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

by Thomson, Jeff

  She’d never been afraid of her father, never intimidated by him. There had never been any need. Oh, sure, he’d been pissed at her before, and sure, each time she’d been scared that this time, finally, he’d get sick enough of her shit to raise his hand to her, but he’d never actually done it, never actually gone there, and she’d never felt as if he ever would. Until now.

  True North was getting back underway for the return to Honolulu. This had been planned, of course. They were to provide transport for the growing number of refugees who would soon overwhelm the meager facilities at the Coast Guard base. She’d been planning to return with them, but he’d just told her she would be staying.

  “And I’m getting tired of being shunted off to wherever I’m least needed,” she snapped in reply.

  She watched as her mother, with Davie in tow, trundled off the gangway and onto the pier, both of their arms loaded with personal possessions. Her mother paused to glance at she and her father. Their eyes met. Give it up, her mother’s eyes seemed to say.

  Not a chance.

  Sam waved toward the ship, toward the Bridge, where even now, she felt sure, the radio was blaring out the tragedy happening in Honolulu. “You need me,” she said, trying to keep the whine out her voice. “You need all the help you can get.”

  “I need you to stay here,” her father replied, his voice softening, as he seemed to realize how threatening his current stance was. He stepped back, tried to relax. It wasn’t working. His shoulders slumped, as if the sigh escaping his lips was deflating him like a slowly leaking balloon. “I need to know you’re safe. I can’t worry about you.” He waved toward the Bridge - and the radio. “And with all that going on...” He let the sentence dangle in the air.

  “Then don’t worry about me,” she said, pleading. “I can take care of myself.”

  He looked at her for a moment, his eyes showing a mixture of love and pity. At least she thought it was pity, thought he was dismissing her as just a little girl. It pissed her off.

  “But–”

  “No,” he said. He stared at her for another beat, then turned and headed up the gangway.

  93

  Seaplane Wallbanger

  Over French Frigate Shoals

  “Hit ‘em Weaver,” Jonesy’s voice crackled over the airwaves, shouting to be heard over the gunfire in the background. “Sweep the line back toward the doorway.”

  “With pleasure!” Weaver’s voice said, with a relish Jim Barber found almost inspiring - almost. It would have felt more inspiring had he been there with them, right in the thick of the action - with the mini gun he’d purloined from Gilbert Farcquar’s gun store in Astoria, and had yet to use. Instead, they were flying - once again - over the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, still more than an hour from Honolulu.

  He looked accusingly over at Harvey Walton, even though the crazy Brit couldn’t control the realities of time and distance any more than Jim could. “Whip the gerbils of this fucking thing,” Jim said.

  “Gerbils?” Harvey asked, clearly confused by the reference. “What gerbils?”

  “Make this piece of shit go faster!”

  “Would that I could, my friend,” he said. “Would that I could.”

  “There, Harold,” Jonesy’s voice crackled, amidst the sounds of battle. “Shoot those fuckers!”

  The Wallbanger flew on, its occupants spectators at what sounded like Armageddon.

  94

  Comm Center

  COMMSTA Honolulu

  Be careful what you wish for, Winkowski, Amber thought, ruefully. She’d said she wanted action, but this...!

  Not that she, herself, was any busier than she had been - not really, not to any significant degree. There wasn’t a whole lot she could do, locked in her windowless cage.

  Wait a minute... Yes there was! There was plenty for her to do! Plenty she should have been doing.

  Get off your ass, Winkowski, she thought, hearing the voice of an old OS Chief she’d known at her first unit, seemed like ages ago. OSC Lucille Wannamaker had been a true ball-buster - even though she didn’t possess the dangling appendages, herself. Neither had Amber, comes to that. But she’d said those same five words to Amber so many times, in so many circumstances, it had finally embedded itself into her head, and now she would take it to heart.

  The job of an Operations Specialist at a COMMSTA was to monitor the radios, and coordinate the efforts of units not in direct communication with each other. Normally, there would have been a SAR Controller (enlisted, of course, always enlisted) in the room with her, through whom all the information passed, and who then had the responsibility of deciding what to do with it, but the presence or absence of one didn’t change her own job.

  She needed to keep track of all the various elements of this operation. There was the air crew of 6583, the crew of the 6585 (whose status and condition were shockingly unknown), the original ground crew at the Mall, the newly arrived ground crew, led by CWO2 Jones, Sass Two, speeding back to Hono, the Sassafras, the Polar Star, the Antenna crew at Schofield Barracks, and the seaplane winging its way toward them. And the only person in a position to keep track of them all was one OS2 Amber Winkowski.

  She also needed to rein in the communications chaos, to keep the various units from stepping all over each other, which they’d already started doing.

  She picked up the handsets for both the VHF and UHF radios.

  “Hello all stations...”

  95

  M/V Point of Order

  18.773135 N 172.929367 W

  “...This is United States Coast Guard Commsta Honolulu, Channel one-six and twenty-one-eighty-two,” the female voice crackled over the airwaves. Charlie’s eyes shifted between Doug Hennessy and Felix Hoffman, both of whom were watching him watch the radio. “Coordinate all traffic on established frequencies.” The woman seemed calm, her voice remained even and professional, but Blackjack Charlie knew stress and tension when he heard it.

  “...keep firing!” A male voice broke in. “Get the Ass–” A loud hiss of static cut off part of the transmission. “–and RRB over here now! We need cover fire!”

  “Sounds like they’re busy,” Hennessy unnecessarily observed. His delivery was dry - even droll - but like the woman on the radio, Charlie could hear the tension behind the words.

  “Too bad,” Blackjack said. “So sad.”

  “They’ve certainly got their hands full,” Hennessy added.

  “What’s your point?” Charlie asked, because he now knew the man who’d become his second in command had something else on his mind.

  Felix answered, instead. “So maybe we don’t need the diversion any more.”

  There it was. Whether any of them had said anything out loud, or not, and regardless of the fact they’d backed his play in front of the Honorable Henry David Goddard, fucking idiot President of the United States, he’d known at least some of them were uncomfortable with the idea of nuking Honolulu. Bit late for it, now.

  He locked eyes with Hennessy. “This your opinion, too?”

  The other man shifted his feet, and stared at the deck, but didn’t answer the question.

  “Well?” Charlie demanded. “Do you share his opinion, or not?”

  Hennessy shrugged. “There ain’t that many people left alive, anymore,” Hennessy began. “If we do it, hundreds, maybe thousands of what few of us remain will die.”

  “Your point?” Charlie asked, as he eased his hand toward the pistol he had tucked into his belt behind his back.

  He shrugged again, almost apologetically. “Maybe we don’t need to do it.” Charlie glared at him, but now the man’s eyes stared straight back into his own. “The whole idea was to keep them busy and looking the other way, while we’re snatching the scientist from Midway.” He waved toward the GSB 900. “Seems liked they’re pretty damned busy.”

  96

  The Rooftop

  Ala Moana Mall

  “Move!” Jonesy shouted to Harold, who was blocking his
path to the gore-fest taking place on the roof of the next building. Below, Seaman Pat Querec was being mauled by a very large and very violent crowd of zombies. One of them had its foot on Querec’s chest, and his arm in a death grip. It was pulling - yanking - at the appendage, and Jonesy watched in numb horror, as the shoulder popped from its socket, the flesh tore, and the arm went flying into the zombie crowd, to be snatched out of the air like a bloody bridal bouquet.

  They’d been dropped on the building next to the one where Querec, Greg Riley (trying to make his way through the screaming crowd of refugees toward his shipmate), and the two swimmers, ASM1 Ron Wallace (who looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to run from the zombies, or jump over the balustrade and join his friends in the 6585 on the street below) and ASM2 Kyle Rogers (who’d already been torn to pieces by the horde) were trapped, with what remained of the civilians. It stood slightly elevated, by perhaps eight feet. Not much in the grand scheme, not enough to worry about injury if they jumped to the other building, but high enough to make it difficult for the zombies to do the reverse - Jonesy hoped.

  Harold staggered out of the way, and Jonesy opened fire with his Thompson, spewing his few remaining .45 slugs into the crowd of ravenous lunatic assholes. Newby came up beside him and opened up with his M-4, as Jeri Weaver, in the hovering 6583, laid down a blistering fusillade of 7.62 rounds from the MG 240 machine gun. Harold finally joined them, muttering something about sick call into the integrated microphone in his helmet, then he, too started firing his own M-4.

  They might as well have been pissing on an inferno.

  97

  M/V Point of Order

  18.773135 N 172.929367 W

  “I knew Felix didn’t have the stomach for it,” Blackjack Charlie said, adding derision to the name. For his part, Felix Hoffman felt equal parts angered and ashamed. Angered, because the Pirate King had even more derision for the thousands of people they were about to kill; ashamed, because he was part of it. The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. Edmund Burke had said that, a long, long time ago, and Felix had understood it, the first time he’d heard it. Unfortunately, Felix Hoffman wasn’t a good man, and never had been. “But I didn’t think you’d wimp out on us, Hennessy.”

  Felix wasn’t evil - he’d never accuse himself of that - but he was far too self-indulgent, far too weak, far too lazy to actually stand up and do anything about the wrong he’d seen going on around him his entire life. He’d known the drug he and Izzy were dealing to their schoolmates was dangerous and could easily become addictive. He’d known it even more so once they expanded. Even after Izzy disappeared into the landfill, he’d kept right on working, right on churning out Ecstacy at a greater and greater rate, to greater and greater profit for himself. He’d seen the wrong and he’d done nothing.

  Doug Hennessy seemed to grow a backbone - or, at the very least, stand up straight and stare right back into Blackjack Charlie Carter’s black eyes. “I don’t consider being hesitant to kill thousands of people unnecessarily wimping out.” He paused, and Felix watched as the two men held an impromptu staring contest. “And I find it a bit disturbing that you seem so cavalier about it.”

  “Then why didn’t you say anything about it before we set sail?” Charlie asked.

  “I...” Hennessy began, but his words petered off. His eyes dropped back to the deck. The staring contest was over. Blackjack won.

  The Pirate King nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  “We don’t need to go through with it, Charlie,” Felix said, pleading.

  Charlie flicked a dark gaze in his direction, then just a quickly looked away. The backhanded slap came as a complete surprise, and sent Felix to the deck, where he landed flat on his butt.

  The pirate turned away from both of them and strolled to the front of the Bridge, where he stood, staring out the windows. “Listen up, because I’m not going to say this again.” He turned to face them. “It’s too late. We can’t stop it.”

  “But–”

  Charlie halted Hennessy’s reply with a traffic cop wave of his hand. “We’d have to call the Corrigan over the radio,” he waved at the GSB, “where anybody listening could hear. They’d find out what we’re doing.” His voice was calm and even, without a trace of menace. “They’d stop us from getting the vaccine that will keep us alive. Is that what you want?” He stared at Hennessy for a moment, then turned his attention to Felix. “You?” Neither man answered. “That’s what I thought.”

  He pulled the pistol from behind his back, and held it pointed at the deck. He cocked the hammer. “One more word,” he said, his tone still even, still calm, but his eyes were like looking into a pair of black holes. “One more word, from either one of you, and I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”

  Blackjack Charlie Carter turned, then, and left the Bridge.

  98

  The Bridge

  USCGC Sassafras

  “Sass Two, inbound,” Rees Erwin said, from his position on the starboard Bridge Wing.

  “Very well,” LCDR Wheeler said - out of habit, mostly. He had an oddly disconnected feeling, as if this weren’t really happening to him. It was, of course: reality at its most brutal.

  He’d sent people to their death.

  Granted, the air crew personnel weren’t really his. They belonged to the Star, and so they were Captain Gideon D. Hall’s responsibility.

  Chickenshit, he said to himself, trying to find some semblance of the guilt he knew he should feel for casting aside his fellow Coasties, as if they were insignificant bits of trash, but he couldn’t. He felt nothing, in fact. Nor did he feel anything, one way or the other, for the two men who were absolutely his responsibility: BM3/OPS Greg Riley, and SN Pat Querec. No amount of rationalization could change the fact. Didn’t matter. He still felt nothing.

  Well, now that wasn’t exactly true, was it? He felt something - just not what he supposed a normal person should be feeling at a time like this. Any normal person would feel pain and sorrow and fear and frustration, all rolled into one festering ball of ugliness, but not Steven Wheeler.

  He felt hollow.

  “Sir?” A female voice cut in on his self-examination. Montrose. He breathed in, and turned to face her.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you want Ms Gordon to remain on the pier, or come up here?”

  He blinked at her, once, twice. Gordon...

  “Yes,” he said, finally. “Have her come up here.”

  “Aye, sir,” Amy Montrose replied, giving him an inquisitive eye for the briefest of moments, then turning to the radio. “Sass Two, tie off and report to the Bridge.”

  99

  FAA Tracking Station

  Ka’ala Mountain, Oahu

  “Shut your fucking pie hole. We’re going,” Duke snarled at Ensign Devon, then seemed to remember himself (if only sort of). “Sir,” he added.

  Scott Pruden gaped in astonishment, then did everything he could to quell the laughter threatening to burst out of his chest like one of the Aliens, at the expression on the officer’s face. Duke’s retort had hung the poor boy up. His face (and presumably the stunned mind behind it) didn’t know whether to flip or fly.

  This would not, however, be an appropriate time for gales of hysterical laughter. As if preordained, the radio in the Control Center crackled to life.

  “I’m running low on ammo,” HS2 Jeri Weaver’s voice said, over the hammering of the automatic weapon he continued to fire as he made his report.

  Duke pointed to the speaker. “That’s why we’re going,” he said. “You’ve got ten seconds to get your ass in the truck, or I’ll leave you behind.”

  “Duke,” Scott began, hesitating, out of respect for the structural integrity of his skeletal system. He wanted it to remain in one piece, and he didn’t think Duke would hesitate for more than about a nanosecond before rendering it into so much kindling.

  “What?” The big man snapped, heading toward the truck, giving und
eniable evidence of his threat.

  “We can’t drive all the way to Hono,” Scott said, easing his weight onto his rearward foot, in case he needed to beat a hasty retreat.

  “Watch me,” Duke said, hopped into the Skull Mobile and started the engine with a Tyrannosaur-like roar.

  Scott scrambled into the back, where OS1 Rudy McGuin, Marsha Gilbert, Marc Micari, PA3 Jim Westhoff, and SN Dixon Grimes had already wedged themselves.

  “Where are we going?” Gilbert asked.

  “Where do you think?” Duke replied.

  “The Motor Pool,” Marc Micari said.

  “Not hardly,” Duke growled, yanking the steering wheel to the right and flooring the accelerator.

  “Seriously, dude,” Marc said, bouncing around, amongst the people and boxes of ammunition. “Motor pool.”

  Maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe it was some sixth sense within the large man. Or maybe it was something completely different, but instead of biting the poor civilian’s head off, as Scott felt sure he would, Duke braked the truck to a sliding stop, then turned in his seat and stared back at the civilian.

  “Why?”

  Marc shrugged, then waggled his eyebrows - actually waggled his fucking eyebrows - and smiled. “I have a plan.”

  100

  The Bridge

  USCGC Sassafras

  “We’re giving you eight people,” LT Amy Montrose told Molly. “Petty Officers Luton, Martinez and Dodge, and non-rates Nailor, Malone, Tabinski, McBride, and Collins.”

  Molly took the names in, barely recognizing any of them. She knew of (but didn’t know) Nailor, because he’d been with the group at the fence line breach, as well as McBride and Collins, because they were two of only four enlisted female Coasties in their ragtag crew, but the others could have been game show contestants, for all she knew.