by Howard, Bob
A plump woman whose husband had been bitten had just gotten her first bite from a young man who had been fine earlier. As a matter of fact, he was wearing scrubs and helping as a nurse. Apparently, he had been bitten but kept the information to himself. The woman’s husband had slipped into unconsciousness, and she had seen enough to know what came next. When she was bitten, she had taken the stethoscope from her neck and thrown it at the man who had assumed the role of chief medical officer. She forced her way past him despite his insistence that she couldn’t quit and found her way topside to the aft ramp to the pier. That was where she was bitten the second time…and third.
They boarded the destroyer as if they were a solid line of tourists, and as they filled the open deck at the stern, they were drawn to the lights and sounds inside. When the plump woman had stormed out through the steel door she would have bought the people inside a few more minutes if she had at least swung it shut, but it was an inviting sight to the infected dead.
The doors on ships that travel in high seas have thresholds that sit higher than the deck, and even the living tend to trip and fall head first through doors until they get used to lifting their feet high enough. It wasn’t strange to see the infected do the same, but their falls were more spectacular since they didn’t reflexively throw their hands out in front of themselves to break their fall. Before the first one could recover from the fall, a second one fell through and landed on top of the first. The newly appointed doctors and nurses rushed to help them to their feet and were greeted with snapping teeth that found plenty of targets. The screams drew more of the infected through the open door, and even though they were falling down at an impressive rate, there was no way to get away from them.
A few quick thinkers went up the ladders at the back of the large compartment and managed to open the doors that led to higher decks. It was amazing that they had felt so safe in the Green Zone earlier, and now it was as bad inside the destroyer as it was in the Red Zone. The people who went up the ladders slammed the heavy steel doors into place and spun the locking mechanisms. They were safe for the moment. All they had to do was make sure there were no other entrances to their higher decks. They would worry about food and water later.
Atwater could hear the screams and knew it was just a matter of time. There were no supplies on the destroyer, and he had dealt with the bite victims without arousing any suspicions or fears from the people safely enclosed within the steel walls and doors of the aircraft carrier. What they didn’t know wasn’t going to be a problem for him. He reached across to a panel of circuit breakers and without hesitation flipped one to the off position, plunging the destroyer in total darkness. He saw the change outside in his peripheral vision and knew that the screams would be louder for the next few minutes.
He shut off the lights behind him so the infected wouldn’t be drawn to him and leaned out the window in the direction of the destroyer. The dark silhouette of the ship was visible but the moment he had turned off the power to the lights that had blazed brightly, it had become a mass of shadows. It was as if the ship was being eaten by a dark cloud, and he could no longer make out details. He was right about the screams, though.
Below him the shadow that was the new Red Zone moved from side to side as it turned toward the screams. It would move like that as long as there were screams that called to it. Atwater decided that he had seen enough. He slid the glass window shut and blocked out the noise. He had also become aware of the smell. Before the gates were abandoned to the throngs of infected that came through, there was the ever-present smell of the marshes. The locals called it ‘pluff mud’, and it had a distinctive odor. Now it was masked by the smell of decay and human excrement. He didn’t think he would ever get used to the smell of the mud, but he knew he would never get used to that other smell.
He descended from the tower into the enclosed warship, and the difference could only be known to someone who had been outside watching what the world had become. A messenger approached and told him that Marshall Sayer had been trying to find him, and that he should meet with him in the labs. He wanted to be sure that the next phase of their operation inside the Yorktown was completed by the time their operatives were finished at the State Ports Authority.
It was only a matter of good timing that made the two men run into each other on the way to the labs. Sayer never really had an expression on his face that could be described as happy, but there were times when it came close to a look of satisfaction. This was one of those times, and it was because Sayer had shown more interest in what was happening outside than Atwater had known. While he had watched from the lofty protection of the tower, Sayer had gone to the stern observation deck in the fantail and watched from a much closer vantage point. He was so close that he was practically able to understand what people were saying onboard the destroyer. The stern of the carrier protruded out over the dock that ran along the side of the destroyer, and Sayer could even see what was happening when the lights were turned off. He was glad that Atwater had found a way to keep the contagion off of his ship.
Sayer had started calling the Yorktown his ship almost as soon as he arrived. When he greeted the Mayor of Mt. Pleasant, he had said proudly, “Welcome to my ship.” The Mayor had bristled visibly and pointed out that the Patriots Point Maritime Museum didn’t belong to the federal government. Sayer had simply nodded and said under his breath, “We’ll see.”
“You outdid yourself, Ted. Nice job with containment. What’s the good word from the State Ports?”
Compliments were so rare that Atwater was momentarily caught at a loss for words.
“They made it to the compound and got sufficient protection in place before it got bad. The personnel carriers can transport more people, but the Strykers made the difference.”
Atwater had actually stolen the idea of using Strykers from the people who had planned the exfiltration of the President from Washington DC. His intelligence reports made him aware of the number of contingency plans that could be met with Strykers as opposed to most armored carriers, and the oversized tires made them excellent for off road use, but the best part was how easily they rolled over the crowds of infected.
They passed the decks where the civilians had all been given rooms without being stopped by someone who would want a bath drawn for them. Sayer didn’t feel like dealing with any of the local dignitaries and was glad to escape their attention.
“No one important saw what happened outside, did they?”
That was a question Ted was hoping wouldn’t come up, and he almost said no one had noticed, but it would be easy to get caught in that lie if Sayer asked enough people.
“The last couple to come aboard may have seen the beginning of the draw down, but they didn’t say much. They came in with Dr. Williams.”
Sayer lost his satisfied expression at the mention of her name.
“Why did she have to bring in civilians? Did we have space for them?”
“Apparently she dumped a local guy who we had in place at the Mt. Pleasant Police Department. He had a big mouth and he made her mad enough to give this couple his ticket to safety?”
“What did she do with the local guy?”
Atwater knew that Sayer didn’t really care what Dr. Williams had done to the big mouth. He was just curious about how ruthless she could be. It was a talent that was in short supply, and Sayer wanted to be sure there was enough of that talent on his staff. He didn’t even notice that Atwater didn’t answer his question.
They arrived at the level where the lab was hidden beyond a strong sea door, and the area outside the lab had been purposely neglected to keep outsiders from suspecting there was something important on that level.
“Tell someone that they did a good job with the renovation of my ship, Atwater, but tell them they took the realism just a little too far.” He pushed aside a sticky mass of milky spider webs that crisscrossed the door to the labs. “Tell them to clean this stuff up and stop pretending it’s Halloween.”
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br /> CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Infiltration
Present Day
There was more activity around the boats when several more BATT-T armored personnel carriers rolled into the marina. The Chief had wondered if the people who had captured his friends had gone to the site of the helicopter crash or if they had been in the area. Apparently the patrol had been one of several.
One of the drivers was a big guy, and the Chief absently wondered if he was an ex-SEAL or a pro football player. The big guy shouted some orders and then disappeared into the marina. It was obvious that most of the men were ‘grunts’ while some were in charge. By the way the big guy acted, the Chief assumed he wasn’t a grunt, but as soon as the man disappeared, he heard the others complain.
“Who is that guy, Lieutenant? Is he in charge now?”
“He just transferred in from the ship, and no, he’s not in charge.”
“Why’s he giving orders then?”
“Just shut up and do your job. Let me worry about him.”
“This could be my lucky day,” the Chief mumbled half out loud. Discipline was essential to any unit, but one bad attitude could cost lives. The Chief knew he could use that to his advantage. Plus, the guy was a bully, so the other grunts would probably avoid him.
He accidentally walked up on the man where he was sitting on the rail of a small sailboat that was half submerged right where its owner had left it years ago. He had expected to find the man wanted a little privacy to take care of a matter of a personal nature, but instead he was enjoying a home rolled cigarette. Judging by the length of time he held the smoke after he inhaled, it wasn’t regular tobacco. The man was so relaxed he didn’t even flinch.
The Chief couldn’t believe the physical similarities between himself and the other guy. He had a dark baseball cap pulled down over his head, and he liked to wear it with the bill pulled even lower. He had to look upward to be able to see straight ahead.
“Mind if I join you?”
The Chief saw the man’s forearm as he held out the joint, and the tattoo was all he needed to see to know he was in for a fight. The guy had been trained by the same people who had trained the Chief, and the SEAL Trident was proof. Not just anyone was allowed to wear that tattoo. He wasn’t happy to fight a brother, but this one was on the wrong side.
He reached for the joint, but instead of accepting it from the man, he reached past it and grabbed his wrist. Maybe it was the surprise, and maybe it was the pot, but the former SEAL did the opposite of his training. He pulled back on his arm.
Every bit of training the Chief had ever gotten was still a part of him. He had never let himself become soft, complacent, or undisciplined. If someone grabbed him by the wrist, he moved toward them. Pulling back would only bring his opponent closer to him, while moving inward put him on the attack.
The man pulled hard, expecting resistance, especially because a big man was holding onto him. The Chief’s sucker punch arrived before he could move his head. There was no doubt about the sound and the point of contact. It would be a long time before he woke up.
The Chief studied his left fist and wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t used his offhand.
Despite the fact that the man was on the wrong side, the Chief decided to leave him a fighting chance at survival. There was no shortage of rope in a marina, and the synthetic stuff was going to take years to deteriorate. He found enough to tie the unconscious man up inside the cabin of a small boat and left him a fish cleaning knife that was also as common as fish hooks in a marina. His clothes weren’t something he would need anymore, but the Chief’s sense of fair play made him leave his own clothes for the man.
He took a moment to go through the pockets of the clothes he stole, and he took another moment to admire the fit. It had been the man’s bad luck that he was the Chief’s size…and that he smoked pot. There was some kind of ID in the pocket of the shirt, and he sounded out the name so he would be ready to use it. David Clemenza. He looked like a David but not a Dave. More likely than not he went by his last name like most military people.
“Well, Clemenza, we could’ve been friends, but you’re with the bad guys.”
From what the Chief had seen, the uniformed men from the Yorktown were individually trained but not as a unit. They were loosely knit at best, and if he could mix in with the right group, they might not realize he was a replacement. Normally his big size would have been a problem, but he thought he might just be able to pull it off. He sniffed at his shirt and realized for once it was a good thing that it smelled bad, and the added aroma of pot was part of the disguise.
The Chief was careful not to walk straight up with his shoulders back. Not many people would do that if they were high. He also pulled the bill of the baseball cap down the same way Clemenza had been wearing it. He got back to the activity around the boats just as everyone was loading up, and the boats seemed to be bobbing in black ink where the moon reflected from the water. He drifted toward the boats that were carrying prisoners, but there were far more than he expected. He could tell who some of them were, and he was glad to see they were okay even though they were bagged and had been tossed around. He just had to spot his moment, and it wasn’t going to be easy. The Chief almost always had a plan, but this time his only plan was to mix in.
Someone barked, “Clemenza.”
It was the voice of authority. He had heard it many times during his active duty, and he had used that tone to terrify new guys. He also recognized the voice was young and maybe overcompensating a bit.
A sideways glance at the source of the voice confirmed his thinking. Young officers always tried to sound tough with the big guys.
“Sir?”
He put just the slightest amount of edge on his response, so the officer would hear one thing but understand another. The real answer was, “Don’t mess with me too much, or I’ll show you up.”
“Tucker needs someone to ride shotgun.”
The Chief was stuck for a moment because he didn’t have a clue who Tucker might be. He put an expression on his face that conveyed his best look that asked, “Do I have to ride with Tucker?”
It worked better than he could have hoped because Tucker moaned, “Aw, man. Do I have to ride with Clemenza? He’s not even from America. He’s from some place called Utica.”
The Chief answered, “Utica blood is red, white, and blue, Tucker. You want everyone to see what color yours is?”
That earned Tucker a few laughs and cat calls, but it told the Chief which boat to get into. It also meant he was riding with only one other person. The Chief took note of what the other boat crews were doing. The rest of them all had at least three uniformed people in them, except the officer’s and his, so there was less chance of someone discovering that he wasn’t Clemenza. The problem was that his friends were spread out. From what he could tell, they were in three different boats. The best he could hope for was to stay near them.
Tucker had a bow rider idling in a slip, and the prisoners had already been loaded. He didn’t want to get too close to Tucker or he would have to explain why Tucker fell overboard on the way to wherever they were going. He climbed in back with the prisoners and shoved one off the bench seat that he was sure was Kathy.
“Hey, what’d ya do that for?” she screamed through the burlap bag on her head.
“This seat’s taken, Lady. You got a problem with that?”
He didn’t want to say too much, but he had to say enough for her to wonder if she had heard what she thought she did. He saw the hesitation.
“Yeah, you heard me right, Lady, and you know I’m not somebody you want to mess with.”
“I know your type, and you’re all alike. You can dish it out, but you can’t take it. Untie me and take this bag off my head, and I’ll make short work out of you.”
The Chief couldn’t help himself, and he let out the laugh she would recognize anywhere. He had to be careful because a lot of people were turned toward his boat, but he was
sure he saw four other hostages tilt their heads as if they were listening closely.
All six boats pulled away from the slips and headed toward the harbor. They didn’t form up or get in line behind each other. That was another sign that they lacked discipline. The only reason they could have survived for so long was their numbers, and they had probably seen their share of losses over the years.
He thought they were going to the Yorktown, but instead of circling around to the other side of Castle Pinckney, they made the closer turn into the channel that crossed between the old island fort and the city of Charleston. They were much closer to the city than was advisable because the massive horde trying to cross the Ravenel Bridge was spilling over into the river like a lava flow. They couldn’t all get onto the bridge at the same time because there were far too many.
The Chief could only guess at the numbers, but all lanes on the bridge were packed, and hundreds or thousands were still being forced to fall into the river at the foot of the bridge. Most of the infected got caught in the current and were dragged under, but there were so many that some stayed on the surface and bobbed like driftwood. It was a bad move, but the lead boat planned to go right through them.
The rest of the boats hung back a bit and started to drift to the starboard side of the lead boat. The Chief could see that the young lieutenant was in the lead boat, and he was standing up straight on his seat like a general riding into battle. The best guess was that the young man had recently been promoted, and he didn’t have much experience. In the world since the infected dead arrived, experience usually meant you had the sense to avoid dying.