Islands of Rage and Hope

by John Ringo

  “Please God, it’s not illegal immigrants,” Smitty said as Faith used her trench knife to pop the seal on the container.

  The interior was filled with large plastic cases.

  “Running shoes,” Faith said, looking at the manifest. “Explains why it floated. This is useful. Maybe Rusty can find a pair in his size. Keep going?”

  “Sounds good to me, ma’am,” Smitty said. He’d turned to cover the lieutenant while she explored. “There’s a small hotel up the beach.”

  “Trying to get me into a bedroom, Sergeant?” Faith asked.

  “Now why would a brother do that, ma’am?” the sergeant asked.

  The one-story hotel had a small pool half filled with green-tinged, debris-filled water. The rooms were mostly open and had been ransacked. Ditto the tiny bar and kitchen.

  “What is this?” Faith asked, looking behind the bar. There was a cluster of . . . junk. Some blankets, children’s toys, remains of what looked to be fish and maybe rats. Human bones. “Phew. Stinks.”

  “Looks like some sort of nest, ma’am,” Smitty said.

  “A survivor?” Faith asked. “No.”

  “Probably a zombie, ma’am,” Sergeant Smith said. “Too nasty even for a kid.”

  “That’s new,” Faith said.

  “We didn’t really clear many houses in the Canaries, ma’am,” Smitty said, shrugging. “Maybe that’s how they live when they’ve got the materials.”

  “Point,” Faith said, walking out of the open bar. “I want to go check out the big resort before our hour’s up. How come you said an hour, anyway?”

  “Because that’s about as much time as we should take, ma’am,” Sergeant Smith said. “And if you’re going off exploring, you make sure people know where you’re going, ma’am.”

  “Point, again, Sergeant,” Faith said.

  * * *

  “God,” Faith said, looking down the long wading pool at the Cuisinart Caribbean Resort. “Why didn’t I get to go places like this before the zombie apocalypse?”

  The resort centered around a three-story building with a vaguely rococo style. A series of villas in the same style lined the beach. A large zero-edge pool led from the main building to the wading pool which continued nearly to the beach. On the west side of the pool were additional support buildings. The pool was flanked by a line of palm trees waving in the trade winds. At the beach, at the base of the wading pool, was a circular “beach bar” with a folding canvas cover. Prior to the apocalypse it had been a rather idyllic spot with a wonderful view of St. Martin in the distance.

  The pool was again half filled with green-tinged water. The wading pool held barely a skim of water so foul she was pretty sure even the zombies wouldn’t drink it. The lawns were covered in blown debris, mostly limbs and leaves, and a tropical storm had thrown the chairs and patio tables around in a helter-skelter mess. The canvas cover, despite having been folded down, was torn by the winds.

  There was a small skull, some fine blonde hair still attached to it by a scrap of skin.

  The one thing going for it was that there didn’t appear to be any infected.

  “I dunno,” Smitty said. “A little paint, a little police call . . .”

  “Let’s see about the villas, first,” Faith said. “I’d like some idea if we’ve got infected behind us.”

  The villas, however, were inaccessible. All of the windows and doors were covered with solid steel shutters that were locked on the inside. Even after circling one of them, they couldn’t find an entrance that wouldn’t require entry tools.

  “Somebody was careful to prep this place,” Faith said, standing by the westernmost villa’s private pool with her hands resting on her hips.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sergeant Smith said.

  “Okay, main building it is,” Faith said.

  * * *

  The main building was also covered in steel shutters but at some point someone had already broken in. The shutter on the main ocean-side doors had been forced open.

  “Oh, not without a flashlight,” Faith said, poking her head up to see through the opening. “No light. Well, not much.”

  “How’s it look?” Sergeant Smith said.

  “Zombies have been in there,” Faith said, sniffing. “But . . . not a bunch or not real recently. Sort of trashed out but not bad . . . Sergeant, I think . . . we might have found a land base.”

  “I don’t think we can secure it, ma’am,” Smitty said.

  “I’d want to have another night sweep,” Faith said, musingly. She turned and headed back down the pool towards the beach. “But I’m not sure it’s an issue anymore. I mean, by the end of the sweep, we were having almost no contact. The only leakers we had were two at the landing site and a dog for God’s sake. I mean, face it, we need a secure land base, Smitty. Hell, think of this as a hospital for all the pregnant ladies.”

  “That . . . is an interesting point, ma’am,” Sergeant Smith said.

  “Be nice to fence it,” Faith said, kicking a palm frond. “But that would take one hell of a lot of work.” She stopped, bent over and pulled a brochure out from under the frond she’d just kicked.

  Sergeant Smith quickly turned around to check six. Security and all that.

  “Sweet,” Faith said, continuing to walk as she perused the brochure.

  “Ma’am, I think we’re being followed,” Smitty said quietly.

  “From the Force?” Faith asked, looking towards the beach and the boats.

  “No, ma’am,” Smitty said. “I just saw movement by the main buildings. Too tall to be a dog, ma’am.”

  “So you’re saying it’s not clear?” Faith asked, not turning around.

  “It’s gone whatever it was,” Smitty said. “But I’ll back out if you don’t mind, ma’am.”

  “SEAL spin,” Faith said, drawing a pistol. “Rotate.”

  “Rotating,” Sergeant Smith said.

  They did a rotational movement, covering each other, until they reached the beach.

  “Let’s try to keep an eye on our back trail as we head back,” Faith said.

  They walked down the beach for a bit, passing the villas and Faith casually turned and picked up a shoe that was part of the debris.

  “Saw it,” Faith said. “Out of the corner of my eye. Darted into cover. Can still see it, though.”

  “Infected?” Sergeant Smith asked.

  “Human, anyway,” Faith said. She straightened up and tossed the shoe into the bushes. “Why can I never find a pair? Not to mention in my size. Yeah, I know, I’ve got big paws like a Labrador puppy. Let’s go swimming.”

  “Ma’am?” Sergeant Smith said.

  “Sling your weapon,” the lieutenant said, holstering her pistol. “If we’re playing in the water, maybe it will come down where we can get a better look.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Smitty said, slinging his weapon. “Uh, first one in the water is a rotten . . .”

  Faith was already running.

  * * *

  “There it is again,” Faith said as she came up out of the water.

  “I am just not catching what you’re seeing, ma’am,” Sergeant Smith admitted.

  “Young female,” Faith said. She was apparently looking down the beach. “Black. I’m pretty sure it’s an infected. Just not very aggressive.”

  “That would be a change,” Smitty said.

  “Let’s head back to the official beach,” Faith said. “I need to check in with Hooch. Oh, and I need some more sunscreen . . .”

  * * *

  “You want to do another night sweep?” Colonel Hamilton said.

  “I want to get some training in, first, sir,” Faith said, trying not to squirm. Sophia may have spent half the last six months developing her tan but Faith had spent most of it in uniform. A point she’d forgotten, along with regular application of sunscreen. She, fortunately, had fairly dark skin naturally despite being blond. She’d still picked up one heck of a sunburn. “Notably Close Quarters Battle training onboa
rd the Tan, sir. Then some live fire, possibly on one of the nearby desert islands, sir. Then another sweep of the island, sir.”

  “To clear it,” Hamilton said. “I’m not sure that’s possible, Lieutenant. Not thoroughly.”

  “Not sure myself, sir,” Faith said. “Not entirely. But it may be clearable enough to secure a land base. Somewhere for a ground hospital even, sir. It’s in better shape, and more securable, than Gitmo, sir. It’s an island, sir. Zombies aren’t going to swim the channel, sir.”

  “Have anything to do with that world-class resort you and Sergeant Smith did an unauthorized reconnaissance of?” Colonel Hamilton asked.

  “It wasn’t unauthorized, sir,” Faith said.

  “I didn’t authorize it,” Hamilton said.

  “Your Marine force ground commander authorized it, sir,” Faith said.

  “So, better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, Lieutenant?” Hamilton said.

  “I’m not begging forgiveness, sir,” Faith replied. “The orders for the landing party did not define that all personnel must remain within the confines of the secured zone, sir. During the landing, your ground force commander made the determination, based upon experience and the perceived threat level, that a low-support reconnaissance of nearby buildings was a low-risk mission, sir. And, sir, your ground force commander was correct, sir. Should I be begging forgiveness, sir?”

  “I would not have authorized it, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said.

  “I understand that, sir,” Faith said. “In the future I will keep that in mind, sir.”

  “And you really think it was a good idea?” Hamilton said.

  “I’m sure you don’t think so, sir,” Faith said. “However, sir, having very briefly swept the two resorts, the smaller one by the main beach and the big one, I’m of the opinion that I could walk from one end of the island stark naked with maybe one pistol and not have a problem. Except I don’t go around stark naked, sir. Obviously. Sir, I think this island is clear, sir. I mean, pretty much deserted. No real threats left. Or so close that I’m not sure we’d pull up leakers with one more sweep. We did detect one possible infected, sir. But it was . . . shy. It was following us but it was staying away.”

  “Really,” Hamilton said, leaning back. “A shy infected doesn’t seem . . .” He paused and frowned.

  “My da ran into something similar one time, sir,” Faith said. “Early on he made a covert landing on one of the small Bermuda islands. It’s where he picked up his little helpers, sir. And he ran into a female that just ran away when he . . . sort of did like a chimp. Oook! Oook!” she finished, bowing up.

  “So some of them are beta?” Hamilton said.

  “Yes, sir,” Faith replied. “Still not . . . word . . . sounds like sentence . . .”

  “Sentient?” Hamilton said.

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said. “They’re still not sentient, sir. But they’re also nonaggressive. Or at least less aggressive. I’m not sure I’d want to try to catch one, sir. On the other hand . . . I had a clear shot at this one and didn’t take it, sir. She didn’t seem to be a threat, sir.”

  “Plausible,” Hamilton said. “The human brain is a tricky thing. But that means the island is not clear.”

  “You saw how the zombies act, sir,” Faith said. “Your pe—The personnel from Gitmo had more time watching zombies than any of the rest of us. They are territorial and only . . . swarm when there’s an apparent food source, sir. Sort of like piranha. The . . . beta ones that are . . . smarter have probably learned to not even turn up for the feeding frenzies. Which means they avoid the normal attractors like light and sound, sir. On the other hand, based on this one and the one in Bermuda, they also are low-threat. Sir . . . we need a secure ground base, sir. I think we have one. Low yellow to . . . lightish green, sir. Yellowish green.”

  “Chartreuse?” Hamilton said.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Faith said.

  “Yellow with a touch of green, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said drily. “Slightly more yellow and less green than lime or spring-bud. And, no, despite the recall of Don’t ask, don’t tell, I am not gay. Just into information.”

  “I would say more lime, sir,” Faith replied. “More green than yellow.”

  “Perhaps spring bud, then,” Hamilton said.

  “Are we actually having this conversation, sir?” Faith asked.

  “Not anymore,” Hamilton said. “More important item. I’ve convinced Squadron that Gunnery Sergeant Sands is more valuable to us than to Guantanamo.”

  “Oorah, sir,” Faith said.

  “Oorah, indeed, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “So he and the captain are on their way down. The captain wishes to talk directly to our astral visitors, and the gunnery sergeant will take over as platoon sergeant as well as running training. Issues?”

  “No, sir,” Faith said, a slight tone of surprise in her voice. “Looking forward to it, sir. NCOs handle training, sir. That’s how it’s supposed to be as I understand things, sir.”

  “I understand that you ran the training of the Iwo Marines, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said.

  “That was before the gunny was back on his feet, sir,” Faith said. “And I wasn’t an officer then, sir. And it was showing them the difference between regular clearance and zombie clearance, sir. NCOs handle training, sir.”

  “Very well,” Hamilton said, ticking off an item on his checklist. “When the gunnery sergeant gets here he will coordinate training for all Marine personnel as well as Navy Landing forces with the appropriate senior NCOs on the Navy side. Once training is complete, or as complete as we can make it given time constraints, we will consider doing a night sweep as further supplemental training.”

  “If I may add, sir?” Faith said.

  “Yes?”

  “There are sure to be some liners tied up over in St. Martin, sir,” Faith said. “No training like crawling around in the bowels of a ship, sir.”

  “They also take a good bit of time to clear, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “And we are already well over our planned time for this sweep.”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said. “Permission to ask when the gunnery sergeant will arrive, sir?”

  “They’re supposed to be arriving this evening,” Hamilton said. “Apparently they left Gitmo in your father’s fast boat, then sent the message. If I’d had more warning I’d have had everyone do a nice GI party.”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said.

  “As it is, we will have a greeting party,” Hamilton said. “Go get with Staff Sergeant Barnard and have her ensure the greeting party is prepared. I’ll have Sergeant Major Barney do the same on the Navy side.”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said.

  “And that’s it,” Hamilton said. “We’re on short time. Roll it, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said.

  * * *

  “Welcome aboard, sir!” Hamilton boomed, saluting Captain Smith.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Smith said, returning the salute, then saluting the colors. “Very nice turn-out.”

  There was a line of sailors and Marines in surprisingly neat uniforms lined up to greet the arriving Commander Atlantic Fleet.

  “Thank you, sir,” Hamilton said, returning the gunnery sergeant’s salute. “Pleasure to have you aboard, Gunnery Sergeant Sands.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Sands said, running a gimlet eye over the Marine guard. He didn’t look all that pleased. “Looking forward to joining your force, sir.”

  “Shall we repair below, sir?” Hamilton asked.

  “Of course,” Smith said. “Though, you’ll need to get a working party together. We didn’t just bring ourselves. One of the containers we opened was destined for a hospital in Ghana. It didn’t have much in the way of materials to produce the vaccine but it did have useful medical supplies. So we arrive bearing gifts. What we could fit in the Achille. There’s more on the way via the Pit Stop, which is following us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hamilton said. “Sergeant Major Barney. Manage t
hat.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the British sergeant major said.

  “Get those to Mr. Walker, Sergeant Major,” Smith said. “Now let’s repair below. You lead, Colonel.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Here I am

  Alive among the injured and the dead

  Here I am

  Thy will be done

  Santa Sophia (here I am)

  Pieces borne to your victory

  Athena Sophia (here I am)

  Thy will be done

  How can I hope to live

  What I cannot dream?

  You cannot map the ways of divinity

  This much is known only unto God

  —“Sophia”

  Crüxshadows

  “The materials on the Achille are mostly what Fontana thought Walker would need for a recovering gunshot wound,” Captain Smith said as soon as they were seated in the colonel’s office. “Notably, Keflex. I’m not putting that on you, by the way, Colonel. I didn’t give you time to get trained before you went on the float and the short time your units had together was doing police call. In retrospect, I should have had the gunny run them through combat action training. My mistake. One I’m not prone to repeat.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hamilton said. “My man, my failure, sir.”

  “Not if you were under other orders, Colonel,” Smith said. “And it touches on one of the main issues I have, both upward and downward, with the current situation.”

  “Sir?” Hamilton said.

  “In the pre-Plague military, that sort of thing could have been a career killer,” Smith said, taking a sip of the scotch Hamilton had produced. “Just as this might be. It would depend mostly on politics, I suppose. But as with my decision to essentially not give out awards like so many Christmas presents, I’m trying to get both the newly inducted civilians and the professionals to grasp that this is not pre-Plague. The military culture can’t be, exactly, pre-Vietnam in nature. We don’t have the sort of personnel numbers to afford that degree of fatalism. We cannot afford a Somme or a Hamburger Hill. On the other hand, we also do not have an infinite supply of even vaguely trained officers and NCOs, so we can’t kill any career over any fault without it affecting our overall efficiency. That, as much as any reason, is why I’m here. I have already pointed out to the Joint Chiefs that the blue-on-blue was as much my fault as anyone’s and offered to retire in favor of Mr. Walker, whatever or whoever he is.”