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

by Thomson, Jeff

  He keyed his throat mic. “Eight-Five, Ground.”

  “Go Ground,” Sagona’s voice replied.

  “Are you seeing this?” He asked, pointing toward the street. It was a stupid question, of course. How could they not see it?

  “Affirmative,” the Lieutenant Commander’s calm voice said. “Any action on the roof?”

  “Neg–“ he started to say, then stopped. What had the survivors been looking at over their shoulders?

  He turned in the general direction. There were upside-down J-shaped vent housings, two large exhaust fans, and a sort of dog house structure, similar to the one they placed over the wardroom access hatch on the Polar Star fantail in port. A door sat in its middle.

  What’s behind Door Number Three? He wondered.

  73

  USS Arizona Memorial

  Ford Island, Pearl Harbor

  “How long can you hold out,?” Jonesy told Molly, over his shoulder, as he finished sending the flashing light message to the Marines on Ford Island. “At least I think that’s what I asked.” He shrugged in mock apology. “For all I know, I’m asking to date the guy’s little sister.”

  They’d been flashing messages back and forth for almost an hour, with Jonesy using the RHIB’s searchlight, and the Marines using what she thought was probably a signal mirror. Although, come to think of it, what, exactly separated a signal mirror from a regular one? She didn’t know, and didn’t really care, because it certainly didn’t matter. This was just one more in a series of pointless thoughts running around in her head, in a desperate attempt to keep her mind off the brontosaurus in the room:

  She’d said: Don’t go there, Jonesy, when he’d brought up the fact he was no longer enlisted, and so the excuse she’d been clinging to since she’d seen him on the pier the day she arrived in Honolulu, was no longer valid. It had worked before. It had been working since she walked away from him on the Healy, seemed like a dozen lifetimes ago. Well, it didn’t work this time, she mused, and the idea felt like a Buick had parked in her chest.

  Fine, he’d said, the anger and bitterness in his voice so evident, it might have been a neon sign on the Las Vegas Strip. Have it your way. I’ll never mention it again.

  Ever.

  “Oscar-November-Echo,” Jonesy said, reading the incoming signal. “One. Mike-Oscar-November-Tango-Hotel. One month,” he translated, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Aren’t you gonna write this down?”

  She shook her head to scatter the ever-so reasonable, nagging inner-voice, which was trying to tell her she had only herself to blame - as if she needed to have someone point out the obvious.

  “You’re not?” He asked.

  “What?” She sputtered. “No... I mean, yes,” she babbled, and started to write. He stared at her for a moment longer, then returned to look at the distant rooftop.

  “If...we...can...get...a...water...drop,” he continued the translation. “Yeah, I’ll bet they’re pretty thirsty.”

  Her head swirled with a strange, not-quite vertigo, her face flushed, and her heart felt like a lump of congealed oatmeal. She felt heartbroken, embarrassed, ashamed. She wanted to run, to hide, to curl into a ball and have a good cry.

  The thought brought her up short.

  What the Hell?

  Since when did she want to cry? Since when had she ever wanted to cry?

  Get your shit together, Gordon.

  Her first instinct was to smack herself in the face. Repeatedly. She dismissed the idea out of hand. All she needed was for Jonesy to think she’d finally and completely lost it. She pinched herself, hard, finding it surprisingly simple to find enough loose skin at her side to provide purchase. Lost a lot of weight, she observed, in a distracted, disconnected way.

  Get your shit together, Lieutenant.

  She took in a deep breath. “Contact the Star,” she said, more than a little surprised to detect no quaver in her voice. “Ask them to load water onto the next helo.”

  He stared at her over his shoulder for a beat, as if not quite buying her act, then said: “Roger that,” and picked up the RHIB’s radio.

  74

  FAA Tracking Station

  Ka’ala Mountain, Oahu

  “My poor truck,” Duke moaned, as the Skull Mobile crashed through the chain link gate at the FAA Tracking Station, at the top of Ka’ala Mountain, finally dislodging the half-zombie sergeant from the hood. Scott Pruden could relate. First, it was the armored zombies at the roadblock, then the metal gate post at the entrance to the base, proper, then the dozen or so homicidal assholes at the MP Building. And now, there was a fence.

  “Good thing the insurance industry died along with the rest of the world,” Scott offered in consolation. “Or your premiums would be through the roof.”

  “I’m sure they’d try to call it an ‘act of God,’” Marc Micari said.

  “God has left the building,” Marsha Gilbert replied.

  “So have the insurance companies,” Scott offered.

  The side trip to the Eighth MP had been almost - but not quite - a complete bust. They’d found zombies (of course) but no survivors. Not that Scott thought they would, but there was always the chance, and there were so few members of their ragtag band of misfits, any addition would have been a welcome bonus - even if they were from the Army. No such luck.

  They had, however, found ammo. Scott shifted his butt a quarter inch to try and give himself some breathing space in the cramped back of the truck, but it didn’t do any good. In addition to himself, Duke, and the recently-puking Ensign, there was OS1 Rudy McGuin, PA3 Jim Westhoff, and SN Dixon Grimes, from the Star, Marsha Gilbert, from Raytheon, and Marc Micari - whose actual purpose on this mission had yet to be demonstrated - all jammed in with a thousand rounds of .45 ACP, five thousand of 9mm (and a dozen pistols), and five thousand of 5.56. They hadn’t found any 7.62, but had cycled plenty of their dwindling stock through the MG240 machine gun, shooting at the zombies. And if all of that weren’t sufficient to cause discomfort among those unlucky enough to be riding in the back of the truck (without benefit of seats, thank you none at all), they had also brought along everything they’d be likely to need to repair and/or get the repeaters back in operation.

  Now, at least, they were at their ultimate destination: the FAA Tracking Station, which housed (among other things) the repeating VHF and UHF antennae. Soon, Scott could pop his ass out of the truck like a fleshy cork - or so he hoped.

  “See any assholes?” He asked.

  Duke cast a glance toward the passenger seat (and Ensign Devon), then glanced into the rearview mirror. “Several,” he replied. “But none of the infected variety.”

  Their token officer didn’t seem to have noticed the jibe. Just as well. They’d had to listen to him bitch for the entire ride up to this desolate, yet beautiful place.

  Desolate, in that it looked like so many other government installations they’d seen or passed since the plague started: empty, debris-strewn, abandoned. There were various corrugated metal buildings dotting the now-overgrown landscape, along with three driver-less vehicles - two with their doors left open; all standing sentinel over the deserted facility. Beautiful, in that the promontory upon which it sat overlooked a verdant valley of green-hued forests and fields stretching out before them like a landscaper’s dream.

  “There,” Marsha Gilbert said, leaning over the front seats and pointing.

  Duke pulled the Skull Mobile to a stop at the base of the indicated tower. Doors opened, and grateful people stepped out.

  It felt so good to not feel like ten pounds of shit stuffed into the proverbial one-pound bag; to stretch, to walk around, to no longer have an ammo crate digging into his side, or a camera lens stabbing him in the back. So why were the insects of unease dancing a rhumba line up and down his spine?

  What was it? What was he missing?

  He looked around, saw the buildings, saw the antenna array, saw the large white dome of the tracking station, saw the abandoned vehicles -
two with their doors left open...

  “Wait,” he said, as people started wandering away from the relative safety of the truck.

  “What?” Ensign Devon asked, irritated.

  Scott pointed. “Why are those truck doors open?” He asked.

  “What?” Devon repeated, even more annoyed.

  Scott repeated his question. “Why are those truck doors open?” The assembled team looked from him, to the two pickup trucks, then back to him again, confused. He thumbed over his shoulder toward the entrance gate. “If that gate was closed, and there are no obvious breaks in the fence,” he began, trying to organize his thoughts as he spoke the words. “Then there shouldn’t be any zombies in this enclosure, right?”

  Seven heads swivelled from the fence, to the gate, and finally back to him. Only the civilian, Marc Micari seemed to be catching on.

  “So?” Devon asked.

  Marc nodded. “So...,” he said, picking up the thread. “If there shouldn’t be any zombies inside the fence, why would the drivers of those two trucks have left their doors open?”

  “And where are they now?” Scott added.

  “Who cares?” Devon snapped. “Maybe they were just too lazy.”

  Six expressions of incredulity stared at the officer. Scott looked at those faces, saw the dawning comprehension that maybe - just maybe - something wasn’t right.

  “Enough talk,” Devon said. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get to work and do what we came here to do.” The other members of the team hesitated, looking around the compound, searching for threats, and finding none. “Move it!” Devon ordered.

  Slowly, reluctantly, they obeyed. Scott, still not convinced, but also not sure enough to openly defy a commissioned officer, moved to follow, but Duke’s dinner plate-sized hand dropped onto his shoulder and held him there. The large bosun leaned in and whispered: “Keep your weapon handy.”

  75

  The Boat Basin

  Midway Atoll

  “Why don’t you spend some time with your brother?” Sam’s mother asked, in that oh-so subtle way she had of making her feel guilty about something she should have done, anyway, if she hadn’t been such a neglectful child. This was her mother’s true talent. Her father’s was using a conversational tone to convey menace - usually right before he grounded her for some infraction of THE RULES. Her mother, on the other hand, used guilt like a guided missile. Samantha often couldn’t decide which was the more insidious, but today, the guilt-missile came in at number one.

  It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to see Davy - although she found herself to be a bit surprised to discover how much she’d missed the little brat. Still, that wasn’t why she’d rather stick red hot pokers in her eyes than spend some time with her brother.

  She’d seen him, of course. He’d been waiting at the seaplane dock along with half the current population of Midway when the Wallbanger landed. She’d given him a hug and yanked his earlobe in that special way they had of annoying each other, just as he’d pulled on the end of her hair. Neither action held any malice; both were the sibling version of affection. Really.

  Then why the reluctance? Simple.

  They didn’t live in the same world anymore.

  She started walking, away from the boat basin, away from the True North, away from the world that no longer existed for her.

  Humanity-ending apocalypse notwithstanding, the fundamentals of Davy’s world had not changed - reality had. In the old world, the only zombies were the ones on his game system. In this one, the zombies were real, and they could kill you, but there weren’t any of them in his part of that world. Midway was clear and open and safe. He could walk along without any concern, just as she was. He could go to the beach (though not in the water - there were sharks), he could chase the goony birds, he could go to the Midway Mall. She headed in that direction.

  Her world - for so long, the same as his - was now as different and disconnected as a human being was from one of the thousand or so goony birds. They might all belong to the animal kingdom, but that’s where the similarities ended.

  Her new world was filled with danger and death and horror. Zombies were mowed down by the good people she’d come to know and respect and...love. And some of those good people (well, one, she corrected herself, thinking of Dan McMullen) were killed. Others (like Harold) were injured. And one, in particular (Jonesy) kept throwing himself into life-threatening situations as if they were nothing more than afternoon tea parties. They were good people, strong people, brave people, who thought more for the safety and comfort of others than they did for themselves.

  Davy could play baseball (or whatever he and Bob-Bob’s son, George did to amuse themselves), or listen to his mp3 player (where he tried to hide a secret love of the Jonas Brothers, for the love of God), or idle away the hours daydreaming. Such things no longer existed in Samantha’s world.

  She came to the pathetic, glorified Quonset hut that passed for what used to be the Midway Mall. The sign denoting it hung askew, held in place by only a single screw in one corner. The screen door flapped in the light breeze. She entered.

  The place bore as much resemblance to the mall back in Astoria as a Matchbox car did to a freight train. Sure, it contained shelves where once upon a time goods had been stacked and available for purchase, but Nordstrom’s this place wasn’t. Just as well. Such things were part of the old world.

  Her world - the new one - was the same as Harold’s, and Molly’s, and Jonesy’s. They might not consider her part of that world yet, might still think of her as a child, but they would, someday. She would make them, if it killed her.

  76

  The Bridge

  USCGC Polar Star

  “...So we were at Rosie’s, in Pelican...” BM1/OPS Jeff Babbett said, hoping he hadn’t already told this story forty-seven times.

  “I’ve heard about that place,” LTjg Shane Buckholtz said, confirming Jeff’s hope.

  This was the problem during any long deployment. After a certain point, all of the stories - the true ones, the lies, and the sea stories - became stale and old hat. Occupational hazard.

  “And we were drinking, of course,” Babbett continued.

  “Isn’t there supposed to be a sign, just as you come in the place...?” MST3 Terry Glens asked. He was a Marine Science Technician with no real job, without the computerized weather mapping system, fed by satellites and routed through the National Weather Service’s no longer operational data base, because the National Weather Service, itself, was no longer operational. As such, he was filling in as lookout/helmsman during the Star’s time anchored off the North Shore of Oahu.

  Everybody seemed to be pulling extra duty these days, with a third of the crew either on Kauai or in Honolulu. Everybody except me, Jeff thought, feeling both happy and guilty about it. He was still doing the same job he had been doing - albeit a bit more often, with Rees Erwin, Steve Bohenna and Greg Riley gone. No need to feel guilty, then...

  They didn’t really need Glens, didn’t really need Mister Buckholtz, since it was technically an anchor watch, and thus, a one man duty. But Captain Hall wanted a modified watch kept, to cover for the semi-frequent fueling ops with the two helos, which were also gone, in Honolulu, and so they kept a modified watch. To tell the truth, Jeff was glad for the company.

  He nodded at Glens. “Drop your pants and party,” he quoted.

  As if on cue, OS3 Tammy Weingartner came strolling through the door. She paused, halfway on/halfway off the Bridge, as if contemplating whether or not to turn and go back down below. Strands of her long blonde hair tried to escape from beneath her Polar Star baseball cap, and float away in the soft tropical breeze wafting through the Bridge windows. Jeff noticed that her working blue uniform pants, which used to look rather tight (much to the delight of most of the male members of the crew) seemed to be fitting more loosely now. He ran a thumb along his own belt line. His were rather loose, as well. The Zombie Apocalypse Weight Loss Plan, he mused.

 
“No thanks,” Tammy said. “I’ll pass,” and continued onto the Bridge, closing the door behind her. “Got a convoluted relay from the Sass RHIB crew,” she added.

  “Convoluted how?” Buckholtz asked.

  “Apparently, it went from the boat, to the Sass, to the COMMSTA, and then to us.” She shrugged. “I suspect it’s going to be that way until they get the repeaters fixed.”

  “What’s the message?” Buckholtz asked.

  “They want the next helo to do a water drop to some Marines on Ford Island,” she answered.

  “Survivors?” Glens asked, excited at the prospect. Jeff couldn’t blame him.

  “Marine survivors,” he corrected. “People who can actually help us.”

  Glens waved that off. “Jarheads,” he said, dismissively.

  “In this case,” Buckholtz said, “I’ll take Jarheads over civilians, any day.”

  “Jarheads with guns,” Jeff said, again modifying the statement.

  “Oo-rah!” Buckholtz replied.

  77

  The Baseball Diamond

  ISC Sand Island, Oahu

  “Should we be trusting her with a weapon?” Lydia said to Tara, just above a whisper. She felt delighted to be able to whisper, now that they’d transitioned from the bulky gas masks, to filter masks (and liberal application of Vapo-Rub).

  The woman in question was the civilian, Wendy Micari, whom Chief (now CWO2, she reminded herself) Jones rescued from the first highrise. She stood perhaps twenty feet away, next to her chocolate lab, Mac (who gave every impression of having fallen into a coma). The shotgun in her hands gleamed in the afternoon sunlight.

  Tara shrugged. “Why not?” she asked. “Besides, do you want to tell her she can’t?”

  “No,” Lydia replied. That was the last damned thing she wanted to do. Wendy Micari was freaking nuts.

  They were waiting for the arrival of the latest batch of survivors. Lydia’s job was to get their names and Social Security numbers (if they were US citizens), and/or some other form of identification if they weren’t. Tara was her assistant. She was becoming used to this fact - might even be growing to like it, if not for the overt advances the women kept tossing in her direction like so many medicine balls. Maybe dodge balls would be a better analogy. She had, after all, been dodging them for days and days, by this point. Although; lately, she’d been catching more than she’d been avoiding. The woman was growing on her. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind (safely hidden, where she didn’t have to think about it too much) the idea was growing on her. Wasn’t sure how to process the realization. Wasn’t sure she wanted to. Best not to think about it, at all.