Extinction Level Event Combo Pack | Books 1-2, page 27
part #1 of Extinction Level Event Combo Pack Series
“Hey, Sul, what’s up, man?” Kenny called.
“The world is ending,” Peter said.
“About time, man.”
“There are zombies. It’s the zombie apocalypse.”
“Alright, man. Should be good.”
“Does your boat actually run?”
Kenny thought a long time about it. “Dude, I’m not really sure. It’s been so long. Why? You wanna go out? Do some fishing?”
“We need to leave here, Kenny.”
“Why?”
“Zombies.”
“For real?” When most people asked ‘for real’ following the word ‘zombie,' it would mean something different than when Kenny asked it.
“You need to pack your shit, your bongs and tie-dye and that deodorant I bought you and get over to my boat.”
“Cool. There a party? I saw some girls pass by here.”
“We’re leaving here.”
“Cool, man.”
“I’m going to shoot you.”
“Righteous, man.”
“Pete,” Mrs. Sawatsky on her way up the dock. “What’s going on?”
“Hey, Helen,” said Kenny. “You coming to the party? Sully’s got a party on his boat.” She scowled at Kenny.
“Ignore him,” Peter said.
“I usually do. What’s happening? Your friends look like hell.”
“It’s bad.”
“How bad?”
“Bad as in we need to leave and head out to the Atlantic. Get outside the hot zone.”
“Hot zone?” Mr. Sawatsky repeated when he walked up. “Isn’t that a term they use for a viral outbreak?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what they’re saying on the CB is true then.” His eyes behind bifocals showed worry.
“We need to leave. It’s bound to come here to the island. I don’t know what the government plans to do about this.”
“Nothing to benefit us, I’m sure.” Mr. Sawatsky had been drafted into the Vietnam War. He wasn’t the biggest cheerleader for the military and wars. And then his son enlisted in the Marine Corps and went to Iraq. “We’ll tell the others. We’ll follow you out, follow the Molly out?”
“Yes, sir. Convoy out. Back up North, I’m thinking.”
“We can go to the kids,” said Mrs. Sawatsky. Their grown children, including the Marine, lived in New Hampshire.
“Everyone else has family up North,” said her husband. “I’m sure they’ll agree with the plan.” The other houseboat people waited on their decks for news.
“What about Kenny?” Peter asked.
“I’ll take care of him,” said Mr. Sawatsky. “You take care of your people.”
3.
An upset gray cat yelled at them as soon as they entered the saloon. Phebe looked around, her first time here. She had been all eyes since getting on the Molly. It was like nothing she had ever seen before. Dock Cat decided Julio was the one to yell at since her normal human wasn’t present. Julio, until recently, lived on the boat.
He dropped his gear and attended to the cat’s feeding and watering needs. And gave her some attention. A heavily tattooed former Delta Force sniper nuzzled with the cat he held. He used baby talk voice to her, sympathizing with her trauma of abandonment all day in a cold boat.
Matt carried Syanna through the saloon and down the steps. “Somebody, bring me flour and water,” he yelled.
“Julio,” Ben said. “You’re up. I got no idea where anything is.”
“I got it. Hold her.”
“Put the cat down, Julio. It’s not a baby.”
He gently placed her on the couch. She proceeded to groom.
“Where’s the bar?” asked Mazy.
“That cabinet there.” Julio pointed.
“Anybody else?” she asked.
“There’s beer in the fridge,” said Julio.
“I’ll have a beer,” said Mullen.
“It’s self-serve, amigo.”
“Want something?” Mazy asked Phebe.
“Is there rum or vodka?” responded Phebe.
“All of it,” said Mazy, investigating the drinks cupboard. “This Irishman likes to drink.”
“Whichever. Whatever’s easiest.”
“Maybe start off with a shot?”
Peter came in. Dock Cat jumped down and zoomed to him. He picked her up.
“You look weirdly happy,” said Mazy.
“My bullshit amazes me. Ooh, fix me a whiskey, cher?”
“Aren’t you driving the boat?” Mazy responded.
“I got two hands.”
Mazy presented Phebe with a shot of something in a shot glass.
“I should probably eat first,” Phebe said. “I can’t remember the last time I ate.” She rung her fingers through her disheveled long hair.
“Are you hungry?” Mazy asked.
“Not really.”
“Then shoot up. We’ll put an ice pack on that eye.”
“Alright.” Peter put down the cat. “I’m going up to start the engines.”
“Could we have some heat then?” asked Mullen.
“Maybe. I could use a copilot.” He looked at Julio.
“I’m helping Matt.” Julio had a bowl of water and a bag of flour.
“I’ll go with you,” said Ben. He looked antsy as if there were too many people in the space.
4.
It took two hours before all the boats were ready. By then, night had fallen. Phebe and Mazy joined Peter and Ben in the fly-bridge wheelhouse.
Peter sat in the captain’s chair at the wheel. The console was fitted with many electronic toys, and a few actual toys. A Bumble Bee Transformer. A Bobblehead doll of George Bush Jr. And a dancing hula girl who held a GI Joe rifle she pointed at Bush. Ben sat in the co-pilot seat. Their faces glowed from the electronics on the console.
Ropes were untied from the dock cleats. The Molly’s running lights turned on. Her powerful, loud engines chugged along, she cruised through the marina. Behind her, houseboats fell into line. Their running lights outlined their boxy shapes. Cabin cruisers fell in behind them. The great escape from the hot zone had begun.
Once clear of the marina, next came a bay. Darkened houses ran along a spit of land separating the bay from the ocean.
The wind blew in their faces through open windows. Mazy wore an over-sized sweatshirt emblazoned with Harvard across the chest. Phebe wore an army jacket which looked like something Mr. Sawatsky wore in the Vietnam War. It was army green and lacked any digitized print. Both women had to roll up the sleeves of their men’s clothes, just to pull the sleeves down over their hands for warmth.
The bay opened to the mighty Atlantic Ocean. The moon’s reflection shimmered on the black water. The boat picked up speed. Peter kept pushing the throttle forward.
He talked on the boat’s CB radio to the convoy. “I’ll go ahead to check the way,” he told the other boat captains.
The bow lifted and the full power of the Molly’s engines exerted themselves. She didn’t look like a boat that could manage such speed. Everyone held on as the boat rocked when the bow smashed through waves. Behind the stern, she left a big V-shaped wake.
Peter smiled. Loving this. “Want music?” He had to yell over the engines.
“We’re good,” yelled Ben.
“Ben, you gotta lighten up. We’re on the ocean, brother. As free as a man can get.”
“Yeah. I’ll lighten up when all this shit is done and I’m at my mother’s house, more worried about rez bullshit than infected.”
“Good point. I hear ya. I, for one, would prefer the zoms over being in my mother’s house.” He laughed. “The rez, huh, man? You really come from a reservation?”
“I’m from the R-I-R.”
“What does that mean?”
“Rosebud Indian Reservation in South Dakota.”
“Rosebud? Sorry for the South Dakota part, but Rosebud? Doesn’t sound badass enough for Sioux warriors.”
Ben chuckled. “I’m Sicangu Oyate.”
“No clue what you just said.”
“The name of my tribe.”
“What does it mean?”
“Burnt thigh.”
“Oh. Ya know. We really gotta work on these names, brother. Something that translates to Mean Motherfuckers or something.”
“We tried, but the federal government wouldn’t recognize it.”
Peter smiled at Ben, seeing he had a smartass sense of humor and lacked a stick up the rear end. Ben had been so quiet up to now, it was hard to tell what he was like.
“Can I just pretend whatever you called yourselves means badass warriors?”
“Go for it.”
“I mean, you’re fucking Sioux. Like the biggest badasses of all that shit that went on. I come from people that lost their land to invaders who wouldn’t fuck off., too I mean, I’m generations removed from it, but we talk about it like it happened last year.”
“So do we.”
“We Irish are angry drunks.”
“So are we.”
“We got a lot in common, Ben.”
“Except you’re Army.”
Peter laughed. “There’s always that.” His happy face faded. His hand slowly drew the throttle down. Speed decreased. The bow lowered.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ben.
“What are all those lights?” Throttle further down.
They looked out the open windows. Running lights on various sized ships. Very large ships further out.
“Aw, shit,” Peter said. Throttle further down until the boat barely moved.
“What is it?” asked Ben.
“If I am not mistaken, that’s a Coast Guard cutter coming at us. And, trust me, I know what they look like at night.”
“What do we do?”
“Somebody get downstairs and tell everyone to stow weapons. Stow them very well. No weapons or anything illegal visible.”
Mazy hurried down the ladder.
Peter got on the CB and warned the other boats. He told them to stop where they were and wait for his next update.
The cutter closed in. A voice boomed, “United States Coast Guard. You are violating federal quarantine. Cut your engines and prepare to be boarded.”
“For real?” Phebe whined.
“Sorry, doll.” Peter cut off the engines. The boat gently rocked with waves.
Ben headed down the ladder.
“All we’ve been through and now what?” asked Phebe.
“I don’t know,” Peter said.
“I can’t deal with all this shit. It’s too fucking much.” She looked up at the ceiling. “What the fuck do you want from us!”
“Hey, hey, hey.” He stood in front of her. “It’ll be alright.”
“It won’t.” She lightly hit his chest with the cuff of the jacket.
“Yes. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll get us out of this. I’ll get us through this. Trust me, Phebe. It’ll be alright. I promise.”
“What, by magical superpowers?”
“I’ve been known to pull some magic out of my ass.”
“I just want to go home.”
“Come here.”
He hugged her. She rested her head against him, feeling safe for a moment.
“Prepare to be boarded,” the voice announced from the dark.
“Here we go,” said Peter. “Let the fun and games resume.”
5.
More rifles pointed. Phebe had an urge to smack people. She was done. Over this catastrophe nonsense. Going home to New York, to her mother, to safety, felt snatched from her.
The Coast Guardsmen wanted to see hands. But at least they didn’t make everyone go on their knees. They demanded IDs. They recorded the licenses and took pictures of everyone. Phebe had no driver’s license. They asked for her full legal name, address, birth date, and social security number. She didn’t know her driver’s license number. They took her picture. Syanna wouldn’t have a wallet either, so Phebe told them about her roommate. She knew the birth date, but not the social security number and certainly not the driver’s license number.
“I think she still has a Georgia license,” Phebe told them. “That’s where she’s from.”
Peter asked, “Are all those ships Coast Guard?”
“No,” the petty officer in charge said. “Some are Navy.”
Peter laughed—a laugh that had a slight crazy edge to it.
“Look,” he said. “We’ll just turn around and go back to port. We don’t want any trouble. We just thought we could leave. Wouldn’t you want to if you could? We could be at our parents’ houses, sipping margaritas. Better than what’s happening back there. No electricity. No TV. No Internet. I haven’t lived without those things since I was in the wars in the Army.”
He hoped the dropping he was a war vet would help. It often did.
“We need to check everyone on board for a fever. Do you have any pets?”
“A cat. But she doesn’t leave my boat.” He lied.
“She needs to be examined too.”
“Sure. Can I get her?”
“Please do, sir. And everyone else below deck.”
“Um, we have an injured girl. Broken leg. She can’t walk.”
Meanwhile, the other Coasties pulled out digital thermometers. Some could take a temp at a distance, while others had to be stuck in the ear, as if their budget ran out for the distance ones. The Coasties did not ask permission. It wasn’t required during martial law. They stuck the thermometers in people’s ears. Looked at the readout, then moved on to the next person. When it came to Phebe’s turn, she held her breath. It beeped, and he moved onto Mazy. Phebe sighed in relief. She didn’t have a fever, one of the first symptoms of R140.
Peter went into the cabin with a Coastie following him, and scanned around. All weapons were out of sight. Of course, a little searching and he’d be thrown in the brig. A multitude of unregistered assault rifles. A sniper rifle with no paperwork. Pills and marijuana—he wasn’t sure what the laws were for marijuana out at sea. And maybe a little heroin which he was positive was still illegal. All the Coast Guard would have to do would be to look him and his boat up, and they’d learn he was a person of interest to them and the ATF. Possibly even the FBI—over guys he knew. Probably not the CIA, because they didn’t care. They offered him a job if he felt his leg was up for it. The Coast Guard would seize the Molly right here and now. He debated whether that would get the others out of the hot zone.
Probably not, he decided. The government would most likely ship them right back into the quarantine zone because rules were rules. They may even put them somewhere unfamiliar, making survival even harder. They’d be unarmed. He could just hear Chris cursing his name.
He decided he wouldn’t turn himself in.
One by one, the Coastie checked for temperatures.
Mullen had Dock Cat. They looked to have become fast friends.
“Let them examine her,” Peter said.
Dock Cat wanted nothing to do with any of this. Not like anyone else wanted to. But she acted it out. Mullen seemed highly capable of handling a small, willful animal. The man used the thermometer. Her paw tried to get the thing out of her ear. She mewed in protest.
Dock Cat was one thing. Syanna Lynn Claiborne was a whole other. In the saloon, they heard her yelling from the bedroom.
They heard Matt’s voice say, “She’s really not infected. She normally acts like this.”
“Strange men coming in here, with me looking like this. How could you let that happen, Matty?”
The Coastie came up, shaking his head. “Are they married?”
“No,” Peter said. “He made me promise to kill him if it happened.”
“Yeah, I can understand that.” Another shake of his head. “Well, no one is running a fever. That girl doesn’t appear to be sick, despite behavior. The cat’s good. No fever and she looks healthy. Keep her inside at all times. For everyone’s sake. You’re the captain of this vessel?”
“Yes, sir.”
He checked his chunky, government issue tablet. “Peter T. Sullivan?”
“Yes, sir.” Peter’s stomach clenched. Could that tablet run his name through a database? Was that something the Coast Guard was interested in with a disaster occurring?
“We have everyone’s names and pictures. And this vessel. We see any of you again or this vessel in these waters, trying to run the quarantine, you’ll be arrested at best.”
“And at worst?”
“Sunk.”
“Oh.” The laugh with the crazy edge again. “Good to know. We’ll just mosey on back to our marina then if that’s okay?”
“Do so. Quickly.”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. Immediately.
Once the Coast Guard got off his boat, Peter said, “I hate people in uniform. They make me nervous.”
“Are they going to follow us?” asked Chris.
“Oh, you bet, big man. Probably right to my dock.”
“We have to go back?” asked anguished Mullen.
“Yeah. Sorry, kid.”
He held Dock Cat closer, sadness wracking his young face.
His reaction resonated throughout the group.
“Look, ah, people,” Peter said, seeing their downcast demeanor. “Um, somebody get dinner started. Get a shower roster going, cos everybody stank. Julio, show them where the hold is. There’s stuff there. And some clothes. Men’s clothes. I’ll figure out something for you ladies.”
“We’re on it, staff,” said Julio, in a forced cheerful voice. “Right, sergeant?”
Chris snapped to. “Yeah.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s get some dinner going.”
“Right, Marines?”
“Where’s that hold?” Ben asked.
“I’ll make the shower roster,” said Mazy.
But Phebe stood hugging herself. Her miserable gaze a thousand miles away.
“Hey,” said Mazy. “Phebe. You want the first shower slot?”
Phebe gave a polite, meaningless smirk. “Sure. Thank you.”
“Hey, Mullen, you want second?” A despondent shrug.
Chris said to Mullen, “What if we let you peep on Mazy taking hers?”
“Fuck you, man.” Mazy laughed.
6.
