastered themselves against the cracked and crumbling concrete wall of the building, from which the shot (and the voice) had come. “Your reputation has proceeded you,” Jim quipped, in a voice holding not one ounce of mirth.
“So it would seem,” Harvey replied. “I should have thought he’d forgiven me - since we did save his life.”
“Do I want to know what this is about?” Jim asked.
“I doubt it,” Harvey replied.
“Poke your head out, Walton,” the man’s voice shouted. “So I can blow it off!”
“Fire that weapon one more time,” Jim shouted back, “and I swear to bloody Christ, I’ll set fire to this building and let you burn alive.”
“Who are you?” the man demanded. “And what are you doing with that asshole?”
“I’m the one rescuing you, jackass!” Jim replied.
“Well put,” Harvey said.
“
Shut the fuck up,” Jim snapped. “If I get shot, you’re gonna burn with him.”
“Show yourself,” the man said. He seemed to be at one of the windows on the second floor. To get to him, Jim would have to go inside.
“Not until you throw that rifle out the window!” Jim shouted in reply.
The man answered by firing another round. Exactly what he hoped to accomplish by this waste of ammunition, Jim neither knew, nor cared. Instead, he just got pissed.
Near as he could tell, the bastard was either at the second or third window to the right. No way he could get a shot off that would do any good. On the other hand...
The Thompson submachine gun, favorite weapon of everyone from Prohibition-era gangsters and G-Men, to soldiers in the Second World War, and beyond, fired an average of six hundred rounds per minute, spewing the .45 ACP with deadly accuracy. In theory, therefore, it should serve quite well to spray the windows of a building on Johnston Atoll.
The theory proved to be correct, as evidenced by the falling rifle, on the heels of Jim’s experimental fusillade. “I give up!” The man shouted.
“Then get your ass down here, where we can see you!” Jim ordered.
62
USCGC Sassafras
Hanapepe Bay, Kauai
“This was a great idea,” Duke muttered, his voice barely audible, even with the integrated comm units in their helmets and face guards.
“You were dumb enough to volunteer for it,” Jonesy replied, scanning the darkness ahead as they eased their way though the detritus of the post-apocalyptic Port Allen wharf area.
“Only because you did it first.”
The two of them were to be the “rabbit” - or, rather, the vehicle they found, hot-wired, and drove through the neighborhood would be, after they found, hot-wired, and started driving one. This, of course, was proving easier said than done.
The wharf was a shambles. Evidence of a hurried and violent withdrawal could be seen all around them. Bodies, in various stages of decomposition - some of them chewed - lay strewn on the ground, in doorways, on top of and inside of vehicles. Many of those vehicles had caught fire and were now nothing but charred wreckage.
A zombie shambled out of the dark, stumbling its way toward them. Duke raised his shotgun to fire, but Jonesy stayed him with a hand on the barrel. He gave the universal, single-fingered sign to be quiet, and pulled both kukri-machetes from the sides of his backpack.
Duke backed off, as Jonesy waited, letting the crazed, former-human come to him. The zombie let out an oddly questioning moan, and hesitated, then continued forward, slowly approaching, like an uncertain drunk. It paused, looked around, as if thinking - though Jonesy knew that was impossible. He waited.
And waited. And waited.
The fucking thing just stood there, weaving from side to side, like a willow in a nonexistent wind. Come on, asshole, Jonesy thought, willing it to attack. It finally did.
Jonesy had taken a Laban-Handa stance: legs shoulder-width apart, lead shoulder at forty-five degrees toward the zombie. As the thing loomed forward, he pulled his left machete back to his right shoulder, holding the right one forward and ready for the maneuver known as Rapido Redonda, or rapid whirlwind. Basically, he was set up to slice and dice the motherfucker.
It worked exactly as it was supposed to. The killing had begun.
63
M/V Point of Order
Palmyra Atoll
“You have a choice,” Blackjack Charlie Carter said to the assembled group of fourteen survivors. They’d taken refuge in the cramped Administration building - or what passed for such a thing on the catch-as-catch-can island. The reality was nothing so organized.
“You can either join us, or...” He let the sentence drift away. His meaning, however, remained clear: Join or die.
“Seems to me, there are fourteen of us and four of you,” a tall man, in khaki trousers and a bush shirt, with an Australian accent stepped forward, asserting his supposed dominance.
For all intents and purposes, the fucker was right, though. Charlie, George, Doug Hennessy, and Davis McGee were the only members of Charlie’s crew of pirates in view. They were technically outnumbered. But then, they had all the guns.
“We just got done killing at least twice as many to rescue your sorry asses,” McGee replied, in a steady, even voice. His Remington twelve gauge spoke loud enough to get his point across. “Might want to keep that in mind.”
“And we’re not the only ones,” Charlie said, reasserting control of their little meeting. “There are others, all armed, sitting at anchor offshore,”
The man raised his hands in apparent surrender. “Not arguing, Mate,” he said. “Just wanting to know what’s in it for us, besides a bullet in the back if we say no.”
“Fair enough,” Charlie said. He understood greed and self-interest quite well, and didn’t trust anyone who said it didn’t matter. “You share in all salvage,” he offered, then added: “All for one, and all that.” What he did not say, was that those shares weren’t anything like equal, but now wasn’t the time for such revelations.
“In that case,” the Australian said. “I know where there’s a US Navy boat, just drifting out there.”
64
USCGC Polar Star
Box of Death
Lydia found LT Wheeler on the Boat Deck, just aft of the LCVP, where she’d witnessed the debacle on Guam. He was staring into the darkness and smoking, which she found disgusting, but growing up in the South made her immune, so she ignored it.
“Sir?” She asked.
He started, surprised, as if she interrupted some private moment more profound than a simple smoke break. The cigarette slipped from his fingers, and he snatched for it, missed, tried again, and smacked the burning butt over the side in a tiny shower of sparks. He stared after it, a look of wide-eyed, open-mouthed horror on his face.
“I’m so sorry!” Lydia blurted.
He looked at her, and she expected anger, but instead saw acceptance and wry humor. He sighed, shaking his head.
“I’m really sorry,” Lydia repeated. He waved it away.
“You know, Lydia,” he said. “I think that was the last cigarette on this ship.” He chuckled. “I’ve been saving it, dying for final hit of nicotine.”
“Sir,” she pleaded.
“Forget it,” he said, waving her plea away again. “Murphy’s Law,” he added. “Always hated that bastard.” He pronounced it baastaad, with his Boston twang. “Should have quit years ago.” He chuckled and shook his head once more, then breathed deep and said: “What can I do for you?”
“Sir, I...” she sputtered, suddenly unwilling to broach the subject - the demand - she tracked him down to present.
She’d been stewing about it all day, vacillating between feeling certain he would refuse, and wanting to get it over with. In point of fact, she’d been stewing about it since Guam, and it festered in her mind and heart. It might have disturbed her dreams, if she’d been sleeping. The dark circles under her eyes were proof positive of her insomnia.
“Out with it, Lydia,” Wheeler said.
She took a deep breath and dove in. “I want a transfer,” she said, adding a curt, “Sir,” as an afterthought.
“That’d be a neat trick,” Wheeler replied. “As there is currently nowhere for you to transfer to.”
“We know the Sassafras is out there,” she said. “We know there are people at the COMMSTA.”
“True,” he said, pondering. “Thinking the grass might be greener?”
“Thinking there’s too much death on this ship,” she blurted. She hadn’t intended to be so blunt - had been practicing inside her own head all afternoon to keep from being so blunt, and yet the cat had come screetching out of the bag, anyway. So be it.
He nodded again, staring at the deck, as if there might be some answer in the non-skid surface. Finally, he looked her in the eye and said:
“What makes you think the Sassafras will be any different?”
<
br /> 65
Port Maintenance Building 3
Port Allen, Kauai
Duke’s hammer blow crushed the zombie’s skull like a giant stomping on a robin’s egg. Blood, bone, and brain splattered everywhere. The zombie dropped with a thud.
They had worked their way to the edge of the paved area that would (hopefully) soon be their intended killing field, encountering four other crazed victims of the Pomona Virus. Jonesy and Duke killed them all without firing a shot.
The word grizzly often got tossed about to describe the indescribable aftermath of a nasty accident, or an explosion, or a murder. It was one of those words people used when nothing else could come close to conveying the true horror - or so Jonesy thought, anyway.
Such rumination served little to no purpose, however, so he shook it off and surveyed their surroundings. He glanced at Duke and caught him staring into the distance.
“What?” he asked, as his muscles shifted into alert status, and his balls crawled upwards, looking for a place to hide.
Duke pointed. “There’s a Starbucks,” he said.
“You asshole,” Jonesy sputtered. “You got me all worked up for a fucking Starbucks?”
“Yeah, but look! There is one,” he said, still pointing. “And didn’t Gary say we were running low on coffee?”
He peered into the darkness, and sure enough, the ubiquitous round sign hung off of a building just beyond the wharf: a familiar piece of a modern life now gone. If Jonesy were prone to depression, he might have felt its weight in his chest, but he wasn’t, so he didn’t. Besides, Gary told them to keep an eye out for things to augment their stores, and coffee topped the list.
“Should we?” Duke asked, nodding toward the sign.
“Later,” Jonesy said. “Let’s find the rabbit, first.”
“What we could really use is the Skull Mobile,” Duke said with pride, referring to his 1983 Ford Bronco, currently parked at the Sand Island Coast Guard Base on Oahu. The truck was jacked to penis-compensating (and probably illegal) levels, reinforced to keep its center of gravity low, and equipped with tires Duke insisted could take him anywhere.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Zombies In Paradise Page 17
