Islands of Rage and Hope

by John Ringo

  And Condrey turned out to be a damned artist with the 240. Unfortunately, he was still so . . . rigid, and he had to have each target pointed out to him. If Sheila didn’t designate the target, he’d just sit there on one azimuth until an infected ate him. On the gripping hand, point out a target and it was toast.

  “Gunny, we’re going to move forward,” Faith said. “I’m not going to sit here all day waiting for them to come to us. Put out a point that’s got good snap-shot ability and let’s take this slow. But we’re going to take it.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Sands said. “ON YOUR FEET, MARINES. WHAT, YOU THINK THIS IS A VACATION . . . ?”

  * * *

  “You okay, Sergeant Smith?” Faith asked. The squad leader had stopped to readjust his ruck and wasn’t looking all that hot. Well, he was looking hot, he was sweating up a storm. And not looking so hot.

  The town of The Bottom was composed of mostly two- and three-story white buildings with red tile roofs. The foundations were generally tufa volcanic rock blocks; upper stories were wooden. It also was simply crawling with remaining infected. They were hitting the platoon in ones and twos in a continuous trickle. Fortunately, the Marines had settled down since Anguilla and were handling that.

  “Legs are just feeling a little rubbery after the climb, ma’am,” Smitty said. “All gung ho, ma’am.”

  “Wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain reality star spending the whole night in the Marine quarters, would it?” Faith asked, innocently. “I’m sure everyone was having great conversation and party games. Right?”

  “Not at all ma’—two steps left, ma’am.”

  Faith took two steps left and Smitty fired past her to take out an infected.

  “I’m sure it had nothing to do with that,” Faith said, grinning. She didn’t even look around to see if he got it. “If it did, the next time I’d have to bring it to the gunny’s attention. For now, drink water.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” Smitty said, getting his assault ruck adjusted and stepping away from the rock retaining wall. “We were just playing cards and having a tea—”

  The infected came out of nowhere, diving out of the bushes above the road and pile-driving the sergeant into the road.

  Faith didn’t even hesitate. Before it could get past the high neck of the sergeant’s body armor, her kukri had cut into its upper neck, severing the cervical vertebrae and killing it instantly.

  “Did it bite me?” Sergeant Smith screamed.

  “No,” Faith said, grabbing the infected by its long, greasy, hair and pulling it off the sergeant. “Close but I don’t think so.”

  “I think I’d rather be clearing liners, ma’am,” Smitty said, pushing himself to his feet. His nose was bleeding and his chin was scraped. “Damn,” he said, slowly moving his head from side to side. “Thanks, ma’am.”

  “You’re slurring,” Faith said. “You going to be okay?”

  “Gung ho, ma’am,” Smitty said. “Just took a hit on the chin. Just got to shake it off.”

  “TARGET!” There was another flurry of shots.

  “I’d definitely rather be clearing liners,” Faith said.

  * * *

  “I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps,” Faith caroled in high, perfect, soprano as the platoon marched up the steep road to the medical school. “They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;/ I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:/His day is marching on . . .”

  “Glory, glory hallelujah!” the platoon chorused. “Glory, glory, hallelujah!/Glory, glory, hallelujah!/His day is marching onnn.”

  “FORRRM PERIMETER!” Faith bellowed.

  “Gotta love a lieutenant that knows all the words to ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic,’ ” PFC Funk said as the unit spread into a perimeter on the lawn of the medical school. The “school” consisted of a few small two-story buildings and had been swept by fire. They probably weren’t getting much out of it.

  “All six verses of the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ is the part that gets me,” Sergeant Weisskopf said. “I’d never even heard the sixth verse. ‘Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto: “In God is our trust.’ ” Why don’t they sing that one at games?”

  “Maybe they will, Sergeant,” Funk said. “TARGET!” He fired five times in quick succession and the charging infected dropped. For a change it was a white female. Most of the infected so far had been black males. “New day and all that . . .”

  “By teams,” Gunny Sands said. “Prepare for sweep. And so help me God if you can’t keep from shooting each other this time, I will transfer you to the fucking Navy as no use to our Blessed Corps . . .”

  * * *

  Faith kicked a pile of burned textbooks and shook her head.

  “I am not sure this island is worth the price of the ammo, Gunny,” the lieutenant said.

  “Think there are survivors, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said. “That’s worth something.”

  “Hopefully these won’t expect me to know who they are . . .”

  * * *

  “Jesus, mon,” the haggard man said, staring at Sergeant Smith with wide eyes. “Oh . . . God mon . . .”

  “No, sir,” Smitty said. “United States Marines, sir. But people do get confused . . .”

  * * *

  “We’ve found about twenty survivors so far, break,” Faith radioed. The intervening mountains had required climbing up a hill to get a shot at the ocean. She could see a sub surfaced in the distance and, beyond it, another island that was probably Sint Eustatius, the next objective. “That is in clearance up to the edge of The Bottom and the medical school. School burned, no faculty or students found. Also found functioning vehicles. Query is multiple. Continue clearance, yes or no. Break down force to cover more ground, yes or no? Over.”

  “Security condition, over.”

  “Mixed,” Faith replied, frowning thoughtfully. “Since the encounter at the road in, it’s died down. Frequent close-quarters attacks with low numbers. Probability of . . . break . . . Probability of incidental infection reduced with vehicles. Given current time, recommend rapid sweep of additional . . . stand by.”

  She drew her .45 and fired twice, dropping the infected that had tried to sneak up on Sergeant Weisskopf. “Recommend rapid sweep by small teams using vehicles of additional heavily inhabited areas, then fall back to pick-up, over.”

  “How close is the contact, over?”

  “Running out of Marinespeak, break,” Faith said. “There’s just a lot of these buggers and there’s lots of concealment. They keep popping up like jack-in-the-boxes at really short ranges. That was the ‘stand by.’ One popped up ten meters away. I think we can maybe sweep the other areas with vehicles. Good news is more survivors than normal. Bad news is more leakers than normal. Over.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Two vehicles together at all times. If the road is blocked, they do not proceed. Keep back a reaction force. Repeat back.”

  “Two vehicles together, aye. Blocked road, do not proceed, aye. Reaction force, aye. Over.”

  “We are doing a thorough clear on Sint Eustatius, break. Recommend to the locals a change of scenery. Over.”

  “Haven’t gotten to discussing that,” Faith said. “Was next on my list, over.”

  “Roger. Keep me apprised. Kodiak, out.”

  * * *

  “I know how to use a gun,” Jennifer Toplitz said, raising her hand. “I don’t really like them, but I know how to use one.”

  After their first visit to Saba, Jennifer and her husband Tom had given up the life of corporate ladder climbing managers, bought a small bungalow and moved there to live out the rest of their lives.

  The bungalow had, fortunately, been walled. And she had managed to push Tom off a balcony when he turned. Between a small garden, a mango tree and hurricane supplies, she had survived. Stay? That was another matter. A zombie apocalypse had caused the allure of unspoil
ed Saba to pall.

  “Why?” Faith said. “I mean, if you don’t like them . . .”

  “I’m from Texas,” Jennifer said. “Not particularly proud of it, but I am. I grew up with guns and hunting. My dad made me. I’ve never shot a machine gun before, though.”

  “This isn’t a machine gun,” Faith said, unclipping her M4, dropping the mag and jacking out the round in the chamber. “It’s an assault carbine. Here’s the mag. Think you can load it?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know these,” Jennifer said, looking at the magazine. Faith had deliberately handed it to her upside down and backwards. Toplitz managed to turn it right way around and even could figure out how to jack the bolt. “At that point, there’s a safety and a trigger, right?”

  “Right,” Faith said, holding out her hand for the weapon. “We’ve got some more of these on the ship. We’re doing a strong clearance on Sint Eustatius and leaving a security detachment to secure the oil point. Think you could train a local militia for defense?”

  “No,” Jennifer said. “I really don’t.”

  “I was in the Dutch Army for a while,” a heavyset man said. “I think between us we could organize something. I do know machine guns. I did not use the M4, though.”

  “We’re already crowded with refugees from St. Barts,” Faith said. “And we don’t really want to pick up everybody from all the islands. If someone doesn’t want to go to Sint Eustatius and can handle the fact that there may still be a few infected, we sort of need them to stay. And pretty much everybody is getting off at Sint Eustatius. This isn’t a pleasure cruise.”

  There was a flurry of shots from outside the emergency center and the crowd stirred.

  “Is it safe, mon?” one of the men asked.

  “Takes at least five rounds from one of these to put down an infected,” Faith said, touching the M4. “Generally. We train that everyone who has an infected in their sector opens fire and fires at least three rounds. That was three Marines firing five rounds each. Tango down. That, in fact, is how you’re supposed to do it. Trust me, you’ll fire a lot more. Only Imperial Storm Troopers are that precise.”

  “How many infected are there left on this island?” Toplitz asked.

  “We really don’t know,” Faith said. “We’ve got about five hundred stepped on, most of them up the road to the harbor. You really can’t know how many you’ve got but I’d say at least two hundred more scattered around the island. And if you get generators going and put on lights, especially at night, they’ll cluster down to wherever you’re gathered. Good news is you can whack them easier. Bad news is, if you’re staying you’ll need to do something with the bodies. We generally just make them and go.”

  “Oh, great,” Jennifer said. “Is it going to be like that in Sint Eustatius as well?”

  “Probably.”

  “So now we’re supposed to clean up the bodies, too?”

  “No,” Faith said, slowly. “You clean up the ones near where you’re at and let the bugs, birds, dogs and pigs do the rest. These kind of temps, they’ll be down to bones in a week or so. Cluster up somewhere with supplies, keep the windows closed for a week or two and you’re good. We’re looking at an estimate of one percent total survival, world-wide, ma’am. That is the definition of ‘not enough left to bury the dead.’ Then clean up the bones if it matters to you. If you’ve got a backhoe and someone who knows how to use it it helps.”

  “How old are you, Lieutenant?” Toplitz said, frowning. She clearly didn’t think much of those suggestions.

  “Thirteen, ma’am,” Faith said.

  “Th-th-th—”

  “I’d just finished seventh grade if that’s what you’re asking, ma’am,” Faith said evenly. “Since the Fall, I don’t know how many infected I’ve killed but this is pushing my twelve hundredth hour in combat conditions. Thousands is the easiest way to say it, ma’am. I’ve cleared ten liners and fought my way out of Washington Square Park. I’m starting to get carpal tunnel in my trigger finger. And I’d be very proud to have been raised in the great state of Texas, ma’am. I had to settle for Virginia.”

  “When do we leave?” Toplitz asked.

  CHAPTER 27

  “Stockholm har fortfarande många smittade men områdena utanför tullarna verkar rensade. Vi samlas på Tranholmen. Isen håller för överfart från Stocksund. Lidingö är också rensat och en grupp ansamlas där. Om ni finner någon mat, ammunition eller vapen, var vänlig ta med. . . .”

  From: Collected Radio Transmissions of The Fall

  University of the South Press 2053

  “Well, as I live and breathe,” Sergeant Major Barney said. “It’s bloody Cloggies.”

  Some of Sint Eustatius’ history had been well known to Colonel Hamilton. During the American Revolutionary War it was held by the Dutch, who were generally contemptuous of Continental customs enforcement. So it was the primary weapons supply point of the American Revolution. A certain British lord had claimed in Parliament that if Sint Eustatius had only sunk into the waves, “George Washington would have been dealt with years ago.” It was also the place that American forces were awarded their first recognition as a new country when Fort Oranje rendered a salute to an American man-o-war.

  This laissez faire approach to business had resulted in a booming economy during the late 1700s. Warehouses lined Oranjestad Bay, sugar and rum flowed like honey and the island was referred to as “The Golden Rock” for the immense wealth made from the trade transfers.

  However, the support of the Colonial Rebellion resulted in a great deal of ire on the part of the British and it was subsequently conquered by the British and then the French after the revolution. The traders, mostly Jewish, were deported, the economy more or less collapsed and the island was at one point virtually depopulated. It was eventually returned to the Dutch and again, for a while, became a linchpin of trade in the Netherland Antilles. Eventually that faded to generalized farming and tourism. Just prior to the Apocalypse it had been selected as the perfect site for an oil transfer station. The deep waters and sharp shoaling in humorously named “Tumble-Down-Dick Bay” meant that tankers could, carefully, come close in shore to hook up to an off-shore oil-transfer pier that led to a series of large containers on the hills overlooking the bay. It was upgraded to provide refined products as well and smaller support tankers and even large freighters were stacked up nose to nose waiting to either off-load or onload various forms of liquid gold. So, once again, Sint Eustatius was in trade and the economy was booming . . .

  And now it was depopulated again. There were all the signs of the Apocalypse—the burned houses, the infected picking the beach and fighting seagulls for scraps. But there were two good signs. The oil transfer point appeared to be intact. There were, or had been, two high volcanic hills with a narrow valley, more of a gorge, between. The northern hill had clearly been flattened and now held several dozen oil tanks ranging from multimillion gallon to a few tens of thousands of gallons. None of those appeared to be damaged nor had the area been swept by fire: the area had been thoroughly brushed to prevent just that. The oil pier appeared to be in good shape from the close pass they had made. Although they were going to have to raise a tug that was sunk nearby. There were some support buildings and large generators that were near the waterline which might have taken damage but even those seemed to have survived whatever tropical storms came through with minimal damage. The numerous tugs that supported the pier were, unfortunately, missing, other than the one upended by the pier. But the squadron had tugs. Now they might have fuel for them.

  The second good sign was revealed as they came in sight of the town of Oranjestad. Fort Oranje, the antique defense of the town, was occupied. There was an untorn Flag of Orange flying from the mast, indicating it had been taken in in bad weather, and people were gathered on the ramparts watching the approaching Force.

  “Cloggies?” Colonel Hamilton said.

  “There appear to be persons in the uniform of the Dutch Marines on the ram
parts, sir,” Barney replied. “We refer to them as cloggies, sir. Sorry.”

  “I see,” Hamilton said. “I see who you’re talking about. Signaller, send a standard code signal and see what we get. In this case, we sort of need permission to perform an assault.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Petty Officer Simms said. He began flashing the Aldis lamp at the fort.

  * * *

  “Very good,” Sergeant Pier Niels Roosevelt said, reading the transmission. Americans frequently asked Sergeant Roosevelt about his name, given that he was both black and Dutch. He would calmly tell them that Roosevelt was originally a Dutch name and that, in addition, his great-grandparents had changed their name to Roosevelt in honor of Theodore Roosevelt, whom they much admired.

  One company of Netherland Marines was stationed on Curacao, which was where Sergeant Roosevelt was born. He’d joined the Marines when he was eighteen and managed to wangle a transfer from MARSOF, the Marine Commandoes, back to the “regular” Marines in Curacao just in time for a zombie apocalypse. As soon as the situation was clearly getting out of control, the company commander had dispatched one platoon to “maintain security” in Sint Eustatius. Given the strategically critical oil terminal, it was a no-brainer decision.

  Unfortunately, what he hadn’t sent along was vaccine. Two-thirds of the platoon had succumbed to either the direct flu-based plague or bites from infected before the sergeant, a remnant equaling about a squad, and a handful of locals fell back on the fort.

  They’d been holed up there ever since. Fortunately, his platoon leader had immediately recognized its utility and laid in food stores. Water had been a potential problem but simply fixing up the original cisterns, which had taken some work, and waiting for the inevitable rainfall in the summer had taken care of that problem. There were thirty-three survivors in the fort and he had calculated that they could hold out for another six months. After that, they’d starve.

  “What are they saying?” Counselor Michel Roelof Van Der Beek asked.

  “They are asking permission to perform a dawn assault,” Sergeant Roosevelt said.