John Ringo - Islands of Rage and Hope

“What is going on there?” Tom Shelley asked. “I assume that the detainees have been released?”

“None of the detainees made it,” Hamilton said. “At the point that we were trying to manage their extraction, things pretty much fell apart. I’m assuming the few who were resistant were eaten by the rest or died in their cells of dehydration or starvation. It was not intentional, there was more effort put into securing the detainees than other, arguably more vital, issues. Like a lot of things, it just didn’t work out. At the time I was handling other issues. Family among others. Guantanamo Bay is currently our only land base and it’s not even fully secure, from what I’ve been getting. They’re trying to get helos operational as well as building zombie traps. That’s where all the building is happening and with the exception of Mr. Lyons, it’s assumed that you all would prefer to be builders rather than this rather nasty but necessary destruction.”

“Am I being reactivated, sir?” Troy asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Not if you are resistant, Mr. Lyons,” Hamilton said. “Your mechanical expertise would be quite useful on the civilian side. But I’ve got a thirteen-year-old running my Marines and a fifteen-year-old running my Naval Landing Parties. Competently or they wouldn’t be doing so. But you’ll understand that I’m not going to turn down the help of a former Naval Special Warfare officer if it’s offered.”

“I’m not exactly in shape at the moment,” Lyons said, raising his arm with some difficulty.

“That is what food and exercise are for, Mr. Lyons,” Hamilton said. “My only gunnery sergeant, who is not here unfortunately, had to be carried off the Iwo Jima . He is currently again leading PT at Gitmo. Although they go running in combat gear since they occasionally run into infected who have penetrated the fences.”

“You have helos,” Kuznetsov said. “Do you have other aircraft?”

“The helos are yet to be certified for flight,” Hamilton said. “That is where a good bit of my Marines are, working on them. As to other aircraft, there are no current plans to get airplanes working. The only strip we could use is Gitmo and possibly here. And we have virtually no mechanics qualified to work on most of them. Obviously, if we’re talking about a Cessna, any of the Marine mechanics could fix one up.”

“Any of us could fix one up,” Commander Daniels said. “Well, most of us. And drive them.”

“Captain Smith is concentrated on helos,” Hamilton said thoughtfully. “There are planes at this airstrip. The ones at Gitmo are either too large to be viable—there’s a Hercules there—or too complex. Most of the rest are corporate jets. But I suspect there are some smaller ones here. Probably not worth the effort, though. We don’t do much in the way of reconnaissance and that would be about their only real utility.”

“Critical parts and supplies?” Commander Daniels said.

“Scavenge and kludge,” Hamilton replied.

“Seriously?” Lyons said.

“Pretty much what we do,” Hamilton said. “Captain Smith noted to me that his master’s thesis was on the Siege of Malta and the many work-arounds that were used to keep their aircraft flying. He holds the opinion that letting people scrounge in a situation like this, if not at will then widely, is more effective than trying to do everything by the book. So far it’s working, so I suppose my boss has a point. It’s a decidedly eccentric one, however.”

“What about medical evacuation?” Dr. Price said.

“The most serious issue we’ve had on this float was an AD,” Hamilton said. “Which was an abdominal through and through.”

“Ouch,” Troy said. “What happened?”

“As Lieutenant Smith said when I asked, we’re taking undertrained Marines mixed with trained ones, few of them infantry MOS, and throwing them out into a chaotic environment,” Hamilton said. “The short answer is one of them swept his buddy and jerked the trigger in panic. Mr. Walker—whose medical training was an intense but brief course thirty-some-odd years ago and about three years experience putting bandages on pimples—then opened him up like a trout and stitched everything back together as best he could remember. I’m given to understand he had someone hold open a copy of Gray’s Anatomy while he was working.”

“Jesus,” Dr. Price said.

“The Marine is currently recovering in sickbay,” Hamilton said. “So far the infection is under control. He has some rather spectacular scars but it appears he will live. And that more or less defines current reality. Dr. Price, ever delivered a baby?”

“I heard,” Price said, sighing. “I’m hoping there are some obstetrics texts.”

“We just raided the medical school on this island,” Hamilton said. “They had some. Now we do.”

“Any surviving faculty?” Tom asked.

“This is the first island where we have yet to find a single survivor,” Hamilton said. “And we’d have found them by now what with one thing and another. We’re not sure why this one had zero. We’d expected, statistically, to find twenty. But there were none.”

“That is so sad,” Rizwana said, shaking her head. “What London must be like.”

“The ocean is made of tears, Dr. Shelley,” Hamilton said. “The only thing we can do is keep lighting candles, one by one, and try to bring back the light. And with that, I really must bid you adieu. I have to go see a subordinate about a liberty schedule. The one benefit to being forced to stay in place is I can spend the free time giving my people some time off on Christmas Day before we institute a rather strict training schedule…”

“That is gonna cause one hell of an interesting set of tan lines,” Sergeant Smith said, making sure his shades were in place so it wasn’t obvious he was watching his jailbait boss.

Faith had just run down the beach to dive into the water wearing a blue bikini top, pink shorts, a trench knife and dual .45s in tactical thigh holsters.

“It’s like Zombie Raider,” Hooch said, shaking his head.

“But with a better butt,” Smith said, then grimaced. “I’m going to hell for that, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are, Sergeant, yes, you are,” Hooch said. “You’re going to the special hell.” He looked at his watch and lurched up. “Gotta go get it on.”

“I’m not even sure the security is worth it,” Smith said. “We haven’t had a single incident all day.”

“We were still shooting them last night,” Hooch said, then shook his head. “Two nights ago.”

“Hey, guys, why aren’t you swimming?” Faith asked, walking out of the water and wringing out her hair.

“Uh, sharks, ma’am?” Sergeant Smith said.

“So far so good,” Faith said, shrugging. “I think they’re all over at Blowing Point getting stuffed. The water’s great.”

“Okay, ma’am,” Smith said, getting up. He wasn’t going to get out-oorahed by a thirteen-year-old even if it was Miss Faith. “I’m not sure about my M4, ma’am.”

“Sling it over your back,” Faith said. “We’re going to have to clean the shit out of our weapons, anyway. And that way if there is a shark you can shoot it.”

The water was gin clear and smooth as a mill pond. Smith was pretty sure that they’d see any approaching sharks.

He was also pretty sure he was going to the special hell.

“Can’t catch me!” Faith said, splashing him, then diving away.

Smith stayed where he was.

“I’m trying for friendly uncle, here, ma’am,” Smith said, wiping salt water off his face. “I’m not sure that fits in with playing chase games.”

“If you’re an uncle, you must be from West Virginia,” Faith said, grinning. “At least from the look of your bathing suit.”