District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (21 page)

Naval Station Norfolk, Norfolk, Virginia

Situated at the southern tip of the peninsula known as Sewell’s
Point and near the mouth of the open ocean saltwater port of Hampton Roads,
Naval Station Norfolk, once home to north of seventy warships and more than one
hundred aircraft, was now deathly quiet and seemingly deserted, its miles of
wharfs, piers, and dock space completely overrun by jiangshi.

From the roomy confines of the guided missile cruiser
Lanzhou’s
high-tech bridge, Rear Admiral of the People’s Liberation Army Navy, Chan Qi,
watched his PLA Special Forces team returning from their final recon mission of
the day. Bundled up against the late October chill, four of the five-man team huddled
low in the rigid inflatable boat, their upper bodies bouncing in unison with
each new swell the tiny craft blasted through. The soldier manning the tiller, Captain
Kai Zhen, was the only exception. Like any good leader he remained upright,
determined to not let any obstacle, whether man-made or whipped up by nature,
get the better of him. Receiving a face full of white chop sent airborne by the
boat’s buffeting bow, Zhen simply shook his head, remained ramrod straight, and
steered the RIB for the looming destroyer’s angular gray fantail.

Once the returning team disappeared from view below the
starboard gunwale, Qi turned and addressed the sailor standing silently off his
right shoulder.

“Corporal Meng,” he barked in Mandarin. “See to it that the
team goes directly to the briefing room and begins their after-action report. I
want the drone footage downloaded to a tablet and brought to me here at once.”

The corporal saluted smartly, but remained rooted.

Grimacing, the flag officer returned Meng’s salute and made
a shooing motion to his least favorite subordinate. Sadly, Vice Admiral Li Chen,
whom Admiral Qi had been grooming to one day take over for him—when the time
came of course, and only if the powerful in the party were agreeable to the
recommendation—had been victim of a surprise
jiangshi
attack just days
after the idiot scientists let their deadly virus escape their supposedly
impenetrable underground facility. In fact, the spread of the unnamed virus via
the jiangshi it created was so fast and severe that Qi was amazed he’d been
able to muster enough sailors and soldiers necessary to make this bold mission
possible. Reaching the United States mainland had seemed like a dream three
weeks prior. And though the outbreak had made the Chinese Navy’s plans to
outnumber the U.S. in combat surface ships and become a true “blue water” navy by
2020 unreachable, that plan was moot now, because a number of skirmishes,
mainly initiated by U.S. and Chinese hunter-killer submarines acting
autonomously, had sent the bulk of both countries’ navies to the ocean floor
while stand-off surface-to-surface cruise missile attacks had rendered a sizeable
number of the remaining fleets’ ships nothing but scorched shells drifting
bodies of water worldwide. Acting on final use-them-or-lose-them orders issued
by the heads of both dying nations the moment it had become evident long range
communications were compromised to the point that they could no longer be
relied upon, both nations had cut their subs loose to do what they did best: run
silent and deep while awaiting new orders.

Just knowing that those ghostly quiet American submarines were
still out there gave Qi pause, especially during these rare moments of silence
on his usually bustling bridge. Feeling a cold chill trace his spine, Qi
studied the choppy water off the bow, at times double-taking at shadows he was
certain represented a raised enemy periscope.

“Corporal Meng, where is my tablet?” he bellowed, startling
his entire bridge crew.

Regrettably, Admiral Qi reflected, the
Chunming
, a next
generation Lanzhou guided missile destroyer he had been slated to command, sat
in dry-dock at Changxiandao Jiangnan Naval Yard with only her keel laid and a
handful of propulsion system components fully installed. In addition to
Chunming
,
three aircraft carriers and dozens of other warships in various states of build
rusted away ashore or in dry-dock, their completion an impossibility due to the
far-reaching effects of a man-made virus.

The speed at which the world’s once mighty nations had
fallen took everyone by surprise. That the ruling class initiated this face-saving
plan after seeding the virus on the U.S. mainland was truly baffling to Qi. But
orders were orders. And his orders were to plant evidence of the virus’
creation. Evidence, electronic and physical, that pointed directly to the U.S.
government as the true culprit behind the worldwide spread of the aptly named
Omega virus. And to make the allegations stick, boots on the ground were
necessary. Which was what dozens of PLA Special Forces recon teams deployed
from various ports all up and down the West Coast were currently up to.

Qi wondered who would be left to write the history books. Who
did the leaders ensconced deep in their bunkers need to impress? And most
importantly: Why? The billion walking dead back home didn’t care who made them
what they were. The peasants and city folk left to fight for survival in the
face of such long odds didn’t care, either. God? If there was one, He or She or
It didn’t seem to care.

So what was the real reasoning behind this new program of
westward expansion? To colonize the wide open spaces in the center of the
country? To enslave America’s survivors and put them to work growing food for
his people here, on their own soil, where the weather was temperate and the
growing season long?

Ultimately, Qi decided, three hundred million bodies—most of
them infected—would be less of a mountain to summit than the billion jiangshi currently
ravaging the motherland.

Still mulling over what his mission would mean in the grand
scheme of things, he cast his gaze along the nearby seawall. Standing three
deep and wavering like wheat before the harvest, the monsters pressing the
chest-high safety barrier were emitting a noise similar to the mental image
they had initially evoked. Most were Caucasian, their round eyes lifeless black
orbs. Some brown- and black-skinned corpses milled in among the encroaching
throng. Unlike the undead crowd that had seen the remnants of Qi’s South Fleet
off under a snow-laden sky so many weeks and hard-won nautical miles ago,
scanning the faces of the hissing assemblage here failed to produce one similar
to his own. Not an Asian man, woman, or child among them that he could see.
Which was a good thing. Because in his experience, it was always easier to kill
someone, or in this instance, some
thing
that looked vastly different
than one’s self.

Looking off the
Lanzhou’s
starboard-side, Qi marveled
at the number of seemingly still seaworthy vessels caught in port during the
outbreak. There were oilers, supply ships, and, probably bound for a scrapyard
somewhere, a trio of older frigates whose class he couldn’t immediately place.
Around the bend north of his flotilla were the piers used to berth both aircraft
carriers in port for resupply turnarounds and those loitering temporarily before
steaming to Newport News shipyards for refitting or repairs. From the looks of
the pair of massive superstructures breaking up the skyline, two of the United
State Navy’s aircraft carriers were still berthed at Piers 12 and 14 when the
virus was let loose.

Looming over the piers to his right, a dozen other ghost
ships languished. Straining against taut mooring lines, the Arleigh-Burke-class
destroyer and handful of tender ships and tugs all appeared to be trying to
escape the watchful phalanx of jiangshi that had been accumulating near their
bows since dawn.

Approaching footsteps drew Qi’s attention back to the bridge
and task at hand. Expecting to see Corporal Meng thrusting the P88—a Chinese copy
of Apple’s iPad—in his face, he instead encountered Captain Zhen, all
six-foot-two of him soaking wet and still wearing his watch cap and comms gear.

“Zhen,” the admiral said, his tone softer than it had been
with Meng and the bridge crew. “You wish to brief me in person?”

With a none-too-happy look parked on his wind-burned angular
face, Zhen grunted an affirmative. “Captain’s quarters? Or the officer’s
canteen?” he asked, the frown dissolving.

“My quarters,” replied Qi, observing the captain’s reddened face
suddenly light up. “I will have the tablet delivered to me there. And while we
wait”—he smiled wide, showing off a mouthful of perfectly straight teeth—“we
shall have some warm
baijiu
.”

Now there was a twinkle in Zhen’s eyes to go along with the
slow-to-form smile.

“After you,” Zhen said, happy with his decision to dismiss
the chattering corporal and take matters into his own hands.

***

 Admiral Qi’s quarters was a two-hundred-square-foot
rectangle jam-packed with a single bed, faux-wood-laminated combination
table/desk, two narrow chairs with red and gold padding and, tucked underneath
the starboard-facing porthole, a microwave and miniature refrigerator.

In all reality, Zhen thought as he took it all in, Qi’s
berth was about the same size as the efficiencies the working class back home
lived in. Blocks of high-rises full of similar living spaces dominated the
cities where the pollution-spewing factories were located.

“Sit,” Qi insisted.

Zhen removed his black watch cap and did as he was told.

There was a knock at the door.

Zhen ruffled his close-cropped graying hair which was the
only indicator that he was nearer to forty than thirty as his unlined face and
chiseled physique would suggest.

Qi removed two shot glasses from a desk drawer. After
placing one on the table before Zhen and the other in front of his empty chair,
he put the opaque bottle he was holding into the microwave and pressed the
button marked Warm. While the tiny oven hummed away, he squeezed by the table
and opened the narrow door leading out to the corridor beyond. Without uttering
a word, he received the P88 tablet from Corporal Meng and closed the door in
his face.

Qi deposited the tablet in the center of the table. He took the
bottle of grain liquor from the microwave, sat down across from Zhen and, with
a flourish learned from years of rubbing shoulders with China’s elite, poured a
finger’s worth of the spirits into each shot glass.

“Ganbei,” he said, raising his glass.

“Ganbei,” Zhen repeated, touching his glass to Qi’s. Fully
expecting to have to stifle a grimace, Zhen tilted his head back and downed the
warm liquor. Instead, taken aback at how smooth the admiral’s offering was, he
nodded and complimented Qi on his selection.

“Three thousand U.S. dollars before—”

“The jiangshi arose,” Zhen finished. He produced a cigar
from his uniform pocket and placed it before Qi. “Cuban. It was a gift from a
cadre I trained before all of this. It’s yours now.”

Qi took the cigar. Then, without so much as offering an
insincere thank you or giving the cigar a cursory glance, he set it aside and said
curtly, “The pier and beyond. Tell me your findings.”

Shaking his head, Zhen said, “Sadly, Admiral Qi, we cannot
go inland here.”

“The Americans came ashore in Normandy under withering fire.
Why can’t
we
make landfall here, Captain?”

Zhen picked up the tablet. He swiped and tapped then spun it
around to face Qi, a grainy full color video already playing on it. The
hundreds of dead framed in the shot were small because the footage was taken by
a remotely controlled unmanned aerial vehicle. “
Jiangshi
are
everywhere,” the Special Forces captain pointed out. “And there are more of
them in the city than you see here in the shipyards. We are lucky here. The
stink of death hits like a fist as you get ashore where it has become trapped
by the warehouses and office buildings.”

“As it did in Beijing,” Qi said indifferently. “What about
the nearby interstates?”

Lips pursed, Zhen shook his head. “Barely passable. Unmoving
vehicles and monsters everywhere. You will see in a moment.”

“Decadent pigs,” Qi said, slapping the tabletop. “Rumor had
it that even the young children had automobiles.”

“That’s a stretch, Admiral. However, it would seem as if every
adult had one.” Zhen frowned and slid his shot glass forward for a refill.

Ignoring the gesture, Qi kept his gaze locked to the video
playing on the tablet. Once the screen went dark, he asked, “What do you
propose, Captain?”

“We steam up the Chesapeake,” Zhen replied. “Annapolis Military
Academy is close to our objective. School was not in session when America fell
to the dead. If we make landfall there we can continue onward overland and pick
our ingress route from among many. If this small city of two hundred and forty
thousand is any indication of the odds we’ll be facing on land, docking in
Baltimore would be suicide.”

Qi steepled his fingers. After a moment’s contemplation, he
said, “I’ve already ruled that out. The estuary is too narrow for my liking.
The entire cruise we will be vulnerable to attack from all sides.”

“With all due respect, Admiral. Protocol says we must
monitor the airwaves for enemy radio traffic at all times.” Zhen folded his
arms across his chest. “Surely you’ve picked up numerous radio transmissions by
American units in the area. Which would explain the quick dismissal of my
proposal, no?”

More steepling and contemplation occurred on Qi’s side of
the table.

Zhen helped himself to another measure of the still warm
baijiu.
What can the admiral do
? he thought as he reached across the
table to refill Qi’s glass.
Run me up the mast
?
Send me home?

Qi nodded. Voice even, he said, “It’s silent out there. Which
is why I’m hesitant to chance bringing the oilers, auxiliaries, and landing
ships. Perhaps we should recon first with the
Lanzhou
.”