John Ringo - To Sail a Darkling Sea

There were six thick lines to cut. Anarchy watched her cutting through one then tapped Rusty and pointed to another.

Rusty pointed at his chest, puzzled, then made a cutting motion.

Anarchy nodded, furiously, and made another cutting motion and pointed at the line.

Rusty made the same cutting motion then held out his hands.

Mcgarity rolled his eyes and pulled out a tactical knife, handing it to him.

Rusty started cutting lines while Mcgarity watched the infected. It finally found what it was looking for and grabbed something. It was a rat. The infected didn’t bother with cleaning. The squeaking rodent went down pretty much whole.

The building was some sort of convenience store. The doors were locked and there were bars on the windows. Even if there had been infected, or noninfected, in there, they were long dead. But the rats could get in and eat. Then the zombies ate the rats.

Zombies could probably survive a long time on rats. And there was going to be lots of food for rats.

Mcgarity suddenly realized that some of the assumptions people were making about zombies running out of food were optimistic. Maybe on ships. Land, not so much.

The infected continued sniffing then looked around, searching for another source of food. It looked at the people on the boat and appeared puzzled for a moment. Then it scurried away around the corner.

“What the fuck?” Mcgarity whispered. He’d been fully prepared to start the party. But the zombie had just run off. They’d pile into a wall of bullets but this one had just run off. “Seriously, what the fuck?”

The last line was cut and he stepped, quietly, to the side and waved for the boat to pull the yacht out of its slot. They bumped a couple of times on the way into the basin but not bad. It was still seaworthy, anyway.

Once it was clear of the slot they tied it off to one of the pilings, away from any other boats, and the engineer from the Wet Debt boarded carrying a toolbag.

“Can you get it running?” Anarchy asked.

“How the hell should I know?” the mechanic said. “I don’t even know if it has fuel.”

“It has fuel,” Olga said. She’d pulled the cap on the tanks and sniffed. Then she looked in. “It’s mostly full.”

“Which means it’s probably got water in it,” the mechanic said, handing her a bottle. “And it will have separated. Pour this in the tank. It might help. I’m going to be at this a while. After I get the door open,” he added, pointing to the hatch.

“I’ve got a hammer,” Rusty said.

“You’ve got a hammer but you don’t got a knife?” Mcgarity snarled. “We need to talk about your priorities!”

“I’ve got a jimmie,” the mechanic said. “If that don’t work, then I maybe need a hammer. I’d rather be able to use the door, you know?”

The mechanic was able to get the door open without too much damage then he waved at the interior.

“I don’t do dark spaces that might have zombies in them.”

“I’ll check it,” Anarchy said. “You two, don’t fire unless a zombie swims aboard.”

“Sharks,” Olga said. “Don’t think they’ll make it.”

“Then don’t fire,” Anarchy said.

He swept the interior of the boat but it was clean. Probably nobody had been aboard since the Plague.

“All clear,” he said, stepping out of the saloon. “What’s next?”

“Get me the batteries out of the boat and I’ll see if it will crank,” he said. “I’m still gonna need somebody to keep an eye out. Not going to have time to be looking around for zombies.”

“Olga,” Anarchy said. “Rusty, get back in the boat and hand me up the batteries.”

* * *

“You got lights?” the mechanic said. “I got a headlamp but you’re gonna need lights.”

“I’ve got lights.” She turned on her rail light and pulled out a headlamp. She also had a hand taclight.

The mechanic checked the oil, humping in apparent satisfaction, then disconnected the batteries from the engine.

“How’s it going to run with no batteries?” Sophia asked.

“I’m going to install the ones I brought,” the mechanic said. “These have been sitting for so long, not only are they D-E-D, dead, they’re probably shot. I’ll check ’em back on the Debt. The way things are going, we’d better find a container of batteries soon. So, you’re the Ukrainian chick? Why no accent?”

“I was born in Ukraine,” Olga said. “I grew up in Chicago.”

“Enjoyed your little orgasm on the boat,” the guy said, grinning. He was missing his middle front teeth.

“I tell you what,” Olga said. “You concentrate on fixing the engine. I’ll concentrate on not wondering if you’re going zombie and I should shoot you.”

“Okay,” the guy said, holding up his hands. “Sorry.”

“There is a time for fun and a time to concentrate,” Olga said as Rusty came in hauling one of the big marine batteries. “Know the difference.”

“Where do you want it?” Rusty said.

“I could make some suggestions,” Olga said, leaving the compartment.

* * *

Cutting out the larger yacht was equally simple. The first time they had to fire was when they were securing the last of the offshore inflatables. The inflatable didn’t have an outboard and the deck was teak. It really didn’t look a bit like the others. But it did look fast.

They’d just boarded when an infected came stumbling up out of the previously unidentified cabin. It charged Mcgarity, screaming at the top of its lungs.

The former specialists reacted by grabbing it by the hair and tossing it over the side. Unfortuately, that sort of scream was zombie for “dinner time” and more heads started popping up all over.

“Let’s get this cut out,” Mcgarity said.

“I can just untie it,” Olga said, running forward. There was only one line securing it.

Infected were trotting down the wharf and Mcgarity pointed right.

“Rusty, starboard,” Anarchy said, keying his radio. “Division, fire support, over.”

“Roger.” Fifties started booming from the gunboat and the infected did their usual dance.

“Anarchy!” Paula yelled. “Little help?”

She’d tied the dinghy to the bigger inflatable, as they’d been doing, and when Olga got the lines free she’d started to pull out. Unfortunately, the infected had grabbed the tow line and was in the process of pulling himself aboard the dinghy.

Anarchy walked onto the transom deck of the inflatable and put three rounds into the infected, just as it got a hand onto the side of the dinghy. Just about that time the tension in the tow-line snapped. He lost his footing and went over the side into the water.

The weight of his gear sucked him down immediately and the sharks were already showing up for the shot infected.

“RUSTY, OLGA!” Paula screamed. “Anarchy’s in the water!”

The water was crystal clear. Olga looked over the side and could see the former specialist struggling to get out of his gear. But the sharks closed in. There was a gush of air and blood and the struggling stopped mercifully fast.

“What’da we do?” Rusty said, rubbing his rifle and pointing it then lowering it. It was clear the big guy had no clue what to do next.

“We go get a grapnel and try to get back as much as we can,” Olga said. “Hopefully, we’ll be allowed to give him a decent burial.”

* * *

“. . Understood, Squadron. LitDiv, out.”

Mcgarity’s loss had been a huge morale blow to the Division. That was bad enough. But in Chen’s eyes, professionally, the worse blow was the loss of experience. Mcgarity was the only person he had who was school trained on the MaDeuce and had extensive experience with it. Not to mention the only one with combat experience prior to the Plague. Or, for that matter, more than Navy boot camp. He had one, count ’em, one Navy seaman who had been a Seaman Apprentice prior to the Plague and was now a PO3. Midshipmen and Ensigns who had had “some prior civilian boating experience.” The DivTwo commander was a semi-professional, female, yachtsmen. And not much older than Sophia.