John Ringo - Under a Graveyard Sky

“If it’s crazy and it works, it ain’t crazy,” Bundy said, shrugging and making a note. “Note to sonar. That weird transient was the sound of a.45 being fired sixty feet underwater…”

“Don’t forget the whole ‘into a shark’ part,” Fredette said. “That probably changed the acoustics from just firing it.”

“Good point…”

* * *

Galloway raised an eyebrow and looked at Commander Freeman.

“His own subordinate skippers call him ‘Captain Insanity,’ sir,” Freeman said, defensively.

“Not to influence the discussion or anything,” Brice said, holding up her hands. “But I’m starting to like this guy.”

Freeman looked at his monitors and sighed.

“Sir, we may have a destabilizing element in the equation.”

“Which is?” Galloway asked.

“Passive sonar on the Dallas indicates an approaching Russian Typhoon.”

“They’re sending a boomer?” Brice said, blinking. “A boomer ?”

“They’re fast attacks are not as well designed for long endurance as ours,” Freeman said. “It’s possible that they don’t have a fast attack to close the position. Acoustics indicate it is probably the Servestal .”

“Sounds like time to talk to Sergei again,” Galloway said, grimacing.

* * *

“Slippery,” Steve said as he jumped off the dinghy onto the boarding platform. The dinghy was going up and down in five foot regular seas whereas the boarding platform was hardly moving. He’d done it so many times it he really didn’t notice. “Watch your step.”

He’d actually landed on the chest of one of the dead infected. He also didn’t really notice that except one detail.

“Is it just me or is there a preponderance of women?” he asked, catching the line thrown to him.

“We’d noticed that,” Fontana said. “And for all they were zombies…kinda pretty ones.”

“Men,” Faith said, stepping easily onto the flushdeck. “Da, this is one of the easiest boardings we’ve ever done.”

“Noticed,” Steve said. “But if you slip overboard it will go quickly to one of the worst,” he added, pointing to the still circling sharks.

“So, you seriously shot a hammerhead with a.45?” Fontana said, taking point. There were stairs up to the promenade deck to either side of the landing. He took port just because. There also appeared to be some sort of pop-out door but there were no obvious external controls.

“Wasn’t my first option,” Steve said, as Faith took starboard. “And I’m not sure whether to trust the gun again. We need to be really careful on fire discipline on this one. I think it’s going to be as bad as the cutter.”

“Well, it’s got all the usual zombie mess,” Fontana said, looking over at Faith. “Ooo, look, there’s movement to my starboard!”

“Very effing funny, Falcon,” Faith said. She looked through the heavy glass doors at the interior and shrugged. “I dunno, a little paint, some carpet…”

“A lot of carpet,” Steve said. “I think we need to start clearing freighters to look for carpet.”

What appeared to be the main saloon was about sixty feet long, two stories high and had once been a vision in fine wood bars, tables and white carpet and equally white sofas and chairs. There were also plasma screens freaking everywhere . From the looks of it, some of the windows could double as smart-screens. The central bar was of cream, silver and blond wood with “SOCIAL ALPHA” emblazoned above along with what appeared to be the logo for Spacebook, the social networking site. Someone had defaced it, apparently tried to strip off the platinum and since it was above most of the damage that had probably been an uninfected human.

Half the plasmas were obviously trashed. The floor was covered in the usual mix of blood, decomposing flesh and feces. So were the sofas, chairs, tables and the fine wood bars. There were bullet holes in half the windows. There were at least nine chewed corpses in view.

“All of the booze is gone,” Fontana said, looking behind the central bars.

“Maybe they figured out how to break the top of a bottle,” Faith said, stepping gingerly around the central bar to starboard and sweeping from side to side. The room had no interior light but they were still getting good radiance from the tinted windows. She checked behind the bar on her side, leading with her Saiga. “Cleaning this up is going to be a bitch and a half. But I think it might be worth it.”

“The problem is, again, fuel,” Steve said.

“There’s that small tanker Sophia found,” Fontana said, sweeping to port again.

“Let’s say I’m a little uncomfortable clearing a tanker,” Steve said, hefting his Saiga. “Especially one that has been sitting without spaces being vented. All I can see is Faith shooting a zombie and the whole thing going boom. Then there’s the problem of getting it running and getting the fuel from it to the other boats. In mid ocean.”

“All problems we’re going to have to figure out,” Faith pointed out. “We’re going to need the fuel now or later.”

“Open hatch to the interior,” Fontana said, pausing. The scattered bars were designed to get people to flow in a freeform manner. They also tended to restrict line of sight. Which he wasn’t enjoying.

“Olly olly oxenfree!” Faith shouted. “Zombies, zombies, any zombies home?”

“I wonder how far that actually carried?” Steve asked.

“Far enough,” Fontana said, as the laser dropped onto the zombie’s chest.

“Wait!” Faith said, delightedly.

“Why?” Fontana asked. The zombie was in pretty bad shape and it wasn’t closing fast, but it wasn’t like he wanted him to get to melee range.

“Oh, My God!” Faith squealed as the zombie charged. “Do you know who that is?”

“No,” Steve said, still covering the rear. “You going to shoot or Fontana?”

“Mike Mickerberg!” she said, pulling the trigger on the Saiga twelve gauge. The former internet billionaire was splattered all over the deck of his mega yacht. “Clean-up on Aisle Nine!”

“That’s getting old, Faith,” Steve said. “And who?”

“The guy who invented Spacebook! Duh.”

“Well, even if we had the equipment we couldn’t use him for vaccine,” Fontana said.

“Why?” she asked, heading to the next hatch. “He’d infect people with horrible apps?”

“Actually, I was wondering if he had a spine,” Fontana said, then looked down. “Yep. Sure does. Amazing…”

“Don’t step in him, Da,” Faith said. “You might get Slimelined. HELLO ! ANY ZOMBIES IN THERE? ZOMBIES, ZOMBIES, OLLY-OLLY OXENFREE!”

“I’m starting to think there was a mutiny,” Steve said, stepping over the corpse. The man had been wearing body armor and he would have been facing a similarly clad man further down the corridor. Both had rifles by their bodies, one an M4 the other an AK variant, and there were casings scattered along the corridor.

“Looks that way,” Fontana said, turning the smaller man over. His legs and face had been chewed off but the armor had kept his torso intact. Except for the decomposition. “Ugh.”

“What?” Faith asked, looking down. “Clean it up and it’s pretty good gear. Well, except the holes that are in it.”

“It wasn’t the body or the gear I was going ugh about,” Fontana said. “Soccoro Security. Evan Soccoro’s company.”

“Context?” Steve asked.

“There are contractors and contractors,” Fontana said, continuing the sweep. “Despite it’s rep, Blackwater wasn’t actually that bad. They had something resembling quality control. Triple Canopy? Very good. At least their primary operators. And they pick good associate operators.”