Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 4): Zombies of Infamy

by Thomson, Jeff

  “I don’t envy you your experience,” Stephanie said quietly, after a moment’s hesitation.

  “But here’s the thing,” Sam continued, using one of Jonesy’s favorite sayings. “The people over there are amazing, and incredible, and courageous, and they keep right on trying to make that horror show back into this paradise, in spite of knowing it’s never going to happen.” She was really warming to the task, now, finally getting to the heart of it all, maybe for the first time. “They know it’s a losing battle. They know it’s never going to end. Not in their lifetime.” Tears were beginning to stream from her eyes, and she did not care. “They keep going, keep doing what they can, keep making a difference.” She wiped at the tears, but it did nothing to staunch the flow.

  “Sam,” Stephanie said, taking a step toward her, and stopping when she saw Samantha step away.

  “I was one of them,” Sam said. “Sixteen or not. Girl or not. And even though I didn’t do much more than stand on the flying bridge and watch it all happen, I was part of it.” Her voice was beginning to crack, the frustration and anguish filling her brain and her heart and her soul with a concrete made of uselessness. “I made a difference,” she sobbed. Then she got pissed.

  Waving her arms in what she felt sure Stephanie would take as raging madness, and not caring in the least, she spat her impotent rage at the four winds. “But now I’m here, on this piece of shit rock in the middle of nowhere, doing nothing, helping nothing, being NOTHING!” She screamed the last word, and kicked at a large rock laying harmlessly to one side of the tarmac on which they stood.

  In an instant, Stephanie was at her side, catching her before she fell over, as the signal from her big toe made it through the slab of lunatic rage and to her brain, where it sent the loud and clear signal: HURTS! She sat heavily onto the same rock she’d kicked, thanking God and her father that he’d made her switch from sneakers to steel-toed boots. Didn’t make her toe feel any better, though.

  “Oh, that hurts,” she groaned.

  “No doubt,” Stephanie said. “Feel better now?”

  “No,” Sam replied.

  “Fine. Then it won’t matter if I pile on with a few cliches I’ve picked up in my twenty-two years of life,” she said. “Ready?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad,” Stephanie said. “First off, life sucks, and then you die.”

  “Oldy but moldy,” Samantha said, pointlessly trying to massage her toe through the leather and steel cap of her boot.

  “Delightfully moldy,” Stephanie agreed, then added: “What I’ve learned is that what you do between life sucking and you dying makes you who you are. So shit or get off the pot, and decide what it’s going to be.”

  “You should work for Hallmark,” Sam said.

  “And you should quit feeling sorry for yourself and figure out what you’re gong to do to make a difference.”

  105

  M/V Corrigan Cargo III

  15.042781 N 160.932296 W

  “If we have to make a stand,” Missile Technician Third Class Eddie Cochrane said, “this would be a good place to do it.”

  They were below decks, at a confluence of three passageways - one going fore and aft on the starboard side, another on the port, and a third running perpendicular and athwartships between them. Morris Minooka looked up and down the corridor on the port side.

  “He’s got a point,” Gunner’s Mate First, Ernie Swaboda agreed. But Morris shook his head.

  “No,” he disagreed. “If this is where we’re fighting, then we’re stuck. It doesn’t give us the engineering spaces, doesn’t give us the Bridge, and we’re too far aft to secure the missiles.” He shook his head again, then proceeded forward, and toward their assigned work area: the newly-designated Fire Control.

  Stopping the pirates would be a fairly simple matter, if none of them wanted to survive the experience. The system was jury-rigged to such a degree that setting off any of the high explosive projectiles would be easy. Just launching one of the Tomahawks would probably do the trick.

  “We’re still going to need it,” Swaboda countered, “once we’ve taken the ship.”

  Morris, leading the trio up the passageway, stopped and turned to face his two shipmates. “If any of the pirates are still alive after we’ve taken the ship, then we’re fools. We need to kill every last one of them. No prisoners.”

  106

  The Bridge

  USCGC Sassafras

  “Molly,” Jonesy’s voice came over the VHF speaker. Wheeler scowled at the absolute lack of decorum and proper radio procedure, but said nothing. LT Montrose stifled a chuckle. BM3/OPS Rees Erwin didn’t bother stifling his. And Molly? Molly waited, breathlessly, to hear what Jonesy had to say.

  “Sorry,” Jonesy continued. “Ms. Gordon,” he corrected himself. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

  Wheeler winced, but still said nothing.

  OS2 Bill Schaeffer opened the interior door and came onto the Bridge, looking as disheveled as anyone who’d been locked in a windowless compartment for who knew how many days would. He smiled.

  “I want to hear this,” he said in his laconic drawl.

  His trip to the Bridge was pointless, of course, Molly thought, since his windowless compartment held all the radios the Bridge did, and then some, but she felt sure she knew his reason: he wanted to see the crazy lady in action.

  She keyed the mic held in her sweaty palm. “It’ll work,” she said, simply, struggling to keep her voice calm, to show no sign of the doubt screaming through her own brain: This plan is insane.

  “And just who’s going to be leading this suicide mission?” Jonesy’s modulated voice asked.

  “I will,” she replied. She certainly wasn’t going to have anybody else do it.

  Her plan was, of course, sheer lunacy, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work. It solved the major problem, which was getting those people off the roof of the Mall, without risking their one and only remaining helicopter. It would be the height of stupidity to assume those shit-scared civilians wouldn’t do the exact same thing they’d done when the Eight-Five tried to land and pickup up the meager few they could safely fly off the building. They’d rush the Eight-Three, as soon as it touched down, and then they’d have zero helicopters, and Jonesy would probably be as dead as the others.

  Unacceptable.

  Of course, it would risk the lives of everyone else involved, the risk would still be extreme, and she needed Jonesy’s help, along with three or four really good miracles to make it work, but work it would. She was sure of it.

  Or so she told herself.

  She was about to impart this wisdom to Jonesy, to explain her plan in more detail, to convince him of its viability, when another voice - that of none other than Captain Gideon D. Hall - crackled over the radio.

  “Break, break,” his voice boomed. “Sass Ground Team, this is Polar Star.”

  Molly’s heart dropped straight through her toes, heading - no doubt - toward the center of the Earth.

  “Go Star,” Jonesy answered.

  “Can you hold your position for about ninety minutes?” The Captain asked.

  “With a little luck,” Jonesy replied after a pregnant pause.

  “We will be arriving in the harbor at that time, and will take over as On Scene Commander,” Hall’s voice said, and Molly’s metaphorical heart exploded. Her real, physical heart wasn’t feeling too good, either.

  She didn’t need to be a genius to figure out what the implication of Hall’s declaration meant: he thought she was an idiot, the plan was absolutely not a go, and she would be relieved of all duties and responsibilities and ordered to take a nice, little, rest in some quiet place, far from any possibility of her ever exercising any kind of command ever again, until the end of time.

  “Break, break,” Hall’s voice said again, indicating he would be speaking to someone other than Jonesy this time. “Sassafras, Polar Star.”

  She felt Wheeler’s hand gently remove the ra
dio microphone from her limp grasp.

  “Go, Star,” he said, in his Boston accent.

  “The plan...” Hall began, then paused. Whether this was to reign in his anger, or shake his head at the sheer stupidity of her idea, Molly didn’t know, and at that particular moment, couldn’t bring herself far enough out of the pit of black depression to care. Then the hammer fell. “Is approved,” Hall continued. “Take all necessary steps to make it happen.”

  107

  Seaplane Wallbanger

  Over Ni’ihau, Hawaii

  “She’s barking mad,” Harvey Walton declared, staring at the radio with an expression of mixed wonder and incredulity, having just heard Molly lay out her “plan.”

  Jim Barber agreed, feeling the same emotions etched upon the functionally insane British pilot’s face, but adding admiration to the mix. It was a screwy plan, an audacious plan, a ballsy plan, and, without a doubt, the nuttiest idea he had ever heard from the person he’d known ever since she was a little girl..

  He’d known the Gordons for more than twenty years, if he counted all the time he’d served with John before the man married his wife and started having kids. He’d even met Molly’s father, John’s brother, a time or two before the car accident that made her an orphan. She’d always been a bright girl, full of energy, and drive, and curiosity. She had a good sense of humor, and no tolerance for bullshit, which Jim valued more than almost any other human trait. Most of all, she had a good head on her shoulders.

  Most people, from Jim’s experience, had no more common sense than would fill a thimble. It irritated him, sometimes angered him, and always tested his patience. Molly wasn’t most people.

  Until today, apparently.

  Then again, maybe it wasn’t such a screwy idea. Maybe it was just screwy enough. What was it Jonesy said about the Coast Guard? We routinely go where no one in their right mind has any business going... No one in their right mind would attempt this plan. Therefore; it fell perfectly within the purview of the United States Coast Guard.

  “I love this idea,” Jim said.

  “Then you’re barking, as well,” Harvey replied, grinning. “Shall we provide them air support?”

  “Roger that!” Jim agreed, then picked up the radio handset. “Sassafras, this is Wallbanger. Over.”

  “Wallbanger, this is COMMSTA. Will relay your traffic,” the voice of Amber Winkowski crackled across the miles.

  “Tell Sass we’re inbound. ETA one hour. Have them break out my toy,” Jim said.

  There was a pause of static-filled silence, then: “I’m guessing they’ll know what that means?”

  He thought of his toy (now sitting in the Sass armory): the minigun taken from Gerald Farquar in Astoria, a lifetime ago. He doubted Wheeler or Montrose knew about it, but Jonesy did, Duke did, and Molly should.

  “Break, break,” Molly Gordon’s voice cut into the transmission. She sounded almost relieved. “Wallbanger, Sass. It’ll be waiting for your arrival.”

  108

  The Skull Mobile

  Highway 99, Oahu

  “Assholes to the left of me,“ Duke sang, as he careened down Highway 99, paralleling the H2, which had been their original route, but proved to be hopelessly blocked by the worst traffic snarl Scott Pruden had ever seen. “Zombies to the right,” the big man added the line, as he juked the Skull Mobile to the right and took out three lurching zombies who’d appeared from around an abandoned city bus. “Here I am!”

  “Stuck in the middle with you!” The chorus, consisting of Marc Micari, Dixon Grimes, Jim Westhoff (who’d volunteered to stay, ignoring the petulant orders of the dearly-departed Ensign Devon, and - in Scott’s estimation - the basic rules regarding self-preservation), and Scott, himself, sang to the former-humans as they were either passed by, or crushed under the big truck. The other members of what remained of their team seemed to be rather enjoying themselves, all things considered, but Jurgen McAwesomness felt more like he was whistling through the proverbial field of headstones. The city bus really bothered him.

  He hoped it had been abandoned. He hoped there weren’t mangled and partially-devoured bodies stacked up inside it, with expressions of terror forever frozen on their dead faces. Think about my happy place, he thought, feeling a chill that defied the warm tropical temperature.

  None of this was familiar, everything was new, as if he’d reverted to early childhood, when each new experience added to his sponge of a brain. Except this time, in this place, there were no puppies and bunnies and cute cartoon characters, capering and cavorting in the sunshine. Far from it. Everywhere he looked, from his unique position, standing up, with his head and torso hanging out of the sunroof, he saw scenes of horror and blood and death. To the left, he saw a three car pileup, consisting of a Subaru, a mini-van, and a cement truck. The truck had won the exchange, but then it burned for some unknown reason. The blackened wreckage sat tangled with the twisted metal of what remained of the other two vehicles. To the right, he saw a storefront, where another car had smashed its way through the store window. A sign advertizing Half Off flapped in the breeze above the car, which itself lay half inside the store. And in front of them, as far as the eye could see, were scenes of chaos and carnage so complete, so massive, his brain couldn’t process it all.

  “Pruden!” Duke called, snapping Scott’s macabre revery. “Quit skylarking and open fire!”

  He immediately saw why. A wall of demented fiends stood resolutely insane across the roadway in front of the Post Office, blocking their path. He pulled the bolt of the MG 240 and let loose a stream of 7.62 rounds, splattering guts and blood and bits of tattered clothing onto the road and into the zombies who stood behind those unfortunate enough to be in front. They died, as did the ones who’d been splattered, as did the few remaining when Duke slammed into them, knocking bodies aside like fleshy bowling pins.

  Then they were free, and the road spread out before them, cutting its way through what had once been the town of Mililani. They passed a Starbucks - the third he’d seen since beginning this lunatic run to Honolulu. Some coffee would be nice, he thought, then dismissed the idea out of hand. No half-caf latte for you, Mister McAwesomness...

  Their intrepid team had split up at the Motor Pool, with Ensign Devon taking the Humvee they’d appropriated, along with the Raytheon tech, Marsha Gilbert, and OS1 Rudy McGuin. Those three had gone back to the beach, where the LCVP waited to return them to the Star.

  The rest had gone on to the base armory, where the civilian, Marc Micari, opened the small arms locker with judicious use of the acetylene torch they’d picked up. So now, even though they’d relieved themselves of three bodies (including one thoroughly annoying Ensign), the back of the truck seemed even more cramped than before, being filled with boxes of ammo (including another thousand rounds of .45 ACP CWO2 Jones would be delighted to see), as well as another dozen M-4 rifles, three twelve gauge shotguns, and two more MG 240s, with ammo for them all.

  Their newly acquired evil civilian genius (because that’s all Scott could think to call the diminutive bearded man), had also managed to open a demolitions bunker, from which they’d requisitioned two cases of hand grenades, and about a hundred pounds of C4 (now sitting in the well at the civilian’s feet, and thus not directly below Scott and the bouncing 7.62x51mm brass casings as they ejected from the MG 240). He could safely assume they were now driving in the most heavily armed Sports Utility Vehicle on the planet. The weight of the four of them, combined with the sheer tonnage of ordinance they now carried, would have certainly bottomed out the Skull Mobile, were it not for the enhanced suspension. Even so, Scott could feel every bump, every pothole and every irregularity in the surface of the roads they traversed in their mad dash toward Honolulu.

  “Another group of Zombies on the right,” Marc Micari called out from below. Scott took aim and opened fire.

  109

  Ocean-Going Tug Mahalo

  Nawiliwili Harbor, Kauai

  “That has to be the
nuttiest idea I have ever heard,” CWO4 Vincenzo said, casting an eye toward Seaman Sinclair, who stared back at him with mouth agape. Carol could relate.

  It wasn’t like Bobby V to denigrate an officer in front of one of his little babies, as he called the non-rated E-2s and E-3s in his care.. Wasn’t like him, at all. But LTjg Carol Kemp couldn’t fault him for it.

  The plan, as described by LTjg Molly Gordon was certainly the nuttiest thing she had ever heard. It sounded suicidal. There had to be thousands - tens of thousands - of infected former humans in the general vicinity of that mall. And all the noise they’d been making! Helicopters and machine guns and exploding aircraft... It had to be drawing zombies from all over Honolulu, like a freaking dinner bell. And the young woman’s plan was to drive right into it.

  “The chick is certifiable,” Jarod Sinclair agreed.

  “Secure that shit!” Vincenzo barked.

  Okay, so now he’s getting official, after ignoring the basic rule against bad-mouthing a superior officer, Carol mused. This was why you didn’t do it. It encouraged the lower ranks toward a basic disrespect, and couldn’t be tolerated. The reason? So that when insane orders were given (like the ones Carol imagined were being dictated, even as they stood there in the pilothouse of this sea-going tug), the enlisted people followed them without question or comment. The nature of the job required it.

  “But...” Sinclair began, then saw Vincenzo’s expression and thought better of it. “Sorry, sir,” he added.

  The Warrant Officer cast his eyes in her direction, as if to acknowledge his mistake. She gave him one quick raising and lowering of her left eyebrow in response.

  “The plan...” Captain Hall’s voice boomed through the radio. “Is approved. Take all necessary steps to make it happen.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Vincenzo said, with wonder in his voice.