“The worst sort of way,” the guy replied. “We’ve been carefully recycling piss for…well for a long time.”
“Bottles,” Steve said, tossing them through the door. “I’m going to keep clearing. I’ll be back in about five. I need to make sure this area’s clear.”
“Roger.”
* * *
“Who’s senior?” the respirator clad man said. The voice was muffled from the respirator but he had a Commonwealth accent. Bobby couldn’t tell which. Possibly Irish.
Petty Officer First Class Bobby Kuzma was the senior of the six survivors of the USCGC Campbell, WMEC-909, slumping on benches in the crew mess so he raised his hand.
The man was just about covered in lights, which were still painful to Kuzma’s eyes. From what little Bobby could see, he was just as covered in armor and weapons ranging from some sort of AK variant shotgun to a large hunting knife. He even had the head of a Halligan tool sticking up over his shoulder with the tool in some sort of holster.
Another armored figure, a woman from the walk but it was hard to tell, entered behind him.
“I found a cache of sunglasses.” Woman. Young. That was all Kuzma could make out.
She started to hand them out. A while back, before the world came apart, Bobby would have thought it idiotic to wear sunglasses in the mess. Now, even with the lights off, they were a welcome relief from the lights the group were wearing.
The first man shut off a couple of the lights and came over to Bobby.
“Need to talk,” he said, holding out his hand. “Can you walk?”
“I can walk,” Bobby said, but he took the hand.
The man led him down the crew mess and then pulled off his mask with a grimace.
“Ugh,” the guy said, grimacing. “We use these for the smell. I’d say let’s go outside where it’s a little better but I don’t think you can handle the light, yet.” He pulled out a cannister of Vicks VapoRub and rubbed it on his nostrils, then held it out to Kuzma.
“You get used to it,” Bobby said, waving his hand.
“Two things,” the man said. “More. First, I’m Steven Smith. Australian by birth, naturalized American citizen, former Aussie para, former history teacher and currently, and I put quotes on this, ‘commodore’ of a flotilla of small boats clearing this patch of the Atlantic. I’m called Captain Wolf or Commodore Wolf and the group has named it Wolf’s Floating Circus. Basically we range between Bermuda, where we’re using a disabled ocean-going tug as a supply base, and the coast of the U.S. We’re actually just around Bermuda right now because there’s only six of us and one of them’s a wanker that isn’t worth the cost of fuel. It’s an all-volunteer effort, which is a bit like herding roos. Which, trust me, are worse than cats. I tried it one time as a lad.
“So to what happens next,” Smith continued, “the normal next thing is we get you over to the boats, give you a scrub-down and get some chow in you. Usual sort of at-sea rescue thing except the scrub-down part. That was originally because we feared the virus, these days it’s because it’s, well, become tradition and people tend to be ready for a shower.”
“Very ready for a shower,” Kuzma said, carefully.
“And since you were by yourself in the compartment you need to get used to using your voice again,” Steve said. “And light. That takes a few days. I said that was the normal thing we do. The issue, here, is that this is the biggest boat we’ve cleared and it has about ten bloody million compartments…”
“You’re not sure it’s clear,” Kuzma said.
“I’m fairly sure we got all the zombies,” Smith said. “If there are more survivors, they’re not making noise when we do. They could be too weak. Most likely…” He shrugged.
“Wait,” Kuzma said, looking at the group. “Six? That’s it? We had a hundred personnel and refugees!”
“That explains the children,” Smith said. “I am very sorry for your loss.”
“So… Are you assisting the Coast Guard?” Kuzma said. “I need to get back in communication, report in…”
“I think I may have missed some of the important bits,” Steve said. “Actually, I was waiting for you to get your wits to the point. The point is that there is no Coast Guard. Or, rather, you’re it. As far as I can determine, based upon radio reports and local conditions, you’re now more or less the commander of the United States Coast Guard, which consists of you and those other five persons.”
“That’s…” Bobby said, sitting on the table and shaking his head. “That can’t be. No…”
“I cannot prove it to you at this moment,” Smith said, shrugging. “We are in a dark hangar on a boat in the middle of the ocean. But if there were a Coast Guard, I’d assume they would find and clear their own vessels, first, just to have the trained personnel. You can feel free to verify it in various ways once you get your feet on the ground. We’ll, at some point, get you back to Bermuda. You can see the harbor. And the zombies. We find boats. Feel free to take one over to the mainland and see for yourself. There are no official governmental broadcasts. There are no land areas not held by the infected and we have thus far found no evidence of formal governmental activity.”
“Jesus Christ,” Kuzma said, looking at the blood-smeared deck. “How long?”
“It is the fifteenth of August,” Smith said. “I’ve found some watches amongst the crew’s belongings, you can verify that at least.”
“Jesus…” Bobby said. “That long?”
“Petty officer,” Smith said, sharply. “As I was saying, we normally let people get their feet under them for a few days. I know you are tired. Exhausted. Malnourished and dehydrated. But we either get assistance from some, preferably three, of your crew to clear the remainder of the boat or let it go for now. I’m not saying that it’s a requirement. And, frankly, I don’t see finding any more personnel. Not alive.”
“Did they all zombie?” Kuzma asked.
“Do you really want to know this?” Smith asked.
“Yes,” Bobby said.
“We don’t have an accurate count,” Smith said. “Frankly, we don’t keep an accurate count of dead and wounded and methods on large vessels such as this. There aren’t enough of us yet, to take the time. But, no, many were infected. Some appear to have died of the infection or possibly from violence by other infecteds. Many…were trapped in compartments without stores.”
“Oh God,” Bobby said, hanging his head again.
“I don’t know if it makes it better or worse for you,” Smith said. “But at a certain point, many committed suicide. And did so in some very…honorable ways. But they did so as an alternative to starvation or dehydration. Which, frankly, is why we do this. And we don’t count the dead because it takes time. And the living deserve our time more. So the question is, do you wish us to continue the sweep? To do so, we will need assistance. We’ve swept all we can find.”
“I’ll help,” Kuzma said, standing up and swaying. “As long as I can. I guess asking you to…collect the dead…?”
“There are, currently, one hundred and twenty-six survivors known to us,” Steve said. “One thirty two with your group. Only forty-six of which are willing to actively volunteer to the extent of manning boats supplied and supported by us and clearing life rafts. We have an additional six or so who are willing to go into cleared vessels to recover materials or get them operational. I have exactly three personnel willing to participate in active clearance, fighting zombies in the dark in confined spaces, as it were. Three more will if pressed. Would you care to answer your own question, Petty Officer?”
“No, sir,” Kuzma said. “I mean, yes, sir. I understand.”
“There are, literally, not enough of us left to bury the dead,” Smith said softly. “That is the world into which you have been reborn. What you make of that is up to you.”
* * *
“How the hell did we miss this area?” said “Shewolf” in a muffled voice.
His “clearance specialist” was a thirteen-year-old girl. Tall for her age, tall for a girl, period, and clearly strong: she was carrying about a hundred pounds of weapons, ammo and gear. But still a thirteen-year-old girl.