Voyage of the Dead - Book One Sovereign Spirit Saga (15 page)

George had operated a sport fishing boat half the size of the
Expiscator
, but he was not a real yachtsman.  On the other hand, he had driven his share of boats and lots of heavy machinery.  If it had a steering wheel and throttle, he felt confident of being able to maneuver it.  This big yacht would be a test of that confidence.  With the ignition key turned on he soon found the starter buttons for the blowers and fired them up.  He knew that the blowers should run for at least a few minutes to clear out any fuel vapors from below decks before starting the engines.  Otherwise the engines could spark an explosion.  But he also knew that he didn’t have any time to waste.  He only paused a moment before engaging the engine starters.  At first they didn’t catch.  Then he advanced the throttles forward a notch and tried again.  Success!  He felt a reassuring rumble as the big diesel engines fired up.

He ran to the wing window above the dock, slid it open and yelled, “Everybody get aboard now!  Cast off all lines!  We’re getting the Hell out of here.  Stay on the aft deck until we are sure the interior is clear.”  He watched Hector and Pablo release the ropes fore and aft as the rest scurried aboard.  Knowing that the two men would quickly follow, he returned to the helm and slid both throttles slightly into the forward position.  The big yacht began to move.  As it did so he turned to look back down the dock.  He noticed two men untying their own, smaller, fishing yachts.  And he saw at least one zombie, bloody and limping from its encounter with razor wire at the gate, stumbling down the dock.  Well, if those other boats wanted to leave with him, he saw no harm in it.  They had just as much right to survive as he and his group did.

*****

Scott took control of the helicopter as Mick studied the fluctuating instruments.  After a few moments, Scott had a new plan in mind.  He turned north and flew towards the Pacific coast.  As soon as the hills blocked their view of that damned Mexican APC and its machine gun, Scott banked back around the far side of Pedregal.  “OK,” Scott said.  “Plan B, as in beach, is a go.  Next stop is Lovers’ Beach.”  The rest of the men on the helicopter gave him funny looks.

            The strip of sand that ran behind El Arco, connecting the Pacific Ocean with the Sea of Cortez at highest tide, was called “Lovers’ Beach.”  It was usually crowded with tourists and honeymooners.  But there should be no couples enjoying this picturesque beach today.  A zombie or two might have made it out there somehow, either stumbling along the rocky cliffs or having arrived before turning into one of them, but otherwise Scott was confident that the sand would be empty and pristine.  Lover’s Beach was a prime tourist attraction, but it was only accessible by water taxi, unless you were a rock climber.  No water taxis would have brought sightseers out there today.  Scott thought it would be the perfect place to land and inspect the damage to his helicopter.

            “You’ll all love this,” said Scott as he guided the helicopter down between the towering cliffs on either side of the sand bar.  “Welcome to Lovers’ Beach at Land’s End, the last strip of Paradise this side of Hawaii, and hopefully a zombie free zone”   He aimed the chopper at the crest of the sand bar that ran between the jutting rocks of El Arco and the spine of precipitous mountains flanking the harbor on the landward side.  In front of them the sand sloped down to the relatively calm Sea of Cortez, while behind them the waves of the open ocean pounded upon the rocks and sand 8of the rugged Pacific coast.  Sure enough, nobody was in sight.  

            Sand blew out from the rotor wash as the Bell 214-ST set down softly on the crest of Lovers’ Beach.  Mark was out the side door and sweeping for possible threats within seconds.  Clint followed Mark’s lead, using his gun-sight scope to sweep the cliffs and corners of the coves on the other side.  It was almost a hundred yards to the water in either direction and, at least for now, there was no sign of life, or living dead for that matter.  That was the good news.

            Scott changed channels on the radio and made a transmission he had hoped he wouldn’t need to make.  “Spirit, Spirit, this is Eagle, over.”

The response was swift. “Eagle, this is Spirit.  Fisher here, what’s your status?”

“Spirit, the Eagle has landed,” replied Scott.  “Local reception committee was not friendly.    We are feet dry at Land’s End on Lovers’ Beach.  No hostiles here yet.  Will attempt repairs.   Proceed to rendezvous at best speed.”

“Roger that, Eagle,” Captain Fisher responded over the radio.  “Spirit is at least two hours out.  Do you want Seawind E-vac?

“Negative, Spirit. 
Expiscator
should be standing by soon.  But I have flash traffic that you should spread wherever you can.  Copy this.  Zombies don’t swim.  This really is some sort of super rabies.  They have hydrophobia.  Fear of water.  Quote that.  They are afraid of water and appear to drown if they fall into it.  Send that out on email, sat phone and radio to anyone you can reach, especially any news networks still on the air.  I repeat; tell everyone you can that zombies don’t swim.  And add another observation.  Zombies prefer to go downhill.  All of the zombies we saw were going downhill unless they were chasing something uphill.  I think that both of those observations can help to save lives.  Spread the word.  Eagle out.” 

            “Spirit will comply with your instructions and copies your message.  Spirit will broadcast your flash traffic.  But I am also launching the Cigarette Top Gun on my own initiative.  It should be there in less than an hour in case you need extraction.  Hang in there, Scott. Help is coming ASAP.”

            “Okay, Jordy. Eagle is down, clear, and standing by,” said Scott.  He silently agreed that it might be a good idea to have his hundred mile-per-hour speed boat in play here.  At least it would increase their options.  For example, if zombies somehow swarmed this beach, they could still swim out into the bay to wait for the Top Gun, which would arrive at least two hours sooner than the mother ship.  Creating options was a vital component of crisis management.

            “Clint, you cover the north beach on the Pacific side,” said Scott as he turned away from the radio.  “Mark, take the south and keep an eye out for the yacht.  It should be passing us as soon as it leaves the harbor.  Try to get them to hang around for a while.”  Both men nodded and split up to cover opposite sides of the helicopter.   Scott turned to Mick, “Now let’s check out the damage.”

            “Cross your fingers,” replied Mick as he removed his headset and opened his door.  They moved to the rear of the helicopter on opposite sides from each other, looking closely for bullet holes.  Scott spotted three on his side near the rear end of the fuselage.  Those were entry holes with the edges of the holes bent inwards. 

“I’ve got two big exit holes over here,” said Mick.

            “Three entry holes here,” replied Scott.  “Something must have stopped one of them.”  He crouched down and noticed a steady drip, drip, drip of pink hydraulic fluid coming from a drain hole in the belly of the bird.  “We’ve definitely got a leak here,” he added.  “Let’s open up the access panel on this side and see what’s happening.”  He pulled a little multi tool out of a pouch on his belt and unfolded a screw driver to twist the latch pins into the open position.  Mick came around to help him remove the panel and they leaned it down on the landing skid. 

            “Damn,” said Mick.  “At least we know what stopped that bullet.  The ELT is blown to Hell and gone.”  Scott nodded, but it didn’t worry him.  They wouldn’t have much need for an emergency location transmitter here.  Their friends knew where they were and he didn’t want
help
from anyone else right now.

            “Yeah, but the real problem is the fluid leak.  You see that line?” Scott shined the laser pointer in his multi-tool at a wire banded hose running back into the tail boom.  “Look at the fluid running down it.  We need to stop that leak.”

            “Yeah,” agreed Mick.  “But how do we do that here?”

            “It looks like the line was just nicked a bit, not cut wide open.  It’s only a few drops now with the engine turned off, but I bet it sprayed like a bitch under pressure.  See all of that fluid down there?”

            “Yeah,” Mick repeated.  “So what do we use to fix it?”

            “Tape,” replied Scott.

            “Tape?  That won’t work for long,” said Mick skeptically. 

            “Doesn’t have to work for too long,” replied Scott.  “Just long enough for us to get back aboard the
Sovereign Spirit,
and she’s getting closer every minute.  There’s some Gorilla tape in a tool bag under the front seats.  Wipe down the hose while I get the tape.  And start chewing some of that bubble gum you always carry around.”

            “Bubble gum?” asked Mick.  “Why?”

            “When you get the hose dry, wad the gum around the leak to stop the flow.  Hold it there to keep the hose dry while we wrap it in the tape.  That’ll make a better seal.  The gum will also stand up to the fluid better than the tape will and it’ll keep the sticky part of the tape dry.  OK?”

            “You’re a genius, bro,” said Mick.  “That just might work.  Let’s do it.”

*****

            The
Expiscator
was just pulling away from the dock when George saw two men and three young women running down the dock towards them.  They were yelling and waving their arms to attract his attention.  If he simply moved the throttle forward an inch they wouldn’t have a chance of making it aboard.  But that would be tantamount to murder, wouldn’t it?  On the other hand, if they were infected, they could bring the disease aboard.  Not an easy choice for George, but despite all his harsh talk, he was still a softy at heart.  He eased back on the throttles and turned to tell Hector to help the refugees get aboard.

            Suddenly a figure erupted from the captain’s head behind the bridge.  George knew immediately that it was a zombie.  He even recognized the face of the
Expiscator’s
former skipper who had taken George out fishing on this yacht in a different world.  But George had no more time for thought as the apparition advanced with alarming speed and violent intent.  George grabbed the pistol off of the control panel and jumped back towards the navigation station, lifting the pistol and firing in one smooth motion that would have done James Bond proud.  The first bullet was another chest shot that merely slowed the zombie’s advance. 
Damn, this zombie crap was going to take some getting used to! 
His next aimed shot hit dead center in the forehead from four feet away and the semi jacketed hollow point magnum round blew its brains across the aft bulkhead of the bridge.  
That’s haz-mat,
thought George. 
We’ll need to use rubber gloves and be real careful when we clean that crap up.

            When George looked back outside he saw the new arrivals clustered on the swim step with Hector keeping them there, using the threat of his raised machete. 
Good man,
George thought again.  Then his attention was focused on steering the boat out of the harbor.  It wasn’t too difficult.  Due to its size, the big yacht had been berthed on the end of a dock where most of the other boats were in the 50 to 60 foot range.  The 118 foot
Expiscator
had taken twice as much room, so it had filled the entire length of the outside berth.  It had also been pointed towards the mouth of the harbor, so that any rouge wave coming in would have hit her close to head-on.  Now it was just a matter of turning slightly left to clear the breakwater and enter the mouth of the Sea of Cortez.  George did push the throttles forward an inch or two now and the big yacht surged out of the harbor.  They were going to make it!

            As the
Expiscator
was leaving the harbor George looked back and saw dozens of other boats following them.  So be it.  They must have all seen the Mexican army attack the helicopter and watched George’s group escape.  George couldn’t blame them if they wanted to leave this place too.  What had once been a vacation paradise had rapidly become a living, or undead, Hell.  However, George noted that some of the boats were not built for long distance cruising.  A couple of them were simply open deck center console day fishers, not at all suited to the long voyage north.  A few others looked like they wouldn’t be able to keep up on a long voyage either.  One of them, however, was a two masted motorsailer that looked like it was ready for a transoceanic passage.  At least a dozen others were yachts of respectable size that probably had the range and speed for the run to San Diego.  George decided that he would need to stop outside the harbor to organize this impromptu fleet and give them all a pep talk for what lay ahead.

*****

Mark Argus was basically taking a leisurely stroll along Lover’s Beach.  He knew the dangers they were facing and he was willing to meet them.  The weight of the fully loaded Mini-14 in his hands and the wide open, empty beach gave him all the confidence he needed.  The big cruise ship was still anchored out in front of the town.  There still wasn’t any sign of life aboard her, but her presence gave the view a feeling of normalcy that had been lacking when they were flying over hordes of zombies.  If he tried to fool himself he could easily pretend that this was only another day in paradise and he was just lucky to have this picturesque beach to himself.