“Clusterfuck, apparently,” he replied. “I’m here to help.”
“Jesus!” She exclaimed.
“Just Bill will do.”
The joke seemed to snap her out of her potential coronary. He smiled.
“Guess I’ve been spending too much time alone,” she said, returning his smile with a sheepish one of her own.
“I have no idea what that’s like,” he replied, deadpan.
She stared at him for a moment longer, then turned back to the radio console. “Misery loves company,” she said. “Have a seat.” She waved at all the other empty chairs. He took one - though, in truth, he’d been sitting so much lately, he felt sure his ass must be flat. The sharp twinge he felt radiating outward from his sore tailbone told him he needed to get out more.
“What’s the status?” He asked.
She smiled and waggled her eyebrows at him. “The game’s about to begin.”
“Babies in the surf?” He asked, using the familiar term for utter chaos.
“Nuns on fire,” she replied, apparently with her own version. Ah, gallows humor...
“Yippy skippy,” he replied, his voice utterly deadpan.
“...All stations, this is Polar Star,” the voice boomed through the console speakers. “Commence the operation.”
116
The Skull Mobile
Honolulu, Hi
“Six-Five-Eight-Three, this is Skull Mobile, Two-One” Duke shouted into the radio, as he slewed the big truck to a skidding halt next to the parked bulldozers, raising a cloud of dust that nearly blotted out the sky. Scott Pruden clung to the edge of the sunroof for dear life, as the people below him swore a blue streak and bounced and slammed about in the rear compartment, amongst the cases of ammo and loose weapons.
“Go,” the voice of LT Scoggins came through the earpiece in Scott’s helmet.
“Get your asses out of the truck,” Duke growled, then he keyed the mic and said: “At the rendevous point.” He keyed off, and turned to look up at Scott. “Stay right where you are,” he said. “Keep that gun ready.”
“Roger, Skull,” Scoggins replied. “ETA five minutes.”
“We might be dead in five minutes!” The large Bosun Mate yelled into the comm unit. “Haul ass,” he added, as usual ignoring that he was speaking with an officer.
The pilot tactfully ignored the slight (though Scott could envision her plotting some form of officerial revenge to be dropped at a later date, when they weren’t otherwise occupied with their current suicide mission), choosing instead to say nothing. He cocked his head off to the east There, above the wreckage of Waikiki Beach, he saw the small orange dot, growing rapidly larger at it sped towards them.
“Get those bulldozers started!” Duke bellowed to the others, as he dropped the truck into gear and headed toward the nearest pier.
“We’re leaving them?” Scott asked, stunned the big man would choose to abandon a non-rate (Grimes), a civilian (Marc Micari), and a goddamned Photo Journalist (Jim Westhoff) in a dirt field in the middle of a zombie-filled city.
“You see the dust cloud we’re kicking up?” Duke asked, the sarcasm heavy in his voice.
“It’s about all I see,” Scott coughed, the truth proven by the large, thick, brown rooster-tail of dust billowing out behind them.
“What do you think a helicopter’s going to do with it? Make it better? Or worse?”
“Ah,” he replied, having nothing else even remotely intelligent to say.
The truck lurched over an earthen berm, and bounced onto the asphalt tarmac of the pier area to the south of the large dirt field. This, too, had its share of debris laying about - the detritus of apocalypse - but in comparison, it seemed damned-near pristine. They skidded to a halt and waited, as the orange dot grew, took shape, and vectored in for a landing.
Duke popped open his door and hopped out. Scott moved to do the same, but stopped when the big guy grabbed his shirt sleeve and yanked him backward. “Stay put,” he growled. “Your job is to keep us from getting eaten.”
“Roger,” Scott replied. Of course he needed to stay put. Why? The answer - a lone zombie, still far off, but getting closer all the time - shambled its way toward them. Because here, there be monsters...
117
CG 6583
Bulldozer Rendezvous
“Hi, guys!” Lieutenant Carrie Scoggins heard Jeri Weaver shout in greeting, as the large and heavily-armed (complete, she noticed, with twin, short-handled sledge hammers tucked into his belt) Bosun Mate from the Sassafras trotted, with hunched shoulders, beneath the still-spinning rotors. The other person who came with the truck - Carrie couldn’t quite remember his name, but thought he might have originally been attached to the base - remained in his position, with head and torso sticking through the sunroof, and both hands turning the MG 240 machine gun in a constant, hundred and eighty-degree arc, pointing up and down the pier.
Duke (whose name Carrie did remember - hard to forget the man) nearly collided with their passenger, YN1 Dave Ablitz, from the Star. Given their relative size, it would have truly been a clash of the titans, had not both Duke, and the large, hirsute Yeoman correctly chosen to zig at the precise time the other zagged, thus avoiding a collision.
They stared at each other for a moment, apparently sizing each other up (or comparing relative dick sizes, Carrie thought, wryly) before Duke growled: “Who the fuck are you?”
“Santa Claus,” Ablitz replied, dead pan. “Have you been a good little boy?”
Duke grunted, then stepped up to the helo and dropped three heavy ammunition crates, with a green satchel on top of them, onto the lip of the passenger deck, and said: “Two of these are Seven-Six-Two. You get one, the other goes to Barber in the seaplane. Not sure why he wants it, but...” He let the comment trail off. Ours is not to question why, Carrie thought. “The third is Five-Five-Six. That goes to the guys on the roof.” He patted the satchel. “This goes to Jonesy. Tell him I said, You’re welcome.”
“Got it,” Weaver answered, as he and AT3 Marc Columbus dragged the heavy crates on board. “What is it?”
“Tea and crumpets,” came the spat reply. “What the fuck do you think it is?”
Ammunition, Carrie thought, filling in the sarcastic blank.
The big man turned back to the other big man, and quipped: “As you can see, Santa, I’ve got the presents handled, so apparently your services aren’t required.”
Jesus, they really will be comparing penises, if somebody doesn’t put a stop to it, Carrie said to herself, then cleared her voice into the radio and said aloud: “He’s here to drive the fire truck. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish this little testosterone exchange before we get eaten by zombies.”
“Got that covered,” the guy in the Skull Mobile said, waggling the barrel of the MG 240 toward the lone figure he’d been tracking. Only, it wasn’t alone, anymore. Some friends had joined him, and all were now shuffling their way toward the whirring rotors of Carrie’s helicopter. The gunner fired a burst of 7.62 rounds, raising three harmless puffs of dust, way off in the distance - short of the gathering gaggle of stumbling death.
“Point taken,” she said, then added an unnecessary: “Keep an eye on them,” to cover her overt act of paranoia.
“I’ll be back,” Duke said, with the obligatory Arnold imitation. He ran to the truck’s passenger side, yanked open the door and pulled out two additional crates, and returned to the open helo door, though this time not trotting. His steps were labored, as if carrying something very heavy. Whether he was doing this to save time (given the approaching zombies) or to show off in front of Dave Ablitz, Carrie did not know, and couldn’t have cared less. “Grenades,” he explained, patting the top of one with his paper plate-sized hand, after he’d set them on the helo deck inside the door.. “Also for the sea plane.” He looked into the empty sky. “If it ever gets here.”
As if on cue, Harvey Walton’s English-accented voice cut through the airwaves. “Wallbange
r on approach,” he said. “Hope we haven’t missed all the fun.”
“Roger, Wallbanger,” Amber Winkowski’s voice answered. “Rendevous pier-side with Sassafras.”
“The other,” Duke said, patting the Army Green crate on the bottom of this latest stack, “is a hundred pounds of C4. I’m sure the Sass will find a use for it.”
118
Sass Two
Off Pier Two Cruise Terminal
“When we beach, don’t hesitate,” Molly said, as Seaman Tara McBride eased the Rigid Hull Inflatable Boat, Sass Two, toward the small, rectangular inlet, at the northern end of the massive cruise ship terminal, and just off the Aloha Tower. There were no cruise ships there, all of them having left Honolulu at around the same time as all the Coast Guard ships bugged out from Sand Island. She thought about the thousands of people who’d set to sea on them. Either those people had survived, or they had not, and there wasn’t a single damned thing she could do about it either way - not at the moment, anyway. She had men (Jonesy) to rescue. “Get off the boat as quickly as you can.”
The RHIB was all-but overloaded, with herself, SN McBride, Petty Officers Luton and Dodge, Seaman Apprentices Nailor, Tabinski, and Malone, and the civilian, Wendy Micari, crammed in with their weapons, ammo, and a rack of six heavy-duty batteries they’d salvaged from the Aids to Navigation building on the base. The weapons and ammo were there for the obvious reason, though Molly couldn’t quite bring herself to feel confident in the people who’d be carrying them.
Prior to the Pomona Virus, most Coasties never fired a weapon past boot camp. They were simply too busy performing any of a multitude of different - though equally important - tasks and missions beyond Law Enforcement, Port Security, or Homeland Security. There was Search and Rescue, Aids to Navigation, Fisheries Enforcement, Marine Environmental Response, Boating Safety, and on, and on, and on - none of which required them to carry a weapon. In short, the people with her on what could very well be a suicide mission, and during which, each and every one of them would be called upon to not just carry, but fire those weapons, may or may not have anything more than the most rudimentary idea of how to handle them.
Then there was the civilian, Mrs. Wendy Micari. She certainly looked like she knew how to handle the twelve-gauge shotgun she carried. That wasn’t the problem. Molly could see a definite gleam in her mildly Oriental eyes. Whether this was excitement, and the physical indication that her adrenal glands were functioning properly, or that she really, really wanted to go out there and kill something, remained to be seen. Molly made a mental note to never let the woman get behind her.
The batteries were in case the Duck Bus she’d seen through her binoculars wouldn’t start. The mechanized equivalent of a duck-billed platypus sat parked, perhaps a dozen yards up from the water, looking as if somebody had taken a yellow school bus, wedged it into a huge aluminum rowboat, then slapped wheels on the bottom, and a propellor on the back. The words: Kamehameha Duck Tours, were written across the sides in brilliant green paint, along with the obligatory palm trees, and the silhouette of Diamond Head. It was quite possibly the most ridiculous looking conveyance Molly had ever laid eyes on, but the whole mission hinged on it being able to do what she wanted it to do.
Whether or not it would...?
Molly looked at Tara McBride for a moment, then said: “Let’s go!”
119
Seaplane Wallbanger
Honolulu Harbor
“Park at the small boat ramp,” the voice of LT Amy Montrose said over the radio. “We have all sorts of goodies for you.”
“Roger that,” Jim Barber replied, as Harvey Walton navigated the floating plane to just aft of the Sass.
“How’s your fuel state?” She asked.
Jim looked at Harvey, who eyed the gauge, and shrugged. “As long as we don’t do any sight-seeing.”
“Should have enough,” Jim said into the mouth piece of the headphones and comm unit that had begun to seem as if they were attached to his skull, he’d been wearing them so often. “What goodies do you have?”
“We have your toy,” she replied, “along with a large quantity of ammunition.”
“Lovely,” Jim said, feeling the excitement build. He would finally get to fire the minigun.
“And we have what you’ll need for your part of the operation,” Montrose added.
They had yet to be filled in on all the details, presumably because the plan was still in flux, as dictated by the changing situation and last-minute brain storms from this, that, and/or the other officer on either the Sass or the Star. Too many cooks..., Jim thought, but said: “What might that be?”
Montrose hesitated before answering, which did nothing for the feeling of unease creeping up from Jim’s nether regions. He heard her clear her throat, then answer: “Fifteen, five-gallon canisters of homemade Napalm.”
120
Warehouse 14
Ford Island, Hi
“Homemade Napalm?” Lance Corporal Lanier said, staring, incredulous, at the hand-held radio sitting in the middle of the circle made by all ten Marines who’d been trapped in the FEMA warehouse. “Those fuckers really are crazy.”
This time, Lanier was within range. Staff Sergeant McNaughton demonstrated this by backhanding the insolent bastard. Not that he disagreed with the lad - far from it. The fuckers were demonstrably insane, in his professional military opinion. This did not, however, stop him from admiring the Hell out of those Coasties.
“Shut your pie hole, Lance Corporal,” he growled. “That goes double for the rest of you. Keep quiet. And hope they can pull this off.”
121
The New Rooftop
Ala Moana Mall
“This is either going to work,” Glen Newby said, sidling up next to Jonesy, “or we’re going to die, horribly.” He said it in a calm tone, a reasonable tone, as if he were just passing the time of day in pleasant conversation, but the essential truth in what he said carried the terror of their situation more effectively than if he’d been screaming.
Jonesy watched as the Assateague maneuvered into position, directly across from, and broadside to, the mall, where they stood, staring out at the growing horror around them. Shoals prevented the Patrol Boat from getting too close, but with the 25 millimeter chain gun she had on board (not to mention the fifty caliber machine gun), they didn’t really need to be. At two hundred rounds per minute, using incendiary ammunition, and a range of three thousand meters, the distance would be no problem.
The incendiary rounds might be, however, as well as the aim of the person controlling it.
Weaver, their Mad Corpsman, had handled it during the operation to liberate Sand Island, and he’d done a good (if freakishly scary) job. Of course, he’d been shooting straight at hordes of zombie assholes, on an otherwise empty pier, devoid of living, breathing, non-insane humans, and not at a building, upon which Jonesy’s favorite non-insane human (himself) was standing. In any case, Weaver now hovered overhead in the Eight-Three, wielding the MG 240 (with freakishly scary glee), so somebody else would be operating the Weapon of Possible Jonesy Destruction on Assateague. No puppies, no bunnies, and no more Jonesy if anything went wrong.
“I’m trying not to think about it,” he lied.
The civilian survivors crowded the roof edge, observing this latest development to the horror show. Jonesy cocked his thumb toward them.
“I wonder if they realize what’s going to happen,” he said.
Newby grunted. “Probably best not to tell them.”
122
The Skull Mobile
Emergency Response Station
“Hope she’ll be alright,” Duke said, patting the blood-spattered hood of the Skull Mobile, as he lowered the large bay door of the garage that had once housed the ladder truck. Scott Pruden felt certain the big man hadn’t intended for the comment to be overheard, and so refrained from comment. YN1 Ablitz, however, did not.
“Don’t be such a baby,” the hairy yeoman said in
to his comm unit.
Under different, less potentially suicidal circumstances, Scott supposed, the exchange might have degenerated into fisticuffs, but as they were ass-deep in apocalyptic chaos, the battle royale would have to wait. Just as well, he thought. They needed every single one of them to make this nutty plan work. And while his own money would be on Duke, his would-be opponent didn’t exactly look like a ninety-pound weakling. Scott had heard Ablitz was a former Los Angeles County prison guard, before joining the Coast Guard. It gave the man some street cred, to say the least.
“Fuck off,” came Duke’s obligatory response, as he and Scott took off running toward the one bulldozer Marc Micari managed to get started.
It rumbled in the dust, about twenty yards from the fire station. This was as far as the team of Marc, Seaman Dixon Grimes, and Public Affairs Specialist, third class, Jim Westhoff managed to drive the thing. The civilian managed to start it well enough, after pulling the mostly-depleted batteries from the other dozer and hooking them in series with the ones on their current behemoth, but driving it had been another kettle of fish, altogether. They’d killed the engine twice getting as far as they had, and the last time, they’d nearly been unable to get it going again.
Duke hopped into the driver’s seat, after shooing Micari out of the way.
“Are you sure you can drive it?” Westhoff asked, in what seemed to Scott either a truly courageous, or truly stupid example of putting one’s foot in it, up to the ankle. The historically violent Bosun Mate stared at him, as if he were eying something he would soon be scraping off his shoe.
Then Duke did something Scott would have bet wouldn’t happen in a million years: he gave a sheepish grin and shrugged.
“Minnesota farm boy,” the big guy said, by way of explanation. “I learned to drive one of these things when I was about ten years old.” He gazed around almost lovingly at the interior of the cab. “It sure wasn’t this plush, though,” he said, caressing the controls and bouncing in the ergonomic seat. Then he seemed to come back to himself, because he added to Westhoff: “You ride in the fire truck.” He pointed to Dixon Grimes. “Go with him.”
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 4): Zombies of Infamy Page 21