Pirates and Zombies (Guardians of the Apocalypse Book 3)

by Jeff Thomson

  Guam left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. The whole crew felt sick about what they’d done, though most didn’t show it directly - except YN2 Lydia Claire. Kemp knew she’d openly requested a transfer from LT Wheeler, since Carol spent about half her days working in the Ship’s Office, and the other half, acting like her Marine Science people were serving any purpose, whatsoever. Whether the Captain knew of Claire’s request or not remained a subject of some debate, which in any case had been rendered moot by the very transfer she sought.

  Coasties, by their nature, were proactive. She remembered a line from an episode of NCIS she’d seen. Something about how most people will run from a burning building, but a few - a very few - will run toward it. Most of the crew - maybe not all, but most - were people naturally inclined to run toward the fire. Tucking tail and leaving all those people to die in Guam went against their nature. And Hall had essentially ordered Ensign Gordon to do the same thing.

  Her lack of response to his order could be the result of technical difficulties, but Carol Kemp, along with a good portion of the crew, was betting it was a loud and clear (if silent) Fuck That. And if it was, she wanted to meet the woman and shake her hand.

  As if a sign from God, the GSB 900 crackled with static.

  “Polar Star, this is COMMSTA Honolulu, Channel Two-One-Eight-Two. Over.”

  Carol picked up the handset just as Hall was reaching for it. She offered it to him, but he waved her off.

  “COMMSTA, Polar Star. Welcome back,” she said, trying to keep the irony out of her voice.

  “Only temporary, Polar Star,” the woman’s voice said. “We’re about to be rescued.” Carol wanted to shout in triumph, but kept it in. BM1/OPS Jeff Babbett, on the other hand, did not.

  “Hell yeah!” He shouted.

  And then the hammer dropped.

  “This is COMMSTA Honolulu, signing off.”

  39

  Dining Facility

  Midway Atoll

  “I’m not going to order you to go,” Captain Hall said through the radio. “You or your people.”

  “Yes, sir,” LT Wheeler said, into the commco he’d borrowed from the True North. “Understood.”

  “But they appear to be...making progress,” Hall continued, pausing to find the right term. Lydia could hear the strain in the CO’s voice, even through the tiny speaker, all the way at the far end of the long dining table. And the anger, and the frustration caused by his inability to affect the situation in Honolulu. The random, spiteful thought: serves him right, kept wanting to creep into her head, and she kept trying to keep it out - to no avail. It sat there, like a lump, growing, cancerous, and at the same time, feeling triumphant in its vindication.

  “And since we can’t stop them,” Hall said. “We should at least try and support them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wheeler said. It was the kind of thing one said when they didn’t know what else to say.

  “Discuss it amongst yourselves, and let us know your verdict,” Hall concluded. “Polar Star, out.”

  Wheeler placed the radio onto the table top and looked around the room. All thirteen were there. Amy Montrose sat at his right, with CWO2 Peavey on his left. Pat Querec, Greg Riley, Rees Erwin, and Jennifer Collins sat on one side, and Lydia, Tara McBride, Tim Luton, Sherman Malone, Glen Newby, and Martin Tabinski sat on the other.

  “Well, you heard the man,” Wheeler said. “So now let’s talk about the risk.”

  “It’s too great,” Peavey said. “We’ve only received the first of three injections. If we go to Honolulu now, we could get the virus.”

  Wheeler nodded. “We could, true enough. I don’t want to diminish that, in any way, shape, or form.”

  Damn right, Lydia thought, not liking the possibility one bit.

  “On the other hand, as I understand it, the Sass crew wears full MOPP gear and gas masks whenever they’re outside,” he countered his own statement.

  Bob Stoeffel, the big cook, came up to the table, followed by Marcie Gordon, both carrying trays laden with what looked like cooked turkey, but Lydia - and everybody else - knew it was Goonie Bird. Her stomach did the smallest of back flips at the idea, but then she remembered her roots, growing up in Alabama. She’d eaten squirrel, and possum stew, and even Alligator, once. Most people would cringe at the thought, but she’d found them tasty. Okay...calling Possum Stew tasty was a bit of a stretch, but it hadn’t been disgusting. And after all, the people on Midway were eating the birds. Why not at least try it?

  “It’s mainly for the smell,” Marcie Gordon said.

  “What is, Ma’am?” Pat Querec asked her, accepting a plate of the unusual poultry. He didn’t seem to be having any qualms about it. Sparing it a brief thought, she couldn’t blame him.

  Since descending into the Antarctic ice more months ago than any of them wanted to count, their menu had been limited, to say the least. Since their order to fuel in Guam - but not take on stores - and then take station to await orders that never came, their daily caloric intake had morphed into the kind of starvation diet only refugees and supermodels endured. Okay...maybe not quite so dramatic. They’d been augmenting their dwindling stores by fishing, but even with that, the variety had been virtually nonexistent. Goonie Bird - by comparison - was a new taste sensation.

  “The gas masks,” the older woman replied. “They wear them for the smell. That’s what my husband says. I haven’t been anywhere near the place. And I don’t want to be.”

  “Why not?” Tim Luton asked.

  “Honolulu is wrecked,” Big Bob replied. “The whole place, from what I understand.” He shook his head. “It’s gotta be a nightmare.”

  “On the other hand,” Marcie said. “The kid they found on the Assateague...What was his name?”

  “Weaver,” Bob replied.

  She nodded. “He went to Honolulu after only receiving the first injection, and he’s just fine.”

  “He got the other doses, though, right?” Rees Erwin asked. “I mean, there are three of them, right?”

  Bob nodded. “I guess he’s had the second one, but not the third. None of the Sass people have had the third, except Molly. It comes within thirty to forty-five days after the first booster.”

  “So it is possible to survive uninfected with only the first dose,” Wheeler said, half statement/half question.

  “But we’d be taking an awful chance,” Peavey said. “Too much of one, I think.”

  “I don’t,” Amy Montrose said. Everybody looked at her. “ Look,” she said. “We’ve been sitting on our asses since this whole thing began. Since before Guam. And that was...” She let the sentence trail.

  “A shit show,” Greg Riley said.

  “We should have done something there,” Jennifer Collins said, and for the first time, Lydia started to think that maybe, just maybe, this was an opportunity to make up for what they’d done - or, rather, failed to do.

  Wheeler nodded. “We can do something in Honolulu. We can help.” He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. “There might be more than a thousand survivors, waiting to be rescued.”

  “Waiting on us to rescue them,” Amy amended.

  “But the Sass crew is–“ Peavey began. Marcie cut him off.

  “About ready to drop from exhaustion,” she said. “How long ago did we get here?” She asked Bob.

  He scratched his chin, thinking. “Four weeks ago...?” He shrugged.

  “And the Sass left maybe two days after we arrived,” Marcie said, looking at the people around the table. “That’s the last break any of them have had. I know my John’s about ready to drop,” she added. “My daughter’s with them, too.”

  “They need our help,” Amy said.

  “But–“ Peavey started to protest.

  “But, Hell,” Tara McBride, said. “I say we go.”

  Lydia sat back in her chair and stared at her unwanted new friend. Here was a woman swimming in bitterness over what happened to her in Seattle, and the whole Titsy McGangbang bu
llshit she’d endured since coming on the Star. She was sullen, and a loner, and sarcastic and disrespectful as all get out. And who could blame her? But now, here she was, putting all that aside, volunteering to risk her own safety - her life - for people she’d never even met. How could Lydia look at herself in the mirror, after all the raging she’d done about their failure to act in Guam? Answer: she couldn’t.

  “I’m in,” she sad.

  40

  USCGC Sassafras

  Honolulu Harbor

  “What’s under the tarp, Gus?” John asked, as the RHIB came alongside.

  Gus stared at his friend for a moment, debating. This really wasn’t something he should broadcast over the net. This really wasn’t something the man’s niece should hear through a tiny speaker in her ear. He tied off the line John dropped to him, and slowly, heavily, walked to the bow of the boat. Leaning outward to get an unobstructed view of the Bridge, he did not see Ensign Molly Gordon. Small mercy, he thought.

  A bend at the waist and a flick of the wrist showed John all he needed to see. Gus watched his friend’s face - what he could see behind the gas mask he wore - drain of color, as his eyes behind the plexiglass lenses widened in surprise.

  The identity of the corpse was unrecognizable, due to the damage caused by the concrete or whatever bit of debris killed him, but Gus knew what would identify him, and so showed John the Third Class designators on the corpse’s collar. Only one third class petty officer had gone out that morning. Only two third class petty officers survived the battle against the zombies that killed off the majority of the Sass crew, and the other one - Bill Schaeffer - was still (presumably) in his Radio Room cave. Therefore; only one possibility remained: Daniel McMullen.

  John waved his hand, turning away from the sight. Gus took the hint and threw the tarp back down.

  Molly needed to be told. Not just because she was Commanding Officer, and her crew was her responsibility. The eight survivors of the attack had a unique bond, in the same way the crew of True North shared the lingering nightmare of the pirates. No one who hadn’t been there could truly understand either event - not the way the people who lived through them could. So Molly needed to be told, because Dan McMullen was a member of that rare breed: a fellow survivor.

  Wordlessly, John dropped the hook and cable down from the Boat Deck. They hadn’t planned on retrieving the RHIB, since they’d undoubtedly need it to transport the Sand Island survivors, but Gus understood what he was doing.

  They weren’t about to drag the body on board like a sack of potatoes. He hooked the cable to the O-ring on the boat, and released the mooring line. At least they could give the poor kid some dignity in death.

  41

  The Skull Mobile

  ISC Sand Island, Oahu

  “Who’s running this shoddy operation?” The Lieutenant - one Kendrick Edwards - griped. Ten minutes of the guy, and Jonesy was already sick of his sorry ass. He gave Duke a surreptitious look and saw the big man scowl.

  “What difference does it make?” Duke growled.

  “I asked you a question, Petty Officer,” the Officer said. “And I expect an answer.”

  Duke swung the truck around the far side of the Comm Center building, saw the stake-bed Winkowski described, and pulled in behind it. Without saying a word to the obstinate Lieutenant, he hopped out and headed toward the nearest window.

  Jonesy, not wanting to be left in the truck with the annoying bastard, followed suit, though their original plan had been for him to stay with the refugees. But sitting there, heavily armed, listening to that asshole would have been far too tempting to resist using deadly force. Okay...Maybe he wouldn’t get quite that carried away, but he could definitely see himself shoving a forty-five in the man’s face, and since threatening a superior officer with a loaded firearm was generally frowned upon in the United States Military, he chose the better part of valor and ran.

  The window in question shoved upwards, and a man’s slightly balding red head stuck out. He grinned, like a person rescued - which he was - and said: “Hey, guys!”

  “You call for a taxi?” Duke asked, seeing Jonesy come up beside him. He cocked his head back toward the truck - and the asshole - and added: “Smart move,” out of the corner of his mouth. The red head hopped through the window and landed with an easy step, stuck out his hand and said: “Scott Pruden, but you can call me Jurgen McAwesomeness.”

  “If you say so” Jonesy said, shaking the offered hand.

  “You did not just say that,” a woman with short, clearly self-cut, frizzy hair, said, sticking her own head through the window. “Ignore him,” she said to Duke. But then her head jerked up and out and she jabbed a finger behind and to their left. “Zombie.”

  Sure enough, a medium-man in tattered and soiled civilian clothes came staggering toward them.

  “Got this,” Jonesy said, reaching behind his shoulder and unsheathing his right hand machete.

  “Kill it,” the Officer yelled. “Kill that fucking thing!”

  “No,” Jonesy quipped. “I thought I’d offer to start a book club with him.”

  “And shut the fuck up,” Duke said to the antagonistic man. “Unless you want to attract more of them.”

  “How dare you?” LT Edwards yelled.

  Duke took a step toward the prick, just as Jonesy reached the zombie. With practiced ease he fended off the grasping arms and spun behind it, using the momentum of his move to bring the blade in a long backhand, severing the diseased thing’s head from its neck. Blood squirted upwards in a gout, but Jonesy had become used to this, as well, and he backpedaled away in time to avoid getting splattered. The simplicity of it, the nonchalance of the maneuver, the seamless, thoughtless manner in which he dispatched the ex-human mildly disturbed him - but only mildly.

  The Lieutenant, on the other hand, leaned his head out of the truck window and puked. Duke, who looked as if he were about to pummel the fucktard, stopped his forward progress and grimaced.

  “Not on the side of my truck,” he complained.

  “We’ll hose it off later,” Jonesy said, walking back to the window as the woman dropped to the ground in front of it. “Amber Winkowski, I presume?”

  “The one and only,” Jurgen Mc–Whatever the fuck he called himself said.

  “Would either of you guys be Bill Schaeffer, by any chance?” Amber asked,

  “Nope,” Duke replied.

  “He’s locked in his cave, back on the Sass,” Jonesy said, walking back to the brand new corpse, cutting away a bit of its shredded shirt, and using the cloth to wipe his blade clean.

  “I owe him the biggest kiss in recorded history,” she said, blushing a bit.

  Jonesy laughed, imagining Bill’s reaction. “Well, hop in back, and we’ll see if we can’t arrange an introduction.

  He marveled at the fact that she, along with all the other survivors, was able to breathe the foul air without the aid of a gas mask. He’d be gagging right now, if he tried. Amazing what you can get used to, he mused, adding to the ever-growing list in his head. Shit I’ve gotten used to...

  They piled into the Skull Mobile, where Edwards, now pale and looking as if he might resume barfing, sat nice and quiet. Note to self, Jonesy thought. When confronted with a self-important asshole, chop off a zombie’s head, and he’ll shut right the Hell up.

  He switched his comm unit to transmit. “Bill, Jonesy,” he said, ignoring protocol.

  “Go,” his former roommate said.

  “Make yourself presentable.” He gave Amber a grin and a wink she couldn’t possibly see through his mask. “There’s somebody here who wants to meet you.”

  42

  Seaplane Wallbanger

  15 NM off Midway Atoll

  “...COMMSTA Honolulu, signing off.”

  The radio speaker in Jim Barber’s ear resumed it’s wavering static. He glanced over at Harvey, who should have been lining them up for their approach, but was, instead, staring at him. He waggled his eyebrows and grin
ned, like a wicked child.

  “The game is afoot,” he laughed. The non-sequitur literary reference should have made no sense, but it did. A mystery, inside an enigma, wrapped in one big damned Holy Shit.

  Molly had totally disregarded the orders of a four-striper. The Comm Center actively took part. They’d heard the original exchange last evening, as well as the silence that followed - at least on the Honolulu end. They could hear the repeated calls from Polar Star. Hard not to. The airwaves weren’t exactly jammed with message traffic, here at the end of the civilized world. And while it was remotely, theoretically possible for there to have been some technical difficulty on the Hono end, Jim didn’t for one second believe it. Still, they could have claimed there was one, once the Star finally arrived in Honolulu, in a week or two, and who could have said otherwise, as long as all parties concerned kept their mouths shut? Until this last transmission.

  He looked at Harvey, who was still looking at him. He pointed. “Land ho,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be doing some of that pilot shit?”

  Walton started, in true theatrical fashion, his mouth forming an exaggerated n”O.”

  Master Thespian, Jim’s mind flashed on the Saturday Night Live skit, for some reason. John Lovitz: Acting!

  “Quite right,” Harvey said, turning his attention to the controls and the quickly approaching atoll.

  With that last transmission, the COMMSTA basically (or completely) admitted it had all been a sham. He thought about it, about John’s niece, young Molly Gordon, who’d done an amazing job getting their band of misfits this far. Forget the makeshift manner, forget the endless hours without sleep or rest, forget the stumbling earlier attempts they made - attempts that had almost gotten one or more of them killed. What they’d managed to accomplish with their grossly undermanned force, was nothing short of a miracle, whose creation lay squarely at the feet of that young Ensign.