135
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
“That’s the biggest yawn I think I’ve ever seen,” Lane Keely said.
Samantha Gordon blushed, covering her mouth. She didn’t really need to be up. One person was enough for the Anchor Watch, but her cousin refused to allow her to stand it alone, so anytime she was up there, now that they were riding the hook, as the old salts like Mr. Keely and her father called it, somebody else had to be, as well. She could have just stayed below. She could be sleeping right now - maybe should be sleeping right now - but everybody else was running on fumes, so exhausted they could barely form complete sentences. Not coming up there made her feel guilty.
Besides, she was bored. No more TV, no more Desperate Housewives, or Dancing With the Stars, no more social media on which to chat back and forth with the friends she no longer had. She could have watched a movie - the ship had all sorts of DVDs - but they were all guy-stuff, and she could only tolerate so many pointless explosions and bare-breasted women.
“Were you trying to see if you could swallow your own head?” He asked.
Mr. Keely was nice enough, and he meant well, but he was so old, and so normal - not edgy at all. And his attempts at humor were as pathetic and predicable as her dad’s.
She’d tried to get to know the younger guys: Harold and Dan and Frank and Duke. But they were all busy, all exhausted, and most had a haunted look to their eyes that, quite frankly, disturbed her. Jonesy had it too, had it bad, but from him, it didn’t repel her. Quite the opposite. It made her want to comfort him, help him, hug him.
She blushed again, turning away from Mr. Keely. She should be turning away from the idea of Jonesy, too, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She didn’t want to.
She wanted to wrap her arms around him and lay her cheek against his muscular chest and listen to his heart beating. Part of her knew it would never happen, that it was impossible, and dreaming about it was a waste of time that only served to make her sheets damp with sweat. I can’t help it, she moaned to herself.
“I’m okay,” she protested, feeling the need to say something, if only to take her mind off...him. She yawned again.
“Go on,” Mr. Keely said. “Hit the rack. Somebody around here ought to be getting some sleep.”
“I can stay up,” she protested.
“You know, now that I think about it, sooner or later - and I bet it’s going to be sooner - we’re going to need you to be up here on your own, so the rest of us can get some sleep,” he said. “These next couple days...” He let the sentence drift away, but his point came across loud and clear.
Over the next couple of days, they were going to be fighting a big battle. No choice. That was proven today, and yesterday. Those two missions failed, and everybody knew it, even though nobody got hurt. So these little half-measures were pointless. They didn’t work. She could see it, in spite of her virtually non-existent knowledge and experience. They were going to have to go all out, if there was any chance of rescuing the people on the base. And if they couldn’t rescue the people on the base, what chance did all those people in the city have? None at all. So yeah. Sooner or later, they were going to need her.
She yawned again.
“Hit the rack,” he repeated. “I got this.”
She nodded. “Okay.” She headed for the door.
136
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
“We can’t ever do this again,” Molly said, as she dropped the tee shirt over her head.
“Right,” Jonesy replied. “How did I know you were going to say that?”
He didn’t sound bitter. Why didn’t he sound bitter? That seemed wrong, on a variety of levels. She’d used him, and she knew it. So why wasn’t he mad?
“I suppose this was all just a lark, then.” He said it as a statement, not a question.
“This was a mistake.” The reply escaped her lips before it so much as peeked into her head. “And I’m sorry.” This was, of course, the right thing to say, but did she mean it? The mistake part was true enough. This really couldn’t happen again - not while she was CO. She wouldn’t have done it at all, wouldn’t have come down to his stateroom, and certainly wouldn’t have climbed naked into his shower, if not for the emptiness inside threatening to swallow her whole.
What happened on the pier had been...horrifying. That really was the only word for it. And yet, she felt nothing. She’d killed so many former humans, she’d actually lost count. And yet, she felt nothing. Blood had covered the MOPP gear she wore, covered her helmet, splattered her face shield to the point it was almost a blindfold. And yet, she felt nothing. And tomorrow, she would have to order her crew to go back out there, go back into that horror, go back in and kill dozens, maybe hundreds - probably hundreds - of human beings. God damn it, she ought to feel something.
The nothingness scared her - and not in a heart-thumping, pulse-pounding, oh shit I’m gonna die sort of way. That, she would have understood. That would have made her feel. But she didn’t, and the thought of it, the knowledge, of it, the cold, harsh reality of it, scared the living shit out of her, because only a sociopath could be faced by something like this and not feel some goddamned emotion.
So she’d climbed into the shower with him, taken him inside of her, let him pound her body and fill her with his need, just so she could feel something. And now came the really fucked up part. Now she had to deal with what comes next.
“We can’t do this again,” she repeated, slipping her sneakers on.
“Yeah,” he said, in a voice flat as a Kansas prairie. “You already said that.”
It had to be this way. And given enough time, he’d realize the truth. And what was the truth?
She shoved the question back down, and got the Hell out of there, before her own mind could answer.
137
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
“Oh!” Molly exclaimed, clearly startled. “Hey, Sam.”
Samantha gaped at her cousin. At first, she didn’t know why. Seeing her in an enclosed space like the ship was inevitable, wasn’t it? Of course it was. So why was she startled? And why did Molly’s face looked guarded and flushed?
“Molly,” she replied, half/statement, half/question.
Molly’s hair was wet. So was her tee shirt. And through the tee shirt she could clearly see the outline of her nipples. No bra.
Her cousin slipped past her in an aroma cloud of soap and shampoo, and started to make her way up the ladder.
Wet hair. No bra. Coming from the Wardroom, at night. Feeling embarrassed about it and guilty for being caught. Huh... And that shampoo... She recognized it. From where?
“Good night, Sam,” molly said, and disappeared into the Cabin.
Wet hair, plus no bra, plus coming from the Wardroom, equals...
Jonesy.
And right then, in the blink of an eye, in the instant between one beat and the next, Samantha Gordon’s sixteen year-old heart shattered.
138
COMMSTA Honolulu
Sand Island, Oahu
“...and could you please tell Assateague to stop shooting up the buildings?” Amber said, and received a thumbs up from Scott Pruden for her efforts.
“I’ll pass that on,” Bill Schaeffer replied - or, rather, his voice replied through the tiny speaker. It felt weird, after all this time to know that the man she’d been speaking to - her lifeline to the rest of the world outside the besieged base - was just out there. She’d be able to wave at him if (A) he wasn’t locked inside his Radio Room, and (B) there weren’t buildings between the Comm Center and the Sassafras.
So near, and yet so far, she thought. But she still planned to plant a sloppy, wet kiss right on the man’s lips the moment they met.
“There are survivors in the ISC Building,” she continued. “We can’t talk to them, but they looked pretty upset about being shot at.”
“I’ll pass it on,” h
e repeated.
“Also, we can see zombies coming from the Container Port. No idea where the breach in the fence might be, but clearly there is one,” she added.
Bill didn’t answer right away. He paused, as if thinking it over. That’s what she thought, anyway. Of course, her imagination could just be getting the better of her. He could be making himself a cup of coffee, for all she knew.
“Wait one,”he said, finally.
She looked at Scott, to see if he had an answer to her obvious, if unspoken question. He shrugged. Lotta help, guy.
Why was she so critical of him? It defied reason. He hadn’t done anything to her, hadn’t been a prick, hadn’t been much of anything, except the man who saved her - saved her life, saved her sanity, saved her from facing this nightmare alone.
There wasn’t any misplaced sexual tension, like you almost always see on television. Every sitcom, every one-hour drama that pitted a man and a woman together, always centered around the chemistry and tension and reverse-flirting that started as antagonism and ended in bed. To call it a cliche would be like calling her Toyota a car. Duh!
So why did she feel the need to deride Scott every chance she got - internally, if not overtly? Not a clue.
“COMMSTA, this is Sassafras, Actual. Over,” a female voice said through the speaker.
“The elusive Ensign Gordon, I presume,” Scott observed.
“Must be,” Amber replied, then into the radio handset: “Go, Sass.”
“Tell us what you’re seeing.”
139
Seaplane Wallbanger
Midway Atoll
“Uh...” Jim said, peering upwards and out the window on his side. “The Starboard engine’s starting to smoke.”
“I was waiting for that,” Harvey replied, his voice calm.
“I wasn’t.” They were on approach to the Atoll, having flown all damned night long to deliver their cargo of former-human spinal tissue. It sat nestled in two coolers, tied to a stanchion in the compartment just aft of the cockpit. Enough for seventy-five doses of what would end up being primer. Not enough. Not nearly enough for the one hundred twenty-three Officers and crew of Polar Star - all of whom needed the full regimen of primer, primary and secondary booster Jim’s daughter was busy cooking in the lab she’d set up with the Mad Scientist. Then there were the twenty-five survivors from Port Allen and Johnston Atoll, who all needed both boosters. But seventy-five doses would be better than none at all - if, that is, they managed to land without exploding in a ball of fire.
“This plane is sixty years old,” Walton explained. “The odds of it having lasted this long, with all the flying time we’ve had of late, are astronomical in the extreme..” He sounded almost proud.
“Just get us down before we catch on fire,” Jim snapped.
“Think I should?” Walton asked, with an edge of maniacal glee.
“What?”
“Sure you wouldn’t rather take a few turns around the island to announce our presence to all and sundry?”
Jim glared at him. “You’re a fucking lunatic.”
“That’s never been proven in a clinical setting,” the functionally insane pilot replied, as he dropped the seaplane to just above the water and came to a textbook landing with a mild splash.
“Ah, well,” Harvey said, in mock-disappointment. “Rescued from the jaws of death at the last possible moment.”
Jim unbuckled his harness and lurched to a standing position, grabbed the fire-extinguisher, and popped the overhead steel and plexiglass hatch. The engine had not caught on fire, as it turned out, but it was smoking quite a lot, so he shot it with a healthy dose of CO2, as the propeller sputtered to a stop.
“Satisfied?” Harvey asked, as Jim regained his seat.
“No.”
“I pity your wife.”
“I pity you, if you make another comment like that,” Jim growled. He meant it, too. Nobody talked smack about his wife.
Of course, he knew Walton was just joking - hoped Walton was just joking. He’d actually grown to like the man, in a bizarre, passive-aggressive sort of way.
The radio speaker crackled. “Welcome back, Wallbanger.” His daughter, Stephanie’s voice. While he knew she was alright - if for no other reason than they hadn’t heard any bad news coming out of Midway during their forced absence - hearing her speak, confirming her presence, still relieved his parental anxiety. It never went away.
“We come bearing gifts,” Jim said into his headset.
“Anything from Tiffany’s?” She asked.
Walton cut in through his own headset. “Yes. Tiffany’s House of Zombie Parts.”
“Oh well,” her voice replied. “We have some visitors who are anxious to see you.”
“Oh, do tell,” Walton encouraged.
“Polar Star is only a couple hours out.”
140
USCGC Polar Star
28.158412N 177.366238W
“Captain on the Bridge!” LT Wheeler called, as Hall entered through the Port exterior door.
“Are we up?” The Captain asked.
Wheeler pointed to LTjg Amy Montrose, standing by the GSB 900. “We don’t have direct comms with Sassafras, but the COMMSTA says they can relay.”
“Very well,” Hall said, heading to the Port Console and taking the handset from Amy. “Cutter Sassafras, this is Polar Star. Over.”
The reply was muffled, but clear - in a phased, eleven-hundred miles distant sort of way. “Polar Star, Sass Actual. Go ahead. Over.”
“Understand your plan is to retake Sand Island. Is that correct? Over.” Hall said.
“Affirmative,” the person they presumed to be Ensign Molly Gordon replied. Amy felt a strange kinship to the woman she’d never met. A female in a male-dominated world, who had taken command when all those above her had been killed, and who had - from all reports they’d been getting, sketchy though they may be - succeeded in her efforts to re-establish a fallen world. Girl, you’ve got some big balls, she thought.
“Do you have sufficient forces to complete the mission?” Hall asked.
The radio crackled and hissed with static, but there was not, at first an immediate response. Then: “Sir, there aren’t sufficient forces left on this planet to do what needs to be done. But we’re going to do it anyway.”
Gigantic balls...
Hall shook his head. And was that the hint of a smile on his face? He looked at Amy, and shook his head again. “While I admire your courage, Ensign,” he said. “I cannot agree with your plan.”
Amy’s heart dropped like a lead balloon. What the Hell?
The static resumed, quieted, flared, and went quiet again, but Ensign Molly Gordon did not reply. If it had been her, Amy thought, she’d be raging inside whatever compartment she occupied, kicking things, smashing furniture and swearing like the saltiest sailor in history. The Master Chief, himself, would be blushing at the oaths coming out of her feminine mouth.
Finally: “Polar Star, Sassafras. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Then let me clarify,” Hall said. “You are hereby ordered not to proceed until we get on scene. Is that clear, Ensign?” He put extra emphasis on her rank, as if reminding her just how junior she was. This was really starting to piss Amy off. She glanced at Wheeler, trying to gauge his reaction, but his face remained passive.
Another pause. Amy wondered just how many variations of fuck you were going through the woman’s mind.
“Polar Star,” Gordon said, in a clearly strained voice. “Even if you started the...regimen...” she said, obviously not wanting to mention vaccine in the clear. “...today, you wouldn’t be viable for two full weeks. The survivors we can see in Honolulu may not last that long.”
“Understood, Sassafras,” Hall replied. “The order stands. We can’t afford to lose any more forces.”
LTjg Amy Montrose stared at her Commanding Officer, scarcely believing her ears. He was spouting the same bullshit justification for tucking tail in Guam. How ma
ny people died because of that order? How many more would die because of this one?
No response came through the receiver. No argument, no denial, no defiance. Nothing.
“Cutter Sassafras, this is Polar Star. Did you understand your orders? Over.”
Static. Nothing more.
“Cutter Sassafras, respond.” Amy could see the Captains face getting redder by the moment.
“Cutter Sassafras, respond now.”
Nothing but static.
“COMMSTA Honolulu, Polar Star. Over.”
No response. Either comms had been lost at a really inconvenient time, or...?
“Lieutenant Wheeler!” Hall barked.
“Sir,” he replied, his face a mask of unresponsiveness. He could have been asleep, if not for his wide open and alert eyes.
“Plot a course for Honolulu and give me an ETA.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Ms Montrose.”
“Sir?”
“Contact the Helo. Have them pack all the equipment in the Midway lab, and escort the woman - what’s her name?” Hall asked, clearly about to explode.
“Barber, sir,” she replied. “We think she’s the daughter of–“
”Yes,” Hall said, cutting her off. “Have them escort Miss Barber onto the aircraft and bring her here as well.”
“Isn’t she a civilian, sir?” Amy asked - immediately knowing she shouldn’t have.
If it had been possible, the Captain’s eyes would have flashed red, like some demon in his growing anger. “I don’t care,” he replied. “Get her here. Have them set her up in the Scientist Wet Lab.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, reaching for the Air Comm radio handset.
Did I say big balls? She mused. Mastodons would be jealous. Amy struggled to match her expression to Wheeler’s, remaining passive, not letting any hint of emotion peek through. But inside, her heart sang an aria worthy of the greatest prima donna. You go, girl...
141
COMMSTA Honolulu
Sand Island, Oahu
“Did we just fuck up?” Amber asked, staring at the GSB 900. In all the years she’d been in the Coast Guard, not once had the merest suggestion of the hint of the slightest possibility of her flouting the authority of a four-striper Captain come within miles of crossing her mind.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Zombies In Paradise Page 30
