civilians who don’t speak military. But the water tank isn’t at full capacity. I’ve shut off the showers and sinks so that we can better conserve it. The toilets and urinals are shut down, too, but I kept the head in the engineering compartment operational. We’ll show you how to get there later on. But that is the only functioning head and I ask that when you use it, you adhere to the following rule—if it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down. That will help to save water.”
We laughed at the joke, and then he continued.
“The showers in that head are also functional. Again, I ask that you adhere to a strict time limit. No longer than two minutes per person to shower. Once we fill our tanks, I’ll lift that rule. My plan is to find a base or station where we can take on supplies. Maybe we’ll try the naval base in Norfolk, or Hampton Roads or Portsmouth. There are a number of bases and commercial docks we could try. We could possibly even anchor off Ocean City or one of the other seaside resorts along the coast, and take a lifeboat in to shore.”
“But the situation in those places will be just like it was in Baltimore,” Mitch said. “Do we have enough people to fight our way into and out of a storage depot or fueling station if it’s overrun with zombies?”
“I don’t know,” the chief admitted. “But I’m glad you brought that up, Mister…?”
“Sorry. My name’s Mitch Bollinger.”
“Well, Mr. Bollinger, you raise something else that we need to talk about. Officer Runkle and I were talking earlier this morning about law and order onboard ship. Like it or not, this is our home for the foreseeable future. Now, I’m sure that all of you are very nice people, but the fact of the matter is, I don’t know for sure. Neither do you. With the exception of Mr. Bollinger and his three friends,” he nodded toward me and the kids, “all of you boarded the ship on your own last night. None of you were traveling together. It was simple luck—and the fires of course—that brought you all to the harbor at the same time. So even though we might all seem nice, we really don’t know each other. Many of you brought weapons onboard: rifles, pistols, knives—I think I even saw some grenades, though I can’t remember who had them. Officer Runkle and I feel that our best course of action is to lock all of those items up in the ship’s armory. It’s for your safety as well as everyone else’s onboard. We have children present, and it wouldn’t do for one of those weapons to find its way into their hands.”
“Hey,” Malik said, “I know how to use a gun. Grenades, too. I blew up a whole bunch of zombies last night.”
A few people in the crowd laughed, and that just made Malik angry. Glaring at them, he leaned against the rail and scowled.
“I’m sure you’re very brave, son,” Chief Maxey said. “And if you used a grenade last night, then I think it’s safe to assume it was your father or Mr. Bollinger who brought them onboard?”
I started to tell them that I wasn’t his father, but before I could, Mitch spoke up.
“I did,” Mitch said. “And I’m not too happy on the idea of giving them up, even temporarily. Like you said, we don’t know each other that well. And what if we do get attacked by marauders? How would we defend ourselves if we got boarded?”
“If we were attacked,” Runkle said, “we’d know in advance. The chief has a key to the armory. He could distribute the weapons.”
Mitch didn’t seem assured. “Is it the only key?”
“Yes.” Chief Maxey nodded. “I have a complete set of keys for the ship. The duplicates are back at the Maritime Museum offices.”
“So, no offense, Chief, but if something happened to you—if you fell overboard or lost the keys or something, and we were attacked, what would we do then? Cut through the armory door with a torch?”
“Well,” the chief admitted, “that wouldn’t be very feasible.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Mitch said. “And we don’t have the means to copy your key. Look, I don’t like the idea of all of us roaming around with guns either, but the simple fact is I’d feel more comfortable holding onto mine.”
I noticed that Officer Runkle was eyeing Mitch’s holster, as if he were contemplating making a grab for Mitch’s pistol. I tried to stay inconspicuous, but slid between the two of them, just in case. Runkle glared at me, but stepped backward. I smiled. He didn’t smile back. Must have been straight. Shame. He was a good-looking guy. I would have enjoyed getting to know him better, but the vibe he gave off was definitely a warning. Plus, I never dated cops. The world may have ended, but I still had my standards.
Runkle spoke up. “With all due respect to Mr. Bollinger, I don’t think we can—”
“He’s right,” Chief Maxey interrupted. “I hate to admit it, but he’s absolutely correct. What if something does happen to me or to the key? You’d all be shit out of luck if we really were attacked. But it doesn’t sit well letting everyone carry them around, either.”
“If I could make a suggestion,”—the professor stepped forward—“why don’t we agree to confine our personal weapons to our private quarters, and not carry them at any time while onboard ship, unless of course it’s during a general quarters situation.”
“What is general quarters?” the redheaded woman asked.
“An emergency,” the chief explained. “If we were attacked, you would hear an alarm bell over the PA system. That’s called general quarters.”
“I like the professor’s idea,” Mitch said. “How about the rest of you?”
“Sounds fair to me,” Murphy agreed. “I’ve only got a little twenty-two pistol, but I’d hate to give it up. It’s kept me alive so far.”
“Ditto,” said Basil.
Officer Runkle looked unhappy with the decision, but all of the others agreed.
The chief finally nodded with obvious reluctance. “Okay,” he said. “I guess that’s fair. A ship isn’t exactly a democracy, but then again, you folks really didn’t have much of a choice but to come aboard. If you want to store them in your compartments, that’s fine. However, I think we need to agree that there will be penalties for anyone who breaks that rule.”
Mitch frowned. “Such as?”
“The
“And who’s in charge of that?”
Smiling, Officer Runkle stepped forward. “I am. Unless anyone has a problem with that? It makes sense. I was a cop, after all.”
He was going to be trouble—an inferiority complex with a badge, desperate for others to recognize his authority. I knew his type well. Had seen it before and hated motherfuckers like him. I’d been exposed to them all my life.
The conversation continued. We discussed the ship’s routine and schedule, and Chief Maxey gave everyone some tips about how to cope with things like seasickness, the proper way to stow our belongings, surviving inclement weather, what to do if someone fell over the side or if we had to abandon ship, and other factors of life at sea. He said that he and Turn would look over the maps and charts and try to pick a port with a minimal surrounding population. That way, there was less chance of it being overrun with the dead when we conducted our supply raid.
After answering more questions, the chief wanted to know more about each of us and any specific skills or abilities we might be able to offer. We already knew that Runkle was a cop, and he didn’t offer any other personal details. Basil Martin was a Web designer. He refused to tell us anything about his personal life, other than he’d been in the National Guard before going to college. Professor Williams told us that his fields of specialty were English literature and mythology. He was a widower—his wife had passed two years before, and his children were grown. His son lived in Thailand and his daughter in California. He hadn’t heard from either since the nation’s communication grid went down. Our new friend Joan Barnett went next. She was a dental hygienist. Turned out her spouse had passed away, too-dying from lung cancer in a room at Greater Baltimore Medical Center as the dead first began to stalk the streets. He’d died alone. She’d been unable to get to him because of martial law. The hospital had confirmed his passing. She never made arrangements because soon after, arrangements no longer mattered. Murphy’s first name was Ollie. He was a boiler operator. Chief Maxey got excited by that news. He’d spent the last few weeks holed up in a bar on Pratt Street, which was no surprise, judging by the telltale alcoholic veins in his nose. Cleveland Hooper had been a cook at a diner. Twice divorced, he’d been hiding out from deputies looking to serve a warrant for non-payment of child support, and hadn’t even been aware of the zombies at first. Hooper had also served a four-year stint in the navy. Nobody knew anything about Tran, and even if he hadn’t been
