John Ringo - Under a Graveyard Sky

“Six of us came off, Woodie,” Gardner said softly. “Ninety-four and twenty-six refugees didn’t. You’ve carried bodies. You know how heavy they are. Now…they’re not.”

“That’s horrible,” Woodman said.

“No,” Gardner said, flashing her light around. “It’s efficient, simple and brutal. It’s Wolf all over if you think about it. These things only eat dead flesh. They may get into some of the electronics but those are mostly thrashed by the infecteds, anyway. It cleans the boat out of the main issue, the dead meat on the dead people. If we ever get around to clearing this out, all we’ll have to do is bag the bones.”

“We won’t know who’s who,” Woodman said.

“Does it matter?” Gardner said. “There’s a big thing, it’s called an ossory, in France. All the guys who died in a certain battle in World War One. They buried them, waited for bugs like this to do their work, then dug them back up. All of certain bones are on the left, all the others are on the right and the skulls are in the middle.”

She picked up the skull of the former Coast Guard crewman and looked at it as beetles poured out.

“I don’t know who you were but you were my brother,” Gardner said. “This way, I know I can give you a decent burial. And I will remember you. Now, we’ve got a mission to complete, Woodman, and people waiting on us. Live people. Let the dead bury the dead.”

* * *

Chris hadn’t known the boat like the back of his hand, but he’d been able to determine the areas on the other side of several of the doors. The one they’d chosen was the “lobby” area between the, yes, bloody damned skating rink and the even more bloody damned “four hundred person theater.” Steve was starting to think that whoever had conceived this bloody beast had more megalomania than Napoleon.

About half the doors were to stairwells to the passenger cabins. Steve was torn between wanting to clear the major areas and concentrate on the passenger cabins. But the way their fire had to be echoing in this ship the passengers surely knew they were on the way. And he wasn’t sure he yet wanted to clear stairwells possibly filled with zombies.

“We’ll open and attract from, not clear, this area,” Steve said. “Then the theatre. Then start on the passenger zones.”

“Roger, sir,” Fontana said, shaking his head at the pile of ammo boxes. They’d gotten boats alongside and brought up more people including some “trained” seamen who were willing to go into “non zombie” areas. With their help they’d brought all the ammo up onto the deck well away from the zombie bodies. Steve had also had them bring up some of his “little friends” and they had been scattered on the bodies. And gotten a bite to eat and rehydrated. Time to get back to work.

The outer doors were already open. Faith checked the door, shook her head, put away the stethoscope, then pulled out the Halligan tool. This time Fontana and Hooch were on either side of the door, ready to pull.

Steve swiped, then pulled back to cover.

Faith popped the door, stepped back and started to put the tool on the deck. But there seemed like time so she stowed it away in its holster.

Steve realized that they’d made a mistake. Not a major one but a mistake. He either should have had Faith take one of the rifles or have Fontana handle the Halligan. The shotgunners were the first line of defense with the riflemen backing them. It was a minor point. There was, again, silence and darkness on the far side of the hatch.

The foresome lined up in the hatch and Steve lifted the whistle and blew.

Again there was a guttural howling from the interior. They immediately started to back up and were to the exterior hatch before the first zombie appeared.

“Wait,” Steve said, taking the shot.

“I thought you said shotgun in here?” Faith complained.

“It was a clap shot and we’re conserving shotgun ammo,” Steve said. “Rotate for engagement.”

They continued to back down the deck and stopped at the point they’d planned. And waited. There were sounds from inside the ship but no zombies appeared.

“I think they stopped for a snack,” Faith said. It was hard to hear with all the gear on their heads.

“Bloody stupid…” Steve said. He lifted the whistle and gave another blast on it. That got some coming around the corner and he and Fontana began to engage.

The crackle of semi-automatic fire started to draw the zombies. But slowly. They came out even more slowly than at the theatre and the two riflemen continued to pick them off as they stumbled, mostly blind, into the light, looking for the source of the sound and thus food.

Finally there were only the growling sounds echoing from the hatch.

“Faith?” Steve said. “Don’t want you whining…”

“Going pistol,” Faith said. She started to reach for her.45 then pulled out one of the 10mms that they’d gotten off the Coast Guard cutter. They’d left the arms room alone but any weapons on the deck were considered fair game. “Cover me, Hooch.”

“Got it,” Hocieniec said, following her to the hatch.

Faith fired several slow and deliberate shots into the darkness and downward. Then she shifted up and shot twice more.

“I know this is a more powerful pistol,” Faith said, reloading and putting the weapon away. “But it really doesn’t feel that way, you know? We gonna close these doors? I’m not moving the bodies.”

“Next time wait til they’re clear of the doors, then,” Hooch said. “Cover me.”

* * *

“Ready?” Steve asked.

All four had switched back to shotgun after clearing the lobby and theatre. Now it was time to start working up to the passenger cabins. That meant clearing the stairwell to the first three levels of passenger cabins.

There were two sets according to Chris, inboard and outboard. Based upon what they’d seen with the exterior ones, there might be as many as fifty survivors. Spread over an area the size of a skyscraper.

But first they had to clear the stairwells.

“Been that way,” Faith said. She’d insisted on point.

Steve keyed the door, which popped open dropping a decomposing corpse at her feet. It was wearing bermuda shorts and a flowered shirt. It was unchewed.

There were scratch marks on the inside of the door.

“Shit,” Faith snarled. “Shit, shit…” She turned around and walked to the far bulkhead and started kicking it. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT.” Then she reached behind her to cover the teddy bear’s eyes. “Don’t look, Trixie. It’s not nicey.”

Fontana looked at Steve who held up a finger. Hooch had turned away as well. Steve was nodding his head as if counting time.

“Faith,” Steve said as softly as he could through the respirator. “There are people who need saving upstairs. Do you need to head back to the boats?”

“Just give Trixie a second, okay, Da?” Faith said. She kicked the bulkhead a couple more times, then stuffed the bear’s head down into her assault pack. “I think Trixie needs some sleepy time.” She pulled off her outer glove, then reached into a pouch and pulled out an iPod. She put in the headphones, consulted the playlists, then turned it on. Last, she turned around and walked across and into the stairwell.

“What are you waiting for, an invitation?”

* * *

Robert “Rusty” Fulmer Bennett III had gotten over regretting this “pleasure cruise” a long time ago. How long he wasn’t sure. His buddy, Ted, had suggested they go halves on a room “cause chicks on cruises are easy.” He hadn’t managed to score before the news announced a plague on land. Then the word went around-rumor at first, then confirmed by the ship’s crew-that the “Pacific Flu” had gotten onboard. Things kind of went downhill from there.