03 Deluge of the Dead (13 page)

He paused and swept his gaze around the room until his eyes locked briefly, but meaningfully, with first one and then another of his best friends. Finally, Scott said, “Mick Williams? Mark Argus? I’d like both of you to accept the position of Guardian for my family, but wait to answer until I explain what I’m asking. As a Guardian you would swear to protect and defend them and their property as you would your own. You will be advisors and confidants to my widow. You will help to guide and teach my son as I would, if I could. And you will place yourselves between them and any threat posed by the living, or the undead. Do you willingly accept this responsibility?”

There were tears in Mick’s eyes as he said, “I do.”

Mark was stoic when he said, “Affirmative. Charlie Mike,” and gave a definitive nod of acceptance.

 “Thank you, brothers,” said Scott with relief. “I knew I could count on you.” He felt at peace for the first time since being bitten, or really since turning on the TV in the pre-dawn hours of Z-Day. His job was almost complete.

“Now that you’ve accepted my offer, I can tell you about the benefits that come with being a Guardian. You’ll have good reason to defend my family’s assets because they are yours now too. You’ll have carte blanche access to all the family vessels, vehicles, aircraft, weapons and properties.

“Mick, the helicopter and Seawind are basically yours now, for as long as you serve my family faithfully. So are the Falcon 900 and Paris Jet, if you can ever secure the hanger up in Santa Barbara and find somewhere safe to fly them. And I’d appreciate it if you continue Billy’s flying lessons and make sure he becomes a competent pilot too. He’s got some promise. You can also take your pick of my sports cars to play with when you go ashore.

“Mark, you’ll be in charge of the little arsenal that we put together.  Be sure to keep enough guns and ammo to defend against any possible threat. Put together a good security team to protect Billy and Michelle too. You can consider the mini sub yours, along with your choice of cars and boats. What’s mine will be yours to share and defend with and for my family.

“Together with Captain Fisher, Billy and Michelle, both of you will also have a say in which of the family assets will be contributed to the Flotilla, or be available for use by the Captains’ Council. Just remember that your first priority as Guardians must always be to promote the best interests of the family. Don’t let them give it all away, or let anyone take it from them. Agreed?” They both nodded solemnly.

“Good,” Scott said and turned his stare to O’Hara. “Sergeant Major, I would have picked you as a Guardian too, but I know you have pre-existing allegiances and commitments. I have no idea how long it will be until General Barstow recalls you and your men. I just want to make it clear that you and your Marines, as well as your families, are welcome to stay aboard this ship indefinitely. And as long you are here I would appreciate it if you would also act as an honorary Guardian and protector to my family.”

“It would be my honor, sir,” replied O’Hara stiffly.

 “Thank you,” Scott said in a relieved voice. Then his mood saddened again. “I would have asked Clint to be a Guardian too, but his condition is uncertain. I guess I need to tell you all about it now. The amputation saved his life, but it seems that he’s become a carrier of the Super Rabies virus.” There were gasps and groans around the room. “He had intimate contact with a woman who turned into the zombie that bit me.” The mood shifted from sadness to outrage, but Scott raised a hand to shush them. “It’s not his fault. I don’t want anyone to blame him. In fact, he might be the most valuable person on this ship, possibly on the entire planet. You see, he’s immune to the virus now. He carries it in his blood, but it doesn’t affect him. The professor thinks that his antibodies might hold the key to a vaccine. So I need all of you to promise to protect him. Don’t let him spread the virus to anyone else, but don’t let anything happen to him either. The fate of the world may depend on it.” The mood of anger in the room shifted to a mixture of fear and hope.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” Scott said. “If this were any other day I would declare a holiday and throw a party so I could attend my own wake.” This only produced a few sad smiles, so Scott continued, “When you do have time for a party I hope you will have much more to celebrate than my life.  You see, I have no doubt that in the future Z-Day, April 1
^st
, will be a day of mourning. But I’m hopeful that April 14
^th
will be a day of celebration. It will mark the creation of the Captains’ Council and our rescue mission to bring thousands of survivors to safety during the storm. Don’t ever let my own fate put a damper on those celebrations, or distract you from the job we must do today and tomorrow. As long as those plans are successful, I consider this a good day to die. Now get back to work! You have a world to save!”

*****

Word of Scott’s condition spread like wildfire as storm clouds gathered on the horizon. Across the safe haven and throughout the Flotilla people paused in shock at the news, many wept. Then they redoubled their efforts to ensure that the Commodore’s final orders to begin the rescue missions went ahead as planned. Hundreds of boats set out, spreading up and down the coast, to wait for survivors to appear on the shore. A train pulling a dozen empty box cars prepared to cross the Henry Ford Bridge into Wilmington, determined to go as far as possible and then return during the rain, picking up survivors along the way.  Several small convoys, each led by Marines in Hummers or LAVs and composed of RVs from the refinery convoy and empty cargo trucks, formed up near the barricades at the edge of the safe haven. After it began to rain they would also venture out in several directions in search of local survivors, as well as stockpiles of food and other vital supplies.

One convoy would be led by the second Amtrac and included two buses filled with volunteer drivers, along with a dozen heavy duty pick-up trucks loaded with cans full of gasoline and diesel fuel. Their mission was to reach a nearby RV sales center. If that part of the plan worked, they hoped to return with dozens of brand new motor homes and travel trailers that would serve as housing for hundreds of refugees. Meanwhile, the retrieval of abandoned boats from nearby harbors continued nonstop and armed teams also went door to door through every building on Terminal Island, searching for isolated zombies and determining how many refugees could be housed in each structure. A full scale effort was underway to prepare the safe haven to receive as many new occupants as possible.

Scott stood outside on the bridge wing of the
Sovereign Spirit
and watched the activity in the port. He felt a sense of deep pride that almost overwhelmed his feelings of hopelessness and fear. He longed to see the rescue missions through to fruition, but decided that he was content to know that what he had set in motion would continue in his absence. He still didn’t feel any different, no physical signs yet of the virus that was undoubtedly spreading through his body. Aside from a persistent pain in the ass he felt fine, but knew that it wouldn’t last. Life was fleeting and his had almost run its course. 

“Excuse me, Commodore?” said Captain Fisher through the open door to the bridge. Scott turned and Fisher continued, “We have radar and radio contact with the
Cape Inscription
, sir. She’s fifty miles out and approaching with an escort of one Navy frigate and a guided missile cruiser. Looks like the Navy liked the goodies we sent to San Diego and sent her back for more. Their ETA is less than three hours, sir.”

“Good,” said Scott. “I guess I should still be here to greet them.” If it was meant as joke it didn’t come across that way. “How long before it starts raining?”

“A couple of hours, according to the weather radar,” replied Fisher. “We show heavy bands of rain crossing the Channel Islands now. It should intensify when it hits the coast. Looks like we’ll be ready to launch full scale rescue operations by then too.”

“Excellent,” Scott said without much enthusiasm. It was hard to get excited about anything in the final hours of one’s life. “What about our efforts to spread word of the evacuation?”

“Right on schedule,” Fisher confirmed. “All the ships are broadcasting the evacuation alert on different frequencies. So are the remaining Emergency Broadcast System stations and the Weather Band channels. Coast Guard helos are flying up and down the coast using loud speakers. LA police, sheriff and fire choppers are doing the same inland. We’re broadcasting from the ship too, on radio and the internet. I think the word is getting out to everyone we can reach, or at least to those with a chance of reaching us.”

“Good,” Scott said. “You should cherish every life that’s saved, Jordy, but I don’t envy your job when it comes to caring for all those refugees. If the evacuation plans are successful, it’ll be a real challenge to provide for that many people over the long run.”

“Don’t I know it,” agreed Fisher. “It’s almost a catch 22, isn’t it? We want to rescue as many survivors as possible, but every life we save will increase the demands on our limited supply of food and shelter. How many do you think we can really take care of?”

“Tens of thousands, I suppose,” said Scott absently. “Maybe even a hundred thousand, if you impose rationing of food and fresh water. You’ll also need to mobilize all the fishing boats you can find to provide fresh seafood on a regular basis. Any more than a hundred thousand and you’ll have a real problem though, especially if you follow through with the plan to send some of the stockpiles here to other refugees in San Diego and Los Angeles.”

“What should we do, if there are too many survivors I mean?” asked Captain Fisher who had come to the realization that Scott would not be there to make decisions or even offer suggestions much longer.

Scott turned his eyes towards the captain, eyes that suddenly looked old and tired. “Spread them out. Create other safe havens.”

“Where?” asked Fisher. “How?”

“You’ll figure it out,” replied Scott wearily. “Use the Flotilla to move some of them and set up coastal safe havens. I already planned to do that in Malibu where the mountains and ocean form natural defenses. The coastline between Ventura and Santa Barbara has a similar topography. You should clear the railroad tracks inland and up the coast towards agricultural regions too. Set up fortified farming communities next to the train tracks and along the coast. Send survivors there. Pretty soon they should be able to start sending fresh produce back for those that remain here. Ask Michelle about the people we met at Lake Cachuma and my ideas for an alliance with the farmers and Indian tribe in the valley there. You’ll find a way to make it work.”

“Yes, sir,” said Captain Fisher. When Scott explained things like that it all sounded so simple, but would anyone else have thought it through so completely? Scott was a big picture thinker and his foresight would be sorely missed. “Any other long term plans we should keep in mind?”

“Survive. Consolidate. Expand and Rebuild. The rest is details,” Scott said flatly. “Just make damned sure to make the wellbeing of my family, my friends, and this ship your top priority.” Scott paused thoughtfully and added, “Of course helping the professor find a cure to the virus trumps everything else. I’m sure there are other secure labs around the world working on it, but they probably don’t have someone like Clint. His immunity might be unique.” Scott stopped speaking and turned back to gaze over the activity in the port. Then he pulled out another cigarette and lit it.

“You can count on me, Scott,” said Captain Fisher solemnly. He turned back into the bridge where a crewman was calling for his attention and returned a moment later to say, “That conference call with the mayor and the FBI agent is ready for you, sir.”

*****

Carl felt like he’d been punched in the gut as he accompanied Mick, Mark and O’Hara back to the helipad atop the
Sovereign Spirit.
The news that Scott had been bitten had come as a real shock, but the idea that Carl would be one those chosen to take his place as a leader of all these people was truly daunting.

When the helicopter lifted off from the ship Carl’s mind was preoccupied with the uncertain future. He absently glanced again at the horde of zombies trapped below them in San Pedro and suddenly the feeling of unease that had bothered him earlier crystallized into one of true danger.

“Sergeant Major?” Carl said. “What do you think all those zombies being contained by the water pumps and sprinklers will do when it starts to rain?”

 “Well…” O’Hara pondered as he craned his neck to look past Carl at the horde of undead below. “It doesn’t look like they have any shelter down there, so I imagine they’re all going to get rather wet. Why? You think that’s a problem?”

“Yes I do,” said Carl with growing concern. “If it rains hard enough there won’t be any difference between the rain and the barrier of sprinklers. I think those zombies will run right through them in search of shelter further inland.”

O’Hara sat up straight and said, “Now that’s a nasty thought. How can we prevent that from happening?”

“Aside from killing them?” Carl replied. “I haven’t got a clue, but we better go down and warn the guys running those pumps, or it might come as a nasty surprise indeed.”

“You got it,” said Mick who had been listening to their conversation over the intercom headsets. He banked back and descended to land on the secure side of the water barrier where armed work crews monitored the pumps and sprinklers. Mick also radioed the
Sovereign Spirit
to report Carl’s concerns.

*****

George Hammer was not just shocked by Scott’s announcement, he was mortified. As he left the meeting he overheard someone say that the zombie who had bitten Scott had been the woman rescued in Cabo San Lucas. That had to be Carla. This news hit him hard and in more ways than one. She would never have been on the
Sovereign Spirit
if George hadn’t picked her up on the side of a road in Mexico, or had been strong enough not to sleep with her on the voyage up to San Diego, or had even agreed to continue their clandestine affair. In that case Carla wouldn’t have slept with Clint, wouldn’t have turned into a zombie, and wouldn’t have bitten Scott. So George felt an irrational guilt for Scott’s fate. It was only enhanced by the grief he felt over Carla’s death.  She had been trouble, no doubt about it, but he still had feelings for her. After all she was the only woman aside from his wife that he had been intimate with in almost thirty years. So it was with a heavy heart that George returned to the
Expiscator
and tried to turn his mind back to the pressing business at hand. He was trying to prioritize the tasks that needed to be completed before the rain arrived when the skipper, Stan Dawson, informed him of Carl’s warning about the potential for the contained zombies to escape during the storm.