by Jeff Thomson
“How was it your fault?” She demanded. “I’m the Captain. I gave the order.”
“And I’m the one who got him killed,” Jonesy said, imploring her to understand.
“On what planet?”
“Uranus,” he retorted, the sarcasm flowing like a river. “What’s the first thing you do for fueling ops?” He asked. She returned the question with blank eyes. “You turn off anything that can transmit,” he said. “I didn’t do that. I forgot to do that. I forgot to turn off the RHIB radio. And Dan died because we were too close when the charges went off.” He grabbed her gas mask off the table and flung it across the room. “He’s dead because of me.”
47
USCGC Sassafras
The Mess Deck
“Let’s get you guys some soup,” the affable black cook - Gary, something - led them onto the Mess Deck. Amber followed along, waiting for her chance to make good on the unspoken promise of how she would greet Bill Schaeffer. Unfortunately, so far, he was wearing a gas mask. Lip kissing through one was a non-starter, so she needed to wait. Been waiting long enough. Another few minutes won’t hurt.
“Get your hands off me,” the Lieutenant snapped at the big guy, Duke, who was guiding him to a seat. The asshole would be sitting, no matter what. Whether or not the Bosun Mate would come up with some intricate knot or another to ensure the complaining ass-hat stayed seated, remained to be seen.
“Is he always like this?” She heard Scott Pruden ask.
“He’s usually worse,” a middle-aged woman in civilian clothes, named Marsha Gilbert replied. She, like the five others who’d been rescued from atop the Mess Hall, was sunburned and thin as a rail. They’d been up on that roof for days - probably weeks - sneaking down into the dry storage area for food and water, which the Lieutenant kept tightly rationed at an insanely low level. At the rate they’d been nibbling on the available food, half of it would have gone bad while it sat there waiting to be eaten.
“I guess he used to be alright before the plague,” a young Third Class Damage Controlman, said. He’d been assigned to the Office of Aids to Navigation, and just happened to be getting late chow when everything went to shit. His name was Harrison Dodge. She could just imagine how much shit he’d taken because of it his entire life. It sounded fake, like an imitation Paris Hilton named London Sheraton, or some such nonsense. But he’d already sworn it was his real name three times since they’d met - less than an hour ago. “Had a friend over at Planning and Logistics, who used to say what a cool officer he was. But then I guess his wife died of the plague, and his son...” He let the sentence dangle. She could guess where it led: His son turned, and in the Murphy’s Law of this fucked up New World, he probably had to put the poor kid down himself. Had to be tough. Had to be a nightmare. No wonder he was teched in the head, as her Grandmother used to say.
She followed Bill to an empty table and sat, waiting for her moment of truth. Why she should feel so like a silly schoolgirl about a guy she’d never met in person fell beyond her understanding. Maybe she was a bit teched, as well. He pulled off his gas mask revealing the face of a man who clearly hadn’t slept well in a very long time. The circles under his eyes almost looked like shiners, they were so dark, so pronounced. Didn’t matter. Moment of truth... She took a deep breath and started to rise.
The hatch to the Buoy Deck popped open, and the young black man stuck his head inside. “Duke! Little help out here.” He disappeared just as quickly as he’d come.
Duke’s head swivelled from the hatch to the Lieutenant, back to the hatch, and finally back to the Lieutenant. “You behave,” he told Edwards, then to Gary - whatever his name was - “Watch him,” as he headed outside.
The cook turned his back for just a moment - an instant, just long enough for him to grab the tray of steaming hot soup - and the Lieutenant was up and dashing forward, toward the Wardroom.
“That ain’t good,” Bill said, in a even voice. But it held an edge to it, quite unlike what she’d been used to hearing over the radio. He rose and walked to the phone attached to the bulkhead near the Buoy Deck door. A moment for it to be answered, then: “John, I think we’ve got a problem.”
48
S/V Annie’s Birthday
10.483039N 164.965016W
“Got you, you little bastard!” Clara Blondelle shouted to no one. Or maybe she was talking to the fish. Perhaps she shouldn’t have given it a diminutive. It certainly wasn’t small. It was, in fact, the biggest damned fish she’d ever caught - maybe the biggest she’d ever seen.
Well, no. There was that shark, yesterday. Was it yesterday? Could have been two days ago. Not three, though. Not three. Three days ago she was on Johnston Atoll, taking every last bit of ice from their freezer, and then waiting around while it made more. She had ice packs - stolen from the True North. When was that? Didn’t matter. She’d had to wait for those to freeze as well. Couldn’t be helped. Had to be done. Palmyra was a long way from Johnston. How long? Days, was all she could come up with as she struggled to bring the big, honking tuna on board.
At least, she though it was a tuna. Looked like a tuna. Better be a tuna and not some bizarre variety of poisonous fish. That would be bad. That would be disaster. Why? Because tonight’s menu featured sushi. Tomorrow’s menu would, too. Why? Because, like an idiot, she’d left the propane cooking tank on - just a little. Enough, anyway, for the gas to escape. Completely. She was out of any fuel for cooking. Too bad. So sad.
At least the propane hadn’t exploded.
The thought of that sent her little butthole to puckering - and then some. As luck would have it (and the necessity of being alone on the sea in a sailboat - never leave the sails unattended - Aye! Aye! Sir!) she’d been on deck the whole time the tank was leaking its flammable gas into the cabin. Even so, it could have been a really bad night, if not for the fact that the portholes were all open. So...Congratulations for not exploding. Woo Hoo!
The fish was giving her problems. What was she forgetting? Oh, yes! Stick the fishing pole between her legs, squeeze those thighs together, grab the boat hook, jab that fucking bastard fish in the gills, and...yank. A muscle twinged in her lower back. Need to be careful. Wouldn’t do to be walking around like some eighty year-old biddy. But the fish was on the boat. It flopped there, its struggle weakening as she watched. She could club it. She could do that. Need a club, though. She patted the pockets of her capris pants. Fresh out of clubs.
One good stomp, followed by another, followed by another that almost made her lose her balance and go toppling over the side, but didn’t, and the fish was deader than shit. Just how dead was shit? She didn’t know. She didn’t care.
Now came the fun part: chopping the thing into bite-sized bits. Teddy taught her how. She’d paid attention. She’d paid attention to everything he’d taught her, since not learning meant the difference between life and death.
Just as she brought the knife to the fish, just as she started to cut the belly, something caught her eye - something off in the distance and way ahead. Could have been a star, she supposed - one of the evening twilight early risers, but she didn’t think so. The fish lay at her feet, forgotten. The knife lay next to it. She moved forward, one hand on the rail. One hand for you, one hand for the boat. That was another of the things Teddy taught her. She learned well.
She stood in the bow, well forward of the cabin. Should have brought the binoculars. No matter. If it’s what she thought it was...
There! Up ahead, in the distance, just a little ways off to the right, she saw it again: A light, right on the horizon. Right on the water.
Another boat...
49
USCGC Sassafras
The Cabin
Jonesy grabbed her gas mask off the table and flung it across the room. “He’s dead because of me.”
She took a step toward him, hesitated, took another step.
The Cabin door burst open and Lieutenant Edwards stalked in. “I’m assuming command,” he said, without preamble.
Had he come in ten minutes ago, Molly might have agreed, might have simply handed the ship over to him, without so much as a syllable in protest. But that was before Jonesy’s outrageous statement. He wasn’t guilty. He didn’t cause McMullen’s death. She did. She was in charge. She was in command. And more importantly, this was her crew. She was responsible. She owed it to them to...what, exactly?
Don’t you dare leave them to the mercies of this idiot, her inner voice all but screamed at her brain.
“The Hell you say,” Jonesy said, groaning to his feet.
“And you’re relieved of all duty,” Edwards sneered, jabbing his finger at him. “I’m demoting you to Seaman Recruit and putting you in the brig!” The declaration was absurd, just on the face of it. He didn’t have anywhere near that much authority, didn’t have the power to arbitrarily try, convict and sentence anyone - let alone Jonesy. For that matter, the Sass didn’t have a brig. “You and that Neanderthal you call a Bosun Mate.”
She was about to tell the overbearing asshole just what he could do with his pronouncements about her damned crew, when the door burst open again, and John walked in, followed by Gus.
“This doesn’t concern you,” Edwards said, his eyes seeming to grow wilder by the moment. “Get out.”
The shrink in her knew what this was, of course: PTSD. They all had it, to one degree or another. She had it, and it had almost made her resign her commission. In an epiphany of understanding that forced her to pull her own head out of her own backside, she knew she was acting irrationally, based on the shock of Dan McMullen’s death. Her inner Freud understood it, accepted it, and would have been surprised if she hadn’t reacted that way. She still felt woefully inadequate to the task of command, but to turn the crew over to this asshole? No fucking way.
“Lieutenant Edwards,” she began, marshaling every ounce of restraint and diplomacy she could muster.
“Shut up, Ensign,” he spat. “Shut the fuck up you incompetent bitch.”
She saw her Uncle’s eyes widen, saw the fury on his face, saw him start to move forward, as she moved to intervene. Her focus thus narrowed to a single person, she failed to see the real danger.
Jonesy launched himself into the man’s face. She almost wished she could let it happen, almost wished she could stand back and watch him pound the living shit out of this asshole, but she was the Captain - in spite of what Edwards said - and Jonesy was her crew, her responsibility. Molly grabbed his arm before he could swing.
It was the worst thing she could have done.
The door burst open again. Gary King and Bill Schaeffer rushed in.
The Lieutenant used the distraction to grab one of Jonesy’s pistols off the table. His hand came up with the thigh holster, as he scrambled to free the weapon. It should have been okay, they should have been able to disarm him while he fumbled, but they hesitated. Edwards jacked the slide, his hands shaking, his face filled with rage.
The gun went off.
Gus shouted and hit the deck, knocking John back. Jonesy backpedaled, tripped over his own feet, and joined them on the carpet, effectively blocking the door, taking Garry and Bill out of the fight. Molly faced the deranged officer on her own.
Edwards raised the gun with shaking hands, and pointed it straight at Molly’s chest.
It should have been over, should have been check and mate, but the hours and hours Molly spent learning Krav Maga took control with the speed of instinct. Of all the techniques, this was the one they trained for most: disarming an opponent.
Leading with her left foot, she darted forward, not thinking, not hesitating, and not missing as she grabbed the pistol barrel with her left hand and shoved it against his body. One, two, three rapid right hooks to the side of his head had him falling back, still trying to wrestle the gun from her grasp, which only served to bring it closer in to his abdomen. From there, what happened next was inevitable.
The gun went off again.
50
Seaplane Wallbanger
25.662901N 170.163749W
“If that happens one more time, my butt is going to break,” Tara McBride said, as the seaplane bounced with turbulence. The wooden bench seating wasn’t doing Lydia Claire’s backside much good, either.
Darren Yardly - who looked a bit like Ichabod Crane - twisted around to check out the window behind him. “Looks like we might be getting a bit of weather,” he said.
Lydia tried to see what he was referring to, but could find nothing but sunset sky, with the slightest tinge of gray, turning to purple-black, far off in the Northern distance. Apparently, Mister Yardly’s companion, Bob McMaster, thought her expression seemed a bit dubious.
“If he says we’re gonna get weather,” he explained. “We’re gonna get weather.”
The plane jolted again, her butt bounced on the wooden bench again. “How long is this flight?” She asked.
“About six hours,” Wheeler said. “At least as far as Kauai.”
He’d looked as if he were sleeping, slumped over with his chin on his chest, but who could sleep in these uncomfortable conditions?
“Nearer seven,” Yardly corrected.
Wonderful, thought Lydia.
1
“Fuck,” said Tara.
“My ass is gonna fall off,” said Pat Querec.
“Bullshit,” Glen Newby joked. “With all the extra padding you got...”
“Are you saying I have a fat ass?” Pat said.
“More like a fat head,” Greg Riley countered.
The obligatory exchange of insults went on for a few more minutes, but soon died away, absorbed once again by the monotony. The excitement of embarking on a new journey - a new chapter in this horror novel they all now called their post-Pomona lives - wore off after the first couple hours of sitting on un-padded benches.
Be careful what you wish for, she thought.
“Mister McMaster,” Wheeler said, out of the blue.
“Sir,” the man replied.
“Have you gentlemen decided what you’re going to do?” He asked.
“Not really up to us,” the man replied. “But we’re leaning toward bringing the families to Midway - temporarily - while the rest of us build a perimeter around the airport.”
“Aren’t you worried about the zombies?” Jennifer Collins asked.
“Terrified,” he answered.
“I dunno about that,” Yardly objected.
“You were holed up in the high school, same as the rest of us,” McMaster said. “Didn’t see you running out there on your own to battle the forces of evil.” He smiled as he said it, but his words must have rung true, because the older man nodded and shrugged.
Wheeler looked at Amy Montrose, as if seeking confirmation for something he hadn’t said yet. She seemed to get it anyway. “We’ve got an awful lot of bored people on the Star,” she said.
“Want some extra bodies to help you out?” Wheeler asked.
“What do you have in mind?” McMaster replied.
51
S/V Annie’s Birthday
09.920785N 164.525563W
“Send in the clowns,” Clara sang to no one. Why a song by Frank Sinatra should come to mind, and why that particular song, she had no earthly idea. Absurd, just on the face of it. Possibly insane - though she didn’t think her days of isolation were quite long enough to send her completely around the bend.
Whatever the reason - whether instinct, Freudian slip, or pure coincidence - the fact remained: there was a small boat headed right toward her.
She’d finally got a good look at the boat whose lights she’d been following, just after the sun went down. It would be a long night - of that she was certain. Long night. Cold night. Hungry night, since she’d managed to butcher the fish all to Hell. Most ended up spread all over the deck. Even after five buckets of sea water, the blood still stained the scuppers. That was the right term, wasn’t it? Scuppers.... Whatever the upturned lip between deck and the side of the boat was actually called, it was n
ow splashed with fish guts. Her stomach churned at the thought.
Once she sighted the boat - and against her better instincts - she’d once again picked up the radio and made the call. Doing this on the trip to Midway had caused all of her problems since then. Well, that, and the older Barber bitch, but bitches will be bitches. That particular c-word woman hadn’t liked her from the moment they met. Feeling was mutual. Didn’t matter, now.
The boat was actually a ship - actually two ships - one towing the other. And when she called them, the voice answered - the same voice, with that same sinister, but friendly undertone she remembered.
The pirates.
On the one hand, this was dumb fucking luck - Karma coming to bite her sweet ass. Her mistake on True North got one guy killed. Or no...wait...it was two guys. Whatever the number, she hadn’t liked Mick Fincham, but he didn’t deserve to die, or anything like that. And the other guy, Jason Gilcuddy... He was such a nothing, such a non-entity, that she scarcely thought of him - and if truth be told, neither did those sanctimonious bitches on True North.
And now the same guys - the same pirates - were coming toward her in a speeding small boat.
On the other hand, it could be dumb fucking luck, of the good kind. The pirates attacked True North to get the vaccine. That was the consensus, anyway. And maybe it was true. Maybe her telling this man with that voice about the vaccine is what caused what came after. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe they’d have come anyway. They were pirates, after all, right? Who’s to say they wouldn’t have attacked, even without knowing about the vaccine? Who’s to say? Not Clara Blondelle.
But this time? This time she had the stuff. It was down there, in the cabin, sitting on ice in two different coolers, waiting to be used. Or, more to the point, waiting to be bartered for her freedom and future prosperity,
So what’s going to stop them from killing you once they’ve got it, Clara?
The voices in her head were still making sense - which was a good thing. If they weren’t - if they just spouted gibberish, and if, even worse, she started answering the gibberish in kind - then she might truly be round the fucking bend, after all.