by Jeff Thomson
What’s going to stop them? Information. She had it, they didn’t.
She thought about this as the boat drew closer. She smiled. Why? Because she knew where to find the people who could make more.
52
Medical Clinic
Midway Atoll
“That’s the last of it,” Stephanie Barber said, amidst a jaw-cracking yawn. This had been one long day. She handed the tray of Primer doses to the Physicians Assistant from the Star, Sam Bonaventura.
He was a nice guy. That was pretty much the first thing she’d noticed about the twenty-something man. There wasn’t really anything else remarkable about him. Medium height, medium build, sandy brown hair, and nice eyes. Not nice in the sense of pleasing to look at, although they weren’t too bad, in her opinion. They had potential, at any rate, but such things would have to wait for another time. Now, all she wanted was to go to bed. Alone. To sleep. Really. Her raging hormones could just shut the Hell up, thank you very much.
“Great,” he said, taking the tray from her hands. He had nice hands. Big. Hmm... Curb your inner slut, Stephanie... “Won’t get another flight out for...” he consulted his watch. “Another seven hours, or so. Refrigerator?” He asked.
“Ye-e-e-e-s-s-s.” The word turned out to have several extra, long syllables, thanks to yet another yawn. She bent at the waist and stretched her aching back. Really. That was her story, dammit, and she was sticking to it. Just because she just happened to be facing more or less away from the man, and just because she just happened to be wearing fairly short cutoff jeans that did wonders for her backside, didn’t mean a thing. Honest.
And her back really was sore. She couldn’t remember ever being so tired. Even at NYU, during Mid Terms and Finals, when the routine was to consume far more coffee than was either safe or sane for the average, extraordinarily large and robust rhinoceros, she still managed to keep up some level of not-total exhaustion. But now...? She yawned again.
Enough, already, her body seemed to be saying. As it was, she’d be staggering back to the True North like one of the zombies. Come to think of it, that might not be so safe, with all the new people wandering around the island. They might think she was one, and decide to hold on-the-spot training in Anti-Zombie Warfare.
Maybe...
“Tell you what,”“ she said - this time managing to get the words out before the yawn. “Could you walk me back to the ship? Don’t want any of your - our - new guys mistaking me for an infected person.” Really. That was why she’d asked him. Honest. Had nothing to do with a desire to take a casual stroll in the morning sunshine with an incredibly eligible candidate for...what, exactly? A relationship? Casual dating? Mating? Rutting like animals in heat?
“Sure,” he said. She looked at his face, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. Was that the hint of a smile? “I would consider it an honor.”
Okay, then...
53
USCGC Sassafras
The Cabin
The body fell to the floor, leaving Molly standing there, staring downward, waiting for the shock and horror to fill her every fiber. Blood drained from the corpse - because Lieutenant Edwards was clearly dead, if his wide, unblinking eyes and the hole where his liver used to be were any indication - in a spreading pool beneath his back. Gore splattered the table against which they’d been fighting. Nobody moved, nobody said a word. Molly felt nothing.
She’d just killed a man, and she felt nothing. Black or white. The words flowed through her mind. Kill him, or he kills somebody else. Jonesy had said as much after the first deaths on the Sass. Could have been yesterday. Could have been ten years ago.
She heard rustling behind her as people began to pick themselves up off the floor. She ignored it. A hand grasped her shoulder - lightly, hardly there at all. She ignored it. Whoever it was drew her into his arms. She ignored it. “Molly,” the person whispered, the voice soothing and imploring at the same time. She ignored it.
She ignored it, because acknowledging it would mean giving it substance, weight, feeling. Someone kissed the side of her head. Cracks began to form in her defenses, fissures widening , steam escaping, as another set of hands grasped her, pulled her toward...What? A chair. Someone eased her into a chair.
She brushed whoever it was aside, and stood, vaguely seeing the room around her, the shapes of people, looking every bit like distorted silhouettes, like seeing them through the frosted filter of a shower curtain. Would the curtain be thrust aside? Would a knife-wielding Norman Bates be standing there in maternal drag, poised to stab and cut and rend her flesh? Of course not. She moved toward the door.
“Molly,” someone called out, louder, more insistent.
Clarity washed over her, removing the curtain, ripping it from its rod, revealing the room and the people in sharp fucus - the focus of purpose.
“That’s Captain, if you don’t mind,” she said, her voice sounding firm and steady in her ears. “Are the survivors still on the Mess Deck?” She asked, looking at her uncle.
“Uh...” was his only reply.
“John,” she said, her eyes focusing on Gus. “If you could please get Mr. Roessler something to treat his wounded leg.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” the older man said, his voice uncertain.
“Petty Officer Jones.” She locked eyes with Jonesy. “Please gather the crew in the Wardroom.”
“What are you doing?” He asked.
She stopped her forward progress, stared at him with as much steel as she could muster. “Do what I told you,” she said, then turned and headed up the ladder toward the Bridge.
She didn’t look back, didn’t wait to see if they followed her orders. Closing the internal Bridge door with the faintest of Clicks, she walked to the GSB grabbed the microphone, and said:
“Seaplane Wallbanger, this is Sassafras, Two-One-Eight-Two. Over.”
54
USCGC Assateague
Kapalama Basin
“Get some!” Weaver shouted, sending yet another three-round burst toward the idiot zombies clustered near the center gantry crane. The ground flowed with bloody, infected soup, the bodies in pieces, scattered over the concrete. Each burst killed a dozen or more of them, the incendiary rounds turning former humans into pulp. Some of them caught fire. Some of them, still alive, were staggering in amongst the crowd, fully engulfed in flames, catching still more of them on fire.
Containers, squatting like innocent bystanders, were also burning, also sending flame and spark and smoke in every direction. One exploded with a WHUMP, as whatever flammable substance it held ignited, shooting jagged scraps of shrapnel into he back of the crowd.
“You think they’d run,” he shouted to Frank Roessler, even though he wasn’t - at the moment - firing. Shouting seemed like the right response to the situation. Frank just stared at him with wild eyes.
“You okay?” Weaver asked.
Frank blinked, and gulped, the effort of it visible, even through the mask. “Hell no,” he replied. “There isn’t a single goddamned thing okay about any of this.”
“Laugh or cry, my Father used to say,” Weaver said. “Live or die.” He shrugged. “Laughing is life, crying is death.” He shrugged again. “So he said, anyway. Sounded like Hallmark bullshit to me, but he was the gunner on a PB in Viet Nam. You know, like in Apocalypse Now?”
Frank stared at him. The man needed to get a sense of perspective, Weaver thought.
“Gallows humor, you know?” Weaver asked, hoping that maybe he could get through to his one and only shipmate, at the moment. Vapor lock wasn’t going to do either one of them any good.
“Did it help him?” Frank asked.
“For a while,” Weaver replied, realizing the trap into which he’d talked himself. The next question would drop kick perspective right out the damned window.
“A while?” Frank asked, his eyes widening even more. “Then what?”
“Then he put a bullet through his skull,” Weaver said. “Wasn’t wrapped too tight.
”
Frank stepped back, his eyes staring at him through the plexiglass lenses. “Neither are you.”
“Didn’t say I agreed with him,” Weaver grinned - though the smile couldn’t be seen beneath the gas mask. “But you gotta admit, laughing’s a lot more fun than crying.”
Frank’s stare went through a panoply of expressions, from fear (that Weaver was insane, presumably), to shock, to anger, to confusion, through thoughtfulness, consideration, and contemplation, and finally to understanding. It took place in a matter of seconds, but Weaver could see each stage clearly as they went through Frank’s eyes. The other man lowered his gaze, lowered his head and shook it, then looked up again, and said: “My old man used to say it beats a sharp stick in the eye.”
“Don’t parents realize how they fuck their kids up with that shit?” Weaver asked.
“Obviously not,” Frank replied. Weaver was glad to see the man’s expression through the mask had grown far less wild.
Jeri Weaver was about to reply - had a really good non-sequitur that should lighten things up quite nicely - but then the earpiece crackled with static, and Ensign Gordon’s voice came through.
“Assateague, Sassafras. Secure from Ops. Rendezvous with us.”
55
S/V Annie’s Birthday
09.812841N 164.169282W
“What have we got here?” The gruff Australian man said, as his hands roamed freely over Clara’s body.
“Do you really need a lesson in female anatomy?” She asked in reply.
This seemed to confuse him, somewhat. She should be struggling, should be protesting, and most definitely should not be getting wet from the manipulation of the man’s rough and probing fingers. All of these things should be true, but none conformed to reality. She had willingly allowed herself to be pinned, spread-eagle, face against the cabin superstructure, had not said a word when the man began to pat her down for “weapons,” or when he seemed to be focusing his search on her ass, between her legs, even going so far as to unbutton and unzip those pants and thrust his hand inside. Then he’d reached beneath her tee-shirt. Just what did he think he’d find in the nipple he was pinching?
He had both of her wrists held behind her back in one of his large hands, while the other pawed at her. This put her own hands in close proximity to the thing in his pants. She took advantage of him - just as he was of her - and squeezed. The guy was hard as a rock, huge, and suddenly shocked by her bold move.
“Oh, we’ve got a live one, here, Mate,” he said to the other man who’d come in the small boat - neither of which were the one she’d talked to on the radio, either this time, or the first time on True North. “Think we should have a go before the others get hold of her?”
She still had him by the focus of all men’s interest, and didn’t let go when he released her wrists and allowed her to turn and face him. “What are you going to do, gangbang me?” She asked.
“Maybe,” he replied. His answer both thrilled and repulsed her, in more or less equal measure. But this was how it was done - how she’d done it to get her way at the legal office in Astoria, how she’d been doing it since high school. The way to a man’s heart wasn’t through the stomach; it was through the thing she now held in her hand.
She squeezed harder. “Might want to think about that.” If she played her cards right, if she played her part right, then this would get her an introduction to the Man in Charge, the guy running the show, The Top Dog.
“Got something!” His partner shouted from inside the cabin.
He’s found the vaccine.
“What’s down there?” the Aussie said.
“Something that’s better than my pussy,” she said, then amended the statement. “Almost.” She squeezed him again for emphasis.
“Really?” He grinned at her. Big Bad Australian Wolf...
The other guy poked his head out from the cabin. “Looks like medicine of...” His voice trailed off, and given the fixed and glossy look to his eyes, Clara knew what caused it: the current location of her hand - and maybe the fact that the front of her capris pants were hanging loose and open, revealing the lacy top of her black panties.
Unlike the Australian, who was big and strong and, well, manly, the other guy was a scrawny, squirrely s.o.b., who probably hadn’t been laid since...ever. He shook his head, finally tearing his stare away from the other guy’s crotch. He blinked, rapidly, three or four times.
“Oh for Christ sake, Felix,” the Aussie said. “Out with it.”
“I think it might be narcotics. Or maybe,,,vaccine.”
And just like that, her spell - as well as her handhold - was broken. He stepped back, looking from her, to the other man, then back to her again. “Is it?” He asked,
“Is it what?” She asked, coy as could be.
“Answer the fucking question, bitch,” he snapped, grabbing her arm, not at all gently, and giving her a good shake.
Foreplay’s over, she said to herself.
“Is it vaccine?” She asked. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.” She wiped her previously occupied hand on her pants, as if to demonstrate she’d just had it on something dirty, something disgusting. “And now you need to take me to your boss,” she added, re-buttoning the front of her pants - a clear sign saying: do not enter.
“Is that so?” The Aussie spat, no longer friendly, no longer in the mood - except, maybe, in the mood to kill her. Tread carefully, Clara...
She turned to the squirrel. “Did you notice the different colored labels on the vials?” She asked.
He looked from her, to the Aussie, then back to her again. “Yes.”
She looked at the Aussie - clearly the Alpha male. “That’s Primer, Primary, and Secondary Booster,” she said, hoping to God she’d gotten it right. It certainly sounded right. “They have to be taken in order, and over a specific period of time.” She glanced back at the squirrel, whose eyes now lost all timidity. They watched her with keen interest. This one’s the brain, she thought. Well, well... “You can guess, if you like, and if you’re feeling lucky,” she said, directing her words to him now. “But as I understand it, if you guess wrong, you turn zombie.” She smiled at the Aussie. “Feeling lucky, there, Crocodile?” He scowled, but didn’t answer. “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Take me to your leader.”
56
USCGC Sassafras
The Mess Deck
“There’s been an incident,” Ms. Gordon said, once the assembled gaggle on the Mess Deck had stopped slurping soup long enough to pay attention. Amber marveled at how hungrily they gobbled what was generally considered the most bland soup ever devised: Chicken - just broth ,without any actual chicken in it, or noodles, or rice, since the starved stomachs of most of the survivors couldn’t take any actual food yet.
Amber sat alone at the table she’d briefly shared with Bill Schaeffer, before he rushed off to deal with Lieutenant Edwards. The others were spread out in the compartment. Scott sat with a young woman who clearly wasn’t wearing a bra. This was Marine Science Technician Third Class Anna Duchenne, from the Marine Safety Office, with whom Amber had some experience, dealing with the seemingly endless reports of oil spills and such coming out of Pearl Harbor. The Navy just couldn’t seem keep from dropping or pumping or otherwise discharging pollutants into the water. When they did, the Coast Guard would oversee their efforts at cleanup. It would have made more sense to put an MSO on Ford Island, but since this was the government, sense had no part in the conversation.
“Who was in the Mess Hall with Lieutenant Edwards?” the Ensign asked.
Six hands went up, though to Amber’s eyes, it should have been obvious. Every one of them were deeply tanned, (except the lone black man, but skin pigmentation was hardly the issue), and three were sunburned.
“He’s been shot,” Gordon said. There were a few gasps, which was to be expected, but two of them - the tall black man, whose name, if Amber remembered correctly was DeShaun...something, and a squat white woman, a c
ivilian, judging by her clothing, both laughed.
“I’d like to shake the person’s hand,” the black man said.
“Secure that shit,” one of the guys from the ISC Building, a YN1 Amber knew as Rick Denninger, from her infrequent trips to Admin, snapped, apparently realizing he was the highest ranking enlisted person in the compartment.
“He’s an asshole,” the woman snapped back.
“He’s dead,” Molly Gordon said, her voice firm, but quiet. Amber’s heart skipped a beat, as the compartment went silent.
Scott Pruden - ever the instigator - was the first to speak. “What happened?”
“He entered my cabin,” she paused, gulped, drew breath, then continued, “The Captain’s Cabin, with the intent of taking command of this ship. Words were exchanged,” she said, her voice dropping into a monotone. “A fight broke out. There were loaded weapons in the compartment. He grabbed one, we wrestled, the gun went off.”
Nobody spoke for an extremely pregnant moment, as if waiting for the final contractions to begin and Rosemary’s Baby to be born. Amber’s imagination conjured a gnome-like creature with fully-formed claws and fangs, and two small horns on its forehead. She mentally smacked some sense into herself and waited for the Ensign to continue.
An older man, round-ish, with white hair and a fuzzy white beard and a bandage on his leg, spoke, instead. “It happened as she described it,” he said. “I was there. The man snapped, went crazy, grabbed for the gun.” He thumbed toward Gordon. “She probably saved our lives.”
“And you are?” The YN1 asked.
“Gus Perniola,” he said. “Retired MKCS,” he added, giving his former rank and rating. “And the crazy fucker shot me,” he added, pointing to the bandage. Apparently, the wound couldn’t have been too traumatic, given his current vertical state, but the simple fact of the wound seemed to lend credence to his testimony.