03 Deluge of the Dead (10 page)

“I’ll let them know,” Carl said as he reached for the radio. “Be advised, the fuse is lit and a trail of burning fuel is headed your way. Please get Gus out of there in a hurry.”

“Copy that,” said Mick. “We’ll have him on board in a few moments. Then we’ll see about torching the rest of this place. You better get going too. The road runs by the north side of the tank farm and it could get a little warn over there.”

“Will do. Thanks guys,” Carl stepped on the gas and sped down the empty road. Even before they turned the corner they could see clouds of black smoke begin to billow from the fuel farm. A moment later there was a loud boom behind them and Karen spotted a mushroom cloud rising from where the tanker truck had been parked.  Thankfully, they also saw the helicopter rise above the storage tanks and hoped that Gus was safely on board.  As they watched the helicopter it began to emit bursts of gunfire from the door mounted machine guns.  Tracer rounds streaked down to ignite the growing lakes of spilled fuel.  Flames and smoke leapt skyward. As the Suburban raced past the north fence they witnessed a gigantic explosion across the tank farm, followed by several more. The big tanks were going off like tactical nukes.

The gunners on the helicopter adjusted their aim to puncture other storage tanks surrounding the horde of zombies. By the time Carl had driven past the tank farm it had been transformed into a conflagration that grew into a true firestorm, sucking air to fan the flames that consumed hundreds of thousands of gallons of gasoline and thousands of undead human bodies.  The helicopter emerged from the billowing mushroom clouds, apparently unscathed, and led the way towards the rest of their friends waiting at the bus depot.

*****

Captain Fisher was stunned when Scott came to the bridge and explained what had happened to him. All of their plans had appeared to be falling into place. The ships and boats of the Flotilla were getting set to deploy for their rescue missions. The team dispatched to clear the freeway had reached a major bus storage and maintenance depot. Carl and the helicopter crew had even been able to eliminate another horde of zombies at an oil refinery. Things were going so well that he had actually been expecting something to go terribly wrong. He just never expected that it would involve Scott getting bitten by a zombie aboard the
Sovereign Spirit.

It was too horrible to comprehend that Scott would soon turn into an undead cannibal. Even worse was the feeling of guilt that Captain Fisher felt for allowing the Super Rabies virus to break out on a ship under his command. He should have insisted that Clint remain in quarantine for several weeks, instead of just a few days, regardless of Scott’s desire to display the miraculous results of the amputation during his televised address from Catalina. Jordan Fisher was speechless as he stared at his employer, his friend, his commander.

“So I don’t have a lot of time to waste,” Scott was explaining to the ship’s officers gathered on the bridge. “I want to step up the rescue operations as much as possible. We need to start securing piers and marinas as soon as the rain starts. And, as if all these preparations weren’t enough to keep everyone busy, I’ll need to convene a high level meeting with all the major players in the Flotilla and then contact the local authorities, especially the Major and that FBI agent. I know George Hammer and Captain McCloud have their hands full, but I need them to make time for this meeting. See if you can get Captain Volstock of the Sea Launch Commander over here too. Don’t mention anything about my condition on open radio, but I’ll want Mick Williams and Mark here, so recall the chopper. See if they can bring Sergeant Major O’Hara and the new guy, Carl? We’ll set the meeting for an hour from now, if everyone can get here by then.”

Scott paused to rub his temples before continuing to a speechless audience, “I know a few of the passengers are lawyers. Get one of them up here too. I need to revise my last will and testament. I’ll finalize it and you can all witness it after the meeting.” Scott looked up into the shocked and frozen faces around him.

“Well don’t just stand there like zombies!” Scott barked. Then he shook his head and continued in a calmer tone. “Look, we’re all going to die someday. So for me, if I can consummate our plans to rescue thousands more survivors and secure a future for the people on this ship, along with the rest of the Flotilla, then perhaps this is a good day to die.” He looked down, not wanting to see the looks of pity and horror on their faces. Then he said, “You have your orders. I’ll be in my quarters for the next hour with my family. Please don’t disturb us unless you really need me. And don’t mention my condition to anyone else until after the meeting. I need to arrange a smooth transfer of command and we can’t afford to distract the rest of our people from the rescue mission.”

Scott turned leave, but paused next to the communications officer and said, “Marty, you still smoke cigarettes, don’t you?”  Marty nodded and blinked tear filled eyes. “Can you spare a few?” Scott asked.

Marty pulled out a pack of Marlboros and passed them to Scott silently. Scott nodded, smiled sadly, and strode off the bridge without another word. Nobody laughed at the surgical tape holding the seat of his pants together.

“You heard the Commodore,” bellowed Captain Fisher. “Make it so!”

*****

George Hammer, the new Harbor Master, was a very busy man that morning. He had mobilized virtually everyone in the port to prepare for the launch of Operation Dunkirk and the expected influx of refugees from Operation Exodus. He had crews working on everything from fueling boats for the rescue operation to preparing temporary housing for refugees.  Trucks and giant forklifts were positioning hundreds of empty shipping containers for use as crude shelters near the entrances to the safe haven where reception and screening centers would were being set up. Hundreds of abandoned boats were being collected and positioned three and four abreast along previously empty shipping berths to serve as refugee housing. An armed team of the new militia had been sent to the Terminal Island Federal Prison to clear out any remaining zombies and prepare the facility to accept thousands of refugees. Even freight trains were moving around the port, dropping off containers full of food and vital supplies where refugee camps would be established. Meanwhile the majority of the boats and yachts that formed the Flotilla were busy staking their own claim to dock space and preparing to take part in the rescue operation. It was a logistical nightmare made all the worse by the tight schedule imposed by the immanent rain storm.   

If George was flustered by the pressure and intensity of his responsibilities, he didn’t let it show. It seemed as if he had to make ten decisions per minute and everyone wanted his attention at once, but he handled each issue and inquiry calmly and quickly. He was sure that he was making more than a few mistakes along the way, such as exactly where to put what, or send who, but he knew that the important thing was to keep the ball rolling. Time was short and lives depended on being ready for even bigger challenges over the next 24 hours. It probably helped that he was insulated from most of the hustle and bustle in the port, sitting on the bridge of the
Expiscator
and directing the activity on half a dozen radio frequencies. He also had a solid team of assistants composed of the college kids he had picked up in Mexico and his own construction crew from Cabo.  They screened most of the calls and passed along his instructions effectively. Stan Dawson was also kept busy piloting the big yacht around the port so that George could see the progress of the preparations for himself.  George was supervising a monumental undertaking and he thought it was coming together as well as could be expected, until he received a request to attend an urgent meeting with Scott.

“What now?” George muttered. Then he called up to Stan Dawson on the flying bridge. “Take us over to the
Sovereign Spirit
, Stan. The Commodore wants to see me.”

*****

Coast Guard Captain Shawn McCloud found himself as busy as everyone else that day as he organized and deployed his assets in support of the evacuation plan. Sitting in the Combat Information Center aboard the USCGC
Stratton
he contemplated likely scenarios and outcomes. He had a total of six helicopters at his disposal, composed of two Dolphins aboard the
Stratton
, as well as two more Dolphins and two slightly larger Seahawks that had been recalled from Catalina Island. He was also in command of a respectable flotilla of Coast Guard Cutters and patrol boats, after relieving the former commander of the Los Angeles District for dereliction of duty. All of these assets would be employed in Operation Dunkirk to rescue survivors along the coast during the impending rain storm.

The helicopters had come into play first, flying over coastal communities and using loud speakers to spread news of the evacuation plan among survivors without access to radio, television, or internet announcements. The smaller Coast Guard cutters would soon be deployed to major marinas and piers along the coast. Smaller patrol boats would assist boats from the civilian Survival Flotilla in rescuing survivors from the beaches. Captain McCloud would sail the
Stratton
herself up to Marina Del Ray where her crew would attempt to secure as many docks and boats as possible to create another safe haven for survivors. Then he would bring the ship back to the Coast Guard Station on Terminal Island to provide security and crowd control for the refugees who would be assigned housing in the former prison there.

Everything had to be done quickly to take advantage of the brief window of opportunity created by the rain storm. It was hectic, bordering on frantic, but Captain McCloud thought that he had his part under control until he received an urgent message to attend an emergency conference with Commodore Allen.

*****

Scott had been able to hold himself together in the sickbay and in front of the bridge officers. He hoped he could do the same at the upcoming meeting with leaders of the Flotilla, but he knew that he would become an emotional wreck when he faced Michelle and Billy. It was one thing to ignore his fate while he still had important work to do, but another thing entirely to face his loved ones knowing that this was the last day of his life. Nevertheless, face them he must. He steeled his composure as he entered the master suite.

“Michelle, honey? Billy? I’m home,” he called out as usual, but his voice already sounded dead to his own ears. He was actually relieved when no one replied. Finding himself alone in the well appointed suite, Scott went directly to his walk-in closet for a change of clothes, choosing some loose kaki cargo pants. While transferring his personal affects to the new pockets Scott paused to open his wallet and pull out the pictures he always carried: One of Michelle looking like a super model when they met; another of Billy at age two, holding Scott’s hand as they walked on the beach. Tears welled in Scott’s eyes as he returned the photos gently and opened his cell phone to text his wife and son. “Come see me in the suite. Urgent.”

 Treasuring the few minutes of solitude – possibly his last – Scott walked out onto the balcony. He pulled out one of Marty’s cigarettes, stared at it for a moment and lit it, savoring the strange but familiar taste of tobacco. It was his first smoke in over a year, aside from the occasional cigar, and it made him cough even as the rush of nicotine brought back long suppressed memories and cravings. He had been a smoker for much of his life, until winning the lotto, and always thought he would die of a smoking related disease – not a zombie bite. The harsh smoke triggered a kaleidoscope of memories from his younger years. 

Scott had enjoyed a good life. Blessed with loving parents and a good education, his formative years had instilled morals and values that shaped his worldview. Enlisting in the Army after high school had added the missing element of discipline. Commercial flight school added confidence to the mix. Scott’s years at university studying international relations had provided a global perspective and fueled his love for travel. Too bad there hadn’t been any want ads for ambassadors when he graduated. Nevertheless, Scott’s journey through life had been full of learning experiences.  He reflected on those adventures, from producing sports events in Europe to managing sustainable development projects in Central America and public works projects in California, not to mention his failed enterprises in charter aviation and internet start-ups. He realized that even his failures had helped to build his character. A jack of all trades and master of none, Scott had nonetheless lived a full and active life. However, he always thought his smoking and drinking would be the death of him. It was a wonder that Michelle had stuck with him through all of that.

Winning the Mega Lotto had changed his life in more ways than Scott could have imagined. Not only had he been able to buy several multi-million dollar homes, as well as the
Sovereign Spirit
and all the “toys” aboard her, but he had actually quit smoking and reduced his drinking to social occasions. He even upgraded to a Cadillac health insurance program and actually felt secure for one of the first times in his life.  Scott also had a desire to launch new business ventures that created jobs for others, and possibly even write a book or two to be remembered by. In fact, until the zombie apocalypse arrived, Scott had been looking forward to a long and enjoyable life of luxury.

  Even after the world fell apart around him, Scott had felt secure aboard the ship. It gave him the courage to lead rescue missions and confront zombies face to face, buttressed by the knowledge that he and his loved ones had the security of the
Sovereign Spirit
to fall back on. His position and assets had even thrust him into a leadership role in the desperate struggle to help survivors and preserve some remnants of civilization. Perhaps his actions over the past two weeks were enough to justify his existence and grant him peace in the afterlife. He just wished that he could do more to ensure the safety and happiness of his family. He really wasn’t ready to die yet. But whatever happened, he definitely didn’t want to join the ranks of the undead.  These not so cheery thoughts were interrupted when the door to the balcony slid open.