Voyage of the Dead - Book One Sovereign Spirit Saga (18 page)

            “Well, we made it,” George said in the happiest tone he could muster.  “We’ve got a long trip ahead of us, but Mr. Allen seems to know what he’s doing and we’re very lucky that he let us use this yacht for our escape.”

            “Yes,” Carla agreed.  “It’s wonderful.  I’m glad I hitched a ride with you guys.  I thought I would die back there.”

            “But everything is so crazy, dad,” said George’s daughter Molly.  “Those people turned into monsters.  They turned Fred into one of them.  What’s happening?”

            “I don’t know, sweetheart,” George said soothingly.  “But it’s something very bad and it’s not just happening here.  Life is going to be very different now.  I need you to be strong and take care of the boys.  We’re going to be okay, but things could get worse before they get better.  Understand?”

            “Yes, daddy,” Molly answered with tears in her eyes.

            “That’s my good girl,” George said softly.  “Now I need to check on some things.  You all sit tight and in a little while maybe you ladies can fix up some food for us.  Then we’ll get you all settled into your cabins.”  George gave Molly a hug, rubbed his grandsons on their heads, and went back out onto the deck.  They were rounding the tip of Land’s End and El Arco framed the view of the big cruise liner that remained still and silent in front of the beach resorts of Cabo San Lucas, where flesh eating zombies had replaced party going coeds on the beaches. 

George looked back and appraised the twenty-eight smaller boats that followed the
Expiscator
out to sea.  Eighteen of the power boats were 50 feet or longer, all but one of them were dedicated fishing machines with open rear decks and cabins forward.  The other one was a 70 foot luxury yacht with only a small fishing cockpit, similar to the
Expiscator,
but considerably smaller, if slightly more modern looking.  The name
Retention
was written along her bow.  More than a few smaller fishing boats and cabin cruisers in the 40 foot range were tagging along as well.  George suspected they would need refueling at least once, possibly twice, en route to San Diego.  The large Australian motorsailer and two smaller sailboats were bringing up the rear and would undoubtedly fall further and further behind, but George had promised to keep them advised of the flotilla’s position and situation in the days to come. 

All in all, George was proud to be leading this rag-tag bunch of survivors.  He knew they had a long way to go, and an uncertain future when they got there, but it felt good to be getting away from the death and horror that had been Cabo San Lucas.  He took one more look at Land’s End, which had always seemed beautiful and imposing.  Now the latter impression was overlaid with images of horror and dread.  Then he looked up along the cliffs to Pedregal where he could see Mr. Allen’s house sitting above the ocean, peacefully empty, except for the body of his son-in-law, waiting for someone who would probably never move in.  George made his own peace with the world and vowed to protect the people who fate had made his charges.

*****

Interlude in Hell

Chevron Oil Refinery, 2:14 PM, April 2, 2012

Carl had fired his new pistol into the heads of fifteen zombies when the slide locked back, indicating that the gun was finally empty.  By then there were at least a hundred more zombies pressing against the fence of the refinery.  Carl paused to search the body of the zombie cop for more ammunition and found four more loaded magazines in pouches on his belt: sixty more rounds.  Carl removed the gun belt and slung it over his shoulder with the backpack.  He was loading a full magazine into the pistol when the sound of an engine startled him.

Carl turned and saw a large utility truck driving quickly up the service road inside the refinery’s perimeter fence.  He lowered the gun and waved wildly at the driver.  The truck slowed and Carl could see at least two men staring back at him from the cab.  The driver rolled down his window and yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m trying to survive a zombie attack!” Carl yelled back, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  The two men glanced at each other and then looked at the mass of zombies pressing against the other side of the fence.  Carl followed their gaze and shuddered as he realized how many had arrived.  But he was pleased to notice the press of bodies had knocked over the ladder.  They wouldn’t be able to use it to scale the fence, unless they were a lot smarter than Carl suspected. 

“Looks to me like you’re just attracting more of them to our fence, buddy,” said the truck driver.  “Did any of them bite or scratch you?”  He was clearly focused on the blood that dripped from the cut on Carl’s hand.

“No,” replied Carl firmly.  “I cut my hand when I crashed a golf cart, but I haven’t been bitten.”  The truck driver appeared skeptical as he turned to say something to his companion.  But then he turned back and waved Carl towards the truck. 

“You better climb in the back of the truck,” the driver said.  “And make sure those bastards over there can see you.  Make some noise.  Shoot a few more if you want to.”

“Okay,” Carl yelled back over the sound of the truck and the moans of the zombie horde.  “But why?”

“We need to lead them away from here and spread them out some.  If too many of those things press up against a single part of the fence, they might knock it down.” 

Carl nodded at the wisdom of that observation and scrambled up onto the back of the truck.  As it began to roll forward, he yelled at the crowd of zombies, “Hey you dead fucks! Here I am! Come and get me!”  Then he raised his gun and fired three shots towards the demented faces of zombies pressed up against the fence.  At least two of the shots found their mark, but the bodies didn’t fall right away, as they were held in place by the press of zombie flesh behind them.  Nevertheless, as the truck moved slowly east, the herd of zombies shifted to follow it along the other side of the fence.  Carl continued to yell and heckle them to draw their attention.  “Come on you bastards!  Follow the lunch wagon!  Chase me, you shit heads!”  Carl wasn’t sure if the insults had any effect on the zombies, but it made him feel a lot better to vent his rage and disgust at the undead mob.   And, for whatever reasons, they were obviously following him and the truck. 

The driver accelerated and most of the trailing zombies began to fall behind.  The mob was spreading out too.  Those who had been elderly, infirm, or obese in life were much slower, as were those badly mangled by their transformation into zombies, or injuries incurred thereafter.  Those were all falling back, while the younger and stronger zombies were running after the truck at close to a sprint.  After traveling three blocks, past five large oil storage tanks, the truck had reached 30 miles per hour and had left the entire pack of zombies in its dust.  But Carl noticed that the fastest zombies were still running with no sign of fatigue.  The driver yelled for Carl to shut up as they left the zombies behind. 

Moments later he slowed and made a right turn around the last oil tank, blocking the zombies’ view of the truck, and drove deeper into the refinery.  Carl hung on as the ten ton utility truck accelerated down the hard packed dirt road, throwing a giant dust cloud behind it.   The diver slowed down as they passed behind another big fuel tank and pulled to a stop.  Carl coughed as the dust caught up, then hopped down and walked up to the driver’s door. 

“Thank you for picking me up,” said Carl as the driver rolled his window down.  “I wasn’t sure if I would get out of there on my own.  And I haven’t spoken with another normal person since I escaped from LAX at midnight on the first.  Do you guys have any idea what’s happening?”

“Game over,” said the big man behind the wheel who looked to be in his fifties with thinning red hair.  “Dawn of the dead, or something like it.  We’ve been safe here behind the fence, but you just drew a lot of attention to it.”  His tone was not unkind, but he was obviously disturbed by the incident.  “So, who are you?  A fireman?”

“No,” replied Carl.  “I took this jacket and gear from an abandoned ambulance, right after my wife turned into one of those monsters.”  Carl paused to fully accept the meaning of his words.  “I was a mechanical engineer.  But now it looks likes I’m just a survivor, at least for now.  My name’s Carl.”

“Wish I could say it was nice to meet you, Carl,” replied the truck driver.  “My name is Chuck Collins.  Welcome to the refinery.  I’m sure we can use an engineer.  None of ours came to work yesterday.  Climb in.”  Chuck grinned as he waved Carl around the truck to enter the passenger door.

“I’m Gus,” said the man who opened the passenger side door and slid over for Carl to climb in beside him.  “That was one Hell of a ride you made down that hill.  I saw it all and grabbed Chuck to come get you.  That took some balls.  Those cannibals out there were all over you, man.  Are you sure they didn’t bite you?”  The last question carried some deep reservations and came as Carl was sliding in beside him.

“I’m almost a hundred percent sure that I got this cut when the cart crashed,” replied Carl defensively.  “But, if I’m wrong, I’ll try to let you know before I turn into a zombie.  My wife told me that it felt like something was crawling around inside her head right before she changed.  I don’t feel anything like that.  Just my hand hurts.”

“Okay, man,” said Gus nervously.  “If you say so, that’s good enough for me.  Those zombies don’t say shit.  So as long as you’re talking, I guess you can sit here.” He smiled and stuck out his hand for Carl to shake.

“Thanks,” Carl replied as he closed the door and leaned back in the seat.  “So what should I talk about?”

“Anything,” Chuck answered.  “But you might want to start with how you got here.” 

Carl turned to stare at the two men with a haunted look.  “We were supposed to be on a cruise ship by now…” He was still recounting the tale of his survival since escaping from the zombie outbreak at LAX when Chuck drove the truck into a large warehouse like structure full of other trucks and heavy machinery ranging from forklifts and skip loaders to bulldozers and earthmovers.   

“That’s quite a story,” Chuck said as he parked the truck.  “You’ve really been killing these bastards with an axe?  So where did you get the gun?”

“From a zombie cop who followed me over your fence, right before you found me.  I killed him with an axe too.”

“That’s wild,” said Gus.  “We’ve been hiding out behind that fence, watching those things rip people apart, but you’ve been out there chopping them up.  Yeah, I think we can use a man like you.”

Carl wasn’t sure if he wanted to be
used
by these oil company workers, but he was glad to have any normal people to talk to.  An industrial refinery was not his idea of a sanctuary, but at least it seemed to be free of zombies and the smell of oil was better than that of rotting bodies.  Then, looking around at the machine shop and mechanic’s stations in the big garage full of trucks and heavy equipment, Carl came to another realization and actually smiled.  “Yes,” he said slowly.  “I think I can be quite useful here.”

Chapter  7 :  Special Reports

“
If zombies did start roaming the streets, CDC would conduct an investigation much like any other disease outbreak. CDC would provide technical assistance to cities, states, or international partners dealing with a zombie infestation. This assistance might include consultation, lab testing and analysis, patient management and care, tracking of contacts, and infection control (including isolation and quarantine).  It’s likely that an investigation of this scenario would seek to accomplish several goals: determine the cause of the illness, the source of the infection/virus/toxin, learn how it is transmitted and how readily it is spread, how to break the cycle of transmission and thus prevent further cases, and how patients can best be treated.”

 Center for Disease Control official website, “Preparedness 101: Zombie Apocalypse” May 16, 2011.  
 
http://emergency.cdc.gov/socialmedia/zombies_blog.asp

            With everyone back aboard the
Sovereign Spirit
, except George Hammer and his refugee flotilla, Scott told Captain Fisher to set course for San Diego at best long range cruise speed.  That was fifteen knots.  They could easily push the ship to over 20 knots, but that would consume many more gallons of precious diesel fuel per mile and leave many of the smaller boats behind.  With no sure source of refueling, it was wise to travel at the most economical speed.  The voyage to San Diego would take almost three days at this speed.  That gave them all more time to do vital research into what kind of nightmare they were waking up to.  Scott spent the rest of the day and most of the night with Captain Fisher and the communications techs on the bridge.