To Sail a Darkling Sea

CHAPTER 26

“Before we move you over to the other boat, you need to go through a decontamination shower.”

Thomas Walker covered his shades covered eyes with his arms against the sun and just reveled for a moment at the touch of sunshine. There were thin clouds that cut down on it a bit but that was for the good. After so long in that fetid hold it was glorious. The smell of rotting flesh had become so common he barely noticed it. What he mostly noticed was the strong, clean, wind from the sea. It smelled like wine it was so clean.

Thomas Walker wasn’t his real name. It was a common alias he’d used over the years. So common, he’d stopped using it years before the Plague. He knew why he’d instinctively given an alias when the crap hit the rotary impeller. He was out in the cold. Until he was sure what he was dealing with, he was staying under cover. Right now what he seemed to be dealing with was some sort of militia, not the pre-Plague military.

The other reason was, this was a new world. That was what none of the idiots he’d shared the compartment with for six long months could understand. Who you had been, what you had done, accomplishments and failures, no longer existed. The only thing that existed, now, is who you really were.

For now, he would be Thomas Walker, English as a Second Language Instructor, and just go with the flow.

The harbor of Santa Cruz De Tenerife was crowded with boats and ships. There were two megayachts, a dozen smaller yachts, two supply ships, a small passenger liner and a tanker all moored in the channel. Around and between them zipped at least a dozen inflatables.

What he noticed, first, was that one of the megayachts was the Denʹgi Ni Za Chto. That was Nazar Lavrenty’s yacht. So the oligarch was apparently involved. Not something in the group’s favor: he couldn’t imagine Lavrenty changing his spots. An American flag was flying from it, but flags could be changed. There were some uniforms, all US. Navy and he’d seen one Coast Guard driving a boat. Uniforms could have come from a salvaged vessel. Although it would take a ballsy militia to loot a Navy ship. Or complete idiots like the Somalis. The team that found them identified themselves as United States Marines and they had the sound. Except for the woman who he’d pegged as teenage girl despite the encumbering gear. Teenage girls were not Marine Lieutenants. Or, perhaps they were in an apocalypse. New world. Which was rather exciting since he had been getting bored with the old one.

“There are some clothes, not much, over here,” the man said. “Grab a pair of shorts, a shirt, a towel and one of the plastic trash bags. Put the shorts, shirt and towel on the table by the shower. Get in the shower. Put your clothes and personal effects in the bag. Then turn on the water. You get one temperature, which generally feels scalding at first. You can take as long as you’d like, we refilter the water, but please clean off quickly. We’ve got more survivors coming through. Do not drink the water. It has decontamination chemicals in it and while it won’t kill you, it will make you throw up. If you’re really thirsty, right now, there are bottles of water. So grab some clothes and let’s get moving.”

“May I ask a question, sir?” Bennett said, raising his hand.

“It’s gone,” the young man said. “It’s all gone. It’s the first question I asked, too. It’s what everyone asks. If you don’t believe me, try to get one of the zodiac guys to drop you off on the shore. Ask the zombies. Whatever place you’re asking about, we probably don’t have contact and we don’t know. There’s some Yanks who are in a headquarters somewhere in the US. Omaha or something like that. They’re sort of in charge but they can’t get out. Now, we really need to do the showers so I can get you over to the boat and you can get some food, a bunk and people who are there to answer your questions.”

The response sounded rote. The guy has answered the question before. A lot.

“Decontamination shower” had some rather unpleasant historical connotations. But he could smell the chemicals and there was enough spray around that if it was mixed with, say, Tabun, the guy running the shower would have been doing the dying cockroach.

Thomas grabbed a pair of Navy PT shorts and a Marine T-shirt. Someone had found a well-stocked US Navy ship. Presumably The Hole had given them permission to loot it.

The shower was, as advertised, hot. And that was good after spending months in a hold with limited, and always cold, water.

He showered quickly. He wanted to just sit under the water for an hour. But he washed grabbed his towel, shorts and shirt, put them on and got out.

“Put the towel in the bucket, please,” the young man said, pointing to a blue bucket. “They get laundered and reused. What compartment were you in?”

“L-1438,” Thomas said tossing the towel in the barrel.

The kid pulled out a piece of plastic and a Sharpie and carefully wrote L-1438 on it.

“Were all you in the same compartment?” he asked, handing it to Thomas.

“Yes.”

“Right,” the kid said, pulling out more plastic and starting to write the compartment on them.

“May I ask the purpose of this?” Thomas asked.

“They keep people in the same compartment together at first, mostly,” the kid said. “You may bloody hate your compartment mates but they’re the only people you know at first.”

“Okay,” Thomas said. “What now?”

“Wait for the rest of the blokes to get done,” the kid said. “Unless they call for a group to head over to the boat.”

“How many you got?” an older man said, walking up.

“Just this one, right now. Five when they get done showering.”

“You okay going on your own?” the older man said. He was wearing a US Navy uniform with rank tabs for a Petty Officer Third Class but no name tag.

“Yes,” Thomas said.

“Zodiac’s ready to go with some others,” the man said. “Come on.”

He led the way around the corner to the promenade deck of the liner and pointed aft.

“See that group by the gangway?” he asked. “That’s the stair thing. Join them. Okay? Or you can wait.”

“I’ll go with them,” Thomas said.

The group, with the exception of an older man wearing a US Navy uniform and no rank, was also dressed in T-shirts and shorts, holding plastic bags. From there it was possible to see another decontamination shower, a larger one. There was one of the fire-gear and MOLLE covered “zombie hunters” under the shower, still holding his M4, being doused down. The water was running off him blood red.

Thomas briefly wondered if he’d just taken a shower in zombie blood contaminated water.

“Right, the zodiac’s here,” the man in uniform said. “Make your way down the steps, carefully, and into the boat.

The boat wasn’t, technically, a Zodiac. It was a Brig designed to carry four and a driver. Thomas found it interesting that a sailor was calling it a zodiac and not a RHIB. Language changes were already occurring. He pushed ‘RHIB’ to the back of his memory since using the term might betray his cover.

There were six in the group. People needed help getting in. Everyone could barely see.

Thomas waited until the other passengers had found seats before boarding. He stepped lightly onto the boat and dropped into a spot on the deck. He was wedged between an older man on the deck and a fortyish woman sitting on the front seat.

“Wrap the blankets around you if you get cold,” the kid driving it said. “You’re going to have to leave them in the boat.”

The blankets were USMC green wool blankets and already damp. Thomas decided to forego.

“Everyone keeps saying everything’s gone,” the woman next to him said. “It can’t simply be gone. Something had to survive!”

“I don’t know, lady,” the kid said, pulling away from the floating dock. “There’s zombies all over on the land and there’s not much in the way of radio stations. Some ham operators, pretty much. There’s some that say they’re, like, king of some place I’ve never heard of, but there’s not much.”

“Submarines?” Thomas asked.

“There are subs,” the kid said. “So I’ve heard. I’ve never seen ’em but other people have. The boat I’m taking you to used to be owned by some rich Russian dude. He tried to jack the boat that found him. It’s one of the real ‘Navy’ boats. Some of the boats are run by civilians and some of them are Navy. Anyway, the guy tried to jack this Navy boat and a sub surfaced and told him they’d open fire if he didn’t surrender. So then I guess we jacked his.”

“So there are Navy ships?” the woman asked.

“Sorta,” the kid said. “They found a Marine ship, which is where the Marines and a bunch of the loot came from. But it’s still floating somewhere out there. The boats are all salvage. Some of them are Navy, some of them are civilian. Something about who can have what guns. Like, I’m a civilian. I didn’t want the whole ‘three bags full’ thing. But my boss is Navy. But he was an Army dude when he was a kid and he’s never been in the Navy before. It’s all sort of like that. Sort of fucked up but it mostly works.”

“I’m confused,” the woman said.

“Okay,” the kid said. “The boat you’re going to, it’s called the Money for Nothing. It’s got a Navy dude in charge of it but the captain, the guy who runs the boat, is a civilian. But the Navy dude, who’s the operations guy for the squadron, had never been in the Navy before this. So if you’re confused, you’re not the only one. Like I said, it has to do with who gets guns.”

“Controlling legal authority?” Thomas asked.

“That’s it,” the kid said. “Like, they’re clearing out some of the little towns here in the islands and to do that you’ve got to have… what he said. Somebody told me it’s sort of technically an act of war but we’ve got permission from somebody or something.”

“So did you live here, before?” the woman asked.

“Oh, hell no,” the kid said. “I was on a cruise ship, too. We abandoned ship when the zombies took over. I was in a lifeboat that got found by one of the Wolf boats. And let me tell you, that fucking sucked. Being in the boat, I mean. Look, there’s a pamphlet they give you when you get to the boat. Just wait til you read it then ask questions, okay?”

The inflatable pulled up to the waterline transom deck of the yacht and people were helped out. Thomas took the offered hand of a man he pegged as an Indonesian and probably a steward. There had been four stewards and two Indonesian waitresses, initially, in the compartment he’d been stuck in along with six other passengers. Two passenger as well as one of the stewards had “turned.” During the subsequent six months he had, slowly and painfully, “learned” the dialect that was common to the other ten survivors.

He’d never let on that he spoke two other dialects of Indonesian and had been able to understand what they were saying two hours after they’d closed the compartment.

“Hello, my name is Nadia… ”

The young woman was good looking, even beautiful, with a strong Slavic accent. She also was noticeably pregnant. So were the two Indonesian waitresses. Thomas figured even if humanity was mostly wiped out, there was about to be one hell of a baby boom.

“I’m to be your guide for a short time as you get acquainted to Wolf Squadron. The first step being to get you some food and answer any questions. But the food, first. If you could follow me, please?”

They were led into the main saloon of the yacht. It was showing definite signs of wear but it was still more luxurious than any of the compartments on the cruise ship.

“So this is how the other half lives,” the fortyish woman said. Thomas could tell she was bristling a bit at the Russian girl. She wasn’t pregnant which meant she was either fixed or no one in the compartment was interested. Given that there were four other men with her, she was probably fixed.

“There is soup,” Nadia said, pouring a cup and handing it to the woman. “There will be more in a moment but some people have not had much to eat and this helps their stomach. There are three kinds, tomato, chicken and lamb. The Americans generally prefer the tomato or the chicken. Help yourself.”

“Can you… what’s going on?” one of the men said.

“This is always the problem,” the girl said, smiling. “Do you feed the questions or your stomach first. Here is a pamphlet,” she said, picking one up and handing it to the man. “Please to read. Then ask questions.”

Thomas read the pamphlet while sipping a cup of tomato soup. There had been tomato soup in the compartment but hot soup was delicious. Most of the information he wanted was in the first section. Given what his compartment had been like, he could see why there was a waiver on UCMJ actionable offenses. It was probably on a case by case basis, though, he’d have to read the reg.

It brought up the question, though, if he should make contact. The problem being, the most the Hole would have had was a two star Flag Duty Officer. And if he popped up, they’d expect him to take over this jugfuck retired or not. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. There was a reason he’d retired. If he wanted to do anything, it was kill freaking zombies or cruise around on a boat. Not sit in an office and figure logistics. On the other hand, he was getting a little long in the tooth for that. It looked, however, like this was a legitimate operation, if a bit cock-eyed, not a pre-Westphalian militia.

“What about Britain?” one of the men from the group asked.

“There is currently no contact with the British government or any government organizations other than those listed. We recently freed some people from the Canary Islands including a policeman. He is the closest we have to a member of the government of Spain. There is a group called Sons and Daughters of Britain in Exile which meets regularly on Wednesday nights. Their chairman is a former Member of Parliament and is, more or less, the Prime Minister in exile. Although he is quick to point out that all he is is the chairman. There are similar groups that meet on other nights from other countries. On the bulletin board there is a list.”

“So we’re still trapped on these boats,” the woman said.

“Yes,” Nadia said. “For the time being. There have been some small towns partially cleared here in the Canary Islands. The next objective is to clear the US Navy base at Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. The purpose of that is obtaining supplies, equipment and, hopefully, additional trained personnel. Beyond that, the Commodore has said that ‘it depends.’ The eventual goal is to free both the United States and Europe from infected so that we can… restart, yes?”

“How the hell is he going to free up the entire United States?” one of the men asked.

“Again, that depends,” Nadia said. “Right now, in the south harbor, there are what are called ‘mechanical clearance devices.’ Zombie traps is what most people call them. They are containers that have been turned into essentially, pardon, sausage grinders.”

“Oh, my God,” the woman said, putting her hand over her mouth.

“Light and sound to draw the zombies in?” Thomas asked.

“Yes,” Nadia said. “And one way gates, yes? Then, well, blades driven by a motor. All very efficient. The Commodore has said that there are other plans for interior areas. But we are still few. And he prefers not to detail them as they will change, yes? It all depends upon what we find. Who we find who are willing to help.”

“Three days off,” Thomas said. “With nothing to do?”

“There are books,” Nadia said. “There are TVs in the rooms and there are channels that play movies. Eat, rest. Get back your strength. On the third day there will be an orientation and you can choose to help or not. After that, you see a human resources counselor. I will warn you that in most cases, you must first be part of the forensics cleaning teams. These are teams that clean out the boats and compartments. It is… At first it is quite unpleasant. I still do it. But it is important. We have to have somewhere to live that is not filled with the filth that the zombies leave. And after a while you get used to it. We wear a sort of plastic coverall and masks. It is not the worst thing in the world.”

“So to get any of the better jobs, we have to muck out compartments?” one of the men said, angrily.

“Unless you have specific skills, yes,” Nadia said. “There is a shortage of persons with trained skills in engineering, electrical systems, plumbing, welding and boat handling. For those you must either have proof, such as a master’s ticket, or pass a test that shows you have the skills. Are you an electrical or mechanical engineer, sir?”

“No,” the man said. “I’m a solicitor.”

“There is, unfortunately, an overabundance of those, sir,” Nadia said, drily.

“And if we tell them to fuck off?” the solicitor asked. “What then?”

“There are interior staterooms on the Boadicea,” Nadia said, smiling. “Six to a stateroom, sometimes eight. Minimal rations and water to drink. Bit like being back in the compartment, yes? Some people choose that. At least for a time. If you choose to help, the most you spend on cleaning is a week. It, again, helps out and it has to be done. Someone has to do it.”

“Do we have to take the three days or can we just see the counselor?” Thomas asked.

“You can see the counselor at any time, sir,” Nadia said, her brow wrinkling. “But generally people take a few days off before getting to work.”

“Where’s the HR office?” Thomas said. “I mean, you said any time.”

“Well,” Nadia said, frowning. “The next thing we were going to do was get you registered. You have to do that before going to the counselor’s office, I think.”

“Where do I register?” Thomas asked.

“Over here,” Nadia said. She led him to a computer terminal and gestured to the seat.

“Were you ever in the United States military?” she asked.

“A long time ago,” Thomas said. “But my personnel files got burned up in a fire in St. Louis. You probably don’t have them.” They’d better not have them.

“Well, type in your social security number,” Nadia said. “That has many records associated with it.”

Thomas typed in a totally bogus social security number. He knew it was bogus because he’d had it “issued” to him at one point. If they had that one, they were really connected. And to more than the Hole.

A screen asking for personal information came up.

“Okay, I guess they don’t have it,” Nadia said. “What did you do? They’re looking for security and clearance people.”

“I was a truck driver in the Army,” Thomas said. Which was only a little white lie. He’d driven trucks plenty of times.

“Fill in the information then go forward in the saloon and follow the signs,” Nadia said, pointing. “If you change your mind, we’ll be here in the saloon for about an hour. We were going to have lunch. It is tuna.”

“I’m sure I can find chow,” Thomas said. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Nadia.”

“You as well, sir,” Nadia said, shaking his hand. This was clearly a first. “If you have any questions, I’ll be right here.”

“Got it,” Thomas said, typing. It wasn’t a strong skill, but he could do it.

There were questions after the screen was filled.

“Have you ever been a member of the military of any nation or a member of law enforcement?”

He thought about that for a second and clicked “No.” That was looking for zombie fighters. One of the things they were looking for was boat captains. He’d decided that was what he wanted to do. And he had enough experience, he could probably fake his way to it. He’d kill zombies if it came up. Plenty of zombies to kill and plenty of time.

New Screen: “Mark any skills for which you have formal training and experience.”

There were a bunch of those. He clicked “civilian offshore boating,” “knot tying,” knowing he couldn’t conceal the skill for long he clicked “civilian shooting,” “mountaineering” for the heck of it-what the hell it was true and he’d trained people in it-“Commercial Driver’s License” and “linguistics. ” He left off “electronics,” “computer programming,” “explosives or demolitions,” “professional diving,” “operations management,” “helicopter pilot,” “strategic analysis,” “intelligence gathering,” “intelligence analysis,” “strategic intelligence analysis,” “executive level operations” and “business management.” But he found it interesting they were on there.

Thomas followed the signs to the HR office. There was a desk in the corridor manned by a young woman behind a computer and a short line. The people were dressed pretty much the same as he was but he could tell they weren’t fresh off a boat.

He waited until he got to the woman.

“Like to see an HR counselor,” he said.

“Are you with compartment R-765?” the woman asked. Another Russian chick.

“No, I just got off the boat,” Thomas said. “L-1438. I just signed in.”

“Oh,” the girl said. “Name?”

“Thomas Walker,” he said.

“You are just off the boat,” the girl said. “Are you sure you don’t want to take some time?”

“Positive,” Thomas said. “And I don’t even mind cleaning compartments to get a job. I’ve been sitting on my ass for six months.”

“Go to the open cabin and have a seat,” the girl said. “There are computer terminals. On the areas that you listed as being qualified there are short quizzes. Answer the quiz then a counselor will see you.”

“Okay,” Thomas said.

He went to the cabin and all the computers were busy so he took a seat.

“I don’t know you,” the guy next to him said. “Not my compartment.”

“No,” Thomas said. “I’m fresh off the boat. Didn’t take the three days.”

“You should have,” the guy said. “It was nice. Almost like the cruise I bloody paid for. Yank?”

“Yes,” Thomas said.

“Well, you’re in for a bit of all right, then,” the man said. “The Yanks are in charge. I’m sure you’ll have a cushy office job in no time.”

“I’d rather clean compartments,” Thomas said. A person got up from a computer and he waved for the man to take it. “Your turn.”

“Already done,” the man said. “Por vous.”

“Merci, mon ami,” Thomas said.