“Hopeless,” Gary said, not lifting his head.
“What is?” Duke asked, turning toward the Sassafras.
Gary did look up then. “The Milwaukee Brewers winning the World Series,” he snapped. “What the fuck did you think I was talking about?”
“Easy,” Molly said, laying a hand on the man’s knee. This was inappropriate behavior for a commanding officer - or any kind of officer. She didn’t care. Mild-mannered Gary King was losing it. Maybe they all were. Maybe they lost it a long time ago and were just now noticing.
The 25mm continued ripping at the base, wasting ammo. Molly switched her comm unit to transmit. “Cease fire,” she said, with no emotion. “Cease fire,” she repeated.
“Roger that,” Jonesy’s voice replied.
Hearing him stirred something - some spark of life, nearly extinguished, languishing in the steadily-growing darkness of her heart. She pushed it back down. No point to it. Not much point to anything.
130
Medical Clinic
Midway Atoll
“This will sting a bit,” Stephanie Barber said, trying and failing to stifle a yawn as a tiny drop of vaccine oozed through the hypodermic needle’s tip.
“Are we keeping you awake?” LTjg Zack Greeley said, in a teasing tone.
He’s flirting with me, Stephanie thought, then jabbed the hypo into his bare shoulder. Nice shoulder, too - well-muscled, lean, and not the least bit hairy. She hated hairy men. Although...It had been a while. Her restriction against man-fur might need to be lifted. And if this guy wanted to...
She removed the needle and moved away from him. Not now, dumbass, she scolded herself. But maybe later...
“We’re the guinea pigs,” he said, cracking a smile. He had really white teeth.
She thought about what he said: guinea pigs. “Wait,” she blurted. “You mean they’re sacrificing their air crew?” Shaking her head at the absurdity of the idea, she uncapped the hypodermic, which she shouldn’t have been able to do, but Floyd had done something to their supply before he left - under protest - for Honolulu. If you turned the plunger just right, and lifted it just so, the plunger would come out, exposing the reservoir, and thus, enabling them to be cleaned.
The hypos were supposed to be disposable, but they weren’t disposing of much, these days. No telling when or where they’d get more. She dropped the whole assembly into the autoclave. So far the plastic reservoirs hadn’t melted during the sterilizing process, which was either a small miracle, or just good manufacturing. In this modern age of planned obsolescence? Small miracle it is.
Her mind was babbling. Too little sleep over too many days. Too much coffee. Not enough nutrition. Power on, sailor, as her father often said. She picked up another hypodermic and turned to the next member of the air crew.
There were four of them: three burley men, and one woman - the pilot, a Lieutenant, named Carrie Scoggins. The other two, she’d learned, were Aviation Survival Technician, Second Class, Kyle Rogers, and Aviation Maintenance Technician Third, Mark Columbus. All four had now been vaccinated - with the primer, at least. It left exactly one dose, sitting all by its lonesome in the refrigerator - all she could produce from the material they had on the island. What they would do when Polar Star arrived...?
“We’re expendable,” Kyle Rogers said, there was wry humor in his voice.
“On what planet?” Stephanie countered.
“Apparently this one,” LT Scoggins replied, chuckling. “No. Really, it’s just a matter of the Captain wanting to get this process started as quickly as possible.”
“But of the AVDET, we’re the lowest rank,” Mark Columbus explained. “The B-Team.” She had to search her memory of Coast Guard acronyms to come up with it, but she managed to translate AVDET into Aviation Detachment, without too much trouble. Growing up in a Coastie family had its advantages.
She cocked her head and eyed them all with a mixture of admiration and suspicion. “You guys aren’t worried?”
“I’m scared spitless,” Kyle replied, with theatrical emphasis. Of all the four, he was the one she least believed could be scared. The man jumped out of helicopters into freezing cold, rough sea water to rescue people. He had bigger balls than General Patton.
“We’re just glad to be on land, finally.” Zack said, giving her another thousand watt grin. “It’s been a while.”
“And we’ve been doing nothing for far too long,” Kyle added, sounding more like the macho cliche she expected. “I’m itching for some action.”
She leaned back against the stainless steel operating table and eyed them all.
“Be careful what you wish for,” she cautioned.
131
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
“Sassafras arriving,” Jonesy called to no one, as Molly stepped out of the RHIB and onto the Boat Deck. Back in the days before Pomona, this was standard practice whenever the Commanding Officer arrived at or departed from their ship. Now, of course, it came with just a hint of sarcasm - but not much. As conflicted as his feelings for her may be (and were), the respect he felt was real as it gets. Hell, the respect he felt for all of them - each and every member of his crew, each and every member of his slowly expanding family, if he included the True North, and now, Jeri Weaver - were some of the best people he’d met in his entire life.
Their uniforms were tattered and covered in blood and...other things. Harold’s face shield had a crack in it. His eyes found Duke’s. The big man nodded, gave the thumb’s up.
“Everybody’s alive, I see,” he said. “Good deal.”
Molly stared at him for a moment, then strode forward, taking her sweat-damp hair out of her helmet and shaking it loose. Tucking the blood-spattered helmet beneath her arm, she removed her right-hand gloves and presented him with her middle finger. “Look,” she said, in a wry voice, dripping with sarcasm. “I chipped a nail.”
“Glad to see you came back in one piece, Ma’am,” he replied, feeling rather more relieved than he thought he would. Oh, bullshit, he thought. You were freaking out the whole time she was gone. True enough.
“Yes,” she said, still showing him her undamaged finger. “My ass is still in pristine condition, as well.”
Stab of embarrassment. Heat from a flushed face. Thumping of a relieved heart.
“You heard that,” he said.
“Yeah,” she replied, finally dropping her extended finger. “My ears are in good shape, too.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Anything happen while I was gone?” She asked.
“We thought about holding an impromptu cocktail party in your absence, but decided it would be far too gauche,” he quipped, glad for the opportunity to mask his emotion with a little sarcasm of his own. “I believe John made fresh coffee, though.”
“Oh fuck!” Dan McMullen’s voice came from the Buoy Deck. “This is disgusting.”
Jonesy walked to the ladder, and watched in cold-hearted fascination as Dan and Gus dragged the second of six bodies onto the deck.
“Amazing, the shit you can get used to,” Duke said, beside him.
“I am never getting used to that,” Harold said.
“But you’re still going to have to go down there and help them,” Duke replied, with just the touch of glee.
“Fuck!” Harold swore.
“Turn to ship’s work,” Duke said. “It ain’t coffee break, yet.”
Harold tromped down the ladder, continuing to swear, like the sailor he was.
“You probably better supervise,” Jonesy said, adding some glee of his own, as his friend’s shoulders slumped. “Misery loves company.”
“Misery can blow me,” the big man replied, and headed down the ladder.
Jonesy turned, hearing a CLUNK behind him, as Gary King started stripping off his ichor-covered MOPP gear and dropping it on the deck. He did not look happy.
“You alright, Gary?”
The mild-mannered cook glared at him, half in
shock, half in rage. “Do I look alright?” He demanded.
“You look like shit,” Jonesy answered. For a moment, Jonesy thought the guy might go for him and start swinging, but then he shook himself like a wet dog and resumed stripping off his gear.
“Fuck you very much.”
“Well put,” Jonesy replied, glancing at Molly to see how she was taking this. He paused, cocked half toward her, and half toward Gary. Molly looked...off. He turned his body to face her full on. When the universal What’s Up raised eyebrows didn’t generate a response, he said: “Ma’am?”
She blinked and said nothing.
This isn’t good, he thought.
In the distance, a zombie howled.
132
COMMSTA Honolulu
Sand Island, Oahu
“I think they’re done shooting the base up,” Scott said, lifting his prone body off the roof tar with a pushup. They‘d both dropped flat when the 25mm started firing. A chuck of what she felt sure had to be part of the Small Boat Station had gone flying inches from her left ear.
“Let’s hope,” she snorted, grunting to a standing position and walking to the parapet on the pier side of the building. Scanning to the North, she could see zombies stumbling through the trees, heading toward where a few minutes ago there’d been one Hell of a lot of noise. To the East, the Station building blocked her view of the pier, and to the South, another line of zombies drunkenly marched toward the sea, down the street separating the Comm Center from the ISC Building next door.
Movement from that building caught her eye, but she couldn’t immediately identify its source. Another flash in her periphery to the right, but then it, too, was gone.
“I think there’s somebody over at ISC,” she said, half-whispering, though there was no need.
“Live or Memorex?” Scott asked. It took a moment to dredge up the cultural reference: Memorex cassette tapes, back in the days before CDs. A commercial she could remember watching as a little kid. Where did he come up with this shit? She thought.
“Where do you come up with this shit?” She said aloud.
He shrugged. “Live or Memorex?” He said. “Human or zombie?”
“Sane or an idiot?” she countered, but she was smiling. Could have had a worse companion for the fall of civilization, she thought. That was a as far as it went, though. Even if he’d been - for a time - quite literally the last man on the planet, romantic ideas had never crossed her mind. Too much to do. Too much to worry about.
It would have been easy enough, she supposed. Doubt he’d say no. But somehow, the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Odd...
Add it to the list, honey, she told herself.
“Couldn’t tell,” she replied. “Couldn’t even be sure where it was coming from,” she added, waving in the general direction of the building. “Somewhere in those windows off to the right.”
He moved beside her on the parapet and searched for some sign. Nothing. She watched him wondering for the first time: Why not? An examination of her bodily responses offered a ready answer: nothing there. Again, odd...
His body stiffened, and she snapped her attention back to the ISC Building. “There,” he pointed. “Second floor, third window from the end.”
Sure as shit, a human face - not insane, judging by the wide grin and waving hand - peered out at them.
133
USCGC Polar Star
28.122093N 177.355252W
“Any idea what this is about?” Jennifer Collins asked, as Lydia joined her in the passageway outside the Wardroom.
“Not a clue,” she replied. A pipe had gone out over the 1-MC, telling a fairly long list of enlisted people to lay to the Wardroom. Lydia had been in her rack, still more or less fully dressed, pretending to read some trashy novel, that if anyone asked her the title, she wouldn’t be able to answer. Words, just words, at which she stared for a while, before turning the page to stare at more words, comprehending none of them. Lather, rinse, repeat. Tara McBride sidled up to them, asked the obligatory question, and got the same clueless answer.
“When I got here, Ms Montrose told me to wait, and they’d let us in eventually,” Jennifer explained.
“How perfectly cryptic,” Tara said.
“Bunch of bullshit, if you ask me,” Pat Querec said, joining them. Behind him came Greg Riley, Rees Erwin, and Eddie Martinez. A total of ten had been summoned, and the other three - Tim Luton, Sherman Malone, and Glen Newby, soon arrived, as well.
“Nobody asked you,” the gruff voice of Master Chief Wolf said, coming up behind them.
“Do you know what’s up, Master Chief?” Greg asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “And in a couple minutes, you will too, so shut the fuck up and wait.” So saying, he walked straight through the Wardroom door, closing it behind him.
“How do you work for that guy? Eddie Martinez asked.
“Carefully,” Rees Erwin replied.
A sinking and not unwelcome suspicion began to form in Lydia’s mind. What was the one thing she’d asked for, since this whole mess began? Since the apocalypse? Since Guam?
The door opened again, and Ms Montrose said: “File in, everybody.” She led them to the table, where the Master Chief sat, along with CWO2 Peavey and LT Wheeler.
Once they were all seated, LT Wheeler smiled, and stood. “I want to ask what Rumor Control has made of all this,” he said. “I’m sure it’s all amusing, and probably all wrong.” He clasped his hands behind his back and looked each person in the eye, coming to Lydia last. “So here’s the deal. You’re all being transferred.”
134
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
Molly stripped off her uniform and dropped it to the deck. Her body ached in ways she hadn’t expected and hadn’t known were possible. She’d been athletic most of her life, knew the old saw about no pain, no gain, and all that happy crappy. Sure, she’d been sore after a tough workout, or following a particular ass-kicking on the mat during more of her Krav Maga classes than she cared to consider. There had been pulled muscles, strained ligaments, and more than one sprained ankle or wrist. She knew pain, accepted it as part of the price. But this was something altogether new.
It penetrated all the way to her bones, all the way to her soul, come to think of it. And maybe that was the answer. Maybe it hurt so much because it encompassed so much, consumed so much, the dull ache going all the way to her core, to her sense of being.
Or it could all just be a load of bullshit.
A rather ripe odor wafted into her nostrils. Took a moment to identify the source as her own body. A shower would be good.
She didn’t move.
Somehow, hot water and soap and a thorough scrubbing weren’t going to get the job done. The stench was more than skin deep, in much the same way as the pain. She needed to do something a bit more drastic.
How does one cleanse their soul” She wondered. Religion, of course. That’s what it’s for, right? She pondered the idea, examined it from all sides, rejected it. Falling to her knees in reverent supplication wouldn’t take the pain away.
So something more secular, then. Well...She was a trained psychologist. What did psychology have to say? It said everything - and nothing - all at the same time. So much to choose from, so much theory, so much psycho-babble: Jung, and his collective unconscious; William McDougall, and his survival instinct; Skinner, and his operant conditioning. All bullshit. And then there was Freud. Everybody knows his answer to everything. The man was obsessed.
But was he wrong?
Without thinking - because thinking would both get her in trouble and talk her out of it - she donned shorts and tee-shirt, not bothering with underwear, and headed for the door.
Jonesy eyed the shower. Do I really need one? He asked himself.
The two-man stateroom he’d shared with ET1 Carlos Hernandez - now most likely dead or a zombie - didn’t have its own head and shower. After the battle, and after they’d cleaned the ship as bes
t they could, there were all those Chief’s and Officer’s staterooms just sitting empty, each, with a private head. Every one of the eight survivors had availed themselves of better accommodations. Of course, Molly moved to the Cabin, albeit reluctantly - both because of what happened there, and because (he knew) she felt inadequate to assume the mantle of Captain. Jonesy, had taken the largest of the Officer’s rooms - the one last occupied by Medavoy. So far, the man’s douche-baggary hadn’t rubbed off on him.
But did he need a shower now? His bed seemed so comfortable, so welcoming, and he hadn’t slept in...what day was it? He sniffed his armpits. Yes, I really need one.
Groaning to a standing position, he stripped off his clothes. They were still clean, since he hadn’t been actively engaged in the battle on the pier, but they landed in a heap on the deck, nonetheless.
The water felt wonderfully hot - almost too hot. Just the way he liked it. He let it wash over him, the high pressure pounding his stress-tense shoulders.
The ship wasn’t making water, he knew, because the Evaporators down in the Engineroom needed open ocean to operate. Deep though Honolulu Harbor was, the suction from the water intake would still dredge up silt from the bottom, plugging the filters. Frank wouldn’t like that. So he knew he shouldn’t be taking a Hotel shower, and gave exactly not one shit that he was. They can bill me, he thought.
A noise caught his attention. He raised his head, wiped the water from his face and listened. Nothing. Must be hallucinating, he thought. But the spell cast by the soothing heat and pounding pressure had been broken. He grabbed the soap and began to lather up.
The plastic shower curtain was thrust aside. He stared in amazement, wonder, confusion and - all at once - volcanic lust.
Molly Gordon stood there, stark naked.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, stepping into the shower and closing the curtain behind her.
“No, Ma’am,” he replied, and said no more, as her mouth covered his.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Zombies In Paradise Page 29
