by Rand, Thonas
“Yes, Captain,” the chief said and gave a radio operator a hand signal to do so.
“Los Angeles group, Rescue One, this is the Ronald Reagan, do you copy?” the operator said.
The speaker crackled with static and then they received a response, “Ronald Reagan, go for Rescue One.”
“Standby for the captain,” the operator said.
The operator handed the handset to Ardent, “Rescue one, this is Captain Keller.”
“Yes, Captain, go ahead.”
“What’s your status?”
“Captain, we currently have thirty-six survivors onboard and are continuing to search for others, but we haven’t come across any in almost an hour now.”
“Understood, Rescue One. What does it look like over there?”
Los Angeles was in turmoil and engulfed in vast destruction—fires burned out of control throughout the city that reported many black smoke trails that stretched across the sky. A Sea Stallion helicopter flew slowly over downtown as they searched for any survivors on rooftops, because landing on the street was impossible. Other aircraft were in the air as well, including fighter jets loitering over the suburbs running tactical assaults on the dead they found in the streets; they weren’t using bombs or missiles, only their cannons to avoid destroying any structures.
Tanks and other armored vehicles were at sporadic positions around a large perimeter of downtown L.A. fighting scores of the insane ghouls. First responder vehicles were everywhere as well, but instead of trying to rescue people—they fled from downtown—there were too many of the dead attacking anything that moved; ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars had little to no protection from a ravenous mob. A few of those vehicles had been overturned and burned like funeral pyres. There were military drones in the air, too, providing video data.
The Sea Stallion drifted over empty rooftops or some that weren’t empty, they were full of the dead. The helicopter’s crew chief answered Ardent’s question—
“It’s total devastation, sir.”
“Do you think the attack groups can clear the area so you can search more thoroughly for survivors?” Ardent asked.
“Negative, sir. In my opinion, Los Angeles is lost.”
“What do you mean, ‘lost?’”
The crew chief looked down at the tens of thousands that filled the streets below.
“Captain, the streets are filled with those things. I’m looking at a million of them, at least.”
Everyone on the bridge was startled by what the pilot said and whispered randomly in shock—
“—What?”
“—How can that be?”
“—Oh my God.”
“Stand by, Rescue One,” Ardent said and addressed the bridge crew. “Show me some video data from downtown Los Angeles.”
An operator worked his keyboard and battle images appeared on one of the many video monitors on the bridge. The particular surveillance drone they were using had its cameras aimed at the battles in the suburbs, but the operator engaged the camera controls and it swung around for a view of downtown—it was a wide-angle view and they couldn’t see the streets clearly.
“Zoom in,” Ardent said.
The camera image moved in close and they saw it—the streets were jam-packed with the undead, uninfected people could be seen as they ran, but they were quickly taken down and killed. First responder vehicles tried to get away and most of them were overrun and ripped open to get at the occupants. It was biblical carnage.
An Apache attack helicopter flew by the Sea Stallion as it dove down below the skyline of downtown, firing its machine gun into the streets, blowing apart dozens of the dead. It glided next to a building and several fast moving corpses on floors higher than the Apache saw the pilots in the helicopter as it passed by—they broke through the plate-glass and jumped after them, their dead bodies dropped like rocks, but three of them hit the helicopter’s main rotor blade and one hit the rear blade—the collision damaged the helicopter enough to send it out of control. It spiraled down and crashed into the very streets it was firing into. The dead stormed the wreckage.
“Goddamit!” the Sea Stallion pilot exclaimed.
“What is it?” Ardent asked.
“Sir, a group of those things jumped off a building and took down an Apache.”
“Can you do anything for them?”
“No, sir, they went down in the thick of it, they’re all dead.”
Ardent made a decision, “Alright, do one more pass for survivors and then RTB.”
“Yes, sir. One more pass and then return to base, copy that.”
“Ronald Reagan out,” Ardent said and turned to his officers, “Bring all of our manned aircraft home, now.”
“Yes, sir,” an officer said and carried out his order.
“Commander Reyes.”
“Yes, Captain?”
“I want every survivor that’s been brought aboard checked again for any signs of infection,” Ardent told him. “Set up examination areas in hangar two immediately.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll handle it myself,” Bear answered and left.
Hangar bay two was two floors below the flight deck and most of the aircraft were gone, off fighting the battle of the dead. All the survivors, over four hundred of them, were in this large aircraft storage space. The crew had set up cots and a line of tables had food and beverages. A row of porta potties had been placed for them at the back of the hangar. There were also armed sailors stationed at every entry point.
Near the back, the senator rested on a cot. He was exhausted, he was confused, he was nervous, but most of all—he was scared. The image of that man being shot in the back of the head and his body falling into the sea burned in his mind.
The rifle went off—
The bullet exploded out the man’s face—
He fell—
He saw the bottom of the man’s dirty shoes in the slow motion of his mind.
The senator winced at the thought.
He looked down at his right ankle.
He desperately wanted to examine it, but didn’t dare with so many people around because he would definitely be seen. He didn’t know what to do and then he saw the porta potties. He calmly stood up and walked over to them. He was halfway there when Bear showed up with a dozen sailors that brought in equipment of some kind. The senator watched as the sailors began to set up privacy screens near the food tables. They put together four cubicles of privacy screens in two groups. Each section was an eight by eight foot enclosure. Bear stepped before the group with a bullhorn in hand. “Can I have your attention,” his amplified voice echoed through the hangar and everyone looked to him. “We will be conducting a second, more thorough examination of everyone that was brought onboard.” There were objections and anger from them. “I’m sorry, but this is not an option. Everyone will form two lines, starting here. Men and woman will be separated. You will be asked to disrobe and, once it has been determined that the person is clear of infection, they will be given a wristband that identifies them as cleared. These are the captain’s orders. Thank you for your cooperation.”
The survivors, against their wills, began to form the lines, and the examinations began. The first woman entered the first privacy section and took off all her clothes in the presence of three armed female sailors. Once they saw that she was free of any bites or scratches, they let her go into the next privacy section to redress and the next person was brought in. When the person exited the second privacy section, another sailor placed a yellow wristband on their left wrist to indicate that they were clear. The names of the people cleared were entered in laptops, identifications were checked, if they had one, and their pictures were taken. Everyone was cataloged, without exception. Bear gave a warning to the survivors about the wristbands through the bullhorn:
“After each of you have been cleared and given a wristband, do not remove the wristband under any circumstances. If you remove it and try to give it to someone else, both of you will be s
hot.”
The senator’s eyes widened from fear. He tried to calm down and he had trouble doing anything, but think of his future. He calmly, or as calmly as he could manage, looked at the people around him to see if anyone saw his moment of panic. No one noticed so he continued toward the porta potties. When he reached the portable restrooms at the back of the hangar, he was placed in mental dismay when he saw the two sailors on guard duty there. He didn’t miss a beat and kept walking toward them, even though everyone else was getting into the examination lines.
“Sir, I’m gonna need you to get in the men’s line, please,” one of the sailors said to him.
“I need to use the restroom,” the senator answered.
“You’re gonna have to hold it, sir. Please, get in line. I insist.”
The senator put his hands on his stomach, “I have diarrhea.”
“Fine, but make it quick.”
“Thank you,” he said and walked past them.
He got to the porta potties and stood there acting as if he waited for one of them to open up, even though most of them were empty. He didn’t know what to do. The idea of checking his ankle inside a porta pottie was good at the time, but when they announced the second examination and he saw that they were ordering everyone to strip completely naked—he knew he would be discovered—without a doubt.
“So now what?” he thought with unease.
Then he saw it, the wall behind the porta potties—
A hatchway.
His little hope vanished the second he saw another sailor stationed at the hatch.
There was no escape.
Until he heard his salvation behind him—
In the line for the men, two guys got into an argument over their place in line, which really didn’t matter, but when someone in the apocalypse is sleep deprived, which most were, every little thing matters. The senator watched them argue and he prayed for it to escalate before the sailors could end the problem and it did—
The two men pushed each other and a moment later, it erupted into a fistfight.
The senator stood there as quiet as possible, he tried to make himself invisible, he wished the hardest he could to be a fly as the armed sailors that surrounded him eyed the situation, they waited to see which one of them would go take care of the problem, but no one did. The senator began to sweat and it seemed that he suddenly weighed a thousand pounds because his ankle was throbbing like the beat of a hunting party’s war drum. He looked at the sailor in front of him, he was watching the fight, but didn’t move, and then he heard the two sailors behind him walk away.
Only the guard at the hatch remained.
The senator didn’t even see the sailor anymore, he knew that he was still there, but all he saw was the hatch. That doorway to escape that was a portal to living just a little longer. It was like a tall glass of fresh water in the salty ocean that he was presently in. He wanted it so badly, he needed it so desperately, and then his prayers were answered as he focused his eyes on the hatch and saw that the sailor was gone. He cautiously looked over his shoulder and saw him rushing over to help because the fight between the two survivors had escalated.
The hatch was unattended.
This was his chance…
His only one.
• • •
The back half of the ship consisted of many walkways and sections that all looked the same to a person who was never in the military, and the senator was never in the Navy or any other branch of the service for that matter. He was lost, but he didn’t care because he was away and that’s all that mattered right now, was to get away and find a place to hide.
He had to find a place to hide.
Up ahead, some crewmembers crossed a walkway intersection and the senator froze like a baby gazelle trying to avoid detection by lions. They didn’t see him and he ventured on. He saw a companionway and descended to the next level.
This level looked just like the one he came from, he didn’t know where he was, but he did know the direction he was going, which was toward the stern of the ship. He kept moving. He came across more sailors going about their routines and he avoided detection. He descended another level and came across what looked like the laundry services for the ship, there were many sailors cleaning hundreds of pieces. He avoided that section because they would see him for sure. He descended another level and found himself in the engine room, which he did recognize, but there were many of the crew here as well, maintaining the power plant that was the heart of the ship. His ankle was throbbing harder now. All he wanted was a place to hide and rest.
Anywhere.
He saw a dark corridor; a light fixture was flickering intermittently and would fail soon. The senator chose that path and came across a doorway. When he opened it, he discovered what he needed—it was a storage room—he entered and drew the door closed, but stopped to glance down both ways of the corridor. Nothing caught his eye, so he closed it. He was disappointed to discover there was no way to lock the door from the inside, but he didn’t have the strength to look for another place, so he compromised and hoped he wouldn’t be discovered. He turned on the room light and it gave sufficient illumination. There was no chair or anything to sit on, so he sat on the floor against the back wall.
The senator lifted up his pant leg to examine his right ankle and saw the severity of blood loss. His sock had soaked up most of it, but he still felt a wet squishy feeling in his shoe, which wasn’t good. He took off his footwear and then slowly peeled his sock off; some of the blood was dry and stuck to his skin as he pulled. Once he got it off, he saw the extent of the damage—four nail marks were dragged across his ankle—his skin was torn badly and the deep scratches were caked over, for the most part, but some areas of the wounds were oozing a greenish liquid.
“Oh my God!” he said in mortal fear.
He wiped his ankle with his sock, the act and the sight of it disgusted him, but he needed to clean it and there was nothing else available. The wounds kept oozing pus and he couldn’t think of what to do to stop it. He wiped it again, and then he reached into his pocket and got his wallet. It was expensive calfskin and he placed it in his mouth and bit down on it. He retrieved a gold plated Zippo lighter from his coat pocket and flicked the flame on. The flame danced in his eyes as he thought, but he saw no other choice. He bit down harder on his wallet and put the lighter to his wounds, he traced the fire across each scratch mark slowly. His skin turned to charcoal and he moaned hard in pain that surged to his brain like an electrical jolt.
What seemed to take a lifetime was finally done, he pulled the lighter away and spat out the wallet. He huffed and gasped from the trauma as smoke from his burnt flesh drifted past his tear-swollen eyes that were pale colored. It was too much for him to handle and he slumped over in unconsciousness.
He dropped the lighter and it tumbled through his fingers, off his foot, and cling-clanged on the floor. The seal of the United Sates was embedded on the side of it.
Along with a smear of blood.
His ankle, burned black now, still dripped pus…
• • •
A couple hours went by and the situation in hangar bay two was still in progress, more than half of the four hundred survivors had been checked by the display of many yellow bracelets that polka dotted the area.
Away from the group, at the far end of the hangar, where the aircraft elevator was, sailors were hosing down blood stains from the edge of the deck, where they had to shoot a certain number of survivors that were discovered with bites or scratches from the infected. The atmosphere in the hangar was a mixture of despair and hope as those that had been cleared watched as others, some of whom they knew as loved ones or friends; waited in line to be examined. The air was palpable, an almost veil over the uncertainty of their future, if they were going to have one.
Bear was still in charge, which during the time after the senator had left, he had brought in more armed sailors. Confident that everything was under control, he called over a subo
rdinate.
“Yes, Commander Reyes?”
“I need to go to the bridge to report to the captain, I’m putting you in charge until I return,” Bear said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Remember, you know what to do if you come across any wounds on these people.”
“Yes, Commander, I do.”
“No matter how small the wound is, if they can’t explain it to your satisfaction, shoot them and be done with it.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Call me if you have any problems.”
“Will do, sir,” the sailor replied.
And Bear took his leave.
• • •
Two sailors came down the corridor on a mission—
“You realize that if the part isn’t in this storage room, then you have to go to the only other place that has it, which is on the other side of the ship.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve mentioned that before, three minutes ago, but I’m not worried about it. The part will be here.”
They arrived at a door.
“After you.”
“No, after you, I insist.”
“Shut up,” the sailor replied smiling.
They opened the storage room door and walked in, and the movement of the ship closed the door behind them.
They immediately noticed the man in the black suit huddled in the rear of the room; they couldn’t see his face because he had his back to them.
“What the hell?” the first sailor said.
“Hey, buddy, you all right?” the second one asked.
The senator turned in a snap and they saw what looked back at them—a dead man—
“Fucking shit!” one sailor cried out.
Before they could act, the dead thing snarled and sprang at them, it swiped at the closest sailor and grabbed his throat—its claws tore into his skin and penetrated his wind pipe—the second sailor ran for the door and the dead senator jumped on his back, it bit into his scalp and thrust its fingers into his mouth and pulled so hard that the sailor’s cheeks ripped. The sailors gurgled in agony as the corpse devoured them both.