John Ringo - Under a Graveyard Sky

“So to what happens next,” Smith continued, “the normal next thing is we get you over to the boats, give you a scrub-down and get some chow in you. Usual sort of at-sea rescue thing except the scrub-down part. That was originally because we feared the virus, these days it’s because it’s, well, become tradition and people tend to be ready for a shower.”

“Very ready for a shower,” Kuzma said, carefully.

“And since you were by yourself in the compartment you need to get used to using your voice again,” Steve said. “And light. That takes a few days. I said that was the normal thing we do. The issue, here, is that this is the biggest boat we’ve cleared and it has about ten bloody million compartments…”

“You’re not sure it’s clear,” Kuzma said.

“I’m fairly sure we got all the zombies,” Smith said. “If there are more survivors, they’re not making noise when we do. They could be too weak. Most likely…” He shrugged.

“Wait,” Kuzma said, looking at the group. “ Six ? That’s it ? We had a hundred personnel and refugees!”

“That explains the children,” Smith said. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

“So… Are you assisting the Coast Guard?” Kuzma said. “I need to get back in communication, report in…”

“I think I may have missed some of the important bits,” Steve said. “Actually, I was waiting for you to get your wits to the point. The point is that there is no Coast Guard. Or, rather, you’re it. As far as I can determine, based upon radio reports and local conditions, you’re now more or less the commander of the United States Coast Guard, which consists of you and those other five persons.”

“That’s…” Bobby said, sitting on the table and shaking his head. “That can’t be. No…”

“I cannot prove it to you at this moment,” Smith said, shrugging. “We are in a dark hangar on a boat in the middle of the ocean. But if there were a Coast Guard, I’d assume they would find and clear their own vessels, first, just to have the trained personnel. You can feel free to verify it in various ways once you get your feet on the ground. We’ll, at some point, get you back to Bermuda. You can see the harbor. And the zombies. We find boats. Feel free to take one over to the mainland and see for yourself. There are no official governmental broadcasts. There are no land areas not held by the infected and we have thus far found no evidence of formal governmental activity.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kuzma said, looking at the blood-smeared deck. “How long?”

“It is the fifteenth of August,” Smith said. “I’ve found some watches amongst the crew’s belongings, you can verify that at least.”

“Jesus…” Bobby said. “That long?”

“Petty officer,” Smith said, sharply. “As I was saying, we normally let people get their feet under them for a few days. I know you are tired. Exhausted. Malnourished and dehydrated. But we either get assistance from some, preferably three, of your crew to clear the remainder of the boat or let it go for now. I’m not saying that it’s a requirement. And, frankly, I don’t see finding any more personnel. Not alive.”

“Did they all zombie?” Kuzma asked.

“Do you really want to know this?” Smith asked.

“Yes,” Bobby said.

“We don’t have an accurate count,” Smith said. “Frankly, we don’t keep an accurate count of dead and wounded and methods on large vessels such as this. There aren’t enough of us yet, to take the time. But, no, many were infected. Some appear to have died of the infection or possibly from violence by other infecteds. Many…were trapped in compartments without stores.”

“Oh God,” Bobby said, hanging his head again.

“I don’t know if it makes it better or worse for you,” Smith said. “But at a certain point, many committed suicide. And did so in some very…honorable ways. But they did so as an alternative to starvation or dehydration. Which, frankly, is why we do this. And we don’t count the dead because it takes time . And the living deserve our time more. So the question is, do you wish us to continue the sweep? To do so, we will need assistance. We’ve swept all we can find.”

“I’ll help,” Kuzma said, standing up and swaying. “As long as I can. I guess asking you to…collect the dead…?”

“There are, currently, one hundred and twenty-six survivors known to us,” Steve said. “One thirty two with your group. Only forty-six of which are willing to actively volunteer to the extent of manning boats supplied and supported by us and clearing life rafts. We have an additional six or so who are willing to go into cleared vessels to recover materials or get them operational. I have exactly three personnel willing to participate in active clearance, fighting zombies in the dark in confined spaces, as it were. Three more will if pressed. Would you care to answer your own question, Petty Officer?”

“No, sir,” Kuzma said. “I mean, yes, sir. I understand.”

“There are, literally, not enough of us left to bury the dead,” Smith said softly. “That is the world into which you have been reborn. What you make of that is up to you.”

* * *

“How the hell did we miss this area?” said “Shewolf” in a muffled voice.

His “clearance specialist” was a thirteen-year-old girl. Tall for her age, tall for a girl, period, and clearly strong: she was carrying about a hundred pounds of weapons, ammo and gear. But still a thirteen-year-old girl.

“The layout of this boat is screwy,” Kuzma said, weakly. He leaned up against a bulkhead for a second. He knew he’d get his strength back eventually. But lagging behind a thirteen-year-old girl who was weighed down like an infantryman was embarrassing. “The design looked great on paper but it’s not what you call efficient.”

“Okay,” Shewolf said, banging on the hatch. “Zombies, zombies, zombies! Hello!”

“You sure about that?” Kuzma said, his eyes wide.

“Let them come to you,” the girl said. “Bring them into your zone of fire, don’t go into theirs.”

There was an odd thump from the door, then more.

“And we have a winner,” Shewolf said. “I need you to back up into that cross corridor. In fact, I need you to back way the fuck up.”

“Why?” the Petty Officer asked.

“Because if there’s a bunch, I’m going to have to back up,” the girl said. “And you’re not moving real quick. So back way the fuck up. And around the corner so you’re less likely to get hit by bouncers.”

Kuzma backed into the cross corridor, flashing a light around to make sure where weren’t zombies there. He had a pistol but he wasn’t sure that he could even raise it much less shoot straight. God he was tired.

Thinking about what the girl had said, he backed further into the corridor. The bouncers point was important.

“Olly-olly-oxenfree! Come to momma…!”

Kuzma heard the hatch undog, then slam back on its latches.

“Fudgesicle!” the girl shouted followed by a series of rapid fire shotgun blasts.

Shewolf backed into the cross-corridor, dropped her shotgun on its harness and drew her pistol with lightning speed.

“Say hallo to my leetle friend!” she shouted, double tapping. She pivoted into the corridor backing towards Kuzma, clearly covering him. “ You want some?”

Infected came around the corner after her, lunging at her as she expertly double tapped. The worst thing, for Kuzma, was that he recognized most of them. Some of them were refugees the Campbell had been ordered to rescue in the early days of the plague. They were probably how the plague had gotten onboard. Others were fellow crew members, bearded, filthy, naked, covered in sores, feces, vomit and dried and fresh blood. Houston P. Barnes, who had just reported to the Campbell before the outbreak but who he’d known for years. He had bits of flesh in his unkempt beard and then his face buckled under when the second.45 round hit him. Tommy E Craddock Jr., “don’t forget the junior,” one of his closest messmates. He clutched at the round that hit him in the chest, howling the weird cry of a wounded zombie, half keen, half snarl, then it was stopped by another round to the forehead, which left a round, blue hole.