John Ringo - Under a Graveyard Sky

The security team wasn’t bothering to flex-cuff those.

“Hey, Uncle Tom,” Faith said in a mixture of nervous and cheerful voice. “Did you know your basement was absolutely overrun with zombies? I didn’t.”

“Wasn’t really aware,” Tom said, carefully. “Need to talk with Brad from building security about that. Faith…aren’t you supposed to be up in the filing room?”

“Yeah,” Faith said. “About that… Filing’s not really my thing. And with the bad thumb and all…” she said, holding up the appendage.

* * *

“Hi,” Faith said, hanging her head. “I’m Faith. I’m supposed to help with the mail…”

* * *

“Uh, oh,” Steve said, watching the approaching boat.

The anchorage they were in was designated open. They weren’t in a channel or anything. It was an out-of-the-way spot on the Hudson on the Manhattan side. But Harbor Patrol seemed to want to stop by.

“Stacey, police visit,” Tom yelled through the hatch. He’d had watch.

“Roger,” Stacey said. She quickly picked up the ready weapons, two Saiga shotguns, two pistols and an M4 semi-automatic carbine and began emptying them. That was simply a matter of dropping the magazines and storing them. Then she proceeded to lock all the weapons in their containers.

By the time the boat pulled alongside, everything was locked down. And she and Steve were both in respirators with nitrile gloves on.

“Harbor Patrol,” the loudspeaker boomed from the small trawler. “Permission to come aboard for health and safety inspection…”

“Granted,” Tom said shouted. It was muffled so he waved for them to board. Not the best way to talk to police, wearing respirators, but they’d managed to avoid the flu so far and the vaccine wouldn’t yet have taken hold. “Stacey, paperwork?”

“On it,” Stacey said, shoving the last pistol case into a locker and locking that .

“Good afternoon, sir,” the lead officer of the two man team said. His nametag read: Torres. They were clearly bothered by the respirators but they were wearing nitrile gloves. “First question, are there any weapons on board?”

“Yes, officer,” Steve said. The two officers’ body language went immediately to “defensive.” “We’re an associate security contractor for one of the onshore banks. We have quite a few weapons on board for that reason.”

“Contractors,” Officer Torres growled. “Great. Just flipping great.”

“May we use a certain amount of discretion in the conversation?” Steve asked.

“Anything you say we’re required to restate if so asked,” the officer said.

“Discretion in that is all I’m asking,” Steve said, grinning. “We’re a back-up jump plan for some executives. In the event that things get bad enough that protection from law enforcement breaks down, the weapons are for protection of the executives.”

“How many?” Torres asked.

“With the weapons and ammunition , I’m sure you’d use the term ‘arsenal,’” Steve said, smiling again. Stacey handed him the paperwork for the weapons as well as the stamped form that they had registered as security contractors in and for the State and City of New York. The form included a list of all registered weapons ammunition and “paramilitary equipment.”

“Jesus Christ,” Torres said. “Arsenal is right. You can’t have all this stuff sitting in the harbor!”

“Included in the paperwork is my BATF FFL license,” Steve said, calmly. “As well as my certification as a Class III firearms instructor, tactical firearms instructor and law of weapons instructor. My wife is a tactical firearms instructor as well and is a reserve Virginia police officer. This is not meant to be offensive, Officer Torres, but I teach police officers. Part time anyway.”

“In Virginia,” his partner said.

“I once taught a class for some of your NYPD SWAT people,” Steve said. “A Lieutenant… Hansen comes to mind?”

“You mean Captain Hansen?” Torres said, suspiciously. “Out of the One-Thirty-Second?”

“Five-ten, two hundred?” Steve said. “This was five years ago or so. Weight may have changed. Blue eyes, shaved head. I detected balding… Wife’s name… Cynthia or something like that? Five years and we only chatted briefly outside of class.”

“Stay where you are?” Torres said, pulling out his cellphone. He walked up to the front of the boat for the conversation.

“How’s it going for you guys?” Steve asked.

“All good, sir,” the officer replied.

“My two daughters are onshore,” Steve said. “They paint a rather lurid picture.”

“Lurid?” the officer said.

“Vivid in color,” Steve said. “Presented in shocking or sensational terms. Sorry, I only instruct in firearms during the summer. The rest of the time I’m a high school history teacher.”

“Got it,” the officer said. “My dad’s a teacher. He used to spend summers and holidays working odd jobs.”

“How’s your family doing?” Steve asked.

“So far so good,” the officer said, shrugging. “People are scared. I mean, what can you do about a plague?”

Steve tilted his head and tapped the respirator.

“They won’t let us use those,” the officer said, balefully. “I guess…” He looked up as Torres came back from the front of the boat.

“Aussie, huh?” Torres said, looking at him oddly. “I thought it was Irish.”

“Australian accent mixed with southern tends to sound that way,” Steve said, trying not to sigh.

“That’s a buttload of ammo,” Torres said, looking at the paperwork again. “You get a fire onboard and you’re a floating bomb.”

“Which is why we anchored well away from other boats, Officer,” Steve said. “As well as to avoid contamination.”

“Can see you’ve got that down,” Torres said, handing him back the papers. “Those weapons do not go on-shore until all your certifications have been processed, understand? We’ve had too many of you god damned contractors get gun-happy in the City.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Steve said, “I agree with your opinion of most contractors. They tend to be unprofessional nuts with delusions of grandeur because they can walk around with the big guns. Part-time firearms instructor. Dealt with too many contractor wannabes.”

“The captain said you were a straight shooter,” Torres said. “No pun intended.”

“I’m glad he’s hanging in there,” Steve replied. “I didn’t really keep in touch,” he added with a shrug.

“Not a round of ammo, not a single gun, goes on shore,” Torres repeated. “I take it all your safety gear is complete?”

“Inventory, location and log book,” Steve said, handing over that paperwork.

“Yeah, we’ll…” he started at a honk from the boat.

“If it’s clear, come back,” the captain said over the loudspeaker. “Priority call!”

“Just…” Torres said, looking both ways.

“We’re not going to go zombie hunting in your city, Officer,” Steve said. “We’re perfectly content just sitting here.”

Torres shook his head and scrambled back over the side.

“You guys take care,” Steve said, casting off their lines. “And hopefully that takes care of that . I suppose hoping that there won’t be any more crises today would be too much?”

“Where’s the usual mailman?” The Executive Assistant for the Manager of Cost Accountancy was a lady in her forties with what Faith mentally dubbed “teacher face.”

Faith sort of preferred being the mail girl to filing. It got her some exercise and she got to meet and talk with people. Of course, half of them asked her why her sister was fighting a zombie. She’d given up trying to explain which was a bit of a pain. And her thumb still hurt like heck, which was another pain.