03 deluge of the dead, p.8
03 Deluge of the Dead, page 8
“Well don’t just stand there like zombies!” Scott barked. Then he shook his head and continued in a calmer tone. “Look, we’re all going to die someday. So for me, if I can consummate our plans to rescue thousands more survivors and secure a future for the people on this ship, along with the rest of the Flotilla, then perhaps this is a good day to die.” He looked down, not wanting to see the looks of pity and horror on their faces. Then he said, “You have your orders. I’ll be in my quarters for the next hour with my family. Please don’t disturb us unless you really need me. And don’t mention my condition to anyone else until after the meeting. I need to arrange a smooth transfer of command and we can’t afford to distract the rest of our people from the rescue mission.”
Scott turned leave, but paused next to the communications officer and said, “Marty, you still smoke cigarettes, don’t you?” Marty nodded and blinked tear filled eyes. “Can you spare a few?” Scott asked.
Marty pulled out a pack of Marlboros and passed them to Scott silently. Scott nodded, smiled sadly, and strode off the bridge without another word. Nobody laughed at the surgical tape holding the seat of his pants together.
“You heard the Commodore,” bellowed Captain Fisher. “Make it so!”
*****
George Hammer, the new Harbor Master, was a very busy man that morning. He had mobilized virtually everyone in the port to prepare for the launch of Operation Dunkirk and the expected influx of refugees from Operation Exodus. He had crews working on everything from fueling boats for the rescue operation to preparing temporary housing for refugees. Trucks and giant forklifts were positioning hundreds of empty shipping containers for use as crude shelters near the entrances to the safe haven where reception and screening centers would were being set up. Hundreds of abandoned boats were being collected and positioned three and four abreast along previously empty shipping berths to serve as refugee housing. An armed team of the new militia had been sent to the Terminal Island Federal Prison to clear out any remaining zombies and prepare the facility to accept thousands of refugees. Even freight trains were moving around the port, dropping off containers full of food and vital supplies where refugee camps would be established. Meanwhile the majority of the boats and yachts that formed the Flotilla were busy staking their own claim to dock space and preparing to take part in the rescue operation. It was a logistical nightmare made all the worse by the tight schedule imposed by the immanent rain storm.
If George was flustered by the pressure and intensity of his responsibilities, he didn’t let it show. It seemed as if he had to make ten decisions per minute and everyone wanted his attention at once, but he handled each issue and inquiry calmly and quickly. He was sure that he was making more than a few mistakes along the way, such as exactly where to put what, or send who, but he knew that the important thing was to keep the ball rolling. Time was short and lives depended on being ready for even bigger challenges over the next 24 hours. It probably helped that he was insulated from most of the hustle and bustle in the port, sitting on the bridge of the Expiscator and directing the activity on half a dozen radio frequencies. He also had a solid team of assistants composed of the college kids he had picked up in Mexico and his own construction crew from Cabo. They screened most of the calls and passed along his instructions effectively. Stan Dawson was also kept busy piloting the big yacht around the port so that George could see the progress of the preparations for himself. George was supervising a monumental undertaking and he thought it was coming together as well as could be expected, until he received a request to attend an urgent meeting with Scott.
“What now?” George muttered. Then he called up to Stan Dawson on the flying bridge. “Take us over to the Sovereign Spirit, Stan. The Commodore wants to see me.”
*****
Coast Guard Captain Shawn McCloud found himself as busy as everyone else that day as he organized and deployed his assets in support of the evacuation plan. Sitting in the Combat Information Center aboard the USCGC Stratton he contemplated likely scenarios and outcomes. He had a total of six helicopters at his disposal, composed of two Dolphins aboard the Stratton, as well as two more Dolphins and two slightly larger Seahawks that had been recalled from Catalina Island. He was also in command of a respectable flotilla of Coast Guard Cutters and patrol boats, after relieving the former commander of the Los Angeles District for dereliction of duty. All of these assets would be employed in Operation Dunkirk to rescue survivors along the coast during the impending rain storm.
The helicopters had come into play first, flying over coastal communities and using loud speakers to spread news of the evacuation plan among survivors without access to radio, television, or internet announcements. The smaller Coast Guard cutters would soon be deployed to major marinas and piers along the coast. Smaller patrol boats would assist boats from the civilian Survival Flotilla in rescuing survivors from the beaches. Captain McCloud would sail the Stratton herself up to Marina Del Ray where her crew would attempt to secure as many docks and boats as possible to create another safe haven for survivors. Then he would bring the ship back to the Coast Guard Station on Terminal Island to provide security and crowd control for the refugees who would be assigned housing in the former prison there.
Everything had to be done quickly to take advantage of the brief window of opportunity created by the rain storm. It was hectic, bordering on frantic, but Captain McCloud thought that he had his part under control until he received an urgent message to attend an emergency conference with Commodore Allen.
*****
Scott had been able to hold himself together in the sickbay and in front of the bridge officers. He hoped he could do the same at the upcoming meeting with leaders of the Flotilla, but he knew that he would become an emotional wreck when he faced Michelle and Billy. It was one thing to ignore his fate while he still had important work to do, but another thing entirely to face his loved ones knowing that this was the last day of his life. Nevertheless, face them he must. He steeled his composure as he entered the master suite.
“Michelle, honey? Billy? I’m home,” he called out as usual, but his voice already sounded dead to his own ears. He was actually relieved when no one replied. Finding himself alone in the well appointed suite, Scott went directly to his walk-in closet for a change of clothes, choosing some loose kaki cargo pants. While transferring his personal affects to the new pockets Scott paused to open his wallet and pull out the pictures he always carried: One of Michelle looking like a super model when they met; another of Billy at age two, holding Scott’s hand as they walked on the beach. Tears welled in Scott’s eyes as he returned the photos gently and opened his cell phone to text his wife and son. “Come see me in the suite. Urgent.”
Treasuring the few minutes of solitude – possibly his last – Scott walked out onto the balcony. He pulled out one of Marty’s cigarettes, stared at it for a moment and lit it, savoring the strange but familiar taste of tobacco. It was his first smoke in over a year, aside from the occasional cigar, and it made him cough even as the rush of nicotine brought back long suppressed memories and cravings. He had been a smoker for much of his life, until winning the lotto, and always thought he would die of a smoking related disease – not a zombie bite. The harsh smoke triggered a kaleidoscope of memories from his younger years.
Scott had enjoyed a good life. Blessed with loving parents and a good education, his formative years had instilled morals and values that shaped his worldview. Enlisting in the Army after high school had added the missing element of discipline. Commercial flight school added confidence to the mix. Scott’s years at university studying international relations had provided a global perspective and fueled his love for travel. Too bad there hadn’t been any want ads for ambassadors when he graduated. Nevertheless, Scott’s journey through life had been full of learning experiences. He reflected on those adventures, from producing sports events in Europe to managing sustainable development projects in Central America and public works projects in California, not to mention his failed enterprises in charter aviation and internet start-ups. He realized that even his failures had helped to build his character. A jack of all trades and master of none, Scott had nonetheless lived a full and active life. However, he always thought his smoking and drinking would be the death of him. It was a wonder that Michelle had stuck with him through all of that.
Winning the Mega Lotto had changed his life in more ways than Scott could have imagined. Not only had he been able to buy several multi-million dollar homes, as well as the Sovereign Spirit and all the “toys” aboard her, but he had actually quit smoking and reduced his drinking to social occasions. He even upgraded to a Cadillac health insurance program and actually felt secure for one of the first times in his life. Scott also had a desire to launch new business ventures that created jobs for others, and possibly even write a book or two to be remembered by. In fact, until the zombie apocalypse arrived, Scott had been looking forward to a long and enjoyable life of luxury.
Even after the world fell apart around him, Scott had felt secure aboard the ship. It gave him the courage to lead rescue missions and confront zombies face to face, buttressed by the knowledge that he and his loved ones had the security of the Sovereign Spirit to fall back on. His position and assets had even thrust him into a leadership role in the desperate struggle to help survivors and preserve some remnants of civilization. Perhaps his actions over the past two weeks were enough to justify his existence and grant him peace in the afterlife. He just wished that he could do more to ensure the safety and happiness of his family. He really wasn’t ready to die yet. But whatever happened, he definitely didn’t want to join the ranks of the undead. These not so cheery thoughts were interrupted when the door to the balcony slid open.
“Scott?” called Michelle. “I was down in the bowling alley getting a lesson on shooting handguns from Mrs. O’Hara with some of the other Marine wives. I got most of the women aboard to join us too. Now, what’s so urgent? Hey! Is that a cigarette you’re smoking? What the hell is going on here?”
Scott took one more drag and gathered his strength before flicking the butt overboard and turning to face his wife. The tremble in his lips and redness in his eyes were enough to freeze Michelle in place. “Honey, I have some very bad news,” Scott said. His voice cracked and his gaze fell, refusing to look his wife in the eye. “Someone aboard got infected and they bit…” He couldn’t bring himself to say “me.”
“Who did they bite? Not Billy, please God, not Billy!” she shrieked, unable to think of anything else that would have this effect on Scott.
“No, honey,” Scott replied in a steadier tone of voice. He realized suddenly that he would be much more grief stricken if it had been Billy with the zombie bite, or God forbid Michelle. This epiphany even helped him to smile slightly as he said, “Not Billy... No, baby, it’s me… A zombie bitch bit me in the ass.”
“What does that mean?” she asked incredulously. When he hesitated again she said, “Did you see the doctor? What can we do?”
“It means I’m fucked,” replied Scott. “And yes, baby, I saw the doctor. Barring a miracle, I’ll be dead by tomorrow. But you and Billy will be just fine. I promise you that.”
After a moment of stunned silence Michelle threw herself into Scott’s arms, wide eyed and sobbing. “Don’t you dare die and leave us alone, Scott Allen!”
“It’s not my choice, honey,” Scott mumbled into her ear as the tears started to flow down his own face. He held her close, smelling her hair, and feeling her body shudder and shake in emotional turmoil. “You know I love you and I’ll make sure that you and Billy are safe and protected when I’m gone. But you need to be strong. I need you to be strong right now. And I need you to remember that you are the love of my life.”
They might have stayed there holding each other for the rest of the hour, if the door to the suite hadn’t banged open and Billy called out, “What’s up Dad? I came as soon as I could. Hey, where are you guys?”
Scott grasped Michelle by her shoulders and whispered, “Be strong baby,” Then he wiped the tears from his eyes, took a deep breath and raised an only slightly broken voice to say, “We’re out here son.”
*****
Coast Guard Captain Shawn McCloud found himself as busy as everyone else that day as he organized and deployed his assets in support of the evacuation plan. Sitting in the Combat Information Center aboard the USCGC Stratton he contemplated likely scenarios and outcomes. He had a total of six helicopters at his disposal, composed of the two Dolphins aboard the Stratton, as well as two more Dolphins and two slightly larger Seahawks that would be flying back from Catalina Island. He was also in command of a respectable flotilla of Coast Guard Cutters and patrol boats, after relieving the former commander of the Los Angeles District for dereliction of duty. All of these assets would be employed in Operation Dunkirk to rescue survivors along the coast during the imminent storm.
The helicopters would come into play first, flying over coastal communities and using loud speakers to spread news of the evacuation plan among survivors without access to radio, television, or internet announcements. Coast Guard cutters would soon be deployed to major marinas and piers along the coast. Over a dozen patrol boats would assist boats from the civilian Survival Flotilla in rescuing survivors from the beaches. Captain McCloud would sail the Stratton herself up to Marina Del Ray where her crew would attempt to secure as many docks and boats as possible in hope of creating another safe haven for survivors. Then he would bring the ship back to the Coast Guard Station on Terminal Island to provide security and crowd control for refugees who would be assigned housing in the former prison there.
Everything had to be done quickly to take advantage of the brief window of opportunity created by the impending storm. It was hectic, bordering on frantic, but Captain McCloud thought that he had his part under control until he received an urgent request to attend a meeting with Commodore Allen. “This had better be important,” he muttered.
*****
Carl followed the helicopter to the bus depot where a pair of Marine guards opened the gate for the Suburban to enter the compound. He was pleased to see the rest of the vehicles he had led from the port arranged in a defensive circle amidst dozens of public buses. Sergeant Major O’Hara waved as Carl pulled up next to him.
“That was quite a stunt, lad,” said the weathered Marine with a smile. “Not only did you lead that mob of Zs away from the highway, you even managed to fry their bacon. Good show!”
“Thanks Sarge,” replied Carl. “And you seem to have found a good place to set up camp too.”
“Yes, sir,” O’Hara agreed. “Not many zombies around this industrial district and these buses should come in handy during the evacuation. There’s another yard down the street full of school buses too. I’ve radioed the mayor and asked him to bring bus drivers by helicopter. I just hope we can collect enough survivors during the storm to fill all the seats.”
“Me too,” Carl said before the sound of the helicopter landing made further conversation impossible. Gus was the first one out the door and he jogged over to the Suburban with Carl’s axe in hand. As the helicopter’s engine wound down Carl said, “Good to see you, buddy. We were worried about you. Sorry we left you in a jam.”
“No problem, boss.” Gus replied. “I always wanted to ride in a helicopter anyway. Here’s your axe back.”
Carl reached out to take the axe and couldn’t help noticing blood on the blade. “Thanks, Gus. I’m sort of surprised you carried it up the ladder. I hear it got kind of hairy.”
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t think of leaving your axe behind. ‘Course I did leave the shotgun after I ran out of shells for it.” Gus looked sad about that.
“You can have mine,” said Carl and he handed his 12 gauge pump to Gus along with a pouch full of shells.
“Thanks!” said Gus, then paused and said, “But you might need it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Carl replied. “I’ve got my pistol and axe. Besides, you and Karen are the ones riding shotgun. Right?” Their exchange was interrupted when Mick Williams jogged over to them.
“Hey, Carl? Sergeant Major? I just got a radio message to bring both of you back to the ship with me for some kind of big meeting with the Commodore.”
Carl and O’Hara exchanged glances. Both of them realized it must be important for Scott to pull them off of their current mission. “Okay,” Carl told Mick, then turned to Gus and Karen. “You two stay here to help the Marines guard these buses. This is actually a good place to wait for the road crews from the city to link up. I’ll try to get back by then. In the meantime you can see how many of these buses will be ready for use during the evacuation. I’ll follow up on getting drivers for them too.”
O’Hara went to speak briefly with his men before joining Carl and Mick at the helicopter. “Any idea what this meeting is about?” he asked.
“Not a clue,” replied Mick. “But I heard the ship calling most of the other major players too, so it must be something big. They specifically asked for the two of you, as well as Mark and me.”
“Well, I suppose it’s too much to hope it will be another brunch buffet. I missed the last one.” commented O’Hara, producing a smile from Mick and Mark, but only a questioning look from Carl.
A minute later they were airborne and flying back down the Harbor Freeway. It was the first time Carl had seen the aftermath of Z-Day from the air and it was a sobering sight indeed. The apocalyptic look of a city overrun by the undead was even more apparent from above than when he was driving through it. The enormity of the experience was intensified by the raging flames and billowing smoke rising from the Exxon Mobile refinery where he had just incinerated so many lost souls.
