Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 4): Zombies of Infamy

by Thomson, Jeff

  “Dead body,” Marc explained. “The smell makes him sneeze.”

  “And it makes me puke,” Wendy said.

  “Whoever it is inside there has been closed in and rotting, probably with no ventilation,” Marc said. “It’s pretty nasty, so we avoid those apartments.” He nudged the dog toward the next door in line. Mac sniffed at it, wagged his tail, and gave them his toothy grin.

  “We have a winner,” Wendy said, as Marc walked up to it, and inserted his two-box gadget. Jonesy heard the same zzzt, and click of the releasing lock, and Marc opened the door, slowly. Their dog’s nose may not have failed them, yet, but they weren’t taking any chances.

  “Looks empty,” Marc said, then entered the apartment beyond.

  The layout was similar to theirs (at least as far as Jonesy could tell from the meager light provided by his helmet flash) with the obligatory furniture, home electronics (cold and blank and dead, though they were), and the dark outline of photos or paintings upon the walls. And again, it looked comfortable, lived in, and totally incongruous in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

  “Spoiled food,” Wendy said, her nose crinkling in disgust. Jonesy, of course, couldn’t smell it, covered as his face was by the gas mask he wore, but he wondered how the married couple could. If they could deal with the underlying stench of rot coming from all around them, in the wreckage of Honolulu, their olfactory senses should have been long gone, but apparently not.

  Marc moved into the kitchen, opened the nearest cabinet, and started removing the canned goods he found there, but then he stopped, turned to Jonesy, and gave a sheepish grin. “Guess we won’t be needing these, now.”

  Now that we’ve been rescued. Jonesy’s brain finished the sentence. “Guess not,” he said aloud. “So this is what you guys have been doing?”

  “Pretty much,” Wendy answered.

  “And you haven’t been sharing with your neighbors?”

  “Those assholes,” Wendy snorted.

  “We tried,” Marc said. “We asked a few of them if they’d like to join us in exploring the building, but we got no takers.”

  “And if the lazy fuckers didn’t want to share the risk,” Wendy said. “We didn’t see the need to share the bounty.”

  The sheepish grin returned to Marc’s face. “I gave them some.”

  “Yes, you did,” Wendy snarled, making a half-hearted attempt to backhand him, which he easily avoided.

  Marc shrugged. “Couldn’t let them starve.”

  “Wimp,” Wendy replied.

  “I’m amazed they didn’t try to eat Mac,” Jonesy said, scratching the dog’s ears again.

  A look of vicious, feral, anger crossed Wendy’s face. Jonesy’s balls reacted. Marc motioned toward her with his thumb. “They were too afraid of my wife.”

  “Damn right they were,” she replied, the darkness of her expression turning to pride. “Fuckers.”

  Jonesy shook his head and chuckled, marveling at the pair. Takes all kinds, he thought. Their kind, obviously, seemed well-suited to the current circumstances.

  He rifled through a couple cabinets, opening them at random, finding what he expected: canned goods, some pots and pans, dishware, and...

  “What’s this?” He asked, as he discovered the liquor cabinet.

  “Oh yeah,” Marc said. “Most places have plenty of booze.” He shrugged. “It’s Hawaii, bra.”

  “Well, shit,” Jonesy said, smiling and relaxing for the first time in what felt like hours. “This is contraband,” he observed. “And it will need to be confiscated.”

  11

  M/V Point of Order

  06.598479N 162.63147W

  “If they don’t do exactly, precisely what you tell them,” Blackjack Charlie Carter was saying into the radio, on the Bridge of the former luxury yacht of the man who claimed to be the new President of the United States, “then beat the shit out of them.” Charlie’s eyes met those of Felix Hoffman. He scowled dismissively, then continued his broadcast. “If you have to, kill one of them.”

  The radio conversation had been going on between Carter, on the yacht, and either Davis McGee, or Dirk Parker, on the freighter, pretty much since Goddard finished his speech to The Troops. Felix had heard it all, and it disturbed him.

  He’d never been an angel, never exactly cared where the line between legal and illegal was drawn, but he’d also never been what he found himself surrounded by now. He’d never been a thug.

  Blackjack and all his minions were thugs, at best, and sociopathic killers, at worst, and Felix was one of them. He couldn’t deny it, couldn’t separate himself from their actions, couldn’t even act as if his own hands were clean. It sickened him.

  He’d always been able to do that, before Soledad - to keep himself distant from the drug dealers who distributed the Ecstacy he developed in his lab. It may have all been so much rationalization, but he’d always considered himself to be above his fellow chemists, who lowered their standards enough to cook meth. That shit was bad. That shit was evil, and what it did to its users was nothing short of a crime against humanity. Both methamphetamine and crack cocaine were close enough to being instantly addicting the difference hardly seemed worth mentioning. They destroyed the users; ate them up, and spit them out to such a degree that before and after photographs of the junkies looked like two completely different people: missing teeth, open sores on skin that seemed to age at twice the normal rate. And what it did to women...

  Ecstacy, on the other hand, was a party favor, like canapes or after dinner liqueur. Methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA), acted on the serotonin and dopamine neurotransmitters, leaving the user with feelings of euphoria, empathy, and increased sexual desire. How could those be wrong? Or, at least, that’s what he’d been telling himself since the first time he cooked up a batch in his parent’s garage and gave it to his friend, Izzy Dorfman, to sell at their high school. They made a lot of money, and they became extremely popular.

  Their business grew at a reasonable pace, at first remaining within their own insulated world, but eventually branching out into the neighborhood and beyond. One thing led to another, and in less than a year after graduation (where he was class valedictorian, no less), they’d grown large enough to attract the attention of certain rather nefarious individuals who’d told them they would either cook for them, or spend the rest of eternity in the local landfill. The choice had been obvious, and the transition had been simple.

  Unfortunately, Izzy got a bit carried away with his new status as a cog in the wheel of Organized Crime. He did some things he shouldn’t, saw some things he shouldn’t, and told some people he shouldn’t. Then he disappeared. One day he was there, the next he was gone. Felix had taken it in stride, because what else could he have done? Complaining would have been the surest way to reunite with his school chum - at the Walnut Creek Landfill.

  So he kept his mouth shut, and kept churning out the product that all the cool kids wanted, just as he’d been doing in high school. The lab grew and grew to satisfy all the demand, until at last, it was the largest in the Bay Area, then the largest in California, and then the largest in the country. He’d known they were getting too big, known they were just asking for the cops to take notice and bring the hammer down, but the money was so damned good, and, in the end, what harm were they doing? People wanted the product he produced. They enjoyed its effects. They had great fun and great sex. Who was he hurting?

  The jury decided he was hurting the people of the Great State of California, and so he wound up in Soledad, where he met Charlie, and where the zombie apocalypse created an opportunity that Felix did not hesitate to take. He didn’t plan it this way, never had the childish desire to be a pirate, and certainly never thought he’d be taking part in rape and torture and murder, but here he was, and here he would stay.

  What other choice did he have?

  “What are you looking at?” Blackjack Charlie Carter snapped, glaring at him with those cold, black eyes.

  “Noth
ing, Charlie,” Felix replied.

  12

  Mess Hall

  ISC Sand Island, HI

  I laugh so I don’t start screaming. That’s what Chief Jones had said. And Lydia understood it - intellectually, perhaps even viscerally - but as she made her way through the once-trimmed and manicured grounds of Integrated Support Command, Honolulu, she wondered if she’d ever be able to use it for herself.

  She walked across the twilight-lit base alone. Well, not quite alone. Off in the near distance, she saw two men - who may or may not be Petty Officer Greg Riley, and Seaman Pat Querec (couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like them) walking slowly toward the ball field. They were rigged up, as if for war, and from what she could tell, they weren’t too happy about it. She waved. They waved back, just three people strolling through an apocalypse.

  She was headed toward the Mess Hall, where the refugees were gathered - at least those who weren’t in need of medical attention at the Clinic. She didn’t envy those people. Not just because they were sick or injured, on top of having just been rescued after weeks trapped atop a building, surrounded by the devastation of apocalypse. As if to add insult to that injury, they’d have to be treated by Professor Christopher Floyd.

  She hadn’t known him long - had, in fact, only talked to him twice, since joining the Sass crew, but that had been enough. Her mother would have called him disagreeable. He was an asshole (pardon her French), and she didn’t think anybody liked him. Ordinarily, she might have taken pity on him, and at least tried to be friendly, if not to outright befriend him, as she’d done with some of the crew on the Star, but the man was the most un-welcoming jerk she’d ever encountered.

  That was neither here, nor there. What was there - everywhere - were signs of the base’s recent inhabitants. The bodies had been removed (thank God), at least those in view of the main thoroughfare down which she walked, but the remnants of their presence had not. The splotches of rusty brown dried blood, here, there, and everywhere, reminded her of road kill - which she supposed they were. The crazy truck, driven by the crazier Bosun Mate, Duke Peterson, had splattered them hither and yon, and she’d had to divert from her path more than once to avoid stepping in them.

  That alone was enough to make her scream, and there wasn’t a single thing funny about it. So how was she supposed to laugh? How did the Chief make himself laugh at this most un-funny situation? She didn’t know, but she’d have to come up with an answer, pretty quick, because her steps were taking her ever-closer to her destination.

  She could see it now: Hi, my name is Lydia, and I’m here to get your personal information, to help us process you and get you settled. Excuse me a moment while freak the fuck out.

  Oh yeah. That would go well.

  There’s poor Lydia, losing it again, her new crew would say, shaking their heads in disgust.

  Give yourself a really good orgasm. Then get on with it.

  Why, oh why did that frightening nugget keep popping into her head?

  As if to answer the question, none other than Tara McBride stepped through the front entrance to the Mess Hall and beckoned for her. “Come on, slow poke,” she said. “Everybody’s waiting for you.”

  She needed Tara, right now, about as much as she needed a swift kick to the head.

  Right now? As if to infer there would be moments when she needed her? Or wanted her? Or...?

  Run away! Run away!

  But she couldn’t. She had a job to do.

  “I’m coming,” she replied, immediately wishing she hadn’t used one of those words. Focus, Lydia. Focus.

  Breathing deep, she steeled herself, plastered the most plastic of smiles upon her face (her mother would have been so proud), and quickened her pace. She had work to do.

  13

  First Class Berthing

  USCGC Sassafras

  “...Now, Reveille, Reveille, Reveille, Up, Up all hands. All hands heave out and trice up. Now zero-five-hundred, Reveille...” The voice of BM1/DECK Duke Peterson boomed over the 1-MC, shattering the exquisite dream Harold had been having about Keesha Robinson, the first girl who’d let him go all the way. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It was...

  Five o’clock in the fucking morning? His sleep-addled brain thought, as it tried to process this latest assault upon his person. They hadn’t held Reveille (the indecent act of waking everybody up all at once) since before they got to Midway. That was weeks ago!

  And yeah, okay, before Midway, before the bug-out from Honolulu, before Pomona, Reveille had been a daily event - at lease during the week, and occasionally on Saturdays, if they were underway. Never on Sundays though. Was this Sunday? He had no idea. Besides, he was injured! He was on bed rest! He wasn’t to be disturbed! He...

  ...had his train of thought derailed by the sudden bursting of BM1/DECK Duke Peterson through his stateroom door.

  “Get your ass up Harold!” the burley Bosun Mate said, seeming far too gleeful about his assigned task.

  “What the fuck?” he said, blinking the tears out of his eyes as Duke rudely turned on the lights. “I mean, seriously...What the fuck?”

  “Time to get up, you skating bastard,” came the reply. “Do you need a diagram?”

  “But I’m on bed rest!” Harold protested.

  “Not today,” Duke said, yanking the covers off Harold’s battered body. “Today, you are to put on full battle rig, and proceed to the Buoy Deck, where you will man the rail and welcome the Polar Star to Honolulu.”

  14

  USCGC Polar Star

  10 NM off Honolulu

  “ETA to the Sea Buoy, zero five forty-five,” BM1/OPS Jeff Babbett said, tossing his pencil onto the chart table. He’d gotten used to doing this navigation stuff by hand again, instead of pushing buttons on the computer chart, since GPS was no longer reliable.

  He’d been of two minds about the transition from paper to computer. On the one hand, computers break, or could become unreliable, thanks to the garbage-in/garbage-out principle, and it somehow didn’t seem right. Too sterile, compared to paper charts, and with paper, if your pencil broke, all you had to do was sharpen it. On the other hand, computer charts, combined with the wonders of WiFi, meant you didn’t have to go blind making chart corrections, and the charts themselves could be stored in the tiny box where the hard drive lived, whereas paper charts required constant correction and (considering the Star traveled around the globe) needed multiple cabinets for storage.

  Naturally, since Babbett worked for that crusty bastard, Master Chief Wolf, they stored the paper charts anyway, and kept them updated, so the entire point was moot. Still, it felt kinda good to do things the old way.

  “We’re going to take station here, then,” LCDR Stubbelfield said, easing the throttle controls back. “And wait till full sunrise.”

  “Roger that,” Babbett replied. It made sense. Entering port in a ship this large and unwieldy, was a risky proposition to begin with. So risky, in fact, that they almost always used tugs. They could have done it without them - wouldn’t be the first time - but to try it in the dark, in the harbor of a city ravaged by a zombie apocalypse, would have been foolhardy, in the extreme.

  On the other hand, because it was dark (relatively), and because the power had been out in Honolulu for who knew how long, they couldn’t see the wreckage. He glanced out the bridge door toward the east, where the lighter purple of morning twilight was beginning to show. They wouldn’t have that mercy for much longer.

  “Pipe Officer’s Call,” Stubbelfield said, referring to the muster of the entire crew. “Get everybody to the Flight Deck.”

  “Roger that,” Babbett replied. Then he took a deep breath and added, with some trepidation: “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  15

  Inside the Building

  Honolulu, HI

  “What the fuck?” Jonesy shouted, leaping up. In the red/gold glow of sunrise from the sliding glass door, he saw two things that had him positively flummoxed. The first,
was that he appeared to be in somebody’s livingroom. The second, was that a large chocolate lab was backpedaling away from him, in annoyed indignation. What the fuck? He repeated, but only to himself, this time.

  Slowly, painfully, the light of understanding reached his brain: a wet, dog’s nose. That’s what he’d felt. That’s what had woken him. His tensed body relaxed.

  Then it pinged like a piano string, as a door to his right flew open, and Wendy appeared, bleary-eyed, and rubbing her long, bed-tousled, salt and pepper hair.

  “What?” she mumbled.

  “Mac said good morning,” Jonesy replied, his sphincter unclenching, as if that would explain everything - or anything.

  “Oh,” she said. “Okay.” She entered the livingroom, rubbing her forehead. “I feel like a sack-full of smashed assholes.”

  On the list of absurdities, which Jonesy kept stored inside the dark recesses of his brain, Wendy’s statement reached Number One, with a bullet. He did the only thing he could do, and burst out laughing. It made his head hurt.

  Now, why would that be? Ah, yes, he remembered. The tequila...

  He’d known he shouldn’t do it, known he shouldn’t drink anything alcoholic while he was essentially on duty. Forget that he was relaxing in the livingroom of a pair of survivors, who had welcomed him into their home. Forget that they were in a celebratory mood, being, as they were, on the cusp of being rescued, after so many weeks in the wreckage of Honolulu. Forget that, after so many of those weeks spent, himself, so close to the edge of immanent death, that he’d more or less made friends with it. He still shouldn’t have had the tequila.

  Just have one, he’d told himself last night, as if that ever worked, in the history of alcohol. He’d had three - no, four. It made his head hurt.

  “I don’t suppose you guys scrounged any coffee?” He asked, with diminished expectations.