But Murphy and his damned Law were out there, somewhere, lurking, waiting to pounce at the worst possible moment. It couldn’t go this well, couldn’t go off without a hitch, and Jonesy knew it.
The zombies proved him right.
The sides of the doghouse enclosure, with its door welded shut by Newby, had been shaking and vibrating for some time, as however many hundreds or thousands of diseased psychotics tried to force their way through. Asphalt roof tiles rattled off the top and smashed onto the tarred roof of the building. The sheet metal panels comprising the walls pinged and popped, as the screws holding them in place began to lose their grip.
All at once, they did. The doghouse opened like a flower, three of its walls peeling and folding to the side and down to the Mall roof. The wall with the welded door remained standing, until finally being shoved aside as Zombies burst forth like an army of insanely pissed off ants heading for the biggest picnic in human history. And the menu for this outdoor feast? Jonesy, and the rest of his crew.
“Run away!” Jonesy shouted as he emptied the magazine of his Thompson into the attacking horde. Newby and Harold came up beside him and opened fire. Greg Riley hung back, teetering on the knife edge of indecision, then he, too, joined the fight. “Go, damn you!”
“Not without you,” Harold said. “Duke would never let me hear the end of it.”
“Survivors?” Jonesy asked, as he dropped one mag, stuck it into the pouch of empties he carried on his left hip, then pulled another full mag from the back of his belt, slammed it home, cocked the weapon and opened fire. It took all of maybe three seconds. Practice makes perfect, and he’d been getting a shitload of practice.
“Gone,” Newby replied, after snapping his head around to check.
“We should be, too,” Riley agreed.
“Mall Cop, this is Zombie Crusher,” Duke’s radio voice added to the discussion. “Are you coming, or are we gonna need to send out for pizza?”
“It’s unanimous,” Harold observed.
“Go,” Jonesy said, as another magazine of .45 ACP emptied into the attacking zombies.
154
M/V Corrigan Cargo III
17.259253 N 159.618941 W
“Hands up!” Morris Minooka shouted, as he entered the Bridge on the heels of Swaboda, who carried the nine millimeter pistol he’d taken from the pirate guard whose skull he’d crushed. Crushed it to a pulp. Morris could still hear the sickening Crack - Squish sound of steel hitting bone.
Swaboda fired three times in rapid succession, without waiting for either Davis McGee, or the other pirate in the pilothouse to comply. The pirate underling dropped like a bag of rocks. McGee demonstrated remarkable reflexes by darting out the open exterior door on the starboard side, and flying down the ladder toward the stern. The Bridge was theirs.
“That went well,” ET3 Parker Forrest, said in a breathless voice.
“We have to go after him!” Swaboda shouted, and made to follow McGee through the outer doorway.
“No!” Morris barked. “We need to secure the Bridge.”
Swaboda turned and stared at him, his eyes alarmingly crazed. His expression turned to cold anger.
“I outrank you, Minooka,” he snarled.
“Really?” Morris replied. “You’re worried about that now?”
“I’ve had as much of your insubordination as I’m going to take.” The man was clearly becoming unhinged.
“Fine,” Morris retorted, as he headed for the GSB 900. “Feel free to put me on report, if we survive this.” He stared at the Gunner’s Mate for a moment, unsure as to what the man’s next move might be. It turned out to be nothing, so he turned his attention to Forrest. “Keep an eye out,” he ordered, nodding toward the door through which McGee had escaped.
The kid - and Morris doubted he could even legally buy beer - stooped to pick up the sidearm the dead pirate had been carrying, and moved to comply. Morris returned his attention to the radio.
He kind of knew how to use it. The thing was on, as indicated by the L. E. D. lights on the display screen, and he could see it was set to 2.182 megahertz, the international distress frequency. So far, so good. He picked up the handset, and pressed the transmit key.
155
M/V True North
23.435370N 166.249679 W
“...Mayday, Mayday, Mayday...” the tiny speaker of the GSB 900 roared to life, and John nearly had a heart attack. Okay, maybe not. Maybe a heart murmur. Palpitations, at the most. Either way, his balls shot straight upward. Had he been naked, they’d have vanished from sight. Why he should be thinking of being naked on the bridge of a ship - any ship, let alone his own - evaded him like the mystery it was; replaced by the thought that somebody out there was in trouble.
“This is the Corrigan Cargo III. We’re somewhere southwest of the Hawaiian Islands, headed for Oahu, armed with miss–” The transmission abruptly ended, cut off by persons or events unknown. This was one of many nightmare search and rescue scenarios: losing comms with someone in distress before all the pertinent information, like just exactly where in the wide, wide, Pacific Ocean they might be, had been obtained. John grabbed the handset, and pressed the transmit key.
156
Ocean-Going Tug Mahalo
21.636844 N 159.141525 W
“...Station calling, this is Motor Vessel True North, Two-One-Eight-Two, over.” CWO 4 Robert (Bobby V) Vincenzo stared at the receiver. He was alone in the pilothouse of the tug, and up until the transmission, had been rather enjoying the freedom of once again being underway. Underway is the only way, as the saying went. Bobby V believed the nautical cliche with all his heart - but not when there was a distress call. He reached behind him and took the 1-MC microphone off the bulkhead.
“Lieutenant Kemp to the Bridge, on the double,” he said into the ship’s internal public address system. Strictly speaking, he should have requested her presence, as befitted both her rank, and the fact she was the de facto Commanding Officer. But he’d always thought it was bullshit (though any enlisted bastard who failed to do it when calling for his presence would live to regret it, and hate life while doing so).
Something about the original Mayday bothered him. Now what was it...? He tried replaying the transmission in his mind, but whatever nagged at the back of his brain remained elusive.
“Station calling Mayday, this is True North. Repeat your last transmission,” the male voice of whoever was there on the converted Canadian Buoy Tender said through the tiny speaker at the side of the radio unit.
The internal door opened, and LTjg Carol Kemp entered in a rush. If she’d noticed his professional etiquette faux pax in not requesting her presence, she made no mention. Just as well. No time.
“What’s going on?” She asked.
“Mayday, from a freighter, of some kind - the Corrigan Cargo III, somewhere south of us,” he said, filling her in with what little information he possessed.
“Station calling Mayday,” the male voice said through the radio again. “What is your position and nature of your distress?”
“He’s a professional, at least,” Carol remarked.
“True North, that old buoy tender out of Midway,” Vincenzo said. She nodded, but said nothing. Just as well. He had nothing else to tell her. “Do we divert?” He asked.
“To where?” She asked, and rightly so. It was a big damned ocean out there. The last thing they needed to be doing was heading off into the blue water with no clear destination.
“Not a clue,” he replied.
“Station calling Mayday...”
157
COMMSTA Honolulu
ISC Sand Island, Oahu
“Play it back again, please,” Bill Schaeffer said. He and Amber had been on the rooftop, watching what little of the action they could see, and monitoring the radios, first via a VHF hand-held, and then through the use of an everyday household object: a baby monitor, sitting inches from the speaker on the GSB. But when the Mayday came over the airwaves, they heade
d back down into the comm center.
“...is the Corrigan Cargo III. We’re somewhere southwest of the Hawaiian Islands, headed for Oahu, armed with miss–” Once again the transmission played over the recorder, and once again it cut off on the last word.
“...miss–”
“Miss what?” Amber asked. “I don’t think they’re looking for Miss Oahu,” she added - just another bit of gallows humor.
Bill leaned back into his chair. His tailbone still hurt, but it seemed to hurt less in this chair, than in the one permanently imprinted by his butt, on the Sass. “I though you were in the running,” he said, his voice distracted. So was his mind. miss...
“For Miss-print, maybe,” she quipped, slightly adjusting the gain on the GSB. This wasn’t strictly necessary, but if it made her feel better, who was Bill to complain? “Miss-take, certainly.”
“Miss-appropriation?” He suggested. A chill ran through his veins, as another possibility crossed his mind. “Missile?”
158
USCGC Assateague
Honolulu Harbor
“Assateague, Mall Cop,” Jonesy’s voice crackled over the airwaves. “Frank, got your ears on?
MK1 Frank Roessler did. They all did, so the question was pointless, but now was not the time for picking nits.
“Go, Cop.”
“When I give you the signal, concentrate all your fire on this building,” Jonesy said.
“Even the incendiary rounds?” Frank asked.
“Especially those,” Jonesy replied. “But not till I give you the signal. I still don’t want you setting my ass on fire.”
“Roger that,” Frank answered. His body hummed with adrenaline, even though he was safe and sound, out in the harbor, while Jonesy and the rest of his team, and pretty damned near every Coastie on Oahu, was absolutely smack-dab in the middle of harm’s way. Didn’t matter. Here on the patrol boat, out there on the Star and the Sass, and the Rapid Response Boat, and the RHIB, and the helo, and in the middle of that nightmare on shore, they were all one.
Being in the Coast Guard had always meant being on their own, out on the vast ocean, forced by necessity, and minimal manning to deal with each new challenge alone. Nature of the job. Nature of the beast. We the unwilling, led by the unknowing..., he thought. The crews were small, the people in them, tight, through a combination of shared misery and adventure. What happened to one, happened to them all.
And right now, four of them were on that distant rooftop, beset by a thousand screaming zombies.
159
M/V Point of Order
25.472003 N 176.379074 W
“You’d better get up here,” Doug Hennessy’s voice said through the phone.
“Why?’ Blackjack Charlie asked, growling the question.
“I think we’ve got a problem.”
160
The New Rooftop
Ala Moana Mall
“Run away!” Jonesy shouted over the thunderous rattle of his Thompson submachine gun. He had one magazine left - only one. He dropped the spent mag into his empty pouch and slapped in the last load of ammo. They needed to go, right fucking now.
Riley went first, and almost face-planted onto the top of the fire truck. A tall, lanky man Jonesy didn’t recognized caught him, as Glen Newby started down the ladder.
“Let’s go!” Harold shouted. He sounded desperate. Jonesy didn’t blame him.
“Don’t wait for me,” Jonesy replied, adding: “moron,” simply out of habit. Half the mag was gone. He fired a three-round burst into the silicone breast implants of a naked, crazy woman who may or may not have been a lingerie model before becoming infected and going stark, raving mad. Didn’t matter. He backpedaled another three steps, and fired another three rounds, center mass into a large black man, wearing no pants, and a tee shirt bearing the logo for Gold’s Gym. The zombie dropped in its tracks. Two more zombies behind him tripped over the corpse, and were trampled by the horde, as it made its shambling, lurching, staggering way toward dinner.
A quick check over his shoulder told him Harold had left the building.
The Thompson’s hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
Time to go.
161
The Duck Bus
Ala Moana Mall Exit
“Where’s Jonesy?” Harold’s voice called over the radio.
Molly’s heart did a back-flip, and her eyes darted to the side mirror, searching for any sign in the reflection. No “Objects Larger Than They Appear” sticker on the driver’s side. The uncorrected view of the Mall receded, getting farther and farther away, as the Duck Bus followed behind the bulldozing Zombie Crusher, heading toward the harbor, and safety.
That was the job, that was the mission. Save the survivors - period.
But wasn’t Jonesy a survivor? Didn’t he count?
The top of the reflected ladder remained empty. Where is he?
She could see Harold, at the ladder’s bottom, standing atop the fire truck. Several survivors stood nearby, as well - the last group to come off the roof.
“Goddamnit, Jonesy,” Harold growled, and started to climb back to the building, as the man, himself, came leaping onto the ladder, landing a good six feet from the top end. He stumbled, seemed to catch himself, then tripped, and rolled the rest of the way down. Molly’s heart did cartwheels, right along with his falling body. Harold stepped out of the way. Jonesy landed, on his back, with his head toward the far side, over which he’d almost rolled into the waiting arms of about a hundred zombies.
“Don’t worry about the fucking ladder,” she heard him call over the radio. “Just get us out of here!”
162
M/V Corrigan Cargo III
17.971567 N 159.482101 W
The shotgun blast came out of nowhere and took Electronics Technician Third, Parker Forrest square in the chest. He never knew what hit him.
“Move and you die,” Davis McGee said above the ringing in Morris Minooka’s ears. The noise of the twelve gauge had nearly deafened him, but he didn’t need hearing to know he was in the deepest shit he’d ever been in his entire life. The pirate came through the other exterior Bridge door - the one on the port side, the one Forrest hadn’t been guarding. This put Morris in between the pirates, and his only hope of salvation: Ernie Swaboda, who’d disappeared through the portal Forrest’s body now decorated.
“Fuck it,” Dirk Parker growled, coming in after McGee. He, also, held a shotgun. “Kill them,” he added. “Kill them all.”
“We need this one,” McGee replied, gesturing toward Morris with his weapon. “And some of the others, if we’re to complete our mission.”
The Australian pirate scoffed. “So now we need an expert to push a button?”
“No, you fool,” Davis McGee began, but was interrupted by the radio.
“Station calling, this is COMMSTA Honolulu, Two-One-Eight-Two,” the female voice said. ‘What is your position and the nature of your distress?”
“Don’t call me a fool!” The Australian snapped. “Ever.”
McGee waved him silent. He scowled at Morris. “Made a little radio call, did you?”
Morris said nothing - both because there really wasn’t anything he could say, and because he saw the shadow of someone coming up the companionway behind the two pirates. The movement was subtle, mainly just the shifting of shadows in the late afternoon sunlight, but it was there, and Morris Minooka thought that maybe - just maybe - he might actually survive this experience.
163
Port Passageway
M/V Corrigan Cargo III
One nine November Echo six three two seven Charlie Golf nine-nine-five Delta Uniform Tango six STAR, STAR one-one-three EXECUTE. The words danced and echoed through the head of Lieutenant Commander Lawrence David Woodruff, as he made his way aft. The numbers and letters had been floating around inside his skull, occasionally bouncing off this or that, for days, now. Maybe weeks. Maybe his entire life.
No. Not his entire life. Somethi
ng had come before. Something about one nine November Echo six three two seven Charlie Golf nine-nine-five Delta Uniform Tango six STAR, STAR one-one-three EXECUTE. What, exactly, he couldn’t quite grasp as it swam by in his mind’s eye, but it was important. He knew that much.
Something from before...what, exactly? He remained somewhat fuzzy on the details. Something had taken place before whatever else had taken place. He couldn’t be sure about that something, either, but he somehow knew it was more recent than the other thing. But what was the other thing?
Was it a person? No. Not a person. Not precisely a person. So... what?
His footfalls echoed through the empty passageway. He was alone. He’d been alone, in a stateroom, for quite a while. How long, he had no idea. The watch on his wrist said it was four-seventeen, but whether that meant morning or afternoon, he hadn’t a clue. Time had become a mere detail, meaningless, overshadowed by the importance of one nine November Echo six three two seven Charlie Golf nine-nine-five Delta Uniform Tango six STAR, STAR one-one-three EXECUTE.
He vaguely remembered another person - someone who brought him meals He’d never learned the man’s name, but the weapon the guy always carried seemed to suggest discretion would be the better part of getting his face shot off.
A pirate...
The thought balloon inflated, filling his brain pan. Thoughts had been doing this for...seemed like forever - the balloon filling with air, and filling his mind, then slowly deflating with a silly farting noise that usually made him laugh. He wasn’t laughing now, because the balloon currently filling his cranium wasn’t deflating. It remained; its idea - pirate - bobbing soundlessly in the ether. Just like always.
Not always. No. There was still that thing about other things that came before still other things in a confusing conglomeration of facts and details that, quite frankly, made his head hurt. None of those things were more important than one nine November Echo six three two seven Charlie Golf nine-nine-five Delta Uniform Tango six STAR, STAR one-one-three EXECUTE.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 4): Zombies of Infamy Page 27