Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Zombies In Paradise

by Thomson, Jeff

  Fighting back to her knees, Amber began to crawl. It was not as hard as she thought it would be. Fear amplified the motion, and her imagination turned it into a maelstrom of swaying, corkscrewing, twisting madness from which there was no escape. The reality turned out to be far less dramatic. The platform still moved, still twisted from the force of, first, the zombie leaping through the air and grabbing onto the metal catwalk, like some crazed trapeze artist, and, second, the force of her kick and the sudden release of the zombie Cirque du Soleil performer, but at a greatly reduced level of violence than her imagination had dreamed it to be. She really needed to get her shit under control, or before long, she’d be talking herself into all sorts of crazy, paranoid delusions.

  She moved forward into the shadows, slightly amazed to discover the Maglite still clutched between her teeth. If she lost it, if she plunged herself into darkness, she would be well and truly screwed. But she had not. The light continued to illuminate the path ahead. She kept going.

  The catwalk, suspended by wires along much of its length, was not held up by those wires alone. Every ten or twelve feet, metal stanchions rose into the ceiling in a “V,” adding support and stability. When she reached one of these, then surpassed it, the swaying motion of the platform ceased, leaving only the vibrations coursing through her knees to indicate how precarious her position had been.

  The Antenna Equipment Room lay roughly halfway between the Comm Center and the crossover. Ironically, irritatingly, it was situated mere yards from the Comm Center, itself, but getting there necessitated a roundabout route. Amber’s knees were feeling every inch of that route when, after crawling a few yards, stopping to carefully lift a panel to peek beneath, then moving a few more yards, and repeating the process over and over again, at last, the conglomerated mess of wires and cables and conduits culminated in her locating the desired compartment. Now all she had to do was find the roof access.

  She’d heard it was up there, but had never seen it. Electronics Technicians had disappeared into the Comm Center overhead (using a ladder they rudely neglected to leave behind), rummaged around up there more than once while she was on watch, and then had come back to inform her of the latest weather report, based on their personal observations. Sitting, as she had been, in the windowless Radio Room, she’d always felt a bit envious. Now, Amber hoped they hadn’t been feeding her a line of bullshit.

  They had not, as she discovered when the loom of her flashlight found a small ladder, leading upward. Climbing proved easy. Figuring out the hatch mechanism did not. She tried pulling it, pushing it, yanking on it, even swearing at it, but nothing worked. She finally smacked it with the palm of her hand in sheer frustration, and felt it shift and heard it click. What do you know about that? She asked herself. Shoving it further, it slid into whatever notch allowed it to release and voila! With a heave, the hatch opened and fell back onto the roof with a BANG that sent a shiver of fear running up and down her spine as if it were doing wind sprints.

  A low, almost questioning moan came from far away, back the way she’d come. Whether this was the voice of the former OSC she’d kicked, or some other zombie-in-waiting, she did not know and had no desire to find out. Amber climbed the rest of the way onto the roof, and discovered two things: the lightened sky told her that what she’d seen earlier had been morning, rather than evening twilight, and, secondly, that fresh air felt magnificent. At least until she smelled the stench.

  It was appalling, nauseating, and its source was readily apparent when she stuck her head over the roof parapet and saw what remained of Honolulu. The city lay in ruins. Fires had ravaged much of what she could see, and the rest was a frightening conglomeration of wreckage: wrecked cars, wrecked trucks, wrecked busses and rickshaws and motorcycles and fire trucks, and thousands upon thousands of wrecked lives.

  Paradise had fallen. The zombies had taken over.

  10

  USCGC Polar Star

  15.85005N 178.01587W

  “...Two...uh...point eight-seven-three MSV, forward,” the voice of BM1/DECK Joe Ferra said into Lydia Claire’s ear, through the sound-powered phone. She wrote the figures down on the board with a grease pencil, translating JoePa’s garbled English into the “proper” nomenclature of “mSv.” She’d been corrected on that by no less a person than the Captain, the first time she’d written it. Apparently, it stood for Millisievert, a term she would have been happy to have never heard.

  It measured gamma radiation (or so she was told), using what was called a Scintilation Counter, which replaced the old Geiger Counter, of 1950's Science Fiction movie fame. The Port Security guys used them for container ports, and such. Polar Star used them in case of (laughably) a nuclear attack.

  “Three point four-seven-nine mSv, aft,” DC1 Vinny Fanelli, said, making his report. She wrote it down.

  “At least it hasn’t gone up,” LT Wheeler said, from behind her. He was doing that a lot, and only recently (like in the last hour) had she stopped jumping every time he did it.

  Lydia felt the tension on the Bridge like a living thing; breathing, heart racing, pulse pounding, like a dragon coiled in the pit of everyone’s stomach, but no one was panicking. She’d seen panic before - on the pier in Guam - and never wanted to see it again. She was not seeing it now, and for that, she was thankful. Crew morale seemed to be at an all-time low, in spite of all the festivities surrounding the Crossing Initiation. The last thing they needed - the last thing she needed - was to add panic to the mix.

  They’d been at General Quarters for the last three hours, and it had gone from the adrenaline-filled first moments, to the general sense of confused unease over the fact nobody seemed to be saying what had actually happened, and then the shock and fear caused by when they did finally say it. And then came the denial.

  A nuclear explosion? In the middle of the Pacific Ocean? In the middle of a zombie apocalypse? Couldn’t be! It wasn’t possible. It made no sense. What would be the purpose? What would be the point? What lunatic would irradiate what little remained of the habitable world, when the rest of that world was overrun with insane, flesh-eating creatures who used to be human?

  But then had come the very real, tangible information from the radiation detectors. Ahead of them, it was mostly background - a bit more than usual, but nothing to worry about. The readings behind them - taken only four hundred feet apart - however, were higher. They still weren’t at anything resembling a dangerous level, but they were measurably, demonstrably higher. So it happened! Some idiot detonated a nuke!

  Even with the evidence of her own eyes, it seemed unreal. But numbers don’t lie.

  That wasn’t true. Numbers lied all the time. Just look at political data, cherry-picked to “prove” one point or another. But raw data that said background radiation at the bow, and measurably more at the stern, was impossible to ignore. There was no interpretation, there was no manipulation of figures to prove a point. There was only reality, and it didn’t change just because she didn’t like it.

  The only light in this dark cloud was that the levels of radiation weren’t, so far, dangerous. In the last three hours, she’d received an education she never wanted, but it taught her that the average natural dose of background radiation, worldwide, was 2.4 mSv. Fifty mSv was considered the maximum safe dose per year by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. The people who died at Chernobyl received a hundred mSv, so, in relative terms, they were free and clear, but it didn’t change the fact that some maniac let off a nuclear bomb somewhere behind them.

  But why? And where? Behind them, was nothing. Australia was more than two thousand miles to the South. In between was a whole lot of empty ocean, broken occasionally by the tiniest of coral or volcanic atolls, which might as well have been specs of dust, in comparison. So where had the detonation been? Why had the detonation been? It made no sense. Nuking anything didn’t make any sense, in her opinion, but this made even less. Why blow up a spec in the ocean?

  The Captain sidled up beside her and i
nspected the board. “How you holding up, Petty Officer Claire?” He asked.

  “I’ll survive, sir,” she drawled. Regardless of how much she loathed the man for what he’d done in Guam, he was still the Captain, and so she wasn’t about to disrespect him, but she wasn’t about to engage in friendly chatter, either.

  “I suspect we all will,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. That was all she was going to give him.

  “XO,” he said, addressing Commander Swedberg.

  “Sir?”

  “We can secure from General Quarters, I think,” the Captain said.

  “Yes, sir,” Swedberg replied, then turned to Wheeler. “Secure from General Quarters.”

  “Aye, sir,” Wheeler replied, and nodded toward BM3/OPS Eric Riechert, who, in turn, made the appropriate pipe over the 1-MC.

  “Mister Wheeler,” the Captain said. “Run the turbines for another three hours, on this heading. Have the BMOW do hourly checks on the radiation levels. If they remain more or less constant, we can then go back to Main Diesels.”

  “Aye, sir,” Wheeler said, then headed to the port console to pass the order to Main Control.

  “Keep me posted,” Captain Hall said, then turned and exited through the internal Bridge door and headed below.

  Lydia watched him go as she rolled up and stowed the sound-powered phones. She noticed Wheeler was looking at her. “What now, sir?” she asked, not entirely certain if she was asking about the future, or spouting off to the man, who appeared to be trying to look inside her. He’d been doing it a lot, lately. Since Guam.

  “Underway as before, Lydia,” he said. “Underway as before.”

  11

  Midway Atoll

  Dining Facility

  “...So anyway, that’s my plan,” Ensign Molly Gordon, defacto Commanding Officer of the USCGC Sassafras, and, therefore, the highest ranking official representative of whatever remained of the US Government, said, looking at the recently-increased audience of adults.

  They were all there - both herself and John Gordon, her uncle and CO of the True North, having decreed that for this one instance, all personnel should attend the meeting, which meant leaving both ships unmanned. Jonesy, Duke, Harold, Bill, Dan, Gary (who had prepared a tasty dinner of goonie bird), and Frank sat on one side of the largest table in the dining facility, while Jim Barber, his wife Denise and daughter Stephanie, John’s wife Marcie, Lane and Janine Keely, Teddy Spute and his girlfriend Clara (who was apparently the object of scorn from all the True North’s women - Molly would have to look into that, if for no other reason than to head off any potential conflicts), Bob Stoeffel, Gus and Joanne Perniola, sat on the other. Professor Christopher Floyd sat off by himself, on a different table, and Harvey Walton, their newest acquisition, placed himself at the head of the table, where either John or Molly should have sat, placing them side by side with the rest of the Sass crew. George Stoeffel, age twelve, sat at another table nearby, next to Davy Gordon (age ten) and a decidedly unhappy Samantha Gordon (sixteen, going on why the Hell am I stuck here at the kids’ table?).

  “We drain whatever fuel there is from the three sailboats in the harbor, find out if there’s any store of it here on the island, then we head to Kauai and search for the Assateague,” she said, referring to the 110-foot Patrol Boat that - at least according to the original orders - was supposed to take station off that island. “It’s the closest, or should be.”

  It had been the plan to locate and hopefully salvage and/or return to operation the Assateague, Galveston Island, and Kukui; the two Patrol Boats and one other Buoy Tender that had all bugged out from Honolulu on the exact same day Molly reported aboard Sassafras. When she’d first announced this plan, there had only been eight of them. Now there were twenty-two. Twenty-five, if she included the three children. All-in-all, it did not suck.

  “If I may,” Harvey Walton spoke up.

  He was one sincerely odd duck, Molly thought - certainly foolhardy, and possibly suicidal, based on the total lack of concern he’d shown after crash-landing his Catalina. She was reserving judgement as to his level of sanity.

  “Go ahead,” she said, keeping a friendly, yet formal tone.

  “There should, indeed, be a store of diesel fuel over on the Northeast side of the island, not far from where you’re moored. Not sure how much is there, of course.” He smiled, in a friendly way, but his eyes held a distinct air of slyness. “There is also a store of aviation fuel, and I would be ever-so grateful if you would allow me the use of some of it.”

  “Will that plane of yours even fly?” Jim Barber asked. “I seem to remember it being on fire,” he added, the tone of sarcasm in his voice dripping like Niagra Falls.

  Walton passed the problem off with a backwards wave of his hand, as if the notion was little more than an annoying insect. “Ah,” he said. “No, no. Not a problem. If, that is, I can take a stroll through the old seaplane hangar. I’m sure there are spare parts remaining.”

  “How convenient, you just happened to land here on Midway,” John said, the bullshit-detection level of his voice cranked up to eleven.

  Walton smiled. “Living out here on the islands of the Big Pond, one learns to take advantage of what’s available, if for no other reason than it may not be available tomorrow. We tend to live rather hand-to-mouth out here,” he said. “Speaking of which, is there any more of that excellent gin left?”

  Among the store of premium booze Jonesy and Frank liberated from the Pretty, Pretty (the sailboat where they’d found the family of three all dead), had been three bottles of the most expensive gin in the world - at least according to Dan McMullen, who styled himself an expert in such matters. Before the end of civilization as they knew it, Nolet’s Dry Gin Reserve sold for seven hundred dollars a bottle. Harvey “Wallbanger” Walton nearly swooned when he’d set eyes on just one of those bottles. He did not yet know about the other two, though Molly suspected it wouldn’t take the man long to find out. She took the passed bottle from John’s hand and poured about two fingers into Walton’s empty glass. He watched the process expectantly, then looked crestfallen when she did not fill the glass.

  He frowned, then shrugged, toasted their good health, and brought the glass to his lips, saying: “Bob’s your Uncle!” He closed his eyes, a beatific look of ecstasy on his face, then he sighed, and smiled, and opened his eyes again. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Now...Where was I?”

  “The seaplane hangar,” Jonesy said.

  “Indeed!” Harvey replied. “Your Navy used the Catalina extensively during the war. I believe there was a bit about it in that movie they made about the battle? The one with Charlton Heston?” he asked, looking for confirmation. “Tiresome bore of man. All that nonsense about the National Rifle Association.” Jim Barber visibly stiffened at this last comment, but Walton seemed unfazed. “In any event, there are surplus goods left all over the Atoll.”

  “Any weapons?” Duke asked, perking up. “I saw a thing labeled Ammo Hut on the map we found.”

  “Oh, no. Cleared out decades ago.” He leaned back in his chair and glanced toward Jonesy. “Tell me, have you cleared Eastern Island of zombies?” Eastern Island was the other landmass of any size in the Atoll. It sat off the Southeast corner of the Entrance Channel. According to the maps, there was nothing on it but an abandoned airfield.

  “Didn’t see the point,” Jonesy replied. “Why?”

  “How is your store of point-four-five ammunition?” he asked. “I couldn’t help but notice the pistols you’re wearing.”

  “Why do you ask?” Jim snarled, the suspicion in his voice tinged with a degree of menace.

  Walton smiled. “Are you familiar with the Thompson Submachine Gun?”

  12

  M/V Point of Order

  19.629584N 15.417585W

  “Enough talk,” Blackjack Charlie declared, pulling the 9mm from beneath the back of his light jacket and putting a round square in the fucker’s forehead.

  The annoyin
g Captain of the Utility Supply Vessel, M/V Corrigan Cargo III, flopped backward onto the deck with a splat. Blackjack slowly turned his gaze to the seven other crew and passengers, knowing (or hoping) Felix and George both had his back. The look on the mostly male faces said loud and clear that they did.

  He did not trust George, who still hadn’t forgiven him for knocking him out with his namesake blackjack, but he had increased the man’s alcohol ration. Surly and hungover, he could deal with. Keeping the man drunk kept him cooperative - for now. He would have to see about the future.

  “Anybody else want to give me shit?” He asked.

  No one responded, much to Charlie’s liking. The five men and two women (both of whom looked as if they had gotten the short - and busy - end of the arrangement) seemed almost relieved to be rid of the asshole.

  Captain Henri Foucault had set Charlie’s teeth on edge from the moment they stepped aboard. “What are you doing?” he’d said in his thick French accent. It wasn’t that the guy was a Frog. It was that he was an arrogant prick who thought his shit didn’t stink. Charlie had known skippers like this during his days as a Merchant Mariner, before his blackjack got him thrown in jail for not-quite-accidently killing the pimp of a hooker he’d been trying to bang.

  The sailboat they’d chased down, then boarded had not gone as Charlie would have liked. In the first place, the man had been an actual Survivalist, who came out on deck wearing Camo and body armor. George took him out with a shotgun blast to the face. Turned out the asshole was more of a poser than an actual threat.

  The Honorable Henry David Goddard had gotten his titties in a twist about killing the bastard, but Charlie soothed the former Representative and possibly current President by spouting some bullshit about “Clear and Present Danger,” he’d stolen from a Tom Clancy novel. The retarded dipshit fell for it. There were times when Charlie regretted letting the man live, but at least he wasn’t hard to manipulate, and Blackjack suspected he would come in handy, sooner or later.