John Ringo - Under a Graveyard Sky

The only people who seemed to understand words and phrases like “urgency,” “emergency evacuation” or “get in the fucking truck, lady” were the Chairman and his wife, Nancy. The Chairman had had to leave in the first lift to get to the meetings at the Bank. There were essentially no electronic communications working. That left his wife trying to persuade a group of wealthy, entitled cats that they needed to move. Didn’t happen quickly and it wasn’t helped by the fact that they had to ride in the BERT van.

In one of the last lifts, Faith had finally lost it when she heard:

“I am not riding in the back of a simply horrible vehicle like that!”

The lady was the wife of a president of something or another at the Bank. A president as she repeatedly had pointed out. Hubby had long since left to attend “meetings.”

Faith, who was working the loading point, pulled her.45 and put it to the woman’s head.

“You can get into the van or I can turn you into vaccine,” she said, coldly. “Your call.”

“You wouldn’t!” the lady snapped.

“Look in my eyes, lady,” Faith said. “Get in the fucking van and get in the van now!”

She got in the van.

“Well, I don’t think we’re going to be asked for our services again, all things considered,” Steve said. “I understand there were complaints.”

“I hope so,” Faith said. “I thing a was a…” Her eyes closed and she started to snore.

“It reminds me of when she was four and she used to fall asleep in her plate,” Stacey whispered.

“The difference being she’s not four, she’s not small and she’s still got all her gear on,” Sophia said, tiredly. “Faith!” She shouted, kicking her sister’s boot.

“Wasat?” Faith said, sitting up and reaching for her pistol.

“Whoa,” Steve said, clamping her hand. “You need to get undressed and into bed.”

“Ogazada…” Faith said and her eyes closed again.

“Mile Seven, this is Thunderblast,” the radio crackled.

“That’s Tom,” Steve said, stepping into the cockpit and keying the radio. “Thunder, Mile Seven.”

“Code is Goose, say again, Goose.”

“Confirm, Goose,” Steve said. As he replied there was the sound of distant explosion behind him. Looking north he saw the center of the George Washington Bridge collapsing into the river. “Bloody hell … Roger, Goose. Good luck.”

“Same, same,” Tom replied. “Out here.”

“And we are away to better climes,” Tom shouted. He hit the anchor winch switch and looked towards the darkened skyline. There were fires burning out of control in Harlem and more from the direction of Brooklyn. The same seemed to be the case on the New Jersey side with widespread fires in every direction.

He raised the mainsail and jib, catching the strong northeast breeze, then straightened away to the south.

When he was underway he pulled out his iPod and scrolled through it for the playlist he’d created. There was a recessed input for it right on the console so he plugged it in and started the playlist.

“Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wind…” he crooned. “Onward the sailors cry. Carry the lad that’s born to be king, over the Sea to Skye…”

“It is requested that passengers move to their designated lifeboats…” the enunciator purred over the screams.

“Gwinn! Come on !” Chris Phillips yelled from the lifeboat.

Chris had spent ten years in the Royal Navy as a chef. That was not a cook as he liked to point out. He was a Royal Navy chef . There was a difference. And Stephen Seagal didn’t know the difference.

But after a while, the “allure” of Navy life palled. He still enjoyed the sea. The problem was he never got to see it except from land. He was a very good chef. Good chefs served admirals and admirals generally were also land-bound.

So he’d quit and put out some resumes. Which was how he ended up as a chef for Royal Caribbean Cruise lines and met the love of his life, Third Officer, Staff, Gwinneth Stevens. After years of bachelorhood that had most people joking about his actual tastes, he’d proposed only two months ago.

Then the H7 virus had broken out.

They’d pieced together that the bastard who spread it had left one of his calling cards at the Cruise Terminal in New York. Which meant that there were at least fifteen “patient zeroes” on the boat. And by the time they found that out, there were more.

The boat had been put in “at sea” quarantine. Then the “afflicted” had started to turn. And without antigen testers, they couldn’t screen for who was infected and who wasn’t. And then it spiraled.

The captain and other “ship” officers were already gone, taking all the powered lifeboats. But Staff Side had stayed on. The ship officers, Greeks as was common, considered themselves only responsible for the ship. When it was clear the infected had control and there was nothing to do about it, they had given an almost Gallic shrug and fled, the bastards.

Staff Side was responsible for the passengers. And they were chosen from people, like Gwinn, who took that job seriously. The senior officer, Staff, had already turned when the First Officer gave the order to abandon ship. Thomas, though, was still standing his post. He intended to go to full lockdown as soon as the boats were away. Since passengers had been issued water and food in the quarters, assuming that help arrived soon, a major assumption, perhaps a few would survive.

Gwinn kept looking for one more passenger who could make it.

“There might be more…” she said.

The infected came from out of nowhere and hit her like a rugby player, taking her down and biting at the back of her neck.

“Gwinn!” Chris yelled, scrambling up the short steps. He grabbed the infected and punched him in the back of the neck, hard. It knocked the thing out for a moment.

“Gwinn, come on, honey,” Chris said, pulling her up. “Please…”

“Go,” Gwinn said, holding the back of her neck to staunch the blood flow. “Just go…”

“I can’t, honey,” Chris said. “Please! Darling…”

“Go!” Gwinn screamed. “I’m infected! I can’t board! GO!”

She stood up and pushed him to the boarding steps. Normally the slight woman couldn’t have moved his nearly two-meter, fifteen-stone mass. But he backed up.

“It’s duty, darling,” Gwinn said, sobbing. “Just duty.”

“One last kiss?” Chris said.

“One…”

He gave her a hug and kissed her, then allowed her to push him into the raft.

“Love,” Gwinn said, tears streaming down her face. “And survive…”

Gwinn closed the hatch and Chris took his seat under the big red lever that said “Do Not Pull.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, please assume what are called in the airline industry ‘crash positions’ bent over at the waist, arms wrapped around your legs,” he said, tonelessly to the mostly shocked or crying passengers. “There will be a brief sensation of falling, then a light impact. I’m told it’s a bit like a carnival ride.” He reached up to the bar and pulled down, hard. “Last ride of the day…”