To Sail a Darkling Sea

“Okay, Hooch, how the hell did you lose this thing?” Faith asked, stepping over body after body. They were all well decomposed, most of them were infecteds, judging by the lack of clothing, and they were all shot to hell. “You guys put up one hell of a fight.”

“We’re Marines, Shewolf,” Hocieniec said. “It’s sort of what we do. But when half the guys in your squad turn on you… It’s sort of hard to hold a position. Any position.”

“And, Faith, note the lack of ricochet marks?” Fontana pointed out.

“Only Imperial Storm Troopers are this precise,” Steve intoned.

“Tell that to Princess Leia!” Faith said. “Stormtroopers can’t hit the broad side of a barn!”

“You got any idea how hard it is to find your way around the Death Star!” Hocieniec said. “It’s the size of a moon. I was on the Death Star for four years and I never did find the cantina on level Sixty-Nine! They were being herded!”

“Compartment,” Fontana said. “I got it.”

“I used to enjoy knocking,” Faith said. She pulled out a billet of steel and banged on the walls. “Anybody home but the dead?”

* * *

“At least it isn’t as complicated as the Voyage,” Steve said, flashing a tac light at the ship schematics in damage control.

They’d known about the Damage Control Center in the Voyage. It was the obvious first place to go if you could get there. Modern damage control centers were mostly computer based and the Coast Guard had software that would allow downloading the schematics to even a smartphone. They also had detailed, hardbacked for carriage, maps that you could remove in case of loss of power or, oh, a zombie apocalypse.

The schematics for the Voyage had been twenty-eight six foot by six foot maps on a harder form of poster board. They’d taken one look and gone back to the brochures.

In this case, since they had Hooch to guide them at least this far, they’d decided to try to start with a plan.

“It’s still pretty… ” Hooch said, looking at the bare nine maps. “You’re right, sir.”

“Start looking for food storage lockers below the line of the main water tanks,” Steve said, as Faith started pulling out the maps and arranging them around the room. She was having to step over bodies but that was so normal at this point it didn’t even register. She propped one of the maps up on a lieutenant commander whose face had been eaten off.

“Let’s get started,” Steve said.

* * *

“You okay, Hooch?” Faith said.

They weren’t finding many survivors. The few who had apparently been uninfected in the upper reaches of the ship were dead from starvation, dehydration or suicide in the face of either.

“I am five by five, Shewolf,” Hooch said, closing the hatch of the compartment.

“I think I should do it,” Faith said. “Trixie says you shouldn’t look in any more compartments unless we hear survivors.”

“Tell Trixie I’ll be okay,” Hooch said. “But thanks. Honestly, I didn’t expect anything more on this level. And it looks like a lot of them saved the last round.”

“So far I will admit to some disappointment,” Steve said. “It looks as if this was the aviation officer’s quarters.”

“It was, sir,” Hocieniec said.

“I was hoping to find at least one helo pilot,” Steve said.

“Having a helo pilot would be cool,” Faith said. “We could, like, drop in on these things instead of climbing. I don’t like heights. Heights over water is better. Except for the whole we’re wearing ten billion pounds of gear and there are always man-eating sharks. So, yeah, helo would be nice.”

“Thank you, Faith,” Steve said. “I had a broader reason but that’s a good point.”

“Just here to be helpful,” Faith said, banging on the bulkhead. “Anybody hooome…?”

* * *

“No Tan Lines?” Steve said, trying not to snort.

“Oh, my God,” Faith said, gleefully. “That is so you, Soph!”

After the continuous nightmare of clearing the Voyage, Steve decided that there was only so much any one person could do. Not to mention he rarely got to see his kids who were still growing up. Okay, he probably saw too much of Faith. But the same could not be said of Sophia.

So while they were around he tried to have a family dinner, just the four of them, at least once a week. They were the only intact family in the Squadron. They might as well make the most of it.

“All it takes to change it is some paint and a good hand,” Stacey pointed out.

“You know, we talked about it and decided to keep the name,” Sophia said, spooning up the ikan santen. Da’s one real “perk” as the boss was that he had one of the better cooks they’d found. Sari was a real find. She’d had it as hard as anyone, harder than some, but she just sailed along. She didn’t talk much about when the Alpha was in the hands of its “security contingent.” The security, a group called Socorro Security run by a former SF major Fontana knew, and loathed, was one of the last, and worst, decisions Mike Mickerberg ever made. Dad had boiled it down to: If you have to use mercenaries, choose wisely. Socorro Security had not been a wise choice.

“That was somebody’s pride and joy. It’s a nice boat. Changing the name would be sort of dissing the dead. So we’ll keep it.”

“I’m sure you’ll… overcome it?” her mom said.

“Actually, Mom,” Sophia said. “Hate to tell you this but I don’t have much in the way of tan lines.”

“How’s your new security guy?” Steve said, to fill in the gap in the conversation.

“I think he’ll do,” Sophia said, shrugging. “And if not, I’ll find another. He’s no Fontana. No real training. But he says he grew up with guns. Redneck, you know? I gave him a pistol and he knew which way the magazine went in. I had to explain that on my boat, you had better clear every single time. I’ll make sure he stays safe. Best I can do for now.”

“We haven’t found any survivors, yet,” Steve said. “But it’s early days and the areas we’re checking we weren’t really expecting any.”

“I hope they’re in… ” Stacey said then glanced at Faith.

“Better condition than the ones we found on the Voyage?” Faith said. “Me too. And when we don’t get any response, I haven’t been checking the compartments. Hooch has, which is sort of… ”

“He’s handling it,” Steve said. “What do you think about the trip south, Soph?”

“Looking forward to it,” Sophia said. “I want to get back to nautical, you know? Do some fishing, do some rescuing. Clear some boats.”

“You’re going to need a better, and bigger, base than the Large eventually,” Steve said. “Keep an eye out for something. If it’s too big for your group to clear, we’ll send down a team. Hopefully, anyway. Assuming there’s anything to find.”

The problem with distress beacons was that they lasted a far shorter time than humans could. With a solar still, a fishing line or spear gun and some luck, people could survive a long time on rafts or lifeboats. One guy in the ’80s had drifted across almost the entire Atlantic in a life raft. Some lifeboats had solar powered distress beacons. But their range was short. And boats’ and ships’ distress signals stopped when their batteries ran out. It was mostly a matter of “Mark One Eyeball” finding the boats these days.

“There’ll be stuff,” Sophia said. “There always is. I’m not sure about survivors. I’m sort of going to miss the tuna tower on the Endeavor. It was good for spotting stuff. The new one is lower even though it’s a fishing