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

by Thomson, Jeff

  Yes. Yes she had.

  She glanced over her shoulder and up at the widows of the Bridge above and behind them. Wheeler was there. So was Montrose, she supposed. And they were watching, if for no other reason than there was nothing else to look at, except the devastated landscape around them.

  The kiss had come during an unguarded moment, when all her defenses were down and she was so damned happy to see Jonesy, very much alive, and standing in front of her. Now she’d had time to think about it, time to dwell on those consequences. And now there was no question that a superior officer would see her breaking the rule against fraternization, if she did what she wanted to do most.

  “There will be booze if I have to tear this island apart to find it,” the Boston-accented voice of their commanding officer, Lieutenant Commander Steven Wheeler said from behind her, as he clomped down the ladder from the boat deck. “You guys earned it.”

  “I’m buying the first round!” Lieutenant Amy Montrose yelled through cupped hands and a filter mask, from her position above, on the starboard bridge wing.

  Wheeler stepped up to Molly and Jonesy, who tried to salute, but he waved it away. “At ease,” he said. “Glad to see you’re still breathing.” He offered his hand to Jonesy, who shook it and smiled back at him.

  “So am I,” Jonesy replied.

  “And you, Ms. Gordon,” Wheeler said, turning his attention to Molly and offering his hand to her, as well. “That was the craziest plan I’ve ever heard,” he said. “I don’t know how you made it work, but I think I finally understand how you took a ravaged crew and turned them into a cohesive unit capable of making all this happen and succeed.” He released her hand, took a step back, drew himself to attention, and saluted.

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied, returning the salute.

  “Thank you,” he countered, then turned to the rest of the assembled Coasties. “You guys head below and get changed. Try not to make too much of a mess for Petty Officer King. Don’t want him poisoning our chow.”

  A chorus of Yes, sir, answered his order, as they all moved to comply, dragging their dripping wet equipment and weapons with them. None of them were exactly marching - they were all too exhausted - but Molly was pretty sure there was a certain snap in their step - even the civilian, Marc Micari, who, she suddenly remembered, had been in the Air Force, once upon a time.

  Wheeler returned his attention to Molly and Jonesy. He favored them with an apologetic grin.

  “I’d love to be able to say you have the rest of the week off,” he said. “But I can’t.” He seemed genuinely sorry. “Captain Hall wants us to go aboard the Star for a briefing.”

  Molly clearly heard Jonesy mutter: “Fuuuuuuck.” She shared the sentiment.

  Wheeler’s smile slowly faded. This doesn’t bode well, she thought.

  “Things have happened,” he said. “Bad things.”

  183

  The Wardroom

  USCGC Polar Star

  “We have reason to believe the cargo vessel has suffered a catastrophe,” LCDR Stubbelfield said. They were gathered around the long, rectangular Wardroom table: Jonesy, Molly, Wheeler, the Star’s XO, Commander Swedberg, Master Chief Wolf, Jim Barber, and Captain Gideon D. Hall.

  “Catastrophe?” Jonesy (showered again and wearing a clean, dry uniform) asked. “On the cargo ship,” he clarified. “The one with the nukes...”

  “Yes,” Stubbelfield replied.

  “Jesus,” Molly swore softly. Jonesy heard her, but he doubted anyone else had.

  “What kind of catastrophe?” Jonesy asked, not sure if he wanted to know the actual answer.

  “The nuclear kind,” Master Chief Wolf answered.

  “Yeah, that’s all fine and good, but frankly, I don’t give a fuck,” Jim Barber growled. He’d been sitting, there, fidgeting and scowling, but saying nothing. Jonesy couldn’t blame him. “I need to get to Midway.” His wife and daughter were on Midway.

  “We need to get to Midway, Mister Barber,” Captain Hall said. “And we’re doing everything we can to expedite the aircraft repair.” He turned to Swedberg. “XO?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Executive Officer replied. “Our entire support air crew is working to fabricate the necessary parts.”

  Jonesy knew - having served on the Coast Guard’s other icebreaker, the Healy - that each AVDET, or Aviation Detachment, consisted of two, four-member air crews, plus an additional number of technical support personnel to keep the helicopters in repair while deployed underway. The loss of the Eight-Five had been devastating, but not crippling. They still had one air crew (minus a Rescue Swimmer) and several mechanics and electronics technicians. They were down, but not out.

  “They need to work faster,” Barber demanded. Jonesy got the distinct impression the man might start pounding people at any moment.

  “It takes as long as it takes,” Master Chief Wolf said in a no-nonsense voice. “Deal with it.” The two men stared at each other - two crusty bastards facing off, mono a mono, one salty son of a bitch to another. Jonesy felt certain any other man would be on the ground, breathing through a broken nose, but from the Master Chief, Jim seemed to take it - for now. He sat back in his chair and resumed his silent scowl.

  “You think one of the nukes went off by accident?” Wheeler asked.

  “Or by design,” Hall replied. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. The threat appears to have been neutralized.”

  “And the other ship?” Molly asked. “The one going to Midway?”

  Hall looked to Stubbelfield, who was running the briefing. “Lieutenant Commander?”

  “The civilian ship, True North, and the tug our team on Kauai salvaged...” he consulted his notes. “...the Mahalo, have both diverted toward Midway.” He looked up at the assembled meeting, his eyes calm, but serious. “We’ll be getting underway, as soon as we make arrangements to leave the Eight-Three in place, but they’ll get there before we do, and I’m afraid the earliest either of them can be there is late tomorrow afternoon.” He looked at Barber. “Even if we could repair the seaplane right this second, it’d still be at least eight hours till you can get there.”

  “I’m afraid,” Captain Hall said, “the people on Midway will be on their own for a while.”

  184

  The Mess Hall

  Midway Atoll

  “We don’t have enough weapons,” CWO2 Francis Peavey said, once again blathering on about what they couldn’t do, rather than adding something constructive about what they could do to defend against the pirates.

  “So what are you suggesting, Francis?” Stephanie Barber asked, knowing full well how much he disliked anyone using his first name. “Throw up our arms and surrender?”

  He sputtered in reply. It seemed to be his standard answer for everything, whenever someone pointed out the obvious error in his thinking. Stephanie prided herself on giving people the benefit of the doubt. It was easier, and it allowed for the fair exchange of ideas and perspectives from a diverse group of people. But Chief Warrant Officer Peavey just kept right on proving - beyond any doubt - that he was as useless a P. O. S. as anyone they were likely to find in this post-apocalyptic world.

  All the original True North crew who hadn’t boarded the ship for its return journey to Honolulu, were gathered in the not air conditioned Mess Hall, trying to discuss options. A variety of civilians were also there, along with several more Coasties, from both the base on Sand Island, and a token few from the Star, like Mister Peavey, and the much more delightful Lieutenant, Junior Grade, Sam Boneventura, who was sitting by her side at a large table in the middle of the hall. She squeezed his thigh. He smiled at her in reply, and patted her hand. Whether this was to comfort her and show solidarity for her exchange with the irritating Peavey, or to keep her from sliding her own hand further up his thigh, she couldn’t be sure. Probably both, come to think about it.

  Ever since their rather unfortunate case of coitus interruptus (thanks to her own mother, for crap’s sake), she had to adm
it, she’d been more than a little randy. On the surface, this seemed incredibly inappropriate, given their current circumstances. Everything had its proper time and place, and the Mess Hall on an isolated atoll under immanent threat from an attack by pirates, in front of a crowd of the very few people who were available to defend it, wasn’t it.

  No,” Peavey protested. “No. Of course not.”

  On the other hand, Stephanie also had to admit she was scared, and there was little, if anything more life-affirming than sex. They could die - actually die - and it didn’t take a Rhodes Scholar to figure out what (or rather, who) the pirates were coming to Midway for: her. She was the only one on the atoll who knew how to make the vaccine. Sam Boneventura knew now, as well, but she’d been doing it for quite a bit longer than he had, and if her suspicion was correct, and if the person who’d told the pirates who to kidnap, was the same rotten bitch who’d stolen so many doses of the vaccine - Clara fucking Blondelle, who’d left before Sam arrived - then she (and thus the pirates) couldn’t know about him, which brought her back to the frightening conclusion that she was target number one. She might as well have been carrying a bullseye on her back.

  So, yes. Sex sounded like a pretty damned good idea - but not right there in the Mess Hall. Her mother was there.

  “We should at least consider the possibility,” Peavey said, finally admitting what she’d felt certain was the truth, all along. His version of the truth, anyway. Her own truth, her own opinion - and (from what she saw in the eyes of the people around her) most, if not all of those gathered in the Mess Hall - was that the man was a stinking coward.

  “Sell your chickenshit somewhere else, Peavey,” Teddy Spute said.

  Stephanie scanned the room again, looking for the reaction of the Coast Guard personnel. They seemed guarded, which made sense, given Peavey’s superior rank, but their eyes told a different tale. They agreed with Spute. They agreed with her. They could not, however, voice their opinion.

  “There are women here,” Peavey said. “And children. We need to think about them.”

  Off to Stephanie’s left, sixteen year-old Samantha Gordon stood. “Screw that,” she said. “I say we fight.”

  Now the Coasties were at least nodding.

  Bob-Bob Stoeffel - all six-foot-five of him - stood and glared at the man. The muscles in his chest seemed to vibrate through his tight tee shirt. “If you don’t want to fight, then hide,” he said, in an even and calm voice. “The rest of us will do what we have to do.”

  “And when it’s all over,” Teddy Spute said, “we’ll be sure and tell everyone on the Star that when push came to shove, you had less courage than a teenage girl.”

  “Damn right,” Shilo Grant agreed, standing beside Samantha.

  “How dare you!” Peavey snapped, rising to his feet and confronting Spute, who sat along the table some dozen or so feet away from the useless bastard. “I’ve had enough of your mouth.”

  Spute rose as well. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Enough!” Sam Boneventura said. He remained seated beside her, She gave his thigh another encouraging squeeze. “As the senior officer present, and thus in nominal command of this atoll,” he began, “the decision is mine.”

  Peavey sputtered again, but recovered quickly. “You?” He asked, incredulous. “You’re nothing but a glorified pecker-checker.”

  Bob-Bob took one thoroughly intimidating step toward the man. “And he has my full support.”

  “And mine,” Samantha declared.

  Several other people (including a number of the recently-arrived Coasties, who rose as one), voiced their support, as well. Sam raised his hand for silence, and received it.

  “Everyone please take their seats,” he said, in that same even voice with which he always spoke. “We’re fighting. End of discussion.” Slowly, but surely, everyone - including Peavey - sat back down. “The first thing we need is an inventory of all our weapons.”

  185

  The Wardroom

  USCGC Polar Star

  “When do we go?” Jonesy asked. It seemed such an obvious question, and the formality of the briefing was taking too goddamned long. Best to get started now, and figure out the details later.

  “You don’t,” Captain Hall replied.

  Jonesy leaned back into his chair and stared at the man, perplexed. This didn’t make any sense.

  “At the risk of seeming like an egotistical ass...” he began, but Hall cut him off.

  “Yes, Mister Jones,” the Captain said, “we are well aware that you are the most qualified person, which is why you’re staying here.”

  Jonesy looked from Hall, to Molly, to Jim Barber, to Wheeler, then back to Hall again. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Jones!” Swedberg barked, in fine, Executive Officer fashion. It irritated Jonesy. They didn’t have time for this shit, didn’t have time for foolish riddles.

  Molly put a steadying hand on his thigh. At any other time, that might have done the trick, and would, in all probability, be a welcome distraction, but not there, and not then.

  “It’s all right, XO,” Hall soothed. He turned his attention to Jonesy. “You’re not going, Mister Jones, because you still have the not inconsiderable task of liberating Ford Island.”

  186

  Warehouse 14

  Ford Island, Hi

  “Sounds like they’re leaving,” Private Chesney said, as he - and the rest of First Squad - continued to stare at the hand-held radio over which the Coastie’s astounding rescue had been playing out.

  The rescue, itself, had succeeded, in spite of all the odds. Many of the young Marines looked to Staff Sergeant McNaughton as if they still couldn’t believe it. He could scarcely believe it, himself.

  He’d done plenty of gambling, during his years in the Marine Corps, had spent many a night in bivouac, whiling away the down time with poker, blackjack, craps, and anything else they could think to bet on, just to relieve the monotony, and to keep their minds from dwelling on the next time they’d have to go outside the wire. He’d become pretty good at it, if he said so himself, and he’d bet on some pretty wild things - up to and including a pool on when the next IUD would go off. They’d only done that once, and (after the event resulted in the death of one Marine, and the traumatic injury of three others) the man who won, refused the money. They used it, instead, to buy a shitload of beer.

  Nothing he’d ever bet on, however, had seemed as patently impossible as what the Coasties had just accomplished. And now they did, in fact, seem to be leaving.

  They’d heard the transmission between Polar Star, and an ocean-going tug, the Mahalo, which (if he understood it correctly) the Coasties on Kauai had salvaged, with the intent of using it to transport refugees from Honolulu. They’d heard the order for it to divert toward Midway and rendezvous with another vessel, the True North, somewhere between there and Hono. They’d also heard something about pirates, and it had blown McNaughton’s mind.

  Pirates? Really? What the actual fuck?

  In any case, the original mission - the rescue - had been completed, and now it sounded as if they were moving onto the next crisis. Unfortunately for First Squad, the crisis in question wasn’t theirs.

  Make no mistake, they were in deep shit. Sure, they had bottled water. Sure, they had enough food to last, as long as they remained on short rations, but they were on an island filled with zombies, and all the noise, all the explosions, all the fuss (eight miles away, though it may have been) had the crazy diseased fuckers on Ford Island more agitated than he could remember them being since the excrement hit the oscillating device.

  On that day, they’d barely managed to keep the warehouse doors barricaded well enough to prevent the zombies from crashing their way through and eating every last one of them. They’d kept a low profile since then, maintaining strict noise discipline, but in truth, it hadn’t been hard. After the first couple of days, it seemed as if the poor, infected bastards had settled in for a n
ice, long wait.

  There had been a flurry of activity, about a week after the shit hit the fan, when a mixed group of Navy personnel and civilians at the Pearl Harbor Aviation Museum attempted a breakout. McNaughton and First Squad had been able to see a portion of that building, and so had witnessed the resulting carnage. They’d watched in silent, gut-wrenching horror as a civilian woman was torn to shreds. That had been bad. The rest had been worse.

  Weeks later, they were still stuck in Warehouse 14. And now, the zombies were agitated again.

  So, yeah. Deep shit.

  “They’re gonna do what they’re gonna do,” McNaughton said, in his best staff sergeant growl.

  “But I thought they were gonna rescue us next,” Private Chesney protested. “If they go away, we’re fucked!”

  The kid had always been something of a little bitch, complaining about night watches, or short rations, or whatever else he could find to whine about, and McNaughton had tolerated it - to a point. It didn’t pay to be too heavy-handed with troops in a siege - which certainly described their current condition - so he’d let it slide, for the most part. He’d cracked down every now and then, just to remind the kid - and the rest of First Squad - who was boss, but he’d basically just ignored it. He couldn’t ignore this.

  “Secure that shit, right this fucking second,” Staff Sergeant McNaughton barked, “or I’ll have you scrubbing the shitter from inside the tank.” He glowered at the others, letting them all see the wrath of God in his eyes. “Listen up, my babies,” he said. “Nothing has changed. Situation normal: all fucked up. Deal with it, or else.”