“Negative,” she mumbled, moving through the mess and into the passage beyond. Behind her, the murmuring of voices resumed.
• • •
Elizabeth sat in her captain’s chair, legs crossed and looking at a map of Brookings. Sightings and incidents of contact with the dead were marked with circles in red pencil, along with notes of estimated strength. There were a lot of circles. Blackbeard was stretched out in a sunbeam, his body pressed against a forward bridge window, sprawling across a navigation console. The cat now had free run of the ship.
Boots trotted up the ladderway to the bridge, and Liz heard her XO say, “Captain?” She motioned the younger woman forward and folded away the map. “Are you here to tell me about the fishing boat, Miss Liggett?”
“I just found out about it myself,” Amy said. “I spoke to the parties involved and talked them out of it.” While touring the Coast Guard station, Amy learned that a handful of refugees were planning to leave Brookings, taking the big, deepwater commercial fishing vessel lying at anchor in the marina. Alarmed, she immediately spoke with the group’s leader, himself a fisherman, and made the case that it was safer to stay in the company and safety of others here in Brookings. There was argument: complaints about mistreatment, about the increasing activity of the dead and, of course, about the fifty percent tribute they were compelled to make. Amy narrowly won the argument by pointing out the many dangers and unknowns awaiting them in an uncertain and overrun world. It had given them pause, for now.
“It’s a good thing for them that you did, Amy,” Liz said, looking at her from beneath the bill of her ball cap. “Because if they tried to leave, I would have let them clear the mouth of the river and then sunk them with the forward gun.”
The surprise must have registered on the girl’s face, because the captain shook her head.
“I’m concerned that it shocks you,” Liz said. “You do see the security risk something like that would pose, don’t you? They might tell someone we’re here, and then we’d be dealing with bandits instead of just untrustworthy refugees and the walking dead.”
Amy managed to mutter, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good,” said Liz. “When we’re done here, put a small crew together and bring that fishing boat alongside. See that its diesel tanks are pumped into our own bunkers. Then tow it back into the mouth of the south marina and scuttle it. That should prevent anyone from getting a similar idea.”
The younger woman nodded slowly, frustrated that the captain always seemed to know what was going on ashore before she did. It wasn’t too surprising, though. Charlie Kidd was friendly with that refugee woman Ava, had leave to go ashore wherever and whenever he liked, and met privately with the captain every day.
“Proceed with your report, please,” said Liz.
Amy went through her usual list of topics: food and water status; results of a small, short-range raid that netted little; ammunition expenditure; and a body count of the dead eliminated by the shoreside sentries over the twenty-four hours since her last report. When she started to talk about morale among the civilians, the captain waved her off.
“I have my own problems aboard, Ensign.”
Amy knew it, and the behavior she’d just witnessed in the mess was only one more indicator. It seemed her commanding officer was holding Captain’s Mast several times per week now, mostly for incidents of malingering, the punishment for which was added duties or assignment to a work party. Once, however, Chick overheard a crewman saying that he was simply going to slip off the ship and take his chances in the forest one night, maybe find a cabin and hunt for his meals. Simply for suggesting it, the captain locked the crewman in the maintenance closet for five days on quarter rations.
Better than the alternative, Amy thought. Senior Chief Kidd, in his unrestricted wanderings, had found a long, supple leather strap somewhere and presented it to his sister. “Just in case you decide to bring back the custom of lashes for offenses,” he said, smiling.
There had been no lashings, but the captain also didn’t refuse the gift.
Amy concluded her report, then left to assemble a crew. She had a fishing boat to sink.
• • •
Chick leaned against the railing of the cutter’s stern, the SRP launch ramp below, the empty helicopter pad above and behind. Lt. Riggs stood beside him. Riggs looked around, then unzipped a chest pocket of his flight suit and passed a small silver flask to Charlie. The chief grinned, took a drink, and handed it back.
“That’s some good hooch, el-tee.”
The lieutenant nipped at the flask and passed it over. “I have a few bottles stashed in my quarters. I might have an extra one.”
“Perfect,” Charlie said. “I have an empty flask in my quarters. It’s lonely.”
“We’ll have to fix that,” said Riggs.
Charlie sipped. “You’re okay for an asshole officer, you know?”
The helicopter pilot smiled and took a pull. “And you’re not bad for a mad dog killer, Senior Chief.”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” said the burly, older man.
Riggs laughed. “The DEA bird you shot down in Seattle. The crew told me all about it.”
Charlie drank and said nothing, giving him a sidelong look. The lieutenant saw it and shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong. It was the right thing to do. They would have taken away the ship, and the ship means survival.” The officer stared out at the harbor. “It’s all about survival now.”
The chief nodded. He liked the lieutenant, not because he was willing to be a real person and have a drink with an enlisted man, but because of his attitude. He’d never flinched or raised an objection about the need to fully utilize the refugees and maintain ship security, and not once had he griped about the fact that a girl he outranked was the ship’s executive officer. Riggs supported Charlie’s sister without question, and that made him okay by Charlie.
They passed the flask back and forth for a while in comfortable silence, looking out at the water and deserted buildings. Then Chick straightened and unslung his rifle.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he said.
“What?” Riggs asked, looking around.
Charlie pointed. “Ten o’clock, over on the bridge.” He raised his rifle and looked through the combat sight. “Now I’ve seen everything,” he said with a chuckle. He passed the rifle to the officer, who sighted where Charlie was pointing.
“Is that . . . ?”
A corpse was shuffling across the US 101 bridge that linked the harbor with the main town. The thing was heading in the direction of the marina, and fifty yards behind it, a pack of half a dozen corpses followed, all dressed in vacation clothing, several of them kids. The corpse out front, the one that had caught Chick’s attention, was wearing the kind of character costume seen in theme parks. The costume looked like it might have been a big, silly dog, but its torn and gore-matted condition made identification difficult. Its head had fallen off, the decaying skull of a woman poking out through the opening.
“That is wrong on so many levels,” the pilot said, handing the rifle back to Chick.
“Any guesses where it came from?” the chief said. “Any of them?” One of the dead little girls was dressed like a princess. They’ve found us, Chick thought, and now they’re going to keep on coming. He elbowed the officer. “What do you want to bet I can put one in the cartoon character’s head from here?”
Riggs snorted. “That’s got to be five hundred meters, Chief. No way.”
“Then you’ll win your bet,” Chick said. “What do you say?”
“I’ll give you two bottles for a shot like that. What do I get when you lose?”
The chief smiled. “My lady friend on shore knows another young lady who might be interested in spending time with a fine young officer such as yourself. Especially if he could bring her a bar of soap and maybe some toothpaste. I can make the introductions.”
The lieutenant bobbed his head. “That sounds good.”
Charlie took a breath, steadied his aim, and released it in a hiss as he pulled the trigger. A second later the costumed woman’s head rocked to the left, and down she went.
“Damn,” Riggs gasped, then looked at the chief. “Mad dog killer.”
Charlie smiled at him and slung the rifle. “I’m gonna enjoy that hooch, el-tee.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Amy Liggett tried to make Christmas festive for the crew, hoping it would help with morale. She risked the dead on shore and chopped down a tiny pine at the edge of the RV park, bringing it back to the ship. Then she used a pair of tin snips to cut simple ornaments from empty metal cans to decorate the tree, and tried to get the crew to sing some carols. Every effort fell flat. The holidays were making her shipmates heartsick for home and lost loved ones, and people were too concerned with scratching unwashed skin and the stench from the plastic toilet buckets to care much about “Jingle Bells.” The captain hadn’t even acknowledged the time of year.
The crew was hungry after being put back on half rations. Now that thousands of walking corpses roamed Brookings—with more finding their way out of the grounded cruise ship every day—the scavenging runs had stopped completely. The civilian refugees bunkered down in the Coast Guard station and didn’t venture out, because in the past week hundreds of corpses had poured across the US 101 bridge and found their way around the marina, and they were now walking through the nearby RV park. This activity caught the attention of the dead gathered around the motels and condos to the south, and they began to move as well, adding their numbers to the horde.
Military-grade weapons were no longer issued to the refugees for defense, and the ammunition for the hunting weapons and shotguns their sentries were permitted to use was almost gone.
Two Coast Guardsmen deserted Christmas night: the crewman locked up for five days, and the petty officer third class who’d been Amy’s mentor, the man so reserved with her in the mess. During the night, they slipped away with weapons and sea bags of supplies, and the captain could risk no one to go look for them. Their absence cut the engine room team by half.
Liz wanted to lash the petty officer on watch for not spotting or stopping the desertion. Instead she made him stand on the foredeck for eight hours in a cold, misting rain dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts. Chick made a trip out into the rain and whispered in the shivering man’s ear, telling him he was getting off easy. If the decision had been his, Charlie said, he’d have seen the petty officer keelhauled.
• • •
Charlie Kidd headed south in the motorized lifeboat, driving from the top deck and enjoying the wind and sting of spray. Lt. Riggs stood beside him in a foul-weather poncho, gripping the rail, excited to be off the ship for a while. It was the day after Christmas, and the sky was a palette of shale, beginning to break up enough for some rare sun to fall upon the coast. The launch was two miles offshore, powering through easy seas at twenty knots.
“Our position is untenable,” Liz said before sending them south. They had been ordered to recon the coastal California town of Crescent City, putting eyes on the airport, harbor, and small Coast Guard station located there. The captain reasoned that the town had to have fewer of the walking dead than Brookings, and if it looked good, Joshua James would relocate.
The trip took just under an hour in the MLB, and as they drew closer, Charlie slowed and angled in toward shore. The sea rolled over rocks at the base of a low cliff, stunted pines climbing the hillside above. Ahead of them, near what would be the harbor entrance, the two men saw the red-and-white shape of the Battery Point Lighthouse.
Charlie glanced up at the cliffs to his left. Somewhere beyond the trees, he knew, was Pelican Bay, a supermax prison built to house California’s “worst of the worst,” a place of long-term confinement and simmering violence. If the dead within those walls had somehow gotten out, then Crescent City would be completely uninhabitable.
Lt. Riggs looked at a map. “We should see the airport coming up on the left.”
Charlie kept an eye on the rocks as he took the forty-seven-foot craft as close as he dared toward shore and powered back to a cruising speed. Riggs used a pair of binoculars and pointed. “Right there, I can see a hangar.” Evaluating the condition of the airport was the reason Liz sent the man on this mission.
The Del Norte County Airport was spread across a low, flat stretch of land close to the shore, large enough to handle commuter express planes for a trip to San Francisco, but nothing bigger. A minute was all it took to see that the airport was a complete loss. The few buildings still standing were burned-out shells, and the hangar Riggs had seen was gutted and empty. Out on the field sat the black and broken remains of a twin-prop SkyWest Express. Crows lifted off from the fuselage, winging into the morning sky.
Riggs made a distressed noise and looked away.
The launch continued south, and the town itself came into view. Much like Brookings, Crescent City extended almost to the water’s edge, and at its south end, man-made breakwaters formed a sheltered harbor for commercial fishing and a few pleasure craft.
“There’s our answer,” Chick said. Beside him, Riggs only stared.
Crescent City had burned. Block after block of charred homes and businesses marched back from the shore, streets choked with abandoned cars and downed power lines, all of it black. As they neared the harbor, the reason became immediately clear. A fuel supertanker had come in from the Pacific and run up onto the narrow stone jetty that framed one side of the town’s little sheltered bay. Its hull and holds had ruptured, dumping millions of gallons of gasoline into the harbor.
“Probably came in with that storm,” said Chick. “This place got a tanker instead of a cruise ship.”
“A single lightning strike would have set it off,” said the helicopter pilot.
The supertanker was burned down to its waterline, and the fire had ripped across the harbor, sinking anything still afloat. From there it spread, consuming the docks, the town, and part of the surrounding forest. Even a month later, sea winds hadn’t completely erased the smell of fire.
Charlie continued around to where the tiny Coast Guard station was positioned on a knuckle of land framing the other side of the harbor. Neither man needed binoculars to see that the small buildings that made up the station were burned flat; the skeletons of two school buses were parked out front.
“I’ll be damned,” Charlie said. “It’s been here the whole time.”
At the pier behind the little station, the bridge windows and antenna array of the USCGC Dorado protruded from the surface of the water. The rest of the eighty-seven-foot cutter was submerged, its keel resting on the bottom.
“This place has had it,” said Riggs.
“Let’s go tell the skipper,” Charlie said, turning the launch north.
• • •
We’re out of options,” Liz said. She, her two officers, and her brother were gathered in the small working space one deck below the bridge, the door closed. “We can’t stay.”
Heads nodded around the table.
“I’ve been working on this for a while,” Liz continued, “anticipating this would happen eventually. I’d hoped we could stay until spring or even beyond, but issues with the cutter’s system are making life aboard next to impossible, and we didn’t expect a ship full of corpses to make it so we can’t scavenge anymore. I have a plan.”
She unfolded a map covered in red notations and spread it across the table. The others leaned in as Liz put a slender index finger on the page. “There are four other operational Legend Class cutters in service, each identical to Joshua James. The Hamilton is based in Charleston, South Carolina.” She tapped her finger. “But the cutters Bertholf, Waesche, and Stratton are all stationed at Coast Guard Island, Alameda, in the San Francisco Bay.”
Looks were exchanged as they imagined what such a city must be like now.
Liz went on. “I’m not naïve enough to think that any of those cutters are still there. E
ven if they were, they’d probably be in the same condition as the Dorado.” She nodded at Charlie and the lieutenant. “But the base supports three national security cutters, and that means their warehouses and machine shops will have all the parts and equipment we need to get this vessel running properly again. If we’re very lucky, we might find that the armory hasn’t been completely raided, and there could be food stores and fuel as well.”
Amy and Lt. Riggs were starting to smile. Liz nodded. It was the reaction she was hoping for and the same one she would want to see from the crew; hope, and having a goal upon which they could focus, was a powerful motivator. “This is going to mean a lot of work, and there are still hard decisions to be made.”
Amy looked at her captain for elaboration, but the other woman went on.
“San Francisco and the surrounding area is heavily populated, and it’s going to be crawling. Far worse than Seattle, worse than we can imagine. We don’t know if there’s a military presence there, whether refugee clusters—if any—will be hostile, and we don’t know the condition of Coast Guard Island. It could look just like Crescent City.”
The smiles began to falter at that point, but Liz went on quickly. “That’s why we’re going to make a detailed plan and conduct some reconnaissance.” She looked at the pilot. “Mr. Riggs, you’re going to get the chance to fly.”
• • •
This isn’t what I had in mind,” Riggs said. He was seated in front of a console down in the cutter’s combat center, a colorful array of lights and switches before him. At his left and right hands were rubberized joysticks. Mr. Vargas, the operations specialist, sat beside him, and Liz stood behind his chair.
“Stow your complaints, mister,” she said, poking him in the shoulder. “This beats other duties I could invent.”
Riggs laughed. “Roger that, Captain.”
It was late morning on the day after their meeting belowdecks, and Liz had ordered the anchor raised, taking Joshua James several miles offshore and putting the stern into the wind. Riggs, Charlie, and a work party of six had been prepping since daybreak, and now the unmanned drone was ready.
Omega Days (Book 4): Crossbones Page 23