To Sail a Darkling Sea - eARC Read online

  It was a constant surprise to him that when you were hungry enough, any raw fish was a delicacy. His family had also come as something of a surprise. He wasn’t sure exactly why he hadn’t spent more time with them. Oh, being on a small boat occasionally drove everyone nuts. But he had some great children and, given that he’d had little to do with them, he also had come to have a new appreciation for his wife. An appreciation that, as the tan got darker and they both lost quite a bit of weight, had eventually overcome their desire to avoid certain difficulties.

  Which was why Susan was, as far as they could tell, about two months pregnant.

  “Help William with the signs if you would, there’s a good lass,” Lincoln said, waving at the periscope. It was clearly looking at them. He hoped the submarine would not surface, however. As far as they could tell, they were uninfected. Raw fish or no, they wished to stay that way.

  William, his ten-year-old son, and Julie, fourteen, came up on deck quickly with the cobbled together signs. They had made them from bits of stitched together plastic and can boxes to keep from damaging their sheets.

  They carefully held them up to prevent them tearing in the breeze.

  * * *

  “ ‘Do Not Approach.’” Commander Vancel said. “ ‘Not Infected.’ They’re in the same boat we are.”

  “With less in the way of stores and no power, sir,” his XO pointed out.

  “Seem to be making it,” the CO replied, touching a control.

  * * *

  A light began to wink on the periscope.

  “If I understood bloody Morse maybe I’d understand what you were saying,” Lincoln said through gritted teeth. The signal was repetitive, though, two flashes then two flashes…

  “I think they’re just saying they understand,” Susan said.

  “I was thinking the same,” Lincoln replied. He waved and nodded. “I wonder if they’re infected? Or not.”

  * * *

  “See if the Lines is monitoring,” Commander Vancel said.

  * * *

  “No Tan Lines, Alexandria, over.”

  Sophia had been expecting the call and already had the mike in her hand.

  “Alex, Lines, over.”

  “Sierra is forty-five-foot Activa motor yacht. No power. Four survivors, probable family, uninfected. Boat has British registry. Over.”

  “Roger, Alex. Just over the horizon. Have them on radar. Will come up from their lee and attempt to communicate.”

  “Roger. Standing by.”

  “Alex, could you retrans to flotilla then possibly squadron ops?”

  “Roger, stand by… Ready on retrans to flotilla, over.”

  “Living Large, Living Large, No Tan Lines, over… ”

  “No Tan Lines, Living Large, over.”

  “We have a contact this area. According to the Alexandria, they’re uninfected. Last I heard, the squadron still had a few units of vaccine. I’d suggest that it would be advisable, given these people’s circumstances, out of fuel and in the middle of no-where, to use it on them. Over.”

  “Stand by, Lines… ”

  “Standing by,” Sophia muttered. She could see the yacht on the horizon. The wind was from the southeast and she was coming in from the northwest. Which would put her downwind, or “to the lee” in nautical speak, from the yacht. Which was where she wanted to be.

  It was, at this point, extremely unlikely that casual contact with the people on the yacht, or the sub crews, would give them H7D3. Flu eventually became noninfectious as a person’s immune system overcame it. She probably could come from windward, fuel up the yacht, transfer supplies, carefully…

  “Extremely unlikely” was not the same as “could not happen.” And nobody wanted to infect people who had survived this long. Families like hers were not so much rare as non-existent. Nobody found so far had so much as one family member survive. The closest was Chris Phillips, Captain of the David Cooper and his former fiancé. And both believing the other one dead, they had sought opportunities elsewhere in the interim. Even if a family was on a life raft or boat, like this one, drifting, only one survivor had generally been found.

  Preserving this family was, in her opinion, critically important. They probably felt the same way.

  The problem was… The ocean was really, really big. Finding them in the first place had been a matter of luck and that “intermittent distress signal.” If they left the boat behind, they might be able to find them again. They knew the currents in the area and they knew where they were, now. But it was, again, only “likely.” And if they were left to drift… They could drift until they were all old and grey and died on the boat if they ended up pushed into the Sargasso Sea. More likely, they’d eventually run aground and either get infected or eaten. Sum it up as “bad things.”

  Kuzma knew all this and he had way more experience than she did. Maybe he’d come up with a good answer.

  * * *

  “... that’s my take on it, sir,” Kuzma said. “If we leave them drifting, even for the time it would take to go up to squadron and get the vaccine, we’ll probably lose them. I’m sort of lost for an answer here, sir… ”

  “Roger, Large,” the Alex replied. “We’ve been kicking it around as well. The only solution we see, and we’d have to get permission from higher, is for one of our subs to take them under tow and bring them up to squadron AO. We’re going to discuss that with higher.”

  “Roger, Alex,” Kuzma said, his face working. “I’m going to leave this on you and the Tan Lines for now if that’s all right.”

  “Under control, Large.”

  “Living Large, out,” Kuzma said. He shook his head and looked at the helmsman. “That’s a zammie.”

  “Definite zammie, sir… ”

  * * *

  “Boat, Da,” William said, pointing to the northeast.

  “I’m going to assume they’re with the submarine,” Lincoln said, looking at the approaching yacht through his binoculars. “I hope they stay downwind.”

  “Leeward, Da,” Julie said, didactically. He had one manual on seamanship and his oldest had studied it assiduously.

  “I hope they stay to leeward, then,” Lincoln said, trying not to smile.

  * * *

  “Good afternoon,” Sophia said over the loudhailer. “We get that you’re uninfected. Which an amazing number of people find tremendously exciting. You’re the first complete boat of survivors we’ve found. Which is why you are about to have a zammie, which is an acronym for a ‘zombie apocalypse moment.’ The pre-Plague term is ‘what the heck?’ ”

  * * *

  “Da,” William said. He was always the one looking around. “Another submarine!”

  Forward of the ship an American attack sub surfaced.

  * * *

  “The USS Annapolis is going to fire you a line. They are uninfected so there’s no chance of catching the flu. When you get it, hook it up to your forward cleat. We have a small stock of vaccine back at our squadron which is operating about six hundred miles north of here. It’s going to take a few days for you to get there but they’ll tow you up. They will also pass you some water since your still won’t work being towed. No food, sorry, they’re short on rations as well. Anyway, a billion-dollar nuclear submarine is about to act as a tow truck for one forty-five-foot yacht full of vacationers. Welcome to a zombie apocalypse moment. We hope that you consider Wolf Squadron and the US Navy in the future for all your towing needs… ”

  * * *

  “Hoooh,” Sophia said, adjusting the focus on her binoculars. “Sweet.”

  She keyed the intercom, powered up and turned to starboard.

  “Rig for fishing ops!” she boomed, then switched to the radio. “Flotilla, Lines, over.”

  “Flotilla.”

  “Spotted surface activity, probable tuna, moving to target-of-opportunity fishing ops, over.”

  “Stand by, Lines.”

  “Like I’m going to let these out of my sight,” Sophia muttered.
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  Tuna moved fast and often the only sign you got was a cluster of birds. When the tuna were done eating whatever was at the surface they’d dive and be gone. That could take hours or bare minutes. You either went for them or you lost them. And since this wasn’t a big migration period in the area, fish had been scarce.

  Since the only fresh food the entire squadron got was fish, and tuna was at the top of the menu, fishing ops was right up there were searching for survivors.

  “What do we got?” Paula yelled from the transom deck.

  “Probably tuna,” Sophia yelled back. “Look big! Three polers.”

  “On it!”

  “Lines, Flotilla.”

  “Lines,” Sophia answered, keeping an eye on the birds.

  “Roger fish-ops. We need a cut. Report to Large after taking on fish.”

  “Aye, aye,” Sophia said. “Lines, out.”

  Then she keyed the intercom again.

  “It’s on like Donkey Kong!”

  * * *

  “What are we doing?” Rusty asked, holding onto a metal bar.

  He wasn’t a big fisherman but he sort of knew how you did it with deep-sea fishing. There was a chair and a big reel and you sort of cruised around until you got a bite.

  You didn’t go charging across the ocean at full speed with the boat rocking from side to side like it was going to sink.

  And there was one big rod with a big reel. Not what Paula and Patrick were rigging which was three really long rods with lines at the end that all led to one big hook. The hook didn’t even really have a lure on it. Just a big plastic bird-feather.

  “What we’re doing is rigging the poles,” Paula said. “What you’re doing is waiting til we’re rigged then I’ll explain.”

  “Got it,” Rusty said. He couldn’t even figure out what knot she was tying. It was complicated was all he could get.

  “Right,” Paula said, standing up easily despite the bouncing of the boat. “First of all, glad you’re here. You’re about to get one hell of a workout. Cause here’s how it works. We stand by the transom, that’s the bulkhead at the back of the boat. Sophia will drive over near the fish. We then all three, together, flip the lure out over our heads and tap our poles on the water. Just follow along with us. When a fish hits the lure, you just hold on tight, lean back and pick it up out of the water and throw it backwards over our heads. We gotta do that together and pretty hard. Then we go back and do it again. We’ll stop from time to time to cut the fish up and store them. We’ve got a big cooler for them. You got it?”

  “Got it,” Rusty said. “I think.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” Patrick said. “First time we tried it it was a disaster.”

  “It wasn’t a disaster,” Paula said.

  “You weren’t the one that got hit in the face,” Patrick pointed out.

  “You were only knocked out for a minute,” Paula said. “Reminds me, we need to get the helmets and face shields.”

  “Or pulled overboard,” Patrick pointed out.

  “And the life vests… ”

  “Then there’s the smell… ”

  “And the chum. Can’t forget the chum… ”

  * * *

  “You’re supposed to use live fish for this,” Paula said, standing back from where Rusty was tossing chunks of decaying fish over the side. “But we don’t have any. Anything will do, really.”

  Rusty had gotten used to not wanting to throw up from the smell. But apparently they were low on respirators or he’d be using one. The “chum” was all the “stuff” they hadn’t used from previous fish. It had been kept cool but it had still started to rot and smelled just awful.

  “And we have customers,” Patrick said, looking over the transom.

  “Toss a bunch of that crap over the side,” Paula said. “And grab your rod.”

  The rods were longer than the aft deck. The thick lines attached to the ends were barely half their length. Rusty still wasn’t sure how this was going to work. But there were fish behind the boat, rolling to the surface feasting on the heads and entrails he’d tossed over the back. They were falling behind quick, though, cause the boat was moving so fast.

  “You take the middle,” Paula said.

  “And watch yourself or you’ll get hit in the face,” Patrick added.

  “Okay,” Rusty said.

  “Just follow our movements,” Paula said.

  She brought her rod down overhead until it was dangling with the lure just barely in the water.

  “Now, tap, like this,” she said, dropping her rod and tapping the water’s surface.

  As he brought his own rod down, he felt the line go taught and was nearly pulled over the side.

  “Get your feet,” Patrick said as the three lines jerked each of the poles. Suddenly it went slack.

  “Damnit,” Paula said, jigging the lure again. “Pop it! And keep your balance this time!”

  The line got hit again but this time he was planted.

  “One, two, three, pull!” Paula said, quickly.

  On the “pull,” she and Patrick leaned back, pulling the rods back and yanking a fish out of the water. It headed right for Rusty who was in the center.

  He dropped his rod and dodged to the side as the fish came flying past his head.

  “Try to be some help here,” Paula said. “Grab your damned pole at least!”

  The fish had thrown the hook already and was lying on the transom deck flapping its tail. It was bigger than any fish Rusty had ever seen except on TV shows. If he’d picked it up it would have been nearly to his waist.

  He tried to ignore it and grabbed his pole. They started to flick the lure back out but he wasn’t ready and it got tangled. By the time they were untangled, the school of fish was out of range.

  “Coming about,” Sophia yelled.

  “You getting this?” Paula asked, sharply. “When we get on the school, we all three, together, toss out the line. Then we all three, together, pop it. It’s called jigging. When we get a hit, we all three together, pull. I won’t go one-two-three this time. Just when it’s on I’ll go ‘Pull’ and we all pull. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Rusty said.

  “Try not to go over the side, drop your pole or get hit in the face by one of the tuna,” Paula said. “That’s pretty much the safety briefing.”

  “Patrick,” Sophia called. “Throw some chum!”

  “Got it,” Patrick said, leaning over and tossing some of the chum into the water.

  “That’s bringing ’em up,” Paula said. “Pop it,” she added, jigging the lure.

  The line went taut again and Paula looked at him.

  “Ready, pull!” she snapped.

  This time, Rusty just dodged to the side as the fish came flying out of the water.

  “Ready, flick it back,” Paula said. The fish had already fallen off the half-hook.

  “Got it,” Rusty said, this time getting the flick right.

  The line had barely hit the water when it went taut again.

  “PULL!”

  “And flick… ”

  “And PULL… !”

  * * *

  “I think that’s all we can handle for now,” Sophia said from the bridge. “Certainly all Rusty can handle.”

  Rusty had slipped on one of the big fish covering the deck and was now sprawled out in the middle of fish goo and blood. When the fish were hooked it caused them to bleed. Between their thrashing and being thrown through the air, the transom deck as well as the bridge bulkhead were covered in spots of blood. So were all three of the fishermen covered. Even Sophia up in the flying bridge had some spots of blood on her.

  “Might as well get to dicing,” Paula said, giving Rusty a hand up. “Patrick, knives.”

  “Sorry about that,” Rusty said. He was looking sort of gray.

  “It does take it out of you,” Paula said. “It’s all in the back. The first time Patrick and I tried it alone we could only get about half the small ones. The rest were
just too big. Having you as a third was a real help.”

  “I should have been more,” Rusty said, shrugging. “Just ain’t got my strength back.”

  “Some fresh sashimi will help with that,” Paula said, grinning.

  “What are these?” Rusty asked.

  “Big eye tuna,” Sophia said, pointing to the eyes. She’d left the helm and slid down the ladder to the transom deck. “They’re generally a deep fish. They spend most of their time at more than twenty fathoms. But they come up to the surface to warm up and if there happens to be bait they’ll get on it. Good size ones, too. This will feed the flotilla for a few days.”

  “What’s next?” Rusty asked.

  “We’ll cut off the heads, gut them then throw them in the cooler,” Sophia said. “We’ll keep the heads and guts for chum for the next time. Those go in the freezer.”

  “Not a freezer?” Rusty asked.

  “You need to flash freeze fish to keep it tasting good and the right texture,” Sophia said. “We don’t have a flash freezer. The Large does, but most of this will be used up in a few days by us and the rest of the flotilla. Cooler’s good enough.”

  “Knives,” Patrick said, opening up a box filled with fillet knives and sharpeners.

  “Now to the really bloody part,” Sophia said, smiling. “And they talk about Faith getting covered in blood… ”

  * * *

  “Respirators,” Rusty said, holding up a box.

  “Too bad they didn’t use them,” Paula said, taking the box and looking at the manufacturer. “Some European brand. I don’t think they’ll work on ours.”

  Which was a pity, since they’d about used up all their filters. Doing this job without respirators made it damned near not worth it. And this boat wasn’t even particularly bad. There were only two people onboard. From the pictures they’d found, husband and trophy wife. The trophy wife had been on the back deck, nude. Probably zombied. The husband had been in secondary cabin, ditto. Guessing, the wife had gone first, the husband had locked himself in a cabin then turned.