Pirates and Zombies (Guardians of the Apocalypse Book 3)

by Jeff Thomson

  “You’d be surprised,” Floyd said, then fell into silence, as if that somehow explained his point.

  “Surprise me, then,” Wheeler answered.

  Floyd gave him the pained, Uber-pedantic expression Wheeler was learning to recognize and loathe in the man. It said idiot child, and he, for one, was getting really tired of it. He could only imagine what the True North and Sass crews felt. Still, the man knew things - important things - and it wouldn’t do to alienate their resident Mad Scientist.

  “Go on,” Wheeler coaxed.

  “Hygiene,” he replied, raising the first finger of his right hand. “They have none, in case you hadn’t noticed. This means any infection will fester, making them sick. They have no antibiotics, without which, infections can kill.” He raised a second finger. “They drink untreated, often foul water. That means dysentery, any number of parasites, fungi, and bacteriological contagions, for which - again - they have no medicine.” The third finger went up. “They eat uncooked meat, most of which has probably spoiled. Botulism, E-coli, any number of infections.” The fourth finger pointed toward the overhead. “They eat human meat. Have you ever wondered why cannibalism is such a taboo?”

  “Other than the ick-factor?” Amy Montrose asked.

  He ignored her. “Most taboo, if you chase their origins, have practical reasoning at their core. Incest, for example, creates genetic mutation.”

  “Again, ick-factor,” Amy said.

  Again, he ignored her. “You can eat rare beef but not rare pork or poultry, because pigs and birds carry many of the same diseases as humans.” He paused, apparently to see if his point sunk in. It did - chillingly so - but Wheeler wanted him to continue and - more importantly - conclude, so he chose to say nothing.

  “To eat human meat safely, you’d have to cook it so thoroughly, it would be rendered inedible,” Floyd said, finally, the idiot child tone more evident than ever. “And all of that fails to account for broken bones, cancer, heart disease, AIDS, pneumonia, and on, and on, and on.” He paused, then finished his point. “If we wait long enough, in a place that is not here, or anything like here, then they will simply die off, and we can carry on rebuilding civilization.”

  Wheeler stared at him for a long moment, then jerked his thumb toward the port holes and the city beyond. “What about the survivors?” He asked. “How long can they last?”

  Floyd shrugged, and waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve argued for cutting our losses,” he said. “But that appears to be a minority opinion.”

  “Damned right,” Amy exclaimed.

  “Alright, Professor,” Wheeler said, groaning out of his chair. At least it was more comfortable than the benches on the seaplane. “Thank you for your time. If you could, please send in Petty Officer Jones.”

  61

  USCGC Sassafras

  Female Berthing

  “Bold fashion statement,” Tara McBride said, upon seeing the Operations Specialist from the COMMSTA, Amber Winkowskavitch, or something. Lydia really should learn the woman’s name. They’d be sharing this four person berthing area for who knew how long. Could be months. Might be years.

  Winkowski - that was it. Amber Winkowski was wearing a man’s tee-shirt, advertising the Sex Pistols, far too large for her, over men’s board shorts, green, and faded by the sun, They were clean, and didn’t have any obvious holes in them, which was a marked improvement over the uniform she’d been forced to wear for weeks, during her imprisonment within the Comm Center. Plus her hair was...whoever cut it should be drummed out of the hairdresser’s union and stripped of all rank and privilege. If such a thing exists - or, rather, existed. Not much existed any more. Stop babbling and focus, she told her brain.

  “Sorry,” the woman said. “The zombies didn’t give me a chance to pack before they took over the world.”

  “At least she’s wearing something,” Jennifer Collins said, coming in behind her, and eyeing McBride. Tara was stark naked and didn’t seem to care if anyone saw it. “Trolling for your next conquest?”

  Thank God she didn’t say gangbang, Lydia thought. Tara had told her (and possibly no one else) the truth behind the rumors: the BM1 on the High Endurance Cutter putting the moves on her and failing to get the desired response, then spreading the ugly gangbang rumor to get back at her supposed blow to his masculinity. Clearly, she hadn’t told Collins the most salient fact: that Tara McBride was one hundred percent gay.

  “Feel free to fuck yourself,” Tara said offhandedly, as if the barbs meant nothing, as if she felt nothing each and every time they jabbed their little spikes into her flesh and her heart. Or maybe that was just Lydia. Maybe she was transferring her own attitudes onto the woman. Could be.

  She gathered up her shower things, saw that - in spite of her profane response - Tara was doing the same (finally getting dressed - sort of, in pajama bottoms and a half-tee shirt - thank God), and headed for the passageway. They had to shower in shifts, there being no private head or shower for women in the below decks berthing areas. There were four of them (Ms. Montrose getting her own stateroom in Officer’s Country), and so they went two at a time: one to shower, and one to guard the door while the other was doing so. It was inconvenient, and embarrassing, and annoying as Hell - and in the pre-plague Guard there would certainly have been a protest, and somebody’s balls would have ended up in a ringer for the oversight - but this was post-apocalypse, post-plague, post-old Guard, where hurt feelings and embarrassment were so far down the list of priorities, they might as well not be there at all.

  This was their new home, in this new world. Might as well get used to it. She headed for the shower.

  62

  USCGC Sassafras

  The Wardroom

  “Call me Jonesy. Everybody does,” Jonesy said, taking a seat, without one being offered. He added a slightly deferent, “Sir,” to the greeting.

  “As I understand it, you’ve been instrumental in carrying this mission forward,” LT Wheeler said.

  “Just doing my job,” he replied. He came into ths meeting with the fully-formed attitude that he wasn’t going to give these meddling bastards one iota more than absolutely necessary. They were probably going to change everything. They were probably going to put their stamp on what the Sass crew had already done. They were probably going to cashier Molly Gordon. Well, fuck that and fuck them. He sure as Hell wasn’t going to help them do it.

  “And what exactly is your job?” CWO2 Peavey asked. The man looked as if he’d just woken up. Right from the start, Jonesy wasn’t liking him.

  “Save the world,” he replied. “Isn’t that everybody’s job?”

  “And what, specifically, is your part in it?” The man asked, clearly annoyed. He was going to have fun with this fucknut.

  Jonesy smiled. “Kill zombies, rescue people, Miller Time,” he said.

  “I don’t like your attitude,” Peavey said.

  He knew he should back off, knew it wasn’t smart to antagonize these people - at least not yet. The intelligent thing would be to let them ease into their new positions, while he slowly, imperceptibly manipulated things from within, in true, Machiavellian fashion. But this situation reminded him just a little too much like the Piper Maru shooting board. He wasn’t about to let himself be put through that shit again.

  He nodded. “Yeah, it keeps me awake sometimes,” he said. “What was that line from The Big Sleep? I grieve about it on long winter evenings?” He shrugged. “Something like that, anyway.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw LTjg Montrose stifle a chuckle. He might have an ally.

  “Okay, okay,” Wheeler said, holding up both hands, to put a stop to the escalating situation. Peavey looked as if he might have an epileptic fit. Score one for Jonesy. “We’re just trying to get a handle on the dynamic. See where everybody fits,” he continued. “And from what we’ve been hearing from your shipmates, you fit in right at the top.”

  “Treasonous bastards have been talking behind my back, haven’t they?�
�� He said, smiling, and feeling just the tinge of pride.

  “Singing your praises, more like,” Montrose said, favoring him with a smile. It was a friendly enough gesture, he should just accept it in the spirit with which it was offered and respond in kind. Where’s the fun in that?

  “They must be suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress,” he replied.

  “Enough of this tomfoolery!” Peavey blustered. Who says that? Who says tomfoolery?

  “Easy,” Wheeler told the antagonistic bastard. “Help us out, Jonesy. Fill us in.”

  “It wouldn’t do any good,” he said. Peavey looked ready to explode, and even Wheeler didn’t appear to be taking it well. If he wasn’t careful, he might force them into fulfilling his prophecy of doom. Time for a different tack.

  “Look,” he said. “I get it. You’re here to take over. Nature of the beast. I guess we’re back in the Coast Guard.” He held up his own hands to stave off the protest, this time. “Problem is, you’re walking into a situation you can’t possibly be prepared for. Your learning curve in this is straight up, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.”

  “We’re in the same situation you were,” Peavey sad. “We’re not any less prepared than you were.”

  “Yeah,” Jonesy agreed. “But we got ready in a hurry, because our lives depended on it. Yours’ don’t.” He spread his arms as if to show them the entire ship. “And in case you haven’t noticed, thirty-nine of us ain’t around anymore.”

  “Forty,” Peavey said, eliciting winces from both Wheeler and Montrose. “You’re forgetting the man who died yesterday.”

  Motherfucker, Jonesy thought, fighting the urge to stand and slap the shit out of the man. He dropped his hands flat on the table, ready to push himself off. Say something else, asshole...

  “Mister Peavey!” Wheeler snapped. “That’s enough.”

  “I’m not forgetting a damned thing,” Jonesy said through gritted teeth. Ease up, cowboy, his inner voice said. For once, he listened.

  Leaning back in his chair and relaxing his muscles, bit by bit, he said: “And you’re making my point for me. We don’t know what we’re doing out there. You know less than we do, because we’ve been in this fight, every day, while you guys were sitting fat and happy on your icebreaker.” He leaned forward and stared into the Warrant Officer’s beady little eyes. “You can’t lead if you don’t know where you’re going or what you’re doing. You have no fucking clue what you’re walking into, and in this little game, they don’t give trophies for second best. They give body bags.”

  Peavey responded with a truly annoying Oh Sure expression on his smug face. That same desire to punch someone came over him. He was starting to lose track of how many times the bloodlust had overflowed into quote-end-quote ordinary life. Since before. Since Medavoy took over. Since Scoot. And yeah, sure, he’d spent a number of years learning Martial Arts. So what? That was fitness. That was a way to take out his frustrations, to curb his more violent tendencies. Well, now, thanks to this little thing they called the Zombie Apocalypse, killing had become a habit.

  He sat back again, favored Ms. Montrose with his most charming smile, then turned his grin on Wheeler. “I’m going to ass-ume the rest of the crew told you they’d mutiny if anything happened to Ms. Gordon.”

  “It was suggested,” the Lieutenant said.

  “Then you don’t need me to add my two cents.”

  “But you’re going to, anyway,” Wheeler grinned back. Maybe this guy wouldn’t be an asshole, after all.

  Jonesy nodded. “She’s the reason we got this far. She’s the reason we’ve already rescued thirty-five, forty...whatever the number of survivors is up to now. We trust her.” He turned his attention back to Peavy. “We don’t trust you.”

  63

  M/V Point of Order

  09.793871N 164.171898W

  “You want the good news or the bad?” Hennessy asked without preamble, as he came up on the Bridge.

  “What now?” Blackjack Charlie swore. Back in olden days - say the days of the Mongol Hordes - the bringer of bad tidings was often killed. He was so sick of hearing bad news, he thought about reinstituting the practice.

  “The good news is, we’ve accessed the small arms locker.”

  “I knew that,” Charlie said. “I got the code from the Gunner’s Mate myself.”

  “Just confirming the code was right,” he said. “Needed to lighten the mood before I gave you the bad news,” he added - almost apologetically.

  “What?” The darkness slammed down inside Charlie’s mind again. One more elevator drop like this and he really would kill the messenger. “Quit fucking around and say what you came to say.”

  “The Destroyer is sinking.”

  64

  Seaplane Wallbanger

  Lihue Airport

  “Seems like we were just here yesterday,” Jim Barber said, as Harvey Walton brought the aircraft down to a safe - if bumpy - landing.

  “Deja Vu?” Walton asked, rolling toward the assembled crowd.

  “All over again,” Barber finished the cliche. The survivors from Honolulu groaned in the rear compartment, no doubt already sore from the uncomfortable seating arrangement. They ain’t seen nothing yet, he chuckled to himself, thinking of the seven hours of flight time they still had to endure before they arrived at their destination.

  It had been decided that the MST (Anna Duchenne), the Storekeeper (DeShaun Tanner), and the three Yeoman (Rick Denninger, Sarah Panelli, and Carlo Rosette) would be more useful on Midway. Okay, that was overstating it. Maybe less useless, would be a better term. The crew from the Star, the OS and ET from the COMMSTA, the Seaman and Seaman Apprentice, and the Damage Controlman from the base would come in handy. With the Sass crew, and John, Gus, Lane and Samantha from True North, that brought the Sass company up to twenty-eight. Thirty, if Jim counted himself and Mister Walton, but if anything, they were the mobile contingent, and, therefore, could and should be considered as an independent command.

  They already had one pencil-pusher, in Lydia - whatever her last name was. Gary King knew the supply situation well enough, and the plan for Midway was to turn it into a refugee camp, so the Storekeeper would be more useful there, and as for the MST? What the fuck were they going to do with a Weather-Guesser who had no computers, no satellites, and no weather maps to assist in her calculations? Send her to Midway.

  Walton taxied the plane up to the waiting group of Lihue residents, who’d thoughtfully brought a fuel truck. “That was nice of them,” Harvey commented.

  The two men they’d brought to Midway - however many days ago it was - Darren Yardly and Bob McMaster, were among the crowd of five other men and three women. Presumably, they were going to render their decision as to whether to stay in Lihue or transfer everybody to Midway. Since Jim knew there were more survivors in Lihue than were there on the tarmac, clearly the question remained in doubt. Or maybe not. They’d find out soon enough.

  Walton pulled to a stop, and powered down the plane’s engines. Jim levered himself out of the seat and turned to stick his head through the door in the rear compartment.

  “Stay put,” he said to the Hono group. “At least till we find out the situation.”

  “I don’t see any zombies,” The YN1, Rick Denninger, said. This punk was trouble. Best they strand him on Midway. Or maybe one of the uninhabited atolls...? Nah, he thought. Never get away with it.

  “That’s how it works,” Jim replied, opening the exit door, just beneath the wing. “You don’t see them. And then they show up in a crowd and try to eat you.” He pointed at Denninger. “Stay put.”

  He climbed out the door and dropped to the tarmac. McMaster extended his hand. Instead of offering to shake, however, the hand held a large bag.

  “What’s this?” Jim asked.

  “A gift from the Starbucks gods.”

  As soon as the words left the man’s mouth, Jim could smell the heady aroma. “You just became my hero,” he said.

  “
Thanks for coming back,” Yardly said, walking up to them. “Weren’t sure you would.”

  “Why wouldn’t we?”

  Yardly shrugged. “New world, old ways,” he said. It took a moment for Jim to puzzle it out, but he did. Here’s to the new boss. Same as the old boss. Circumstances might change, he thought, but assholes were forever. Not this time.

  “New world, new ways,” Jim replied. “What was it Ben Franklin said? We all hang together...”

  “Or we shall surely hang separately,” Yardly completed the phrase and extended his hand to shake. “Well said, sir.”

  “Here’s to the New World.”

  Yardly gave the universal go on look of encouragement to McMaster. Clearly, they wanted to ask something, which set Barber’s alarms to low alert. If they wanted something, but needed encouragement, then it would be something Jim wouldn’t like.

  ‘Got anybody else in the plane?” McMaster asked.

  “Why?” The alarm bell clanged more loudly.

  “Well,” the man stuttered, drawing the word out three times as long as normal.

  “Oh, just ask him, damn you,” Yardly swore.

  “Ask me what?” Jim asked, already hating whatever it might be.

  McMaster gave him a sheepish smile. “Would you like to go shopping?”

  65

  USCGC Sassafras

  10 NM off Honolulu Harbor

  “He wants you, down on the Buoy Deck,” LTjg Montrose said to Molly, sending the young Ensign’s heart spiraling downwards, as if it’d just been flushed down the toilet - which in a sense, she supposed, it had.

  The ship was ten miles offshore, taken there by direction of the new Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Commander (promoted as of about an hour ago, via a radio conversation with the Star she hadn’t been invited to attend) Steven Wheeler, who said they needed to be able to remove the gas masks for whatever he had in mind. The reasoning remained a mystery.

  Molly finished moving her stuff out of the Cabin and back into the officer’s stateroom she’d been assigned the day she reported aboard. Also the day Sassafras and the other Cutters bugged out of Honolulu. This displaced Harold, which pleased him as much as would be expected, and caused an escalation of his usual bitching to new and hitherto unknown levels - or so Jonesy informed her.