Their last orders from the Star had been to proceed to Midway, to help in repelling the pirate attack. Subsequently, since those orders were issued, they’d heard the report of the pirates’ defeat and demise. Carol had nearly spit coffee through her nose when John Gordon called Peavey an idiot. She sincerely wished she could have seen the expression on the worthless bastard’s face.
They’d picked up bits and pieces since, but all their calls to both the Star and Hono had gone unanswered. Either those calls hadn’t gone through, for whatever reason (be it a fault in their Upper Side Band transmitter, or some weird atmospheric interference), or they were simply being ignored. She doubted it was the latter, and no one on board the tug had the technical expertise to do anything about the former, so she was left with the task of deciding what to do next.
They could continue heading toward Midway, and arrive in the middle of the night at a place where they weren’t really needed, or they could turn back around, and head toward Honolulu, as originally planned. If they did so, if they turned back, then they’d be disobeying the last order Captain Hall had given them.
Either way, she would have to make the decision soon. They were almost to the point of no return. They had enough fuel to make it to either Midway or Honolulu, but if they kept going west for very much longer, and then decided to turn around, they’d run out of fuel before they reached Oahu. Running out of gas would be bad. They could probably find enough diesel on Kauai, but what organization there was on the island, had been geared toward the island, itself, by the civilians at Lihue, who hadn’t spared much if any thought to the maritime logistic needs of vessels at sea. Finding that fuel might be problematic, at best, or a nightmare, at worst.
“Screw it,” she said. “Let’s turn around.”
260
Liscomb Bay Street Pier
Ford Island
Where is he? Molly thought. It wasn’t a military thought, wasn’t a team thought, didn’t include any of the rest of the team, at all, or any of the Marines, who were the whole point to this insane exercise; only Jonesy.
The explosion had been loud and dramatic. It rattled and shattered nearby windows, and actually set off a car alarm, somewhere to the northeast. Wouldn’t seem it were even possible, after all this time, for a battery to provide enough juice to set off the damned annoying alarm, but there it was, beeping away into the silence following the big boom. None of which explained why no one - not the Marines, not Duke or Scott Pruden, or Marc Micari or Socrates Jones - had made it through the small building yet. Had something gone horribly wrong?
“Here they come,” Harold said, as if in answer to her unspoken question.
He’d remained on the pier with her, while all the rest of the team from the Duck Bus boarded the small boats and headed for the relative safety of the Sass. Wendy Micari had wanted to stay - had nearly needed to be carried bodily to the ladder at the end of the pier - but Molly wasn’t about to let a civilian stand around in harm’s way when space remained on the boats. All those boats (including the one from Assateague) were in the process of disgorging their passengers onto the buoy tender, so even after Jonesy and the others arrived, there wouldn’t be anywhere for them to go. The understanding didn’t relieve her anxiety one bit.
The Marines were the first to come through the glass door from the small building, followed by Marc and Scott. Then came Duke and finally Jonesy, taking up the rear and covering their escape. Naturally.
Would it have been too much for the guy to be first in line for once? Apparently so.
Movement caught her eye off to the right, coming from the direction of the large building next to which Jonesy had told her to wait until he called. Her impatience had gotten the better of her and she’d driven the bus out of cover and into the mob of infected cannibals which had nearly cost all their lives. She should feel chagrin, at the very least, for her culpability - and she would, in due time - but at the moment, all she had room for was fear.
Coming down Essex Street, toward where it connected to Liscomb Bay at the head of the short finger pier on which they waited, marched another large column of zombies. She turned toward Jonesy and screamed: Run!”
261
Comm Center
COMMSTA Honolulu, Hi
“Polar Star, this is COMMSTA, roger,” Amber Winkowski said into the GSB. She and Bill Schaeffer had been sitting there, twiddling their proverbial thumbs and listening to the fragmented conversations taking place over the airwaves for hours. The air felt stifling, even though the ventilation now worked, unlike all those days she’d spent trapped in there, alone with the corpse of OS3 Jackass Jackson. Of course, the air outside wasn’t any too fresh, either, what with all the death and decay and burning destruction surrounding them in Honolulu, but at least up on the roof, she’d been able to feel the breeze. Didn’t matter that she couldn’t be up there without a gas mask for fear of upchucking. Just another annoying detail.
“Give us a SITREP,” the scratchy growl of Master Chief Wolf ordered.
“Seventeen civilians and military personnel airlifted off the two buildings the helo could access, including one Navy Lieutenant Commander who is apparently unhappy with the service we’ve provided,” she reported.
Wolf grumbled something unintelligible, but Amber didn’t ask for clarification. Master Chiefs could always make themselves understood when the need arose, and tended to be rather grouchy when asked for clarification on something they didn’t feel like clarifying. Best to leave well enough alone.
Bill Schaeffer rolled his eyes at her and chuckled. “I’m sure the Master Chief is all broken up about the feelings of Commander Squidly,” he said.
“He’ll probably cry himself to sleep tonight,” she replied.
“He’s probably weeping right now,” Bill quipped. “I know I am.” His eyes remained perfectly tear-free.
Ah, sarcasm, she thought, shaking her head. She returned her attention to the task at hand.
“Roger, Star,” she said, giving Bill a shrug. “Most of the team from the Duck Bus have been evacuated to the Sass. Petty Officer Simmons and Ms. Gordon are waiting on the Marines and Warrant Officer Jones’s team, and they’ll be evacuated on the next boat run.”
“Any casualties?” Master Chief Wolf asked.
“Not yet,” Bill said. His expression - always so placid and unemotional, had turned just a bit grim. The fun and games were far from over, and they knew it.
“Negative,” she answered, choosing brevity over the act of expressing her anxiety.
“Roger,” Wolf replied. “Tell all the major players that Captain Hall has scheduled a meeting, first thing in the morning.”
“Of course he has,” she said to Bill, making sure to not send her comment out over the airwaves. The one constant in an ever-changing universe, the one thing most easy to predict, was the military penchant for meetings.
“That should be fun,” Bill said. “You know everybody’s gonna get hammered tonight.”
“I know I am,” she replied. This seemed a fair certainty, and one the Captain should have understood. After the last couple of days, people needed the release, needed the distraction, needed to get falling down drunk. The only question was whether the alcohol would be for a celebration, or a wake.
262
USCGC Assateague
Off Essex Street, Ford Island
“We can sure as shit shoot at them,“ Gary King said, pointing at the zombie parade making its way down Essex.
“There’s only you and me left, dude,” Frank replied. He’d returned to the Bridge, after launching Babbett and EM3 Eddie Martinez in the small boat. No one stood watch in the engineroom, no one stood on the forecastle, ready to drop the anchor in an emergency. The sixteen person compliment normally assigned to an Island Class Patrol Boat had been reduced to just the two of them.
“Here’s your chance to fire the fifty,” Gary suggested.
Frank smiled. “So it is,” he said, and left the Bridge at a run.
<
br /> 263
Liscomb Bay Street Pier
Ford Island
“Run away!” Jonesy yelled. Of course, they hadn’t exactly been taking a stroll across the promenade, but Molly’s screamed warning had been like adding nitrous to a muscle car with a 426 Hemi.
They reached the pier in what must have been Olympic world record time. Didn’t do them much good. No small boats waited to take them away. They were trapped, and the zombies were getting ever-closer.
“Wonderful,” Jonesy spat. “Anybody got any ammo left?”
Nobody did.
“Well, shit,” Duke swore, and pulled his twin hammers from his belt.
“Fuck a freaking duck,” Harold agreed, pulling his baseball bat (a new one, since the old one had been wrecked when he got dogpiled) from the sheath he’d fashioned onto his combat pack.
“We can fight melee,” McNaughton offered.
“With what?” Jonesy asked, eyeing the man from head to toe. All he carried was his empty M-4, same with the rest of his men.
“Sass Two is on the way,” Molly reported. He had the strangely inappropriate desire to wrap her in his arms, but he doubted the maneuver would instill much confidence in their new Marine Corps friends.
“Let us fight!” McNaughton protested.
“Sorry Marine,” Jonesy said. “If you guys get killed, then we did all this for nothing,” he added, removing both kukri machetes from over his shoulders. “Get your asses to the boats. That’s an order.”
McNaughton scowled, obviously not happy, just as his men were obviously spoiling for a fight, but he was a staff sergeant, Jonesy was a warrant officer, and Molly was a Lieutenant, Junior Grade. “ He stiffened to attention, albeit begrudgingly, and said: “Yes, sir.”
Jonesy took pity on him. “Look around you,” he said. “There’s plenty of fighting left to do. An entire world of it.” He waved his right hand machete at the Pearl Harbor base across the water. “That starts tomorrow. Today, your job is to stay alive. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The boats are here,” Duke reported.
McNaughton stared at Jonesy for another long moment, then he said: “Let’s go, Marines!”
Jonesy turned and faced the oncoming threat, giving his blades an experimental spin. Duke came up beside him. Harold stepped next to Duke. Molly came up on Jonesy’s other side and pulled out her own, single kukri machete, as the first zombies came within striking distance.
Duke slammed a hammer into one zombie’s forehead, as Jonesy hacked the arm off another, and Harold used a third for batting practice. Molly demonstrated a bit of flair by ducking beneath the clutching hands of a fourth, executing a textbook leg sweep, and bringing the thing to the ground, where she sliced open its throat.
They fought, backpedaling one careful step at a time toward the pier. Step-slice, step-whack, step-cut, step-batter up. The crack of rifle fire from behind them showed they weren’t alone.
Assateague banged away with a lone fifty cal, destroying the zombies working their way toward them along Essex Street. Six-Five-Eight-Three joined the party, giving Jeri Weaver more target practice, and allowing AT3 Mark Columbus to work on his pitching skills, as he tossed grenades out the door opposite Weaver.
The RRB arrived, with Jennifer Collins at the helm. “You guys coming?” She called.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Jonesy said, cutting the head off of a zombie wearing the uniform shirt, and one, single shoulder board, identifying the creature as a former Commander in the US Navy. “But I’ve had enough fun for one day.”
“Fucking right,” Harold agreed.
“Let’s go,” Molly said.
264
M/V True North
Midway Atoll
“Where the hell did you get that?” John asked, staring at Gus in wonder.
His oldest remaining friend took a long, clearly satisfying pull on the thing in question: a nice, fat cigar. “It’s Cuban,” he said, blowing out a thick cloud of white smoke. “My last one. Been saving it for a special occasion.”
John had come up to the Bridge to get away from everyone. He needed time to process what had happened. Teddy was dead. Even worse, Jim was dead. Dead and gone.
Lane Keely had passed on the news that a memorial was planned for the next morning. Both Denise and Stephanie Barber were asking him to say a few words. He had no idea yet what those words might be.
He lapsed back into silence. Gus seemed to sense he needed space, and so left, without another word.
What could he say?
He and Teddy had been more shipmates than friends. He sincerely doubted most people would understand the distinction. Didn’t matter. Shipmates were shipmates forever, whether you were friendly or not, whether you could stand the sight of them or not. The bond ran deeper than anything short of immediate family.
Jim had been both a shipmate and a friend. A good friend. They’d known each other for decades. For all intents and purposes, he was family. Had been family. Denise and Stephanie were family still. How could he encapsulate or explain that in mere words?
They’d spent the majority of their lives together, being part of something greater than themselves. Semper Paratus: Always Ready. Now, with Jim gone, with his larger-than-life presence leaving behind a man-sized hole in John’s broken heart, how could anybody be ready for that?
“There you are,” the beloved voice of his daughter said from behind him.
“Hi, honey,” he said, wiping away the tears before turning to face her. “What’s up?”
Samantha, his baby girl, had nearly died. What’s worse, she’d taken the life of another human being. No sixteen year old should ever have to go through that. He gave her a hug. She laid her head against his chest, hugging him back. They stood there, in silence.
She seemed to be bearing up well, all things considered. Outwardly, anyway, she seemed to be responding better than he was. He drew strength from her, and tried to give back all the love he felt.
After a while, she stirred, and pulled away from him.
“What’s up?” He asked again.
“I have a question.”
“Oh?” He replied.
“Promise you won’t freak out,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. So strong. So independent. So young.
“No promises,” he said.
She took a steadying breath, dropped the bombshell, and sent his world sideways:
“Do you think they’d let me join the Coast Guard?”
265
USCGC Sassafras
Pearl Harbor, Hawaii
Jonesy dragged his happy, utterly exhausted ass up the acom ladder. Once again, now that the action was over, now that he and those he cared for weren’t up to their eyeballs in death and destruction and all the other levels of badness they’d shared since bugging out from Honolulu, all those weeks ago, his entire body hurt.
He vaguely remembered a quote from Abraham Lincoln. During the middle years of the Civil War, when Robert E. Lee and the Confederacy were racking up victory after victory, a man visited him at the White House, following one of the few battles the Union actually won. The man, in an effort to cheer him up, suggested the President should take heart from the win. Lincoln agreed, then sighed and added: “Nothing touches the tired spot.” Jonesy could relate.
He clomped his way toward the makeshift shower, under the overhanging lip of the forecastle, dropping pieces of equipment as he went. Down went the Thompson, his back pack, his blades, his harness, his holsters, leaving a trail like bloody breadcrumbs across the Buoy Deck. His helmet and gas mask fell last. He barely noticed.
He barely noticed the others who entered the shower with him. He knew they were there: Duke, Harold, and Molly - all seeming just as tired, just as utterly worn out. He stared at the water running off his still-clothed body and onto his boots. The puddles at his feet were pale red. Chunks floated in them.
“Alcohol,” Duke grunted.
“Wh
at?” He asked, looking up. He didn’t get an answer. Something else caught his - and everyone else’s - attention.
McNaughton and the rest of his Marines came through the hatchway from the Mess Deck and onto the Buoy Deck. They were still in uniform and hadn’t showered yet. If Jonesy had been in their shoes, and had spent the last several weeks using nothing but baby wipes for personal hygiene, a shower would have been Priority One. Apparently, McNaughton and his men had other ideas.
Jonesy stepped out of the cascading water and wiped his face to clear his vision. Harold stepped up beside him.
“Marines!” McNaughton barked. “Atten-shun!” Ten men snapped to rigid attention. “Hand salute!” Ten right hands shot to ten temples.
Jonesy stood there, staring in open-mouthed wonder at the scene.
“What the fuck?” Duke asked, coming up beside Harold.
“They’re saluting us,” Molly said, from Jonesy’s other side.
“Well, slap me nekked and call me Bubba,” Duke said.
“I’d never have believed it in a million years,” Harold agreed.
“Brave New World,” Jonesy said, coming as close to attention as his exhausted body could manage. He returned the salute, as did Harold, Duke, and Molly.
“Brave New World,” Harold echoed.
Jonesy dropped his salute, as did the others. The Marines, as one, dropped theirs, but remained at attention, as if on a parade ground awaiting inspection.
“Are you ready for it?” Jonesy asked, fully expecting the young man to offer some smart-assed reply.
Instead, Harold smiled, and said: “Always.”
THE END
(for now)
A NOTE TO MY READERS:
I’ll spare you the suspense, confusion, and potential heartache, by saying there are more stories to tell in this world I’ve destroyed, over the last four novels. For now, however, this part of their story is at an end.
My ever-working, twisted mind has already concocted a prequel, which will be the origin story of the Pomona Virus, and a sequel, detailing events that occur some months after those herein. For now, however, it’s time to say goodby to Jonesy and Molly and Duke, and all the rest. Let’s face it: they need a break.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 4): Zombies of Infamy Page 40
