The Flood (8 page)

Wesley thought of his local pub in Peckham, The Flying Pig, with great and unexpected longing. He was starting to feel like Bilbo Baggins – wandering Middle Earth, always getting farther from home, and wondering if he would ever see Bag End again. But everyone knew Hobbiton was a thinly veiled metaphor for England; the hobbits for the English; and Mordor for Nazi Germany. But if there were ever any better metaphor for the walking dead than Orcs, Wesley had never heard it.

Maybe the best stories were always about real life in the end.

Flicking the last of the cigarette into the ocean, Wesley remembered how the shore mission that recovered those cigarettes had been led by one of the Alpha commandos, at the head of a bunch of hardbitten Marines. Whereas today it would be Wesley leading a team that he had overheard one Alpha bloke – the implausibly gigantic one – refer to as “glorified mall security guards.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe this whole project was complete madness.

It was Alpha and the Marines out there now, fighting to find Patient Zero. And it had been Alpha who had gone into Chicago to get Dr. Park out.

So what the hell was Andrew Wesley doing leading a bunch of shore patrolmen on a mission like those ones? He was so far from being anywhere in the same league as any of those commandos, he couldn’t imagine why the hell he was in charge of this thing. Hell, he wasn’t even a soldier – never mind an operator, much less an elite one…

Sure, he’d muddled through at NAS Oceana, and on those below-decks sweeps. He’d fought a few zombies along the way. And he seemed to perhaps have some small natural ability for leading and looking out for his men.

He’d come a long way, definitely.

But now he would be willfully dropping himself and five others right into the middle of a city heaving with hundreds of thousands of dead. And he would be responsible for that entire group of people out there. And finally, worst of all, the survival of the whole world might actually hang on their success or failure.

This was just a totally different league. This was the Premier League.

And Wesley was not Premier League material.

Somewhere along the line, he had to think, someone had made a terrible mistake putting him in charge. And, probably very soon, he was not only going to be found out – but the mistake, and his imposture and inability, were going to have terrible consequences.

But it seemed to him too late to do anything about it. If nothing else, he was simply too timid to say anything, to risk making a scene, to upset all these plans that were already in motion, and now had a terrible momentum to them. He simply couldn’t think of any way of getting out of it – not one that wouldn’t be as bad as just going through with it.

And then, for some reason, Wesley remembered the inscription on Nelson’s Column, in Trafalgar Square in London. The great, one-eyed, one-armed, indomitable, victorious naval captain stood 170 feet above the square, while the bronze relief on the base read:

England expects every man will do his duty.

Wesley exhaled one last breath of fresh sea air. Maybe that would be enough. That he try to do his duty.

He started to toss the cigarette pack into the ocean – but he couldn’t do it, as it seemed such a criminal waste in the post-Apocalypse. So instead he just wedged it between the railing and a strut. Maybe someone who needed them – and who wouldn’t be doing any running – would find them.

May they smoke them in good health
, he thought.

And then Wesley turned and went back inside.

Born to Rule and Sacrifice

JFK - MARSOC Team Room

“Absolutely,” Sergeant Lovell said to Sarah. “Follow me.”

He grabbed a security key card from the desk, then led her out of the team room, down one level, and then through the companionway to their stores and weapons compartment. He badged in, held the hatch open, then followed her in. As she looked around, her eyes went wide. It was like a toy store for spec-ops pipe-hitters in there. Weapons, ammo, explosives, and combat gear galore.

Wasting no time, Lovell pulled a big tan assault rifle off a rack and handed it to her. She picked it up and felt the weight. It was a beautiful weapon.

“SCAR-L,” Lovell said, while digging around in a drawer. “You’ve used an M4?”

“Yes,” Sarah said.

“Then you can use this. Same caliber, same magazine, similar action.” He dug out what he was looking for and turned around. “Suppressor.” He started screwing it into the end of her barrel. “None of those NSF M4s have them.” He finished tightening it, then sat down on a crate. “I don’t have enough of these Gucci rifles to hand out, and no more suppressors to spare. But if any shooting needs to be done, make sure you’re on point and doing it first. You’ll all live longer. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Sarah looked into Lovell’s eyes. Dressed in MARPAT fatigues, he was solid, of medium height, with curly dark-sand-colored hair, an easy grin, strong jaw, and confident manner. He was a damned attractive man, not least because of his unshakable aura of confidence and capability. There were just so damned many manly men on this boat, who were basically the exact opposite of what she had been married to, and obligated to protect, for so many years…

But then she rapidly shook her head to get that thought out of it. This was how she’d gotten in trouble already – screwing things up with Handon by responding to Henno’s masculine charms, and Homer’s before that. She simply couldn’t afford to indulge every emotional or sexual impulse that ran through her body. She had shit to do. They all did.

“Got it,” she repeated. “But why me? Why not Wesley, or the other NSF guys?”

Lovell returned her look – and for a second she imagined he was going to say that he saw something in her. Capability, or resolve, maybe. But instead he just said, “My mother was a cop. I grew up around cops. I trust cops.”

Sarah smiled and nodded. “I worked with a lot of ex-military guys in the police.”

Digging around now for body armor, a tactical vest, and some magazines for her, Lovell said, “Yeah, if the world hadn’t ended, my plan was to finish my twenty – then go back and be a small-town cop. In the same small town I grew up in.”

As he handed over the loaded rifle mags, Sara tapped the underslung grenade launcher. “How about rounds for this?”

“If you need rounds for that, it won’t be enough anyway.”

Sarah grinned. “You started this. Show me everything.”

Lovell laughed out loud. “I get that reference, believe me.” Still he hesitated.

Sarah cocked her head. “You wouldn’t have given me one with a grenade launcher by accident.”

He sighed. “No. I don’t guess I would have.” He produced a fat 40mm round. “Obviously, there’s no silencer for these. They’re pretty quiet when they pop off – but they make a big bang when they land again. Make sure you’re no closer than a hundred meters away when one does.”

Sarah reached for the round, but he pulled out of reach. “
Emergencies only
.”

“Got it.”

Lovell flipped out the side-opening breach of the sleek Enhanced Grenade Launcher Module (EGLM) under the rifle, slid the round in, then popped it closed. “Safety,” he said, pointing with his thumb. “Trigger.”

“Got it.”

He popped the round out and handed it to her, then six others like it.

* * *

On his way back to the ops room, and its attached locker and armory, to start kitting up for the mission, Wesley unexpectedly ran into an old friend belowdecks.

“Captain Martin!” he exclaimed, looking up.

“Hiya, Wesley.” Martin smiled big. “How are you, mate?”

Wesley had first met Martin in the very first hours of the outbreak from the Channel Tunnel in Folkestone – and they had fought together through the battle there, not to mention the later mutiny and outbreak on the
JFK
. They’d both originally been sent to the carrier because they had encountered a Foxtrot up close – before nearly anyone else had. And they had been fish out of water together on this vessel, finding their feet and trying to make themselves useful. Though Martin had been a lot quicker to do so. Wesley had hardly seen him since he’d become acting Chief Engineer.

Then again, Wesley had been fairly busy himself lately. “Yeah, mate,” he said. “Just fine. What a time to run into you.”

“Why’s that?”

Wesley gave him the short version of what he was about to do.

“Better you than me,” Martin said with a laugh.

Wesley shook his head. “It’s just that so much is hanging on this.”

Martin smiled, then started reciting. “‘Every little trifle, for some reason, does seem incalculably important today, and when you say of a thing that “nothing hangs on it” it sounds like blasphemy. There’s never any knowing which of our actions, which of our idlenesses, won’t have things hanging on it forever.’”

Wesley cocked his head “What’s that from?”

“E.M. Forster.
Where Angels Fear to Tread
.”

Wesley just nodded and let his chin droop. That was eloquent enough – it spoke of his troubled spirit, his doubt and fear.

“This isn’t your first shore mission,” Martin said.

“This one is different.”

“How so?”

“There weren’t any zombies when we landed in Virginia.”

“Ha,” Martin scoffed. “From the way you described that flying battle with the packs of runners, it sounds like there could hardly have been more.”

Wesley thought upon it. His friend had a point – even if he was fighting it.

But then he remembered that surge of optimism he had felt back in Virginia, waiting for Alpha and the Marines to fly back with the scientist. He had so wanted to be there to reel them in when they landed – to contribute in a significant way, to do his bit. To prove he deserved to be part of this great undertaking.

But what happened in the end? He’d almost gotten everyone under his command killed. And he still hadn’t recovered Alpha, or the scientist. Instead, he decided they just had to save a bunch of random civilian survivors running for their lives. And as a result, his whole team had ended up fighting for theirs. Scott – taken down and torn apart. Derwin – nearly shot to death. They’d all nearly died there.

What kind of leadership, what kind of judgment, was that?

If it was the same kind he’d be bringing on this new mission, they were doomed.

Martin knew Wesley well enough to read this on his face. “Listen. You accomplished your mission, didn’t you? As I recall, you
personally
found the airplane that got both Alpha and the scientist safely home. You and your team were indispensable in securing the cache of weapons and ammo that won the flight deck battle. And you even got almost your whole team out alive again –
plus
a bunch of survivors who all owe their continued survival to you.”

Wesley shrugged. He was slowly coming around.

“Look at me, Wes,” Martin said, gripping his arm. “You can do this.”

“But how do you know?”

“Because you’re British, that’s how. Born to rule and sacrifice. Anyway, we always muddle through. We get on with it and somehow make it work in the end. Hell, we even turn disasters like Dunkirk and the Charge of the Light Brigade into national triumphs.”

Wesley laughed. “I’m not sure that’s the pep talk I need right now.”

“But it’s the one you’re getting.”

“Don’t suppose I can talk you into coming along? Would love to have you and your rifle there for this one. Wesley and Martin ride again.”

“Love to. But I can’t – have to ride herd on our one working reactor.”

“I thought the
Washington
sent a bunch of nuclear engineers?”

“Sent, yes. But they only left two. The rest were needed for their own reactor section. Now I’ve got a skeleton crew – and just having someone in the reactor control room and awake twenty-four hours is a challenge. Only this morning I found the door propped open and nobody inside. Loo break, probably.”

Wesley nodded. “So much for security.” Having Martin along would have been great. But just seeing him definitely raised his spirits.

Martin shook Wesley’s hand and looked him in the eye. “Best of luck.”

Wesley nodded and turned away. Already halfway down the companionway, he turned back and said, “Oh, yeah, speaking of Virginia… the dog I found there—”

“Judy,” Martin said, turning back.

“Right. Well, she’s locked in my cabin. If I don’t make it back—”

“Don’t be daft. You’re going to make it back.”

“Okay. But if I’m… delayed, maybe you could check in on her.”

“Food, water, and walks. No worries.”

“Oh yeah – she seems to have a mysterious ability to get through sealed-up hatches. So she might not be where I left her.”

Martin nodded.

Wesley nodded back and then moved off again.

One less thing
, he thought.

* * *

The complete shore team all met in the NSF locker room, Wesley and Sarah arriving at the same time. The other four – Melvin, Browning, Burns, and Jenson – were all mostly kitted up in their riot suits. Wesley started getting into his. Sarah declined.

“While the dead are trying to gnaw through all that,” she said, “I’m gonna be able to run away.”

“Fair enough,” Wesley admitted. He figured it was her choice.

When they were just about done, and were checking one another’s fastenings and fittings, the hatch banged open – and a long-lost face poked inside, followed by a slightly stout body.

“Derwin!” Melvin and Browning exclaimed in unison. It was the first time they’d seen him outside the hospital, since he’d been badly wounded by errant gunfire in Virginia Beach. Now he was back in uniform, and even had his boots on.

“Oh, no, mate,” Wesley said, standing up, and immediately seeing what he had in mind. “You just get right back to the hospital. No chance.”

“Look,” Derwin said, stepping inside. “I’m fine, it’s all stitched up.”

“No,” Wesley said. “You’re not coming.”

“Look, I’m the Master at Arms around here – and if you think I’m just going to let you take a bunch of irreplaceable weapons on shore without me there to supervise and look after ’em, you’re out of your mind. Plus, who knows when someone will go all Anderson and try to run off and leave you to die. You’re too trusting, LT. You need me to be a hard-ass for you.”