Z Plan (Book 2): Red Tides

by Lerma, Mikhail

  Russo didn’t have a family anymore. His wife and son had become infected when this whole thing kicked off, another memory he forced out of his thoughts. Sometimes he pretended they were at home waiting for him, and that this was just one of his long trips. He could fool himself most of the time, but some days were harder than others.

  The vessel slowed, and the men began sorting through the debris and pulling smaller things aboard. The larger objects would have to remain in the water. If the shipping containers floated face up they’d be able to open them and drop down, but anything of worth would have sunk to the bottom. The main reason they were out here was to break up the monotony of the days. The flotilla already had a surplus of supplies.

  “Take the helm,” the captain ordered his first mate.

  “Aye,” he answered.

  Captain Russo walked out onto the deck and watched the crew pull in the first of the debris.

  “Anything good so far?” Russo asked his men.

  The men shook their heads. They’d rather be back at the flotilla. They knew what awaited them on Moretti’s ship and were excited to get back. They hated when Russo planned these little outings; as if they were going to find somewhere the infection hadn’t destroyed.

  “Keep looking,” Russo said.

  The men searched the water as the vessel circled the remains of the cargo ship. After a few hours of fruitless searching, Russo gave the order.

  “Alright, gentlemen. Plot a course back home,”

  “Aye,” De Luca said excitedly.

  The sun was beginning to set as the ship came about. Russo looked back at the debris scattered all around. A lot of it had drifted to the east, but if they hadn’t found anything yet, they weren’t likely to. The Bella Donna lurched forward as the first mate throttled her up for the journey home. Russo grabbed the railing to avoid slipping on the wet deck.

  “Steady!” he yelled at De Luca.

  “Sorry, sir,” the first mate replied.

  Russo turned his gaze to the east as the ship broke through the water. The sea was calm, but Russo predicted a storm either tomorrow or the next day. He could feel it. As the crew moved toward the cabin, something caught Russo’s eye. It was just a dot on the horizon, and barely visible in the failing sunlight. He wondered if it could be a part of the ship. For a moment he was going to dismiss it, but his gut demanded he go back. He couldn’t ignore the feeling.

  “Come about!” he ordered.

  De Luca was a disciplined man and didn’t question the Skipper’s orders. As he turned the Bella Donna around, the other crewmembers returned to the deck to object. Russo had anticipated as much and raised his hand to stop them from speaking.

  “Point the bow at that!” he said to his first mate gesturing to the spec on the eastern horizon, “Take note of the compass heading! We won’t be able to see it for very long!”

  “Aye!” De Luca responded.

  The ship banked hard right toward its new heading. The crewmen groaned at the change in direction but returned to their card game in the cabin. Russo turned on the search light on the bow of the ship. He pointed it toward the floating object. If it was part of the mercantile vessel, they didn’t want to hit it. After a few minutes, Russo gave the order to slow down. The wind was picking up out of the east. The storm may very well strike tonight, Russo thought, and had turned to give another order when he heard someone shout. Or had it been the wind? He paused to listen again.

  “Help! We’re over here!” the voice shouted.

  “What is that?” De Luca asked.

  “I don’t know,” Russo answered.

  Whoever was shouting wasn’t doing it in Italian.

  More shouting erupted—this time in Arabic.

  “C’E qualcuno la’ fuori?” Russo shouted.

  “Over here!” someone shouted out of the darkness.

  Russo panned the light back and forth. There, on a piece of debris, stood two men, one white and the other black. The white one appeared to be wearing tan fatigues of some kind, and the black man wore a brown shirt and dark green pants. The men frantically waved their arms.

  “Get over there! We’re bringing them aboard” Russo ordered in Italian.

  “Aye!” De Luca replied.

  With all the ship’s lights ablaze, they managed to pull them both aboard the Bella Donna, revealing one of them to be an American soldier and the other an African man. Not knowing their intentions, the crewmen armed themselves with net knives and meat hooks.

  “Thank you,” Cale said.

  “Americano?” Russo questioned.

  “Uh, yeah. Si,” Cale replied, “English?”

  Russo and De Luca exchanged glances. Neither of them spoke English, but one of the other crew members might.

  “Aldo,” Russo called on one of his men, “si parla inglese. Cosa sta dicendo?”

  Aldo, armed with a meat hook, stepped toward the two men, taking a defensive stance. Cale didn’t like the look of things; he pulled out the revolver and pointed it at the man.

  “Hold it right there, chief,” Cale said. He wasn’t sure if it would fire after being submerged, but what was important was the message he wanted to send, and it was “Don’t fuck with me.” The message was received loud and clear, and the men dropped their weapons.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Aldo said raising his hands and dropping his weapon.

  “Keep your hands up where I can see them,” Cale ordered panning the firearm back and forth between the men.

  “We came to help you,” Aldo spoke softly; “This is just a misunderstanding.”

  Naeem placed his hand on Cale’s shoulder, “It’s alright I think,” he said quietly, as he softened his own stance.

  Cale slowly lowered the weapon watching each man as he did so. Russo spoke to Aldo, talking him through the scenario.

  “Let’s start over,” Aldo suggested, “This is Captain Russo,” he said gesturing to the skipper, “and you’re aboard the Bella Donna.”

  The American returned his weapon to the back of his pants, “My name is Cale.”

  “I am Naeem,” the African followed as he sheathed his machete.

  “What brings you out here?” Russo asked via Aldo.

  Cale thought for a moment before answering, “I just want to go home,”

  “Home, as in America?” Aldo asked.

  “Yes,” Cale replied.

  “We can’t take you that far, but we can take you back to our community,” Aldo explained, “What about you?” he asked Naeem.

  “I just want a place to go. To be free,” Naeem answered.

  Aldo again relayed the messages back to Russo. Russo and De Luca exchanged words in their native tongue.

  “Were you two aboard the ship?” Aldo asked.

  “We were part of a scavenging crew, but there were infected onboard.” Cale answered.

  “And you sank it?” Aldo questioned.

  “No, our...our captors gave us thirty minutes, and then sank it while we were still aboard,” Naeem answered.

  “Captors?” Aldo responded.

  “It’s a long story,” Cale offered.

  The captain extended a warm welcome as Aldo spoke, “Why don’t we get inside? You two must be starving.”

  Neither man refused; they’d been adrift all day.

  “De Luca, plot a course for the flotilla. You have the helm, I’m going to see to our guests,” Russo ordered.

  “Aye, Captain,” De Luca answered.

  The Bella Donna was headed for home, and save for De Luca, the entire crew went below deck. The crewmen continued their card game at one of the tables, while Russo, Aldo, Naeem, and Cale, sat at another, and the pair recounted their tales to the captain.

  “You’ve come a long way,” Aldo said, looking at the two men.

  Captain Russo appeared to be equally impressed. Cale thought about telling them the entire story, but didn’t reveal the details of Zach’s demise, or the fact that he’d found two survivors in Tel-Aviv. Cale remembered the terri
fied look on Adam’s face as he was pulled into the darkness, then of Matthew’s head recoiling to the side as he shot himself. Maybe he didn’t deserve to get home. Maybe he should have died like everyone else. His thoughts again shifted to his own two brothers, and then most importantly to his wife and daughter. He hoped they were still alive...still safe.

  Cale came back to the conversation as Aldo was explaining the story of their community. It was composed of fleeing vessels tied together and connected via wooden walkways. It wasn’t, of course, a traditional flotilla, but a motley collection of vessels of various sizes. There was nothing military about them; all the ships were civilian. This worried Cale, knowing that there were people like what was left of the Egyptian Navy out there.

  “You guys haven’t encountered any problems?” Cale interrupted.

  Aldo looked confused, “What kind of problems?”

  “Infected ships joining your flotilla? Or people who don’t exactly play well with others?” Cale explained.

  “No, nothing like that,” Aldo laughed.

  Cale couldn’t believe he was laughing about it. This was a valid threat, and nothing to joke about. He wondered if maybe he were overreacting. That had to be it, he was just being hyper vigilant. Naeem lived in the moment, untroubled by any of it. If the Italians were certain they had the safety and security to live as they did, then he was too. If something did go wrong, Naeem had the skills to deal with it. In his life he’d learned to enjoy what he could before it was gone, another facet of his brutal upbringing.

  The men continued to discuss their destination, explaining what it had to offer when they got there. Cale was thrilled to hear that they had plenty of supplies.

  “Would I be able to get some supplies and a boat?” Cale asked eagerly.

  Aldo turned to Russo and translated. The two of them talked back and forth for a moment, and then Russo gave what looked like an optimistic answer.

  “We should be able to accommodate you. Only there isn’t a ship that could get you all the way home. There’s Moretti’s yacht, but he won’t part with it,” Aldo explained.

  “Can I ask where we are? I’ve had no idea since Tel-Aviv,” Cale asked.

  “The flotilla is about forty miles south of the coast of France,” Aldo said.

  “France?” Cale said surprised, “You’re kidding me.”

  He couldn’t believe how far he’d come. Well it wasn’t really his doing, but he was amazed. He’d felt like he was going in circles in the sub, maybe even back tracking, but to be all the way to France made him feel better. He was that much closer to home.

  “Yes, France,” Aldo said, “With the ships we have we could get you that far.”

  Cale wasn’t sure how to answer. Being on land meant the undead. He wondered if he could go back to fortifying buildings, and sneaking around droves of the creatures wandering about, looking for him. Then again, though the level of risk was higher, it did mean he would be in control of his own life, in charge. Even though he’d come this far, he still felt somehow like he’d been backtracking, moving further from the end of his journey.

  “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Cale said to the men.

  Their attention switched to Naeem’s plans, whether he’d join the community or want to be dropped off on shore too. It was already clear he didn’t have any plans to go with Cale. He had his own road to travel. They were both fine with their paths crossing and, though it was very unlikely, neither would mind if it happened again.

  “I’m undecided right now,” Naeem stated.

  Naeem, having lived a life of perpetual forced violence, wasn’t sure if he even could settle down, not even in a community floating on the sea. He didn’t want to turn down the offer outright. He would wait and feel out his place among them. Ultimately, he planned on leaving. He could now go anywhere he wanted. The apocalypse had handed him a blank slate. No one would ever have to know what he’d done or where he’d been.

  As the crew played cards, and the captain, accompanied by Aldo, spoke with the men they’d saved, De Luca looked out over the darkness. On their northwest heading they’d reach the flotilla in another hour. Perfect timing too; the wind had changed direction and the sea was getting choppy. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the horizon behind them.

  “Russo was right,” De Luca mumbled to himself. “There’s a storm coming.”

  18.

  Taking Stock

  Admiral Selim stood on the command deck watching over his men. The sub rocked gently with the underwater currents. Lights revealed the crewmen’s faces, each hard at work at his station. The man monitoring the radar turned to the Admiral.

  “Sir, the ship is moving away,” he reported.

  “Should we intercept it sir?” the helmsmen asked.

  Admiral Selim pondered for a moment before answering. They were holding position, waiting for Intel on another potential scavenging target. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone would come to comb the debris.

  “No. We’ll follow it back to its port of origin,” Selim answered.

  They needed to replace the nine men they’d lost when they sunk the mercantile vessel, and from the sound of the radio transmissions, the infection level had been too high on board, and nine men weren’t worth sending more men into the fray. One thing that Selim excelled at was cutting his losses. He didn’t like sacrificing people, but had trained himself to be harshly realistic about it. It made him feel better knowing that the majority of men lost weren’t part of his crew. When it came down to it, it was just math. If he lost personnel, he simply replaced them. Scavenging teams and their handlers were a revolving commodity, constantly needing replacement. They were, however, more difficult to obtain than actual supplies, but they’d have to continue if they wanted to survive.

  “Go silent on radio transmissions,” Selim ordered, “I don’t want them to know they’re being watched.”

  “Yes sir,” the man sitting at the radio answered.

  Admiral Selim would call in the rest of the fleet when they could see what they were dealing with. They were the strongest force in the Mediterranean, but it was still good to be cautious. The vessel rocked hard, and Selim looked at the man on the radar.

  “A storm, sir,” he informed his commander.

  “Summon me when we stop,” Selim said. “I’ll be in my quarters.”

  “Yes sir,” another man answered.

  19.

  Floating Party

  The Bella Donna slowed as De Luca pulled her up to another boat. The vessel, the Marée Rouge, served as a dock for the Bella Donna. They’d arrived at the flotilla, and Cale and Naeem followed the crew on deck to the sound of music and laughter. The air was cool but not cold. The storm was still a considerable distance behind them. Cale marveled at the community. Christmas lights had been hung along the railings of some of the boats, and the atmosphere was festive, something Cale hadn’t experienced in a long time. These people lived as if nothing had changed in the world.

  “Looks like Moretti’s throwing another bash,” De Luca said to the skipper.

  “Appears that way,” Russo said with an air of disgust.

  Every night was a party to him, and every morning those involved in the festivities were hung-over or passed out. Those who partook in his drug binges were another thing. They’d go without sleep for days. Occasionally Russo would find one who had wandered onto his boat, and was hiding in some nook. He would complain to Moretti, but what was the point?

  “Sit tight and prepare for the storm,” Russo ordered De Luca.

  “Aye,” De Luca answered, before barking orders to the rest of the men.

  The crew was annoyed, knowing they were going to miss out on the party.

  “Don’t give me any lip; every night is a party!” De Luca shouted at them.

  Aldo and Russo led Cale and Naeem toward the heart of the flotilla. They moved from boat to boat, watching the communities’ inhabitants engaging in the revelry. Many had drinks in their
hands, and some didn’t stop making out long enough to even look at the newcomers. Many of the women went topless despite the chilly air, and some of the men walked around naked. What was this place? If you were to ask Russo, a devout Catholic, he’d say it was either Sodom or Gomorrah. Aldo would have told you it was Paradise. Moretti himself called it Heaven.

  As they crossed the small hand-crafted walkway onto what the locals called the Porte du Ciel, a girl smiled at Cale and Naeem. At one time she may have been very beautiful, but excessive drug use had stolen her looks.

  “Bonjour,” she giggled as they passed.

  Cale gave a quick smile and nodded. Naeem ignored her. Aldo, on the other hand, became distracted by her bare breasts. Her name was Fae, and he’d had her many times during these parties. He’d never actually spoken to her, however, mostly because she spoke French, which he didn’t speak.

  Snapping back to the task at hand, Aldo said, “Here it is, gentlemen.” He announced, “Heaven.”

  ‘Heaven’ was the name of the boat. They were aboard Moretti’s yacht.

  “Ciao il mio amici!” a man on the upper deck shouted down to them. He hovered over a grill and had a woman on each arm. His blue silk shirt was open, exposing a chiseled chest. On the left side, the word ‘Amore’ was tattooed in elegant script.

  “Russo, you old dog,” he started, “who have you brought me today?”

  “Un Americano e un Africano,” Russo answered.