John Ringo - Under a Graveyard Sky

Blood-splattered blue curtains rippled to the rocking of the boat as Steve stepped over the corpse of the former owner. From the loose skin, the man had probably been heavy-set before turning zombie. By the time they boarded the boat, he was clearly on the edge of starvation.

“Who chooses blue curtains with a maroon interior?” Faith asked, her voice muffled by her respirator.

“At a guess?” Steve said, gesturing at a gnawed corpse in the corner. “Her.”

The body had been chewed down to the bones. There was still a mass of goo from decomposition staining the maroon carpets.

They’d lured the zombie to the rear sliding doors, then when Faith jerked them open, Steve had “terminated the hostile infected.” At least that was how he was going to write it up in the ship’s log.

“This one useable?” Faith asked.

“Too early to tell,” Steve said. “But we’re definitely going to have to fumigate.”

The Hunter was about done. Three weeks after leaving New York harbor they’d hit a heavy tropical storm that had ripped away the wind-generator as well as half the deck rigs and railings. Steve had seriously reconsidered his choice of zombie plans as the craft pitched uncontrollably through fifty foot swells.

But based upon what they were getting, or had stopped getting, from land a tropical storm was better than a zombie storm. One by one, shortwave radio stations had stopped broadcasting. First the major commercial news stations, then governments. The last “official” station to broadcast was the Beeb from “a location in Scotland.” And then one day it was silent.

That left only amateur ham radio operators who reported large crowds of zombies roaming even through rural districts. One station, Zombie Team Alpha, from Kansas had boasted it was prepared for any zombie attack. Then an attack. Then silence. There were still a few broadcasting out there, mostly from deep in the arctic, but they were doing it quiet.

What puzzled Steve was that GPS was still up. As he understood it, GPS depended upon an Atomic Clock somewhere in Colorado. Since it was unlikely that that facility had held out, he wasn’t sure why it was still working. But he was glad it was. Sophia and Stacey had waded through a book on celestial navigation and learned how to do it but he wasn’t looking forward to the day they had to use that method.

Whatever the case, they needed a new ride. And the Fairline 65 twin diesel, christened Tina’s Toy , looked to be a pretty good choice.

The boat was the first they’d tried to board. They had had a few of what might have been attacks in the couple of weeks after leaving New York. The waters, then, in the area were fairly crowded and the sailboat filled with mostly women must have looked like an inviting target. But whenever a boat tracked towards them, they’d just started breaking out the equipment and as more and more body-armored and heavily armed people came on deck…boats would just sort of turn away.

To avoid the crowded NYC-Bermuda-Norfolk corridor, Steve had turned northeast into the deep Atlantic. The family had basically sailed in the direction of Iceland, then back down into the U.S. region. By the time they came back, there were far fewer boats. At least, boats under power and control. They had seen several boats, and even freighters, under power but clearly not in control. One encounter at night had nearly resulted in what would surely have been a fatal collision. Only quick action on Sophia’s part had gotten the tiny sailboat out of the way of the massive freighter.

Just adjusting to being shipboard had been hard. None of them had any serious at-sea experience. It was the one flaw in Steve’s zombie plan and a couple of times it had nearly cost them. Forget that the girls had to learn to find their own “space” on the relatively tiny craft. And learn that there were tasks that had to be complete. And that they had to find their own entertainment. Some of the tasks, like fire drills, had proven out when they had their first galley fire. Then there had been the possible “attacks,” the tropical storm and just learning to adjust to being on a boat, which was a big enough problem.

In the last two weeks they hadn’t had any similar problems. They hadn’t seen many small boats, but floating freighters and tankers seemed to be everywhere.

However, in the two months they’d been cautiously avoiding contact, they’d also used up the bulk of their stores. They were flat out of fuel for cooking, nearly out of fuel for the generator and when that ran out they wouldn’t be able to produce drinkable water.

Definitely time to find another home.

“Ooo, I want,” Faith said, getting a good look at the saloon.

“Even with the maroon interior?” Steve asked.

“The maroon I can handle,” Faith said. “It’s the blue curtains that suck.”

“Oooo,” Steve said, stepping forward. “I want.”

“Nice helm,” Faith said, looking at the enclosed helm forward of the saloon. “Who came up with this idea?”

“I dunno,” Steve said, examining the controls. “We’ll need to get it power to check its fuel and water stores.”

“You gonna be able to figure all this out?” Faith asked.

“If I can’t, your mom and sister can,” Steve said. “Now to find the way down.”

They quickly found the companionway, which was blocked by a hatch.

“Hello!” he shouted, banging on the hatchway. “Any zombies down there?”

“I think I hear something,” Faith said, taking out an earplug. “Yeah, I hear something.”

“Is that a zombie?” Steve asked, cocking his head.

“I don’t think so,” Faith said, then cocked her own. “Wait… I dunno.”

“It’s not on the other side of the hatch,” Steve said. He readied his shotgun anyway and then pulled at the hatch. Which was stuck. “I don’t think this has a lock …” he said.

“You’ve sort of got a master-key,” Faith pointed out.

“Yeah,” Steve said. He pulled out his magazine, ejected the round in the chamber, then pulled another round out of his vest, loaded it in the chamber and reinserted the magazine. “Ware bouncer.”

“Roger,” Faith said, turning and ducking her head so any bounce-back from the door would be taken on her body-armor and helmet.

Steve tapped the edge of the hatch until he found where something had been installed to make it lockable. He placed the barrel against the blockage and fired.

The frangible round blew out the light latch and the hatch opened on darkness.

“Zombies in the darkness,” Faith said. “That brings back memories.”

“And whose idea was that?” Steve asked.

“Uncle Tom’s?” Faith answered. “I don’t know why you keep blaming me !”

“‘But I’ve never been to a concert, Da!’” Steve mimicked.

“You’ve gotta let that go, Da,” she said. “We going or not?”

“Let the…” Steve said.

“…zombies come to you,” Faith finished. “You’ve covered that. They’re not coming to us. Hello! Zombies! Hello!”

“What’s that?” Steve asked as a zombie came around the corner of the companionway.

It was emaciated and could barely stumble along. Steve wasn’t even sure it was a zombie. Except for being naked it could have been a nearly dead human.

It stumbled on the stairs and started clawing upwards, snarling in a weird, dry, tone.

“Jesus,” Faith said, stepping forward. She’d drawn her.45 and fired one round into the zombie’s back, then another into its head. “That was a mercy killing.”

“There’s still some sound,” Steve said and pulled out his earplugs. “Hello! Zombies! Hello!”

“…lo…”