by John Ringo
* * *
Steve waved to bemused looking Felix as the wind carried the boat away from the dock. He could tell that the broker was wondering if he’d somehow been taken.
It certainly would hold for a couple of weeks. By which time this would either be a false alarm and the Smiths, one and all, would have to start their lives over, probably in Australia, or the world would be so clearly headed to hell in a handbasket that nobody would care.
“Jason Ranseld” had some very interesting papers indeed. Among others was a mate’s license. It wasn’t forged. Steve had gotten it while he was living the “Jason Ranseld” life many years agone. So he had some experience working with boats this big. In wind even. Twenty years agone.
He thus managed to maneuver out of the marina without major incident. What he hadn’t thought to bring was a coat. And it was bloody chilly. The clouds were high, thin and rippled in a regular humped pattern, and the sun shone through them weak and grey. There was a name for that type of cloud formation, but Steve couldn’t quite recall it.
He was worried about Stacey and the girls. Against direct threats they could take care of themselves, but a plague… There just wasn’t any way to truly prevent it absent quarantine gear. And it was in the general population.…
He looked up at the scudding clouds and still couldn’t remember the official name for the formation. But he remembered the day he’d asked his Grandfather Smith about them. Gran had been a veteran of WWII starting from his days as a militia man in New Guinea and always knew everything.
Gran had looked up, said it was called “a graveyard sky” then walked back in the house and had gotten very drunk.
* * *
“Come on, honey,” Stacey said. “Where are you?”
It was a nice neighborhood despite the relatively low occupancy. The housing downturn in the Virginia area had tended to impact high end homes more than lower end. And it was a very nice neighborhood. Which was why the beat-up Nissan Pathfinder with something piled on top under a tarp was getting a lot of looks from the remaining residents. Before long she’d have to explain their presence to the police. And since there wasn’t a good explanation…
“Jail?” Faith said.
“I don’t need that right now, Faith,” Stacey said. She didn’t want to call Steve in case there were problems. He didn’t need her nagging. “Besides, the check is good. Sort of.”
“Have a little…faith, Sis,” Sophia said.
“Oh, that’s sooo wise,” Faith spat back.
Stacey started as her phone rang. She checked and it was Steve. Which could be good or bad…
“Tell me you’re not in jail,” Stacey said.
“Inbound to the rendezvous,” Steve said. “Glad you got that payday loan from Tom. The seller wasn’t impressed by lots of important looking paperwork. I think he’s still wondering about the wire transfer.”
“Which as I understand it we’d better be able to cover or things have to go to hell in a handbasket quick,” Stacey replied, putting the idling car in drive and creeping forward.
“Any problems on your end?”
“Just keeping the toilet paper on top of the car.”
* * *
“Okay, I see what you mean,” Steve said, chuckling.
The house was about ten thousand square feet and right on a navigable “creek” that would meet most areas’ definition of river. And it included a very nice T dock with enough room to tie up, say, a 45 foot Hunter sailboat named Mile Seven. There was even a convenient drive to bring a car around to the end of the dock. Which Stacey was, cautiously, doing as the girls ran down to the dock.
The reason for the caution was apparent by the cargo. Stacey was, in Steve’s opinion, an unrecognized mechanical and electrical genius. On the other hand, he had a tendency to hit other people’s thumbs with a hammer. That being said, as a former para he always handled packing. Especially if it involved anything torqued onto the roof of the Pathfinder.
Stacey had apparently gotten two of the spare tarps from the trolley and done…something with a great deal of twine and far too much para cord. He’d seen some smaller cars more overburdened in the Stans. However, those drivers had a bit more understanding of things like aerodynamics. And load shifting. The tarp looked a bit like a wind-battered green and brown potato.
“I can’t remember how the knot goes…” Faith said, pulling the stern line in and then bracing as the boat started to head out to sea again. “Help?”
“I’ve got it,” Sophia said. She’d already secured the fore line. Between them they got the stern of the boat alongside and the older sister quickly had it secured with a double hitch. “It’s simple.”
“Simple is a shotgun and a zombie,” Faith said.
“Quit arguing and start unloading,” Steve said, shutting down the boat. “We’re on short time.”
“Shaking it for all we’re worth, Captain, sir!” Sophia said, saluting sarcastically.
“That’s more like it,” Steve said.
* * *
Besides the mass of material, the main problem was first in was also first in. That is, just as the trailer had had to be packed with the heaviest items on the bottom and forward, the boat had to be packed with the heaviest items first. Which required unloading the entire trailer before they could get started on loading the boat.
They had just gotten the trailer completely unloaded when the visit Steve was dreading occurred.
“Dad,” Sophia said, glancing around the trailer. “Cop.”
“Roger,” Steve said. “Start the load.”
* * *
“Can I ask you what you’re doing, sir?” Officer Jason Young, Williamsburg PD, asked.
The morning shift had started slow. A couple of kids speeding, couple of burglary reports from Friday night. The usual.
Things seemed to be picking up, though. He’d just heard two separate 10–64, indecent exposure, calls, then a 10–64, 10–28, fight or disturbance. Whatever, things were picking up and here he was dealing with…well he wasn’t sure what he was dealing with. The call had been 10–66: suspicious person. The people just seemed to be loading a boat. But according to the neighbor who had called it in, the house connected to the dock was in foreclosure and nobody was supposed to be using the property. And the car, with badly secured materials on the roof, had been hanging around the neighborhood for nearly an hour.
“Loading my boat, Officer Young,” Steve said.
“This is private property and according to the neighbors not your property,” Young said. “Which means you are trespassing, sir.”
“A valid position, Officer Young,” Steve said. “The dock was convenient and the property is clearly not being used. It was, at best, a minor transgression and we’ll be gone within the hour.”
“Mind if I see some ID, sir?” Young asked. “You’re not American. Irish?”
“Australian,” Steve said, pulling out his driver’s license and trying not wince. Americans could never sort out Commonwealth accents. “And I’m a naturalized American citizen. Not a resident. I have a passport, American, as well.”
“Says here you live in Warrentown,” Young said. Which matched the plates on the Nissan.
“Yes, Officer,” Steve said, politely. “The address is correct.”
“Mind if I see your registration and proof of insurance?” Young asked.
“Of course,” Steve said, turning around.
“Before you open the car,” Young said. “Are there any weapons in the vehicle?”
“Ah,” Steve said, turning back to face the officer. “I was wondering when we’d get to that part. Yes, as a matter of fact. They are all in locked cases in the rear. My wife and I also have CCLs but we are not, at this point, carrying.”
“Okay,” Young said, his brow furrowing. “All?”
“There are quite a few,” Steve said. “Would you like to see? They’re rather buried still. We were loading from the trolley first.”
“Trolley?�
�
“Sorry,” Steve said, too calmly, “trailer.”
Young looked at the ladies continuing to load the boat. They didn’t look as if they were preparing for a trip to the Carribean. They looked nervous. And this cat was just too calm.
“Don’t open the vehicle,” Young said. “Please do not approach the vehicle. I need to talk to the ladies.”
Steve started to open his mouth to ask why, then just nodded.
“As you prefer, Officer.”
* * *
“Officer, sorry about this,” Stacey said as the cop walked over. “I know we’re sort of trespassing but the house is empty. It looks like it’s in foreclosure. And it was so convenient to load! I’m really sorry but we won’t be long.”
She didn’t do bimbo well but she was going to give it her best shot.
“There are marinas for that sort of thing, ma’am,” the officer said. “Everything else okay?”
“Yes?” she asked, looking past the cop to Steve and trying to catch a clue. “What do you mean?”
“Are you under any form of duress?” the officer asked. “I mean, is this your idea? Are you okay, ma’am?”
“I’m fine,” Stacey said, frowning. “We’re fine. We just want to get loaded and off to sea!”
“And you are married to Mister…Sorry, what was the name again?” he asked, glancing at Steve’s license.
“Oh,” Stacey said, laughing. “You mean Steven John Smith, my husband of seventeen years? Would you like to meet our two children, Sophia Lynn and Faith Marie? Yes, he’s my husband, these are our children and we’re all real people.”
“May I see some identification, ma’am?” the officer asked.
“It’s in my purse in the car…”
“Which I’d like to hold off opening until I’ve examined the weapons inside,” the officer said.
“You’re in for a treat then,” Faith said, stopping. “What’s this about?”
“Just keep loading, Faith,” Stacey said.
“What?” Faith said. “While you and Da stand around talking to the cop?”
“Just keep loading, Faith,” Stacey said evenly.
“What’s the rush?” the officer said.
“Trying to make the tide, Officer,” Stacey said.
She knew immediately she’d said something wrong.
“The outgoing tide?” the officer asked, suspiciously. Any cop on the coast knows the tides and the tide was currently inbound and would be for twelve hours. “Can I see the registration for the boat, please, ma’am?”
“I’ll have to ask Steve where it’s at,” Stacey said.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d stop loading until I can get this cleared up, ma’am,” the officer said.
“Of course, officer, if you insist,” Stacey said, trying not to curse. “Okay, Faith, Soph, you can knock off.”
“About time for a break!” Faith said.
* * *
“Problems, officer?” Steve asked as Young walked back to him.
“I’m trying to figure that out,” Young said. “There’s enough material here for an army, you’ve certainly got enough guns for one. You’re trespassing on private property and you’re in a hurry. And not, as your wife said, to make the tide. On the other hand, you don’t look like a drug gang and the material doesn’t look stolen. Nothing adds up. Call me suspicious.”
“The dock is convenient to load on,” Steve said. “Much more so than a marina.”
“How long have you had the boat?” Young asked.
“Just bought it,” Steve said. “This morning. Wire transfer from my brother’s corporation.”
“Okay, Mr. ‘Smith,’” Young said angrily. “Cut the crap. What the hell is going on? Really?”
“Mind if I pull out my cell?” Steve said carefully.
“Why?”
“I’d like to check the time,” Steve said. “Or you can give it to me.”
“Why?” Young asked.
“I need to know what time it is,” Steve said calmly.
Young stepped back and carefully, keeping half an eye on the man and group of women, checked his watch.
“Eleven forty-seven,” Young said.
“Long day,” Steve said ruefully. “I hadn’t realized it was that early. Can I wait…thirteen minutes to answer that question?”
“What happens at noon?” Young asked, his eyes narrowing.
“An announcement,” Steve said. “Probably a carefully worded one. Which will not give you enough information to protect yourself or your fellow officers. If we can continue loading until noon, and there is such an announcement, I can then give you more information. Information which may keep you alive. But I’m constrained not to until then. I will give you one piece of information. If you find yourself sometime in the next few days dealing with an incoherent naked person who is acting in a violent manner, my suggestion is to shoot him or her, dead if necessary, and avoid the blood splatter. That way you’ll be placed on administrative leave pending the shoot investigation. And that will significantly increase your chances of survival.”
Young stopped and thought about that. Guns. Supplies. Sailboat. In a hurry…
“You’re joking,” Young said. “That’s impossible.”
“Noon,” Steve said. “At least I was told there would be an initial announcement at noon-”
Young’s radio beeped urgently and he held it up to his ear.
“Ten Twenty-Seven! Ten Twenty-Seven! Multiple hostile three-” There was a series of shots, then the call cut off.
“Ten Twenty-Seven, Four-One-Three Elmshore Road. Ten Twenty-Seven, Four-One-Three Elmshore Road… Break, break. Ten Twenty-Seven. Seven Two Seven Six Waterson Avenue… Ten Twenty-Seven…”
“You need to go, Officer Young,” Steve said. “Do not let them bite you under any circumstances. The blood pathogen is particularly potent.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” Young said.
“Officers in trouble,” Steve said, thumbing at the cop’s car. “And good luck.”
CHAPTER 4
Young pealed out of the driveway and checked his car’s computer. He was designated to respond to the Waterson Avenue call. It was about six minutes ETA. He thumbed open his cell as he took the turn, blowing a stop sign and nearly getting t-boned by an Expedition, then hit his lights and sirens.
He hit speed dial three and waited impatiently.
“What? We’ve got multiple officers requesting back-up and youse got time for a personal call?”
Sergeant Joseph “Joey” Patterno would never have made sergeant in a previous Williamsburg administration. He had plenty of credentials. Fourteen years on SFPD in some of the toughest districts. He was physically fit, a short, barrel chested Jewish/Italian from New York with time not only as a beat and operations sergeant but leading one of SFPD’s premier SWAT teams. He’d moved to Williamsburg, which entailed a big pay cut, when his partner got a much better job offer than he’d had in Frisco, and the department here had, after much head scratching, taken Joey on.
The headscratching was pretty much covered by the word “partner.” In fact it was-legally in California-“husband.” In Virginia it was still a bit ambiguous. Joey had at least gotten over his tendency to freak people, intentionally, by talking with a lisp. And he took the occasional ribbing about his “preferences” pretty well. When it got to be too extreme he’d just do a little twist or a moue and the joker would generally shut right the hell up. And if that didn’t work, he had a font of other practical jokes-not to mention a right hook that was legendary.
“Not personal,” Young said. “The ten thirty-seven was a family using an abandoned dock to load a mass of guns, food and toilet paper onto a brand new boat.”
“Which has what to do with ten sixty-fours piling on officers?” Patterno asked.
“The husband, who was one cool cucumber, suggested to me, just before the eleven ninety-nine, that if I had a ten sixty-four acting in a hostile nature to shoot first and
just take the admin leave. And avoid the blood spatter. When I got the call he added to absolutely under any circumstances avoid the bite. I quote, ‘the blood pathogen is particularly nasty.’”
“You’re shitting me,” Patterno said. “No way!”
“He mentioned ten sixty-fours before the call,” Young said. “Hostile ten sixty-fours. He said there was going to be some sort of announcement at noon.”
“Son of a… I’d heard about that,” Patterno said. “The CDC was scheduling a joint press conference with the Fibbies. Okay, meet you at Waterson… Shit, change in call…”
Young glanced at his board and shook his head. There were alarm calls going up all over the place. Including…
“I’ve got a…” he said, then braked, hard. A naked girl, teenager, had just run in front of his car. Her face was… He keyed his radio as the girl jumped onto his hood, then started smashing at the glass. Her face was distorted, insane. She looked pasty as if she’d been sick. Just…something wasn’t there.
“Unit Eight-Seven-Three to Base. Hostile Ten sixty-four. Female. Four Six Zero Butterworth Drive. Attacking my car. Request female officer assistance.”
“Eight Seven Three. Ten-Zero. Protocol Five-One Five-Zero. No assistance available.”
“Base, Eight Seven Three. Say again female, expand, teenage female, Three-One-One.”
“Roger. No assistance available, Eight Seven Three. Ten-Zero. Five-One Five-Zero. Transport to Emerson on Secure.”
“What the fuck?” Young swore. Use caution. Crazy person. Duh. No assistance? No female officer for a naked teenage girl? He was going to get the crap sued out of him.
He was avoiding using a certain word even in his head. Not that not thinking “zombie” was keeping him from thinking “zombie.” Problem being, the girl was not the level of threat that permitted the use of a firearm. If he shot her he’d be lucky to get just administrative leave. He’d be looking at assault or manslaughter at the very least.
He caught movement in his peripheral vision and saw a man, probably the girl’s father, staggering across the lawn. He had multiple bite marks on his chest and arms, both of which were bare. He’d apparently just thrown on some shorts to follow his naked daughter into the street.