Under a Graveyard Sky-eARC (17 page)

“The difference being she’s not four, she’s not small and she’s still got all her gear on,” Sophia said, tiredly. “Faith!” She shouted, kicking her sister’s boot.

“Wasat?” Faith said, sitting up and reaching for her pistol.

“Whoa,” Steve said, clamping her hand. “You need to get undressed and into bed.”

“Ogazada…” Faith said and her eyes closed again.

“Mile Seven, this is Thunderblast,” the radio crackled.

“That’s Tom,” Steve said, stepping into the cockpit and keying the radio. “Thunder, Mile Seven.”

“Code is Goose, say again, Goose.”

“Confirm, Goose,” Steve said. As he replied there was the sound of distant explosion behind him. Looking north he saw the center of the George Washington Bridge collapsing into the river. “Bloody
hell
… Roger, Goose. Good luck.”

“Same, same,” Tom replied. “Out here.”

“And we are away to better climes,” Tom shouted. He hit the anchor winch switch and looked towards the darkened skyline. There were fires burning out of control in Harlem and more from the direction of Brooklyn. The same seemed to be the case on the New Jersey side with widespread fires in every direction.

He raised the mainsail and jib, catching the strong northeast breeze, then straightened away to the south.

When he was underway he pulled out his iPod and scrolled through it for the playlist he’d created. There was a recessed input for it right on the console so he plugged it in and started the playlist.

“Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wind…”
he crooned.
“Onward the sailors cry. Carry the lad that’s born to be king, over the Sea to Skye…”

PROLOGUE

“It is requested that passengers move to their designated lifeboats…”
the enunciator purred over the screams.

“Gwinn! Come
on
!” Chris Phillips yelled from the lifeboat.

Chris had spent ten years in the Royal Navy as a chef. That was not a cook as he liked to point out. He was a Royal Navy
chef
. There was a difference. And Stephen Seagal
didn’t
know the difference.

But after a while, the “allure” of Navy life palled. He still enjoyed the sea. The problem was he never got to
see
it except from land. He was a very good chef. Good chefs served admirals and admirals generally were also land-bound.

So he’d quit and put out some resumes. Which was how he ended up as a chef for Royal Caribbean Cruise lines and met the love of his life, Third Officer, Staff, Gwinneth Stevens. After years of bachelorhood that had most people joking about his actual tastes, he’d proposed only two months ago.

Then the H7 virus had broken out.

They’d pieced together that the bastard who spread it had left one of his calling cards at the Cruise Terminal in New York. Which meant that there were at least fifteen “patient zeroes” on the boat. And by the time they found that out, there were more.

The boat had been put in “at sea” quarantine. Then the “afflicted” had started to turn. And without antigen testers, they couldn’t screen for who was infected and who wasn’t. And then it spiraled.

The captain and other “ship” officers were already gone, taking all the powered lifeboats. But Staff Side had stayed on. The ship officers, Greeks as was common, considered themselves only responsible for the ship. When it was clear the infected had control and there was nothing to do about it, they had given an almost Gallic shrug and fled, the bastards.

Staff Side was responsible for the passengers. And they were chosen from people, like Gwinn, who took that job seriously. The senior officer, Staff, had already turned when the First Officer gave the order to abandon ship. Thomas, though, was still standing his post. He intended to go to full lockdown as soon as the boats were away. Since passengers had been issued water and food in the quarters, assuming that help arrived soon, a major assumption, perhaps a few would survive.

Gwinn kept looking for one more passenger who could make it.

“There might be more…” she said.

The infected came from out of nowhere and hit her like a rugby player, taking her down and biting at the back of her neck.

“Gwinn!” Chris yelled, scrambling up the short steps. He grabbed the infected and punched him in the back of the neck, hard. It knocked the thing out for a moment.

“Gwinn, come on, honey,” Chris said, pulling her up. “Please…”

“Go,” Gwinn said, holding the back of her neck to staunch the blood flow. “Just go…”

“I can’t, honey,” Chris said. “Please! Darling…”

“Go!” Gwinn screamed. “I’m
infected!
I
can’t
board! GO!”

She stood up and pushed him to the boarding steps. Normally the slight woman couldn’t have moved his nearly two-meter, fifteen-stone mass. But he backed up.

“It’s duty, darling,” Gwinn said, sobbing. “Just duty.”

“One last kiss?” Chris said.

“One…”

He gave her a hug and kissed her, then allowed her to push him into the raft.

“Love,” Gwinn said, tears streaming down her face. “And survive…”

Gwinn closed the hatch and Chris took his seat under the big red lever that said “Do Not Pull.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, please assume what are called in the airline industry ‘crash positions’ bent over at the waist, arms wrapped around your legs,” he said, tonelessly to the mostly shocked or crying passengers. “There will be a brief sensation of falling, then a light impact. I’m told it’s a bit like a carnival ride.” He reached up to the bar and pulled down, hard. “Last ride of the day…”

CHAPTER 15

Blood-splattered blue curtains rippled to the rocking of the boat as Steve stepped over the corpse of the former owner. From the loose skin, the man had probably been heavy-set before turning zombie. By the time they boarded the boat, he was clearly on the edge of starvation.

“Who chooses blue curtains with a maroon interior?” Faith asked, her voice muffled by her respirator.

“At a guess?” Steve said, gesturing at a gnawed corpse in the corner. “Her.”

The body had been chewed down to the bones. There was still a mass of goo from decomposition staining the maroon carpets.

They’d lured the zombie to the rear sliding doors, then when Faith jerked them open, Steve had “terminated the hostile infected.” At least that was how he was going to write it up in the ship’s log.

“This one useable?” Faith asked.

“Too early to tell,” Steve said. “But we’re definitely going to have to fumigate.”

The Hunter was about done. Three weeks after leaving New York harbor they’d hit a heavy tropical storm that had ripped away the wind-generator as well as half the deck rigs and railings. Steve had seriously reconsidered his choice of zombie plans as the craft pitched uncontrollably through fifty foot swells.

But based upon what they were getting, or had stopped getting, from land a tropical storm was better than a zombie storm. One by one, shortwave radio stations had stopped broadcasting. First the major commercial news stations, then governments. The last “official” station to broadcast was the Beeb from “a location in Scotland.” And then one day it was silent.

That left only amateur ham radio operators who reported large crowds of zombies roaming even through rural districts. One station, Zombie Team Alpha, from Kansas had boasted it was prepared for any zombie attack. Then an attack. Then silence. There were still a few broadcasting out there, mostly from deep in the arctic, but they were doing it quiet.

What puzzled Steve was that GPS was still up. As he understood it, GPS depended upon an Atomic Clock somewhere in Colorado. Since it was unlikely that that facility had held out, he wasn’t sure why it was still working. But he was glad it was. Sophia and Stacey had waded through a book on celestial navigation and learned how to do it but he wasn’t looking forward to the day they had to use that method.

Whatever the case, they needed a new ride. And the Fairline 65 twin diesel, christened
Tina’s Toy
, looked to be a pretty good choice.

The boat was the first they’d tried to board. They had had a few of what might have been attacks in the couple of weeks after leaving New York. The waters, then, in the area were fairly crowded and the sailboat filled with mostly women must have looked like an inviting target. But whenever a boat tracked towards them, they’d just started breaking out the equipment and as more and more body-armored and heavily armed people came on deck…boats would just sort of turn away.

To avoid the crowded NYC-Bermuda-Norfolk corridor, Steve had turned northeast into the deep Atlantic. The family had basically sailed in the direction of Iceland, then back down into the U.S. region. By the time they came back, there were far fewer boats. At least, boats under power and control. They had seen several boats, and even freighters, under power but clearly not in control. One encounter at night had nearly resulted in what would surely have been a fatal collision. Only quick action on Sophia’s part had gotten the tiny sailboat out of the way of the massive freighter.

Just adjusting to being shipboard had been hard. None of them had any serious at-sea experience. It was the one flaw in Steve’s zombie plan and a couple of times it had nearly cost them. Forget that the girls had to learn to find their own “space” on the relatively tiny craft. And learn that there were tasks that had to be complete. And that they had to find their own entertainment. Some of the tasks, like fire drills, had proven out when they had their first galley fire. Then there had been the possible “attacks,” the tropical storm and just learning to adjust to being on a boat, which was a big enough problem.

In the last two weeks they hadn’t had any similar problems. They hadn’t seen many small boats, but floating freighters and tankers seemed to be everywhere.

However, in the two months they’d been cautiously avoiding contact, they’d also used up the bulk of their stores. They were flat out of fuel for cooking, nearly out of fuel for the generator and when that ran out they wouldn’t be able to produce drinkable water.

Definitely time to find another home.

“Ooo, I want,” Faith said, getting a good look at the saloon.

“Even with the maroon interior?” Steve asked.

“The maroon I can handle,” Faith said. “It’s the blue curtains that suck.”

“Oooo,” Steve said, stepping forward. “I want.”

“Nice helm,” Faith said, looking at the enclosed helm forward of the saloon. “Who came up with this idea?”

“I dunno,” Steve said, examining the controls. “We’ll need to get it power to check its fuel and water stores.”

“You gonna be able to figure all this out?” Faith asked.

“If I can’t, your mom and sister can,” Steve said. “Now to find the way down.”

They quickly found the companionway, which was blocked by a hatch.

“Hello!” he shouted, banging on the hatchway. “Any zombies down there?”

“I think I hear something,” Faith said, taking out an earplug. “Yeah, I hear something.”

“Is that a zombie?” Steve asked, cocking his head.

“I don’t think so,” Faith said, then cocked her own. “Wait… I dunno.”

“It’s not on the other side of the hatch,” Steve said. He readied his shotgun anyway and then pulled at the hatch. Which was stuck. “I don’t think this has a
lock
…” he said.

“You’ve sort of got a master-key,” Faith pointed out.

“Yeah,” Steve said. He pulled out his magazine, ejected the round in the chamber, then pulled another round out of his vest, loaded it in the chamber and reinserted the magazine. “Ware bouncer.”

“Roger,” Faith said, turning and ducking her head so any bounce-back from the door would be taken on her body-armor and helmet.

Steve tapped the edge of the hatch until he found where something had been installed to make it lockable. He placed the barrel against the blockage and fired.

The frangible round blew out the light latch and the hatch opened on darkness.

“Zombies in the darkness,” Faith said. “That brings back memories.”

“And whose idea was that?” Steve asked.

“Uncle Tom’s?” Faith answered. “I don’t know why you keep blaming
me
!”

“‘But I’ve never been to a concert, Da!’” Steve mimicked.

“You’ve gotta let that go, Da,” she said. “We going or not?”

“Let the…” Steve said.

“…zombies come to you,” Faith finished. “You’ve covered that. They’re not coming to us. Hello! Zombies! Hello!”

“What’s that?” Steve asked as a zombie came around the corner of the companionway.

It was emaciated and could barely stumble along. Steve wasn’t even sure it was a zombie. Except for being naked it could have been a nearly dead human.

It stumbled on the stairs and started clawing upwards, snarling in a weird, dry, tone.

“Jesus,” Faith said, stepping forward. She’d drawn her .45 and fired one round into the zombie’s back, then another into its head. “That was a mercy killing.”

“There’s still some sound,” Steve said and pulled out his earplugs. “Hello! Zombies! Hello!”

“…lo…”

“I don’t think that’s a zombie,” Faith said, stepping forward.

“Wait,” Steve said. “Just take our time. If that’s a survivor, they’ll keep ten minutes while we make sure we’re safe.”

“Roger,” Faith said.

“I’ve got point,” Steve said, stepping past her. He had to step on the zombie’s body to get down the narrow companionway.

The lower passageway was just as narrow and had a host of hatches. It also was covered in feces. Steve had wondered if he’d gotten his seals seated on the respirator. He knew, now, that he had. Otherwise he’d be smelling all this filth. One of the hatches, leading to a stateroom to port, was open. That floor was covered in feces as well. The sounds were emanating from a hatch forward. Which was covered in scratches and badly battered.

Steve tapped on it with the butt of the Saiga.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” a weak female voice answered.

“Jesus,” Faith said. “Survivor.”

“There goes this salvage,” Steve said. “Miss, we need you to just hang on…”

“…water?”

Faith pulled off her assault pack and pulled out a bottle of water.

“I’ve got it,” she said. “Hey, passing through some water. You gotta open the door, though.”

“…zombies…?”

“We’re innoculated,” Faith said. “And we’ve cleared all the ones in this area. You can open the door. You’re safe. I mean, I’m a girl. You don’t have to worry about me or anything. And the guy with me’s my Da…”

There was a sound of a bolt being pulled and material being moved. Slowly, as if the person moving it could barely manage. Finally, it cracked open.

“Here,” Faith said. She clearly was trying not to react.

The girl was probably a little younger than Faith but was emaciated and haggard.

Faith opened up the water and started to hand it to her, then held it up for her to drink.

“Don’t drink it too fast,” Faith said. “You’ll just puke it back up.”

“Thank you,” the girl said, taking careful sips and treasuring them. “Thank you.”

“Sorry it took so long,” Steve said. Emotionally he’d known that there were going to be survivors on the boats. The law of the sea sort of mandated that they rescue people. Which they’d been ignoring because, well, there wasn’t anywhere to take them and there wasn’t much “law of the sea” anymore.

Seeing the survivor drove it home, though.

“Where’s Charlie?” the girl asked after a few sips.

“The infected?” Steve said. “We…took care of him.”

“Oh…” the girl said. “I sort of thought so. I heard the guns.”

“Family?” Faith asked.

“No,” the girl said, slowly. She seemed to be trying to remember how to speak. “He was the captain. He put the bolts on and told me to lock myself in here after… After Dad…” She started to sob.

“Miss, we sort of need you to stay here until we’re done clearing,” Steve said. “We’ll get you over to our boat as soon as we can. But… You want us to clear up some before you go through. Okay?”

“Okay,” the girl said. “Is there… Anybody else?

“How many on the boat?” Faith asked.

“Four,” the girl said. “Me and…mom and dad and Captain Charlie.”

“Then…no,” Faith said. “You’re it.”

“Okay,” the girl said, tearing up again.

“Just hang in there,” Faith said, handing her the bottle. “Sip this. Slowly. We
will
be back.”

“Okay.”

“Seven, Away Team,” Steve said over the radio.

“Away, Seven. Everything okay?”

“Nominal,” Steve said. “One survivor. Female, early teen. Noninfected. Will clear before transporting.”

“Okay,” Stacey replied. “We’ll get ready for her. Is it useable?”

“Unknown at this time,” Steve said. “No power. Prep for engineering survey.”

“So you want me to get ready to come over and see if I can get it running again?” Stacey replied.

Steve hung his head. Stacey was never
ever
going to get military radio discipline.

“Yes, dear,” Steve said.

“Then why didn’t you just say so. Get the survivor back here and we’ll talk.”

Steve and Faith checked the rest of the hatches. A series of homemade locks had been put on them, reinforcing the ones already there. They had to resort to a crowbar to get the master cabin door open.

“Nice,” Faith said, waving her taclight around the cabin. “I don’t suppose I get this one?”

“I’d say that the survivor will get the forward cabin again,” Steve said. “If she wants it. She might be tired of it. Your mom and I in this one.”

“So Soph and I get the
little
beds again,” Faith said, disgustedly.

“There are probably more cabins in a boat like this,” Steve said. “So at least you should have your own.”

There were a total of five cabins. The master and forward were both queen beds. The two smaller forward cabins had a double in the starboard cabin and bunks to port. The rear cabin had two bunk beds and a day-bed couch. And there were no more zombies.

“I’ll take this one,” Faith said when they found the last cabin. “No zombie poop.”

“We’ll see,” Steve said. “Right now we need to get the remains gathered up and the survivor back to Mile Seven.”

“Captain Charlie” was fairly easy to move, despite the tight quarters. He hadn’t been a big guy
before
starvation had gotten him. They took him up to the aft-deck, tied some metal they’d found in the engine room to his ankle and heaved him over the side.

Despite his own starvation, the father was a bit more of an issue.

“Take the legs,” Steve said, getting his hands well locked into the corpse’s armpits.

“Why are dead bodies so heavy?” Faith asked, heaving the legs up to clear the railing.

“I’m not sure,” Steve said. “But it’s what they mean by ‘dead weight.’”

The father, like Charlie, disappeared into the depths with barely a splash.

“Okay, this one…” Faith said, looking at the mother’s gnawed and decomposed corpse. She turned her head away and retched slightly.

“Don’t throw up in your respirator,” Steve said. “I’ll get it.”

He got a plastic trash bag and gathered the mother’s remains up. There wasn’t much he could do for the pile of goo that had been most of her intestines. And when he tried to gather it up he found himself retching.

They loaded the bag with more metal and made sure it sank.

“Dear God we commend these people to the depths in the sure certainty that in the end of times the sea will give up its dead, amen,” Steve said, quickly.

“Amen,” Faith said. “I didn’t know you were even a Christian, Da. I knew Gran was Catholic but…”

“The girl’s going to want to know that we did more than just pitch her parents over the rail of their boat,” Steve said. “Besides…keeping up the niceties to the extent you can isn’t hard and enough people think it’s worth it that…it’s worth it. Taking thirty seconds to say a prayer sort of shows that we’re still civilized or something.”