Frank was a mechanic, perfectly content to be elbow deep in oil and grease, and turning wrenches on marine engines. It suited him. He liked it. He most certainly did NOT like being acting (and it really was acting - oh, my, yes) Commanding Officer of a Patrol Boat. Jeff Babbett, an OPS/Bosun, like Jonesy and Erwin, and a First Class Petty Officer, to boot, could have taken command. He certainly had the training, though he didn’t have the experience, having been on large ships his entire career. Frank had been in command during their earlier operations, so it was decided (by somebody other than Frank Roessler) that he would remain as such for this one, and now he was large, in charge, and standing by to open fire on a shopping mall filled with zombies. Just another typical Coast Guard day.
They both watched as the seaplane flew over the far side of the Mall buildings, dropping small packages in their wake. One by one, those packages began to explode in gouts of flame and black smoke: WHUMP, WHUMP, WHUMP. I love the smell of Napalm in the morning, he thought, unable to avoid the iconic quote from Apocalypse Now.
“Assateague, this is Mall Cop,” the voice of his friend, the newly-knighted Chief Warrant Officer, Socrates Jones, came through the tiny speaker on the VHF radio unit, which hung from the overhead on the left side of where the helmsman stood. This was redundant, since they all carried comm units, themselves, but it was both traditional to have that particular radio turned on, and it served to harken back to a simpler time, when they weren’t required to wear gas masks to cover the puke-inducing stench of a city full of dead people.
Gary keyed the comm unit in his helmet, and replied: “Go, Mall Cop.” The African-American Culinary Specialist, First Class, gave Frank a bemused smile.
Fucking Mall Cop? Frank thought. Did he really have to go there?
“Let me talk to Frank,” Jonesy’s voice said.
“Go,” Frank said, unable to bring himself to use the ridiculous designation.
“Are you guys ready?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered, though his insides were saying the opposite.
“Who do you have on the chain gun?” Jonesy asked.
“BM2/DECK Stern,” Frank replied, naming the Second Class Bosun Mate they’d gotten from the Star.
“Never heard of him,” Jonesy said. “Is he any good?”
Frank glanced down at the forecastle, where the young man stood, looking back up at the Assateague Bridge. Frank couldn’t see his face, since he, like almost everyone else, wore a gas mask, but he felt confident the guy’s expression wasn’t happy. “You do realize he can hear you,” he said, pointing out the obvious fact that everyone was equipped with integrated comm units in their helmets.
“Oh! Right... Sorry...” Jonesy said, deadpan. “Stern, is it?”
“Go, Mall Cop,” the besmirched newcomer said into his radio.
“Ever use the chain gun before?” Jonesy asked, referring to the twenty-five millimeter gun on Assateague’s forward deck.
“Once or twice,” Stern replied. Frank knew - or, at least, had been led to believe - this was an exaggeration, since both the young man, and BM1/OPS Jeff Babbett, who’d come with him from the Star, had informed Frank the guy had plenty of experience. Whether or not this was bullshit would become apparent in due course.
“Once or twice,” Jonesy repeated, as if testing the words to see if he liked them.
“Yes, sir,” Stern replied.
“That’s lovely,” Jonesy said.
“I know what I’m doing, sir,” Stern assured him.
“Guess we’ll find out,” Jonesy said. “Not like we have much choice.” He paused for a moment, as Frank - and everyone else within radio range - listened in on the conversation. “Tell me,” he continued, “you’re using incendiary rounds, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay! Well, then,” Jonesy said. “Here’s what I do NOT want you to do. Ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I do NOT want you firing incendiary rounds into the building directly beneath us, since I don’t want to catch on fire. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may fire into the buildings to the left and right of us to your heart’s content, but do NOT fire into THIS building. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wonderful,” Jonesy said. “Break, break. Frank, got your ears on?”
“Go,” Frank said.
“You may use the fifty cal on this building like nobody’s business,” Jonesy said.
“We have two,” Frank said. They’d brought the second heavy machine gun on board before heading to their current position.
“Then by all means use both. Just for fun, though, keep your aim low,” Jonesy said. He paused, then continued. “All units,” he said. “Commence firing.”
133
The Duck Bus
Kahanamoku Lagoon
“Can I shoot the fucking zombies now?” Wendy Micari asked, yelling the question. Unlike the others, she wasn’t wearing a gas mask. Molly had marveled at this when she’d first met the woman, until realizing she, and her husband, and the rest of the literally thousands of survivors in Honolulu had been living with the stench of death since the plague began.
They had just run up the small boat ramp at the northern end of Kahanamoku Lagoon, past the jutting piers of the Hawaii Yacht Club. Those piers had once been filled with all manner of sailboats. They were empty now, save for one dilapidated trimaran, and a small, motorized launch; another sign of the apocalypse, as if they needed one.
It felt odd, transitioning from being underway, to driving on the Duck Buss’s tires, but that was the thing’s purpose, and so she gave it little thought. There were a nearly infinite number of other things to capture her attention, such as, say, the half-dozen zombies who’d remained down by the beach, rather than making their way toward all the noise (and fresh meat) at the Mall. They were clustered (as the poor, diseased, homicidal maniacs tended to do) near a collection of Dragon boats - those long, thin row boats, with multiple individual oars - that lay on the southern shore of a manmade lagoon that blocked their direct path to the Mall. The appearance of the Duck Bus seemed to confuse them.
“Hell yes!” Molly yelled back. “Everybody open fire!” She keyed her comm unit, as the members of her team, firing through the windows, made quick work of the zombies. “Zombie Crusher, this is Duck Bus. Where are you?” As if in answer, the yellow bulldozer crashed through a clump of bushes to their left, and onto Ala Moana Park Drive.
“Zombie Crusher, reporting as ordered,” Duke’s voice came through the earpiece in her helmet.
“Damn well about time you got here,” Jonesy’s voice cut in.
“We stopped for coffee,” Duke replied, as the ladder truck bounced into view behind the bulldozer.
The seaplane, Wallbanger, roared overhead, making its approach toward the eastern side of the cluster of shops that lay beyond the manmade lagoon. Thick clouds of black smoke billowed up from the far side of the Mall, and Molly could just see the angry red haze from all the fires their homemade Napalm created. “It seems they’ll let anyone attend this party,” the accented voice of Harvey Walton chimed in.
“Maintain radio discipline,” she chided, feeling a bit like a buzz kill, but there were more important things than a happy reunion.
“Right you are,” Walton replied. The seaplane banked, and moments later, a gout of flame burst among the parked cars within the now visible triangle conglomeration of streets on that side, followed by a loud WHUMP, as the sound of the explosion reached Molly’s ears. “Tally ho!” Walton added. It seemed their British import was having a really good time. Crazy bastard, she thought, then turned her concentration to falling in at the tail end of the convoy created by the bulldozer and ladder truck.
Ala Moana Park Drive dipped beneath the overpass created by Ala Moana Boulevard, the way momentarily blocked by a number of abandoned and/or wrecked vehicles being quickly shoved out of the way by the bulldozer. Beyond them lay Hell on Eart
h.
“Check fire on the east side of the building, you idiots!” Jonesy’s voice called through the airwaves, as the three-round THUMP, THUMP, THUMP of the Assateague’s twenty-five millimeter auto cannon ripped through the air, shredding the zombies clustered in front of a rectangular outbuilding, which carried a sign identifying it as Nordstrom Alterations. Molly could see flames flickering beyond the shattered windows.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” came the voice of the man who’d been identified as BM2/DECK Stern. She tried to picture the guy’s face, failed, then moved on to more pressing matters.
“Wallbanger, this is Mall Cop,” Jonesy called.
“You rang?” Harvey Walton’s droll voice answered.
“Keep station to the west. We’ve got Six-Five-Eight-Three inbound.”
Molly craned her neck, trying to see through the rear windows of the bus. In the distance, beyond Assateague, she could just see the helo lifting off Polar Star’s flight deck. Glad Jonesy caught that, she thought, happy now to have relinquished her overall command of the operation.
Within less than a minute, the helicopter zoomed past, then banked, to run along the shore side of the Mall. She could see tracer rounds from the MG 240 machine gun in the aircraft’s doorway flashing downward as (she assumed) Jeri Weaver opened fire on the hundreds of zombies who still blocked their path. Someone - she had no idea whom (presumably the flight mechanic) - tossed a number of small objects out the door on the opposite side from the machine gun. Seconds later, they exploded into dark clouds of shrapnel, and grisly puffs of red, as the razor sharp bits of metal shredded human (zombie) flesh, proving the objects were, in fact, hand grenades.
“I love it!” Wendy Micari shouted, almost in Molly’s ear.
The west side of the complex was clearly on fire now, with flames gushing through the rooftop at the farthest end away from their tiny, severely outnumbered convoy. Fear gripped her heart, as if Andre the Giant held it in the palm of his Volkswagen-sized hand.
A prayer popped into her head for the first time in more years than she could count, proving, she supposed, the old adage about atheists in a fox hole.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...
134
Anuenue Fisheries Center
Honolulu, Hi
“Oh yeah!” someone from the crowd of civilians shouted, as another explosion erupted from the far side of the Mall. Others added their voices, including a few who gave the cliched, “Git some!” shout, and proving they’d seen way too many war movies.
At least Lydia assumed the explosions were coming from the Mall. She certainly hoped so.
They were clustered together at the fence line, on the extreme southern end of the zombie-free so-called safe zone, in what used to be the Anuenue Fisheries Center, in pre-plague days gone by, which lay just beyond the perimeter of the Coast Guard base. Honolulu Harbor bordered them on one side, with Sand Island Parkway on the other, the base behind them, and a series of tanks that used to hold the hatcheries for fish (that were now long-since dead), in front.
Zombies had made good use of those tanks, as a ready-made seafood buffet, but when the fish ran out, the zombies had, as well. At least that was the running theory. In any event, the stumbling lunatics were gone, and Lydia wasn’t the least bit sorry.
They couldn’t actually see the Mall, where all the action was happening, because the large main building of the Cruise Ship Terminal, across the channel, blocked their view, but they could see the explosions, and they could see both the seaplane, and the Coast Guard helicopter zipping to and fro. A line of tracers shot downward from the helo, and another shout rang up from the crowd.
She vaguely remembered the names of the people around her, and that was only because she’d had to physically write them down onto the ever-increasing list of survivors: Abernathy, Clarence; Billings, Margaret; Okonu, Robert; Kissinger, Virginia... The list went on and on, now totaling one hundred and fourteen, not including the people rescued from the base, itself. The names were starting to blur into a conglomeration of meaningless information. It made her head hurt.
Professor Floyd was there, scowling, as usual, standing next to the actual physician they’d gotten on loan from the colony on Kauai, Doctor Octavian. There was an unfortunate name, she thought. Nice guy, though. Certainly a whole lot more pleasant than Floyd.
The dog, Mac, snorted, flapped his tail twice, then resumed his repose on the ground. Lydia held him by a leash, but she doubted she needed the restraint. The chocolate lab didn’t appear to be going anywhere. Probably exhausted from having everyone who came in contact with him petting him to within an inch of his life, she thought. The people, themselves, weren’t demonstrating a whole lot of affection toward each other, but the one and only dog - maybe on all of Oahu - maybe in all the world - was another thing, entirely.
Off to the left, just visible if she craned her neck the right way, the Assateague pounded away with their big guns. Just good, clean, post-apocalyptic fun, thought Lydia, in a failed attempt to brighten her own spirits. Those were people being killed out there - or, at least, they had been people, once. She understood the affects of Pomona were irreversible, and that, in killing the infected, they were doing them a favor, but this understanding didn’t quite eliminate the feeling of existential angst.
Of course, that wasn’t really what bothered her.
Tara...
Lydia had kissed another woman - and it had been a full-on lip lock, not one of those friendly, quick peck on the side of the mouth things she’d given to who knew how many relatives and old friends. And what was worse? She enjoyed it - but not in the heat and moisture-inducing shot to her tingly bits sort of way she’d become used to, from the men she’d infrequently dated. She wasn’t exactly a virgin, after all. She’d almost gotten married once; another on her list of things best left forgotten. This had been different. This had been...
Another explosion echoed off the many buildings of Honolulu. Way out in the harbor, barely visible, a tiny spec sliced through the gentle swell between Assateague and the Star: Sass Two, with Tara at the helm. Her heart skipped a beat, then another.
Tara...
135
M/V Corrigan Cargo III
16.586018 N 160.207199 W
“We wait until an hour before they want us to launch,” Morris Minooka said. They were gathered on deck, near the cargo crane, which was being maneuvered out of the way, so they could reach the missile silos from above. This, in itself, was madness. The center of the launchers sat on the forward well deck, not three feet from the end of the crane that had allowed them to place the weapons of mass destruction into their silos. Two of the deadly tubes were, in fact beneath the end of the crane. This was sheer stupidity, but there simply hadn’t been any other way to do it, without cutting the necessarily water-tight deck to pieces, and leaving them open to being swamped by even moderately rough seas.
The ocean was calm, at the moment, but not flat, not without the long swells slowly rolling the ship from side to side as it cut through the waves toward Honolulu. The breeze had picked up, but not quite to the point of creating white caps.
A lone pirate guard - an ex-junk bond trader, named Fortescue, who’d apparently decided the pirate life was far preferable to being turned into fish food by Blackjack Charlie’s join or die method of human relations - stood tiredly about twenty feet away from them. Morris checked to be sure he hadn’t gotten curious, then resumed the conversation.
“They’ll be tired. Their minds will wander. They won’t be expecting anything, as long as everybody keeps playing their part.” He looked at the three others clustered around him: Gunner’s Mate First, Ernie Swaboda, Missile Technician Third, Eddie Cochrane, and Operations Specialist Second, Kim Bindleman. They’d become the de facto leaders of what few survivors of the Hamilton remained.
“They look pretty damned tired now,” Cochrane observed, as he cast a glance over his shoulder at Fortescue. Morris looked as well
. The pirate yawned and scratched his ass with the hand not loosely holding the AR-15.
“We’re not close enough yet,” Morris countered. “We need to be as close as we can, so the Coasties will hear us on the radio.”
“That’s your plan?” Swaboda snorted with derision. “To pin our hopes on a bunch of Puddle Pirates?”
136
The New Rooftop
Ala Moana Mall
More ammo, Jonesy thought, as he watched Sass Two speed away from the big, red icebreaker. At least he hoped it was ammo. They were sure to need it - if they were still alive.
“Well, shit,” he heard Harold say, turning in that direction to see the young black man pointing toward the bizarre convoy headed their way, as the bulldozer crunched its way through the bushes on the edge of the parking lot, followed by the ladder truck, followed by the Duck Bus.
“What?” Jonesy shouted, preparing himself for whatever disaster happened next.
“Weren’t they supposed to come in from the west side?” Harold asked.
Jonesy stared, cocking his head from east, to west, and back to the east again. Sure enough, they were coming in from that side - not the west side, not the one they’d left open for them, where the zombies were still pouring in from the surrounding area.
“Fuck me sideways,” he swore, then keyed his comm unit. “Wallbanger, Mall Cop. Close the west side door! Close the west-side door!”
“Right you are,” Harvey Walton came up, immediately, his voice sounding cheerful, as if he were about to head to the cricket pitch, or something equally British.
“Break, break, Assateague, give me all your fire on the western approach.”
“Roger, Mall Cop,” Frank’s voice said into his ear.
He’d fucked up. He hadn’t been watching the convoy’s approach, hadn’t clued into an essential fact, and who knew how many zombies had stumbled into their rescue zone because of it. Some officer you are...
“Mall Cop, Eight-Three,” Carrie Scoggins voice cut in.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 4): Zombies of Infamy Page 24
