“Stealth mission,” Jonesy replied, adjusting his pack, and making sure he could draw the two kukri machetes without cutting his own head off. The fucker was heavy with ammo, he hoped they weren’t going to need. Needing it would mean they’d be making one Hell of a lot of noise, which would draw more zombies, which would put the kibosh on the entire operation. “The Mad Doctor needs spinal tissue to make vaccine.”
“Assuming we can find the other equipment on his list,” Frank Roessler said. He looked decidedly uncomfortable in his rig. Jonesy couldn’t blame him.
This was Coast Guard Ninja shit they’d be doing tonight - not generally in the job description of your standard Machinery Technician, Second Class. Not generally in the job description of ninety percent of the entire fucking Coast Guard, when it came right down to it. But Frank was going, anyway. He’d volunteered, as had Jeri Weaver (who would be going back to Assateague and joining Harold in manning the Forty Millimeter Auto-Cannon) and - of all people - Gary King. Gus Perniola was going along as well, but Jonesy wasn’t sure he’d use the V-word to describe why.
John Gordon “talked him into it.” Again, Jonesy couldn’t blame the guy. After the horror show in Port Allen - after riding solo into the neighborhoods and intentionally getting a horde of zombies to chase him - the man had done his bit for God and Country, to be sure. As far as Jonesy was concerned, Gus had nothing to prove to anybody - and yet there he was, rigged up and ready to go, albeit with decided reluctance.
We the unwilling, he thought, then finished the mantra. Led by the unknowing, have been doing so much with so little for so long, we’re now capable of doing anything with nothing.
The first part was certainly right. They were the unwilling. Well, maybe not. Each and every one of them had volunteered, at one time or another - even Gus, though that was a whole lot of years ago. And they weren’t exactly led by the unknowing - not anymore. Molly Gordon, Ensign, United States Coast Guard, was turning into one Hell of a fine officer. And yeah, okay, he still had feelings for her - much as he tried to suppress them. Didn’t matter. Not now. Maybe later. Maybe after they liberated Sand Island. Maybe after they rescued all those people. Maybe after they saved the world.
“Everybody ready?” Molly asked, entering the Bosun Hold where they’d been rigging up.
Murphy’s Fucking Law, Jonesy thought, with a pang. He really needed to get over it - over her, over the entire idea of having anything resembling a normal life. This was the new reality - the zombie apocalypse. Not really conducive to romantic interludes, now was it?
“Yes, Ma’am,” Jonesy said, hefting the gas mask they would all be wearing. The stench of Honolulu was far too profound to even think about anything short of full face coverage. The air itself could be toxic - probably was toxic - and to be safe they were running with the ship closed up tight. But the masks raised a logistical problem. “You know comms will be spotty, at best, once we put these things on.” They had throat microphones, attached to ear pieces inside the helmets. But full-face gas masks and intelligible communications weren’t exactly compatible.
“Do the best you can,” she replied. Her face, he saw, wore a determined expression. Knowing her, as he did, he felt sure she was far from okay about any of this, but it was the mission, it was the job. No point in looking at it any other way. She looked at Duke. “Is the small boat ready?”
“Yes, Ma’am,: he said. They’d be taking the RHIB. A bit noisier during the approach than Jonesy would have liked, but they planned to mitigate this by coming in from Sand Island Beach - away from the base. With a little luck....
He shook the idea out of his head. No place for luck. No time for it. Either this would work, or...
“Let’s get going,” he said.
107
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
“Sass Two is away,” Samantha said from just outside the Bridge door. She wore a gas mask, as well. Poor kid, Molly thought. She should be busy getting her heart broken and studying for finals, not standing on a bridge wing, wearing a gas mask and staring at the destruction of civilization. But there she was - there they all were - where none of them wanted to be. And why? Because it needed to be done.
She drew in breath and held it. Whether she’d release it again before the boat - and the men - and Jonesy - returned, remained to be seen.
I could be sending them to die. The thought - and its reality - settled on her like a five-ton concrete buoy anchor. It didn’t drop. This wasn’t a surprise or a shock. She’d known it the moment she laid out her plan and gave the order. And now the weight sat on her shoulders like Atlas with the Earth, and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do but hold her breath and wait.
The plan was simple: scout the southern side of the island, gather as many specimens as they could, and see what the approach to the base from that side looked like. Only it wasn’t simple, at all. Since they had no aircraft to recon the island (the Wallbanger was still hours away), since they had no satellite, no intelligence, whatsoever, as to what those men - her crew, her men - were walking (or boating) into, the map of the island might just as well be emblazoned with Here, there be Dragons.
Uncle John tried to talk her out of it, tried to argue for a simple trip onto the pier to get the spinal tissue they needed for the Mad Doctor to make his brew, but she vetoed the idea. Even now, she wasn’t entirely sure why. Yes she was: Cowardice. If they went ashore, within sight of the Sass, where she could watch them navigate the piles of dead bodies - even now being munched on by a whole new batch of zombies, drawn there by the promise of a tasty meal - they’d be right out there, in plain sight, where she could watch them be set upon by the horde of hungry, insane creatures who had once been their fellow Coasties. She’d be able to watch - be forced to watch - them fight, and maybe die.
On her orders. She sent them. If anything happened...
Samantha stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and walked right up to Molly and stared into her eyes. Molly blinked, the intensity in the girl’s face, yet another slap of reality. As if she needed it.
Sam ripped the gas mask off, and almost shouted: “If they don’t come back,” the girl said, her anger subtle as a force ten gale. “If he doesn’t come back,” she added, jabbing her finger into Molly’s chest. “It’s your fault.”
My fault...
108
Medical Clinic
Midway Atoll
“I don’t care, Floyd,” Stephanie’s father said. “You’re coming, if I have to knock your ass out and stuff you in a cargo box.”
He looks about ready to d it, too, she mused. He also looked about ready to drop from exhaustion. “When’s the last time you slept, Dad?” She asked.
He snapped an angry glare in her direction, saw it was his daughter, and softened his expression. “Don’t know,” he said. “Is it still Tuesday?”
She thought about it for a moment - shocked to discover she actually needed to think about it. Time has lost all meaning. When did that happen?
“It’s Thursday, Dad,” she said. “And you need to get some sleep.”
He waved off her objection. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” The words stabbed through her heart, like one of Jonesy’s machetes. He seemed to sense this, thought better of it. “I’ll have time when we get to Honolulu. Won’t be much choice.” He glared at the Professor. “Which is what I’m giving you. Come peacefully, or go unconscious,” he said. “Your choice.”
Floyd glared right back at him, and Stephanie almost felt sorry for the fool. When her dad got like this, God himself didn’t stand a chance. The professor finally found a clue, but instead of quietly bowing his head and acquiescing, he turned to her, and barked: “Keep making the vaccine until the material is gone.” They had enough for maybe twenty doses. “Primer only. We’ll deal with the rest when I get back.”
“Liable to be a while,” her father said. “But we’ll get some material back to you, soon as we can.” He looked at Floyd. “Whe
ther he comes back or not depends on what kind of mood I’m in.” He grinned at the man. Even Stephanie felt a twinge of fear. Grabbing Floyd by the lab coat, he said: “Let’s go,” then turned and headed through the door.
Stephanie looked around the empty lab, her own exhaustion wrapping her like a mangy blanket. She sighed.
They only had enough antibodies to make twenty doses, which wouldn’t be anywhere near enough. And why?
Clara Blondelle.
That conniving bitch, Stephanie thought. She hadn’t engaged in the condemnation heaped upon the woman in the wake of the pirate attack. She’d followed John Gordon’s example and moved past it. Anyone could have made that mistake.
Well, no. That wasn’t true. Stephanie wouldn’t have done it - not in a million years. She stared at the refrigerator and thought of what wasn’t in there. She sure as fuck would have never stolen their entire supply of vaccine. If she ever saw that woman again - no matter how many intervening years there might be between now and then, Clara Blondelle would find out just how much Stephanie Barber was her father’s daughter.
109
Sand Island Beach
Oahu, Hawaii
“Nose up to the beach, right there,” Jonesy, pointing, said into the comm unit, as Duke edged the RHIB into shore. They could barely see past the shoreline, since the moon had yet to rise. Shadows played across everything, conjuring all sorts of nastiness into Jonesy’s mind.
Back in the Eighties - or so John told them - Sand Island Beach Park, on the south side of the island, had once been a great place to camp out overnight. Though technically illegal, all somebody needed to do was scrunch down and out of sight when the Park Ranger made the sunset round before closing the gate, and they were golden. With the advent of the homeless explosion in the latter part of that decade, however, the place became a cesspit, filled with garbage and homeless people. Whether those homeless were now zombies, waiting for them in the blackness, would soon be known. Jonesy felt in no hurry.
Erosion control pipes, placed end into the sand, filled the western edge of the beach, forcing them to land in the middle. The Rigid Hull Inflatable Boat slid onto the shore with a crunch, as Duke killed the engine. Silence. No movement. No hoard of zombies came screaming toward them.
Jonesy almost welcomed an attack, over waiting on a knife’s edge for the inevitable. As usual, he wouldn’t be getting what he wanted. They moved inland.
Jonesy led, with Frank behind him, Gus behind Frank, then Gary, then Duke, creeping ashore like stealth ducklings following their mother. The image popped into his head, threatening to send him over the edge and into hilarious laughter. Not good. Having their glorious leader act like a crazy man would not exactly instill confidence in Task Force Jonesy. He swallowed it down and moved forward, focusing instead on Gary King.
Jonesy had come onto the Mess Deck - best place to find a group of people on a ship - followed by Molly. They briefly explained the plan and asked for volunteers. Everybody stepped back when Gary raised his hand.
Face it, the man was a cook. Then again, every one of these guys, every one of the people on either the Sass or the Assateague, or the True North, were so far beyond their skill sets, they might as well be in outer space - except, perhaps, for Jonesy. But he didn’t have any experience at this. Sure, he was a Coast Guard Ninja - a thing even he thought was a bad joke - but he wasn’t a commando, trained for stealth missions deep inside enemy lines. What the fuck were they thinking?
They kept moving inland.
They cut between two large trees, shielding them at least somewhat from the sight of the two rectangular buildings, fifty yards to the north. Nothing stirred around either of them. No sign of homeless zombies. There wasn’t even much garbage. Odd.
“You know,” Franks said, through the muffled comm unit inside his gas mask. “This would go a lot faster if we had a car.”
“It’d go way better if we had the Skull Mobile,” Duke countered.
Jonesy waved his arm to indicate the vast ocean to their right and the empty field - where not even grass lived - to their left. “Not seeing a whole lot of either,” he said. “Stay focused, guys. We’re in Indian country.”
“Not too bad, all things considered,” Gary said - his voice sounding tight. Of course, that could have had something - or everything - to do with the mask.
“A little cottage, maybe some flowers, and a fire pit...” Gus chimed in.
“Maybe a machine gun emplacement off to the side,” Duke added.
He probably should have told them to shut the fuck up, but why? The zombies weren’t listening in on their internal comm channel, and there weren’t any in sight. Might as well let them vent a little steam.
A thin ribbon of road paralleled the shoreline, heading east, toward a stand of trees, then eventually, to Sand Island Parkway, the Port of Honolulu, and the base beyond. Technically, they didn’t need to go to the base, didn’t need to go anywhere near it - and there were arguments against doing so, such as drawing more zombies to the one place they wanted to make zombie-free - but Jonesy wanted to at least get a different view of the layout than what they could see from the harbor.
Naturally, however, the zombies had other ideas.
110
COMMSTA Honolulu
Sand Island, Oahu
OS2 Amber Winkowski climbed through the roof hatch and onto the Comm Center Building. The stench hit her before she made it halfway through, but it wasn’t as bad this time, wasn’t as foul. Either the wind had changed, or she was beginning to get used to it.
Walking to the parapet on the City side, and seeing - again - the devastation of what had once been one of the premier tourist destinations in the entire world, the phrase get used to it didn’t seem possible. How could anybody get used to this?
The fires no longer burned, since there really wasn’t much left to burn - just concrete buildings. All the wooden structures were gone. The cars and busses and trucks and taxicabs were blackened hulks of twisted, melted metal. The souvenir, tee-shirt, and rental motor scooter kiosks had all been destroyed. No more fast food, no more boutiques, no more surf shops.
Apocalypse, pure and complete. Not quite. There were survivors.
Before the arrival of the Assateague, and then the Sassafras, before the noise of the loud hailer, and the gunfire, those who remained in the highrise hotels and condominiums of Honolulu and Waikiki stayed hidden, out of sight of the zombies who still roamed the streets - who now owned the streets.
“How the Hell are we going to rescue all those people?” Scott Pruden said, as if taking the thought from her mind.
She gave a disheartened laugh. “How are they going to rescue us?”
The pier lay out of sight, beyond the Maintenance Building where she and Scott began their sometimes-shaky relationship. I really should be nicer to the man, she thought, in random fashion. Clutching at straws. Trying not to think of what’s out there on that pier.
Based on the gunfire - the hours of gunfire - they’d heard, the concrete home of so many Coast Guard ships had to be covered in Coast Guard bodies - their co-workers, their shipmates, people they had known and seen and talked to every day. All dead now.
“They’ll figure out a way,” Pruden said. “They’re Coasties.”
He sounded so sure. If only she could share his certainty. She shivered. “Let’s go back–“ Her sentence cut off at the distinct sound of gunfire.
111
USS Paul Hamilton
12.493106N 165.521408E
Blackjack Charlie pulled the trigger, and the uniformed man dropped to the deck, his blood and brains splattering the bulkhead beyond. “Anybody else want to question what we’re doing?”
They had eighteen - now seventeen - crew members of the USS Paul Hamilton lined up, under the guns of eight pirates. None seemed in any hurry to take Charlie up n his offer. Good, he thought.
Zombies still kept popping up here and there, but for the most part, he and his crew had killed the
m and eliminated the threat. Twenty or so non-zombies were now also dead - the ones whose career specialty would be of no use.
This was the Law of the new world: Be useful or die. At the very least, it was the law of Charlie’s slice of this Brave New Place called Earth, and that was enough for Charlie. Convincing Mister President had been both easier and harder than he expected.
The Honorable Henry David Goddard was a complete fucking idiot. How he’d ever managed to get elected in the first place said more about the stupidity of the average voter than it did about the abjectly unqualified nature of the candidate. The man had a knack for taking complicated issues and boiling them down to easy sound bites. Didn’t matter that his explanations were removed from reality and tempered with religious mania. They sounded good to the people who freely gave up their one, true power as human beings: the ability to think. He convinced them he was right - in spite of all evidence or common sense to the contrary. This was a rare gift, that Charlie needed to harness. Controlling one or two individuals required appealing to their intellect, their sense, their logic. Controlling entire crowds, on the other hand, required appealing to their baser instincts. Charlie was a master of one, Goddard, of the other, so Charlie’s task, then, was to control Goddard.
“Tie their hands,” he said to Hennessy. “And sit their asses down, so they don’t get itchy feet.”
Itchy feet was another problem Charlie needed to confront. Death threats only took them so far - only held people as long as the threat remained constant. Give them half a chance, and they’d be gone. Goddard gave the majority purpose: the re-establishment of some semblance of order, of stability, of normalcy. Even if it was all pie in the sky, with no more connection to reality than the politician’s belief in a flat earth, people wanted to believe it, because the alternative - reality - was too much to bear. Better to delude themselves into thinking they’d soon have the world back the way it was before Pomona.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Zombies In Paradise Page 25
