At first, it didn’t seem to have much affect. The zombies dropped, quite a bit like people shot through various parts of their bodies, but more of the nasty fuckers just kept coming, stumbling over their fallen comrades in homicide - or so it seemed to Jonesy, whose mind whirled with the original question: where are they all coming from?
“Ground Team, 6-5-8-3. Over.” Ask and you shall be answered, Jonesy thought, although the quote meant from a source higher than the Coast Guard helicopter, which swung into view, off to their right - in the direction from which the latest horde had come.
“Go,” Jonesy said into his comm unit.
“Break in the fence,” said the voice from above - which in this case came from LT Scoggins, and not God. “Three hundred yards to your right, beyond that stand of trees.”
“Roger that,” Jonesy replied. “Thank you,” he added, then turned to Duke. “Skull Mobile,” he told the large Bosun Mate, who nodded, let off two more blasts from his shotgun, then ran off toward the pier, where his mechanical alter-ego was parked.
“And there’s a whole bunch out on the street, waiting to come in,” Scoggins’ voice added.
Jonesy turned to Pruden. “Anything large parked in that warehouse?” He asked, referring to the Facilities Maintenance Building.
Pruden thought for a moment, then replied: “Big ass forklift.”
“Go get it,” Jonesy ordered, then turned to Nailor. “Go with him.”
“Alright, boys,” Jonesy said to the remainder of their ad hoc battle group, as he dropped the spent magazine from his Thompson and inserted another. “Let’s rock.”
42
The Bridge
USCGC Sassafras
“Wish I could do something,” Samantha Gordon said, and knew, before the words left her mouth, there wasn’t anything she could do - about any of it. She’d spent so much time consumed by anger and jealousy and hatred for her cousin, Molly - almost to the point where she could have chucked away all those years of love and affection and support - and for what?
A guy.
Not just any guy, of course, so she supposed it excused some of her stupidity (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it). She’d hate to think all that negativity had been about just any guy. That would have been uber-stupid. No, the guy in question had been none other than Socrates Jones, who was now, once again, being the hero and risking his life for others. And there wasn’t a single thing she could do about it.
“Me too,” Molly said, holding Sam tight, giving her the love she’d almost thrown in the garbage.
“But there isn’t, is there?” She asked, and knew the answer to that one, too.
“Nope,” Molly said.
She couldn’t help that he was in love with her cousin. She couldn’t help that her cousin was in love with him - and who could blame her? She couldn’t change reality - no matter how much she wanted to. She certainly couldn’t help him fight the zombies.
Or could she...?
No. She couldn’t, and she knew it. The absurdity, the sheer stupidity of the question was answer enough. She was just a kid - a stupid, worthless, sixteen year-old girl, with no weapons, no armor, no training...
Wait a minute... Maybe there was something she could do, after all.
She pushed away from her cousin, extracted herself from the loving embrace she’d idiotically shunned for way too long, and looked into Molly’s concerned eyes.
“I’ve got this,” she said, and the concern turned to confusion, as her cousin tried to work out this latest personality shift from the stupid little lovesick girl.
“What...?” Molly asked.
“I’ve got this,” she said again. “I can answer the phone and make the announcements. You can go help him.”
“But...”
“Grab your armor and go help him,” Sam said. “You know you want to.” She felt suddenly free, galvanized, and finally able to rid herself of the bile that had been building and festering inside her since the night she found her cousin, with wet hair and no bra, doing the walk of shame, after making love to Jonesy.
“Go save his life,” she said. Molly nodded once, tried to lean in and kiss Sam on the forehead, then realized the absurdity of kissing while wearing a filter mask. Instead, she gave her one, last, crushing hug, that felt wonderful, then ran off to do battle.
43
The Wardroom
USCGC Polar Star
“She and Jones have been doing it all over the place, for who knows how long,” Peavey whined. “The little slut needs to be relieved, and as for Jones–“
But what - if anything - relevant (or even mildly intelligent) he might have thought about BMC/OPS Socrates Jones, was interrupted by John Gordon’s backhanded slap, that resounded through the room, and sent Peavey sprawling out of his chair. His head bounced against the thinly-carpeted deck, and he lay still.
“Nicely done!” Jim Barber said, slapping John on the back.
“Good show!” Harvey Walton added. “Good show!”
“Mister Gordon!” Commander Swedberg snapped, standing out of his chair.
John Gordon said nothing, clearly still too pissed off.
“What?” Jim challenged, in his defense. “If he hadn’t done it, I would have,” he added, then clarified: “But I’d have probably shot him.”
Captain Hall remained in his chair at the head of the table, his fingers steepled before him. After a moment, he calmly said, “I assume that was a long time coming.” He glanced at the prone form on the deck. Peavey still had not moved.
“He’s an idiot,” Barber said, and since this was abundantly clear to anyone with brains, he didn’t feel the need to elaborate.
Hall nodded. “And as to the specific allegation?”
“He’s still an idiot,” Barber repeated.
John looked sideways at the Captain, and said: “They’ve known each other since she was a teenager and he was my junior Third in Alaska.” He shrugged. “Whether or not they’re...” He let the sentence trail off, obviously unwilling to go there in terms of his own niece.
“Screwing,” Barber said, having no such compunction.
John stared at him for a fuck you moment, then continued. “I don’t know.” He shrugged again. “If they are, I’m not aware of it, and in any case, does it really matter?”
“There are regulations,” Hall replied.
“Of course there are,” John said. “But it seems to me, you’re the Commandant of the Coast Guard,” he added. “And there is no Senate oversight, because there is no Senate.” He let the idea percolate for a pregnant pause.
Jim picked up the thread. “So you can pretty much do whatever you want,” he said. “And sooner or later, we are going to need to start repopulating the species.”
He thought about it for a second, and it jolted him. This edict included his daughter, Stephanie. The sudden idea she might be included in the repopulation of the species profoundly disturbed him, so he scrambled for something to yank his mind away from it.
“And Peavey’s still an idiot,” he said.
The moron in question emitted a groan and began to stir. Hall looked from him, to John, to Jim, to Swedberg, and finally to Wheeler. He nodded, as if to himself, then said: “We’ll transfer Mister Peavey to Midway. Assign him some innocuous task.”
“Yes, sir,” Wheeler said, sitting forward in his chair.
Hall took a deep breath, then continued. “Chief Jones will be promoted to Warrant Officer.” Wheeler looked as if he might protest, but Hall forestalled him with a raised hand. “Cognizant as I am that Jones is needed in the field. We’ll need to...reassess...the standard billeting structure.” His gaze traveled the room, touching upon all its occupants, and landing at last upon Commander Swedberg. “It seems a number of things will be changing, XO.”
“Yes, sir,” Swedberg said.
Hot damn, Jim thought. Welcome to a brave new world.
44
Warehouse 14
Ford Island, Pearl Harbor,
HI
“The Puddle Pirates are flying again, Staff Sergeant,” Lance Corporal Eddie Lanier said, dropping the binoculars from his eyes and pointing toward Honolulu. Even with the binos, the helicopters were little more than orange dots, but they were there. They’d seen them yesterday, both when the twin birds had overflown Pearl, and when they’d buzzed around Honolulu, but that’s all the trapped Marines had done - seen them. They couldn’t communicate. No power. And they’d flown by so fast that any attempt at a visual signal would have been a wasted effort.
“Is that showing our fellow members of the Armed Forces the proper level of respect, Lance Corporal?” Staff Sergeant Lawrence McNaughton asked, dryly.
“But Staff Sergeant,” Lanier protested. “They’re just Coasties.”
“And you will be properly grateful when they come and rescue your sorry ass,” McNaughton replied. If they come, he thought, but did not say.
“When will that be?” Lanier asked.
“When they’re good and goddamned ready,” he answered, not willing to voice his own doubts. He pointed toward the distant city. “Those are civilians, not Marines, Lance Corporal,” he said. “There could be hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. And they need help more than we do.” He turned and walked away from the edge of the warehouse roof. He couldn’t walk far.
Warehouse 14 wasn’t really much of a warehouse. In fact, as he understood it, the building had been a small gymnasium, back on December 7th, 1941. The aged facade still carried a few machine gun bullet holes from the Jap Zeroes. A number of the buildings on Ford Island did. They were considered badges of honor, which, McNaughton supposed, was why the buildings hadn’t been torn down and replaced with newer facilities.
Now, however, it was re-purposed as a supply depot for FEMA to use when the infrequent Pacific hurricanes decided to visit the Islands, which happened maybe once a decade. Now, Warehouse 14 was Home Sweet Apocalyptic Home for the First Squad of Hotel Company, Third Combat Logistics Battalion, Third Marine Regiment .
They’d been detailed to Pearl on the day everything went to shit, to try and grab as many supplies as they could, and take them back to Kaneohe Bay. Technically, Pearl Harbor was a Navy Base, of course, and the Marines generally thought of Squids as the lackeys who gave them a ride when time came to do battle, but even so, an argument could be made that the supplies they’d been ordered to appropriate belonged to someone other than the USMC. He wouldn’t have made that argument, and neither would his superiors who’d given the order, but somebody else might, which was why they’d targeted the FEMA warehouse. And the way things went down, had they been able to accomplish their mission before the poor, infected bastards took over Ford Island, no one would have been any the wiser. Didn’t happen that way. When things went sideways, it happened so fast, it was all they could do to barricade themselves in and wait.
They’d been waiting for weeks.
He glanced back toward Honolulu as he picked his way through the maze of large ventilation fans, duct work, satellite dishes, and radio antennae taking up most of the roof where they’d set their lookout watch. He could just see one of the Coast Guard helos hovering above the distant skyline, and gave a decidedly un-military sigh.
Looked like they’d be waiting a while longer.
45
The Cabin
USCGC Polar Star
“You want us to do what?” LCDR Wheeler sat back heavily in the padded chair and stared at Captain Hall. This wasn’t the most politic question he’d ever asked during his career, and perhaps before the Pomona Virus, it might have gotten him in seriously deep Kimchi, but that was then. This was now, and what the Captain asked was just...insane.
They’d moved from the Wardroom to the Cabin after the meeting broke up. Hall had wanted a private word - which hadn’t exactly filled Wheeler with confidence - but what that word turned out to be was...
“You heard me, Commander,” Hall said, in a calm - if somewhat flat - voice. “We’re going to need the supplies,” he continued. “And before long, that need will become acute.”
“Yes, sir, but...” Wheeler stuttered his reply. “Pearl Harbor? Really?”
“Not the whole harbor,” Hall corrected. “Just Ford Island.”
“Sir...” Wheeler didn’t want to argue. Even before the Plague, arguing with a four-striper Captain hadn’t been very high on his list of wise career moves, but Hall wasn’t just a Captain. Not any more. He was the Commandant - at least until they found somebody higher in rank, which didn’t seem likely.
“Your crew managed to liberate Sand Island,” Hall said.
As if by a prearranged synchronicity of Hollywood proportions, a burst of gunfire sounded in the distance. Wheeler thumbed toward the land-side portholes. “We’re not liberated yet,” he said. And then he uttered what - on further reflection - was a truly moronic statement. “In point of fact, Ms. Gordon’s crew had the bulk of it done before I got here.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew what a mistake he’d made. And if he hadn’t already figured out his own stupidity, Hall’s answering smile would have done it for him.
“Exactly,” Hall replied. “So Ford Island shouldn’t be too big of a problem.”
“Sir,” Wheeler shook his head, slowly at first, to negate what his superior office was suggesting, then (almost) violently, as if to clear the suicidal idea right out of his skull. “Even with the addition of the crew from the Star, Ford Island will be a whole different level of crazy.” He drew in a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves and silence the claxon alarm bells clanging inside his own brain. “Sand Island only had a couple hundred people on it, and ,maybe a thousand or so who’d made their way across the bridge, before Jones and his team brought it down. Ford Island had a couple thousand, and who knows how many have infiltrated across its bridge, which is still standing.”
“Nevertheless,” Hall countered. “We’re going to do it. Get with Chief Jones - excuse me, Chief Warrant Officer Jones - as soon as he’s free...” Wheeler stared toward the portholes, through which the distant gunfire could still be heard. The shock of this order had his mind flat-lining.
When he’s free, Wheeler thought. Holy Christ in a sidecar.
“...and have him conduct a waterline reconnaissance.”
What else could Wheeler say? “Yes, sir.”
46
The Fence Line
ISC Sand Island, HI
“Where the fuck is Pruden?” Jonesy shouted to no one in particular - mainly because neither Grimes, nor Newby had any better idea than he did.
They’d managed, through sheer firepower, to push the zombies back toward the break in the fence, but his Thompson was running through .45 ACP like crap through a goose, and their supply of that particular caliber had dwindled. So he’d shifted to his twin pistols in their thigh holsters, but those fired .45 rounds, as well, although at a slower rate. There were so many of the infected assholes, that his magazines were emptying quicker than the zombie horde was dying. Now he was down to one of his shoulder-holstered nine millimeters - the other having gone to Grimes, who’d only started with two spare mags. Soon, it’d be down to his kukri-machetes. That would be bad.
A roar sounded off to his right, as the Skull Mobile came bouncing across the grounds. He glanced that way, saw what it was (with relief) then did a double-take, because Duke wasn’t alone in the cab of his penis-compensating big-ass truck. Molly sat next to him.
Or, rather, she bounced next to him, clearly trying not to crack her helmeted head against the truck’s roof, as it careened over hill and dale and the occasional zombie. It came to a sudden, suspension-compressing stop. The big bosun mate launched himself out of his seat and scrambled into the back, thrusting his head through the moon roof and unlimbering the MG 240, which he cocked, then - giving what was either his war cry, or the scream of someone on the verge of a psychotic episode (or both) - he opened fire at the crowd of demented former-humans.
Molly came flying out of the passenger side, stumbled
, as if the speed run from the pier had sent her equilibrium in search of more sedate accommodations, caught herself before face-planting, then she, too, was unlimbering her M-4 and joining the cavalcade of chaos. Jonesy heaved an inward sigh of relief (being too busy for any outward expression) and resumed firing at the homicidal mob.
This was good. This was great. But it begged the question: Where the fuck was Pruden?
47
USS Paul Hamilton
Palmyra Atoll
“You want me to do what?” Morris Minooka asked, incredulous - though his incredulity may or may not have been sheer artifice. He had to know Blackjack Charlie would ask something like what he’d just asked. Okay...He hadn’t asked - he’d ordered, but the end result remained the same.
Intellectually, Morris expected the question. Why else would the man have wanted access to the missiles if he didn’t intend on using one or two of them? From that perspective, it made sense. But...damn!
“Can you do it?” The pirate asked.
“From here?” Morris asked. “On this platform?” He added, pointing to the deck of the Hamilton. Aside from the incredulity, he was suffering from exhaustion, and the natural brain-dead-ed-ness that came with it.
They’d been working, virtually non-stop, for the last eighteen hours, removing the two Phalanx, Close-in Weapons Systems, and the MK-45 Mod 1, five inch deck gun. It was not going swiftly. For one thing, the position of the ship, aground on the outer coral shoal of the atoll, made it extremely hazardous for another ship to come alongside and use its crane for the offload. They’d first had to remove one of the cranes from the Corrigan Cargo III, and attach it to a makeshift barge the pirates who’d remained on the atoll had been building as the convoy made its slow way toward Palmyra. The transfer had taken seemingly forever.
The second thing was that, while. the weapons systems had been designed to be removed (to facilitate upgrades), the Navy hadn’t exactly made it easy, and - as an extra added bonus - had classified the instructions for doing so, Top Secret, which meant they were locked inside a safe. He had the combination to that safe, having needed access as a part of his former job, but the safe, itself, was inside a combination-locked compartment, for which they did not have the combination. And if all that weren’t enough, there was the complex, technical nature of the weapons - particularly the Phalanx.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 4): Zombies of Infamy Page 8
