by John Ringo
“I’ll share, man,” Mike said. “I’ll even help. But I really don’t want to go around clearing boats. Not my thing. Especially after sitting in that fucking hole listening to the zombies howl for months.”
“Fifty percent,” Steve said. “When we clear a boat, any survivors get fifty percent of the materials the boat is carrying for trade. Crew or passengers. If you were on the boat, you get fifty percent of the material. The flotilla gets the other fifty percent and the boat unless it’s turned over to one of the survivors for reasons determined by . . . well, we’ll get to that. Of that, some amount goes to the boat that cleared it, some to the boat that found it if it’s not the clearance boat. The rest goes to support the overall flotilla.”
“I can go fifty percent,” Mike said, grimacing. “Do I keep the boat?”
“Mike, we’re probably going to be using it for storage,” Steve said. “Until we get something better. You’re not going to go hungry again. You okay with that? Being the base station? And your share is fifty percent of the materials to trade if you want.”
“I can do that,” Mike said, nodding. “Not sure what I’ll trade.”
“Okay, first, do we have a second that boats organize on the basis of shares?”
“Second,” Paula said. “Wait—are we voting on a shares basis?”
“Not yet,” Steve said. “We have a second. Objections?”
“It’s out of order,” Chris said. “But before we vote, what are the shares?”
“Figure that out after we determine if we’re going to do it on a shares basis . . .”
* * *
“Okay,” Steve said, looking at Sophia’s notes. “I think we’ve got the beginnings of a working governmental organization here. Each boat votes and shares materials on the basis of shares. Captains have the right to choose their crews. Crews can call for a vote of no-confidence and oust the captain, but since, if it fails, the crew can then be fired by the captain . . . better be careful with that. New captains are sent to the captains’ board from the commodore and must be approved by a majority of the captains’ board. Currently, that’s me, Chris and Mike. Captains have pre-modern rules of the sea, but do not have the right of corporal or capital punishment. All lower order crimes, petty theft, assault, fighting among the crew, are handled at the discretion of the captain of the boat. All higher order felonies, notably rape, mutiny or murder, must have a trial by jury or, if that’s infeasible, agreement of three captains who have been shown good evidence. Captains follow the orders of the . . . Agh, ‘commodore,’ currently one Steven John Smith, captain of the Tina’s Toy, in all normal day-to-day operations of the flotilla.
“Newly rescued persons do not have the right to vote until agreeing to become members of the flotilla and being accepted as full crew members. All large decisions are by vote of the captains’ board or all flotilla members, depending. More complete charter to be written up at a later time. Charter to be voted on by straight vote of all members of the flotilla. And I foresee a couple more meetings, at least at long range. Persons who choose not to be with the flotilla will be organized in groups and then at some point put off on functioning boats to do whatever the hell they want.”
“Shunning,” Paula said.
“Should such persons attack or steal from the flotilla . . . Pretty much all we’ve got right now is shunning or capital punishment. Cross that bridge—”
“Motion,” Chris said. “I motion that this organization hereafter take the name Wolf’s Floating Circus. Can I get a second?”
“Damn,” Patrick said. “I was hoping for Sea Quest.”
“Second,” Paula said. “Get me a screen printer and I can make an awesome T-shirt for that!”
“I think you need to call for a vote,” Chris said, grinning.
“I’m trying to remember Robert’s Rules of Order to see if I can quash it,” Steve said, frowning. “Okay, okay, all in favor?”
* * *
“Well, that was a pain in the ass,” Steve said as the Victoria dropped its final anchor in Jew’s Bay.
Tug operations turned out to be anything but straightforward. Trying to do it with an untrained crew had turned out to be a right pain in the ass.
But they’d finally gotten the tug into place. Jew’s Bay was about the most protected spot in the complex of islands that made up “Bermuda.” At least the most protected that they could tow the Victoria into safely. There were some tighter and better protected creeks, but there was no way they were getting the Victoria into them.
The edges of the bay were littered with small craft, proof that “sheltered” was a relative term. The tropical storm that had made their life hell had driven them all onto the islands. And while there were “open” areas, areas free from obvious zombies, on the surrounding islands, just scanning they could see zombies moving around. Not much and not aggressively. But zombies were there.
As soon as all of the anchors on the Victoria were down, the Cooper moved up cautiously alongside. The new crew of the Victoria, four volunteers who had been “supernumerary” on the Toy and Cooper, started inexpertly throwing balloon “fenders” over the side. As one that was badly secured fell in the water, “Captain Mike” started bellowing from the wheelhouse.
“One of these days we will find real professionals to figure this out,” Steve said.
“That’ll be the day,” Sophia said.
“But to do that, we need to clear more boats,” Steve said. “As soon as we’re replenished . . . Back to sea.”
“Da,” Sophia said quietly. “You’re serious about me taking a boat?”
“I’ll need to find the right crew,” Steve said. “I don’t want you kidnapped in a mutiny. But, yeah. We need captains. And you’ve got more experience than anyone but Chris and Mike. And Mike’s content to sit on the Victoria. So . . . yeah.”
“Thanks, Da,” Sophia said.
“Thank me after you’ve had the responsibility for a while,” Steve said, rubbing his forehead.
“You okay, Da?” Sophia asked.
“There are people dying out there, right now,” Steve said. “There were people dying that we could have saved a long time ago. I’m regretting just hiding for so long.”
“We’ll get there, Da,” Sophia said.
“Toy, Victoria,” Mike growled over the radio.
“Toy,” Sophia responded.
“Now that we’ve got this ratfuck cleared up, come alongside port. We’ll start filling you up.”
“Roger, Vic,” Sophia said. “Da, you want to get ready to handle the lines?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said, grinning.
* * *
“While we’re here,” Steve said, looking at the coast of the nearby island.
“What are you thinking?” Stacey asked.
“Nothing worse than going to a concert . . .”
* * *
Steve slipped over the side of the dinghy into the water carefully. All he was carrying was a pistol in the event there were some zombies around. Mostly, he planned on out-swimming them if it came to it.
“One last time,” Faith said. She was rigged up in case swimming didn’t work. “You sure about this?”
“I can see the utility,” Steve said. “I think it’s a good idea. If I can’t find any or I get eaten, it was a bad idea.”
He quietly swam ashore, keeping an eye out in every direction he could. The zombies seemed to barely notice human activity in the harbor except at night when there was light. Then they’d lined the harbor, trying to find a way to the boats.
There was plenty of junk along the shore but what he was looking for wouldn’t be found there. He let his nose do the work for him, moving carefully through the sea-grapes of Gamma Island, following the smell of rot.
It was, unsurprisingly, a human corpse. Probably a zombie that had lost the zombie-eat-zombie battle of survival. And very putrid. It was covered in flies, which weren’t of interest to him. But it was also covered in small black beetles.
>
Those he collected, quickly, and popped into a ziplock bag.
He stopped as he heard movement in the trees and looked up. There was a zombie crouched under the bushes. A young black woman. She was regarding him ferally, apparently trying to work out if he was worth attacking.
Steve stood up, slowly, and then leaned forward, raising his shoulders and grunting at her.
She ducked back into the bushes and disappeared.
Steve snuck back through the bushes, trying not to think about the interplay in which he’d just engaged. He had to pay attention to keeping alive. But it was interesting, nonetheless . . .
“Seriously?” Faith said, looking at the beetles crawling over the tuna guts. “That’s it?”
“You’ll see,” Steve said. “They’ll be useful.”
CHAPTER 20
“We’ve got survivors on this one,” Sophia called over the intercom. “Life raft. Looks like two people. People, people.”
“Roger,” Steve said, looking up from his paperwork. He’d known there was going to be paperwork, but there had to be a better way.
They’d been clearing for two weeks since towing in the Victoria and picked up two more useable boats. Both had survivors, and a) they had agreed to help out and b) they were experienced and c) it was their boat. So Sophia was still running the con. They also had found more than twenty survivors in life rafts and lifeboats, including more from the Voyage Under Stars.
Steve didn’t even sway as Sophia swung the boat around to back up to the life raft. He did check his pistol and taser, though. A couple of the survivors had been problems. They’d settled by pulling two wrecked sailboats off the shore of Jew Bay and putting them on those, solidly anchored in the harbor. One for men, one for women. That had come about due to the accusation on the part of one of the female survivors that she’d been raped by one of the males. And it just made sense. Mike didn’t think that he’d want to be on those boats, but there wasn’t much else they could do at the moment.
Steve stepped out onto the back deck as Sophia backed up towards the life raft.
“Throw your line to the man on the deck,” Sophia said over the loud-hailer. “Exit junior person first, senior last. Last person out, pull the wire on the EPIRB before boarding. After boarding you’ll have to wash down on the back deck to decontaminate. After that we’ll get you some food. By the way, welcome to Wolf’s Floating Circus and Rescue Flotilla. You’re welcome.”
The man threw the line, then pulled the wire from the EPIRB. Steve pulled the raft alongside and helped the woman onto the deck, then the man.
“Thank you,” the guy said. He wasn’t exactly ugly looked at in the right light. But he wasn’t a beauty, either. Big as hell, his skin was flat black as an ace of spades. “Who’s Wolf?”
“My actual nickname in the paras was Wolfsbane,” Steve said. “Got around due to one of my daughters and got changed to Wolf or Papa Wolf. Steve Smith, captain of the Tina’s Toy and, somewhat against my will, and I quote, ‘commodore’ of this lashup. And the name wasn’t my idea.”
“I really don’t care if you’re called the Devil’s Own,” the woman said, grinning. “I’m just so glad to be off that boat! I’m Sadie Curry, Captain Smith.”
“Thomas Fontana,” the man said. “Paras . . . Not Brit or Irish. Aussie with lots of time in the States. Southern States. Paras or SAS?”
“Paras,” Steve said, surprised. “Brother was a goldie.”
“Sorry,” Thomas said, shrugging. “Any idea on him?”
“Last I heard he was on a flight to a secure point,” Steve said. “Long story. Let’s get you washed down and some food in you . . .”
* * *
“There is probably something worse than being stuck on a cruise ship, unarmed, in a zombie uprising,” Fontana said, popping two sushi rolls in at a time. “Food . . .” he muttered past the mouthful.
“Thomas was special forces?” Sadie said. “I think I got that right. I didn’t know anything about the Army until we ended up on the . . . raft.” She grimaced and shrugged. “That was right, Thomas? Green Berets?”
Fontana nodded, trying to clear his mouth of rice and tuna. He took a sip of tea and just sighed through his nose.
“God, this is good,” he muttered.
“Most of the boats from the cruise ships are, well, boats,” Stacey said.
“I couldn’t make it to one,” Fontana said. “There was an open door and I went out. Outside. There were rafts in the water—”
“I was running from a zombie and he saved me,” Sadie said, grabbing his arm. “My hero.”
“I threw him over the side,” Fontana said, shrugging. “Then I had to deal with him when we went over. But we got into a raft. There was another guy, Terry—”
“Can we skip that?” Sadie asked, looking pleafully at Steve. “He had to do what . . . He had to do it. He . . . turned.”
“Strangulation?” Steve asked, taking a sip of tea.
“Yeah,” Fontana said, looking at him oddly.
“The only people who have survived in the lifeboats are people who have killed zombies,” Stacey said, shrugging. “And generally the only way to do that is strangulation. On a life raft you can’t even avoid it.”
“It was horrible,” Sadie said, tearing up.
“Most of this world is,” Steve said. “But it has some compensations.”
“What?” Fontana asked.
“We’re doing good work?” Steve said. “The sea is beautiful when it’s not trying to kill us.”
“Need help?” Fontana asked. “I sort of need to get some food in me, but if I can help I’d like to.”
“We always need help,” Steve said. “What did you do in the— Rangers, was it?”
“Bite your tongue,” Fontana said. “Fifth special forces group. I was an Eighteen Bravo. Cross train in Eighteen Echo and Delta. Six times in the Stans, some training time in Africa. You?”
“Rifles sergeant,” Steve said. “Also in the Stans. Then later a history teacher. Question: did you happen to know someone named ‘Donnie’ who was a special forces officer?”
“Know him, no,” Fontana said. “He was out before I joined. But I’ve heard of him. Missing both legs?”
“He was, unfortunately, a casualty,” Steve said, nodding. “Okay, I’d say you’re in.”
“No, I’m not a poser,” Fontana said, grinning. “And I notice your wife’s wearing a pistol and you’re wearing a pistol and taser. Still. Problems?”
“Some,” Steve said. “But we deal with them as they come along. How do you feel about clearance?”
“With a crowbar?” Fontana asked. “Not so happy. With a firearm? Please!”
“Are you sure, honey?” Sadie asked unhappily.
“We’re not going to send him in unprepared,” Steve said. “Among other things, we still have some vaccine. That goes first to clearance personnel. And we’re careful to avoid bites and blood spray. But we do need more people willing to do active clearance. We have two vessels waiting for clearance teams. We were on our way to one of them. And right now it’s only myself and my daughter doing it.”
“You’re afraid if you give me a gun I’ll try to take over,” Fontana said, nodding. “Makes sense. All I can say is that until something better comes along, I’m your man. I’d like to get a piece back from these zombies. And I’m seriously missing my gun collection. The one thing I’d like to know, though, is there anything in it? I mean, I’ll help out but what is it, share and share alike?”
“More or less,” Steve said. “Clearance teams get a spif on every boat they clear. Besides first choice of loot, which is pretty obvious. The real question is, how open-minded are you about your partner . . . ?”
* * *
“So, how do you usually handle this?” Fontana said, trying not to be amused by the thirteen-year-old girl in full assault rig.
“Usually like this,” Faith said, drawing her H&K. She measured the catenary carefully and shot the zombie cla
wing at them from the back deck of a 60-foot fishing boat.
The round hit the zombie high on the right chest. It clawed at the wound for a moment, then slipped on its own blood and fell over the side.
“Then the sharks take care of it for us,” she said.
“Works for me,” Fontana said. “You got a handle?”
“Shewolf,” Faith said, reloading the expended round in her magazine, then seating it again. “Got a problem with that?”
“No, ma’am,” Fontana said.
* * *
“Seriously?” Fontana said, as he levered open the stuck hatch. “I’d heard of Voltaire but I never really got into that kind of tunes.”
“Seriously, it was a hoot,” Faith said as a zombie arm clawed out of the compartment. “Hang on a sec.” She lifted her Saiga and put it to the doorway. “’Ware bouncers.”
“Roger,” Fontana said, holding the hatch gapped.
“You want some?” Faith said, firing the Saiga. The arm started spasming. “Who else? Huh?”
“Watched a lot of Aliens, have we?” Fontana said.
“Love that movie. You? You want some . . . ?”
* * *
“Wait,” Faith said, holding out her hand as Fontana started to step over the coaming.
“Looks clear,” Fontana said, flashing his tactical light around the compartment.
“Zombies do not like impolite people,” Faith said. “Always announce your presence. ZOMBIES, ZOMBIES, ZOMBIES! OLLY OLLY OXENFREE!”
“That is so . . . wrong,” Fontana said.
“You’re used to trying to sneak up on people,” Faith said as there was a scuffling sound. “There . . .” The zombie was emaciated and clearly on its last legs. She put a round through the infected’s chest as it stumbled towards the lights.
“Where the hell did it come from?” Fontana said, waving the light around again.
“Da thinks they spend a lot of time sleeping really deep to conserve energy.”
“So . . . make enough noise to wake the dead?” Fontana said, chuckling.
“Something like that. ZOMBIES, ZOMBIES, ZOMBIES . . . COME TO SUPPER!”
* * *