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

by Thomson, Jeff

  When Pruden reached the break in the fence, he slewed the machine sideways, into a sickening skid upon the blood-soaked lawn. It slammed against the chain links, and for one, long, frightening moment, it seemed as if the forklift might actually keep going, through the fence, making the gap just that much bigger, and letting even more of the virus-crazed zombies onto the base. But then it stopped, its engine died, and Pruden was leaping off, away from the clutching arms of the now-impeded...what was the word?

  “Assholes!” Scott shouted, stumbling to his knees as he landed. Whether he meant the zombies behind him, or the Coasties in front was not immediately clear. What was clear was the fact the zombie roadblock only partially covered the break in the fence. The forklift wasn’t quite tall enough to keep the horde from climbing over it and gaining access to the tasty humans.

  “Get back,” Duke yelled, took aim at the large propane tank upon the forklift’s lead-weighted rear deck, and opened up with the machine gun. A plume of bright, white smoke shot out of the pressurized cannister. Impressive, to be sure, but not really solving the problem. Another couple rounds achieved the desired result, as the tank exploded in a ball of fire, engulfing the climbing bodies in seconds.

  Don’t say it, Lydia thought, looking at the others, who were standing in a loose group about twenty feet from the burning machine. Don’t you dare say it.

  “Screaming Alpha!” Nailor yelled, raising his arms in triumph. The others gave shouts of what might have been glee and might have been relief - or both, in equal measure. Chief Jones looked at her, his mask-covered face showing no expression, but his eyes somehow still saying Sorry... His shrug completed the gesture.

  They just had to go there, didn’t they...?

  He turned to the rest of the combatants, pointed at Nailor, and said: “Now get me something to wall off that gap.”

  52

  The Medical Clinic

  Midway Atoll

  “Yes,” Stephanie Barber moaned, as Sam Bonaventura’s hand slipped inside her open cutoffs, and beneath the flimsy covering of her underwear, and found that oh-so sweet spot.

  They’d come to the clinic to clean - there being no...material...with which to make vaccine. They’d actually started cleaning - in a we’re really-here-to-do-something-else-but-faking-it sort of way. And then the kissing began. The rest was...

  “Oh yeah,” she breathed into his ear. “Right there.”

  The dance had been going on for days. No. Scratch that. It had been going on pretty much since they met. The chemistry was good, the attraction was there, and (admittedly) the options weren’t any too plentiful.

  Not that Sam wasn’t someone she wanted. She hadn’t settled for him. He wasn’t some convenient port in a storm. She liked him. Of course, she didn’t love him - not yet, anyway - but this wouldn’t be the first time she’d acted out of lust. After all, all, this was a zombie apocalypse, so...

  Rationalization, thy name is Stephanie...

  She kissed him, hard on the mouth, their tongues twisting, folding, spindling, trying to tie each other in knots. His hand felt wonderful.

  Sam had been different, in one respect: he hadn’t gotten all handsy, hadn’t tried to imitate Chester the Molester, hadn’t been crass in any way. For that matter, he’d barely touched her - a neat trick as they worked around each other. Of course, grinding human spinal tissue to make vaccine wasn’t exactly an aphrodisiac, and didn’t lend itself to thoughts of romance or sweaty lovemaking. But there had been moments: the lingering touch on the hand as they passed something between them, the occasional interested glance. Every now and then, when they weren’t wearing respirators, she’d catch him looking at her, with a small, amused smile on his lips. Mostly, it had been an awareness of being alone together, and the special warmth that made her go hmm...

  So today, she’d come right out and made her move, since he didn’t appear to be in any hurry to make his. “What would you do if I asked you to kiss me?” She asked, bold as brass.

  “I don’t know,” he said, the little smile on his lips. “Is that something you’re likely to do?”

  “Been thinking about it,” she replied.

  “So have I,” he confessed.

  “So why haven’t you...?

  He shrugged and gave a sheepish grin. “Don’t like rejection,” he said, then added: “And your father has a lot of guns.”

  “He’s not here right now.”

  “I noticed.”

  “So why...? Oh, screw it,” she’d said, and the kissing began.

  She reached down, careful not to disturb his delightful hand, and tugged at his belt.

  A knock came from the outer door down the hall - the door she’d carefully locked. He groaned. She swore.

  “Don’t suppose there’s any chance they’ll go away,” he said.

  “Probably not,” she replied. Her heart thumped, and she could feel a definite flush to the skin of her face. Stepping back, she glanced down, saw his pointed interest trying to rip its way through the front of his trousers. She patted him there, then breathed a heavy sigh and re-buttoned her cutoffs. “I’ll try and get rid of them.”

  Thanks to Murphy and his Law, however, the person knocking turned out to be her mother.

  53

  The Flying Bridge

  USCGC Sassafras

  “You want me to do what?” Samantha screamed, her voice sounding shrill, even to her own ears. Her father had come to visit (in his words) and had then - casually as you please - dropped a bomb on her unsuspecting head.

  “We’re going back to Midway to get the True North,” he repeated. “And you’re coming with us.”

  “Screw that!” she shouted.

  “Young lady,” her father began, his voice carrying a tone she knew all-too well, “you may have been acting like a sailor, but you will not talk like one. Not around me.”

  Great! Wonderful! He yanks the carpet from under my feet, then lectures me on my vocabulary ? “I’m not going,” she declared.

  She couldn’t go. Not now. Not when she’d just patched things up with Molly. Not when she still needed to be around Jonesy. Not...

  “You are,” he replied.

  “No,” she said, folding her arms in front of her chest in the universal symbol of adolescent stubbornness. She would stand, right there, not moving, till the cows came home, till the zombies died out, till she was old and grey, and shriveled from neglect and malnutrition. She might even hold her breath.

  His eyes smiled at her from inside his gas mask. It was not a friendly smile.

  “You will, if I have to wrap you up like a monkey’s fist and toss you in the back of the seaplane,” he said, his voice remaining calm but still managing to carry the edge of menace. They must teach that to men when they reach a certain age - like a final test before adulthood. Her mother had it, to a lesser degree, but hers was more subtle, and held more of an air of guilt. Mothers were great at guilt. She’d seen it on TV a thousand times.

  “No,” she said again.

  Her father stared at her for a moment longer, then chuckled. “Go pack,” he said, as if ignoring her protestations - which she supposed was exactly what he was doing. He turned, and hopped down onto the Signal Bridge, walked to the starboard ladder, and descended out of sight, leaving her alone, with her thoughts of escape.

  54

  SS Corrigan Cargo III

  Palmyra Atoll

  “...This is COMMSTA Honolulu, Channel Sixteen, VHF and Two-One-Eight-Two, UHF,” a woman’s voice crackled over the airwaves and through the tiny speaker of the GSB 900 radio on the Corrigan Cargo bridge, where Blackjack Charlie, Felix, Dirk Parker, Doug Hennessy, and the Honorable Henry David Goddard, stood in a semi-circle around the chart table, plotting their next move.

  Actually, Charlie, Felix, Parker and Hennessy were discussing their next move - since they’d be the ones making it - and Goddard was doing his usual bang-up job of fumble-fucking around and gumming up the proverbial works with his slow-witted que
stions. Charlie sincerely wanted to put a bullet in the man’s brain pan, and time was coming when he’d do just that, but for the moment, anyway, they needed his status as el Presidente.

  “All non-emergency traffic switch and answer to the following channels...” The woman’s voice said. The transmission was mixed with hisses and pops, as the atmosphere off which the signal had bounced its way from Honolulu to Palmyra played havoc with reception, but it was clear enough to understand, and that’s all Blackjack cared about. The woman’s voice listed various unit designations and channel numbers, none of which concerned the matter at hand.

  Goddard pointed toward the GSB. “Those are American forces, yes?” He asked.

  “Yes,” Charlie said, sweeping the rest of the assembled group with his eyes, hoping the glance said what he needed to: keep your fucking mouths shut, and roll with me on this. “And no,” he added.

  “How so?” Goddard asked.

  This was where the bullshit went spelunking into a deep cavern of lies and misdirection, and so it was also where he needed the rest of his men to cooperate. He was pulling his responses out of his butt, if for no other reason than he was still in the process of formulating the ideas behind them, but also because Goddard had proven himself to be just shrewd enough to ask the wrong questions at the right time (or visa/versa). Clearly, this was how the man got himself elected in the first place - that and the blissful ignorance of the average American voter.

  Granted, spit-balling something this convoluted was foolhardy, at best, and potentially disastrous, at worst, but Charlie had grown to trust his instincts, and he was doing so now. Time would tell the wisdom of this move. If he failed, there remained the pistol in the waistband of his pants.

  “We have learned,” Charlie began, knowing he was taking a gigantic leap of faith in his fellow pirates, “they are the ones who set off the nuclear explosion that destroyed the fleet, and left the Hamilton so damaged.” Goddard stared at him in shock. Charlie didn’t dare gauge the others’ reactions. “We received this intel,” he continued, “from the woman we rescued off that sailboat?” He said, ending it as a question, rather than a statement. “The one who brought us the vaccine and knows the whereabouts of the people who can make more of it?” He finally cast his gaze at Dirk. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Australian said, with no hesitation. Good man...

  “I’m appalled,” Goddard said, after a moment. “Americans did this?”

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie replied. “And we’re told, they’re keeping the scientists capable of creating the vaccine as captives, under deplorable conditions.” He stared at Felix, telling him with the look to play along, or else.

  “Deplorable,” Felix echoed, hoarsely, his face seeming to drain of blood. Goddard was too busy staring at the deck and shaking his head.

  “I... I...” Goddard stammered. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it, Mister President,” Hennessy said, completing the confirmation. Charlie caught his eye, and saw something mildly disturbing. He’s uncomfortable with this, Charlie thought. Too bad. As long as he keeps his mouth shut.

  He’d learned long ago to have faith in the governing power of self-interest. Each of the men (Goddard notwithstanding) had...done things...since the world went to shit; things that would have gotten them the needle in any pre-plague court of law. They’d killed people - murdered people - raped women, and pillaged with indiscriminate vigor, all in the name of their own self-interest. At first, he’d had to remind them of this fact to keep them in line. He hoped he wouldn’t have to do it now.

  Charlie’s fingers tapped the butt of his pistol, just in case.

  “That’s why we need to go there,” he said. “To rescue the scientists,” he continued.

  “And pay them back for what they’ve done,” Dirk said, with real venom in his voice. Dirk had been the easiest to convince. Truth be told, the Aussie almost intimidated him. Almost.

  Goddard continued to stare at the deck, shaking his head, and muttering under his breath. At first, Charlie couldn’t understand what the man was saying, but then he caught it. “Appalling...just appalling...”

  A burst of static screamed out of the radio speaker, but no words could be heard.

  Goddard stared at it for just a moment longer, then nodded and said: “Go.”

  55

  The Pier

  IRC Sand Island, Hi

  “Thought I might find you here,” Molly said, coming up behind Jonesy, who was checking the lines holding the Assateague to the pier. He should have been in the rack, sleeping the sleep of the utterly exhausted, but instead, he was seeing to details for which he wasn’t responsible. Then again, she wasn’t responsible for them, either, yet there she was. And why? Because she knew he’d be there.

  “I’m just...,” he said, waving his hand at the Patrol Boat to finish the comment.

  He almost looks like a zombie, she thought, and the idea made her laugh out loud.

  “What’s so funny?” He asked. Exhausted as he was, battered, bruised, and pushed far beyond his normal limits as he was - as each and every one of them were - that damned twinkle still flashed from his eyes as he smirked at her.

  “You look like a zombie,” she replied, glad for the darkness that covered the fact of her flushed face. Those eyes had always done it to her. From the moment they met, all the way back in Alaska, when she was a silly teenager, they’d always made her feel as if she were on the verge of swooning. Of course now, it might very well be that she teetered on the edge of falling over from a lack of sleep, herself, so...

  “Thanks,” he said, his voice hitting about a six on the sarcasm scale. “You, on the other hand, look fresh as a daisy.”

  “Liar.”

  He reared back and pointed at his own chest, as if offended. “Me?” He asked. “Never.”

  “Bullshit, then,” she countered.

  He nodded and smiled. “I’ll buy that.” He continued walking up the pier toward the Assateague’s bow line. She followed.

  “Nobody died today,” he said. “So we’ve got that going for us.”

  “Yay, team!” she replied, with far more enthusiasm than she felt, then added: “I hear they’re promoting you to Warrant Officer.”

  He stopped in his tracks and turned to stare at her. “Whose idiotic idea was that?”

  “Captain Hall, I believe,” she answered.

  “I won’t accept it,” he declared, as if actually offended, this time.

  “I don’t think he’s going to give you the choice.”

  He stared at her for a moment longer, those twinkling eyes boring a hole in her heart, soul, and - though she fought desperately to deny it - loins. Finally he shook his head, said: “This won’t end well,” then turned and resumed walking up the pier.

  56

  M/V Point of Order

  7.921213 N 163.788742 W

  “We should be within range by tomorrow night,” Dirk Parker said over the radio, his Aussie accent clear as a bell.

  Charlie glanced at his watch. So did Felix. Twenty-seventeen. Seventeen minutes after eight pm. The missiles would take about thirty minutes to reach their target, and then Honolulu would glow and burn. Tens of thousands would die.

  And for what? Felix asked himself. A diversion. That’s all it was - just a diversion to cover the fact that the Point of Order would be launching an attack on Midway. All those people would die for a bit of misdirection.

  “Hold launch till about an hour before sunrise,” Charlie said into the radio handset. “That should make it about zero-five-hundred.”

  Five in the morning, Felix thought, and the dread wrapped him like a diseased blanket. The people in Honolulu had less than twenty-eight hours to live.

  57

  Iroquois Point

  Pearl Harbor, HI

  “You realize this is batshit insane, right?” Jonesy asked, piloting Sass Two, the RHIB, straight up the Pearl Harbor Entrance Channel. Think overrun with zombies,
Jim Barber had said. Then think harder. Looking around in the early morning light, Jonesy thought he’d been downplaying the problem.

  “Yes,” Molly replied. “And you realize we don’t have any choice here.” She said it as a statement - like what it was: a fait accompli. They really didn’t have a choice, and Jonesy knew it. Captain Hall had ordered a recon of Ford Island, with the goal of eventually liberating it, as they’d liberated Sand Island, and what the senior-most officer of the entire United States Coast Guard (or, at least, what they knew of it) ordered, he got.

  Of course, Sand Island wasn’t entirely liberated, itself. Yesterday’s influx of zombies through the gap in the perimeter fence proved as much, as if simple logic weren’t already enough. But orders from a Captain were orders from a Captain.

  “I could quit,” he said.

  “So soon after becoming an officer?” She countered.

  The promotion had surprised him to say the least. We’re making you an officer, whether you like it or not, Wheeler had said, as he handed Jonesy the new collar devices. This, also, struck him as batshit insane, but, then, what wasn’t, in this post-apocalyptic world?

  In true military fashion, after giving him the carrot, Wheeler proceeded to beat him nearly senseless with the stick. We need you to recon Pearl Harbor, with an eye toward liberating Ford Island. He’d said it with a smile, as if that would somehow mitigate the craziness. It hadn’t.

  “What?” Jonesy had sputtered, knowing full well the truth: the man said what he’d heard him say. Questioning it was pointless. If his own mind hadn’t told him so, Wheeler’s deadpan stare certainly had. There’d been something else in his Commanding Officer’s eyes, though - a tone of agreement. He knew how batshit the order was, and he also knew there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to change it.

  “You can choose whoever you want to join you,” Wheeler had said, then added. “Except Duke. We have need of his services elsewhere.” Jonesy’s eyebrows had gone up at that point, and in answer, Wheeler replied: “He’ll be taking a team to the top of Mount Ka’ala, to check on the repeating antenna.” Ka’ala was the tallest mountain on Oahu. It sat in the middle of the island, more or less. Between it and the Sass were several hundred thousand zombies.