Arisen, Book Nine - Cataclysm

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  “Nice,” Ali said. “Where’d you get that?”

  “I got Chief Shields to badge me into the engineering workshop down on 04 Deck – and he gave me the run of the place. Knocked it together in there.”

  Ali nodded, remembering the lunchtime discussion. “Just like you, Juice. The rest of us bitch. You shut up and go build something.” She ran her finger over the tube, slid it down to the foregrip – and actuated the weapon. The sharp and narrow spike shot out again, fully eighteen inches of it.

  Juice shrugged. “Purely selfish motives. I remembered having to thrust my bayonet into all those flaming zombies on Beaver Island. Got tired just thinking about it. And technology—”

  “Yeah,” Ali finished for him. “Beats dumb brute strength every time.”

  Pred, who had wandered over with Reyes, now admired the device. “Like goddamned Anton Chigurh in No Country for Old Men. Except scarier.”

  Ali smirked. “Hairier, you mean.”

  “A little less old and tired, anyway,” Juice said. He tapped the tank of compressed air, which was about the size of a small fire extinguisher. “With this, it’s good for about four hundred shots.”

  Ali put her hand on her chin. “We’re gonna need a name for your pneumatic head sticker there.”

  Juice nodded. “PHS?”

  “Not catchy enough. The Brutus?”

  Reyes leaned in. “No, man. Not pop-culture enough. But don’t worry, I got this. The OJ.” He smiled big, obviously pleased with his own cleverness.

  “I like it,” Predator said. “The Juice for Juice.”

  Ali shook her head, not all that amused by the image of a man stabbing his ex-wife repeatedly in the head and neck. “Wow. LA is a very tacky place, isn’t it?”

  His smile not dimming one watt, Reyes said, “Probably now more than ever.”

  And then he reached around and slapped Ali on her ass.

  There was a very pregnant pause, during which nobody there breathed, and Ali just slowly cocked her head. Ordinarily, she would have taken this in her stride and just let it go. She was after all one of the boys. But, then again, it occurred to her that they were here to train.

  So she brought the side of her fist, thumb protruding, around in a side swing that Reyes literally didn’t see coming – it was outside of his cone of vision. It caught him in the nerve nexus in the side of his neck – not hard enough to knock him out, but just hard enough to cause his leg muscles to give out from under him.

  As he dropped like a sack of swarthy cement toward the deck, Ali caught him in a combined wrist and arm lock, bent him over at the waist, and frogmarched him toward the stack of sparring mats.

  “Oh, you want to play grab-ass… sure, man, let’s do it…”

  The only noise out of Reyes now was a pained sputtering for breath, before Ali threw him onto the mat in a tangle of his own limbs. The remaining group of operators erupted with a unified roar of laughter that rose up twenty-five feet to the hangar ceiling.

  Handon smiled at this.

  Team building, he thought.

  * * *

  About an hour later, Master Gunnery Sergeant Fick appeared at the periphery of the training area and, not pausing to speak to anyone else, made a beeline for Reyes and Brady. These two were now grappling on the foam mats – but they were grappling with knives, and not rubber practice ones.

  Reyes had Brady in a rear chokehold, his forearm locked around his windpipe, and mimed stabbing him repeatedly in the face. Unfortunately, his victim was a tournament champion in Brazilian ju jitsu – and instantly dropped his chin, shoulders, and elbows, threw Reyes over his shoulder, locked his arm out, and then repeatedly mock-stomped him in the face.

  “Sucks to be your face,” Fick said down to the prone form of Reyes.

  “Oh, hey, Master Guns,” Reyes said, from around Brady’s foot.

  “You two on me,” Fick said. Brady pulled Reyes up off the floor, and the pair followed Fick to an out-of-the-way spot, off near the planting beds. He paused before speaking, just giving his two Marines a baleful look.

  “How are you healing up?” he finally asked.

  Neither of these two had spent much time thinking about it – but both had been seriously injured in the fight on Beaver Island. Brady had merely been shot in the arm. But Reyes had been blown up, catching significant shrapnel and burns across his body – especially his right leg. Until a couple of days ago, he could barely walk without a cane. Now both were merrily jocking up for the Somalia mission.

  “All squared away,” Reyes said.

  “Ready to get some,” Brady added.

  That seemed to cover it as far as they were concerned.

  Fick’s face did more unfamiliar contortions. It was almost as if he was worrying. It looked to his two Marines like the old grandmother version of the hard-ass master gunnery sergeant they knew and loved to hate.

  “Maybe you two ought to hang back on this one,” Fick finally said.

  “What?” Reyes exclaimed, looking like he’d been kicked in the junk.

  Brady cocked his head, skeptical. “So, what, just you and Graybeard step off?”

  Fick shook his head. “We can bring Sergeant Lovell. Pick out a fourth.”

  “Fuck that,” Reyes said. “We’re your best Marines. And you know it.”

  Brady nodded agreement. “The mission’ll have no better chance than with us along for it. Anyway, we’re not wounded – we’re handi-capable!”

  Fick exhaled. He tried on a smile – with the usual effect. Then he sagged a bit as he relented. “Okay. Maybe you’re right. And between the two of you freaks, you do make one healthy Marine – one top, one bottom. Although I don’t know which brain I want less.”

  Reyes and Brady were happy to ignore the insult, as long as they were on the mission. They smiled and went back to their mat, and to their knives.

  But Fick remained in that spot for a minute longer, his strained smile slowly fading. He was troubled, and his expression revealed it. He was trying to figure out whether what he was really concerned about was the success of the mission – or even the welfare of his Marines.

  Or whether it was something else.

  Knob-Heads

  JFK - 04 Deck

  Henno moved assertively though the dim sardine tin that was the JFK’s lower decks. He had a certain distinctive walk. It wasn’t affected. It was just something you picked up – growing up in the rural north of England, joining the British Army as early he did, and ending up at Hereford as he had.

  It was a walk that said he wasn’t going to fuck with you.

  Just as long as you refrained from having the very, very bad idea of fucking with him first. But then, if you did, all bets were off.

  For some reason there wasn’t anyone else down there at this time of day. Henno was down here now, deep in the bowels of the kilometer-long warship, heading for the MARSOC stores and weapons room. He’d been told they might have a replacement screw for the one that had gone missing from the Picatinny accessory rail on his rifle. It was annoying that he couldn’t find one in his own load-out – one of Henno’s least favorite pastimes was relying on others, particularly guys in other units – but he had to get this sorted.

  He was navigating from memory. As he paused at an intersection of companionways, he heard voices up ahead. Instantly, he knew there was something wrong about them. Menace. Fear. Something.

  Adjusting his footfalls so they were silent, he followed the sounds, edging up to the next intersection. Sticking half an eye around the corner, he could make out the scene, about twenty meters farther along.

  It was three sailors, enlisted guys, wearing not the Navy working uniform, but the blue coveralls of guys who really worked for a living. Shoving coal into the boiler down here or some such. But they weren’t alone. They were in a ring around someone else – someone much smaller.

  “Don’t be like that,” one of the sailors said – and Henno instantly didn’t like the tone of his voice. “We’re ni
ce guys! Come on, give us a chance.”

  “Yeah. Show some hard-working American boys a little love.”

  As one of the sailors shifted, Henno could now make out the figure at their center. It was Emily, the eighteen-year-old civilian girl they had pulled out of that pirate ship full of bell-ends they’d had to slot back on Lake Michigan. He gathered she’d been fitting in well, babysitting Homer’s tots, and helping out the Marines. Good for her.

  But now Henno could see one of these sailors who surrounded her running his index finger across her midsection, which was covered only by a threadbare t-shirt. Another grabbed her by the arm, his grip not gentle. She was trying to pull away, but had nowhere to go.

  “Please,” Emily said. “I need to go. Just let me go.”

  And that was all Henno needed to hear.

  He stepped into the open and powered forward, his footfalls now pounding like armored cavalry. As he waded into the group, none of the three sailors had time to react. Henno grabbed the closest one by his head with both hands and threw him down the corridor. The man had little choice but to follow his head, and so he hurtled away then slid twenty feet along the deck.

  The second was trying to step back when Henno knuckle-punched him in the throat. He dropped to the deck, wheezing.

  The third finally tried to throw a punch. Henno caught it, broke his wrist, then dislocated his elbow, and then his shoulder. The other two got back up and tried to help their friend, which was their last big mistake.

  By the time Henno switched gears from avenging demon to succoring angel, and put his arm around Emily’s shoulders to walk her out of there, all three of the sailors were down on the deck – unconscious.

  As they walked off, Henno kept Emily from looking back, which might have been disturbing to her, and instead turned her chin up to look at him. His face a portrait of gentleness and protective concern, he asked:

  “Did they hurt you? Are you injured anywhere?”

  Emily shook her head – though Henno could already see red marks on her arms where she’d been grabbed and held.

  But she was afraid to answer yes – in case Henno went back.

  * * *

  He was taking her up one level and forward to the hospital, insisting that she get checked out despite her protestations that she was fine – just shaken – when they ran into Sarah Cameron, coming from Park’s lab.

  Seeing the look on the girl’s face, she instantly asked, “Okay. What the hell happened?”

  Emily shrugged, and Henno sighed and said, “She was attacked by three knob-heads down on 04 Deck.”

  “I wasn’t attacked,” she tried to protest. “Just slightly… molested.”

  “Got it,” Sarah said, instantly going into police mode. “Let’s all just take a walk back into the hospital so Doc Walker can look you over. Then, if you’re feeling up to it, we’ll sit down and you can tell me exactly what happened.”

  Sarah looked as if she wished she had her police notebook with her.

  But Emily couldn’t help but feel better. This was a lot of care and protection.

  * * *

  Handon palmed his phone after it beeped at him.

  He had a text, sent across the ship’s packet data network.

  He’d initially been amazed to find he had cell service, out here in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean – and in the middle of the post-Apocalypse. But he’d learned the network was not only ship-wide, but covered the whole carrier strike group. A supercarrier in effect operated a mid-size telecoms service provider – the clue was in the thicket of antennas and dishes that topped the island – and the strike group itself was like a big city, or small island nation.

  The text on Handon’s phone, curtly worded, was summoning him to the bridge.

  He didn’t really have time for this, but he assumed it must be important. In eight minutes he’d climbed his way to the top of the island. There, sitting at his station, Commander Abrams was waiting for him. But he didn’t look happy to see him.

  “Your man Henno,” Abrams said, not getting up, “just put three of my sailors in the hospital.”

  “Okay,” Handon said. “What happened?”

  Abrams shook his head and ignored the question. “One is having his jaw wired shut. Another has an arm he may never use normally again. All three are basically out for the duration. Do I look to you like I have personnel I can spare?”

  Handon squinted in thought. His first reaction was loyalty to his people, plus not rushing to judgment. “Henno must have had his reasons,” he said. He hadn’t heard Henno’s side of it, and it sounded like neither had Abrams. Then again, it was possible neither of them ever would – Henno wasn’t big on explaining himself or justifying his actions.

  In any case, Abrams didn’t look too interested in impartiality. “Yeah, well, those reasons are your problem. Mine is keeping your trained killers from decimating my crew. Handle it.”

  Handon exhaled. “I’ll handle it.”

  He turned and headed below again.

  What Needs Doing

  JFK - Alpha Berths

  “So what caught your fancy about hunting and survival?” Henno asked.

  Sarah smiled. “Someone had to be ready. Sure wasn’t going to be my husband.”

  Henno nodded. “Admit I never did understand that match.”

  The two were sitting in Henno’s cabin now, side by side on the lower bunk bed. After getting Emily checked out, they had taken her back here so Sarah could question her about what happened. It was closer than Sarah and Handon’s bigger cabin, and was also the closest place they figured they could get some privacy.

  Finishing with that, they’d sent Emily on her way. Henno tried to accompany her back to her duties, but she’d insisted it wasn’t necessary, and went off on her own. But Sarah had stayed to talk, and the talk was quickly turning personal.

  “Shane – um, Handon said the same thing. He didn’t understand my marriage. Why would he? And he wanted to know what had happened to me that sent me down that life path.”

  “You tell him?”

  She shook her head. “No. I didn’t.”

  Henno just nodded. He’d figured it was something. To cause her to get into that situation. That made her distrustful of people. That made her so distant from her husband and son. None of that had been any mystery to Henno.

  Only the cause was.

  Sarah took a deep breath. What the hell? she thought. For some reason she had a sense now this man wouldn’t judge her. She also wasn’t in a relationship with him, so there was less at stake.

  “Fifteen years ago,” she said finally, speaking nearly in a monotone, “I was a rookie cop in Toronto… Well, no, wait. It starts earlier than that. With my father, I guess.” She paused there, obviously having trouble continuing.

  “Go on, then,” Henno said. “I guarantee you he couldn’t have been a bigger tosser than me own dad.”

  Sarah laughed, but uneasily. “Don’t speak too soon. Mine was manic-depressive, and he self-medicated with a lot of alcohol. When he was down, it was like all the lights had gone out. But when he was up it was worse – gambling, whoring, money troubles.”

  “Okay,” Henno admitted. “That’s pretty grim.”

  Sarah shook her head. “He also abused my mother. Every time the neighbors called the cops, she’d say it was her fault and she didn’t want to press charges – and the officers would nod and wink and leave. That was really the reason I joined the force. To try to make some kind of change.”

  “And did you?”

  “I hope so. But I also almost pissed it all away. When I was a rookie, trying to fit in, I got involved with another officer – older, more cynical… and way too much like my father. Drank a lot, took risks, wasn’t always very nice to me. I started drinking with him – too much sometimes. Sometimes too close to a duty shift. Turned out he was also involved in some shady business with the Mob. I only found that out when internal affairs got interested in him, and started questioning me. He
panicked and asked me to help get rid of some evidence.”

  Henno tilted his head. “And did you in the end?”

  Sarah paused. “No. I can’t say I didn’t think about it. But what he wanted me to do… I couldn’t cross that line.” Sarah just stared at the bulkhead for a moment. “Then he wanted me to testify to things that were just flat-out lies. Lies that would put others in prison.”

  “So what happened?” Henno asked.

  “Funny, in the end, after all his tough talk, he pleaded out and accepted loss of his badge and five years of parole… after ratting out all his buddies. He had a car accident six months later, killed instantly.”

  Henno nodded his head seriously. “I’m guessing it wasn’t an accident.”

  Sarah just shrugged. Her body language said it all.

  “They ever come after you – his Mob buddies?”

  “I got a couple of hang-up phone calls. Dark sedans parked across the street. Enough that I moved across town, didn’t give anyone my new address.”

  “But you were still a cop.”

  “Barely. He nearly took my career down with his. Why do you think I was never promoted past constable first class, in fifteen years of service? I was tainted. Basically, I flew too close to the flame. And I knew it.”

  Henno nodded. He was starting to see where this was going.

  “Not long after that I met Mark. Decent guy. No connection to the police, much less to organized crime. Stable. Didn’t drink, didn’t gamble. Was always nice to me – certainly would never hit me. Marrying him seemed to be a way to make my life safe. Not long after, when I realized I’d made a mistake, I doubled down by getting pregnant. Thought that might make the marriage make sense. But then I was really stuck – forever, even past the end of the world.”

  Henno nodded and grunted. “Well, you’re free now.”

  “I guess so. But at what cost?”

  The two sat in silence for a few seconds. Henno could tell she’d just needed an ear to bend, had been waiting for one for a long time, and he was happy to provide it. Sure, he’d been flirting with her before in the galley, and down at the shooting range – he couldn’t ignore that Sarah was an attractive, fit, smart woman. And he certainly didn’t give a damn how Handon felt about it.