Islands of Rage and Hope Page 3

  * * *

  “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 Señorita 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.

  Even with the occasional howl from below. Besides, the zombie had mostly settled down after they put enough food in his stomach.

  There was a blip on the radar screen and he noted it. Sometimes you got ghosts. But it was there again on the next sweep, and noticeably closer. Someone was in a hurry. And based on the next sweep, headed for the Bella.

  “Bella Señorita, Bella Señorita, Achille Cono, over.”

  “Achille Cono, Bella Señorita, over.”

  “Approaching your position. Flag is not, repeat, not aboard. Here for pick-up on the Marines. Wake the semi-sane ones up if they’re not. Out.”

  He went below and woke the skipper first. Knocking at her door.

  “Enter,” the skipper said. She was sitting up in bed when he opened the door, pistol in hand. “I was awake, anyway. I didn’t think I wanted earplugs in with a live zombie on board.”

  “Your dad’s fast boat is inbound,” Walker said. “He’s not aboard. They’re here to pick up the Marines.”

  “Okay,” Sophia said, getting out of bed. She was wearing PT shorts and a T-shirt. “I’ll get my uniform on. How long?”

  “Ten minutes or so,” Walker said.

  “I’ll head up on deck in a minute,” she said. “Get the staff sergeant up. Carefully.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Walker said.

  “You need backup?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Walker said. “I can handle it.”

  He knocked, hard, on the door of the cabin the Marines had been assigned.

  “FIRST CALL, MARINES! ON YOUR FEET!”

  “Status?” Decker said, yanking open the door.

  “Inbound fast boat,” Walker snapped. “Sounds like Gunnery Sergeant Sands. Five minutes. Uniform is MarPat and boots. No LBE, no weapons, no K-pot.”

  “Roger,” Decker said. “You heard the man, Private First Class. Inspection in two minutes!” He slammed the door shut.

  “Wow,” Walker muttered, shaking his head. “Talk about wrapped like a string . . .”

  He darted into his compartment and rummaged for a second, then came back out and stood by the door.

  It snapped open and Decker nearly collided with him.

  “Kiwi,” Walker said, holding up the can. He slammed it onto the bigger Marine’s chest.

  “Roger,” Decker said, taking the can. “Thank you, Mr. Walker.”

  “You are welcome, Staff Sergeant Decker.”

  * * *

  “Your coffee, ma’am,” Walker said, handing the ensign a cup. She was in uniform but still pretty bleary. “Status report, ma’am?”

  “Please,” Sophia said, taking a sip.

  “I rousted out Olga, she has the conn,” Walker said. “Fast boat is still few minutes out. The Marines are prepared for inspection. If I may make a recommendation. Have you ever performed an inspection, ma’am?”

  “Of people in uniform?” Sophia said. “No.”

  “The way it works is the junior, usually an NCO, goes first and performs a preinspection. Then the inspector performs the inspection. There should be someone following to accept notes from the inspector. I would recommend, ma’am, that I take the first position and perform a preinspection. Then you inspect. You just have to seem to be looking at stuff. I’ll make sure they’re as ready as they’re going to be.”

  “Any idea who was on the boat?” Sophia asked.

  “I’m pretty sure it was the gunny on the radio, ma’am,” Walker said. “Never met him but, met one gunny you’ve met them all. Marines are on the aft deck. If that idea meets with your approval, give me one minute and I’ll be prepared.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Sophia said.

  “Be right back.”

  * * *

  Walker pulled out a piece of double-sided tape and taped down one corner of a pocket that was sticking out on PFC Condrey’s uniform.

  “Staff Sergeant Decker, ensure that both these uniforms are turned in for direct exchange as soon as possible,” Walker said. “The LeafBrown pattern is sun-faded.”

  “Aye, aye, Mr. Walker,” the staff sergeant said.

  “Boots are clean and polished but unserviceable due to exigency of conditions,” Walker said. “Again, DX item. Otherwise, good turnout, Marine.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the PFC said.

  “The PFC is ready for your inspection, ma’am,” Walker said.

  Sophia checked the PFC’s uniform as if she knew what she was doing, then the staff sergeant’s. She didn’t find any fault.

  “The order is ‘Parade Rest’ then ‘Rest,’ ma’am,” Walker whispered in her ear.

  “Marines. Parade rest. Rest,” Sophia said, then looked at Walker. The man nodded as the Marines assumed the position of parade rest.

  “Ol— Seaman Apprentice Zelenova! Status on the inbound.”

  “One mile out and still closing, ma’am.”

  “Radio to have them come up on the port side.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am?” Walker said, taking her arm and drawing her lightly away from the Marines.

  “Problem, Mr. Walker?” Sophia asked.

  “They’re facing to starboard,” Walker said quietly. “They need to turn around.”

  “Okay, well . . .” Sophia said, starting to open her mouth.

  “If I may,” Walker said, pressing on her arm. “Wound tighter than a mainspring on an AK, ma’am?”

  “So they can’t turn around?” Sophia said.

  “Start with ‘Marine Detail, ten-hut!’ Barked, ma’am.”

  “Marine Detail, ten-hut!” Sophia said.

  “About face,” Walker whispered.

  “About face.”

  “And ‘Parade Rest,’ ma’am.”

  “Parade rest,” Sophia said. “Was that right?”

  “Do you want me to give you the class on command voice and drill commands?” Walker asked, smiling tightly.

  “What I’d really like to know is how come you know so much about it, Mr. Walker,” Sophia said quietly.

  “I’m a man of many parts, ma’am,” Walker replied. “And the boat is coming alongside.”

  “Cel
ementina,” Sophia said. “Mr. Walker. Get the lines.”

  * * *

  “Permission to come aboard, ma’am!” Gunnery Sergeant Sands boomed.

  “Granted, Gunnery Sergeant,” Sophia said. “And this Marine detail is yours, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  “Detail, ten-shuh!” the gunny boomed as soon as his feet hit the deck. “Parade . . . Rest! Rest! Decker, Condrey, good to have you back!”

  “Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant!” Staff Sergeant Decker boomed.

  “What’s the status on the LT, Staff Sergeant?”

  “The lieutenant is below, Gunnery Sergeant,” Decker replied. “The lieutenant is not in optimal condition, Gunnery Sergeant Sands. The lieutenant should have medical attention at the earliest possible instance, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  “The LT is a zombie, Decker,” Sands said. “Which doesn’t mean he’s not a Marine. And Marines take care of their own. God knows I’ve killed enough Marine zombies and I and you and the PFC will keep on killing Marine zombies as long as we have to to secure our nation. But the decision has been made to keep the lieutenant as a psychiatric patient, barring needs of the service saying otherwise. If at some point we can avail ourselves of research facilities, the lieutenant may become a research subject. However, that research will be noninvasive. He will not be dissected, his head cut open or anything else along the lines. He is a Marine officer and will be treated with the most respect possible given his condition. That, Marine, is the final word of the current chain of command. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Gunnery Sergeant,” Decker said.

  “Do you have any questions, Staff Sergeant?”

  “Gunnery Sergeant . . .” Decker said. “The private first class and I are . . . familiar with the officer’s needs. Would it be possible for us to—”

  “IS YOUR MOS PSYCHIATRIC CORPSMAN, STAFF SERGEANT?” the gunny screamed. “ARE YOU IN THE NAVY, STAFF SERGEANT?”

  “NO, GUNNERY SERGEANT!” Decker replied.

  “We need every Marine we can get, Staff Sergeant,” Sands said, more gently. “Your mission, which you achieved against incredible odds, was to take care of your lieutenant. You did that. New mission. Kill every other fucking zombie on Earth until humanity is safe from that Scourge. Do you understand that mission, Staff Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  “Marines! Do you understand that mission? I can’t heeear you!”

  “YES, GUNNERY SERGEANT!”

  “You ARE going to get your headspace and timing back, Marines!” the gunny barked, starting to circle the two. “You are going to drive on with the mission! You are going to remain eternally faithful to our Nation! You are Marines! And you are relieved of the duty of taking care of your lieutenant! Is that understood, Marines!”

  “YES, GUNNERY SERGEANT!”

  “Just so’s we’re clear,” Gunny Sands said. “That was one hell of a job you did, Decker, Condrey. You’re not going to get any medals for it, but I’ll see if I can convince ’em you’re not Section Eights. Because it was stupid and it was crazy. But we’re United States Marines. Stupid and crazy is what we do. Oorah.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “This is the voice of Free Texas, broadcasting from Hamlin. Primary assembly area is the silos on the southeast part of town. Bring all your guns and ammo, come peaceable and be prepared to work. We got a big job ahead of us, freeing our great state from the zombies. Stay away from the center of town, it’s still crawlin’ . . .”

  From: Collected Radio Transmissions of The Fall

  University of the South Press 2053

  “This is a sad profession,” Olga said, shutting the door to the cabin. From the looks of things, they were months too late for the occupant.

  “If you pick up a weapon, you are embarking on a career of great sadness mixed with rare touches of glory,” Walker said, stacking rolls of toilet paper in a cloth grocery bag. “It is one of the reasons not to pick up a weapon.”

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t do this job?” Olga said. “That a woman’s not good enough?”

  The Ferretti 68 was well stocked. The owners had prepared for a long voyage away from resupply. Unfortunately, one of the things they had stocked without realizing it was the Plague.

  “Far from it,” Walker said. “You are good at it. You are a woman. Good, however, is a variable term in the profession of arms. There are those who are very good with weapons, but not so good at killing. They are expert marksmen, but could not shoot so much as a rabbit. There are those who are good at killing, but not so good with tragedy. I knew a very good, experienced, combat NCO who retired after Rwanda because he was broken by the senselessness of it all. And this world is a mass of tragedy. Doing your job, you see that more than most. Being good at killing is not all that you must be good at to do your job.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Olga said, pulling out a pile of sheets that were in a closet. “Faith really tries to avoid going in cabins that don’t respond to a knock. She got that way after clearing the Voyage.”

  “The lieutenant is young,” Walker said. “She may harden to the point she can withstand the sadness or someday simply walk away. In the meantime she is certainly good at killing infected and she acts as a strong motivator to her Marines. That is enough in a young officer.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the military for an English as a Second Language instructor,” Olga said.

  “As I told the ensign, I am a man of many parts,” Walker said, grinning. “Celementina, let me help you with that,” he added, picking up a case of oil jugs.

  “Salamat, Tomas,” the woman said. “I let you. Every time I squat and lift I’m afraid I will simply pop the bambina out. And then every time I hope I pop the bambina out! I am ready to have this child out of me!”

  The engineer had already declared the engine a loss. The boat had been under power when an infected broke an oil line. Both engines had eventually seized. While the Grace could probably repair them, there was no real need for the boat and so they were stripping it rather than calling for a prize crew.

  “We’re going to have to do a supply drop pretty soon,” Sophia said as Tom Walker tossed the case of oil onto the aft deck of the Bella. The two boats were lashed together in the light seas, the fenders keeping them from damaging their hulls.

  “At least we’re finding supplies,” Tom said.

  “Some more survivors would be nice,” Sophia said. “And preferably nearly sane ones.”

  “Bella Señorita, Alexandria, over.”

  “Alex, Bella, over,” Sophia said, picking up the radio.

  “Prosecuting a sierra at this time. Lifeboat. Survivors. Over.”

  “Ask and ye shall receive,” Tom said, grinning.

  “Coordinates, over?” Sophia said. She looked at the coordinates and shrugged. “Risky Business, Risky Business, Bella Señorita, over.”

  “Bella, this is the Business, over.”

  “Did you copy those coordinates from the Alex, over?”

  “No, over.”

  “Stand by for coordinates. Your pick up, over.”

  “Roger, Bella. Alex, you got those coordinates, over?”

  “We’re not getting it?” Olga asked, heaving a case of cans onto the aft deck.

  “We’re salvaging and it’s not a clearance issue,” Sophia said, shrugging. “Let them have it.”

  * * *

  “Sir, we have a very light radar return at two-two-three,” the tactical officer of the USS Alexandria said. “Could be a ghost but it’s hanging in there. Probable sierra.”

  “Roger,” Lieutenant Commander Vancel said. “Conn, come to two-two-three turns for one third to close contact.”

  “Come to two-two-three, aye. Turns for one third, aye.”

  * * *

  Vancel looked at the periscope repeater and blew out.

  “What happens in the compartment, huh?” he muttered. “COB.”

  “Sir?”

  “These images do not get circulat
ed. Not even to the nukes and tell them I’m serious.”

  “Not circulated, aye. May the chief of boat ask why, sir?”

  * * *

  “Oh, dear,” Sophia said, looking through the binos. “What happens in the compartment, stays in the compartment. What happens in the . . . Oh, screw that!”

  * * *

  “It’s not his fault!”

  Lee Ann McGregor was just turned twelve and an orphan. Also extremely pregnant. She was shivering under a blanket in the relative cool of the saloon, drinking tomato soup as if it was nectar and arguing to spare the life of the young man sitting next to her.

  The hangdog young man in question, Kevin White, was seventeen. And currently surrounded by women who were looking at him like a zombie that was in their targeting reticle. Wisely, he was keeping his mouth shut.

  “Miss McGregor,” Sophia said calmly. “You’re a little young to have this explained but it looks like the explanation is late . . .”

  “We never did anything!” Lee Ann said. “And, when, you know, I started to show, Kevin sort of explained it. But we can’t figure it out. We never did anything. Not anything!”

  “If the only other male present could ask some questions without getting his head ripped off?” Walker asked.

  “Go ahead,” Sophia said.

  “Kevin,” Walker said. “It is nearly impossible for a man below a certain age to do ‘nothing.’ Pressures build, especially around a beautiful young lady. Pain occurs and, in fact, if ‘nothing’ is done actual damage can occur.”

  “Seriously?” Sophia said. “Hold it a second, you mean actual damage.”

  “Yes,” Walker said. “Knew a guy who was very faithful to his wife, very disciplined and very religious. Also on a very long deployment. He eventually went to the medics because he was, well, leaking. The doctor explained to him that, no, whatever the Bible says, the system is designed to be used and is one way exit only. And if you don’t occasionally let it out, it breaks. Pressure builds, valves become damaged and eventually if nothing is done you become, essentially, sterile. Also it is, long term, very bad for the prostate. Some yogis have managed to do that to themselves, intentionally, as a form of asceticism. However, I strongly doubt that young Mr. White was that disciplined. Mr. White? Nothing?”