by Jeff Thomson
His smile widened as Harvey began his descent toward the Harbor. Then it flattened. Then it bent backwards into a frown. She was in for one gigantic shitstorm when Gideon Hall, Captain, United States Coast Guard got a hold of her.
He thought of the coolers sitting in the next compartment back - and of their contents, and what they would mean for the entire crew of Polar Star. Maybe, just maybe, there were enough apologies contained in all that spinal tissue, in all the doses of vaccine it would go to produce...
Maybe.
He hoped so, for Molly’s sake.
43
The Skull Mobile
ISC Sand Island, Oahu
“...Shore team, Sass. Two-One. Over.”
“Go, Sass,” Jonesy said into the integrated comm unit, replying to Molly’s voice.
“Get in the goddamned boat,” Duke growled at the once again recalcitrant Lieutenant. Apparently, he’d gotten over the shock of witnessing his first beheading. Maybe I should chop something else’s head off, Jonesy thought. Maybe his...? No, that would be taking it a step too far. Although...
Of course, there were no zombies in their general vicinity. Rude bastards. Never one around when you need one...
The receiver in his earpiece crackled. “Secure from Ops, and come back in with the boat.”
He looked over at Duke to see if he’d heard the order. From the obvious What The Fuck narrowing of the big man’s eyes behind the gas mask, he had.
He’d gotten an inkling things weren’t all puppies and bunnies when the RHIB they’d left at the boat dock was no longer there - was, in fact, recovered and aboard the Sassafras. He thought he knew the reason - the truly tragic reason - and he understood it. They needed to take care of their friend. Even if Dan McMullen was dead and long past caring what happened to his lifeless body, they needed to do something with it, if only to maintain their own sense of right and wrong, and basic humanity. From experience, Jonesy knew: funerals aren’t for the dear departed; they’re for those who are left behind.
He’d called for Lane Keely and Harold to break off their attempts to turn as many former humans as possible into fifty caliber zombie-burgers, so they could come and get the survivors. It wasn’t to plan, but so what? Wasn’t it Patton (or was it Napoleon?) who said plans only last until first contact with the enemy? Well, they’d met the enemy, and the enemy was a bunch of brain damaged homicidal freaks, hungry for human flesh because they hadn’t had a decent meal in who knew how long.
1
The boat had come, the survivors were loaded aboard - except for Lieutenant Asshole-Face - and the plan could resume, still more or less intact: rescue the others they knew about. And then this bullshit came up? What the fuck?
“Uh...Sass, Shore Team,” he said, choosing his words. “There are still in survivors in two buildings.”
“Understood,” Molly’s voice said. “The order stands.”
He cocked an eye toward Duke again. He was displaying his middle finger. Whether that was directed at Molly, the asshole LT, or both, Jonesy wasn’t sure. He suspected both.
Time to make an executive decision.
Clicking his comm unit off the general channel and to the intercom, he said: “Fuck this, Duke. We’re getting the rest of the survivors.”
The big man gave him a thumbs up, grabbed Edwards by the collar, and propelled him onto the Rapid Response Boat. Jonesy turned and headed toward the truck.
44
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
“Permission to come aboard,” Amber Winkowski said, reaching the top of the accommodation ladder. This was set perpendicular to the side of the hull, held in place by the forward crane, and tied to cleats in the deck, fore and aft, with the port side cutaway bulwark removed. Back in the old days, it would have just been a rope ladder with wooden steps (called a Jacobs Ladder), but safety concerns - and no doubt complaints from some mucky-muck or another - made the Coast Guard switch to a more solid platform. So, instead, it looked like somebody had taken a metal staircase and hung it over the side, from the buoy deck cutout to the waterline.
“Granted,” a medium-sized, very young Ensign said, returning her salute.
“Ms. Gordon, I presume,” she said, offering to shake the woman’s hand. “If I may, Ma’am, what you’ve done with this crew is nothing short of remarkable.”
Gordon took the offered hand automatically, more out of habit, it seemed, than any real desire to be friendly. Amber found it a bit odd. Also strange was the look in the woman’s eyes. Though somewhat magnified and distorted by the plexiglass shields of her gas mask, her eyes looked wounded. It was the first word that popped into Amber’s mind, and it felt right, though she did not know what caused it.
“Petty Officer Winkowski,” her muffled voice replied. She turned and pointed toward what was clearly a teen-aged girl. “If you follow her, she’ll get you settled.” Very formal, very business like, very rote. No emotion, no enthusiasm.
Lieutenant Edwards came storming aboard behind her, didn’t bother requesting permission, gave the briefest of salutes and didn’t hold his before receiving the Ensign’s. “Your crew, from what I’ve seen, needs to be put on report!” The jerk snapped, getting right in Ms. Gordon’s face.
“I’ll take it under advisement,” she replied, her voice still so deadpan, she might have been reciting from the phone book.
“You’ll do more than take it under advisement, Ensign.” He spat her rank out like a ball of phlegm. He leaned in closer, looming, clearly trying to threaten and intimidate her. Then he did something truly asinine, and jabbed a finger into her chest. “You’ll take me to your Commanding Officer, right now, you little bitch.”
The young black man who’d been part of the Rapid Response Boat crew, shot up the accommodation ladder, at the same time another man, also in a gas mask, shot down the ladder from the Boat Deck. They interposed themselves between their skipper and the Lieutenant, moving him back toward the cutout side, without actually shoving him - though it was a near thing.
Scott Pruden sidled up to him. “If I were you, sir, I’d be a little more careful who you poke,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I think there are sharks in the water.”
It looked to Amber as if they were all standing on a precarious knife edge. Lean one way and this Lieutenant - who clearly outranked Ensign Gordon - could and probably would cause all sorts of problems. And with the Polar Star coming eventually, and with the way the young Ensign had ignored the orders of an actual Captain, she might as well turn over her commission right now. Then again, if they leaned the other way, the annoying fuck might just be turned into shark bait. She, for one, would call it an accident, pure and simple - just an unforseen casualty in a dangerous world. And from the looks of the handful of survivors from the roof of the Mess Hall who’d had to put up with the asshole for weeks of deprivation and horror, she didn’t think they’d be rushing to defend his honor - assuming he had any.
The Lieutenant glared at the two members of Molly Gordon’s crew, who leaned in, moving him ever-closer to the edge of the Buoy Deck and the shark-infested waters beyond. They might have stayed that way till Hell froze over, if not for the sudden sound of gunfire from the base.
45
Admin Building
ISC Sand Island, Oahu
“Oh shit!” Jonesy yelled, racing around the corner and dropping to his knees. The momentum carried him along the tiled floor to a sliding halt three feet from Duke, who stood watching the four emaciated survivors they’d found so far. Six zombies came stumbling around the same corner, each looking less friendly than a pissed off Genghis Kahn.
Jonesy clumsily pulled both forty-fives from their thigh holsters, pulled back one slide at a time, and started firing. Duke let loose with the shotgun, as one of the survivors started to scream and point at something behind them.
“Incoming assholes!” Duke shouted, twisting around and opening fire at the new threat. He fired once and the firing
pin clicked on an empty chamber. He dropped the shotgun and pulled the hammers from their sheathes. Jonesy put a bullet through the forehead of last one on his side, then lay flat to aim through the big Bosun’s spread legs. He got one of the three remaining with a single round, center mass, but then Duke got in his way.
The big idiot charged the other two, swinging his hammers like John Henry on a cocktail of steroids and crank. One fell to a crushing head blow, but the other sidestepped, and Duke’s missed backhand spun him around, leaving his back exposed. The zombie lunged, just as Jonesy, rising to one knee, shot the fucker three times. It dropped to the deck, next to its other dead friends.
The hallway echoed with gunfire and must have stank of cordite, though Jonesy and Duke couldn’t smell it. The survivors certainly could, but he doubted they even noticed.
The first building they’d gone to after ignoring Molly’s order (and Jonesy did not look forward to paying for that particular maneuver) housed the Integrated Support Command (ISC). They found it empty, save for the three survivors holed up in a conference room on the second floor. They were emaciated and dehydrated. Their food consisted of what they could salvage from a two-thirds-full junk food machine they would sneak to at night, after the zombies lay down for their evening nap - or that’s how one of them described it. Their last meal had been a single package of peanut butter crackers, split three ways - more than a week ago. They’d been without water for two days. Jonesy left them his water bottle when they locked them into the Skull Mobile.
The Admin Building, on the other hand, was crawling with the crazy fuckers. Why zombies would remain in a building full of paper and no obvious food or water source remained a mystery, until they found the break room, and the wreckage of all sorts of snack food items stored there by the pre-plague personnel. Paper and plastic wrappers littered the room, advertising the remnants of chips and crackers, bread, bottled water out the wazoo, donuts, bagels, and cheese Danish. And shit. Mustn’t forget about the shit laying all over the place: in the break room, in the hallways, in the stairwell.
Before they found the four survivors now trailing them through this house of horrors, they’d also found what remained of a corpse. Whether it had been human or a fellow zombie, Jonesy gave even odds. They also found a scattered set of clearly gnawed bones in the office of the Chief Yeoman. The man had given Jonesy the news about the idiot BM1/OPS on the Sass who’d gotten busted for using the US Mail to smuggle dope, thus leaving an opening on the ship, all those months ago. He’d liked the guy, well enough. Now he was dead. And eaten.
“Where are the others?” He asked to the YN1, who remained the highest ranking person in the group. He’d said there were three others - somewhere - but had been a bit vague on the details.
“Not sure,” he said, leaning against the walls. All four of them looked to be just about done. They’d managed to stash some MREs and bottled water before everything went to shit. They still had three bottles left. The MREs ran out sometime last week. “We heard banging from down at that end,” he said, hooking his finger around the corner Jonesy had so unceremoniously run. “But it’s been a few days...”
“It’s been more than a week,” the lone female - a Third Class, whose light blue uniform shirt clearly showed she wasn’t wearing a bra. Well, Jonesy thought, trying not to judge. At least they managed to keep up their morale.
“So whoever it was could be dead,” another Third - this one a short and squat male, who may or may not have been outside the fitness regs before Pomona, said, sounding utterly unconcerned over the fate of his fellow human beings.
“We’re here,” Duke said. “Might as well find out.” He peered at Jonesy through the plexiglass eye pieces. “Any surprises I should know about?”
“You mean other than the six who chased me?” Jonesy asked.
“I’ll be careful, then,“ he said, moving toward the corner.
“Do that,” Jonesy said, watching his friend disappear.
He returned ten long minutes later. Holding up three gloved fingers, he reported: “All dead. Looks like they starved. One cut his wrists.”
“Jesus,” the woman swore.
Jonesy nodded. “Let’s head to the truck.”
46
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
“My cabin,” Molly said, as Jonesy, the last to depart the Rapid Response Boat, dropped onto the Buoy Deck and saluted. “Now.”
“Was he a naughty boy?” Harold asked.
“Shut the fuck up,” Duke growled. Bill, John, Lane, and Gus stood with them, watching the two of them depart. Jonesy cocked his head at them and waved. Just before he got out of earshot, he heard Bill say: “Dead man walking.”
Was it true? Was he in deep shit? Probably. Did he care? He did not. Probably.
He followed her retreating backside - which still managed to be shapely, even under the MOPP gear. He knew he shouldn’t be entertaining such thoughts - knew he shouldn’t let them in the same zip code, forget through the door. The heart wants what it wants, he thought. That goes double for the male libido.
Was he just whistling through the graveyard, going to the gallows with a song in his heart? Maybe. Did it matter? No.
He’d done what he’d done, directly disobeying her order to cease the operation, quite a bit like she’d done with Captain Hall. She’d done the right thing, and so had he. If this was the figurative end, so be it. No regrets.
Thing was, though, he didn’t think this would be the end. Not for a second. Of course, he’d been guilty of self-delusion before, so it remained quite possible his head was shoved firmly up his own ass, but he didn’t think so. In any case, he’d find out soon enough.
She banged through the outer hatch at the Captain’s Vestibule, shoved through the door of the Cabin and stalked to the middle of the compartment, without looking behind her to see if he followed. She knew he would. He knew he would. This meeting of the minds, as it were, had been a forgone conclusion - since their shower together, and probably before.
She was the Captain - for a little while longer, anyway. The asshole Lieutenant might have something to say about it, but if he did, Jonesy suspected the douchebag would end up with a mutiny on his hands. What the Hell? They’d already flouted the authority of the highest ranking member of the Coast Guard of whom they were aware - the man who could very well be Commandant. What’s a little mutiny as extra frosting on the cake?
He eased the door shut. She pulled off her mask and the MOPP hood, then turned and glared at him. He calmly removed helmet, hood, mask, harness and the top half of the chemically treated suit. Even over the lingering stench of death, destruction and decay that permeated the outer layer of clothing, he could still smell his own sweat. The suits were like private saunas and he’d had his on for hours.
“I wouldn’t get too close,” he said, his voice casual as he made an obvious effort to smell his own pits. “I stink.”
“Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t try and be charming,” she replied. “It won’t do you any good.”
“I yam who I yam,” he replied, in his most exaggerated Popeye impersonation. “Got any spinach?”
She snatched her gas mask off the table and threw it at him. He caught it and gently laid it on the table, hiding the fact he’d jammed his right ring finger in the process.
“You gonna throw anything else at me?”
“The book,” she said.
“Walked right into that one,” he quipped.
“You disobeyed a direct order,” she said. “My direct order,” she added, as if the act was a direct affront to her, personally. He hadn’t intended it as such, but could still see how she might think so.
“Nothing personal,” he said.
“Like Hell,” she retorted.
“We can go back and forth like this however long you want,” he said, dropping into one of the chairs as if he weighed a few tons. Certainly felt that way. “But it w
as the right call,” he added. “Just like yours’ was.”
“Go ahead,” she snapped. “Throw that in my face.”
“I’m not throwing jack shit in your face, Molly,” he said, abandoning all decorum. “I’m speaking the truth. And you know it.” He stood, removed the two thigh holsters and two calf-sheaths, and their knives, and peeled the rest of the MOPP gear off, leaving it in a stinking pile on the carpeted deck. The guns and knives, he dropped on the table with a Thunk.
“Hall made the wrong call - for whatever reason. You made the right one.” He waved toward the portholes. “If we waited, those people over there wouldn’t stand a chance. Probably still don’t. But they stand a better chance now than they did yesterday.” He unzipped and grunted his way out of the body armor. His body hurt in all sorts of places. Note to self: scrounge a big damned Jacuzzi, at your first opportunity. He thumbed toward the other side of the ship - the Island side. “Same goes for the people we rescued today. Couple of them might have died if we waited. So I didn’t. If that means you want my ass in a sling, so be it. Hell, I probably deserve it. But I think you know I made the right call.”
She dropped her own MOPP gear to the deck, leaned back against the bulkhead and folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t know anything,” she said, in a small voice.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
She sighed, rubbing her hand across her eyes, and sniffed. “Dan McMullen,” she said.
The name dropped on him like an anchor - the one thing he’d been trying to avoid thinking about all damned day long. He nodded. “You’re right,” he said.
Her head shot up and she stared at him.
“I fucked up,” he said.
“You?”
He gave her his best are you kidding me expression. “Of course me,” he said, hanging his head. “It was my fault.”