Islands of Rage and Hope (eARC) (2 page)

"Yes, sir," Hoag said.

"The obvious answer," Hamilton said. "There you are, wearing the uniform, with your sergeant's rank and all. You, obviously, are a Marine. Do Marines obey orders, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir," Hoag said.

"Then that was what you did," Hamilton said. "Lieutenant Harris confirmed that your orders from your gunnery sergeant were to leave him and his team, and their passengers,
behind
. If it had been the
president
and you were given that order, you should have obeyed it. If it was the
commandant
, you should have obeyed it. For one reason and one reason only: The honor would have been broken if you
disobeyed
the order. Not to mention we would have lost your team. And we are so very few. There was, in fact,
no
dishonor. There was great honor on both sides. On the gunny and his team for essentially holding the rear guard, permitting your team to escape, and on yours for obeying their solemn duty and their orders. Honor, Sergeant, is satisfied. I am not asking for agreement. I know that emotionally you do not agree. However, do you concur that I, your commanding officer and a Marine officer with
three
times as many years as you have in the Corps has stated 'Honor is satisfied'?"

"Yes, sir," Hoag said. "I understand what you are saying and concur that you said it."

"But you are still emotionally unsatisfied," Hamilton said. "Did you read science fiction before the Plague, Sergeant?"

"No, sir," Hoag said. "I really wasn't much of a reader before the Plague, sir."

"And, alas, we have few books in this wretched hellhole," Hamilton said. "I did. I read, but not science fiction, before becoming a Marine officer. However, one of the books that has been on the commandant's reading list for some time is a science fiction novel:
Starship Troopers
. That book started me on a quest for similar. It was hit and miss at first. Much of it is Sartre-inspired nihilistic dreck. But some is quite good and explores questions of the human condition you rarely find in common fiction or even nonfiction. An example comes to mind of the question of honor. The point that is made about dishonor is that in a situation of death before dishonor, eventually all you have are the dead and the dishonored. When you stand your post you can see the picked skeletons of the dead. We have far too many dead, Sergeant. We do not need more. Do you take my meaning?"

"Yes, sir," Hoag said.

"We are a lifeboat, Sergeant," Hamilton said. "A lifeboat of remaining sentient humanity. A large one but a lifeboat nonetheless. We've seen the infected feeding on each other, feeding on the rats that are feeding on the stores. Finding water. Walking all the way to the fresh water to drink and then apparently walking back to 'their' territories. We don't know how long they will remain. But as long as they remain, we remain. We shall outlast them if it takes weeks, months or years. Because we are so very few. And, Sergeant, when, not if, those doors open, we need, not want nor desire but need, every one of us to walk out of them. Is that need clear, Sergeant?"

"Clear, sir," Hoag said.

"All of us feel that stain of dishonor," Hamilton said. "Survivor's guilt. You just have a particularly specific form. Yet you, also, have a particular gift. You were given the gift of life, Sergeant. The gunnery sergeant did not, foolishly and selfishly, insist that you expend your life and your team's life trying to save him. You were given the gift of life by the gunnery sergeant. The true dishonor to the gunny's memory would be throwing that gift away.

"So I shall leave you to your forty-five and your parachute cord. But I would submit to you, for your consideration, that they are useful items in our future career of clearing the infected from our nation. A career we shall embark upon someday. And, Sergeant, I would very much like to have you with me when we do so. May God grant you wisdom in your choices. However, feel free to use the pistol if that is your choice. One forty-five round more or less won't matter. Just kindly lay out a tarp or something since you'll be leaving us to clear up your mess. Your choice, though."

"...says the Navy is still there and there's some group called 'Wolf Squadron' in the Atlantic. He's been catching fragmentary back-scatter. That's all I've heard about it. You, over?"

"I don't have any of that but I could stand to see some Marines coming down the road you know what I mean...?"

From:
Collected Radio Transmissions of The Fall

University of the South Press 2053

"We have a Sierra, sir," the watch officer said.

It was four hours after dawn, local, and the third day of the Wolf Squadron float from the Canary Islands to Guantanamo Bay. So far, the sea had failed to give up its survivors in the
Alexandria
's patch. There was an unofficial pool among the subs as to who could find the most sierras, normally a ship, the military jargon was "Sierra" for an "S," but anything floating would do in this case.

"Finally," Vancel said. "Con, give me one third to target's bearing. Let's see what we've got...."

"Division Seven, Division Seven,
Alexandria
, over."

"Division Seven, over," Sophia replied. With those sneaky ass sub bastards around, she was having to get a suntan in a bikini. Olga had decided it was fair game to give the sub crews a show and was on the sundeck en nu. Sophia wasn't quite willing to give the last measure for sub morale.

"Sierra One: Life raft. Military. Item: Three. One Item appears emotionally disturbed. Recommend security team, over."

"Gimme the coordinates, over..."

"Here you go, sir," Staff Sergeant Alfred Joseph "AJ" Decker said, pinning the bound second lieutenant down and trying to avoid the snapping teeth. "It is lunch time, sir. Nice juicy fish eyeball, sir. You know how you like the fish eyeballs, sir. Full of tasty goodness and vitamins, sir. Private First Class Condrey, help me assist Lieutenant Klette with his midday meal."

"Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant," Private First Class Steve Condrey said, pinning the thrashing officer to the deck of the rubber lifeboat. He held him down with his remaining weight and helped the staff sergeant pry the lieutenant's jaws open.

They managed to get the fish eyeball into the officer's mouth and the lieutenant chewed and swallowed avidly, then let out a howl for more.

"I regret to say that that is all there is available, sir," Decker said, rolling off the officer. "You are aware, sir, that we are on short rations." He gagged the officer to avoid being bitten and then picked up a small slice of mahimahi. The flesh of the fish was actually considered, by long-term survivors, inferior to the eyeballs. "Good afternoon, Private First Class. How is your midday meal?"

"Excellent, Staff Sergeant," the PFC said, swallowing the small sliver of fish like a guppy. "Finest sushi money can buy, Staff Sergeant."

"Every day is a holiday and every meal is a banquet in the Corps, PFC," Decker said, chewing the fish slowly.

"God Bless the Marine Corps, Staff Sergeant," the PFC said.

"God Bless the United States and her glorious Constitution, Private First Class," the staff sergeant replied. "Time to set the watch bill, Private First Class Condrey."

"Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant..."

"Staff Sergeant, permission to report!"

"Report, Private First Class!"

They were sitting in the boat back to back, as close to the position of attention as possible in a rubber raft, each of them intently scanning the horizon in their "zone." Lieutenant Klette had drifted into a zombie hibernation.

"Possible sighting of a boat under power on the horizon, Staff Sergeant!"

"Bearing?" Staff Sergeant Decker asked.

"My nine-thirty, Staff Sergeant!" Condrey replied.

"Acknowledged," Decker said without turning around. "Maintain watch on that contact as well as continuing visual sweep." He set his watch to alarm in five minutes.

"Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant!"

"Private First Class Condrey, status report on possible sighting?"

"Vessel continues to close our position, Staff Sergeant. Range approximately one mile. Vessel appears to be a motor yacht, Staff Sergeant. Personnel on the bridge are visible at this time, Staff Sergeant."

"Acknowledged, Private First Class," Decker said, turning around, still at attention. He shaded his eyes and nodded. "Vessel is confirmed. The private first class will assist the staff sergeant in dressing Lieutenant Klette."

"Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant!"

"Bleeding arseholes," Sophia said, looking through the binoculars. "That's a fucking
zombie
! They're dressing a fucking zombie."

The survivors were Marines from their uniforms. And they still had combat gear. And a live zombie. She had no clue what had possessed them to keep a live zombie onboard a fucking life raft but she was going to have to think about how to handle it. She had the funny feeling that shooting it as soon as it was in range would not be the right move.

What got her was that they were also close shaven and had nearly bald heads. Their uniforms were not even that bad.

She made an instant decision and slowed the boat.

"Walker," she said over the intercom. "Take the helm. I need to go below for a second."

"Roger, ma'am," Walker said, running up on the flying bridge. "Issues?"

"Those guys are... They've got a
live zombie
on a life raft. I'm going to go get into uniform."

"Can I look, ma'am?" Walker asked, holding his hand out for the binos.

"Go ahead," Sophia said. "Am I right that I'd better be in uniform, with all my doodads, when we pull these guys in?"

"Yes, ma'am," Walker said, looking through the binos. "That would be for the best. And Olga as well. I don't know how or why they did this, but we're going to have to handle this very carefully, ma'am."

"Agreed," Sophia said, heading below. "Do not approach until I'm back up."

"Aye, aye, ma'am."

"Good afternoon, Marines," Sophia said, from the aft deck. She was in her best uniform with her new gold bars glittering in the sun.

"Good afternoon, ma'am!" the staff sergeant boomed, as close to attention as he could get in a rocking lifeboat and saluting with his M4. "Staff Sergeant Alfred Joseph Decker reporting with a party of one, Ensign. Our officer has suffered what appears to be heat stroke, ma'am. Permission to come aboard!"

"Permission granted, Staff Sergeant," Sophia said, returning the salute. "Evolution is as follows. You will toss us your line. My crew will assist you in bringing the lieutenant aboard. The PFC will board followed by yourself. You and the PFC will lock and clear all weapons before boarding. We will then do what we can for your lieutenant and his...heat stroke."

"Yes, ma'am," Decker said, his composure starting to crack. "Ma'am, permission to speak, ma'am."

"Granted," Sophia said.

"Ma'am, my last orders from my gunnery sergeant were 'Take care of the LT,' ma'am," Decker said. "I know the LT is...in bad shape, ma'am and I know you outrank a gunnery sergeant, ma'am. But I will remain in this lifeboat at my post before I will allow anyone to put my lieutenant down, ma'am."

"One moment, Staff Sergeant," Sophia said, turning around. She put her hands over her eyes and tried as hard as hell not to cry. She wiped away the slight moisture and turned around.

"Staff Sergeant, I am an officer of the United States Navy," she said. "You have my statement that your officer can be boarded to this boat and absent orders to the contrary I will not terminate him for his current condition. However, Staff Sergeant Decker, you are now
back
in the United States Marine Corps. What orders are given by superior officers
I
cannot control and
you
cannot control. And
I
shall and
you
shall
obey
the orders of officers appointed over us. No matter how distasteful they may be. Nor may you
disregard
your oath to protect our nation and its Constitution to go floating around on a cruise on your lifeboat. Your life, your lieutenant's life, my life, are forfeit by the oath we swear. Do you understand me, Staff Sergeant!"

"Yes,
ma'am
," Decker said.

"For your information," Sophia said. "I may only be an ensign but I've been with this squadron since before it was a squadron and my dad happens to be LantFleet. So what I will add to that earlier is...I'll do what I can for your officer, Staff Sergeant. But that's all I can promise. Now, lock and clear your weapons and prepare to board..."

The staff sergeant and his minion had been remarkably adept at feeding their lieutenant soup. They'd hardly spilled a drop as the zombie attempted to eat them. Afterwards the officer had been taken out to "relieve himself" off the aft deck, then secured below. She could hear him howling from the flybridge.

Then and only then had the two Marines accepted the offered tomato soup. They drank it at attention. They did everything at attention.

She made sure their guns were secured in the safe in her cabin. They were out of rounds, anyway. She wasn't sure about their knives but they'd been persuaded to divest themselves of their combat gear.

"What happens in the compartment
never
stays in the compartment," she muttered, rubbing her face. "Just when I thought I'd seen it all..."

She picked up the radio. She knew when she was out of her depth.

"Flotilla, Division Seven. I need Flotilla Actual, over."

"I am aware of the SOP in this matter, Flotilla," Sophia said. "Break. However, these guys are so tightly wound you could use them to power the
Alex
. Request that Marines handle this as it is basically a Marine matter. If the gunny and the captain put this poor bastard down, that's one thing. I'm not sure what will happen if I try. Over."

"Roger,
Bella
. Will pass this to Squadron. The one absolute condition is maintain the safety of your boat and your crew. Do you understand?"

"Aye, aye, Flotilla. Will ensure the safety of my boat and my crew, over."

"Flotilla out."

"Passing the buck are they?" Walker asked.

"Hell, I did," Sophia said as the zombie in the cabin howled. "Jesus, how did they stand it?"

"The most important factor in maintaining one's sanity, to an extent, in a survival situation is something to hold onto," Walker said. "Something to do and take care of and cherish. I had a knot record."

"Isn't that a contradiction in terms?" Sophia asked.

"Knot," Walker said. "K-N-O-T. It's a way of keeping track of events, days, using simple string. It was the Incan's only form of writing. Each type of string has a meaning, each type of knot. Very simple and infinitely complex. More complex than Chinese."

"What happened to it?" Sophia asked.

"I left it in the compartment," Walker said. "It was a way of surviving
there
. It was unnecessary in the outer world. But I have been found to be so aggressively sane it's a form of insanity. These Marines survived, in part, by caring for their officer. Which is a devotion so doglike it is virtually unheard of in the modern world. And by grasping so hard to their duty that it is nearly broken. Marines tend to be fairly OCD, anyway. The question is whether they can recover from their current mental state. Right now, they're having a hard time not following their 'Watch Bill.'"

"Any suggestions?" Sophia asked. "About what to do about the lieutenant?"

"Either keep him alive in a padded room," Walker said, shrugging. "Which will be interesting. Or have a formal ceremony where he's passed to the great beyond, preferably with a fast acting poison. Play "Taps." Bury him with honors at sea. They took care of him until the decisions could be passed on to others. But it would have to be an honorable way to go out. Not you or I or Olga putting a bullet in his head and tossing him over the side. They would, I assure you, flip the fuck out if we did that."

"That's the first time I've ever heard you curse," Sophia said.

"Right now, ma'am, I want to revel in the glory and honor of the words:
Semper Fidelis
," the man said. "And burn the world down at the same time. I have seen a lot in my many years, ma'am, but this takes the cake. Truly wins the fucking lottery."

"I think I'm gonna have to get a little drunk to sleep tonight," Sophia said as the zombie Marine howled below.

"D...do...
What?
" Captain Smith snapped. "They kept him
alive? How? Why?
"

"The staff sergeant's last orders from his gunny were 'take care of the lieutenant,'" Isham said. "So they took care of him. Kept him alive. Kept him fed and watered, even at their own expense. Soph describes them as so tightly wound they could power a sub."

"Bloody hell," Steve said, picking up his phone. "Get me Gunny Sands.
Now!
"

"Lieutenant Klette, huh?" Gunnery Sergeant Sands said, shielding his face with his hand. "And Decker. That...I'd say it makes a certain amount of sense but it really doesn't, sir, I'm aware of that. Lieutenant Klette was the armor platoon leader. Newly arrived. Gunnery Sergeant Haughton was kind of a stickler about obedience to orders."

"Did I just hear a gunny say another gunny was a stickler?" Steve said. "This is hereby a Marine matter, Gunny. I've got enough on my plate. You and the captain have the authority and responsibility of figuring out what to do. I'll back whatever decision you make as long as it doesn't significantly affect overall operations. But that lieutenant needs to be off that boat. Fast. Take my boat, get out there. You at least, you and the captain if he has time. We're done."

"Aye, aye, sir," Sands said, standing up. "What's that word your girls use, sir? A zammie? This is a zammie for sure, sir."

Walker watched the radar screen, looking around occasionally on a visual sweep, then looked back at the screen. The
Bella Senorita
was cruising west under fair skies and a following sea, the most perfect conditions you can be in on a boat. And they were headed home, eventually. Back to the Land of the Big PX, sort of. It was one hell of a lot better than being in the compartment or, for that matter, any number of places he'd been in his life.