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

by Thomson, Jeff

“No,” she replied. “I want to test a theory.”

  The “theory” was simple, if convoluted.. If the zombies were where the food was, this meant a lot of them were in one place - a place where she and Pruden were not. Sooner or later, however, the food would run out. When it did, they would begin to spread, assuming they didn’t just eat each other. Since she had seen them gathered together and not fighting amongst themselves, and since the virus had caused their mental and emotional states to regress to animal instinct, there must, therefore, be some instinctual reason why they didn’t kill each other, as a general rule, in much the same way that lions or sharks or other predators refrained from killing each other when they traveled together. Simple logic. It followed, then, that once the food ran out at the Chow Hall, they would begin to search for non-zombie menu items, such as the ever-popular Amber Tartar.

  Okay...so...following the line of logical reasoning in a reverse engineering direction, the question became, how would they go about finding their new favorite food? Zombies were attracted by sound. She and Pruden and their big ass truck were making quite a bit of it: smashing through bay doors, running over former humans, careening around corners with wild abandon, etcetera. A plus B equaled...

  They rounded the corner past the Admin Building and came in sight of the ISC Honolulu Dining Facility, where a crowd of zombies were filing out and beginning to march in chaotic formation toward the source of all the racket: namely, them.

  “We need to get inside, right fucking now,” she said.

  Pruden slammed on the brakes and swung a U-Turn. “Roger that.”

  31

  USCGC Assateague

  21.899979N 159.589741W

  It had all been a mistake - every bit of it - and now HS3 Jeri Weaver had to pay for it. He sat in the cramped dry storage compartment on the Assateague, alone. In the dark. By himself. Where he’d been for days and days and days.

  He had always enjoyed moments of solitude: an hour or two, here or there, to process and clean out the clutter life threw into his mind on a more or less constant basis. These moments felt almost spiritual, like zen. Day upon day upon day of it, however, was slowly driving him insane. And it had all begun because of a mistake.

  He’d been in the Base Clinic, all those days ago, minding his own business - as much as he could during an apocalypse, to be sure, and not in any way, shape, or form had he envisioned ending up alone in a dark hold on a Patrol Boat overrun by zombies. It wasn’t fair.

  His Chief, the universally hated HSC Calhoun, had come to him out of the blue and said: “Pack your gear. You’re getting underway.” Thus had begun his odyssey of pain and loneliness.

  Once the decision was made to have all the boats bug out, it had apparently been decided to make each ship as independent and self-sufficient as possible. Patrol Boats had no billet for a Corpsman. They all had at least one EMT, of course, but that was as far as it went. Whoever planned the current cluster fuck decided to change the billeting at the last moment, and install fully trained medical personnel on both Assateague and Galveston Island. Weaver had drawn what he felt sure was the short straw.

  It had been a nightmare from the word “go.”

  Half the crew never made it back to the ship by the time they pulled in the lines. There were only two officers and fourteen enlisted in the first place. One of the officers (a boot Ensign) had been home on leave. Their cook, two engineers, three Deckies and their BM1 hadn’t made it, either. But they’d gotten underway as ordered, regardless. It had not gone well.

  They made it to their assigned station, but once there, things began to go wrong. A fuel line broke. The winch for the RHIB wouldn’t work. The food sucked, because it was being cooked by whoever wasn’t either on watch or sleeping so they could stand watch without dropping from shear exhaustion. And then they discovered that Jeri Weaver had once been a Deckie on the Kukui. Naturally, they put him to work - as a cook. Which he didn’t really know how to do.

  Then people started getting sick - not from his cooking (at least, he didn’t think so), but sick, nonetheless. Then the CO turned zombie - right on the Mess Deck - where everybody had been gathered for a briefing.

  The briefing was supposed to deal with all the small civilian craft which decided the Assateague would be a great place to tie off and ride out the Plague. They’d been wrong. Many turned zombie. The rest were killed and/or eaten. And HS3 Jeri Weaver had hidden his happy ass in the Dry Storage compartment.

  Could be worse, he supposed. At least he had food and a small store of bottled water. The compartment contained other stuff, as well. Useful stuff, like hard hats and chem lights and safety goggles and Tyvek, protective suits. Patrol Boats were small. Every compartment tended to double as something other than its original design, so dry storage meant all sorts of dry things - not just food.

  It had not, however, contained a toilet. He’d gotten used to the smell, but it had taken a while. He hadn’t gotten used to using wrapping paper to wipe his ass, however, since the one dry thing not stored in the Dry Storage Compartment was toilet paper, which they’d stored in the MAA Locker. Another case of dumb fucking luck. Some things were asking too much. Having to use abrasive paper on sensitive skin was one of those things.

  Somewhere along the line, he’d taken off his pants. He still wore his boxers, of course. Bare skin on a metal deck was another of those asking-too-much things. Removing the pants seemed prudent, though, since the compartment was hot and stuffy and airless and uncomfortable.

  He’d just begun to contemplate the possibility of dropping a couple more kiddies off at the pool (or, rather, the empty five-gallon bucket he’d been using) when he heard gunfire.

  32

  Seaplane Wallbanger

  Hanapepe Bay, Kauai

  The zombie’s head exploded in a gout of blood. “Good one!” Jonesy said to Jim Barber, who had taken out his seventh zombie in a row with a head shot.

  “Thank you, thank you,” Barber said, in a self-congratulatory tone. He’d earned it.

  Jonesy had killed three with his M4, and Duke had taken out four, but Barber was proving himself to be an absolute sniper with his M-1 Garand. They sat on the wings of the Catalina, their feet dangling in the air. It felt almost fun. Almost. What it really felt like was that they were trying a bit too hard to make it seem fun. In the end, they were killing people. Insane, bloodthirsty, mentally destroyed people, to be sure, but still...people.

  He really needed to stop thinking of them that way. It did him no good. Every one he killed (and he had, in truth, lost count) took a tiny piece of his soul. He needed - desperately needed - to stop letting it happen.

  It is what it is... The expression always seemed trite to him, in the past. Now it felt true. Brave new world.

  He took aim and pulled the trigger.

  33

  USCGC Polar Star

  Box of Death

  YN2 Lydia Claire entered her stateroom and closed the door. Nobody else there. Good. She liked it that way.

  Since finding...what she found...her routine had been simple and precise. She would get up, go to work, do her job, eat meals (though not much and not every meal), then head to her stateroom and lie in her rack, staring at the bottom of the rack above until sleep dropped her out of conscious thought. She showered, as usual, did everything asked of her, as usual: talked when necessary, took care of her uniform and appearance, observed all the appropriate courtesies. She did nothing worthy of notice. She also didn’t engage with the rest of the crew. She didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t ask or care about the others around her. She’d disconnected, as much as was possible in a closed environment with one hundred twenty-three other people. Sorry folks. Lydia has left the building.

  She sat on the mattress, removed her shoes, and slid them beneath the bunk. She sat there for a moment, staring at nothing, thinking of nothing.

  There came three sudden, distinct, loud knocks at her door, which opened and Titsy McGangbang entered, uninvited. SN Tara McBr
ide (her real name), while obviously female, did not belong in Lydia’s stateroom. She had one of her own, just a little ways down the passageway. The fact she barged in without an invitation could only be called one thing: rude. One bad deed deserves another.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “To talk to you,” Tara answered, grabbing the lone chair by its back, sliding it out from the desk, and placing it in the middle of the compartment, with the back facing Lydia. She straddled the seat, leaned her elbows on the back and stared.

  “What if I don’t want to?” Lydia asked.

  “That’s too fucking bad, isn’t it?” Tara said, dropping the F-Bomb as if it were nothing.

  Lydia could feel the skin of her face redden, as anger crept into her head and heart. “You do know I outrank you, right? You do know I can book you for disrespect, right?”

  Tara waved it away with one of her hands. “Wouldn’t get you anywhere,” she said. “Think of me as one of the Blues Brothers,” she added, with a smile. “I’m on a mission from God.”

  Lydia’s jaw dropped. Of all the things she thought might come out of this woman’s mouth, that had not even been on the list. “What?”

  The redhead studied her fingernails in a perfect lack of concern for how flummoxed she made the person she’d come to see. After a few silent moments, she looked up and said: “I’ve been asked by...others...to have a chat with you.”

  “What?” she replied. “What others?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Tara said.

  “The Hell–“ Lydia began, but Tara cut her off.

  “Look, you idiot,” she said. “People care about you. I’m not one of them, but others are. And they asked me to have a few choice words in the hope it’ll make you pull your head out of your ass.”

  Lydia shook her head, as if doing so might clear this obvious hallucination. No effect. The woman still sat backwards in the chair, staring at her.

  “Your next question should be something along the lines of why you?” She said in an annoying falsetto sounding not remotely like Lydia’s natural voice. “Believe me, I asked the same question.” She scratched her nose, distracted, then sighed and steadied her gaze. “Apparently, they think that with my unique perspective I might have a few insights.” She shook her head. “I think it’s bullshit, but I was outvoted.”

  “Outvoted?” She asked. “By what? The Let’s Irritate Lydia Claire Committee?”

  Tara grinned. “Got it in one!”

  “Do you have regular meetings?” Lydia asked.

  “All the time!” came the reply. “Sometimes we have cookies!”

  “Enough of this bullshit,” Lydia said, jumping out of the rack and striding toward the door. “You’re leaving.” She moved her hand to the handle, but stopped when Tara snapped:

  “Sit your ass down.” Lydia stayed put, but didn’t open the door. “Please,” the woman added. Lydia returned to her rack.

  “Why?” She asked.

  “Hmm?” Tara asked.

  “Why you?”

  “So we finally got there,” Tara said. She sighed. “You know my nickname? Titsy McGangbang?” She laughed at the expression Lydia knew had to hang on her face. “Didn’t think I knew, did you?” She waved it aside. “You aware of its origin? The rumors?” Lydia nodded, feeling ashamed.

  The rumor was that she’d allowed the entire Deck Force of the High Endurance Cutter she’d been on in Seattle before being transferred to Polar Star, to “have their way” with her - a gangbang, in other words, hence the nickname. Lydia knew - or guessed - it was bullshit; an exaggeration, though one with a kernel of truth at its core. Most rumors were, from her experience. It’s how the rumors began, like some twisted form of the “telephone,” game she’d played as a kid in elementary school. The first person in line would whisper something into the ear of the next person, who would turn and whisper to the next, and so forth, until whatever was said reached the end of the line. What came out was invariably Hell and gone from what it started to be, but some form of the original message remained.

  McBride sighed again, then chuckled, and shattered Lydia’s belief like taking a sledge hammer to a porcelain plate. “You want to hear the funny part?” She waited for a response, but Lydia said nothing. “I’m gay,” she said. “Always have been.” Lydia’s expression must have been comical, because Tara burst out laughing. When she’d gotten control of herself, she continued.

  “The BM1 put the moves on me. I said no. He didn’t like it, and so started telling everybody what a nasty slut I was.” She shrugged, as if it were nothing, though Lydia knew it had to have been horrible. “People believed it, since I don’t exactly hide the fact that I enjoy sex,” she said, smiling. “They’d see me depart on liberty wearing the little black dress I used to have, add two and two, and come up with WHORE, in bright, neon letters, never knowing that they all had the wrong equipment.” She shrugged again. “The rumor grew exponentially, reached the ears of the XO and CO, and so I was transferred out - a problem they did not want.”

  Lydia was horrified, and the Girl Power warrior within began to get pissed, but none of it explained what the woman was doing in her stateroom.

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “Good question!” Tara replied. “I asked that one, too. Know what they said?”

  “I still don’t know who THEY are,” she said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Tara said again. “Just call it people who care.” “But not you?” Lydia said.

  “Not me,” Tara replied, this time with a smile. “They said that since we have both gone through...” she did air quotes with her fingers, “...trauma, and since I’m apparently over it...” she gave an unhappy snort, “...they thought I might be able to talk some sense into you.”

  Lydia thought about it for a moment, tossing it back and forth in her mind. Finally: “That makes no sense.”

  “Welcome to my world,” Tara said, smiling - this time with genuine warmth. “Look, I know what you saw had to suck - both things you saw, I guess. Guam had to be a real shit show. But that was yesterday. Today, you need to get over it.”

  “Just like that?” Lydia asked, the bitterness leaving a bad taste in her mouth.

  She nodded. “Just like that,” she said. “What choice do you have? Other than the one Kenny Duvall took.”

  Her heart went THUNK at the mention of Kenny’s name. Lydia hadn’t thought of it, hadn’t allowed it into her consciousness, as if acknowledging the name gave it power over her. Thinking on it now, however, she suddenly realized that no, she didn’t want that “choice.” Not at all.

  “So that’s your sage advice? The great counseling you’ve been sent down here to give me?” Lydia asked. “Get over it?”

  Tara nodded. “Pretty much.” She stood to leave. “If you want a suggestion?” Lydia said nothing, so she continued. “Give yourself a really good orgasm,” she added. “Then get on with it.” She opened the door. “Always works for me,” she said, then left, closing the door behind her.

  Lydia sat there, thinking. A smile began to grow.

  34

  COMMSTA Honolulu

  Oahu, Hawaii

  “Pull harder!” Amber shouted, scrambling her feet against the cold concrete wall of the Communications Building, as she struggled to climb back through the window she’d exited so many hours ago. She’d boosted Pruden up, and he’d gotten through with minimal problem, but the same could not be said for her. He was trying to pull her up and in, and she was discovering just how long it had been since she’d done any pull-ups.

  To make matters worse, they’d gathered a following from the Chow Hall. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind zombies were seconds away from biting a chunk out of her ass.

  Pruden gave a tremendous heave and suddenly her belly was balanced on the window sill. A moment later, she was in, balled onto the floor, gasping for breath. Pruden slammed the window shut. Outside, she could hear the howling.

  She could hear it from
the inside, as well. Somebody, or some thing pounded on the door.

  “Please tell me we’re not going out there,” Scott Pruden said.

  Still catching her breath, Amber could only shake her head and point to the hole in the false ceiling. Another building, another catwalk. Her knees were going to Unionize and go on strike, she just knew it.

  35

  USCGC Assateague

  Hanapepe Bay, Kauai

  Jonesy leapt from the sailboat and onto the blood-soaked deck of the Assateague. He and Duke were rigged for full zombie fighting. He wore his tacticals, the MOPP suit, two pairs of gloves, the harness, the body armor, the two nines in shoulder holsters, the two .45s in thigh holsters, the M4, the dive knife, the Bowie knife, the helmet with face shield, the assault pack with ammo, and two kukri machetes, strapped one to either side of the pack. He wanted to take one of the new Thompson submachine guns they’d found on Midway, but they were still being cleaned aboard Sassafras. Too bad.

  Of course, they’d have wasted a shitload of .45 rounds playing with them, which wouldn’t have been good, but it would have been a whole lot of fun. Fun, however, had not joined them on this expedition.

  His butt hurt from all the hours it took to fly there from Midway, and he knew they were going to have to do it again tonight. Unless, that it, the Assateague could get underway.

  “Ever been on one of these?” he asked, his voice amplified in his own ears by the microphone inside the mouth and chin guard he wore.

  “Once,” Duke replied. “Three years ago. Took a tour.”

  He waved Duke forward with all due ceremony. “You get to go first, then.” They climbed the starboard ladder toward the Pilothouse.

  The one hundred ten-foot Island Class Patrol Boats always made Jonesy think of McHale’s Navy, the TV show from before he was born. Ah, the beauty of syndication and reruns...

  They had a range of about five days, if they were run till the fuel lines started sucking air. It would have taken Assateague about a day at normal cruising speed to reach Hanapepe Bay from Honolulu, and so running on minimal power - just enough to keep the lights on - while at anchor, she might have lasted ten, maybe twelve days. The bug was close to three weeks ago, near as Jonesy could figure it, so odds are the fuel tanks would be dry as a bone. In and of itself, this wouldn’t be a problem, provided they shut the engines down before the fuel ran out. If they didn’t it would be a royal pain in the ass to get her started again.