John Ringo - To Sail a Darkling Sea

“Sounds like a plan, ma’am,” Sergeant Major Barney said. “All right you horrible lot…!”

* * *

“Hola!” Sophia said as an emaciated man staggered out of the apartment complex. He was being helped along by Olga and Yu. “Buenos Dias!”

“Buenos Dias, verdaderamente,” the man said. “Bendice a la Armada de Estados Unidos!”

There were four more refugees with him, all skinny as a rail. But most people they found were. The apocalypse had been the best diet plan in history.

“Bendiciones para los habitantes de las islas Canarias,” Sophia said. “Sergeant Major?”

“Hill, Hadley, get these people back to the marina then catch up.”

“YES, SERGEANT MAJOR.”

“Before we move you over to the other boat, you need to go through a decontamination shower.”

Thomas Walker covered his shades covered eyes with his arms against the sun and just reveled for a moment at the touch of sunshine. There were thin clouds that cut down on it a bit but that was for the good. After so long in that fetid hold it was glorious. The smell of rotting flesh had become so common he barely noticed it. What he mostly noticed was the strong, clean, wind from the sea. It smelled like wine it was so clean.

Thomas Walker wasn’t his real name. It was a common alias he’d used over the years. So common, he’d stopped using it years before the Plague. He knew why he’d instinctively given an alias when the crap hit the rotary impeller. He was out in the cold. Until he was sure what he was dealing with, he was staying under cover. Right now what he seemed to be dealing with was some sort of militia, not the pre-Plague military.

The other reason was, this was a new world. That was what none of the idiots he’d shared the compartment with for six long months could understand. Who you had been, what you had done, accomplishments and failures, no longer existed. The only thing that existed, now, is who you really were.

For now, he would be Thomas Walker, English as a Second Language Instructor, and just go with the flow.

The harbor of Santa Cruz De Tenerife was crowded with boats and ships. There were two megayachts, a dozen smaller yachts, two supply ships, a small passenger liner and a tanker all moored in the channel. Around and between them zipped at least a dozen inflatables.

What he noticed, first, was that one of the megayachts was the Denʹgi Ni Za Chto . That was Nazar Lavrenty’s yacht. So the oligarch was apparently involved. Not something in the group’s favor: he couldn’t imagine Lavrenty changing his spots. An American flag was flying from it, but flags could be changed. There were some uniforms, all US. Navy and he’d seen one Coast Guard driving a boat. Uniforms could have come from a salvaged vessel. Although it would take a ballsy militia to loot a Navy ship. Or complete idiots like the Somalis. The team that found them identified themselves as United States Marines and they had the sound. Except for the woman who he’d pegged as teenage girl despite the encumbering gear. Teenage girls were not Marine Lieutenants. Or, perhaps they were in an apocalypse. New world. Which was rather exciting since he had been getting bored with the old one.

“There are some clothes, not much, over here,” the man said. “Grab a pair of shorts, a shirt, a towel and one of the plastic trash bags. Put the shorts, shirt and towel on the table by the shower. Get in the shower. Put your clothes and personal effects in the bag. Then turn on the water. You get one temperature, which generally feels scalding at first. You can take as long as you’d like, we refilter the water, but please clean off quickly. We’ve got more survivors coming through. Do not drink the water. It has decontamination chemicals in it and while it won’t kill you, it will make you throw up. If you’re really thirsty, right now, there are bottles of water. So grab some clothes and let’s get moving.”

“May I ask a question, sir?” Bennett said, raising his hand.

“It’s gone,” the young man said. “It’s all gone. It’s the first question I asked, too. It’s what everyone asks. If you don’t believe me, try to get one of the zodiac guys to drop you off on the shore. Ask the zombies. Whatever place you’re asking about, we probably don’t have contact and we don’t know. There’s some Yanks who are in a headquarters somewhere in the US. Omaha or something like that. They’re sort of in charge but they can’t get out. Now, we really need to do the showers so I can get you over to the boat and you can get some food, a bunk and people who are there to answer your questions.”

The response sounded rote. The guy has answered the question before. A lot.

“Decontamination shower” had some rather unpleasant historical connotations. But he could smell the chemicals and there was enough spray around that if it was mixed with, say, Tabun, the guy running the shower would have been doing the dying cockroach.

Thomas grabbed a pair of Navy PT shorts and a Marine T-shirt. Someone had found a well-stocked US Navy ship. Presumably The Hole had given them permission to loot it.

The shower was, as advertised, hot. And that was good after spending months in a hold with limited, and always cold, water.

He showered quickly. He wanted to just sit under the water for an hour. But he washed grabbed his towel, shorts and shirt, put them on and got out.

“Put the towel in the bucket, please,” the young man said, pointing to a blue bucket. “They get laundered and reused. What compartment were you in?”

“L-1438,” Thomas said tossing the towel in the barrel.

The kid pulled out a piece of plastic and a Sharpie and carefully wrote L-1438 on it.

“Were all you in the same compartment?” he asked, handing it to Thomas.

“Yes.”

“Right,” the kid said, pulling out more plastic and starting to write the compartment on them.

“May I ask the purpose of this?” Thomas asked.

“They keep people in the same compartment together at first, mostly,” the kid said. “You may bloody hate your compartment mates but they’re the only people you know at first.”

“Okay,” Thomas said. “What now?”

“Wait for the rest of the blokes to get done,” the kid said. “Unless they call for a group to head over to the boat.”

“How many you got?” an older man said, walking up.

“Just this one, right now. Five when they get done showering.”

“You okay going on your own?” the older man said. He was wearing a US Navy uniform with rank tabs for a Petty Officer Third Class but no name tag.

“Yes,” Thomas said.

“Zodiac’s ready to go with some others,” the man said. “Come on.”

He led the way around the corner to the promenade deck of the liner and pointed aft.

“See that group by the gangway?” he asked. “That’s the stair thing. Join them. Okay? Or you can wait.”

“I’ll go with them,” Thomas said.

The group, with the exception of an older man wearing a US Navy uniform and no rank, was also dressed in T-shirts and shorts, holding plastic bags. From there it was possible to see another decontamination shower, a larger one. There was one of the fire-gear and MOLLE covered “zombie hunters” under the shower, still holding his M4, being doused down. The water was running off him blood red.

Thomas briefly wondered if he’d just taken a shower in zombie blood contaminated water.