To Sail a Darkling Sea

CHAPTER 5

“Soph, got something funky,” Patrick said.

“I suppose I should get some clothes on,” Sophia muttered. She was currently adding some reality to the boat’s name up on the flying bridge. “In a bit… ”

She could tell “funky” was not an emergency by Patrick’s tone. Paula was “a good man in a storm.” She just sailed on regardless of the conditions. Patrick had a bit of a tendency to panic. Which was not great in your engineer, but he was fine with the maintenance and stuff.

“Define ‘funky,’” she said over the intercom, readjusting her sunglasses. She picked up a pair of binos to check out something on the horizon but it was just a bit of junk. Her ostensible reason for being on the flying bridge was “visual search for survivors.” Which was pretty much a waste of time. Which was why she was actually catching a tan.

The Atlantic ocean was really, really, really big. And boats, even commercial freighters and such, were really, really, really small in comparison.

Depending on which authority you asked, the North Atlantic Ocean, which they were currently searching for survivors, was about twenty million square miles in area. Their radar had a range of around fifty miles, if the target was radar reflective, while visually they could see between twenty and thirty miles. Realistically, it was possible that one boat might spot a lifeboat within ten miles. Essentially, it was like one microscopic germ trying to find another germ in the area of a standard American living room. That was clean and really germ free.

When they’d first started clearing boats off of Bermuda, there had still been some distress beacons working. Not many, but they were there. And there had been a lot of boats. The waters between the US mainland and Bermuda were some of the most crowded in the world under normal circumstances. With anyone with an ocean capable boat fleeing the Plague, and the east coast of the US having a lot of such people, they were definitely crowded. There were days when they had twenty or more radar contacts or lifeboats and small boats in sight.

The Great Equatorial Current… Not so much. Oh, there were boats down here. And life rafts. And freighters. And, somewhere, God help them, based on some of the lifeboats they’d been finding, some cruise ships including at least one “super-max.” But they were scattered. They were lucky if they found two or three vessels in a day instead of thirty.

They were only there, really, to keep them out of the storm belt in the North Atlantic and tropical storms in the eastern zone, give them something to do and get some people rescued. Unfortunately, as usual, most of the boats they were finding were empty. Of live, sane, people, at least. Bodies they’d found aplenty. People… not so much. Not even live zombies. In the last two weeks the No Tan Lines had only found four survivors. But four was a number greater than zero.

The only reason they were finding most of the life rafts was that they had some modern additions. Back in the 1980s, the USCG pointed out that the material life rafts were made of, plastic, was fairly stealthy. You could pimp them up in any color you’d like, they didn’t turn up on radar. So most modern life rafts and lifeboats included Mylar radar reflectors in their construction. And, fortunately, the No Tan Lines had radar. So Patrick was manning the radar and other gizmos while she scanned “visually.” And caught up on her tan.

“Well, it’s a distress beacon,” Patrick said.

“I probably would have led with that,” Sophia muttered.

“But it’s well inside the range where we should have picked it up. It’s only about twenty miles out.”

“Azimuth?” Sophia said.

“No Tan Lines, Alexandria.”

“Stand by, Patrick,” she said, then switched frequencies and straightened up to start the main engines. “No Tan Lines.”

* * *

“Holy, hell,” Commander Robert “Thunderbear” Vancel, skipper of the USS Alexandria said. Vancel was on his first tour as a sub skipper when the worst disaster in human history hit. It had not been a pleasure cruise. He’d been a bit heavy before this cruise. Now, not so much. “COB: Down periscope. Now! And tell me that’s not being broadcast all over the ship.”

“Looks like she’s just trying to live up to her boat’s name, sir,” the COB said.

“Fifteen, COB,” the skipper snapped. “Fifteen. And, for God’s sakes, a Lieutenant? Remind me to talk to that young lady about the decorum expected of a Naval officer at the first opportunity after we meet.”

“Duly noted, sir.”

* * *

“Alex, No Tan Lines,” Sophia repeated. Usually the Navy was right up on calling back but there had been a distinct pause.

“Lines, Alex. Be advised just picked up an intermittent distress beacon, your bearing, one one four, range: ten point three nautical miles. Be advised, beacon was not there four minutes ago. Signal is intermittent. Our evaluation, persons operating manual generator for intermittent signal. Probable survivors. Proceeding that location at this time.”

“Roger, Alex, keep us advised.” She switched to intercom. “Going full,” she said and put the hammer down. No real reason for it, the Alex was going to be there long before they were…

* * *

“Okay, up periscope,” Commander Vancel said.

“Isn’t that redundant, sir?” the COB asked.

“Again, COB, fifteen! And, sweet Lord Jesus I Can’t Believe They Did This, LANTFLEET’s daughter!”

“As well hanged for a sheep, sir… ”

* * *

“Da, Da!” Julie yelled. “Look!”

Lincoln Lawton stepped out onto the aft deck of the 45' Gentle Breezes and shaded his eyes against the glare. He stopped and his jaw dropped at the sight of a periscope not five hundred meters off the boat.

Lawton, formerly the General Manager for Information Technologies of Wilson Gribley, LLC, Liverpool, UK, had just left port for a month-long trip to the Mediterranean when the news of the Plague had been released. He had, briefly, contemplated putting back into port to return to work. He knew the term “workaholic” was often used to describe him and it seemed that if there was going to be a major influenza outbreak, the Firm, which was in the biomedical technologies field, would need his services.

Susan, his normally accepting and supportive wife, had put her foot down. First of all, it was the first long vacation that he had taken in nearly ten years. During which time his children had grown up with a father who was a virtual stranger. Second, given that the flu bug was described as being particularly nasty and wide-spread, it would be better to just cruise along for a bit without encountering it. Let it burn out and they’d put into port.

As it turned out, Susan was right. A point she tried not to rub in. They were not infected by the “zombie plague.” On the other hand, food and fuel only last so long. They had stocked well but eventually the food ran out. And the fuel. Fortunately, there was an emergency solar still onboard that produced barely enough water for the lot of them. And he had stocked quite a few rods onboard. About the only time he spent with his family was angling on the boat in the Irish Sea.

It was a constant surprise to him that when you were hungry enough, any raw fish was a delicacy. His family had also come as something of a surprise. He wasn’t sure exactly why he hadn’t spent more time with them. Oh, being on a small boat occasionally drove everyone nuts. But he had some great children and, given that he’d had little to do with them, he also had come to have a new appreciation for his wife. An appreciation that, as the tan got darker and they both lost quite a bit of weight, had eventually overcome their desire to avoid certain difficulties.

Which was why Susan was, as far as they could tell, about two months pregnant.

“Help William with the signs if you would, there’s a good lass,” Lincoln said, waving at the periscope. It was clearly looking at them. He hoped the submarine would not surface, however. As far as they could tell, they were uninfected. Raw fish or no, they wished to stay that way.

William, his ten-year-old son, and Julie, fourteen, came up on deck quickly with the cobbled together signs. They had made them from bits of stitched together plastic and can boxes to keep from damaging their sheets.

They carefully held them up to prevent them tearing in the breeze.

* * *

“ ‘Do Not Approach.’” Commander Vancel said. “ ‘Not Infected.’ They’re in the same boat we are.”

“With less in the way of stores and no power, sir,” his XO pointed out.

“Seem to be making it,” the CO replied, touching a control.

* * *

A light began to wink on the periscope.

“If I understood bloody Morse maybe I’d understand what you were saying,” Lincoln said through gritted teeth. The signal was repetitive, though, two flashes then two flashes…

“I think they’re just saying they understand,” Susan said.

“I was thinking the same,” Lincoln replied. He waved and nodded. “I wonder if they’re infected? Or not.”

* * *

“See if the Lines is monitoring,” Commander Vancel said.

* * *

“No Tan Lines, Alexandria, over.”

Sophia had been expecting the call and already had the mike in her hand.

“Alex, Lines, over.”

“Sierra is forty-five-foot Activa motor yacht. No power. Four survivors, probable family, uninfected. Boat has British registry. Over.”

“Roger, Alex. Just over the horizon. Have them on radar. Will come up from their lee and attempt to communicate.”

“Roger. Standing by.”

“Alex, could you retrans to flotilla then possibly squadron ops?”

“Roger, stand by… Ready on retrans to flotilla, over.”

“Living Large, Living Large, No Tan Lines, over… ”

“No Tan Lines, Living Large, over.”

“We have a contact this area. According to the Alexandria, they’re uninfected. Last I heard, the squadron still had a few units of vaccine. I’d suggest that it would be advisable, given these people’s circumstances, out of fuel and in the middle of no-where, to use it on them. Over.”

“Stand by, Lines… ”

“Standing by,” Sophia muttered. She could see the yacht on the horizon. The wind was from the southeast and she was coming in from the northwest. Which would put her downwind, or “to the lee” in nautical speak, from the yacht. Which was where she wanted to be.

It was, at this point, extremely unlikely that casual contact with the people on the yacht, or the sub crews, would give them H7D3. Flu eventually became noninfectious as a person’s immune system overcame it. She probably could come from windward, fuel up the yacht, transfer supplies, carefully…

“Extremely unlikely” was not the same as “could not happen.” And nobody wanted to infect people who had survived this long. Families like hers were not so much rare as non-existent. Nobody found so far had so much as one family member survive. The closest was Chris Phillips, Captain of the David Cooper and his former fiancé. And both believing the other one dead, they had sought opportunities elsewhere in the interim. Even if a family was on a life raft or boat, like this one, drifting, only one survivor had generally been found.

Preserving this family was, in her opinion, critically important. They probably felt the same way.

The problem was… The ocean was really, really big. Finding them in the first place had been a matter of luck and that “intermittent distress signal.” If they left the boat behind, they might be able to find them again. They knew the currents in the area and they knew where they were, now. But it was, again, only “likely.” And if they were left to drift… They could drift until they were all old and grey and died on the boat if they ended up pushed into the Sargasso Sea. More likely, they’d eventually run aground and either get infected or eaten. Sum it up as “bad things.”

Kuzma knew all this and he had way more experience than she did. Maybe he’d come up with a good answer.

* * *

“… that’s my take on it, sir,” Kuzma said. “If we leave them drifting, even for the time it would take to go up to squadron and get the vaccine, we’ll probably lose them. I’m sort of lost for an answer here, sir… ”

“Roger, Large,” the Alex replied. “We’ve been kicking it around as well. The only solution we see, and we’d have to get permission from higher, is for one of our subs to take them under tow and bring them up to squadron AO. We’re going to discuss that with higher.”

“Roger, Alex,” Kuzma said, his face working. “I’m going to leave this on you and the Tan Lines for now if that’s all right.”

“Under control, Large.”

“Living Large, out,” Kuzma said. He shook his head and looked at the helmsman. “That’s a zammie.”

“Definite zammie, sir… ”

* * *

“Boat, Da,” William said, pointing to the northeast.

“I’m going to assume they’re with the submarine,” Lincoln said, looking at the approaching yacht through his binoculars. “I hope they stay downwind.”

“Leeward, Da,” Julie said, didactically. He had one manual on seamanship and his oldest had studied it assiduously.

“I hope they stay to leeward, then,” Lincoln said, trying not to smile.

* * *

“Good afternoon,” Sophia said over the loudhailer. “We get that you’re uninfected. Which an amazing number of people find tremendously exciting. You’re the first complete boat of survivors we’ve found. Which is why you are about to have a zammie, which is an acronym for a ‘zombie apocalypse moment.’ The pre-Plague term is ‘what the heck?’ ”

* * *

“Da,” William said. He was always the one looking around. “Another submarine!”

Forward of the ship an American attack sub surfaced.

* * *

“The USS Annapolis is going to fire you a line. They are uninfected so there’s no chance of catching the flu. When you get it, hook it up to your forward cleat. We have a small stock of vaccine back at our squadron which is operating about six hundred miles north of here. It’s going to take a few days for you to get there but they’ll tow you up. They will also pass you some water since your still won’t work being towed. No food, sorry, they’re short on rations as well. Anyway, a billion-dollar nuclear submarine is about to act as a tow truck for one forty-five-foot yacht full of vacationers. Welcome to a zombie apocalypse moment. We hope that you consider Wolf Squadron and the US Navy in the future for all your towing needs… ”

* * *

“Hoooh,” Sophia said, adjusting the focus on her binoculars. “Sweet.”

She keyed the intercom, powered up and turned to starboard.

“Rig for fishing ops!” she boomed, then switched to the radio. “Flotilla, Lines, over.”

“Flotilla.”

“Spotted surface activity, probable tuna, moving to target-of-opportunity fishing ops, over.”

“Stand by, Lines.”

“Like I’m going to let these out of my sight,” Sophia muttered.

Tuna moved fast and often the only sign you got was a cluster of birds. When the tuna were done eating whatever was at the surface they’d dive and be gone. That could take hours or bare minutes. You either went for them or you lost them. And since this wasn’t a big migration period in the area, fish had been scarce.

Since the only fresh food the entire squadron got was fish, and tuna was at the top of the menu, fishing ops was right up there were searching for survivors.

“What do we got?” Paula yelled from the transom deck.

“Probably tuna,” Sophia yelled back. “Look big! Three polers.”

“On it!”

“Lines, Flotilla.”

“Lines,” Sophia answered, keeping an eye on the birds.

“Roger fish-ops. We need a cut. Report to Large after taking on fish.”

“Aye, aye,” Sophia said. “Lines, out.”

Then she keyed the intercom again.

“It’s on like Donkey Kong!”

* * *

“What are we doing?” Rusty asked, holding onto a metal bar.

He wasn’t a big fisherman but he sort of knew how you did it with deep-sea fishing. There was a chair and a big reel and you sort of cruised around until you got a bite.

You didn’t go charging across the ocean at full speed with the boat rocking from side to side like it was going to sink.

And there was one big rod with a big reel. Not what Paula and Patrick were rigging which was three really long rods with lines at the end that all led to one big hook. The hook didn’t even really have a lure on it. Just a big plastic bird-feather.

“What we’re doing is rigging the poles,” Paula said. “What you’re doing is waiting til we’re rigged then I’ll explain.”

“Got it,” Rusty said. He couldn’t even figure out what knot she was tying. It was complicated was all he could get.

“Right,” Paula said, standing up easily despite the bouncing of the boat. “First of all, glad you’re here. You’re about to get one hell of a workout. Cause here’s how it works. We stand by the transom, that’s the bulkhead at the back of the boat. Sophia will drive over near the fish. We then all three, together, flip the lure out over our heads and tap our poles on the water. Just follow along with us. When a fish hits the lure, you just hold on tight, lean back and pick it up out of the water and throw it backwards over our heads. We gotta do that together and pretty hard. Then we go back and do it again. We’ll stop from time to time to cut the fish up and store them. We’ve got a big cooler for them. You got it?”

“Got it,” Rusty said. “I think.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Patrick said. “First time we tried it it was a disaster.”

“It wasn’t a disaster,” Paula said.

“You weren’t the one that got hit in the face,” Patrick pointed out.

“You were only knocked out for a minute,” Paula said. “Reminds me, we need to get the helmets and face shields.”

“Or pulled overboard,” Patrick pointed out.

“And the life vests… ”

“Then there’s the smell… ”

“And the chum. Can’t forget the chum… ”

* * *

“You’re supposed to use live fish for this,” Paula said, standing back from where Rusty was tossing chunks of decaying fish over the side. “But we don’t have any. Anything will do, really.”

Rusty had gotten used to not wanting to throw up from the smell. But apparently they were low on respirators or he’d be using one. The “chum” was all the “stuff” they hadn’t used from previous fish. It had been kept cool but it had still started to rot and smelled just awful.

“And we have customers,” Patrick said, looking over the transom.

“Toss a bunch of that crap over the side,” Paula said. “And grab your rod.”

The rods were longer than the aft deck. The thick lines attached to the ends were barely half their length. Rusty still wasn’t sure how this was going to work. But there were fish behind the boat, rolling to the surface feasting on the heads and entrails he’d tossed over the back. They were falling behind quick, though, cause the boat was moving so fast.

“You take the middle,” Paula said.

“And watch yourself or you’ll get hit in the face,” Patrick added.

“Okay,” Rusty said.

“Just follow our movements,” Paula said.

She brought her rod down overhead until it was dangling with the lure just barely in the water.

“Now, tap, like this,” she said, dropping her rod and tapping the water’s surface.

As he brought his own rod down, he felt the line go taught and was nearly pulled over the side.

“Get your feet,” Patrick said as the three lines jerked each of the poles. Suddenly it went slack.

“Damnit,” Paula said, jigging the lure again. “Pop it! And keep your balance this time!”

The line got hit again but this time he was planted.

“One, two, three, pull!” Paula said, quickly.

On the “pull,” she and Patrick leaned back, pulling the rods back and yanking a fish out of the water. It headed right for Rusty who was in the center.

He dropped his rod and dodged to the side as the fish came flying past his head.

“Try to be some help here,” Paula said. “Grab your damned pole at least!”

The fish had thrown the hook already and was lying on the transom deck flapping its tail. It was bigger than any fish Rusty had ever seen except on TV shows. If he’d picked it up it would have been nearly to his waist.

He tried to ignore it and grabbed his pole. They started to flick the lure back out but he wasn’t ready and it got tangled. By the time they were untangled, the school of fish was out of range.

“Coming about,” Sophia yelled.

“You getting this?” Paula asked, sharply. “When we get on the school, we all three, together, toss out the line. Then we all three, together, pop it. It’s called jigging. When we get a hit, we all three together, pull. I won’t go one-two-three this time. Just when it’s on I’ll go ‘Pull’ and we all pull. Got it?”

“Got it,” Rusty said.

“Try not to go over the side, drop your pole or get hit in the face by one of the tuna,” Paula said. “That’s pretty much the safety briefing.”

“Patrick,” Sophia called. “Throw some chum!”

“Got it,” Patrick said, leaning over and tossing some of the chum into the water.

“That’s bringing ’em up,” Paula said. “Pop it,” she added, jigging the lure.

The line went taut again and Paula looked at him.

“Ready, pull!” she snapped.

This time, Rusty just dodged to the side as the fish came flying out of the water.

“Ready, flick it back,” Paula said. The fish had already fallen off the half-hook.

“Got it,” Rusty said, this time getting the flick right.

The line had barely hit the water when it went taut again.

“PULL!”

“And flick… ”

“And PULL…!”

* * *

“I think that’s all we can handle for now,” Sophia said from the bridge. “Certainly all Rusty can handle.”

Rusty had slipped on one of the big fish covering the deck and was now sprawled out in the middle of fish goo and blood. When the fish were hooked it caused them to bleed. Between their thrashing and being thrown through the air, the transom deck as well as the bridge bulkhead were covered in spots of blood. So were all three of the fishermen covered. Even Sophia up in the flying bridge had some spots of blood on her.

“Might as well get to dicing,” Paula said, giving Rusty a hand up. “Patrick, knives.”

“Sorry about that,” Rusty said. He was looking sort of gray.

“It does take it out of you,” Paula said. “It’s all in the back. The first time Patrick and I tried it alone we could only get about half the small ones. The rest were just too big. Having you as a third was a real help.”

“I should have been more,” Rusty said, shrugging. “Just ain’t got my strength back.”

“Some fresh sashimi will help with that,” Paula said, grinning.

“What are these?” Rusty asked.

“Big eye tuna,” Sophia said, pointing to the eyes. She’d left the helm and slid down the ladder to the transom deck. “They’re generally a deep fish. They spend most of their time at more than twenty fathoms. But they come up to the surface to warm up and if there happens to be bait they’ll get on it. Good size ones, too. This will feed the flotilla for a few days.”

“What’s next?” Rusty asked.

“We’ll cut off the heads, gut them then throw them in the cooler,” Sophia said. “We’ll keep the heads and guts for chum for the next time. Those go in the freezer.”

“Not a freezer?” Rusty asked.

“You need to flash freeze fish to keep it tasting good and the right texture,” Sophia said. “We don’t have a flash freezer. The Large does, but most of this will be used up in a few days by us and the rest of the flotilla. Cooler’s good enough.”

“Knives,” Patrick said, opening up a box filled with fillet knives and sharpeners.

“Now to the really bloody part,” Sophia said, smiling. “And they talk about Faith getting covered in blood… ”

* * *

“Respirators,” Rusty said, holding up a box.

“Too bad they didn’t use them,” Paula said, taking the box and looking at the manufacturer. “Some European brand. I don’t think they’ll work on ours.”

Which was a pity, since they’d about used up all their filters. Doing this job without respirators made it damned near not worth it. And this boat wasn’t even particularly bad. There were only two people onboard. From the pictures they’d found, husband and trophy wife. The trophy wife had been on the back deck, nude. Probably zombied. The husband had been in secondary cabin, ditto. Guessing, the wife had gone first, the husband had locked himself in a cabin then turned.

It must have been early on in going to sea because by the time the team boarded, the wife was a clean-picked skeleton from seabirds and the husband was a mummy.

Despite not having useable respirators, the 70-foot sailboat was, otherwise, chock full of goodies. How people loaded to flee a plague was, in many ways, idiosyncratic. They’d salvaged one boat that was full of books. And they’d loaded as many as they could, since books were the main source of entertainment these days. Books could be traded for other stuff.

There were a few consistencies, though. Boats with women onboard loaded lots of toilet paper. Sometimes much or all of it had been used up by the time the crew died but generally not. They also loaded lots of feminine hygiene products. This one had both. They’d found one boat that must have been owned by a restauranteur or a chef. It was positively packed with spices as well as various tasty goodies.

But there were several consistent salvage materials. Just about every boat had loads, boatloads, of alcohol, jewelry and, often, fine cigars. It was, like, the first thing most people packed. They’d grab their jewelry and booze and smokes if they had them. Then there was the fact that they tended to drink the cheap stuff first.

So when they boarded a boat, they almost always found some really nice jewelry and high-quality booze. The kind of people who could afford yachts tended to have both.

“Lots of halfsies,” Paula said, looking over the bar in the saloon.

“Mix and match,” Rusty said.

To conserve space, they tended to combine partially full bottles. They tried to make sure it was the same “type,” bourbon with bourbon, scotch with scotch. But mistakes happened. Gin and vodka was okay. Rum and scotch not so much.

“There is a god somewhere that is angry because of combining stuff like Cutty Sark with fifty-year-old Laphroaig,” Paula said. “We are one day going to run afoul of him and he will raise a great storm to punish us.”

“What is… Famous Grouse?” Rusty said.

“Scotch,” Paula said, hefting a box of pasta onto the deck.

“Got a case of that,” Rusty said. “Now if I could just find some shoes… ”

They’d turned up a set of max sized galoshes on a boat but so far the security specialist didn’t have any real shoes. Or pants that fit. His jeans fit around his narrowed waist but stopped mid-calf and were a bit tight in the crotch. Not that Paula minded the latter.

“We could strap a couple of inflatables to them,” Paula said.

“Very funny… ”

* * *

“And we’re clear,” Sophia said. “There’s a ship to the southeast the Last At Sea spotted. Said there were some infecteds on deck so they banked off. We’re to check it to see if it’s worth sending a salvage and recovery crew.”

“I’ll get my gear ready,” Rusty said. “I hope I don’t have to do one of those boardings like Faith did.”

“Eh, I’ll just pot ’em off with what my sister would call a Barbie gun… ”

* * *

“What is this thing, a ferry?” Paula asked, fingers in her ears.

The vessel named Pit Stop was a bit over a hundred feet long with a large bridge and presumably crew area forward and a low-set rear deck that could clearly be opened up at the back. The back deck had a vintage car, an inflatable and four pallets of stores piled on it. It sort of looked like a ferry. The difference was, it was also rather thin and lean looking. The design was actually vaguely similar to the cutter they’d cleared.

“No clue,” Sophia said. “But if you’d give me a minute, this isn’t as easy as it looks.”

Sophia was laid out on the flying bridge with ear-muffs on and an accurized M4 with a Leupold 9x scope propped up on a cushion. She’d wrapped the strap around her arm and was carefully preparing her shots.

Sophia was more than prepared to give her sister props for close-quarters zombie fighting. Faith was a brawler, always had been. When they went to tactical ranges, Faith regularly beat her scores.

When they went to target ranges, Faith went home pouting. Sophia had been planning on trying out for the Olympic shooting team when she got a little older.

Faith was a brawler. Sophia was a sniper.

The problem was catenary, the relative motion of two vessels bouncing up and down and side to side on the ocean. It meant your target was always moving all over the damned place. Which just meant that you waited for the right moment to take the shot. If you tried to follow the target, you ended up chasing it all over hell and gone. The US Navy SEALs might have figured out a way to chase the target. Sophia had time. She waited.

* * *

There was a crack and Paula flinched as one of the infected dropped with an almost unnoticeable hole in his forehead and the back blown out of his head.

“Damn,” the mate said.

“Come to Seawolf,” Sophia whispered. “Be good little zombies. Yuck… they do eat brains… ”

* * *

“That’s why so many survived,” Sophia said.

As a skipper, and an Acting Ensign, whatever that was, she really shouldn’t be doing boardings. But when they’d left the main squadron, Rusty was the only volunteer for “hostile boarding specialist” that she could scrounge up. And clearing something this size was a two-person job. Paula and Patrick were trustworthy to hold the boat. Not so good at clearing zombies.

Fortunately, one of the ships they’d cleared had some double-ought and a couple of pump shotguns. So they both had adequate firearms. Rusty had some body armor borrowed from the Coast Guard. It wasn’t really his size, as usual. And he still didn’t have real shoes.

Needs must.

The reason for the surviving infected was a set of bags of rice on the pallets. The zombies had gnawed into the rice bags and had been feasting on the rice. And from the looks of things, the occasional bird that had tried the same.

There was also freshish rainwater pooled in the inflatable on deck.

“Water, food, zombies,” Sophia said, pointing. “No fresh water, no zombies.”

“I wouldn’t drink that,” Rusty said. The water was clearly foul. Then he thought about it. “Yeah, come to think of it, if I had that on the Voyage I’d have drunk it.”

“Interesting fact,” Sophia said, cautiously rounding one of the pallets. “With water like that, the trick is to use an enema.”

“Seriously?” Rusty said, grimacing.

“Your rectum sucks up water from your poop,” Sophia said. “It’s why it comes out solid. The water gets drawn out by the rectum. And it also filters out the bad stuff, obviously. So if you’ve got really foul water and you really need it, you just give it to yourself as an enema.”

“I wish I’d known that on the Voyage,” Rusty said. “I was mixing water and urine.”

“Which was why you survived,” Sophia said. “Won’t work with salt water, by the way. But you can even survive, for a while, on small quantities of salt water. The problem is, it’s actually the salinity of the human body. So your body can’t really absorb it well. But when you’re really dehydrated, your salinity increases compared to salt water and you can survive. For a while. Then you go fricking nuts and die. Also the problem with urine. When you’re recycling, you’re still losing water and the salinity, not to mention urea, gets higher and higher and you die.”

“I really don’t want to be back in that situation again,” Rusty said.

“And, hopefully, you won’t,” Sophia said, regarding the open hatch on the deck. “Any zombies in there?”

“Want me to yell?” Rusty asked.

“Nah,” Sophia said. “I’m pretty sure any that are alive would have come for the feast… ”

* * *

The only “survivor” hadn’t. He’d hanged himself in the small cabin he was trapped in. But most of the belowdecks watertight doors were closed. The engine room was in good shape, as was the bridge. Pretty much the only areas messed up by the infecteds was a companionway. And the cabin with the suicide was a bit rank.

“Good find,” Sophia said, examining the main engine controls. When she’d first seen an engine room like this, she’d thought she’d never understand one. Now, while she was no expert, she generally knew how to get the engine started on something this size. If there was any fuel and juice. She went through the procedure for engine main start-it was an air-powered starting system-and hit the button to start it cranking.

“Come on, baby,” she muttered. She could tell the batteries were low, but the starter generator did turn over. Then the big diesels rumbled to life.

“Beauty, eh!” she shouted. They’d both donned earmuffs.

“Nice!” Rusty shouted, grinning.

She went up to the bridge to check the systems. There were readouts in the engine room but she understood bridge systems better. Besides, it was easier to talk. Everything, so far, looked in the green.

“Rusty, go get some of daddy’s little crawlies and drop them on the bodies on the deck and in the cabin. Then head back to the boat. We don’t have a prize crew so I’m going to con this back to the Large. Just follow me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rusty said.

“Don’t fall behind,” she said.

* * *

“Okay, so I’ve got to slow down,” she muttered. The Pit Stop was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a speed boat. But it was faster than the No Tan Lines. A lot faster.

* * *

“It’s a crew supply vessel,” Kuzma said.

“Details?” Sophia said, yawning. She’d had to keep awake non-stop heading back to the flotilla.

“Details, sir,” Kuzma said, without rancor.

“Sorry, sir,” Sophia said.

“No problem,” Kuzma said. “The Coast Guard is sort of easy on the whole ‘sir/ma’am’ thing. But the Navy’s not. And I’m trying, at fairly long range, to get you ready to assume the mantle of a Navy officer.”

“Yes, sir,” Sophia said. “Understood. But… What is a crew supply vessel? Bringing supplies for crews or supplying with crews?”

“Both, either, depends on the configuration and mission,” Kuzma said. “Generally they’re faster than other ships their size and they’re used to do things like run crews out to oil rigs or supply ships like the Alpha at sea or at least in out-of-the-way coves. That was probably what this one was used for, based on the, you know, antique car on it. Which means there’s another megayacht out there somewhere. Well, there are probably lots of megayachts out there somewhere. Somewhere is the key.”

“Yes, sir,” Sophia said, yawning again. “Sorry, sir.”

“Been there,” Kuzma said. “However, there is one other area to cover. I understand that you did not have a prize crew available. However, in the future, while I can understand your doing boardings until we can get you another security officer, you should have put two of your crew aboard the Pit Stop to con it back or called for a prize crew. The Lines is your boat. You’re the skipper. You don’t leave your boat. Understood, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir,” Sophia said.

“When you’re a bit more clear-headed I’ll go over some of the very bad things that have happened in history when skippers leave their boats at sea,” Kuzma said. “Repeat after me. Do not leave the boat.”

“Do not leave the boat,” Sophia said. “Aye, aye, sir.”

* * *

Rusty was trying to stay awake. He really was. It was just there was nothing to do on what the Navy called “midwatch.” They boat had an autopilot which currently had it cruising at just about walking pace on a general “southwest” heading. He just had to sit at the helm, not touching anything, keep an eye out they weren’t going to hit a drifting boat or freighter and try to stay awake.

They’d picked up about a dozen refugees in the past week, mostly from one big lifeboat. They were dossed down below. Everyone was dossed down below except one Rusty Fulmer Bennett III who had drawn midwatch.

He stood up, walked around the small bridge and sat back down. Which was about when he noticed a small red icon flashing on the control screens.

He looked at it, rubbed his eyes and frowned.

“ ‘Main breaker overload fault’?” He said just about the time the icon got brighter and the console started going “Breeep! Breeep! ” Then another icon popped up.

“ ‘Engine room fire alarm’?” Rusty said. There was a moment of confusion before it kicked in. “ENGINE ROOM FIRE ALARM?”

* * *

“What the hell is that sound?” Harvey Tharpe said, rubbing his eyes as he opened the cabin door.

Being on this yacht was better than being on the lifeboat but not much. They were packed in like sardines. There was food but being woken up in the middle of the night by a blaring “Squeee! Squeee! ” was not his idea of fun.

The former businessman had been “robust” before being cast adrift on a lifeboat in a zombie apocalypse. He still had his height and some solidity. So he was more than a bit surprised when the short, blonde skipper of the boat, wearing not much more than a camisole and panties smashed him out of the way like an NFL linebacker on her way aft.

“MOVE PEOPLE!” the boat captain shouted, continuing to hammer her way through the crowd of refugees.

* * *

“Fuck a freaking duck,” Sophia said, opening the door to the engine compartment. The smoke wasn’t so bad she needed a respirator but it was bad. And they were dead in the water. All the power except the shrieking alarm was out.

She threw the main battery disconnect, then picked up one of the industrial fire extinguishers and played it over the exterior of the main breakers which were the source of the fire.

“Skipper?” Paula said, picking another one up.

“We need to get it open before we use them all up,” Sophia said, putting her hand on the extinguisher. “Get Rusty to get all the passengers up, out and on the sundeck.”

She slid one hand into a rubber glove and popped open the main breaker panel. The whole thing was smoldering so she played the rest of the fire extinguisher over it until it was cold. A tick checker showed that the whole thing was electrically cold as well. Now if only the batteries hadn’t discharged their whole load into the panel and killed themselves as well.

“What can I do, Skipper?” Patrick said groggily. The “engineer” was wearing not much more than the skipper.

“Get a hand-held,” Sophia said. “See if there’s a sub in range. Tell them we had a major electrical fire. Fire is under control. No power at this time. May be repairable but we may need assistance. Don’t at this time but may. Got it? Do not call mayday or PON-PON. Do not.”

“Got it, Skipper,” Patrick said.

“And get these people the HELL OUT OF MY ENGINE COMPARTENT!”

* * *

“Not to alarm you, Skipper… ” Paula said as Sophia was jumping another wire.

The whole damned panel was screwed. She was having to rebuild it from scratch. On the other hand, every time they cleared a boat they grabbed anything resembling parts and often stripped out things like the breaker box. They had a lot of parts, breakers, wire and what-not stashed in various nooks and crannies in the boat. However…

“How full are the bilges?” Sophia asked.

The No Tan Lines, while a great boat and definitely better than her previous one, had its issues. One of said issues being a small leak somewhere. They’d tried and tried to run it down but never could. It normally wasn’t a problem. They bilge pumps handled it fine. Unless they were off-line for six hours while the boat’s skipper, with some fumble-fingered help from the boat’s “engineer,” completely rebuilt the main breaker box which, not coincidentally, supplied power to said bilge pumps. Sophia had been noticing the way the boat was slowly getting more and more logy.

“Little water in the lower deck,” Paula said, carefully. The skipper clearly didn’t need more stress. “Just a skim.”

“I love pressure,” Sophia said. “I eat it for breakfast. Patrick, under the bed in the number three sleeping compartment there’s a bundle of green wire in a box. Somewhere in that box should be another Westinghouse twenty-five amp. Just bring the whole box.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Patrick said, scurrying out of the compartment.

“ ‘It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor…’ ” Sophia sang, listening to the slap, slap, slap of the rising water below as she ripped out another burned wire and tossed it on the deck. “ ‘Won’t you be mine, could you be mine…?’ ”

* * *

“Alexandria, No Tan Lines, over,” Sophia said, leaning into the blast from the air conditioning on the bridge. The engine compartment, besides stinking of ozone and burned rubber, had been hot as hell.

“Alexandria. How’s it going, over?”

“Please relay to flotilla that we are back in business,” Sophia said. “Although we’re completely out of parts for a main breaker box. On the other hand, the one we’ve got is practically brand new, now.”

“Roger, No Tan Lines. Will relay. Glad to hear you’re okay. Alexandria out.”

“And with that, I’m going back to bed,” Sophia said, hanging up the radio. “Somebody’s got it,” she added, waving a salute at Paula.

“I’ll take care of it, Skipper,” Paula said.

* * *

“Paula,” Sophia said the next afternoon as they were cross-loading refugees to the Living Large.

“Yes, Skip?” Paula said.

“Refresh my memory,” Sophia said. “Did we have a fire in the engine room or did I dream that?”

“We had a fire in the engine compartment, Skipper.”

“Last night?” Sophia said.

“Yes,” Paula said, frowning.

“Did it get handled?”

“You put it out and rebuilt the breaker box. You don’t remember?”

“I think I must have done it in my sleep,” Sophia said. “I thought I was just dreaming. I’m getting too old for this shit… ”