Omega Days (Book 2): Ship of the Dead

by Campbell, John L.

  “Like we discussed,” said Xavier, and everyone nodded. Rosa would stay with the boat and cast off. The rest would go ashore, splitting into smaller groups if necessary. Angie carried her walkie-talkie, and the other one sat on a map ledge over the patrol boat’s wheel. The shore party set off, moving in single file across the planking, the only sound the sloshing of water against the pilings and the distant call of gulls.

  The thing in the orange coveralls moved toward them immediately, and they slowed to let it come, watching it stagger out onto the dock. The bearded hippie named Little Bear, a huge man in a Grateful Dead T-shirt, cargo shorts, and hiking boots, advanced in front of the group to meet it. He carried one of the long-handled limb-cutting tools they had scavenged, but the saw had been replaced with a sharpened blade from a pair of hedge clippers. Little Bear waited until the thing stumbled into range, and then he lunged forward like a castle pikeman. His impromptu polearm caught the thing in the mouth, and he thrust, the blade exploding out the back of the creature’s head. It went instantly limp, and Little Bear let it sag to the side, slipping off his weapon and dropping into the water.

  Carney nodded. “You look like you’ve done that before.”

  Little Bear shook his head. “First zombie. But I worked a summer on a farm when I was a kid. It’s kind of like forking a hay bale.”

  Angie gave him a pat on his broad back as she moved past, her Galil up and ready. TC brought up the rear, the visor of his helmet up as he frequently turned to watch behind them. Xavier told Angie where he had come from and ended up, telling her about the mob of corpses that had emerged from the boatyard, and where he thought he had seen the boat racks.

  There were corrugated metal sheds used for workshops, small warehouses, fenced-off service yards, frozen storage buildings for fresh seafood—the spoiled reek had thankfully passed by this point—charter and sales buildings: lots of places for the dead to hide. Darius let out a shriek and almost triggered his shotgun when a mottled gray-and-tan cat burst from between two buildings and streaked across their path, but TC jerked the weapon away from him in time.

  “Let me hold that for you, sweetheart,” he said softly, winking. Darius took a deep breath as if about to say something, saw the smile that didn’t match the menace in TC’s eyes, and turned away.

  They quickly found the place Xavier had spoken of near the back of the boatyard, a warehouse-style construction of heavy metal racks. As the priest had seen, there was not only one vessel resting on the top level, wrapped in white plastic, but another one beside it.

  They were canoes.

  Everyone looked at the priest, and he felt the heat in his face. He didn’t bother trying to rationalize that he had been on the run, pursued by the dead, and had only caught a glimpse in the twilight. He felt like a fool.

  “Let’s attack an aircraft carrier with a canoe,” TC said, laughing. “What a fucking waste of time.”

  “Let it go, TC,” said Carney.

  The younger inmate sneered at the priest. “Good job.”

  “Uh, before we rush to judgment, folks,” Little Bear said, pointing. Beyond an empty, fenced yard where boats would have been stored on their trailers was a row of trees with a service road just on the other side. Sitting on that road was a flatbed eighteen-wheeler tractor-trailer. Perched upon that, strapped down for transport, was a thirty-two-foot black-and-white Bayliner boat. It too had its deck shrink-wrapped in white plastic.

  Xavier glanced skyward and shook his head.

  “You got lucky,” muttered TC, as they all walked toward the prize.

  “There must be something wrong with it,” said Darius. “Why would it still be here?”

  Angie shrugged. “People were in a hurry to get out. They probably didn’t see it back there.”

  Carney shook his head. “It would have been hard to miss. They probably couldn’t figure out how to get it off the truck and into the water, which is going to be our problem too.”

  “It probably doesn’t have an engine,” said Darius.

  “Hey, Mary Sunshine,” said TC, putting an arm around the professor’s shoulder, which the man immediately shrugged off. The inmate put a gloved finger to his lips. “Sweetie, shhh . . .” he whispered.

  Xavier hadn’t missed the tension between the two men, or the younger inmate’s suggestive behavior. “They have to do this all the time,” the priest said. “There must be a big forklift around here.” He stepped between Darius and TC and looked at the professor. “Can you go with Little Bear and see if you can find it?” The professor nodded and headed toward a warehouse with Little Bear and a hippie named Lou at his side.

  “I’ll give them cover,” said TC, winking at the priest and turning to follow.

  Xavier caught hold of the inmate’s arm. “How about you stay and cover us while we inspect the boat?”

  TC gave him a crooked, knowing grin, then jerked his arm away and trotted after the three jogging figures. Xavier felt a simmering anger as he watched the man leave, and yet short of shooting TC in the back, he realized there was nothing he could do. Angie and Carney were headed toward the tractor-trailer to see if the professor’s predictions of doom and gloom were correct, and after a moment the priest followed. They made sure to check among the trees and in the shadows beneath the trailer for lurking zombies.

  Climbing the tail of the trailer gave access to the molded Plexiglas stairs at the stern of the boat, and a quick slit with a blade created a flap in the plastic through which they could enter. It was warm inside the shrink wrap and a little claustrophobic for everyone but Carney. He was long past having any issues with tight spaces. The inmate pulled out a small flashlight.

  The Bayliner smelled new. Its large deck offered white upholstered seating, and a fiberglass radar arch curved overhead. The flooring was polished teak, rich with its own aroma. Below, the Bayliner featured spacious forward and midships berths, a good-sized head, and a modern galley with stainless steel fixtures, a fridge, microwave, and stove. It was all trimmed in teak as well. An entertainment cabinet in the main compartment was packed with high-end audio equipment and an LCD flat screen.

  “What the hell does something like this cost?” said Carney, running his fingers over the polished wood.

  “New?” said Angie. “Probably a hundred thousand. I’m not sure.”

  The inmate shook his head. For a boat, he thought.

  They went topside again and began cutting away the plastic, letting in the day’s gray light. For a moment, each of them expected to find the eighteen-wheeler surrounded by the hammering dead, but they were alone other than a few birds chirping within the nearby trees.

  “These things drive like a car, right?” said Carney.

  Angie nodded. “Sort of.”

  “So it’s going to need a key,” the inmate said, and the other two stopped and stared at him, then each other.

  “Shit,” said Angie.

  They began searching the cockpit area, spreading out across the deck, opening compartments and looking inside elastic pockets on the backs of the seats. Carney jumped down to check the cab of the truck, just as the crack of gunfire broke the silence, and the biggest forklift any of them had ever seen raced toward them across the boatyard.

  TWELVE

  “Where did they all go?” Evan whispered. He and Calvin were crouched behind a pallet of crates bearing Korean markings, peeking over the top. Out of sight on the barge below the edge of the pier, four men and women from Calvin’s group waited with rifles and shotguns, each additionally armed with a hand-to-hand landscaper’s weapon.

  “Who knows,” said Calvin. It was two of only a dozen words the man had spoken since leaving Alameda.

  Evan was nervous about the thousands of corpses that had been on this dock only a day ago, worried about where they might be now. He didn’t dare allow himself to think they had all conveniently walked off the pier a
nd sunk harmlessly to the bottom. He was also worried about the people back at Alameda. Both boats were out, and if an evacuation became necessary they would have to pack into that handful of vehicles and try to drive out. Survival would be unlikely. He thought of Maya.

  What worried the writer the most, however, was the girl kneeling behind a stack of crates next to them, sighting down her rifle. Skye had retrieved her combat gear, rifle, and ammo and climbed into the Bearcat with the others for the ride to the docks and the boats. She hadn’t spoken, and simply climbed onto the barge.

  Angie had given up her aviator sunglasses as the young woman winced frequently in the light and rubbed her temples. Though he was a little ashamed of it, Evan was happy not to have to look at that horrible, cloudy left eye. She’s damaged, he thought, and not just physically. Now she’s packing an automatic weapon. He tried not to stare.

  “Pull the barge down the side of the pier until it’s even with the vehicles,” Calvin ordered. “We’ll empty them fast, throw everything down onto the deck.”

  “I’ll take watch,” Skye said, her voice cracked and husky. Without waiting for a reply, she jogged forward, rifle up. Calvin and Evan followed slowly, while the barge’s diesel coughed and moved the craft alongside the wharf.

  Skye moved past the line of cars, vans, and SUVs, rifle muzzle tracking everywhere she looked: under them, inside them, between them. There was no sign of the dead. A white headache was settling behind her blind left eye, making her grit her teeth, and she knew that if she hadn’t been clenching the rifle’s front grip so tightly, her left hand would be trembling like a Parkinson’s victim. Her depth perception was off too, and although she didn’t think it would impair scope shooting, it made quick movement a challenge.

  You were stupid and careless, and now you’re weak.

  Unacceptable.

  She reached the end of the row and knelt beside the left rear tire of a Ford Escape SUV, settling into a shooting position, removing her sunglasses and aiming downrange. The wharf stretched before her, lined on one side with ships, each with a bright yellow hazmat symbol spray-painted on the hull, their gangplanks torn down. The wharf itself was cluttered with cargo containers and heavy equipment, and a sprawling industrial park stretched beyond it.

  Skye’s vision was distorted and it felt similar to looking at a 3D movie screen without the benefit of the special glasses. Things looked flat, like two-dimensional scenery props on a deep stage, and they floated in and out of focus. Debris, containers, and forklifts littered the area and created a lot of places for the dead to hide. But she knew they wouldn’t hide. They didn’t do that. They detected prey and came straight for it.

  “Come on, then,” she whispered, flexing her index finger in the trigger well, searching through the small world of her combat sight. The headache suddenly drove a white finger into the center of her brain and she closed her eyes, gasping and nearly dropping her rifle. She clenched her teeth and forced open a watery eye, her vision blurry.

  Unacceptable.

  Calvin, Evan, and two others moved among the vehicles, opening every door and rear hatch, emptying the contents. They carried cardboard boxes, wooden crates, and plastic totes to the edge of the pier, stacking them or dropping them to the waiting hippies on the deck of the barge. Food, bottled water, clothing, batteries, cans of Sterno and bottles of propane, small grills, coolers and sleeping bags, tents and lawn chairs were all collected.

  At the Ford Escape, Skye saw movement: fifty yards out, a shape behind a tangle of metal that had once been a ladderway for one of the cargo ships, a head of dirty blond hair moving slowly. She tracked it, the luminescent green pips of the combat sight wiggling and unsteady. The figure came into view, a teenage girl in clothing so torn and soiled it looked like pinned-on rags, a dead girl walking with a severe limp, one foot twisted backward.

  Skye rested her finger on the trigger and tried to put the pips just at the top of her head. She squeezed.

  PUFFT. The girl didn’t react. A miss.

  The suppressor made its coughing sound again, and this time there was a loud SPANG as the bullet ricocheted off the tangle of metal. Christ, that was a good two feet off target, she thought. The corpse stopped and turned halfway toward the noise, now facing Skye’s position. It first cocked its head, then lifted it, turning this way and that.

  She’s scenting the air, Skye thought. Searching for me.

  Another figure appeared behind the girl, a tall pole of a man in a once-white doctor’s coat now covered in rusty splotches. His scalp had been torn off, revealing a crown of white skull. He too stopped to scent the air. Skye bit the inside of her cheek hard, eye widening with the pain, and let out a long breath. She placed the phosphorescent pips on that patch of bare bone.

  PUFFT.

  The round blew off a chunk of shoulder, turning him ninety degrees. The doctor corpse walked that new direction for several steps, then angled back in toward the tail end of the line of vehicles. The girl moved alongside him.

  Skye wanted to scream. She rubbed a palm at her good eye as the headache turned into fingers that crept toward the base of her skull, probing and white. She felt nauseated, and an involuntary cry escaped her lips.

  The dead heard it, heads jerking at the sound.

  A hand fell upon her shoulder and Skye leaped forward, spinning, bringing the rifle up. Calvin grabbed the muzzle and forced it away from his face. “Stop it!” His voice was a sharp, angry whisper. Skye jerked the barrel out of his hand and bared her teeth, partially from the pain, partially from something else.

  “We’re loading the weapons now,” Calvin said, his voice still soft as he looked at the two wretches slowly making their way toward them. Skye looked too, but didn’t raise her rifle.

  “There were so many of them here,” Calvin said, no longer really speaking to her. “Why would they leave? Where would they go?”

  Skye hadn’t seen the hungry mob on the pier, had only heard pieces of the escape story as the hippies relived it with one another. She didn’t have an answer for the man. The creatures seemed predictable one moment, like docile cattle, and clever the next, capable of shocking physicality. Not that it mattered, they all had the same value to her. Targets. Tangos, as Sgt. Postman would have said. She rubbed her temple.

  “Come and help us,” Calvin said. “You need more rest and practice before you can do any good with that thing.”

  Skye stood and looked at him with that dead eye, then turned and snapped the rifle to her shoulder. PUFFT. PUFFT. Both corpses dropped, and Skye Dennison brushed past the aging hippie without a word, slinging the rifle.

  • • •

  The cords on Evan’s arms stood out as he lifted a big, hard plastic case from the back of a minivan and lugged it to the edge of the wharf. It was stamped with yellow lettering: M72 LAW 66mm HEAT QTY 10. He set it down next to a wooden crate holding forty-millimeter rifle-fired grenades, something he had seen only in movies. Curious, he unsnapped the plastic case and looked inside. A row of tubelike objects was covered in oily brown paper, and he peeled it back to reveal another weapon he had only seen in film.

  “LAW rocket, man,” said one of the hippies helping him unload the van, a man named Dakota who had spoken out at the meeting. “Light antitank weapon. Cool, huh?”

  Evan shook his head, not at all convinced a zombie would care about or even react to being hit by one of these things. It looked like something that would turn one hungry, aggressive thing into lots of hungry, aggressive things. “Do any of you even know how to use this?”

  A shrug. “Some. The rifles are easy to figure out, and grenades, hell, just pull and throw, right? We haven’t really messed with the heavier stuff.”

  “Where did you get it all?”

  Dakota passed an armload of rifles one at a time down to a woman on the barge. “We came across what was left of an Army unit somewhere between Vacaville an
d Fairfield, strung out along about a mile of highway and off on both sides.” The hippie shook his head. “It was bad, man. Those guys must have put up a hell of a fight. There was so much spent brass on the ground you could barely see your shoes. Too many of them, I guess. Drifters, I mean. Not a soldier left alive. Not many left period, most of them out walking.” He waved a hand.

  Evan tried to imagine how it must have been for them, the numbers needed to completely wipe out a military column with only claws and teeth.

  “We were lucky the drifters were gone when we got there. Probably the same horde that took out Travis Air Base.” The man helped Evan pass the rocket launchers down to the barge, then straightened and looked at him. “You know, I used to think of those guys as pigs, part of the oppressive military establishment, right-wing morons trying to suppress freedom. All that hippie crap, you know?” Dakota shook his head and made a disgusted face. “What a load of shit. That’s not our life anymore, and those guys were never what I called them. They were just people doing a job I could never do, fighting while the rest of us ran.” He looked across the bay to where a silent aircraft carrier rested at a gentle tilt. “It makes me ashamed.”

  Evan didn’t offer any words of comfort. What had Xavier said about the caliber of those people? Running to the gunfire. The apparently former hippie’s thoughts had occurred to Evan on occasion too, but he’d never had the courage to face or voice them. Dakota was right. Ashamed was the right word.

  They finished up a few minutes later. The caravan hadn’t actually been a rolling armory—most of it was food, clothing, and camping gear—but the firepower Calvin’s people had managed to scrounge would go a long way toward defending the group. Or storming a carrier, if they went ahead with Xavier’s plan.

  Skye appeared and climbed down to the barge without saying anything. Evan helped Calvin load the last few containers of gasoline, and within minutes the writer was back in the wheelhouse, the barge chugging out into the Middle Harbor. He was relieved, thankful that they had successfully recovered so many supplies without loss of life.