Islands of Rage and Hope (eARC) (34 page)

Faith kicked a pile of burned textbooks and shook her head.

"I am not sure this island is worth the price of the ammo, Gunny," the lieutenant said.

"Think there are survivors, ma'am," Gunny Sands said. "That's worth something."

"Hopefully these won't expect me to know who they are..."

"Jesus, mon," the haggard man said, staring at Sergeant Smith with wide eyes. "Oh...God mon..."

"No, sir," Smitty said. "United States Marines, sir. But people do get confused..."

"We've found about twenty survivors so far, break," Faith radioed. The intervening mountains had required climbing up a hill to get a shot at the ocean. She could see a sub surfaced in the distance and, beyond it, another island that was probably Sint Eustatius, the next objective. "That is in clearance up to the edge of The Bottom and the medical school. School burned, no faculty or students found. Also found functioning vehicles. Query is multiple. Continue clearance, yes or no. Break down force to cover more ground, yes or no? Over."

"Security condition, over."

"Mixed," Faith replied, frowning thoughtfully. "Since the encounter at the road in, it's died down. Frequent close-quarters attacks with low numbers. Probability of...break...Probability of incidental infection reduced with vehicles. Given current time, recommend rapid sweep of additional...stand by."

She drew her .45 and fired twice, dropping the infected that had tried to sneak up on Sergeant Weisskopf. "Recommend rapid sweep by small teams using vehicles of additional heavily inhabited areas, then fall back to pick-up, over."

"How close is the contact, over?"

"Running out of Marinespeak, break," Faith said. "There's just a
lot
of these buggers and there's lots of concealment. They keep popping up like jack-in-the-boxes at really short ranges. That was the 'stand by.' One popped up ten meters away. I think we can maybe sweep the other areas with vehicles. Good news is more survivors than normal. Bad news is more leakers than normal. Over."

There was a long pause.

"Two vehicles together at all times. If the road is blocked, they do not proceed. Keep back a reaction force. Repeat back."

"Two vehicles together, aye. Blocked road, do not proceed, aye. Reaction force, aye. Over."

"We are doing a thorough clear on Sint Eustatius, break. Recommend to the locals a change of scenery. Over."

"Haven't gotten to discussing that," Faith said. "Was next on my list, over."

"Roger. Keep me apprised. Kodiak, out."

"I know how to use a gun," Jennifer Toplitz said, raising her hand. "I don't really like them, but I know how to use one."

After their first visit to Saba, Jennifer and her husband Tom had given up the life of corporate ladder climbing managers, bought a small bungalow and moved there to live out the rest of their lives.

The bungalow had, fortunately, been walled. And she had managed to push Tom off a balcony when he turned. Between a small garden, a mango tree and hurricane supplies, she had survived. Stay? That was another matter. A zombie apocalypse had caused the allure of unspoiled Saba to pall.

"Why?" Faith said. "I mean, if you don't like them..."

"I'm from Texas," Jennifer said. "Not particularly proud of it, but I am. I grew up with guns and hunting. My dad made me. I've never shot a machine gun before, though."

"This isn't a machine gun," Faith said, unclipping her M4, dropping the mag and jacking out the round in the chamber. "It's an assault carbine. Here's the mag. Think you can load it?"

"Like I said, I don't know these," Jennifer said, looking at the magazine. Faith had deliberately handed it to her upside down and backwards. Toplitz managed to turn it right way around and even could figure out how to jack the bolt. "At that point, there's a safety and a trigger, right?"

"Right," Faith said, holding out her hand for the weapon. "We've got some more of these on the ship. We're doing a strong clearance on Sint Eustatius and leaving a security detachment to secure the oil point. Think you could train a local militia for defense?"

"No," Jennifer said. "I really don't."

"I was in the Dutch Army for a while," a heavyset man said. "I think between us we could organize something. I
do
know machine guns. I did not use the M4, though."

"We're already crowded with refugees from St. Barts," Faith said. "And we don't really want to pick up everybody from all the islands. If someone
doesn't
want to go to Sint Eustatius and can handle the fact that there may still be a few infected, we sort of need them to stay. And pretty much everybody is getting off at Sint Eustatius. This isn't a pleasure cruise."

There was a flurry of shots from outside the emergency center and the crowd stirred.

"Is it safe, mon?" one of the men asked.

"Takes at least five rounds from one of these to put down an infected," Faith said, touching the M4. "Generally. We train that everyone who has an infected in their sector opens fire and fires at least three rounds. That was three Marines firing five rounds each. Tango down. That, in fact, is how you're supposed to do it. Trust me, you'll fire a lot more. Only Imperial Storm Troopers are that precise."

"How many infected are there left on this island?" Toplitz asked.

"We really don't know," Faith said. "We've got about five hundred stepped on, most of them up the road to the harbor. You really can't know how many you've got but I'd say at least two hundred more scattered around the island. And if you get generators going and put on lights, especially at night, they'll cluster down to wherever you're gathered. Good news is you can whack them easier. Bad news is, if you're staying you'll need to do something with the bodies. We generally just make them and go."

"Oh, great," Jennifer said. "Is it going to be like that in Sint Eustatius as well?"

"Probably."

"So now we're supposed to clean up the bodies, too?"

"No," Faith said, slowly. "You clean up the ones near where you're at and let the bugs, birds, dogs and pigs do the rest. These kind of temps, they'll be down to bones in a week or so. Cluster up somewhere with supplies, keep the windows closed for a week or two and you're good. We're looking at an estimate of one percent total survival, world-wide, ma'am. That is the
definition
of 'not enough left to bury the dead.' Then clean up the bones if it matters to you. If you've got a backhoe and someone who knows how to use it it helps."

"How old are you, Lieutenant?" Toplitz said, frowning. She clearly didn't think much of those suggestions.

"Thirteen, ma'am," Faith said.

"Th-th-th--"

"I'd just finished seventh grade if that's what you're asking, ma'am," Faith said evenly. "Since the Fall, I don't know how many infected I've killed but this is pushing my eight thousandth hour in combat conditions. Thousands is the easiest way to say it, ma'am. I've cleared ten liners and fought my way out of Washington Square Park. I'm starting to get carpal tunnel in my trigger finger. And
I'd
be
very
proud to have been raised in the great state of Texas, ma'am.
I
had to settle for
Virginia
."

"When do we leave?" Toplitz asked.

"Stockholm har fortfarande manga smittade men omradena utanfor tullarna verkar rensade. Vi samlas pa Tranholmen. Isen haller for overfart fran Stocksund. Lidingo ar ocksa rensad och en grupp ansamlas dar. Om ni finner nagon mat, ammunition eller vapen, var vanlig ta med...."

From:
Collected Radio Transmissions of The Fall

University of the South Press 2053

"Well, as I live and breathe," Sergeant Major Barney said. "It's bloody Cloggies."

Some of Sint Eustatius' history had been well known to Colonel Hamilton. During the American Revolutionary War it was held by the Dutch, who were generally contemptuous of Continental customs enforcement. So it was the primary weapons supply point of the American Revolution. A certain British lord had claimed in Parliament that if Sint Eustatius had only sunk into the waves, "George Washington would have been dealt with years ago." It was also the place that American forces were awarded their first recognition as a new country when Fort Oranje rendered a salute to an American man-o-war.

This laissez faire approach to business had resulted in a booming economy during the late 1700s. Warehouses lined Oranjestad Bay, sugar and rum flowed like honey and the island was referred to as "The Golden Rock" for the immense wealth made from the trade transfers.

However, the support of the Colonial Rebellion resulted in a great deal of ire on the part of the British and it was it was subsequently conquered by the British and then the French after the revolution. The traders, mostly Jewish, were deported, the economy more or less collapsed and the island was at one point virtually depopulated. It was eventually returned to the Dutch and again, for a while, became a linchpin of trade in the Netherland Antilles. Eventually that faded to generalized farming and tourism. Just prior to the Apocalypse it had been selected as the perfect site for an oil transfer station. The deep waters and sharp shoaling in humorously named "Tumble-Down-Dick Bay" meant that tankers could, carefully, come close in shore to hook up to an off-shore oil-transfer pier that led to a series of large containers on the hills overlooking the bay. It was upgraded to provide refined products as well and smaller support tankers and even large freighters were stacked up nose to nose waiting to either off-load or onload various forms of liquid gold. So, once again, Sint Eustatius was in trade and the economy was booming...

And now it was depopulated again. There were all the signs of the Apocalypse--the burned houses, the infected picking the beach and fighting seagulls for scraps. But there were two good signs. The oil transfer point appeared to be intact. There were, or had been, two high volcanic hills with a narrow valley, more of a gorge, between. The northern hill had clearly been flattened and now held several dozen oil tanks ranging from multimillion gallon to a few tens of thousands of gallon. None of those appeared to be damaged nor had the area been swept by fire: the area had been thoroughly brushed to prevent just that. The oil pier appeared to be in good shape from the close pass they had made. Although they were going to have to raise a tug that was sunk nearby. There were some support buildings and large generators that were near the waterline which might have taken damage but even those seemed to have survived whatever tropical storms came through with minimal damage. The numerous tugs that supported the pier were, unfortunately, missing, other than the one upended by the pier. But the squadron had tugs. Now they might have fuel for them.

The second good sign was revealed as they came in sight of the town of Oranjestad. Fort Oranje, the antique defense of the town, was occupied. There was an untorn Flag of Orange flying from the mast, indicating it had been taken in in bad weather, and people were gathered on the ramparts watching the approaching Force.

"Cloggies?" Colonel Hamilton said.

"There appear to be persons in the uniform of the Dutch Marines on the ramparts, sir," Barney replied. "We refer to them as cloggies, sir. Sorry."

"I see," Hamilton said. "I see who you're talking about. Signaller, send a standard code signal and see what we get. In this case, we sort of need permission to perform an assault."

"Aye, aye, sir," Petty Officer Simms said. He began flashing the Aldis lamp at the fort.

"Very good," Sergeant Pier
Niels
Roosevelt said reading the transmission. Americans frequently asked Sergeant Roosevelt about his name, given that he was both black and Dutch. He would calmly tell them that Roosevelt was originally a Dutch name and that, in addition, his great-grandparents had changed their name to Roosevelt in honor of Theodore Roosevelt, whom they much admired.

One company of Netherland Marines was stationed on Curacao, which was where Sergeant Roosevelt was born. He'd joined the Marines when he was eighteen and managed to wangle a transfer from MARSOF, the Marine Commandoes, back to the "regular" Marines in Curacao just in time for a zombie apocalypse. As soon as the situation was clearly getting out of control, the company commander had dispatched one platoon to "maintain security" in Sint Eustatius. Given the strategically critical oil terminal, it was a no-brainer decision.

Unfortunately, what he hadn't sent along was vaccine. Two-thirds of the platoon had succumbed to either the direct flu-based plague or bites from infected before the sergeant, a remnant equaling about a squad, and a handful of locals fell back on the fort.

They'd been holed up there ever since. Fortunately, his platoon leader had immediately recognized its utility and laid in food stores. Water had been a potential problem but simply fixing up the original cisterns, which had taken some work, and waiting for the inevitable rainfall in the summer had taken care of that problem. There were thirty-three survivors in the fort and he had calculated that they could hold out for another six months. After that, they'd starve.

"What are they saying?" Counselor Michel
Roelof
Van Der Beek asked.

"They are asking permission to perform a dawn assault," Sergeant Roosevelt said.

"Why are they here?" Counselor Van Der Beek asked.

The relationship was touchy. Counselor Van Der Beek was, as far as anyone was aware, the senior remaining member of the Island Council, the local governing body. From his point of view, that put him in charge.

Martial law had been declared before everything fell completely apart. So that put the military in charge. And Sergeant Roosevelt only took orders from his chain of command. He'd accept orders from, say, a civilian member of the Ministry of Defense or the Prime Minister's office. A local official could not give him orders, legally. And Counselor Van Der Beek could not seem to get his head around that fact.

"It really doesn't matter," Sergeant Roosevelt replied. The fort was in view of Saba and they had seen the dawn attack the previous day. They couldn't make out much more than that but he was prepared to let them have the whole island if they wanted. "We can't break out on our own and we have only three months' supplies left. Would you prefer I told them to go away?"

"Are they here to take the oil is the question?" Counselor Van Der Beek asked.

"If they were simply here to take the oil, they would not have cleared Saba," Sergeant Roosevelt replied. "None of which matters. This is clearly a military decision."

"Concur ground assault. Thirty-three survivors this location. Ten Marine, rest civilian. Intentions?"

"Send this:" Colonel Hamilton said. "Aggressive day and night clearance purpose establish green zone Statia AO. Reestablish oil point to support ongoing military operations. Drop civilian refugees, Saba, St. Barts for recolonization. Link up by zero eight hundred hours tomorrow to discuss ongoing operations."

"So they are really here for the oil," Counselor Van Der Beek said triumphantly. "I told you."

"Which they obviously need to continue their operations, Counselor," Sergeant Roosevelt said. "I'll remind you that both the Netherlands and the United States are members of NATO and required to give assistance in times of need. This, Counselor, is very much a time of need. Their assistance is obviously clearing the island. We will discuss it with them tomorrow. At least now we know there will
be
a tomorrow." He began to signal the cluster of ships, wondering if they were really who they said they were.

"Good morning, Marines!" Faith said, standing on the body of a good infected and looking up at the Marines on the guardhouse of Fort Oranje. "Are you going to open the door? Or do you want us to just take the ammo boxes back to the ship...?"

"This is all?" Counselor Van Der Beek asked, stunned.

"You're looking at about half the remaining USMC, sir," Faith said. "Colonel Hamilton is on his way up. I'll let him handle the rest of the negotiations, if you don't mind, sir. My men and I have some more zombie hunting to do...."

"Colonel, I understand your concerns," Counselor Van Der Beek said. "And I fully support your mission. However, we are Dutch, Colonel. We trade. You could say it is in our blood."

Colonel Hamilton forebore to comment on the fact that Counselor Van Der Beek was blacker than Sergeant Roosevelt. He had enough history to know that the Netherlands, like the United States, had always been a nation of immigrants.

"What are you looking for in terms of trade, Counselor?" Hamilton asked.

"The island is somewhat poor for farming, and the refugees you want to land are going to need to be fed," Van Der Beek pointed out. "We would like a weight for weight measure of materials for oil products from the supply point. And before the point is accessed, we are going to need some boats. The storms destroyed all of ours."

"We cleared your island and intend to put the supply point back into operation, Counselor," Colonel Hamilton said. "Which will take some doing. Not to say that your points don't have merit, but I'd have to put a value on those items as well. If we calculated the costs based upon pre-Plague numbers, we could more or less pump everything out of the oil point for the cost of that operation alone."

"This is not pre-Plague," Van Der Beek pointed out. "Do you know of another point with similar quantities of material?"

"Not available," Hamilton admitted. "But that one wasn't available until we cleared the island. Our current standard on salvage of ships is that survivors retain fifty percent of material onboard. That would seem to be equitable. U.S. military, in return for clearing the island and getting the oil point back in operation, retains fifty percent of the material at the oil point with the Dutch local government retaining the other fifty percent. When or if we burn through the first fifty percent, we'll negotiate what we pay for additional material. Or you can finish clearing the island with your Marines and try to get the oil point back in operation yourself."

"I'll accept on the condition that you throw in thirty days' supplies for the refugees."

"I'll see what I can do on that," Hamilton said. "I'll need to get it from Gitmo. We should have the materials available, but I'm not sure what Squadron's needs are. I'll also see what I can do on the boats. They're scarce throughout this area due to the storms. But both points obviously have merit and I fully support them."

"You drive a hard bargain, Colonel," Counselor Van Der Beek said, smiling and standing up with his hand out. "We look forward to becoming the grand refuge of the Caribbean..."

"We can run the
Eric Shivak
down with a general load of supplies," Steve said, frowning. "And we'll see what we can figure out on boats. Last year's storms must have been doozies; all the satellite images show pretty much nothing but wrecks from Puerto Rico down to the Windward Islands. Any luck with your primary mission?"

"No, sir," Hamilton said. "Dry hole again. More medical texts but we've got about every standard and nonstandard text you could want at this point."

"Finish clearance, then hold in place," Steve said. "There's another possibility in the wind I'm discussing with the Joint Chiefs. If the local authorities are comfortable with it, have your platoon engage in training local militia. Eventually other groups will start clearing and moving around and at a certain point we probably have to worry about raiding. So it's for more than zombie clearance. I'm going to do some consulting to higher about what better potential targets are."

"Roger, sir," Hamilton said.

"What's the status of our astronauts?" Steve asked.

"They're all still with us, sir," Hamilton said. "About to get their booster shots, which is the trickier injection but...still with us, sir. Lieutenant Lyons is chomping at the bit, I'll tell you that."

"I can imagine," Steve said. "Clear the island, get started on the oil point, train the locals. And I'll look at a new mission."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Mission," Faith said, pointing to the sand table scale model of the island. "First Platoon, USMC, reinforced by Dutch Marine personnel, will perform night clearance of the island of Statia with purpose of reducing infected presence to the level of lightish green, sort of an aquamarine would be nice but we'll settle for chartreuse..."

"Rigged up like this, the infected can't get to you," Sergeant Smith said, his voice muffled by the gas mask. "But we only use it at night on land. It's hot as hell any time and fucking
horrible
in the daytime."

The Dutch Marines had chosen to "augment" the U.S. Marines clearing the island by night. They had been detailed, one to each clearance team, to get some training on night clearance. Fortunately, they all spoke English.

Smitty thus had Sergeant Roosevelt, who seemed like a steady guy, and PFC Haroldson in the car, cruising down a darkened street called "Kapelweg" with the windows down and the tunes going full blast.

"So if we have to, we'll go to scrum," Smith continued. "That's hand-to-hand. With this stuff they can bite all they want and they're not getting anywhere. Target." He was driving so he just lifted his M4 one-handed and fired three rounds into the infected stumbling out of the darkness. "Biggest concern is not getting stuck, obviously."