Under a Graveyard Sky-eARC (27 page)

Which meant right at Steve.

He wasn’t sticking around to watch or anything but the sharks were coming in from near the surface. The hammerhead was tracking down and forward on the megayacht and that meant that the sharks’ path led them right to Steve.

Who they passed without note. He was still being calm and regular in his movements and they didn’t see him as easy prey. Five, six, nine sharks darted right past him in pursuit of the massive hammer as he calmly made his way to the surface.

“I thought you were a goner, there,” Sherill called. “They were too deep to shoot.”

“If you’d shot one of them I
would
have been a goner,” Steve muttered. If one of the charging sharks had been shot as well, all the rest would have closed in with Steve as tasty snack in the middle.

“What?” Sherill asked, starting to climb down.

“Easy peasy,” Steve said, decocking the H&K and taking a series of deep breaths. “No worries, mate.”

* * *

“Okay,” Fredette said, shaking his head and listening to the take from the captains. The increasing number of boat captains in the “flotilla” gossiped like old women on various frequencies, which made keeping up with the goings on of the group easy. “This guy is flipping insane. Diving into a feeding frenzy to release a boat and then taking out a shark with a pistol?”

“If it’s crazy and it works, it ain’t crazy,” Bundy said, shrugging and making a note. “Note to sonar. That weird transient was the sound of a .45 being fired sixty feet underwater…”

“Don’t forget the whole ‘into a shark’ part,” Fredette said. “That probably changed the acoustics from just firing it.”

“Good point…”

* * *

Galloway raised an eyebrow and looked at Commander Freeman.

“His own subordinate skippers call him ‘Captain Insanity,’ sir,” Freeman said, defensively.

“Not to influence the discussion or anything,” Brice said, holding up her hands. “But I’m starting to like this guy.”

Freeman looked at his monitors and sighed.

“Sir, we may have a destabilizing element in the equation.”

“Which is?” Galloway asked.

“Passive sonar on the Dallas indicates an approaching Russian Typhoon.”

“They’re sending a boomer?” Brice said, blinking. “A
boomer
?”

“They’re fast attacks are not as well designed for long endurance as ours,” Freeman said. “It’s possible that they don’t have a fast attack to close the position. Acoustics indicate it is probably the
Servestal
.”

“Sounds like time to talk to Sergei again,” Galloway said, grimacing.

* * *

“Slippery,” Steve said as he jumped off the dinghy onto the boarding platform. The dinghy was going up and down in five foot regular seas whereas the boarding platform was hardly moving. He’d done it so many times it he really didn’t notice. “Watch your step.”

He’d actually landed on the chest of one of the dead infected. He also didn’t really notice that except one detail.

“Is it just me or is there a preponderance of women?” he asked, catching the line thrown to him.

“We’d noticed that,” Fontana said. “And for all they were zombies…kinda pretty ones.”

“Men,” Faith said, stepping easily onto the flushdeck. “Da, this is one of the easiest boardings we’ve ever done.”

“Noticed,” Steve said. “But if you slip overboard it will go quickly to one of the worst,” he added, pointing to the still circling sharks.

“So, you seriously shot a hammerhead with a .45?” Fontana said, taking point. There were stairs up to the promenade deck to either side of the landing. He took port just because. There also appeared to be some sort of pop-out door but there were no obvious external controls.

“Wasn’t my first option,” Steve said, as Faith took starboard. “And I’m not sure whether to trust the gun again. We need to be
really
careful on fire discipline on this one. I think it’s going to be as bad as the cutter.”

“Well, it’s got all the usual zombie mess,” Fontana said, looking over at Faith. “Ooo, look, there’s movement to my starboard!”

“Very effing funny, Falcon,” Faith said. She looked through the heavy glass doors at the interior and shrugged. “I dunno, a little paint, some carpet…”

“A
lot
of carpet,” Steve said. “I think we need to start clearing freighters to look for carpet.”

What appeared to be the main saloon was about sixty feet long, two stories high and had once been a vision in fine wood bars, tables and white carpet and equally white sofas and chairs. There were also plasma screens freaking
everywhere
. From the looks of it, some of the windows could double as smart-screens. The central bar was of cream, silver and blond wood with “SOCIAL ALPHA” emblazoned above along with what appeared to be the logo for Spacebook, the social networking site. Someone had defaced it, apparently tried to strip off the platinum and since it was above most of the damage that had probably been an uninfected human.

Half the plasmas were obviously trashed. The floor was covered in the usual mix of blood, decomposing flesh and feces. So were the sofas, chairs, tables and the fine wood bars. There were bullet holes in half the windows. There were at least nine chewed corpses in view.

“All of the booze is gone,” Fontana said, looking behind the central bars.

“Maybe they figured out how to break the top of a bottle,” Faith said, stepping gingerly around the central bar to starboard and sweeping from side to side. The room had no interior light but they were still getting good radiance from the tinted windows. She checked behind the bar on her side, leading with her Saiga. “Cleaning this up is going to be a bitch and a half. But I think it might be worth it.”

“The problem is, again, fuel,” Steve said.

“There’s that small tanker Sophia found,” Fontana said, sweeping to port again.

“Let’s say I’m a little uncomfortable clearing a tanker,” Steve said, hefting his Saiga. “Especially one that has been sitting without spaces being vented. All I can see is Faith shooting a zombie and the whole thing going boom. Then there’s the problem of getting it running and getting the fuel from it to the other boats. In mid ocean.”

“All problems we’re going to have to figure out,” Faith pointed out. “We’re going to need the fuel now or later.”

“Open hatch to the interior,” Fontana said, pausing. The scattered bars were designed to get people to flow in a freeform manner. They also tended to restrict line of sight. Which he wasn’t enjoying.

“Olly olly oxenfree!” Faith shouted. “Zombies, zombies, any zombies home?”

“I wonder how far that actually carried?” Steve asked.

“Far enough,” Fontana said, as the laser dropped onto the zombie’s chest.

“Wait!” Faith said, delightedly.

“Why?” Fontana asked. The zombie was in pretty bad shape and it wasn’t closing fast, but it wasn’t like he wanted him to get to melee range.

“Oh, My God!” Faith squealed as the zombie charged. “Do you know who that is?”

“No,” Steve said, still covering the rear. “You going to shoot or Fontana?”

“Mike Mickerberg!” she said, pulling the trigger on the Saiga twelve gauge. The former internet billionaire was splattered all over the deck of his mega yacht. “Clean-up on Aisle Nine!”

“That’s getting old, Faith,” Steve said. “And who?”

“The guy who invented Spacebook! Duh.”

“Well, even if we had the equipment we couldn’t use him for vaccine,” Fontana said.

“Why?” she asked, heading to the next hatch. “He’d infect people with horrible apps?”

“Actually, I was wondering if he had a spine,” Fontana said, then looked down. “Yep. Sure does. Amazing…”

“Don’t step in him, Da,” Faith said. “You might get Slimelined.
HELLO
! ANY ZOMBIES IN THERE? ZOMBIES, ZOMBIES, OLLY-OLLY OXENFREE!”

CHAPTER 25

“I’m starting to think there was a mutiny,” Steve said, stepping over the corpse. The man had been wearing body armor and he would have been facing a similarly clad man further down the corridor. Both had rifles by their bodies, one an M4 the other an AK variant, and there were casings scattered along the corridor.

“Looks that way,” Fontana said, turning the smaller man over. His legs and face had been chewed off but the armor had kept his torso intact. Except for the decomposition. “Ugh.”

“What?” Faith asked, looking down. “Clean it up and it’s pretty good gear. Well, except the holes that are in it.”

“It wasn’t the body or the gear I was going ugh about,” Fontana said. “Soccoro Security. Evan Soccoro’s company.”

“Context?” Steve asked.

“There are contractors and contractors,” Fontana said, continuing the sweep. “Despite it’s rep, Blackwater wasn’t actually that bad. They had something resembling quality control. Triple Canopy? Very good. At least their primary operators. And they pick good associate operators.”

“Primary, associate?” Faith said. “Bosses and subordinates?”

“Generally, but not exactly,” Fontana said, banging on a hatch. “You can call it racist, but primaries are all from developed nations. Generally. Associates are guys hired from developing nations. Associates are cheaper and generally not as well trained. Not always. Some groups use former Ghurkas for associates or even primaries. There’s one run by a former Ghurka that does shipboard security.”

There was no response so he entered the compartment. There were several bodies in there but none had been chewed. Some men, some women. Most had been shot in the head.

“So what’s with Socorro?” Steve asked.

“I won’t get into my
personal
issues with former Special Forces major Evan Socorro,” Fontana said. “Although I had personal issues with Socbreath. Which term came from his tendency to…fellate highers from SOCOM. Pretty much anybody who worked for him did. But he finally got a chain of command that, officially in writing, asked how an asshole, and a not particularly competent asshole, got to be a major in the Groups in the first place and he got out. And started his own security company. He had some assbuddy primaries that were mostly not former military, just call them gun geeks. Some of those guys are fine. A lot of them weren’t military cause they couldn’t make the grade. ‘How soon do I get to kill somebody?’ couldn’t make the grade. That’s the kind he liked to hire. Then instead of hiring good associate contractors like, say, former Peruvian mountain commandoes or El Salvadorans or even some of the SA or Angolan ‘bleks’ he picked west Africans.”

“Bloody hell!” Steve said, looking around a corner. “Seriously? More here.”

“Is that bad?” Faith asked. “I guess so.”'

“Think child soldiers whose ‘military experience’ consisted of rape, loot, pillage and burn,” Steve said. “Again, there are good West African troops…”

“For values of good,” Fontana said. “I think ‘good’ for even their elite is a stretch.”

“But the majority are pretty damned bad,” Steve said. “By any definition of bad you’d care to name. Competence, ability, discipline. I’m surprised anybody would hire a group like that.”

“They were cheap,” Fontana said, shrugging. “He didn’t pay his primaries at full standard rate and his associates got paid dirt. So he could shave a few bucks off a contract.”

“Looks like he got what he paid for,” Faith said, pointing to a hole in the bulkhead. “Steel. I’d say… 7.62?”

“Yeah,” Fontana said, staring at one of the female bodies. “I think these were potential infected that were terminated. I don’t see any bites but that might not have been how they were chosen. And…”

“The women have all been raped,” Steve said. “From the ligature marks.”

“Oh, God,” Faith said, grimacing.

“‘If
one holds his state on the basis of mercenary arms, he will never be firm or secure; because they are disunited, ambitious, without discipline, unfaithful; gallant among friends, vile among enemies; no fear of God, no faith with men; and one defers ruin insofar as one defers the attack; and in peace you are despoiled by them, in war by the enemy,”
Steve said.

“Da and his quotes,” Faith said. “Which one is this one?”

“Macchiavelli’s
The Prince
,” Fontana said. “I know some good guys who are contractors. And some good companies.”

“So you’re facing a zombie apocalypse where every reasonable person foresees a potentially permanent breakdown in law and order, and you bound onto your megayacht, load up with models, then hire a security company filled with freaking
West Africans
?” Steve said.

“Well, no,” Fontana said. “
That
was stupid. You might as well put a steak around your neck and go jump in a tiger pit.”

“So…” Faith said. “Guy’s smart enough to build and run a billion dollar company. How come he makes that mistake?”

“Situation he’s in is a tough call,” Fontana said. “I mean, in normal times no way that you’d have to deal with a take-over by your security. There’s laws. Bad things
will
happen to them. Post-apoc? Don’t ask me what I would have done if I was the guy running security, had all the guns and all the people who knew how to use them, and the boss was now utterly useless.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve said.

“Different situation entirely,” Fontana said. “And I’m not Socorro.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Faith said. “I can see that problem. I mean, I’ve been nervous about all the new people. Not you, Falcon, but… You know, who do you trust? I guess I’m wondering how a guy like Mickerberg could have picked somebody even I would know not to trust?”

“You’re thirteen but you’ve got the background,” Steve said. “Your mom and I gave it to you. I don’t know a lot about the guy, but I got the impression of intelligent liberal, one each. To them, everybody who knows how to use a gun looks the same. There’s no difference between Sergeant Fontana and Kony in Congo. He probably just told one of his staff to find a security company that could supply security and picked one of the lowest bidders.”

“We’re all babykillers after all,” Fontana said, banging on a hatch. “Hello! Any babies to kill in there?”

“If there were any survivors, that would not be very reassuring,” Steve pointed out.

“No, just zombies,” Fontana said, looking in. “Dead zombies.”

“Sure they were zombies?” Faith asked.

“They’re naked and some of them are chewed,” Fontana said, closing and marking the hatch. “I hope like hell they were.”

* * *

“Da, I’m starting to think that zombies aren’t the worst things in the world…”

The cabin on the top deck was nearly the size of the main saloon with a panoramic view of the surrounding ocean, a massive in deck hot-tub, a wet bar big enough for a public bar and a bed that could hold forty. At a guess, there had once been a good bit of gilding from the looks of where stuff had been ripped out. There was also a huge stack of Mountain House boxes and five gallon containers of water.

The solid steel door had been cut through by a welding torch. On the bed were ten women, naked, their hands bound behind their backs and shot in the head. At the head of the bed was a male corspe, unbound, also naked, with the top of his head blown off. All of the bodies had been gnawed by ferals but they hadn’t died from the zombies.

“Major Socorro,” Fontana said, smiling thinly. “We meet again.”

“How do you know it’s him?” Faith asked. The body’s face had been chewed off.

“Right height, right build and I know how he was about women,” Fontana said. “There’s rough and then there’s batshit.”

“Holed up to wait for the zombies to take over,” Steve said. “Probably with the pick of the prettier women. Then when the mutineers burned through the door he shot them and himself?”

“Looks that way,” Fontana said, wandering around the suite. “What’s missing is the weapons and ammo.”

“And the gilt,” Steve said, pointing to where something had been prised from the walls. “You know, modern sport fishers don’t sink very readily. They’ve got buoyant foam inserted everywhere…”

“Zombies are taking over, the mercs load up the one away-boat with all the gold and all the guns?” Fontana said. “Overload the boat?”

“Which explains why it went down like a stone,” Steve said, shaking his head.

“You know,” Fontana said, musingly. “Billionaire like this probably had
real
gold. I mean, bars, coin…”

“Jewelry,” Steve said. “And not costume.”

“Did we just drop a treasure ship in five thousand feet of water?” Faith said. “
Please
tell me we didn’t drop a treasure ship in five thousand feet of water…”

* * *

“Yeah, you did.”

James Michael “call me Mike” Dugan, assistant engineer, had been found hiding in one of the yacht’s cavernous storage lockers along with a female Indonesia cook named Eka Sari. They’d been brought up on deck and were sipping soup in a relatively undamaged portion of the promenade.

“We could hear them talking about it,” Sari said softly. “When they were speaking English.”

“It wasn’t real clear that Socorro had taken over at first,” Dugan said. “Mick was always sort of stand-offish with the crew. But then Socorro took over his cabin and the… Africans started going nuts. Mick had brought a bunch of his friends and execs along.”

“And women?” Steve asked.

“Yeah,” Dugan said. “Lots of girls. Mick hadn’t been seen for a week. I mean, I didn’t interact with guests but…”

“I did,” Sari said. “And there were questions. All of Mr. Mickerberg’s food was being taken to him by security, ‘for his safety.’”

“Then… Socorro had all the guests brought up on deck and the Africans separated out the men and women, and the women who were…older,” Dugan said. “And the Africans shot ’em. Right in front of God and everybody. Told us if we didn’t follow his orders, we’d get the same. Then the party started…” he said, glancing quickly at Sari and then away.

“Rape,” Sari said, looking at the deck. “Much rape.”

“Told you Socorro was batshit,” Fontana said, shrugging. “I think he hired the Africans cause they were the only guys he could find as fucked up as he was.”

“Then people started going zombie,” Dugan said. “And it really hit the fan. There was some sort of a split in the gang. We heard Socorro was killed, the leader of that faction, guy named Meloy, went zombie and the Africans, those that hadn’t turned, started loading the away boat. With, like, every bit of treasure they could get their hands on. And there was a lot. It was about that time that I…went into the compartment and sealed the door. Turned out Sari was already there…”

“I had hidden when the fighting broke out,” Sari said.

“There was a pause there,” Steve said.

“What pause?” Dugan asked.

“Before you hid in the compartment,” Steve said. “You skipped a step.”

“I sort of locked the engines down and turned off the lights,” Dugan said, grinning thinly. “And locked down the engine room doors. I was the last surviving engineering officer. That’s what got them to leave the ship; no lights, no power, drifting. I figured, turn everything off, lock it out, hide in the compartment, wait for them to leave and then come out.”

“Good plan,” Fontana said, drily. “Except for the zombies.”

“Yeah, them,” Dugan said, shrugging. “Thanks for clearing them off.”

“Mr. Dugan, you know the laws of salvage,” Steve said. “Any live survivors means it’s not salvage. Our…approach is slightly different. We allow survivors equal shares on all portable wealth of the boat. The boat is property of the Flotilla as well as half of the materials. We give… When there is a survivor or survivors who can run the vessel, we generally allow them to keep it if they want to join the Flotilla. Or if we don’t need it. In the case of this let’s say we’ll be extremely lenient in that regard. But if, as you’ve indicated, it’s still probably functional and has some fuel… I think this we may need.”

“So… That sort of makes you pirates,” Dugan said.

“Needs must is the best I can say,” Steve said. “Okay, flip it around. You take the boat. It’s not salvage. It’s not entirely clear, by the way. Are you going to finish clearing it?”

“Uh…” Dugan said. “Can I get some help?”

“No,” Fontana said. “I mean, face it, you already did.”

“So even passing that,” Steve said. “Your stores will eventually run out. Where are you going to get more? Where are you going to get fuel?”

“You can’t run this without support,” Fontana said.

“On the other hand,” Steve said. “We can’t run it at
all
. You and a Coast Guard petty officer are the first qualified engineers we’ve rescued. I doubt that how ever many manuals she reads, my wife can even start the engines on this thing.”

“Not the way I buggered the computer controls she can’t,” Dugan said.

“So, obviously, we need your cooperation and I hope support,” Steve said. “This is well set-up to be a floating command and support ship. We need somewhere to put the refugees, give them a few days rest before we give them the choice of helping or being put into Coventry.”

“You can get to Coventry?” Dugan said.

“There are two sailboats we floated in Bermuda harbor,” Fontana said. “Which is filled with sharks that have gotten used to snacking on uncoordinated zombies. Anybody who doesn’t want to help out we drop on those. They’re hellholes, really, but there’s nothing else to do with them.”

“Most of them are less sick, lame and lazy than tired and afraid of the sea,” Steve said, shrugging. “And there’s no great benefit, to their eyes, to bouncing around in tiny boats in a big sea. I think that some of them would probably go for being on this one. Even if it’s not in the big room.”

“Cleaning this up…” Dugan said, shaking his head. “When I went to ground it had gotten bad, but not this bad.”

“That’s the price of getting out of Coventry,” Steve said, grinning mirthlessly. “And the price of remaining out is continuing to provide support to a reasonable standard.”

“I can run the engines,” Dugan said. “For as long as they hold out. And they’re good, don’t get me wrong. And new. But I can’t con this thing. Where you gonna get a captain?”