Winter Apocalypse: Zombie Crusade V

by J. W. Vohs

  “One of those youngsters should make us a hot meal,” Bruce called from the cabin.

  Before O’Brien could respond, he heard rattling and laughter from the cabin. Brittany stuck her head out of one of the small cabin windows. “Hey, Father, we have a bunch of hot oatmeal in here. If Bruce would have turned around he’d have noticed his hot meal waiting for him. Did you know he’s hard of hearing?”

  “Damn fools almost gave me a heart attack,” Bruce protested from below.

  Father O’Brien joined his crew, and Roberto asked him why they couldn’t pick up the pace. “This boat can go a lot faster; why don’t we step it up?”

  “We’re in no hurry, son. We left when we did in case we run into any trouble, there’s no reason to get to our rendezvous point early and just sit around and wait. It’s smarter to go slow, conserve fuel, and enjoy the great weather.”

  Bruce grunted. “If you kids get bored you can take a nice swim.”

  “I’d rather play some poker,” Brittany retorted. She knew that Bruce fancied himself an expert poker player. “Who’s in?”

  “You three play poker,” Father O’Brien replied. “I’d like to sit in the comfy chair and play captain for a while.”

  Time passed uneventfully, and after winning all the change on the table, Bruce wandered off for a mid-day nap. As they cleared the river and headed out into Lake St. Clair, O’Brien noticed that the sun was past its zenith, and he hoped they’d be able to reach the docks in Sarnia before nightfall—really just late afternoon this time of year. The decision had been made to meet in darkness in the hope of avoiding the attention of infected, or simply unfriendly humans. The crew had two sets of NVGs to share, and the cabin was full of modern electronics designed to help a pilot navigate the Great Lakes waterways at night. St. Clair wasn’t a large body of water compared to the surrounding inland seas, but once again, Father O’Brien was happy to complete the open-water stretch and enter the southern mouth of the river that would take them to the rendezvous point.

  They were encountering more and more ice as they made their way north, and Brittany had a question concerning the record cold they were experiencing. “Hey, Father, we know the infected don’t like water; do they like ice?”

  The once-portly priest chuckled. “I hope not. David and Luke have discussed the possibility of freezing temperatures killing the monsters; they don’t exactly wear clothing to protect themselves from the elements.”

  Brittany frowned, so O’Brien asked, “What are you thinking about?”

  “Well,” she began, “if the hunters are active in the winter, what’s to stop them from just walking over the ice?”

  By the time they reached the agreed-upon location in Sarnia, it was late afternoon and the sun was descending toward the Michigan shoreline. Bruce was back at the helm, and Father O’Brien still had no answer for Brittany’s question; it was just one more thing survivors were going to have to worry about as what was expected to be a record-cold winter set in. Another mystery was the vintage ferry they’d passed in the river an hour earlier. The huge boat had been just floating as they’d overtaken it in the shipping channel, and the sounds of infected howling and moaning emanated from the otherwise silent vessel. That had led to all kinds of speculation by the crew.

  Roberto’s theory seemed to make the most sense. “I’m tellin’ ya, when the outbreak began, a bunch of rich folks on Grosse Isle all packed onto that old-school ferry and tried to escape to the north. Somebody was already infected, and now there’s a boat full of flesh-eaters floating toward Lake Huron.”

  “Oh yeah,” Brittany had argued, “so the ferry just somehow managed to float across Lake St. Clair and into the river without running aground somewhere?”

  “Hey, it’s a possibility. How else can you explain it?”

  Brittany furrowed her brow. “I don’t know, but there’s something really weird about the whole thing.”

  Regardless of the boat’s origins or contents, O’Brien needed to concentrate as they navigated the entrance to the marina in Sarnia. The mouth of the channel wasn’t particularly wide, but the stretch of open, deep water between the peninsula and the mainland was nearly a quarter mile in length. A number of heavy-duty quays jutted out from the shore, obviously used to dock large freighters. Marilyn had told them to drop anchor near one of the piers, or even tie up to one of them if the place seemed clear of infected. Father O’Brien did just that after he’d traveled over halfway down the channel, then he got on the radio to see if he could raise the Canadian delegation.

  After a few tries, he heard Marilyn’s voice ring out loud and clear. “Hey there, Father, ready for that confession yet?”

  He laughed aloud at their running joke. “Think you could handle the penance?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t be too hard on me.”

  “Well, you could start by coming into the marina.”

  “We can see the shore from where we are; let me check with Michael, I mean, Mayor.”

  Father O’Brien smiled to himself at the mention of Mayor’s real name, then he remembered the enthusiasm in Christy’s voice when she talked about her cousin who lived on an island in Lake Huron. His name was Michael too, Michael Carboni. O’Brien was trying to remember what else Christy had told him when Marilyn came back on the air.

  “My fearless captain says we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Sounds good. We’re near the end of the main channel, past the big boats, tied up to the third standard pier on the right. It’s a good spot if we decide to do a little salvaging in the daylight, and we’re setting up some trip wires on shore to alert us if any unexpected visitors head our way. If it’s not safe to dock, we’ll let you know.”

  “Perfect—see you soon.”

  The two captured civilians from a small community not far from Windsor really had no experience piloting old commercial ferries, but they’d known enough about general ship operations to get the vessel away from the dock in Marine City and headed toward the Canadian shore of Lake Huron. They’d watched a crane load several large containers filled with moaning, flesh-eating monsters before six well-armed soldiers directed them to what would have been a high-tech wheelhouse in the 1970s. After not even an hour on the water, things had begun to go terribly wrong.

  The so-called American Army soldiers had double checked the twist locks on the freight containers when they’d secured them in the cargo hold, but it never occurred to anyone to check the integrity of the sides of the oversized transport trailers. At some point in its history, potential thieves had cut most of the way through the side of one of the semi-trailers, and pressure from the overcrowded mob of monsters caused a pre-cut plate to give way. Over two hundred creatures had spilled out from the opening. When one of Barnes’ not-too-bright young soldiers opened the cargo hatch to investigate the noise, he was greeted with hungry moans and outstretched arms. The inexperienced recruit managed to fire several ineffective shots before he was pulled into a mob of snarling flesh-eaters.

  Everyone on board heard the shots ring out, but the hum of the ship’s twin diesel engines muffled the sound of the infected as they escaped from their confinement in search of additional food. The alleged Army sergeant who seemed to be in charge kept his gun trained on the frightened pilots as he ordered the other two soldiers in the wheelhouse to go investigate the situation. After hearing distant screams and more gunfire, the lone officer locked the door and ordered the civilians to cut the engines. When one of the pilots questioned the wisdom of shutting off the engines and slowing down the voyage, he was pistol-whipped in reply. The injured man’s counterpart accommodated the officer and spared his friend further harm for the moment.

  Right on time, Father O’Brien watched the Canadian boat approach through the growing darkness. He and Brittany had NVGs on, and they both could see who they assumed was Rocky standing at the bow to greet them. He was also wearing some sort of night-vision, and he waved when he noticed the two Americans watching him. Ro
berto had just returned from setting up the trip wire alarms and now deftly grabbed the rope Marilyn tossed to him. He tied the trim yacht to one of the nearby pylons as O’Brien scurried down to the pier to hold out a welcoming hand to the lovely young woman he’d grown so fond of over the past few weeks. She accepted the old priest’s help with no hesitation and immediately enveloped him in an enthusiastic embrace. Rocky followed his girlfriend ashore, while the captain hung back in the cabin with a gun in his hand.

  As soon as Father O’Brien could maneuver himself free of the bear hug, he pulled back and happily exclaimed, “Hello, Marilyn!”

  She laughed the same infectious laugh that had warmed the old man’s heart over the radio. “My name is Carolyn, Father, and it’s my pleasure to finally meet you.”

  O’Brien was momentarily distracted by the Canadian beauty’s exuberance and familiarity, but he recovered quickly enough to hold out his hand to Rocky. “You, sir, are a lucky man.”

  “I know it, Father. And for the record, my name is Robbie, but as nicknames go I can live with Rocky if that’s how you think of me.”

  Brittany called out from the boat, “We’ve got our cabin blacked out if you’d like to come inside for some coffee.”

  Carolyn raised her eyebrows, and O’Brien explained. “She just means that the lights are off or the windows are blacked out so we won’t be visible to anybody or anything that looks this way. You all should do the same.”

  Robbie nodded. “I think we’re on the same page. I’m going to see if I can fetch our so-called Mayor.” He looked at Carolyn to gauge her comfort level—he hadn’t lost sight of the fact that they really didn’t know these people.

  Carolyn patted Robbie’s arm reassuringly. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Father O’Brien alone for a minute anyway.” She smiled and gave her boyfriend a playful push toward their yacht. “Try to convince Michael to be friendly for a change.”

  The priest held out his arm to Carolyn and led her aboard his boat. He told Brittany to stay on deck and watch for the other two Canadians. “When you see them, be a good hostess and direct them this way. And tell Roberto to let us know if he sees or hears anything at all.” He turned to Carolyn. “I’ll introduce you to our official pilot, Bruce Bowen, inside. That was Brittany, a remarkable young lady—she can do just about anything. Roberto is on guard duty—he’s amazing as well. I’ve been truly blessed to have their support.”

  As soon as the cabin door was closed, O’Brien motioned to Bruce. “Carolyn, this is Bruce. Bruce, this is Marilyn, the one I told you about, but her real name is Carolyn. If you don’t mind, I’d like a few minutes alone with her before her friends join us.”

  Bruce made a slight bow and kissed Carolyn’s hand. “I look forward to talking with you soon.” He winked at Father O’Brien. “It’s a good thing you’re a priest or I might have to stay and defend this lady’s honor. I’ll be in my cabin if either of you need me.”

  “He seems very nice,” Carolyn observed as Father O’Brien guided her to a seat.

  O’Brien smiled. “He’s usually a grouchy old man, but you have a knack for bringing out the best in people.” He took a closer look at his new friend. Decades in the church had taught him how to quickly take the measure of a person, and he instinctively liked what he saw in this woman. “I’ll pour us some coffee. Sugar and creamer?”

  “Spoonful of sugar please, no creamer. And you’re quite the charmer yourself. You only know me from my voice over the radio, but I’ll accept the compliment and thank you for it.”

  Father O’Brien sat down across from Carolyn with his own drink before raising the cup in a slight toast. “You’re welcome. And thank you for coming all the way down here, especially in November.”

  Carolyn lightly touched his mug with her own before taking a sip. “Michael is damn suspicious of everyone who hasn’t been on Manitoulin since the outbreak began, but I could tell by your voice that you were trustworthy. Sooner or later we’ll all have to band together in this new world if we want half a chance of beating the flesh-eaters.”

  Father O’Brien choked on his coffee. “Did you just say you were from Manitoulin Island?” he sputtered.

  Carolyn nodded. “Yeah, I think the need for secrecy is over. Are you alright?”

  “Even though I should know better, sometimes providence still sneaks up on me. Tell me about Mayor, or rather Michael. What was he before the outbreak?”

  “An overqualified fishing guide. Well, he and his wife ran a really nice bed and breakfast, but he used to be some big-wig engineer.”

  Father O’Brien crossed himself. “Does his last name happen to be Carboni?”

  Carolyn’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you know that?”

  Just then, the door swung open and Brittany stepped aside to let Robbie and Michael enter the cabin. “I’m going to stand guard with Roberto if you don’t need me,” she said to O’Brien.

  “Thank you, dear.” The priest motioned for the men to sit down. “I know we have a lot to talk about, but first I just want to thank the good Lord for bringing us together. Come, let us join hands.”

  Robbie glanced at Michael, who shrugged and whispered, “I guess we should expect that a priest would want to pray.” They both walked over to the small table where Carolyn and Father O’Brien were sitting.

  O’Brien scooted around and grasped one of Carolyn’s hands, then he reached out for Michael’s. “Gather round, I promise I’m not known for long sermons.” Carolyn took Robbie’s hand, and after an awkward moment Michael and Robbie linked up as well.

  Father O’Brien cleared his throat and began, “Lord, we thank you for all your blessings in these troubled times. As we face the evil that has been unleashed upon our world, your strength can still be found in your brave and honorable children. I thank you for Carolyn, your messenger and my angel. I thank you for Robbie, one of your most righteous warriors and defenders of mankind. And finally I thank you for Michael Carboni, nephew of Jim and Trudy, cousin to Christy, who personifies—“

  “Hold up!” Michael pulled his hands away and stepped back from the table. “How do you know who I am? Carolyn, have you been filling him in about my family in the states?”

  “I suppose if I knew your family tree that would be a possibility, but I’ve never really been that interested in your background.”

  Father O’Brien grabbed Michael’s hand again. “I’m almost done. Now let’s see, Lord, I thank you for Michael Carboni, who personifies hope and sacred leadership against the enemy. Amen.”

  Carolyn smiled at Michael. “That was nice.”

  Michael was about to speak when Father O’Brien patted his shoulder and gently declared, “Sit back down, son. Your uncle was a friend of mine. I had no idea who you were; well, your cousin Christy tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen. When Carolyn mentioned Manitoulin Island, it all started to fall into place. I sincerely thank God that we found each other.”

  Michael sat down. “You say he was a friend of yours?” The priest’s use of past tense had implied bad news.

  “He was part of a small group of us that were on our way out of Cleveland, headed for Jack Smith’s castle in Indiana. Trudy and Christy made it there. Jim didn’t. I’m sorry, Michael.”

  “The last time I talked to him he told me about the guy who built the castle in Indiana, and what we needed to do to protect ourselves from the infected.” Michael looked at Robbie. “If anybody else would have told me that stuff I wouldn’t have listened. It sounded crazy, but coming from Uncle Jim I knew I had to follow his directions without question.”

  Robbie nodded. “I’m glad you did. Thanks to your uncle, we had a much better idea about how we could save ourselves.”

  “Speaking of saving ourselves, there’s a lot more you all need to know.” Father O’Brien paused, “I’m not sure where to begin, so let me start where Jack says it all began: back in Afghanistan, with a general named Matthew Barnes.”

  An hour later the Canadians
sat in stunned silence. Father O’Brien’s revelations about the pandemic being part of a madman’s grand design to reinvent the world seemed incomprehensible. What had been terrible enough as a mindless viral threat now became even deadlier and more inherently evil. Michael was sure of one thing: with Barnes creating and controlling armies of the infected in the eastern U.S., any and all pockets of survivors in North America needed to rethink their survival strategies.

  “So why is Barnes so interested in Jack Smith?” Robbie wondered. “I know you said Jack was his driver in Afghanistan when some village had an outbreak, but, let’s face it, the guy who drives a general is still just a peon.”

  Carolyn squeezed Robbie’s hand. “Don’t forget the guy is crazy. We shouldn’t expect crazy people to act rationally.”

  Robbie pulled Carolyn closer and sighed. “Not even crazy geniuses?”

  Father O’Brien shook his head and smiled half-heartedly. “Maybe especially not crazy geniuses. I can’t really say for sure why Barnes seems obsessed with Jack, but it may just boil down to the man’s ego. He thinks that Jack and Carter undermined his authority—it’s probably especially insulting to him that peons, to use your word, Robbie, got the better of him all those years ago.”

  Bruce had listened quietly while Father O’Brien updated their new friends about the state of the world. “I just want to add one thing before I go relieve our peon on guard duty.” He stood up and stretched lazily before pulling on layers of cold-weather gear as he spoke. “I’m pretty much an old man, and I’ve been a loner most of my life, but now is not the time to isolate ourselves. Nobody is safe, and we’ll be easy pickings for Barnes and his zombies until we can come up with a force equal to his. I personally don’t know Jack Smith, and I doubt he’s half as impressive as his reputation around Middle Bass suggests, but he does have the right idea when it comes to banding together and fighting with everything you’ve got.” He was out the door before anyone had a chance to reply to his monologue.