The unfriendly man grunted. “We have cooks.” He nodded toward the other five people in the compartment. “And them? Anything else? Anything useful?”
Anything useful? The words sent a chill down Rogers spine. Suddenly he no longer felt happy about the new arrivals.
“Logistics, Personnel...” Roger said, the fear grabbing his balls in a vice and sending his voice into the octave stratosphere. “Admin people.”
The man shook his head in obvious disgust. “Cooks and fucking pencil pushers,” he said to one of the other armed men.
“Any chicks?” the second man asked.
“What?”
“Any women,” he said with derision. “Chicks, babes, pussy...”
“Uh,” Roger said, wanting for some reason to lie - lie his ass off and say yeah, sure, we know where all sorts of pussy is - but knowing he couldn’t. “No.”
“Fucking useless,” the first man said. “Waste them.”
Culinary Specialist Second Class Roger Dawson’s head exploded with the blast of a twelve gauge shotgun.
98
The Pier
Midway Atoll
“What do these people think we are? Machines?” Christopher Floyd complained. He and Stephanie Barber were making their way down the brow of the True North, heading out on a new day of making vaccine - now for quite a few more people than they had originally planned.
Stephanie thought the Professor had a right to complain. It wouldn’t do him one bit of good, of course, but making the vaccine took more effort than the others seemed to realize. One infected spinal chord - at best - yielded five doses. To make enough Primer, Primary and Secondary booster for Polar Star would take at least eighty spinal chords. That meant eighty dead zombies. Doing a quick calculation in her head, there were...carry the one...zero zombies on Midway, so all of the material had to be imported.
And the process couldn’t be rushed. Steps couldn’t be skipped - not unless they wanted to turn refugees into zombies.
Something caught her eye as they walked passed the harbor - or, rather failed to catch her eye. “One of the sailboats is missing,” she observed.
“The Spute idiot is probably teaching his slut to sail again,” Floyd responded, waving it off as inconsequential.
His slut, her mind repeated the cut-down - catty and unfair, though it may be. She should be above such a poor attitude. Stephanie tried to chide herself, but found a general lack of energy to do so. Clara Blondelle wasn’t worth the effort. The professor was probably right. It probably meant nothing. In any event, they were going to be too busy to care - even with the nagging suspicion tickling the back of her brain.
Twenty-two survivors hadn’t been such a bad number. Twenty-five, after her father and the functionally insane British pilot brought in their three, were a non-issue, since they already had an adequate supply. But one hundred and twenty four doses of primer, primary and secondary booster, plus the inevitable ten percent wastage necessary for planning purposes, to cover the entire crew of the Polar Star meant they would have to produce four hundred doses over the next few days, assuming they could obtain that many... specimens.
Well, no, that wasn’t exactly true. They had a forty-dose stockpile of each vaccination required sitting in the Clinic refrigerator. But still. Two hundred and eighty doses were going to take quite a bit of time, and they were going to lose quite a bit of sleep, if they were to make enough by the time the icebreaker got to Midway.
They turned down Nimitz, heading toward the Clinic. They could have moved into any of the accommodations shore side, she supposed, but why bother? True North had everything they needed. Most important of all, it had air conditioning, which most of the island did not. The weather was nice enough now - even a little chilly with the morning breeze coming off the ocean to the North, but give it another month? Facing summer on Midway without benefit of air conditioning was simply too high a price to pay, in her opinion.
Now, though, it felt like a nice morning for a walk - just a bit of exercise to get the blood flowing before locking themselves in the clinic for who knew how many hours. This was going to be one long couple of days.
The clinic came into sight. Everything appeared normal, everything appeared right. So why did she feel sure something was wrong?
She’d never subscribed to the nonsense about Extra Sensory Perception, never believed in premonition. Instinct she knew to be a natural process - had even gotten into a heated debate with a Sociology teacher in her final year of High School. The teacher insisted humans never operated on instinct, she argued the absurdity of such a ridiculous idea. Her classmates applauded. Her teacher gave her a D for the day.
So was it instinct sounding alarm bells in her head? Or maybe paranoia?
They entered the Clinic Building. Everything appeared to be as they left it last night. The hallway was normal. The lab was normal. Everything was normal.
She opened the refrigerator.
The vaccine was gone.
99
USCGC Assateague
Honolulu Harbor
Jonesy pulled the throttle back to All Stop on the one hundred-ten foot Patrol Boat, paralleling the pier at ISC Honolulu. The long concrete slab on pilings, once home to the Sass, and host to a plethora of High Endurance Cutters and Patrol Boats and other Buoy Tenders, was positively crawling with zombies. They appeared to be taking a keen interest in this new arrival.
“You want me to drop the hook?” Duke asked, beside him at the center console. “We sure as Hell ain’t gonna tie up.” The outer Bridge doors were closed. The stench of Honolulu made him want to gag. He glanced below, towards the 02 Deck, saw Weaver and Harold step outside, instantly cover their noses, and head their happy asses back inside.
“Not yet,” he replied. “Want to take a look down the estuary first.” He picked up the binoculars and scanned the rooftops on base, looking for antennae. He found them, and the two individuals - one male, one female - waving at them - at almost the same time the radio proclaimed their greeting.
“Assateague, COMMSTA. Really good to see you guys,” the woman’s voice said. He knew from talking to Bill Schaeffer, that this must be OS2 Amber Winkowski - the lone voice in the darkness for most of the time since the world went to shit.
He picked up the radio. “Right back at you, COMMSTA. And on behalf of all that remains of the Coast Guard, allow me to thank you for keeping the lights on.” The statement was demonstrably untrue. They weren’t the only surviving Coast Guard units - not since they contacted Polar Star - but the sentiment was one hundred percent true and heartfelt. Besides, if ever there was a moment for sentiment, this surely qualified.
He watched her through binocular-assisted eyes, as she lowered her head for a moment. Was she crying? Emotion of any kind tended to embarrass him, and he felt the sting and flush of it now, but damned if he would say anything about it.
“Is she crying?” Duke asked, staring through his own binoculars. Leave it to Duke. “There’s no crying in an apocalypse.”
Jonesy stared at his friend. “Can you think of a better time?”
“Oh, now, don’t tell me you’re gonna start,” the Bosun replied, with combined taunting and derision - in a friendly sort of way.
“Feel free to blow me,” Jonesy said. Emotion and sentimentality thus diverted by strategic use of cynicism and closet homo-erotic suggestions, he keyed the mic and said: “What’s your status? Over.”
Amber raised her head, shook it, then put the commco to her lips. “Status is wonderful, now that you’re here.” She turned and pointed toward the interior of the base. “There are an unknown number of survivors on top of the Galley and the Admin Building. There may be more, but those are the ones we can see.”
“Can you hold out a while longer?” He asked, then braced himself for what he was sure would be a string of blasphemy so profound it would even make Duke blush. He’d kind of like to see that, come to think of it. Instead, he got pure business.
“We c
an hold out for at least another couple weeks, if we need to,” she said. “Not sure about the supply state of the others. We have zero comms.”
“Roger,” Jonesy replied. “I think we can do something about that.” So saying, he dropped the mic back into its cradle, said “Take over,” to Duke as he abandoned the helm, and strode to the 1-MC. Flicking the selector to LOUD HAILER, he picked up that microphone, and said: “Attention all survivors. Attention all survivors,” his amplified voice boomed across the silent harbor, echoing off the many buildings. The thing was probably loud enough to be heard in downtown Honolulu. Wakey, wakey, you zombie fucks, he thought.
“We need to know your supply status. Can you hold out for a while longer?” He asked.
“How are you going to get them to tell you?” Duke asked.
“Watch and learn,” he replied, pressing the key again. “Wave one hand if yes. Wave both hands if no.”
“What are we going to do if the answer is no?”
“I have no idea,” Jonesy replied. “Come on. You know I’m making this shit up as I go.” He picked up the radio mic. “COMMSTA, Assateague,” he said. As if anybody else might call.
“Go,” came through the speaker.
“You’re going to have to relay their response. We can’t see the other groups from here,” he said, then paused, looking at Duke, who was scanning the city side of the harbor.
“Roger,” Amber’s voice replied. “Both groups indicate yes.”
Duke pulled the binoculars away from his eyes and pointed, his mouth working, but no words coming out. Jonesy picked up his own, and scanned the buildings of Honolulu.
“Fuck me,” he said, as the magnified view of dozens - maybe hundreds - of people on highrise rooftops waved at them - some with one hand, most with two. “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”
100
USCGC Sassafras
21.367728 N 1584927855 W
“Wouldn’t you know it?” Samantha Gordon said. “My first trip to Waikiki Beach, and it’s gotta be in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.”
“Could be worse,” Molly said, scanning the southwest corner of Oahu through binoculars.
“How could it possibly be worse?” Sam demanded.
“You could be a zombie,” Molly replied, looking at her cousin with just the touch of amusement in her eyes.
“Always the silver lining,” Samantha quipped.
“Beats crying,” Molly said, as the radio came to life and gave them a dark cloud.
“Sassafras, this is Assateague, Two-One. Over.” Jonesy’s voice. It sent a warm thrill through Molly’s spine, in site of her best efforts to stop it from ever happening again. The heart wants what it wants. She remembered the line from some movie or TV show - she couldn’t think of the title - and exchanged the warmth for a tinge of combined irritation and loss. Pop cultural references would soon be a thing entirely of the past. Her relationship with Jonesy fell into that category, as well. Now was not the time.
“Go, Assateague,” she said, musing briefly and perversely about the potential shortening of the name for the sake of brevity. Sassafras became simply Sass. Changing Assateague in similar fashion would not do, at all.
“Why don’t you call it Ass?” Samantha asked, as if stealing the unwanted thought from Molly’s brain.
“Let’s not go there,” she replied. The girl was turning into an adult far too quickly. Maturity by apocalypse...
“Yeah, we’ve got a problem,” Jonesy’s voice said through the speaker.
Molly and Sam glanced at each other. “Define. Over,” Molly said.
“It seems there are survivors in the city.” The transmission paused. “Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.”
Hundreds. Maybe thousands.
Where could they put them all?
“And apparently, they need immediate rescue,” Jonesy added.
Molly’s mind blanked. Hundreds. Maybe thousands.
“How?” Samantha sputtered. “What...?”
My sentiments, exactly, Molly thought. She stiffened her spine. Face the problem. “Roger, Assateague. Understood.” She walked over to the chart table, checked the distance with two spread fingers. “Be there in ninety minutes.”
“What are we gonna do when we get there?” Samantha asked.
I have no idea, she thought, but said: “Deal with it.”
101
Seaplane Wallbanger
24.878463 N 167.417578W
Jim Barber let out a huge yawn, and reached for the thermos. If only there were some way to mainline the caffeine - maybe an IV drip. They were now in the nineteenth hour of flight time. Safety limits, pre-apocalypse, held eight hours as time to turn pilots into pumpkins. Any longer and accidents happened. Somehow, they hadn’t died yet, and as there was a decided lack of both other pilots and people who could tolerate the annoying quirkiness of Harvey Walton, the two of them would have to keep flying. He poured the coffee into his mug and sipped. It tasted terrible.
“Supposedly, Sassafras found a Starbucks,” Harvey said, holding out his own cup. Jim poured in the last of the foul brew. “Too bad, they didn’t find any Earl Grey.”
“Isn’t that a bit too cliche?” Jim asked.
“Eh?” Harvey replied. “Oh! You mean the fact I’m British and I like tea?” Jim grunted. “Simply a matter of good taste.” Jim looked at him, blank-eyed. “Pip-pip, and all that, Dear Chap,” Harvey completed the exaggerated imitation of his countrymen. “As it happens, I agree. Tea is next to useless, if you want to stay awake.” He sipped the coffee and grimaced. “But even you have to admit this tastes like liquid shit.”
Jim laughed, feeling the touch of hysteria. Everything was starting to seem funny - a sure sign he’d reached his limit. He shook it off, drank more disgusting coffee. Liquid shit...
After dropping their refugees off at Midway, refueling from their dwindling reserves, and getting airborne again, they’d flown to Port Allen, collected specimens - after stripping the zombie corpses of their spinal chords - refueled from the last of Harvey’s stash on Kauai (the Port Allen tank farm didn’t hold av-gas) flew back to Midway, dropped those off, refueled again, and headed toward Honolulu. Jim’s butt had gone beyond numb and into some excruciating level of uncomfortable Hell. He shifted in his seat. It didn’t do any good.
He switched his comm link to Transmit. “Time to check in. Let them know we’re still alive,” he told Harvey, who nodded and pulled back on the steering column to gain altitude. It seemed a miracle the damned thing flew at all. He shook that off, as well. No time to question reality.
“Sassafras, this is Wallbanger, One-Twenty-One-Point-Five,” he said, using the civilian air frequency.
Bill Schaeffer’s voice came up in reply. “Roger, Wallbanger. Good to hear you’re still with us.”
Schaeffer, he knew, was getting even less sleep than they were. The young kid lived in that radio room. But since Bill brought it up...
“Yeah,” Jim said. “About that. We’re gonna need to shut down after we get to Hono. We are way past the safety zone.” Static filled his ears with the pregnant pause. This did not bode well.
“Sorry to hear that,” Bill said, finally. “Because we’ve got another priority mission for you.”
“Those bastards!” Walton swore.
“Easy,” Jim said to him. “Let’s find out what it is first.” He keyed the Transmit button. “Send your traffic.”
“We’re going to need you to pick up the Professor and bring him here,” Bill’s static-filled voice said.
Walton hung his head, shook it, then checked the fuel gauge. He nodded.
“Roger that, Sassafras. On our way.”
102
USCGC Assateague
Honolulu Harbor
“Lower away!” Duke shouted the command to Harold, operating the hydraulic hoist for the RHIB. Frank held the safety line, keeping the small boat from swaying. Both men wore full-face gas masks, as did Duke and Jonesy, in the boat.
&nb
sp; The air clawed at Jonesy’s gag reflex, even through the mask. Foul was another one of those words for which he needed a new definition - new world, new normal, new meaning.
The little boat ride served two purposes: they needed to recon the harbor and estuary, and they had ninety minutes to kill and also needed something active to distract them from the enormity of their situation. How the fuck were they going to rescue all those people? Where would they put them? What would they do with them? How would they feed them? Jonesy was suddenly very glad he wasn’t in charge of this apocalyptic cluster fuck.
The boat hit the water with a mild slap, the cables lowered, the hook released, and they were away, speeding through the devastation. To their left lay the Container Port - thousands of shipping containers holding everything a non-industrial island like Oahu needed to survive, all lined up row, upon row, waiting to be unloaded by people who had either died or turned zombie. A large cargo ship, blackened and burned as if by the fires of Hell, sat moored beneath the unmoving cranes - it’s five-inch nylon hawser lines, somehow untouched by the blaze, keeping it from drifting into the harbor.
To their right, a massive tank farm, three times the size of the one in Port Allen, squatted between the water and the beginning sprawl of Honolulu, itself blackened and burned, twisted, destroyed by the Pomona Plague. The fires had not reached the tanks - thank the Gods in whom Jonesy did not believe. The entire waterfront might have burned. Everything might be destroyed. Everyone might be dead.
Be better if they were. The thought slammed into Jonesy’s mind. He wretched, the bile rising. Never puke in your gas mask, an old Master Chief told them once, during boot camp. Seemed like centuries ago.. Good advice, though. He swallowed it down, the bitter, acid taste filling his mouth, anyway.
Would it be better if all those waving, desperate people were dead? Better for who? For them? For the Coast Guard? For the Island of Oahu, the State of Hawaii, the United States of America?
No, Jonesy thought. Fuck no. It would not.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Zombies In Paradise Page 23
