by H. L. Murphy
Russian filled the air as at least four men shouted back and forth at one another. At least one man had been injured by my blind fire. I figured this out by the tone of the man’s voice, and the obvious way he bit back the pain. Glancing at my side I could empathize with the vodka swilling prick. Blood, my own this time, was staining my clothes. Rapid fire erupted next me as James flipped the fun switch to ‘disco fever’ and hosed an approaching Russian. I couldn't see it, but from the highly kinetic response from the Russians I figured James had splattered someone important. I coughed once, spat blood, and laughed. If I were a normal man, this would be a fatal wound. A long, ugly road of dying. Instead, for me, I just needed to tough out the pain long enough for the wound to heal.
“Fuck,” James yelled as he dropped down to swap magazines. “There five of those assholes and they are coming fast.”
“No pressure,” I coughed more blood, and pulled the pin from an M67 fragmentation grenade. James ogled the explosive device in abject horror. His eyes traced the spring loaded spoon as it sailed through the air. I could actually watch his skin turn from a flushed red to a sickly green in about one point five seconds, at which point I hurled the grenade up and over the crate. I wheezed, “frag out.”
James pulled me to the deck and covered my face just before the grenade detonated. I can’t say for sure whether or not anyone was screaming, mostly because I couldn't hear a goddamn thing. If I thought the gunshots were obscenely loud, the grenade detonation taught me the error of my ways. My head rang fit to burst, which actually helped me to overcome the screaming pain in my guts. I spat blood, pulled my pistol free, and rolled out of cover to shoot a man staggering out of the darkness, bleeding from a multitude of cuts. The gun bucked twice in my hand, ending our Russian friend’s problems in an expanding halo of red mist. Concentrating, I could just make out the silhouette of several men in various states of injury. Because I wished to establish the new dominance order without question, I shot the most focused silhouette in the side of the head.
“Hands up, mother fuckers,” I shouted. Or I thought I shouted. My hearing hadn't recovered yet, and as far as I could tell I wasn't making a single sound. The Russians paid no attention to my demands and started shooting again. Inconsiderate pricks. Three entirely too well aimed shots slammed into the ballistic plate over my heart, and I thought I was going to die just from the impact pressure. Once again the SCAR belched death, and once again the Russians couldn't have cared less. I have always been a firm believer in commitment to cause, but right then I just wanted these guys to stop drinking the kool-aid and fuck off. As in off the planet.
Instead, the not so little shits began walking forward at a measured pace I knew would allow them to fire accurately. Goddamn professionals making use of their goddamn training in a highly effective manner. I really wish I'd made the time for a little more high stress training. Instead of waiting to be shot again, I rolled behind cover, holstered my pistol, and shouldered my rifle. Looking over to James I nodded then popped up and laid down a heavy suppressing fire. James hauled himself up and bolted through the nearest hatch before turning and spraying the enemy. The return fire he drew impacted on the steel bulkhead, ricocheted away and at least two bullet fragments found their way into my left butt cheek. Even pumped up on adrenaline go juice being shot in the ass hurts like hell. My vision tried desperately to white out, but I didn't have the time to sit around whinging and whining about yet another in a growing series of gunshot wounds. Fighting off the initial effects of shock, and working very hard not to slip in my own blood, I pulled the pin on another grenade, popped the spoon, waited two seconds, and hurled the grenade against the wall nearest the lead Russian before hauling ass. To his credit, the lead Russian shot me in the back three or four times before I made it through the hatch, then the detonation reduced his life expectancy to half a second.
James kicked my legs out of the way as he shut and sealed the hatch, demonstrating the sensitivity typical of Kentucky hillbillies. Which he naturally followed up with a heart felt solicitation.
“You ain't dead yet, sissy,” James shouted over the ringing in his ears. “You can rest easy in your grave.”
No, I most certainly wasn't dead. It was a simple conclusion to reach because, once again, I was sporting a series of broken ribs. At least, I thought they were broken since my body was reporting in nauseating detail the pain emanating from the afflicted region. The lack of any new sensations from previously traumatized internal organs led me to believe my ballistic plates held against they onslaught. Although it was doubtful the plates would hold up to another hit. Ceramic plates were robust, but not so much as to take three direct hits and not break.
Naturally, James showed me every consideration as he yanked me to my feet and shoved me across the room towards another hatch. Dizzy, nauseous, and stumbling along I went through the hatch rifle mostly shouldered. I dropped against a cabinet and scanned the darkness. My altered vision showed me a room littered with the dead. Lots of head shots as well as crewmen who looked to have been pulled apart by something strong, and hungry. Silently, I prayed Zombie Green wasn't on board this floating slaughterhouse. Russian troops aboard an American warship was bad enough, but if that titanic undead bastard was also in the mix I would seriously consider swallowing a grenade.
“Looks like our new friends have already been here,” I managed to wheeze out. What can I say? Broken ribs make everything, and I do mean everything, an exercise in mind shredding agony. Moving, breathing, speaking, not moving, holding your breath, stretching, shifting, walking. Everything. Moving into the field of the dead I nudged each skull with the tip of my boot several times before counting it as dead. Seem like a waste of time to you? Good thing you hid in a nice, safe bunker because haste makes you a flesh eating zombie nightmare. Crossing the compartment took longer than either of us were comfortable with, but since neither of us received a life ending love nibble, I considered it time well spent.
The next compartment opened into what I took to be the ship’s hangar, not least because an MH-60R Seahawk sat in a state of disassembly. Reinforced ratcheting nylon straps secured the helicopter to the deck though no considerations had been given to the wheeled engine stand. Not that it seemed to matter any longer, the stand lay on its side. The powerful jet turbine engine would likely require far more repair and recondition than could be accomplished in this shop. Moving around the stand my professional gaze took in the laundry list of damage, my mind automatically brought up the exploded view blueprints I’d seen ten thousand times. Without a dedicated repair facility this engine would never operate properly again. Even reinstalling it would prove problematic at best.
“The fuck are you doing?” James asked from directly behind me. I managed not to jump onto the ceiling, but did give serious thought to ramming my rifle up James’ ass. Just to demonstrate my wish to remain undisturbed with my thoughts, without asking him to climb the hell out of my back pocket.
“A few seconds ago, before some asshole popped out of nowhere to jump scare me like a jump scare bitch, I was thinking about the life we left behind. Or rather, the life I left behind,” I explained. “Looking at this bird, I get the feeling we’re never going back, no matter what happens. That, despite all our technology, our weapons, our willingness to kill anything and everything that moves, you and I will never see the return of the Old World, the old ways.”
“Jesus Christ, did you catch a bullet in the head, or bounce your melon off a bulkhead?” James asked. “Morbid son of a bitch.”
“Keep moving,” I said, slowly turning away from the grounded bird. My ribs still hurt, less than before, but they had healed enough to let me breathe without wanting to writhe on the deck in overwhelming agony.
We shuffled across the hangar deck in our very best imitation of highly skilled operatives on the move to hand some sorry sons of bitches a one way ticket to the afterlife. At that moment in time I would have killed to possess as much training as our Russian friends.
On the other hand, though, all their training hadn't prevented me from dropping a frag in their laps and hauling ass. No, that's just plain stupid. I'm rationalizing to myself how lucky James and I had been. The truth is if my immune system wasn't pulling its best Hugh Jackman impression we'd both be dead or dying.
At the very rear of the hangar we found a hatch swinging ever so slowly with the roll of the ship. As I watched the hatch swing back and forth I came to realize the damned thing never impacted with either the outer wall or with the hatchway. It swung towards the hatchway, but then the ship’s roll changed and suddenly the hatch’s inertia was no longer enough to counter gravity. Rain poured in as the hatch swung to and fro, widening an already growing lake.
If I was right, somewhere past that hatchway was the aft of the ship, and our little dinghy. Provided, that is, the fucking Russians hadn't stolen it already. Or Carroll hadn't run off with it and all our new goddamn supplies. I didn't believe that likely as there wasn't a psychologically deranged woman anywhere in sight for him to become enmeshed with. In the event we ran across one, I planned to shoot the bitch in the head, decapitate her, and burn the remains. You know, just in case. A prophylactic treatment.
We moved up to the hatch as silently as possible, not that it mattered, and peered around the hatchway to glimpse a staggering mob of undead chasing a trio dressed in Naval fatigues directly at us. Even knowing the dark blue and black camouflage wearing trio were fellow survivors, I wasn't inclined to grant these assholes sanctuary. I was tempted to close the hatch, seal it, and ignore the resultant screams, pleadings, and the inexorable march of zombie teeth through living flesh. Who these people were, I didn't know and didn't care. Maybe these sailors were mess hall workers and had nothing to do with shooting down planes or blowing up boats filled with survivors.
Time seemed to dilate as I raised my rifle, glaring at the sailors over the iron sights I took in the abject terror and resignation in their faces. Faces entirely too young to carry such hopelessness. Two men and one woman, the oldest among them barely able to drink in all fifty states, but still too young to rent a car. Should that weigh in their favor? Should I look upon the enforcement arm of the Quarantine Zone and somehow excuse them because they're too young to understand the nature of their betrayal? How many died because of these people? How many were younger, so very much younger, than these people? What considerations did this ship grant the survivors who had every right to expect succor and salvation from their military?
Let’s find out.
Why? Do you think I'll hate them any less if I learned the entire goddamn fleet knew they were killing the innocent and are all wracked with soul crushing guilt?
No, I think you consider yourself to be better than them. Why not prove it?
Give them the chance they denied everyone else?
Yes. Find out how much they knew, then decide their fate.
Goddamn conscience. So be it.
When my rifle bucked against my shoulder, I was aiming at the pursuing undead. My aim was straight and true, the steel jacketed round punched through the zombies cranial vault with explosive results. The moment was repeated twice more before the sailors flew past me into the hangar, and I dropped back so James could seal the hatch. I faced the newcomers, my eyes rolling over each person as I assessed their state of being, threat level, and deciding whether or not I had saved them just so I could kill them or if I genuinely believed they might not have known what they were doing. The oldest held an M9 pistol in a trembling hand, his eyes the size of dinner plates. Panic resided in his mind and probably had for a while. He didn't seem to notice he held a loaded pistol, finger on the trigger with the safety off. My rifle came up, my sights dropped over his heart, and I barked commands.
“Safe that weapon,” I screamed. “Safe that weapon, and holster it. Now, do it now. Don't think, just do it.”
Naturally the other sailors started running their mouths and waving their hands in placatory fashion, all while edging closer to me. The idiot with the pistol stared at me blankly for a moment before it occurred to him we were standing in the deck of a U.S. naval vessel, of which he was part of the crew. It was even possible he might be a ranking officer. However, whatever, I didn't care. I wanted that pistol secured. Instead of following my commands the idiot began running his mouth, something about treason, failing to obey the duly appointed military representative under some article of martial law, yadda, yadda, yadda. He did not, however, point his pistol at me.
Meanwhile, James made his presence known by ramming a fresh magazine home and racking the charging handle. The two entirely too young sailors ceased their forward motion and retreated quickly and quietly to stand by their pistol packing papa.
“Safe that weapon, now. I’m done talking. You safe that weapon, or I shoot all three of you,” I said loud enough to be heard on shore. The volume of my voice surprised me. It seemed like a thing I'd heard from one of the Class One beings. Interesting, and not a little terrifying. Give the man credit, he clicked the safety on before holstering the pistol, but I could see he really did not want to comply. I could almost see him weigh his chances against me, and the consequences of a failed attempt. Most people envision an angel and devil arguing on your shoulders over right and wrong, but for this guy I think it came down to his commitment to those under his command. Does that sound corny to you? It does to me, but then again our culture had tended to mock and belittle the traditions of our serving military so corny can kiss my lily white ass.
“That's a good move,” I said in a more normal tone of voice, though my throat felt as though I'd run a belt sander up and down my esophagus. For an hour. “Now why don't we start off with a courteous exchange of names?”
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” The pistoleer returned, doing his best to recover some lost macho points after backing down to me.
“Hey, I said to be courteous,” I said, emphasizing my point with a none too subtle wave of my rifle. “Since I saved your lives against my better judgement I believe I am owed the names of the rescued.”
“I'm Petty Officer Jenkins,” the sole female present announced in a small voice. Her fear laced everything about her though I thought she'd done a fine job holding it together so far. I mean, she wasn't a collapsed pile of quivering terror and she wasn't wailing away about ‘this can't be happening’ so I was disposed to, not like and not quite respect, tolerate her. I think somebody other than me could have smiled at her in a reassuring fashion and convinced her that everything was going to be alright. A girl once told me that when I tried to be reassuring I resembled lion about to eat a baby gazelle so I just nodded once at the Petty Officer.
“Next,” I demanded.
“I will not cooperate with criminals in violation of the martial law edict,” the pistoleer snarled as he took a step forward, some idiot notion of intimidating me into obedience through sheer fuckery. “Under presidential order you are required to surrender your weapons to me immediately, submit to arrest, and face immediate court martial.”
I stared at him for a long ten count before I started laughing though I made sure not to move the rifle from his chest.
“Thanks,” I breathed around the laughter. “I needed that. It's been an absolute bitch of a day, and I was starting to lose my sense of fun. You, though, you just cut through all the stress, the terror, and the worry. Oh, yeah, a good laugh really is the best medicine.”
“I demand your…” the moron started forward, hand reaching for my rifle. Instead, he received my ten and a half regular in the crotch. To my heightened vision it was a race to see which hit the deck first, his knees or the belly full of partially digested powdered eggs, bacon, and coffee.
Yes, most definitely yes, I drove my foot into his groin. I didn't just kick him though. Oh, no. I kicked as though I was genuinely attempting to drive my steel toed boot into his intestines. Maybe I was still harboring some unresolved anger over the Quarantine fleet shooting anything that moved, not to mention forcing my f
amily to remain within harms way while they sat back in comfort, relative comfort, aboard multi billion dollar warships with no worries about safety, food, and resources.
“Alright, fuck the getting to know you shit,” I shouted. “Somebody explain to me why you're here, and why armed operators from the Russian military are aboard.”
The puking mess of an officer started to snarl something about treason, following orders, or more of the martial law crap so I kicked him in the shoulder just hard enough to make him think I'd broken his collar bone. And if maybe it fractured a touch, then I counted it as karmic retribution for the loss of the survivors. Yeah, I was definitely having a hard time putting my anger aside.
The third member of the trio spoke up, his voice tremulous.
“All I know is the Captain told us we were taking on a team of Russian scientists and security personnel,” the terrified young black man explained. A snap judgement told me the kid joined the Navy for college tuition and had gotten more education than he'd bargained for. “Then word gets around about the hurricane so we start preparing for bad weather and then alarms start going off and the Captain is calling for general quarters and warning the crew about infected people running loose on the boat so we needed to stay locked away.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I interrupted. “What was that about a hurricane?”
“There's a category four hurricane headed directly for the treasure coast,” the young man said. I glanced over at James and saw the revelation strike home. A category four hurricane was headed our way, which explained the thunderstorm raging outside, and our freighter was down an engine and missing us.
“This cannot possibly get any fucking worse,” I shook my head slowly.
Naturally, this was the moment a voice came over the ship’s public address.
“You can run, you dead punk, but I will always find you,” Eric fucking Linner practically spat the words. “And I am going to cut your fucking balls off and eat them right before I skull fuck you to death.”