John Ringo - To Sail a Darkling Sea

“Well, I’d still like to apologize about what happened with your daughter, Captain,” the former executive said. “I was sorta drunk and real glad to be off that little boat. It shouldn’t have happened and certainly not to a real hero like your daughter.”

“Were you aware that the Social Alpha was the megayacht of Mike Mickerberg?” Steve asked.

“Yeah,” Zumwald said. “I was even on it one time before the Plague. I heard he got wacked. Which serves him right, the bastard. I lost my shirt in that IPO.”

“Faith, then Sergeant Fontana and I cleared it,” Steve said, gesturing to a dinghy. “After you.”

“No, you should go first,” Zumwald said.

“It’s an odd thing in the Navy,” Steve said. “The junior boards first. That way the senior gets off the boat first. You first.”

“Did you hear about what happened before it went fully infected?” Steve asked as Zumwald got in the inflatable.

“No,” Zumwald said. “Sort of. Mutiny or something like that?”

“Mister Mickerberg, possibly panicking at the thought of an apocalypse, hired a cut-rate security firm that employed mostly West African mercenaries. Child soldier types.”

“Sounds like Mickey,” Zumwald said. “He was great for the whole social networking thing, never got his head in gear on anything else.”

“The mercenaries took over, led by a slightly insane ex-Special Forces major,” Steve said, gesturing for the crew to take off. “They injected Mister Mickerberg with live agent to make sure he went zombie. Shot all the male passengers and dumped them to the sharks. Then proceeded to have their way, if you will, with the women he’d brought along.”

“Jesus,” Zumwald said, shaking his head. “I was going to say it’s like the script to some low-budget post-apoc, but… ”

“Indeed,” Steve said. “But. Then there was the usual falling out you’d expect, as more and more became infected. Faith was part of the entry to the main suite, which we currently use for a command post. Nobody with sense would want to sleep there. The major had apparently locked himself in with, presumably, the fairer of the fair ladies. When the evil overlord was to be overrun, he lined them up, flex-cuffed them, and shot them all in the head, one by one. Then shot himself.”

“Fuck,” Zumwald said, shuddering. “And your daughter… ”

“Saw it all,” Steve said. “Was part of the analysis team if you will. So… Faith takes a dim view of any man who thinks he quote owns a woman. Or feels that his needs override some cookie who is just wandering around the saloon.”

“Okay, now I really realize how bad I fucked up,” Zumwald said. “And, again, I apologize.” He’d been watching where they were going and now realized it was to the lit hole in the side of the supermax. “We’re going to the liner? I thought you said I was coming back alive?”

“We will be going only into cleared areas,” Steve said, pulling out a Tyvek suit and a gas mask. “You’ll want these, however.”

“Shit, you cannot be serious,” Zumwald said. “If you’re trying to test my courage, you win. I’m a coward.”

“This is not a test of courage,” Steve said. “It’s not even a test. It is what is generally called a learning experience. I’m aware you’re a coward. Not all bullies are, but you are. That’s okay, I can use cowards too. Jack Isham’s a physical coward and he makes a perfectly adequate chief of staff. I’m not asking you to kill infecteds. You’re just going to be taking a short walk. And I strongly suggest the Tyvek suit. It has booties. You’re going to mess up your Guccis if you don’t use the suit.”

“Is this just you and me?” Zumwald temporized. The stink from the boat was evident even on the water. It smelled like shit and iron and the worst rotting garbage in history. He already wanted to puke. “No way you’re getting me in there.”

“Oh, I brought people who can carry you, Mister Zumwald,” Steve said. “While we will be in areas that have been cleared, by a pro I might add, I am not an idiot. And I’m not rigged for heavy combat. So there will be security. And I really don’t think you want the indignity of Lieutenant Fontana and Staff Sergeant Januscheitis dragging you through the bowels of the ship. Put on the suit, Mister Zumwald. There are things you need to understand.”

* * *

“Holy fuck,” Zumwald groaned.

“If you are going to puke in a mask, sir, this is the procedure,” the black lieutenant said, politely. “Take a deep breath as you realize you are going to puke. Lift the mask up to your forehead. Puke. You will automatically inhale. Try not to smell the surrounding air. The puke will probably cover it up. Redon the mask, clear it as we told you then take a deep breath. If you have to puke again, and you will, lather, rinse, repeat.”

Zumwald wanted to pass out, not just puke. It was dark as fuck in the ship and he was lost. He had a flashlight, but there was no way he was finding his way back. Even if he hadn’t had heavily armed Marines following him. So far they hadn’t said a fucking word and that scared him worse than anything.

“This isn’t actually the part I’m interested in,” Smith said, examining the bodies. “All Barbie shots. Where’s the other?”

“This way, sir,” the big black lieutenant said.

About all that Zumwald knew about the military was that generals were the bosses. But the black guy was the same rank as that little bitch that got him into this. And Smith had said they’d been together clearing the yacht, which was before they’d found any of the rest of the Marines. So he and the chick were probably buddies. Hell, he was probably banging her. Blacks were like that.

The interior of the boat was like a fucking Taranto movie but for real. He mentally made the note that even Taranto didn’t use enough blood. In some of the rooms it was drying and still an inch or more thick. Walking through it was like glue. Each footstep gave this puk-inducing “suck, suck, suck” sound. Sometimes he couldn’t step around the bodies. One time when he balked, the two Marines just picked him up by the arms without a word and carried him over the pile of naked bodies.

He puked. Couple of times. The boat smelled worse than it looked. And none of these fuckers seemed to even notice. Like it was a walk in the fucking park.

Finally they came to the worst. He wasn’t sure what the fuck had happened in the room but the zombies weren’t just dead, they were fucked up . Huge fucking holes in their chests. He puked, again, when he realized he was looking at ribs and shit. For real.

“Jesus, Smith, enough, okay?” Zumwald said, bent over. He was just puking in his mask at this point. There wasn’t anything to puke up. “Enough.”

“I think you’ve noted the difference in the wounds?” Smith said. “Big fucking holes? That’s my daughter’s signature. Then there are these,” he said, walking over to a pile and picked one of the dead zombies up by its hair. “This is where Captain Wilkes, who was in training, got piled by zombies. Please try to stop puking long enough to note the cuts to the back of the neck. Do you see them?”

“Yeah,” Zumwald said, looking then looking away. “You can see the fucking spine.”

“I was given to understand that one of the things that Faith told you when you grabbed her arm was ‘The last guy who grabbed me, I cut off his hand.’ It was a tense moment; I’m not sure you remember.”

“I remember,” Zumwald said.

“She was being quite literal, I hope you understand,” Smith said. “She literally cuts off the hands of infected that grab her.”

“You’ve made your point, okay? She’s a fucking badass. I’ll make the movie.”