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

by Thomson, Jeff

  And as for the cadre Charlie trusted - his pirates - he needed to give them something, as well: something tangible, solid, real, they could touch and hold and consume. Money would have worked in the Old World, but in this new one, the currency had changed. Question, then, became: what had it changed into.

  One of the prisoners - a Lieutenant Commander - was muttering a series of letters and numbers, over and over again, like a mantra. George had been about ready to shoot the fucker, until Hennessy stopped him. Charlie went over to ask him why.

  “Listen to what he’s saying,” Hennessy said.

  “One nine November Echo six three two seven Charlie Golf nine-nine-five Delta Uniform Tango six STAR, STAR one-one-three EXECUTE,” the babbling fool said. “One nine November Echo six three two seven Charlie Golf nine-nine-five Delta Uniform Tango six STAR, STAR one-one-three EXECUTE.”

  “The guy’s a loon,” Charlie said. “Put a bullet in his head and put us all out of his misery.”

  “I think that would be a mistake,” Hennessy replied, pulling Charlie’s arm and guiding him away from the crowd. Charlie hated to be grabbed, hated to be pulled, or guided, or forced anywhere, at any time, for any reason. His fingers reached for the blackjack behind his back. Hennessy stayed that arm, as well. Motherfucker, Charlie thought. But then Hennessy changed everything.

  “I thinks he’s reciting a launch code.”

  112

  Port of Honolulu

  Sand Island, Oahu

  Duke slammed the hammer into the zombie’s skull, crushing it, sending blood everywhere - including right into Jonesy’s face shield. “Don’t damage the spine!” Jonesy shouted, as Gus let loose with a burst of auto fire from another of the Thompson Submachine guns they’d cleaned, as the Sass made its way to Oahu. Two more zombies fell to the dirt.

  “They’re all around us!” Frank yelled, firing his M-4 into what would have made a decent baseball team of the fuckers coming at them through the gap in the fence.

  The Port of Honolulu, in better days before the plague, had been surrounded by a good, sturdy, electrified fence, capable of thwarting most conventional attempts to breach it. It had not, however, been designed to withstand a giant container-moving forklift going though it at ramming speed - or, at least, that’s how it looked to Jonesy, as they fought off the scary shitload of zombies coming through the gap.

  The container, itself, appeared to have been holding a shipment of Personal Electronics, if the brightly colored packages spilled out around its burst door were any indication. Of all the thousands and thousands of goods shipped onto Oahu every day - because there essentially was no manufacturing base on any of the islands, unless you wanted to count pineapple and macadamia nuts - the Law of Averages should have favored them finding something useful. Nope. There couldn’t have been anything less useful than personal electronics - which, at the moment, didn’t make one bit of difference.

  Jonesy fired his left-hand .45 into the face of a small, Asian man, who in life favored death metal, judging by the blood-splattered tee-shirt he/it wore, and did his best to slice off the head of an enormous white woman with his right-hand kukri machete. The swipe almost severed the fat neck, but not quite.

  To suggest their mission was in jeopardy of abject failure would have hit the nail right square on the head, but everyone was far too busy to make such a suggestion. Said mission began with two objectives: scout the surrounding area, and retrieve as many of Professor Floyd’s specimens as they could carry. While they’d certainly discovered what lay on the southern and western sides of the Port, they were far too busy dealing with that discovery to stop and gather spinal chords.

  Duke let loose with a blast of twelve-gauge, having given up on his favored hammers. Through the rest of the chain link fence un-breached by the forklift and container, they could see a stumbling stampede of zombies headed in their direction from inside the port. “I think we should–“ Duke began.

  ”Run away!” Jonesy finished. ”Everybody head to the boat!”

  113

  USCGC Sassafras

  Honolulu Harbor

  Molly made her way down from the Cabin - the very idea of which still blew her ever-loving mind. Every time she entered, every time she looked around, every time she woke up and discovered where she was, the inescapable feeling would drop on her like a giant net: IMPOSTER. Ensign Molly Gordon, USCG, had no business being the Commanding Officer of anything. She was, therefore, an imposter - nothing but a poser, a child, playing at being a ship’s Captain. If she hadn’t felt this way before, she certainly did now.

  They all could have died.

  Jonesy could have died.

  She put on a good front of being immune to his charms, of pushing him away, of denying the feelings she’d had for the man since she was sixteen years old. Nothing but a facade, a cheep imitation, a lie. Welcome to reality, Molly Gordon. In this world - the real world - she’d almost gotten the love of her life killed.

  She paused outside the closed Wardroom door. Jonesy was in there. So was Duke, and Harold, and Frank, and Gary King. Her crew. And her incompetence almost--

  “Waiting for an engraved invitation?”

  She whirled, and there he was: Socrates Jones - a coffee cup in one hand, and a carafe in the other. He smiled at her. He winked.

  Her shoulders slumped. What little remained of the facade crumbled into dust.

  “I’m waiting to be relieved of command,” she said, her voice small, child-like, almost pleading. She expected him to agree - to confirm she deserved to be cast out, stripped of all rank, drummed right out of the service. As usual, he did none of what she expected. Instead, he laughed.

  “Not on this planet.”

  “But...”

  “Shut up,” he said. “Nobody’s relieving you of anything. Not while I’m around.”

  “But...”

  “Open the damned door,” he smirked. “With all due respect, of course.”

  She opened the damned door.

  “What took you so long?” Duke demanded, taking the carafe from Jonesy’s hand.

  “The Barista was slow,” Jonesy drawled.

  “Can’t get good help these days,” Gary said.

  “Face it, Jonesy,” Harold said. “You suck.”

  Jonesy coughed into his recently-freed hand. “Blow me.” He walked past Molly, plopped into a chair, and sipped his coffee. “We need to put finding a Starbucks in every OP Plan from now on.”

  She sat in what had become her usual chair, at the head of the table, marveling at the comradery, the solidarity of being the member of a crew, a family - of being loved, in spite of her many inadequacies. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, but she fought them back down. Gary passed her a cup of coffee. She barely noticed.

  Scanning the room, her eyes fell on Frank, who thus far hadn’t said a word. He was the sensible one, the rational one. Surely he knows how badly she fucked up.

  “I thought the mission went well,” he said.

  Harold snorted. “Must be that new normal.”

  “Nobody got hurt,” Jonesy said.

  Harold raised his hand. “I stubbed my toe.”

  Duke smacked his shoulder. “You were wearing steel-toed boots, dumbass.”

  “It could have happened,” the young man replied.

  “Always bitching,” Duke snarled.

  “It’s my job,” Harold said.

  “And you suck at it,” Jonesy countered. “Seriously, though,” he added. “We did learn one thing.”

  “Never leave the boat?” Gary asked, clearly joking.

  Jonesy ignored him. “The safety of the perimeter fence is a myth.”

  “So how do we get around it?” Molly asked, relieved to be able to concentrate on anything besides her failure.

  Before anyone could answer, the door opened, and John entered, followed by Gus. “The plane is on approach,” he said. “Apparently, the Professor isn’t happy.”

  114

  USCGC Sassafras />
  Honolulu Harbor, Oahu

  “We have three essential problems,” Molly said. Everyone was there, except Lane and Samantha, who were on the Bridge, gazing into the blessed darkness and NOT seeing the horror of all those survivors across the Harbor in Honolulu. Gus was down in the Engineroom. “How to rescue them all, where to put them once we do, and how to create enough vaccine.”

  “Oh, we have far more problems than that,” Professor Christopher Floyd interrupted.

  “And what would those be?” Jim Barber growled. Every sentence out of the man’s mouth had been a growl since they landed. Apparently, the Good Doctor spent the entire eight hour flight from Midway bitching. Molly could sympathize, but it made not one bit of difference. Far too many other things to worry about than ruffled feathers.

  “How many people were in Honolulu before the plague? How many on the island?” Floyd asked. “A few hundred thousand? More?”

  “Your point?” Jonesy snapped.

  “Dead bodies rot,” Floyd continued. “The rot brings insects, rats, carrion birds - all of which carry disease.” He looked around the table, as if trying to gauge how or if the information was sinking in. “The disease and the rot and the filth works its way into the soil, into the water table, into the sewers and rivers and streams. Into this harbor. Into the water treatment plants - which are no longer running, since there is no power. Bad water breads dysentery, malarial mosquitos, hepatitis, e coli, and a host of other bad things.”

  Molly had an inkling of where this was going and didn’t like it, one bit. But then, since when did her not liking something change reality?

  “Even if you could liberate the entire city...” He looked around the table at the handful of people. “...which there are nowhere near enough of us to do - even after the icebreaker arrives. But for the sake of argument, let’s suppose the laws of reality have somehow changed since the Pomona Virus. You can’t bring all the survivors to this base. Aside from the obvious fact that there isn’t enough room, this entire island will be uninhabitable for decades.” He saw the skepticism in faces throughout the room. “That’s right, I said decades. Maybe half a century. It will take at least that long for the water to become anything resembling drinkable again. The air around this entire place will be unimaginably foul come summer.”

  “And the vaccine?” Jeri Weaver asked.

  “Ah, yes,” Floyd retorted. “The vaccine.” He stood and began to pace. “May I remind you, there are exactly two people who know how to make it?”

  “You can train others,” John said.

  “You can train me,” Weaver suggested. “I’ve got at least some medical background.”

  Floyd nodded and continued pacing. “Maybe. And maybe I can cobble together enough equipment on this base to start another lab. Maybe.”

  “So quit your bitching and get to it,” Barber growled again.

  “But the one thing I can’t get here, and may never be able to get anywhere, ever again, is polyacrylamide gel powder.”

  “That stuff in the blue bags?” John asked.

  “That stuff in the blue bags,” Floyd agreed.

  “We left Astoria with, what, three hundred pounds of it?” John asked.

  “About that,”: Floyd said. “And for all we know, it’s the last three hundred pounds in existence.” He stopped pacing and stared at everyone again, his eyes finally resting on John. “Where are we supposed to get more when it runs out? Walk down to the Rite Aid?”

  “Okay,” Molly said, trying to reassert control of the meeting. “You’ve pointed out the problem. Are you going to offer any solutions, or would you rather just bitch?”

  “Abandon Oahu,” Floyd said.

  “Good dear Lord, man,” Harvey Walton said. “Even I’m not that much of a coward.”

  Floyd wheeled on him. “What you call cowardice, I call realism.”

  “Potato, Potahto,” Duke said. “We can’t turn our backs on all those people.”

  “Fools!” Floyd spat. “Most of them are as good as dead. Forget the vaccine. What about all the other medical problems? Broken bones, infections, cancer? Do we have one M.D.? Do we have a hospital? Do we have anaesthetic or pain meds or antibiotics? Do we have an operating room? The answer is no. We do not. Nor are we likely to find one in enough time to do those people any good. Let them die.”

  “You are a coward,” Jim said, rising, ready to do violence.

  “Sit down, Mister Barber,” Molly said with enough force to make the burley man actually do it. She looked at Floyd. “We’re not going to abandon them. Period.”

  “Idiots!” Floyd swore.

  “Sit your ass down, Doc,” Jonesy said, with an equal amount of force. The Professor sat. He gazed around the table. “He makes a valid point. We can’t bring them all here. No room. Same with the Sass and the Assateague. Even when Polar Star arrives, there won’t be enough room. There’s gotta be about a thousand of them over there.” He waved in the general direction of the city.

  “Midway’s too small, as well,” John said.

  “What if we spread them out?” Frank said, speaking for the first time. “Put some on each of these little atolls in the Hawaiian chain.”

  “How are we going to feed them?” Gary King asked. “We’re already running low.”

  “Start a fishing fleet,” Bill Schaeffer, who had finally come out of his box, suggested. “Let them fish for their supper.”

  Molly held up a restraining hand. “All good points,” she said. “But first things first.”

  “Which is?” Floyd said, with derision.

  “We need to liberate Sand Island.”

  115

  USCGC Sassafras

  Honolulu Harbor

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Jonesy asked, the question not showing one bit of the respect normally due the Commanding Officer of a ship at sea.

  Ensign Molly Gordon, skipper of the USCGC Sassafras walked onto the Bridge in full zombie fighting gear. “What does it look like I’m doing?” She answered back, the stubbornness and anger evident in the snap of her voice.

  Jonesy gaped at her, then slowly took in the others: John, Jim, Lane Keely, Duke, and Harold - the latter two also rigged up. He wanted to ask the question again, even less polite and diplomatic this time, but years of being in the military, of tempering his words to fit circumstances where he must exhibit more decorum and respect than he felt, held him in check.

  “May I have a word, Ma’am?” he asked, then - without waiting for a response - walked off the Bridge and into the Chartroom.

  What the fuck does she think she’s doing, he yelled at the inside of his own head. She’s not some Billy Badass Zombie Hunter. She’s...She’s...

  She’s the Captain of this ship.

  The bizarre flash of a memory swept through his mind: Commander Riker, on Star Trek telling the inimitable Jean Luc Picard that the Captain of a ship must stay with the ship, must not go down onto the planet with the shore party. Damn right, he thought, as the Captain of his ship stomped down the ladder and into the Chartroom. He half thought she’d slam the door, pissed off at his disrespectful tone, but instead, it closed with a soft click.

  She turned to him with determined eyes. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can’t go ashore,” he said. “You have to stay with the ship.”

  Her curved eyebrow disappeared behind the forehead piece of her helmet. She said nothing.

  “The Captain must always remain with the ship.”

  “Is that so?” She demanded, pulling the helmet off and placing it on the desk.

  “I’m sure I read it somewhere.”

  Both eyebrows went up this time. “Your argument lacks a certain authority,” she said, dry as the Mojave.

  He shook his head. Time to change tack. “If you get killed...”

  The stubbornness eased from her face. “I can’t keep sending people out to fight and maybe die - probably die - if I don’t at least demonstrate I’m willing to face the s
ame risk.”

  “That’s a merry load of horseshit,” he said, then added. “With all due respect.”

  “Why do I have a hard time believing you mean that?”

  He breathed out, deflated. “I don’t know...experience.” One step toward her, then another, the gap narrowing to inches. “Come on, Molly,” he pleaded. “You can’t.”

  She shoved him back against the chart table, the stubbornness returning with a vengeance. “I can,” she said. “And I am.”

  No question. She could. She would. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it, except wrestle the elephant filling the compartment to the ground. With a lightning move, he sprang forward, grabbed her by both sides of her face, and kissed her, square on the lips, then just as quickly pushed her away and backed up against the chart table again.

  Molly blinked, clearly stunned.

  “If you do something stupid and get dead,” he said. “I’ll revive you and kick your ass.”

  She blinked again, shook her head as if to clear it, and in an equally quick move, strode forward and slapped him upside the face. “Don’t ever do that again,” her voice said, but her face flushed red and her eyes sparkled and smoldered in that way he remembered so well from the hottest days of their affair.

  He nodded. “As long as we understand each other,” he said, and left the compartment.

  116

  USCGC Sassafras

  Honolulu Harbor

  “Where’s your baseball bat, Harold?” Jonesy asked, seeing the young man carrying only his M-4. “This is supposed to be a stealth mission. Rifles aren’t stealthy. Rifles mean you’re in a world of shit.”

  “We’re supposed to go hand to hand with the...” Harold tossed a furtive glance toward Duke, who caught it, and stood there, on the Boat Deck, with folded arms, waiting for whatever he had to say. “...zombies?”

  “Unless you’ve got some other way of not attracting all the fucking zombies on the island and bringing them down upon your head,” Jonesy replied.