John Ringo - Under a Graveyard Sky

“There’s a real easy place to board on the side,” Faith pointed out. “At least we’re not going to be climbing ten stories or something.”

“Note the surviving zombies on the helipad?” Fontana pointed out. “We got anybody but the three of us?”

“Sophia,” Steve said. “She can be my number two. You guys get things worked out?”

“He’s more or less trained,” Faith said, absently, looking through the binoculars.

Fontana and Steve traded a look as they both tried not to laugh.

“I know you’re trying not to laugh,” Faith said. “Apparently you don’t get dry humor. Yeah, he’s good to go, Da. I say we come close alongside and try popping them with an AK.”

“You know how well that went the last time,” Steve said.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve got this rolling thing down,” Faith said.

“The only people who have ever gotten ‘this rolling thing’ down were the Jedi Knights,” Fontana said.

“Jedi Knights?” Faith said, lowering the binos and looking at him in puzzlement. “I’m talking for real, not science fiction.”

“It’s the nickname of SEAL Team Six,” Steve said. “Alas, I think Faith is right. But I’m going to try it and I’ll use the M1.”

“I’ve been to sniper school,” Fontana said. “Maybe…”

“Sergeant Fontana,” Steve said. “If anyone is going to kill his crew and sink his boat, it should be the captain.”

* * *

Steve waited until the boat was on the up-lift and stroked the trigger.

“High,” Fontana said. “Again.”

“I’d rather be high than low,” Steve said, jacking another 7.62 round into the chamber. The weapon was a Springfield Armory M1A rechambered for 7.62x39, something that the gunsmith who did it considered very near sacrilege. But Steve was a big believer in ammunition commonality. He just couldn’t find any AK variants he considered accurate enough. “High means they don’t come back at us at high velocity.”

He waited, then fired again. This time he scored a hit.

“He’s down,” Fontana said. “Chest hit.”

The problem was the low rail on the side of the flight deck. It was barely knee high on the zombies but it was high enough that the flying deck of the Toy was barely at the same level. And it was steel. Hitting it would have the round come back at high velocity. And, of course, both boats were rocking in the swells, which weren’t minor at the moment.

One of the zombies tumbled off the flight deck trying to reach the yacht and splashed into the water.

Apparently, it wasn’t the first time. A shark closed in before the zombie had surfaced.

“I suppose we could try to lasso them off,” Fontana said.

“No,” Steve said. “Sophia,” he said, keying his radio.

“Da?”

“Close approach. As close as you can get and not hit the cutter.”

“Shorter range, more accuracy,” Steve said as the yacht started to pull away for a closer run. “And maybe some of them will try to jump.”

“Maybe I should tell Faith that,” Fontana said, standing up.

* * *

“Okay,” Steve said, taking another zombie down. “This is fish in a barrel.”

“More like zombie chumming,” Fontana said. “You should see the water.”

The human body, contrary to Hollywood action films, tends to fall face forwards when shot. Some of the zombies had tumbled over. One had tried to jump. She hadn’t made it. Most that were shot tumbled over the side.

“I’m trying not to remind myself that these are U.S. Coast Guard personnel who are merely infected with a horrible plague,” Steve said, stroking the trigger. “By preference, I’d have preferred to bury them wrapped in flags, not in the belly of a tiger shark.”

“There are probably some survivors who are not zombies,” Fontana said. “Hopefully they’ll understand…”

* * *

“Okay… Bloody,” Steve said. They’d checked three of the on-deck hatches. All were sealed and had some sort of electronic lock on them. They were also quite resistant to a Halligan tool.

“There’s a set of clothes over here,” Faith said, picking up the uniform. “It’s got an ID on it. Would that work?”

“Is it a universal?” Fontana asked, taking the ID and examining it. “And the answer is yes,” he said pointing to the small chip on the badge.

“But will it work?” Steve asked.

“No,” Fontana said, swiping the badge. The lock remained red.

“Okay, let’s look for others,” Steve said. “The lock-down may be based on seniority or other access. We’ll gather them up and check them all…”

* * *

“Try this one,” Fontana said, handing it over.

“A lieutenant’s didn’t work,” Steve said. “Why would a Chief Petty Officer’s?” But when he tried it the lock went green.

“It’s a Coastie thing,” Fontana said, shrugging. “Navy too. A Chief outranks a Lieutenant any day.”

“What’s a Chief?” Faith asked. “What’s a lieutenant for that matter?”

* * *

“Any zombies?” Steve asked, banging on a hatch.

He was rewarded by the beginning of “shave and a haircut.”

“Close your eyes,” Steve shouted. “Understand? Close your eyes!”

He undogged the hatch and tossed in a chem light.

“Use that to adjust your eyes,” Steve said.

“Thanks for finally coming,” the man at the hatch said. “Jesus, where have you guys been ?”

“It’s a long story,” Steve said. “But we’re not Coast Guard or Navy. Just a volunteer civilian group. You need water?”

“The worst sort of way,” the guy replied. “We’ve been carefully recycling piss for…well for a long time.”

“Bottles,” Steve said, tossing them through the door. “I’m going to keep clearing. I’ll be back in about five. I need to make sure this area’s clear.”

“Roger.”

* * *

“Who’s senior?” the respirator clad man said. The voice was muffled from the respirator but he had a Commonwealth accent. Bobby couldn’t tell which. Possibly Irish.

Petty Officer First Class Bobby Kuzma was the senior of the six survivors of the USCGC Campbell, WMEC-909, slumping on benches in the crew mess so he raised his hand.

The man was just about covered in lights, which were still painful to Kuzma’s eyes. From what little Bobby could see, he was just as covered in armor and weapons ranging from some sort of AK variant shotgun to a large hunting knife. He even had the head of a Halligan tool sticking up over his shoulder with the tool in some sort of holster.

Another armored figure, a woman from the walk but it was hard to tell, entered behind him.

“I found a cache of sunglasses.” Woman. Young. That was all Kuzma could make out.

She started to hand them out. A while back, before the world came apart, Bobby would have thought it idiotic to wear sunglasses in the mess. Now, even with the lights off, they were a welcome relief from the lights the group were wearing.

The first man shut off a couple of the lights and came over to Bobby.

“Need to talk,” he said, holding out his hand. “Can you walk?”

“I can walk,” Bobby said, but he took the hand.

The man led him down the crew mess and then pulled off his mask with a grimace.

“Ugh,” the guy said, grimacing. “We use these for the smell. I’d say let’s go outside where it’s a little better but I don’t think you can handle the light, yet.” He pulled out a cannister of Vicks VapoRub and rubbed it on his nostrils, then held it out to Kuzma.

“You get used to it,” Bobby said, waving his hand.

“Two things,” the man said. “More. First, I’m Steven Smith. Australian by birth, naturalized American citizen, former Aussie para, former history teacher and currently, and I put quotes on this, ‘commodore’ of a flotilla of small boats clearing this patch of the Atlantic. I’m called Captain Wolf or Commodore Wolf and the group has named it Wolf’s Floating Circus. Basically we range between Bermuda, where we’re using a disabled ocean-going tug as a supply base, and the coast of the U.S. We’re actually just around Bermuda right now because there’s only six of us and one of them’s a wanker that isn’t worth the cost of fuel. It’s an all-volunteer effort, which is a bit like herding roos. Which, trust me, are worse than cats. I tried it one time as a lad.