Convoy 19: A Zombie Novel

by Mark Rivett

  “What’s that, sir?” Pam asked. She and Miguel moved closer to their commander.

  “A list,” Sheridan replied.

  The two soldiers read over Sheridan’s shoulder. It was an extensive list of names… names they recognized. At the very bottom of the list was the name, “Carl Harvey.”

  “A list of our dead,” Miguel confirmed.

  Sheridan finished writing, stood, and turned to the last surviving members of the final convoy mission into San Diego. “A list that is far, far too long.”

  Pam and Miguel nodded in agreement.

  Sheridan walked over to a corner of the room that had not yet been completely covered by black writing. He held his list up and Pam and Miguel could see that the Captain had already begun transcribing much of his list onto the chapel wall. He added the names of the soldiers that had been lost on this last mission, and he paused before adding the final name. Instead, he handed the pen to Miguel.

  Miguel took the pen. He found a space on the wall and wrote the rank, “Sergeant First Class.” He then handed the pen to Pam.

  Pam finished the name, “Carl Harvey.”

  “Sergeant First Class Carl Harvey.” Captain Sheridan nodded at the words in approval.

  “A great friend.” Pam placed her hand on the wall as if channeling the spirit of Carl.

  “A great commander.” Miguel placed his hand next to Pam’s.

  “You will be missed.” Captain Sheridan joined Pam and Miguel in a long moment of silence.

  Epilogue

  Dr. Henry Damico stood behind his wife Kelly with his arms wrapped around her waist. They stood on the deck of the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan. The blue ocean was slicked brown with garbage that floated in all directions. The subtle stench of refuse and rot carried on the gentle breeze, and the warm sun gradually cooked the pool of human waste that collected in tangles throughout the fleet. Here and there, a ghoul splashed and floundered about…rising and falling helplessly with the waves.

  “So, this is the fleet.” Kelly looked out toward a tightly packed group of nearly a hundred small civilian boats, many slung together with rope. A large cruise ship passed near the floating slum, sending a series of waves through the makeshift settlement like a rolling earthquake.

  “This is the fleet,” Henry answered.

  A moment of silence passed between them, and then Kelly responded. “I’ll take this over a DDC any day.”

  Henry hugged Kelly tightly as he reached up to wipe a tear from her eye.

  “There are a lot of problems.” Henry answered after a few more minutes of silence. “We’re running out of food. There isn’t enough skilled labor. The military is deserting. We have a long journey ahead of us, and not everyone is going to make it.”

  Kelly nodded. “But some will.”

  “I hope.” Henry replied.

  “You don’t have to be out here.” A familiar voice called out from behind Henry. The Admiral stepped into view next to Henry and Kelly, and he looked out over the ocean with a sigh. “When we get moving, it won’t stink so much.”

  “I didn’t feel it was right to not watch.” Henry answered.

  The Admiral didn’t reply, but he clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out over the fleet.

  “I’m sorry about the situation on the Boxer, Ed. Don’t punish Sergeant Ramos or Specialist Grace. I tied their hands.” Henry had been dwelling on what had happened on the Boxer. His hypocrisy had been eating at him since his return to the Reagan, and a part of him felt like he did not deserve to be breathing. So many people had died aboard ships that had been quarantined and abandoned under his policies.

  Admiral Edward McMillan chuckled. “What am I going to do, Henry? Demote the last two veterans of a unit that has saved probably half the civilian lives in this fleet? Should I court-martial them? Throw them in the brig and guard them with soldiers? Soldiers that are just itching to desert to the Horizon Pacific, so they can booze and whore away the rest of their lives? I don’t have many good soldiers left, Henry. Their punishment will fit their crime.”

  “What’s that?” Kelly asked, hopeful that Miguel and Pam would not face a penalty too serious. She had seen the burden on their souls at San Onofre. Carl’s burden had been too heavy for him, and when he had died…that burden had passed to Pam and Miguel.

  “I will pin a medal on their chests and give them a few days off, but after that, they’re going right back to the same job they’ve been doing for the last year,” McMillan replied, “and Henry… he gets the same, only no medal… and no vacation.”

  Henry nodded silently.

  The Admiral stepped close to Henry and spoke softly. “It’s really easy to get drunk on power, Henry. Be mindful of when you’re using your power for others…and when you’re using that power for yourself. It’s one thing to lose good people, it’s another thing for good people to stop being good because it’s easier than making the hard choices.”

  Henry nodded. He had seen the line of corruption blur, and he understood how people—particularly people in power—could cross that line.

  Kelly squeezed her husband’s arms around her, and the three of them stood quietly observing the calm ocean around them.

  “Have you seen this?” The Admiral produced a full-color flier from his pocket and handed it to Henry.

  Henry held the flier out so his wife could read it.

  “There is a solution!” Kelly read out loud. A caption in large red letters hung over an image of a mushroom cloud. Below that was additional text; “We’ve lost too much. Let the Mexicans know you’ve had enough. Write your representative and tell them to support the nuke!” The last three words were in bold, glowing text.

  “What the hell is this?” Henry crumpled up the flier and threw it into the ocean. “This isn’t political.”

  “I found that in a loaf of bread that came from the Horizon Pacific.” The Admiral frowned. “Someone’s playing a public image game…”

  “Allan Nostrum,” Henry sighed. “Sick.”

  “He’s smart, Henry.” The Admiral replied. “Sick and smart.”

  An enormous black object emerged from the ocean depths, its smooth steel hull breaking the surface of the green-blue water. Two circular cracks emerged in the submarine’s hull as missile hatches prepared to launch their deadly contents.

  “I didn’t feel it was right not to watch, either.” McMillan said.

  The warship floated in the water silently for a few moments, and Henry felt almost as if it was hesitating. Then, with a high-pitched thunderous boom, two missiles streaked vertically out of the launch tubes into the air…leaving a smoke trail as they went. In less than a minute, they vanished into tiny specks. They were headed southeast to deliver a deadly payload.

  “We’re supposed to be at war with the undead… not each other.” Kelly broke the silence. “It’s sad that this was the only solution we could come to.” Her tone was not one of regret or moral reproach, but one of sad acceptance that the world they now lived in was such a dark and horrible place. Their survival might require the world to grow darker, so that it might eventually grow bright.

  “Sometimes things get so fucked up there aren’t any good solutions.” Admiral McMillan stated absently.

  The End

  Read on for a free sample of The Dark Times: A Zombie Novel

  Prologue

  The year 2018

  Life can turn on a dime, and sometimes the turn has already come and gone before we even see it coming.

  “Ron, I think I found a movie for us to watch. Hurry up. It looks like it’s already started.”

  Leah put the remote control for the television down on the couch and took a sip of her Bloody Mary. The shaft of celery periscoped from the top and jabbed her cheek. The cocktail was the perfect complement to the bag of popcorn she had pulled from the microwave only minutes before. The saltiness of the popcorn brought out the richness of the spicy tomato blend that cracked the ice in her cup.

  “Yeah? What is it
?” Ron poked his head from the kitchen’s entrance into the living room.

  She put her feet on the coffee table and gazed above her blue toenail polish. “It’s a zombie movie. I don’t know the name of this one. I don’t think we’ve seen it. You’re missing it.”

  “I’m making a sandwich—be there in a minute.” Ron hurried back to finish up before the guts started to fly. He tightened the lid on the mayo, gathered the provolone and ham, and stuck them in the fridge. Before he closed the door, he plucked out a bottle of Yellow Jacket Porter from the top shelf, but needed something to open it with. “What’s happening?” He opened a drawer, fumbled through measuring spoons, and carefully parted knives until spotting the onyx handle of the bottle opener.

  “The zombies are wandering out of a cemetery and are walking the streets.”

  “Zombies don’t walk, honey. Zombies shamble, or lurch, or something.” Ron opened the pantry door and scanned the choice of chips to go with his sandwich. After sampling a bag of corn chips and deciding they were stale, he opened a new bag of sour cream and green onion potato chips. “Are the zombies eating anybody yet?”

  “No—hey, this looks like it was filmed downtown.”

  “Downtown, here in Killeen? Why would they come to this town to film a zombie movie? This is small town Texas. Zombies on the beach would’ve had more appeal. It can’t be our downtown. Must be some other place. Downtowns in most cities look alike.”

  He opened the bag of chips and crunched one down, then popped open the beer and chased the chip with a gulp. He folded the top of the chip bag and clamped on a clothespin to keep it fresh before placing it back in the pantry.

  “I can’t hear you. I’m trying to listen. I don’t think it’s a movie.”

  Ron stepped into the living room with beer and plate in hand. He stopped next to Leah and took another chug of beer. “That’s Channel Ten News. See, that’s Meg Gallo. Did you change the station?”

  “No. Those zombies are coming out of Memory Gardens Cemetery. You know, by that big Baptist church. There was some audio in the beginning but now it’s out. Meg looks scared.”

  Ron sat on the couch next to Leah and set his beer on the coffee table.

  So much for watching a good horror movie, he thought.

  The camera panned away from Meg, the reporter.

  “Hey look, some homeless guy just walked out of the alley and those zombies over there are about to get him.” He took a bite from the sandwich. With his mouth half full, he said, “Wow, look at that. They’re on him like a swarm of locusts.”

  The video feed abruptly stopped. The screen stared back with obsidian emptiness.

  “Oh, my God. What’s happening? Ron, what should we do?”

  “Uh, find another channel to watch?” Ron drank more beer and belched.

  Leah shoved his shoulder. “I’m serious. You just saw what happened. What’s going on? What are we going to do?”

  “You bought that? You thought that was real?” Ron chuckled.

  “What else am I supposed to think? It was on the news.”

  “I’ll give you a hint. What’s today?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “No, the date?”

  “The first.”

  “And, what month is it?”

  “April.”

  “Annnnnd, what is April first famous for?”

  The tension gripping Leah’s face relaxed. “Oh, April Fool’s Day.”

  “That’s right. The dead return to life—April Fool’s.” Ron made a victorious smirk.

  “But that didn’t look like a joke. It looked so real.”

  “Do you remember one year when the news did the fake story that the Liberty Bell was getting a sponsor and was going to be renamed the Taco Bell Liberty Bell? What we just watched was the same type of thing. That news story looked like a prank gone south. They were having audio problems and probably pulled the plug from the live feed and the station wasn’t prepared for it. The zombies looked real enough, but when that guy conveniently stepped out of the alley to become dinner, it looked like a set up to me. They needed a better script.” Ron picked up the remote and changed the channel. “Pulp Fiction. I love this movie. Let’s watch it.”

  Leah mindlessly reached in the bag and picked out some popcorn. She mechanically chewed the kernels, seemingly oblivious to what was on the television screen.

  Chapter 1

  “Rico, don’t you think you’ve had enough tonight? Why don’t you go home to your wife?”

  James Connors, better known as Pop, the owner of Pop’s Lounge, leaned on an elbow and smiled with one eye half closed. He had a tint of genuine concern in his voice, like always. Running a bar for the last forty years in downtown Killeen had taught him many life lessons on the power of suggestion. Taking into account the customer’s level of inebriation was essential.

  Rico’s expression didn’t change as he continued to stare through the short, red haired proprietor. Four empty shot glasses set in a neat row on the bar in front of him as he held onto the last shot he had finished some five minutes before. The empty glass reminded him of how he felt as he gripped it tightly in one hand.

  “Rico… Hey, big guy. Whatever’s eating at you, let it go.”

  No response.

  Rico looked away from the barkeep and stared into the distance.

  “You’re sitting here in your police uniform getting shit faced. What if this gets back to your chief? You don’t want to jeopardize your job.”

  The officer’s cheeks puffed out like a bullfrog, widening his mouth as whiskey from his stomach rose to irritate his throat. “I’m off duty. Give me another.”

  “You’ve had five shots in the last hour. I can’t give you anymore. It’s my legal duty as a bartender to stop serving a patron if I think they’re showing signs of inebriation.”

  “Fuck the law.”

  “Can’t do that, buddy. Now you’re talking about my ass. I can’t let you get snookered to the point you leave out of here and hurt someone on the road. I’d get fined and shut down if that happens.”

  Rico closed his eyes, adrift on a skiff through time and space. The bar chatter and music blended into an eerie silence. He had been alone before in life, but he had never felt this alone. Each passing second bled out an ounce of his will to live. The whiskey didn’t replace what he’d lost, as he hoped. His trusted friend that eased the pain had finally let him down. He shifted the glass to the other hand and mindlessly tapped the side with a finger.

  “She’s not home,” he finally said.

  “Who? Oh, your wife?”

  “Not home. Says she can’t live with me anymore. Blames it on my drinking.” Rico turned his gaze to Pop for the first time since he sat down. It had been hard to look other people in the eye these days, thinking maybe if he didn’t engage them personally, then they couldn’t see him. Because if they saw him for whom he was, he would be forced to acknowledge the problem. Pop’s Irish grin melted a dam of bitter emotions. “I blame my drinking on my job. Fuck my job. Fuck the law. Fuck life.”

  The old man nodded. His green eyes sparkled under time-marred eyelids. “You’re not the first cop to sit at my bar and drown his sorrows. I get that the job is tough. Day after day dealing with the worst society has to offer. Long hours, low pay, not knowing if the next guy you pull over for running a red light will whip out a gun and blow your head off. It sounds to me that you’ve just lost focus.”

  “Focus?”

  “Sure, think back to why you took the job some . . . how long ago was it?”

  “I finished the Academy when I was twenty-two. That was eight years ago. Hmm,” Rico grimaced. “Eight years sounds like such a long time. Right now, it feels more like it was yesterday. I wish it were yesterday. I’d have done things differently.”

  “You went into law enforcement because you knew the American dream couldn’t continue without men and women like you. You saw people getting older, like your parents, and wanted them to live a safe, happy life
. You wanted your children growing up in an environment where they could play outside and go to school and make something of themselves.” Pop pointed to the officer’s name badge. “Sergeant Rico J. Cruz. You didn’t become a Sergeant by eating doughnuts and directing traffic. You’ve worked your way up from the bottom and hung in there. Showed yourself to be the cream of the crop. The drive inside that led to your promotion to Sergeant is still there. Sure, the job’s tough, but I’ve been in this business long enough to know that finding refuge in the bottom of a glass isn’t all related to work.”

  Pop leaned toward Rico. His gaze cut like a priest waiting for a confession.

  Rico grimaced again as he squeezed the shot glass. His face reddened under the dim, yellow lights above the bar. He had promised himself he wouldn’t cry over the matter. For God’s sake, he was a grown man after all. Tears would be a sure sign of defeat—ultimate humiliation. A deep breath strengthened his resolve.

  “The drinking didn’t start until . . . until Mary Etta started losing interest in me. We were married pretty young. Not more than kids, really. We were so in love though.” His expression softened as he placed the shot glass on the counter. “Things were great at first. We lived in an apartment for the first two years. Those were the best of times. We bought a house, and she went to work. It all kind of started then. She was working with a lot of women her age that weren’t married. Sometimes she would go out with them to bars and clubs. You know, when I worked night shift. I guess I stopped paying her the special attention women need.” Rico lifted his head and with glistening eyes gazed at Pop. “At some point, she got that special attention from other men.” His voice broke, and he clenched his teeth to keep his angst from spilling out.

  Pop reached over and placed his hand on Rico’s shoulder. “That’s a shame. I wish I could say things like that don’t happen very often but that wouldn’t be true. I hear a story like that so much in this line of work that I think it’s become the norm. Sometimes I think marriage licenses should only be good for three years. It’s just the way society has gone. You’re about to enter a new phase in life, buddy. Don’t worry, there are plenty of hot women in the world that’s in the same situation as you. It’ll take a little time. You’ll get over it.” Pop raised his eyebrows. “But you gotta take control of this thing. You’re better than that. Accept it for what it is and move on. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”