John Ringo - Islands of Rage and Hope

“I guess this is old hat for you, Seawolf,” the man said, grinning. He was vaguely familiar but a lot of people were.

“I know we’ve met…” Sophia said.

“I guess I was just another face,” the man said. “Spring Keyzers. You picked me up about a month ago. Until I saw the movie I hadn’t really realized how many people you must have picked up.”

“Sailboat,” she said, shaking his hand. “Out of commission. What are you doing working guest relations? I’d have pegged you for small boat ops.”

“I’d had enough sailing for a while?” Keyzers said, smiling tightly. “Maybe later. I guess I’m sort of lighting a candle keeping freshies from going in the drink.”

“Understandable,” Sophia said. “Hope you’re doing better.”

“Much,” the man said.

“I’ll get out of your way,” Sophia said. “You take care.”

“You, too, miss.”

“That was you, wasn’t it?” a woman said, coming out of the theater. She was crying, as were most of the people with her. “The girl lighting the candle? Thank you.”

“For what?” Sophia said. She knew she’d never seen the woman in her life. But she was getting that a lot. Random strangers walking up and saying “thank you.” She wasn’t sure why. Some of them even hugged her and she wasn’t the huggy type. “And the what?”

Sophia had decided that since everyone was talking about the “night sky” movie she should probably see it. So she was waiting for the next showing. Most of the people with her were “boaties,” people fresh off a lifeboat. You could tell by the way they were slightly swaying on the relatively stable Boadicea . Not to mention being thin, extremely tan, wearing slops that didn’t fit well and shivering slightly in the air conditioning. They had a “sponsor” with them, whom she vaguely recognized. She was pretty sure she’d picked her up.

“Everything,” the woman said, hugging her. “Just…everything. Thank you so much for what you’ve done. It must have been so hard…”

“We need to get going so these people can see the movie…” her sponsor said, gently prying the woman loose.

“The theater is clear,” the next group’s sponsor said. “If we could start moving in…?”

“I’ve never seen this before,” Sophia whispered to the sponsor. The lady was probably in her seventies. “Anything I should know? Like, what that was all about?”

“Really, miss?” the lady said.

“I’ve been out on ops since we left the Canaries,” Sophia said.

“Then, yes,” the sponsor said. “I think you are going to really need these.”

She handed Sophia a handful of tissues.

The video started with a montage of videos and stills that most people knew and remembered, to the background of Billy Joel’s “Miami 2017.” No sound on the videos, just the music. The President announcing the Plague. National Guardsmen in MOPP4 at check points. Riots. Video of reporters in “Infected Care Centers,” vast warehouses with “afflicted” tied to cots and even mattresses on the floor, writhing and snarling, covered in feces and sores. Flashes from the CDC briefings. The fairly famous scene of the Fox anchor going nuts on camera. A skyscraper on fire in some foreign city. Quite a few of the shots were from NYC. Fires, riots, fighting in the streets in what looked like Queens. A carrier being evacuated by helicopter with the caption “USS John C. Stennis evacuated due to rampant H7D3 infection.” It had been more screwed up than she realized even before the Fall. She’d been head down in the lab most of the time. A scrolling tally of the living was across the bottom of the screen, dropping like a stone, six and a half billion, then six, then five, then four…The body count of civilization ending.

The views faded to a shot of Earth’s surface, by night, dated the day the Plague was announced. There were more as the plague progressed and the sparkling strands of light slowly began to turn off, portion by portion, Africa went before South America went before Asia went before North America went before Europe until the entire world was cloaked in preindustrial darkness. The last section that was lit was somewhere in the U.S., near Tennessee she thought.

Then the shots zoomed down, pre-Plague satellite and file images of New York, Beijing, Moscow, Tokyo, Seoul, Hong Kong, filled with people and life and laughter, the cities bright by day and night with a trillion incandescent and fluorescent and neon and LED lights proclaiming to the heavens that Here Was Man.

And then the same cities, in current satellite shots, with avenues choked with decaying vehicles, and raven-picked bodies, and naked infected roaming the deserted streets.

The current night sky shot. Not a light to be seen. A world cloaked in preindustrial darkness.

The music ended. All there was was a scrolling night shot of the dead world from a satellite. It seemed like the movie had ended and Sophia almost got up, wondering why anyone would want to see this montage of horror. They’d all lived it.

Then there was the sound of the scratch of a match that touched a candle. The flame flickered for a moment, then puffed out to a background of childish laughter…

And came back as it faded back to her, Sophia, trying to light Mum’s birthday cake and Faith blowing it out every time she tried. She hated that video. She’d been ten and Faith eight and she was sooo pissed at her. She’d been no help making the cake and then Da wouldn’t make her stop. He thought it was funny. Had Da kept the damned thing?

“Quit it, Faith,” she heard herself say. “It’s Mummy’s birthday…birthday…birthday…”

Upbeat instrumental music she didn’t recognize, the screen said “Call to Arms” by Angels and Airwaves. Mile Seven , the forty-five-foot Hunter sailboat they’d started on. New York burning as they sailed out. The first light storms. Trying to figure out how to run a sailboat. Catching fish for dinner. Faith grinning and holding up that big albacore she’d caught. The tropical storm that had caught them off Bermuda. Another video, this one taken by Faith as they were being tossed about like a leaf in the middle of the storm.

“Having fun, Sis?”

“I blame Da for this, you know,” she heard herself say.

“Funny, I blame you .”

At the bottom there was a notation: Wolf Squadron: Squadron manning: 4. Steven John Smith, 45. Stacey Lynn Smith, 38. Sophia Ann Smith, 15. Faith Marie Smith, 13. With shots of each of them from New York and the Hunter days. A couple of those were from the paparazzi who had caught them leaving the BotA building.

Then a shot of the Tina’s Toy as they were approaching the first boat they’d “rescued.” Cruxshadow’s “Sophia” started.

A shot of Tina, looking small and sad with her name captioned. Pictures of Mum and Da and Faith and herself, pulling out the remains of Tina’s family. Ripping up carpet. Scrubbing the decks. Mum in the engine room covered in oil from a burst line. Sophia hadn’t seen Tina in forever, didn’t even know where she was. Last she’d heard the girl was on the Boadicea . She made a note to look her up.

The manning was now “5.” Although, honestly, Tina was never a lot of help. At the bottom the names of the members of the squadron were scrolling continuously. The scroll kept getting longer and longer as more and more people joined the “squadron.”

A picture of them bringing aboard the survivors from their first lifeboat. Chris and Paula and all the rest. She’d taken that shot. Paula was in the South Wing, Flotilla Four, now, still skippering the Linea Caliente . She and Chris had just gotten engaged, last Sophia heard.