To Sail a Darkling Sea

CHAPTER 22

“Please God, we don’t have another evolution like that one,” Corporal Douglas said. “I am fricking beat!”

The sun had set on the town of Las Corrillas, “the trickle,” and all the survivors that were recoverable were tucked away in the large yacht that had brought down the Marines. Sophia had invited the Marines over to her boat to hang for a while before they moved out to the next town.

“I think in retrospect we should have just fought our way through town,” Sophia said. “But that’s both retrospect and I don’t do that stuff.”

“I’m not sure I agree, ma’am,” Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said. “We hit some big concentrations up on the hill. And that was a hell of a lot of survivors. Getting them down in vehicles would have been as much of a pain in the ass. And walking them would have been out of the question.”

“Yeah,” Faith said, sipping a cup of tea. “Infected density was higher than you realize, sis. Most of them didn’t make it down to your teams. They were trying to find a way down. Which meant they were in our way.” She drained the tea and stood up. “Sis, thanks for hosting my guys and for the beer. But we need to get back to the boat. We’re headed back to Santa whatever to go, ugh, clear more liners.”

“Take care of yourself, sis,” Sophia said, giving her a hug. “And don’t let that Spanish climber talk you out of your pants.”

“He is cute isn’t he?” Faith said, grinning.

“Senorita, Division.”

“Division, Senorita,” Sophia said, picking up the radio.

“Need to get the Marines back over to their boat. We are pulling out in thirty.”

“Roger, Division. The party was just breaking up. Senorita, out.”

“So where you going next?” Faith asked, headed to the away boat.

“Las Galletas,” Sophia said. “Know nothing about it except ‘intel’ suggests there are some useable boats. Nothing about survivors.”

“You be careful,” Faith said, giving her a hug again before getting on the boat. “Especially with all these mall ninjas.”

“We’ll get it done,” Sophia said. “Da wants boats and survivors, we’ll get him boats and survivors… ”

* * *

“We’re definitely not clearing this one. Definitely not.”

They’d arrived at the town of Candelaria just before dawn. Which wasn’t good. It meant they couldn’t draw any of the infected in to a kill zone. And there were going to be infected. The town was huge, at least as big as Las Corrillas. But there were some big yachts in the basin. The question was whether they could get them out. They’d been told to just anchor off-shore and wait for dawn. It was dawn. And it was a damned pretty one. But it didn’t mean the boats were any closer to being in their hands. And there were infected moving around.

“Senorita. Take your away boat and go recon. See if we can cut these yachts out. I’m told recon indicates some good deep water inflatables as well. Check on them.”

“Roger, Division,” Sophia said, her face working. “One question, Division, define ‘cut out,’ over.”

“Remind me to assign you some reading material, Senorita. See if we can go in and grab them without actually mixing it up, much, with infected, over.”

“Oh, sure, that should be easy,” Sophia said. “Olga, gear up. I want somebody besides me on this run.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Crunch,” Olga said, saluting. “Gearing up!”

* * *

There were the usual bunch of sailboats in the harbor. Probably more than normal. But there were also two big motor yachts. They were both rigged as sport fishers but one was at least a 65 and the other was enormous, probably a 90 or better.

There were nine or ten big off-shore inflatables. They were rigged for fishing as well. It was apparent that sport fishing was a big industry in the area. But they’d be really useful as general purpose “get-around” boats. Better than her dinghy, that was for sure.

Then there were the infected. There were a lot of them and they were active at the moment. But they were scattered. The way the marina was laid out, there were only so many that could, easily, make their way to the boats. One of the yachts was tied up alongside the seawall. The other was butt-in to one of the docks.

She looked up at the sound of an outboard puttering along and wasn’t surprised it was Lieutenant Chen.

“I’m glad you’re here, sir,” Sophia said. She held up her digital camera. “I was taking pictures, but I didn’t know if they were going to make sense.”

“What do you think?” Chen asked.

“I think it’s going to take careful coordination,” Sophia said. “And one of the gunboats. Just in case it drops in the pot. And our best people. We come up to that one that’s butt in. Throw a grapnel on the front rail. Send a team aboard. One of them cuts the ropes, I’d suggest a machete for that, while the other two cover. If the infected react, the gunboats engage outside the boat, port and starboard, and the security team engages inside. Once they’ve cut the ropes, pull it out. Then we find out if it’s going to run.”

“And the big one?” Chen asked.

“Pretty much the same thing, sir,” Sophia said. “Possibly with both gunboats. One inside and one outside. The inflatables will be easy. I’d suggest that we take out the one that’s sternfirst, first. That’s closest to the main entrance and most likely to attract a bunch of infected. The other one, we can cover it pretty good. There’s only one way for them to approach and we can chew them up with the fifties if they come that way.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Chen said. “Rusty and Anarchy, for sure. Who else?”

“Olga,” Sophia said, thumbing at the girl. “With the machete.”

“Oh, you’re going to give me a machete!” Olga said, clapping her hands happily.

“Are the other gunners going to be disciplined enough with Anarchy gone, sir?” Sophia asked.

“I’ll be watching them, Lieutenant,” Chen said. “We’ll use my boat to pull it out.”

* * *

“Okay, the first problem,” Anarchy said, looking up at the bulwarks of the yacht. “How the hell do we get aboard?”

The side of the yacht was well above the level of the inflatable. At least at the front.

“I’ll creep back to the stern,” Paula said, quietly. As one of the people with the most experience driving small boats, she’d been elected to drive the inflatable. She really didn’t like being this close to infected, but she knew she was the best choice.

The sun was well up and most of the infected had gone to ground. They mostly moved at night and around dawn and dusk. But it didn’t mean they weren’t there.

“Hey, boss,” Rusty whispered.

“Yeah,” Anarchy said.

“We get back there, I can boost you and Olga over,” Rusty said. “Then you give me a hand up.”

“Okay,” Anarchy said. “Let’s try to keep this quiet. If we don’t fire at all, I’d be just as happy. I’d like these guys to keep sleeping. Okay, Paula, let’s do it.”

* * *

“You said boost,” Mcgarity muttered as he was more or less hurled over the bulwark. Rusty was a big boy, Mcgarity not so much. And Rusty had gotten back pretty much all his strength, then some, handling the big fifties and their ammo.

The problem being, there was an infected sleeping in the shadow of the superstructure of the yacht. It woke up at the clatter of the arriving infantryman and scrabbled towards him on hands and knees, hissing.

It hit Mcgarity and tried to bite. The security specialist wasn’t wearing full zombie fighting gear and it nearly managed to get his neck. He fended it off and got a hand on its throat just before it let out the standard zombie howl.

Mcgarity drew his side-arm and shoved it into the infected’s stomach, pulling the trigger repeatedly and trying to angle up. Being in contact muffled the sound of the shots. Something must have given because the infected stopped struggling.

It was only when he pushed it off that he realized the infected was a teenage boy, shrunken and emaciated by privation and covered in scars including bite marks.

“Fuck,” Mcgarity said, shaking his head. “Looks like fucking Gollum… ”

He rolled over then reloaded and holstered his 1911, looking around to see if the scuffle had attracted any attention. None immediately apparent.

“Gimme a hand getting this body in the harbor… ”

* * *

Between the two of them and a rope, and Paula pushing on his ass and boots, they managed to get Rusty over the side.

“We gotta figure out a better way to do this,” Anarchy said. “Olga, get the ropes.”

“Okay,” Olga said, drawing her machete.

An infected came down the wharf, on hands and knees, snuffling at the boards of one of the buildings.

“Target,” Rusty said, raising his weapon.

“No,” Anarchy said. “And inside voice. Just be quiet. Olga!” he hissed.

Olga lifted her head and looked at him. She was just about to chop one of the ropes.

He held his finger up to his lips, pointed at the infected, which was no more than thirty yards away, then motioned for her to cut with a knife.

There were six thick lines to cut. Anarchy watched her cutting through one then tapped Rusty and pointed to another.

Rusty pointed at his chest, puzzled, then made a cutting motion.

Anarchy nodded, furiously, and made another cutting motion and pointed at the line.

Rusty made the same cutting motion then held out his hands.

Mcgarity rolled his eyes and pulled out a tactical knife, handing it to him.

Rusty started cutting lines while Mcgarity watched the infected. It finally found what it was looking for and grabbed something. It was a rat. The infected didn’t bother with cleaning. The squeaking rodent went down pretty much whole.

The building was some sort of convenience store. The doors were locked and there were bars on the windows. Even if there had been infected, or noninfected, in there, they were long dead. But the rats could get in and eat. Then the zombies ate the rats.

Zombies could probably survive a long time on rats. And there was going to be lots of food for rats.

Mcgarity suddenly realized that some of the assumptions people were making about zombies running out of food were optimistic. Maybe on ships. Land, not so much.

The infected continued sniffing then looked around, searching for another source of food. It looked at the people on the boat and appeared puzzled for a moment. Then it scurried away around the corner.

“What the fuck?” Mcgarity whispered. He’d been fully prepared to start the party. But the zombie had just run off. They’d pile into a wall of bullets but this one had just run off. “Seriously, what the fuck?”

The last line was cut and he stepped, quietly, to the side and waved for the boat to pull the yacht out of its slot. They bumped a couple of times on the way into the basin but not bad. It was still seaworthy, anyway.

Once it was clear of the slot they tied it off to one of the pilings, away from any other boats, and the engineer from the Wet Debt boarded carrying a toolbag.

“Can you get it running?” Anarchy asked.

“How the hell should I know?” the mechanic said. “I don’t even know if it has fuel.”

“It has fuel,” Olga said. She’d pulled the cap on the tanks and sniffed. Then she looked in. “It’s mostly full.”

“Which means it’s probably got water in it,” the mechanic said, handing her a bottle. “And it will have separated. Pour this in the tank. It might help. I’m going to be at this a while. After I get the door open,” he added, pointing to the hatch.

“I’ve got a hammer,” Rusty said.

“You’ve got a hammer but you don’t got a knife?” Mcgarity snarled. “We need to talk about your priorities!”

“I’ve got a jimmie,” the mechanic said. “If that don’t work, then I maybe need a hammer. I’d rather be able to use the door, you know?”

The mechanic was able to get the door open without too much damage then he waved at the interior.

“I don’t do dark spaces that might have zombies in them.”

“I’ll check it,” Anarchy said. “You two, don’t fire unless a zombie swims aboard.”

“Sharks,” Olga said. “Don’t think they’ll make it.”

“Then don’t fire,” Anarchy said.

He swept the interior of the boat but it was clean. Probably nobody had been aboard since the Plague.

“All clear,” he said, stepping out of the saloon. “What’s next?”

“Get me the batteries out of the boat and I’ll see if it will crank,” he said. “I’m still gonna need somebody to keep an eye out. Not going to have time to be looking around for zombies.”

“Olga,” Anarchy said. “Rusty, get back in the boat and hand me up the batteries.”

* * *

“You got lights?” the mechanic said. “I got a headlamp but you’re gonna need lights.”

“I’ve got lights.” She turned on her rail light and pulled out a headlamp. She also had a hand taclight.

The mechanic checked the oil, humping in apparent satisfaction, then disconnected the batteries from the engine.

“How’s it going to run with no batteries?” Sophia asked.

“I’m going to install the ones I brought,” the mechanic said. “These have been sitting for so long, not only are they D-E-D, dead, they’re probably shot. I’ll check ’em back on the Debt. The way things are going, we’d better find a container of batteries soon. So, you’re the Ukrainian chick? Why no accent?”

“I was born in Ukraine,” Olga said. “I grew up in Chicago.”

“Enjoyed your little orgasm on the boat,” the guy said, grinning. He was missing his middle front teeth.

“I tell you what,” Olga said. “You concentrate on fixing the engine. I’ll concentrate on not wondering if you’re going zombie and I should shoot you.”

“Okay,” the guy said, holding up his hands. “Sorry.”

“There is a time for fun and a time to concentrate,” Olga said as Rusty came in hauling one of the big marine batteries. “Know the difference.”

“Where do you want it?” Rusty said.

“I could make some suggestions,” Olga said, leaving the compartment.

* * *

Cutting out the larger yacht was equally simple. The first time they had to fire was when they were securing the last of the offshore inflatables. The inflatable didn’t have an outboard and the deck was teak. It really didn’t look a bit like the others. But it did look fast.

They’d just boarded when an infected came stumbling up out of the previously unidentified cabin. It charged Mcgarity, screaming at the top of its lungs.

The former specialists reacted by grabbing it by the hair and tossing it over the side. Unfortuately, that sort of scream was zombie for “dinner time” and more heads started popping up all over.

“Let’s get this cut out,” Mcgarity said.

“I can just untie it,” Olga said, running forward. There was only one line securing it.

Infected were trotting down the wharf and Mcgarity pointed right.

“Rusty, starboard,” Anarchy said, keying his radio. “Division, fire support, over.”

“Roger.” Fifties started booming from the gunboat and the infected did their usual dance.

“Anarchy!” Paula yelled. “Little help?”

She’d tied the dinghy to the bigger inflatable, as they’d been doing, and when Olga got the lines free she’d started to pull out. Unfortunately, the infected had grabbed the tow line and was in the process of pulling himself aboard the dinghy.

Anarchy walked onto the transom deck of the inflatable and put three rounds into the infected, just as it got a hand onto the side of the dinghy. Just about that time the tension in the tow-line snapped. He lost his footing and went over the side into the water.

The weight of his gear sucked him down immediately and the sharks were already showing up for the shot infected.

“RUSTY, OLGA!” Paula screamed. “Anarchy’s in the water!”

The water was crystal clear. Olga looked over the side and could see the former specialist struggling to get out of his gear. But the sharks closed in. There was a gush of air and blood and the struggling stopped mercifully fast.

“What’da we do?” Rusty said, rubbing his rifle and pointing it then lowering it. It was clear the big guy had no clue what to do next.

“We go get a grapnel and try to get back as much as we can,” Olga said. “Hopefully, we’ll be allowed to give him a decent burial.”

* * *

“. . Understood, Squadron. LitDiv, out.”

Mcgarity’s loss had been a huge morale blow to the Division. That was bad enough. But in Chen’s eyes, professionally, the worse blow was the loss of experience. Mcgarity was the only person he had who was school trained on the MaDeuce and had extensive experience with it. Not to mention the only one with combat experience prior to the Plague. Or, for that matter, more than Navy boot camp. He had one, count ’em, one Navy seaman who had been a Seaman Apprentice prior to the Plague and was now a PO3. Midshipmen and Ensigns who had had “some prior civilian boating experience.” The DivTwo commander was a semi-professional, female, yachtsmen. And not much older than Sophia.

And now fucking Squadron wanted him to crew these new boats with the odds and sods they were carrying and “continue the mission”! “If any combat personnel become available, they will be moved to your location. Continue the mission.”

“Sir,” Seaman Recruit Erlfeldt said. “Seawolf just boarded. Requests a minute of your time.”

“Send her in,” Chen said. Just what he needed.

Sophia was carrying a bottle of booze. With a shot glass on top.

“Not what’s needed at this time, Lieutenant,” Chen said.

“Booze is officially forbidden on US Navy vessels, sir,” Sophia said, cracking the top and pouring a shot. “Except for two, count ’em, two shot bottles of medicinal bourbon per person aboard carried on all large vessels in the event of a significant trauma that requires broad tranquilization of the crews, sir.” She held out the shot. “And this was Anarchy’s favorite tipple.”

Chen took the shot, toasted and downed it.

“Specialist Cody Anarchy Mcgarity,” Chen said. “May he rest in peace.”

“Paula is taking the big yacht,” Sophia said. “Patrick is going aboard the smaller one as engineer. There is a guy with boating experience in the prize crews. He’ll take over as skipper. Ensign Bowman and I detailed off people to the boats and they’re being shuttled around. That should take about another thirty minutes. Then, we need to leave, sir.”

“Continue the mission,” Chen said, handing the shot glass back.

“Yes, sir,” Sophia said. “With due respect, recommend stopping offshore for burial at sea.”

“Concur,” Chen said. “Continue the mission.”