John Ringo: Islands of Rage and Hope

“Yes, sir,” Hoag said. “I understand what you are saying and concur that you said it.”

“But you are still emotionally unsatisfied,” Hamilton said. “Did you read science fiction before the Plague, Sergeant?”

“No, sir,” Hoag said. “I really wasn’t much of a reader before the Plague, sir.”

“And, alas, we have few books in this wretched hellhole,” Hamilton said. “I did. I read, but not science fiction, before becoming a Marine officer. However, one of the books that has been on the commandant’s reading list for some time is a science fiction novel: Starship Troopers . That book started me on a quest for similar. It was hit and miss at first. Much of it is Sartre-inspired nihilistic dreck. But some is quite good and explores questions of the human condition you rarely find in common fiction or even nonfiction. An example comes to mind of the question of honor. The point that is made about dishonor is that in a situation of death before dishonor, eventually all you have are the dead and the dishonored. When you stand your post you can see the picked skeletons of the dead. We have far too many dead, Sergeant. We do not need more. Do you take my meaning?”

“Yes, sir,” Hoag said.

“We are a lifeboat, Sergeant,” Hamilton said. “A lifeboat of remaining sentient humanity. A large one but a lifeboat nonetheless. We’ve seen the infected feeding on each other, feeding on the rats that are feeding on the stores. Finding water. Walking all the way to the fresh water to drink and then apparently walking back to ‘their’ territories. We don’t know how long they will remain. But as long as they remain, we remain. We shall outlast them if it takes weeks, months or years. Because we are so very few. And, Sergeant, when, not if, those doors open, we need, not want nor desire but need, every one of us to walk out of them. Is that need clear, Sergeant?”

“Clear, sir,” Hoag said.

“All of us feel that stain of dishonor,” Hamilton said. “Survivor’s guilt. You just have a particularly specific form. Yet you, also, have a particular gift. You were given the gift of life, Sergeant. The gunnery sergeant did not, foolishly and selfishly, insist that you expend your life and your team’s life trying to save him. You were given the gift of life by the gunnery sergeant. The true dishonor to the gunny’s memory would be throwing that gift away.

“So I shall leave you to your forty-five and your parachute cord. But I would submit to you, for your consideration, that they are useful items in our future career of clearing the infected from our nation. A career we shall embark upon someday. And, Sergeant, I would very much like to have you with me when we do so. May God grant you wisdom in your choices. However, feel free to use the pistol if that is your choice. One forty-five round more or less won’t matter. Just kindly lay out a tarp or something since you’ll be leaving us to clear up your mess. Your choice, though.”

“We have a Sierra, sir,” the watch officer said.

It was four hours after dawn, local, and the third day of the Wolf Squadron float from the Canary Islands to Guantanamo Bay. So far, the sea had failed to give up its survivors in the Alexandria ’s patch. There was an unofficial pool among the subs as to who could find the most sierras, normally a ship, the military jargon was “Sierra” for an “S,” but anything floating would do in this case.

“Finally,” Vancel said. “Con, give me one third to target’s bearing. Let’s see what we’ve got….”

“Division Seven, Division Seven, Alexandria , over.”

“Division Seven, over,” Sophia replied. With those sneaky ass sub bastards around, she was having to get a suntan in a bikini. Olga had decided it was fair game to give the sub crews a show and was on the sundeck en nu. Sophia wasn’t quite willing to give the last measure for sub morale.

“Sierra One: Life raft. Military. Item: Three. One Item appears emotionally disturbed. Recommend security team, over.”

“Gimme the coordinates, over…”

“Here you go, sir,” Staff Sergeant Alfred Joseph “AJ” Decker said, pinning the bound second lieutenant down and trying to avoid the snapping teeth. “It is lunch time, sir. Nice juicy fish eyeball, sir. You know how you like the fish eyeballs, sir. Full of tasty goodness and vitamins, sir. Private First Class Condrey, help me assist Lieutenant Klette with his midday meal.”

“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” Private First Class Steve Condrey said, pinning the thrashing officer to the deck of the rubber lifeboat. He held him down with his remaining weight and helped the staff sergeant pry the lieutenant’s jaws open.

They managed to get the fish eyeball into the officer’s mouth and the lieutenant chewed and swallowed avidly, then let out a howl for more.

“I regret to say that that is all there is available, sir,” Decker said, rolling off the officer. “You are aware, sir, that we are on short rations.” He gagged the officer to avoid being bitten and then picked up a small slice of mahimahi. The flesh of the fish was actually considered, by long-term survivors, inferior to the eyeballs. “Good afternoon, Private First Class. How is your midday meal?”

“Excellent, Staff Sergeant,” the PFC said, swallowing the small sliver of fish like a guppy. “Finest sushi money can buy, Staff Sergeant.”

“Every day is a holiday and every meal is a banquet in the Corps, PFC,” Decker said, chewing the fish slowly.

“God Bless the Marine Corps, Staff Sergeant,” the PFC said.

“God Bless the United States and her glorious Constitution, Private First Class,” the staff sergeant replied. “Time to set the watch bill, Private First Class Condrey.”

“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant…”

“Staff Sergeant, permission to report!”

“Report, Private First Class!”

They were sitting in the boat back to back, as close to the position of attention as possible in a rubber raft, each of them intently scanning the horizon in their “zone.” Lieutenant Klette had drifted into a zombie hibernation.

“Possible sighting of a boat under power on the horizon, Staff Sergeant!”

“Bearing?” Staff Sergeant Decker asked.

“My nine-thirty, Staff Sergeant!” Condrey replied.

“Acknowledged,” Decker said without turning around. “Maintain watch on that contact as well as continuing visual sweep.” He set his watch to alarm in five minutes.

“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant!”

“Private First Class Condrey, status report on possible sighting?”

“Vessel continues to close our position, Staff Sergeant. Range approximately one mile. Vessel appears to be a motor yacht, Staff Sergeant. Personnel on the bridge are visible at this time, Staff Sergeant.”

“Acknowledged, Private First Class,” Decker said, turning around, still at attention. He shaded his eyes and nodded. “Vessel is confirmed. The private first class will assist the staff sergeant in dressing Lieutenant Klette.”

“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant!”

“Bleeding arseholes,” Sophia said, looking through the binoculars. “That’s a fucking zombie ! They’re dressing a fucking zombie.”

The survivors were Marines from their uniforms. And they still had combat gear. And a live zombie. She had no clue what had possessed them to keep a live zombie onboard a fucking life raft but she was going to have to think about how to handle it. She had the funny feeling that shooting it as soon as it was in range would not be the right move.