Up From the Depths

by J. R. Jackson

  “Jack, there isn’t much time. You did all that could,” she said with a sad look in her eyes. “Come to me.”

  “Not bloody fair,” Larkin repeated, looking down at the children that he had sworn to protect. If they hadn’t seen them in the store window, would they still be alive? If he hadn’t deserted M’Banga would he still be alive? Larkin brought the Browning up under his chin; he felt the cold metal of the barrel against his flesh, the smell of the gun oil. He looked up at the sky, tears flowing from his tightly squeezed shut eyes. He saw the light of the false dawn and knew it was his last. He pulled the trigger. His body fell to the street still gripping the pistol as the sun’s first few rays broke through the clouds. The echo of the gun shot had barely dissipated when the rumble of engines filled the air.

  A pair of SAS Land Rovers roared up to the intersection in front of the store and stopped. Several soldiers jumped off the vehicles and formed a cordon as the gunners of the mounted weapons scanned the area for threats.

  “Stay sharp. The butchers are thick in this area. Check for survivors. We already have one. Look for some more,” the officer in the passenger seat said.

  “What the bloody hell? This was one helluva tussle,” one of the soldiers said as he saw the carnage in the alley. Two soldiers cautiously approached, rifles ready then stopped and surveyed the scene.

  “This wee fucker sorted these cunts right out,” the other soldier said. “Stacked them up like bloody cordwood, he did.”

  “Aye. That he did,” the sergeant said, studying the way the bodies were laid out and replaying the events in his mind. “This bloke was a brave bastard. Stood his ground and gave them a what for.” The sergeant knelt down next to Larkin and used a hand to close the open, glazed eyes. He avoided looking too closely at the gaping hole where the top of Larkin’s head used to be. He had seen enough of those injuries.

  “You rest easy now, lad. We’ll take it from here.” The sergeant removed the Browning from Larkin’s stiffening hand and tucked it into his own belt. He drew the saber, studied it by turning it back and forth looking at the edge before he placed it in Larkin’s right hand, moving his left hand to grip the quillon as well. He made sure both hands gripped the edged weapon and the blade was lying on Larkin’s chest.

  “A warrior needs to have steel in his hand when he reaches the gates of Valhalla,” he said before he stood and tipped his hand to his beret.

  “All right, lads, police up this area and be smart about it.”

  Back at the Land Rovers, the OIC was engaged in a conversation over the radio.

  “Bravo-One Zero, we’ve got nothing here.” He listened to the headphones then stood up and circled his hand in the air.

  “Load up! We’re moving!”

  The soldiers climbed back onboard the Land Rovers.

  “Think we’ll ever know what happened back there?” one of the soldiers asked.

  “Same shit we’ve seen since all this started. More of those bleeding infected.”

  A small figure in the back of the second vehicle, covered in a blanket to ward off the chill of the morning, stared at the alley and the bodies piled up. M’Banga lowered his head and whispered a silent prayer that Larkin’s spirit would find peace. As he watched the alley, the sun flared into his eyes and for the briefest of moments, he was sure that he had seen two people, one male, one female, standing together watching him leave.

  ***

  Chapter 20

  Bremerton Naval Base, Washington State

  BB-63, Missouri, was tied up the pier gently rocking with the last waves of the first winter storm that had just passed. Her gray paint scheme looked shiny and new from the rain that was currently falling. There was no movement on her decks save the ensign on the fantail that fluttered in the breeze. Though tied to the pier with large hawsers, Missouri’s gangways were not deployed. The ship appeared to be deserted if not for the steam rising from one of her stacks and the muffled rumble from below decks signaling life.

  A secure mechanism spun and a hatch opened on her main deck. A large form exited, covered in a black poncho that did little to conceal girth and height but hid facial features in the shadow cast by the hood. Behind this figure, several more exited with the last one closing the hatch while the others swept fore and aft before meeting at one of the gangways facing the pier. Using hand gestures, some of the work crew began lowering the walkway while others watched the area. One more form exited the ship, this one slower and made its way to the now lowered gangway. This figure motioned over the larger of the first group and they put their heads together in quiet conversation.

  “How’s it look, Manny?” Chief Petty Officer (Retired) Alphonse Costelucci asked. The larger figure, Manny Olivera, a Samoan who had been living in Hawaii with his wife when the outbreak occurred, looked down at the older gentlemen.

  “It looks quiet. We haven’t seen anything since we arrived,” Olivera said.

  “Let’s hope it stays that way,” Costelucci said as he surveyed the moored ships across from them. He reached under his poncho and patted the Thompson M1A1 submachine gun that he had liberated from Missouri’s onboard museum. He had several magazines for the weapon tucked into his belt and one already in place. The two men watched the gangway lower into place in silence. They knew that if there were any infected in the immediate vicinity, that entrance to the ship would have to be heavily guarded.

  “We need some Marines onboard. Damn jarheads would come in handy about now,” Costelucci muttered to himself. Olivera looked over at him but didn’t say anything before returning his attention to studying the pier and ships nearby. He had been a weekend fisherman and small boat sailor before the world ended. Now, having spent months onboard a real ship, he had become a true deep water sailor. Both men watched the docking evolution, one with a practiced eye, the other with wonderment. While still a mile offshore from the base, Captain O’Reilly had sent out an advance party in one of the ship’s support boats. That party had been tasked with reaching the pier and preparing to tie up the ship. That group had surveyed the area for signs of infected then tied up to the pier and waited for the ship’s lines to be thrown to them. That same party now gratefully boarded the ship after spending several tense moments as the ship maneuvered into place and headed below to get out of the weather and ingest something warm.

  “Looks like we might have lucked out,” Costelucci said as he squinted and looked closer at the ships across from them. He wasn’t wearing his glasses due to the rain.

  “What do you mean?” Olivera asked.

  “Those tin cans across the way, they’re all closed up for foul weather,” Costelucci said. “Good chance there’s no one onboard.” He glanced at the mast behind the bridge and then at the fantail, no flags were flying. If the vessel had a crew, there would be lights on and flags present. Olivera nodded agreement. He had no real experience with naval vessels but from the time spent on the voyage from Hawaii to here, he had learned quite a bit.

  “When we have some time and this weather gives us a break, we should send over a boarding party,” Costelucci said. Movement at the end of the pier closest to the parking lot drew Olivera’s attention. He nudged the retired Chief Petty Officer and pointed.

  “What?” Costelucci asked, squinting and looking in the direction indicated. “I can’t see shit with all this rain coming down.”

  “Infected. At the fence,” Olivera said, knowing the old sailor suffered from glaucoma and normally wore thick glasses.

  Costelucci whipped the Thompson subgun out from under his poncho and yanked back the charging handle.

  “Point me at those fuckers,” he said.

  “They can’t get through the fence,” Olivera said. “Someone closed and locked the gates,” he added, not knowing if that was standard procedure or some kind of security measure.

  “That’s good,” Costelucci said, lowering the Thompson back under this poncho. “We need to set a deck watch and keep an eye on those fuckers.”

  �
��I’ll get someone on that,” Olivera said. Since his time spent onboard, he had taken on several roles. Although a civilian, it had been explained to them that once on the ship, the Navy personnel were in charge. Costelucci had taken the large Samoan under his wing and taught him about weapons, maintenance tasks onboard a ship, and managing a deck crew. Olivera had become Costelucci’s right hand man.

  “Fuck. It’s cold and wet out here. It’s so fucking cold, my dick is like a short stack of buttons,” Costelucci said. “I’m going inside and get some coffee.”

  Olivera watched the old man slowly and quite possibly, painfully, move back to the hatch and inside the ship. He turned his attention back to the fence then to the deck crew that were checking the lines to the pier. Glancing back at the fence, he ordered the gangway raised up and secured. It wasn’t worth the risk to keep it connected to the quay. In this weather, with limited visibility, definitely not worth it. He checked the pulleys and locks of the now raised platform ensuring they were secured before he went back inside the ship. When the weather cleared up, they’d have a better opportunity to secure the wharf and search the other ships.

  ***

  Chapter 21

  Safeguard, New Mexico

  Frank Durst watched John Stone navigate across the hot asphalt to the Quonset hut that was used as a garage for the complex. Even with the injury to his leg and the discussion that there could be permanent damage, Stone’s movements, albeit slow, were steady and not with any inclination that he was in pain. Stone opened the personnel door on the side of the corrugated metal building and motioned for Durst and Burnett to precede him then quickly entered and closed the door. Stone hit a series of switches and turned on the lights inside the building. Off to one side stood the Road Warrior, the modified MAN former cruise missile tractor that was now converted to an extreme recreational vehicle. The CUCV they had recovered from Clovis was parked closest to the large rollup door. The black Tahoe that remained of the pair that used to be stored in this space was squeezed in beside the Warrior. Nosed in with barely enough room to close the rollup door, was an odd looking four-door crew cab pickup painted in desert tan.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said you had a truck,” Durst said as he approached the vehicle.

  Stone remained silent, leaning on his cane as Durst looked closer at the vehicle. The windows were thicker and tinted and the doors looked bulkier. A large snorkel attachment exited the engine compartment and followed the incline of the windshield and frame. A framework of tubular steel framed the windshield, the body and around the doors before culminating into a box like shape that encompassed the rear cargo bed similar to a contractor’s rack.

  “Wait a minute,” Durst said. “Is this thing armored?” he asked casting a sideways glance at his long time friend who just grinned. He continued walking around the truck, studying it. It wasn’t until he reached the front and looked at the grill and saw the emblem on the hood that he spoke again.

  “International? Shit. I didn’t think they made trucks anymore,” Durst commented.

  “Technically, this one is from Navistar Defense, a subsidiary of International,” Stone said.

  “How the fuck did you get this thing?” Durst asked. Burnett approached the truck, cupped her hands around her face, and looked in through the windows.

  “Remember when I was heading into Clovis before we all went to the market? All those times I was taking shit in to trade. Shit that I had found on the road, cleaned up and repaired,” Stone said. “You remember that broke down U-Haul truck that I bounced that deader off of when we were first looking for this place?”

  Durst nodded then looked back at the SOTV.

  “I towed that broke ass piece of shit into Clovis and traded the contents for a portable construction site generator. That led to trading the gennie for this thing,” Stone explained.

  “And they just let you take it?” Durst asked.

  “Hell yeah. It was sitting in the county emergency management garage for years. Some suck head ordered it through the 1033 Program,” Stone said, referring to the numerical designation of the Department of Defense material reutilization program. “They didn’t know what the fuck to use it for so it just sat there.”

  Durst shook his head, trying to imagine how that conversation had went when Stone asked for the trade.

  “I added the cage to it and installed the mounts for that winch,” Stone said, indicating the large winch on the extended front bumper but not secured in place. “Changed out the battery. Added an auxiliary fuel tank to the cargo bed and covered it to look like a truck bed tool box.”

  “And this is what you want to take back to Cannon?” Durst asked.

  “Why the hell not?” Stone asked. “She runs like a top. Multi-fuel engine, sand filters, snorkel, good tires. She’ll take a beating and get us home.”

  “It looks capable,” Burnett said as she turned to look at Stone. “Multi-fuel? Like a hybrid car?” she asked.

  “Kind of. Not battery powered like those wind-up toy cars that were being sold,” Stone said. “In this case, the Maxxforce diesel can handle other fuel types like JP8, lower grades of diesel, and even filtered engine oil.”

  “Nice,” Burnett said, knowing there was jet fuel stored at Cannon. “But, there’s only room for about four of us.”

  “We do still have the CUCV and the remaining Tahoe if we all felt it was necessary to go,” Stone said.

  “So, we’re really going back to Cannon?” Durst asked.

  “I kind of wanted to hit that food distribution warehouse first,” Stone said with a wink at Burnett. “Then, we could head on over to Cannon and see what we can salvage.”

  “We need to get more medical supplies,” Burnett said.

  “Then it’s settled. We’ll leave after you finish here,” Stone said, looking at Durst.

  “What? Wait a minute,” Durst said. “There’s no way you’re ready to go in a couple of hours. You’re still recovering.”

  “Frankie, all you need to do is finish the winch mount and run the power leads from the overhead lights through some braided cable,” Stone said as he walked over to the work bench that was against one wall. “I’ll even hand you the proper tools. As to me going? Why the Hell not? I’m right as rain.”

  Burnett turned her gaze to the Road Warrior.

  “So this is the famous Warrior?” she asked as she studied it.

  “That’s it,” Stone said.

  “It’s larger than I expected.”

  “I get that a lot,” Stone said, jokingly.

  Burnett shot him a look.

  ***

  Chapter 22

  Museum of Natural History, New York City

  Luzetski stopped outside Wiener’s office. Since the verbal confrontation, Wiener had limited his exposure. When he did come out, the civilians gave him hard looks and mostly ignored him. Ski raised his hand to knock then realized that would be unnecessary. He opened the door and walked in. Wiener was seated at his desk writing.

  “I can overlook your previous behavior as combat stress, Sergeant. But, I can’t overlook the lack of basic protocol,” Wiener said, looking up.

  Ski shook his head. This idiot still didn’t get it. The time for protocol was long over. The time for action, something an officer should be able to understand, was now.

  “Dick, you can screw protocol,” Ski said. “You need to get your ass out of this office and start working with us.”

  Wiener smiled a strange little smile and quickly wrote something down.

  “I wouldn’t dream of taking part in this mutiny,” Wiener said, leaning back. “But, by all means, do carry on with it.”

  Ski shook his head then strode to the desk, reached across and grabbed Wiener by his uniform shirt and hauled him out of his chair.

  “Listen, asshole, I’ve had enough shit out of you. Ever since I stepped foot in this place all you’ve done is ride my ass,” Ski said as he dragged Wiener across the desk, carrying along the contents of the d
esktop when he did, and set him on the floor. “You can either help us find a way to get these people out of here or I can combat loss you right now.”

  Fear crossed Wiener’s face as Ski still gripped his uniform and held him up on his toes.

  “You decide because I don’t give two shits either way,” Ski said. He watched Wiener’s eyes. There was fear and anger in them. Ski lowered the National Guard supply officer enough so that the man’s boots fully touched the floor then released him.

  Wiener stepped back and straightened his uniform, brushing away non-existent lint while glaring at Luzetski.

  “Sergeant, I’ve given you and the others a lot of leeway,” Wiener said. “Be very careful with what you say and do next.”

  Ski shook his head. Wiener still didn’t understand what was happening. He reached for the officer who flinched then relaxed.

  “C’mon, I want to show you something,” Ski said as he ushered Wiener out of the office. He led Wiener to the maintenance section and then to the stairs that accessed the roof. Throwing open the roof door, Ski stepped outside and looked back. Wiener had stopped just inside the opening.

  “I’m not going out there, Sergeant,” Wiener said. “You’re going to toss me off the roof and tell everyone it was an accident.”

  Ski shook his head again then reached back and yanked Wiener outside and onto the roof.

  “Asshole. If I was going to kill you, I’d have done it a long time ago,” Ski said as he dragged the other man to the waist-high wall that surrounded the roof.

  “This place stinks,” Wiener said.

  “City’s full of dead folks,” Ski said. “Get used to it. Take a look at what’s out there.”

  Ski pointed then handed Wiener binoculars. Through the optics, the officer could see massed infected crowding against the fence surrounding Central Park. Stragglers were wandering the park with some of them stepping on mines and painting the area with gore. For the most part, the horde was bottled up trying to squeeze into the remaining park entrance that was blocked by piles of infected that had been dropped by the sniper team, Hersey and Peterson, who were standing off to one side watching the interaction between Wiener and Luzetski. Ski, with his own binoculars, watched some of the Zulus trying to gain entrance to the park and become entangled in concertina wire. That same wire and the concrete and wrought iron fence were the only resistance that prevented the rest from pushing through in large numbers. It was only the fortunate ones, the thousands who somehow managed to slip through a gap in the wire, that were able to wander the park until they set off any number of anti-personnel devices that Doyle’s combat engineers had emplaced. Unfortunately, the majority of the park was not mined.