“Hey, Ed…” rifle shots and frantic yelling echoed in the background, “we can’t get things under control over here. I’ve gotta put her down.”
Dr. Damico knew exactly what had happened… because it had happened countless times before. The Mexican attack had resulted in some deaths onboard the Chancellorsville. The dead rose as zombies to attack and kill more of the living. In turn, more dead rose to consume the ship in a hellish nightmare that spread like wildfire. Sometimes, a ship’s crew could get the situation under control. Sometimes, they could not. Standing orders were to deliberately sink a boat that could not be brought under full control. The resources required to retake a ship were simply not available, and rescue attempts often resulted in infections spreading to other ships after operations were complete. Dr. Damico knew all this because this policy had been his own recommendation to Admiral McMillan several months ago. The cold hard math said that the policy was saving lives. No one really knew the lives it cost.
“Okay, Bill, you’ve got six hours. If you can’t get things under control, put her down.” Admiral McMillian’s icy gray eyes met Dr. Damico’s, and Henry could see the resentment stirring beneath them. Captain Leopold was a good friend of the Admiral’s.
A voice from behind the Admiral spoke up. “Six hours! There are three congressmen and a senator aboard the Chancellorsville!” A half dozen government officials sat at a long table behind the Admiral, appraising the situation. Not all congressional representatives had been able to be evacuated, but through luck or connections, a handful made their way to the fleet, took up residence, and resumed politics as usual. The remnants of the American government were scattered about naval vessels and remote locations in isolated parts of the world. Although the U.S. was essentially in a state of undeclared martial law, these statesmen were operating under the pretense that they still possessed some power. While political news might have once made headlines, the entire concept of politics had been completely eclipsed by the crisis at hand and the military efforts to manage it.
The resentment in the Admiral’s eyes melted into white-hot fury as he turned to address the politician who had spoken up. “Yes, sir. Three congressmen, one senator, sixty officers, three hundred and forty enlisted, and about four hundred civilian refugees along with about two thousand tons of food, munitions, and supplies.” The Admiral glared at each of the legislators, for the one who had spoken up. The Admiral still considered himself bound by military structure, and thus, technically answered to the men who sat behind him. He made no secret of his utter contempt for their perpetual stupidity. A very long list of government failures had been written since the onset of the zombie apocalypse, and senators and congressmen existed in a unique new social position: half pariah, half leader. Every civilian and soldier felt a grudging respect for the representative institutions that the country they loved was built upon, but they also felt a hatred for the men and women who had defaced those institutions with ignorance, brinkmanship, and shameless self-interest.
Unable to find the target of his rage, the Admiral continued to address the throng of politicians. “Unfortunately, sirs, the brilliant Dr. Damico, has shown me some very alarming statistics—statistics which show very clearly that any effort to assist the Chancellorsville will likely result in an even higher cost in lives and resources. However…” the Admiral had a habit of pausing for effect, “I can send a helicopter to the Chancellorsville filled with marines who should have the situation under control in a few hours. At that point, we—and every other ship in the strike group—will take on numerous, possibly infected, survivors, while we off-load the cargo. Dry-docks aren’t exactly running at peak efficiency these days, and if the ship is too damaged to repair at sea, it will be sunk. I would remind our civilian leadership that any refugees — some of whom may be savvy enough to conceal infection –will need to be stowed in quarters, which may neighbor your own on this ship.”
The legislators went pale at the thought. They had largely experienced the rise of the walking dead from behind armed secret service and armored vehicles, and the prospect of bunking next to an infected civilian was terrifying. The constant need to explain common-sense policies that had been in place for months to people who were always ready to object or question — but rarely able to offer solutions — fanned the flames of resentments for the disconnected politicians. The largely accurate perception was that while the average American was bearing the brunt and enduring the cost of the undead crisis, government officials merely watched it from afar.
The Admiral paused for a moment, waiting for a reply from the civilian leadership. They merely gaped back at him with a helpless ignorance. “Dr. Damico, I assume your visit to the bridge is important?” The Admiral stressed the words.
“Yes, Admiral…” Dr. Damico began.
“Admiral!” A young technician manning a computer console stood up abruptly and removed his headset. “The U.S.S. Harry S. Truman’s been sunk off the coast of Hawaii.” The soldier looked as if he were going to vomit.
The command center of the carrier went silent the moment the news broke. There were once ten U.S. supercarrier strike groups. Three had their crews succumb to zombie infestation in the early days of the outbreak, and they now floated aimlessly through the oceans as titanic ghost ships crewed by thousands of mindless undead. Two more had been scuttled, unable to get undead outbreaks under control. The U.S.S. Harry Truman now marked the third supercarrier destroyed in naval combat. Of the original ten, only two super carriers remained.
“The Chinese, sir, they nuked her.” The technician braced himself as he relayed the news. Destroying an aircraft carrier — a ship possessing more resources, military personnel, and firepower than many entire countries — was a considerable task.
“God dammit.” Admiral McMillan whispered. His jaw clenched. “Tell the surviving members of the strike group to rendezvous at our coordinates.” Outwardly, the Admiral’s demeanor was hardened to the seemingly endless avalanche of bad news from around the world, but Henry had learned to read the man. He was troubled. He was in his element — a man born to rise through crisis and shine as a beacon for the solders around him. He had been ground down — questioning whether the hope he offered was an illusion. The Admiral’s name hung on the lips of those in the civilian fleet like a messiah. The man, tough as he was, was beginning to crumble under the pressure and the guilt of failures that piled up like sand in an hour glass.
“Yes, sir.” The technician nodded and sat back down.
Henry couldn’t help but wonder if the small bands of people on the mainland that no doubt struggled for survival behind barricaded doors, atop roofs, and huddled in basements, would give up their struggle against legions of the dead if they knew how dire things were. If an aircraft carrier could not survive the forces that assailed her, what hope did they have?
“Okay, Dr. Damico, I’m ready for it. What do you have for me?” The Admiral rubbed his eyes and turned to Henry.
Chapter 14
Dr. Rosenthal emerged from the school, leading a somber procession of children. Some had a mother and father holding them by the hand, others only a single parent. Many lonely boys and girls walked alone — orphans of a cruel world ruled by the undead. The morning sun was warm, and the military guards dripped with sweat. They stood with rifles in hand, walling off the civilian mob that shouted at the convoy.