CHAPTER 1
“. . . says the Navy is still there and there’s some group called ‘Wolf Squadron’ in the Atlantic. He’s been catching fragmentary back-scatter. That’s all I’ve heard about it. You, over?”
“I don’t have any of that but I could stand to see some Marines coming down the road you know what I mean . . . ?”
From: Collected Radio Transmissions of The Fall
University of the South Press 2053
“We have a sierra, sir,” the watch officer said.
It was four hours after dawn, local, and the third day of the Wolf Squadron float from the Canary Islands to Guantanamo Bay. So far, the sea had failed to give up its survivors in the Alexandria’s patch. There was an unofficial pool among the subs as to who could find the most sierras—normally ships but the squadron had picked up the sub crews’ “Sierra,” or “S” for sonar contact, and they now used it to refer to any floating vessel that warranted checking out.
“Finally,” Vancel said. “Con, give me one third to target’s bearing. Let’s see what we’ve got. . . .”
* * *
“Division Seven, Division Seven, Alexandria, over.”
“Division Seven, over,” Sophia replied. With those sneaky ass sub bastards around, she was having to get a suntan in a bikini. Olga had decided it was fair game to give the sub crews a show and was on the sundeck en nu. Sophia wasn’t quite willing to give the last measure for sub morale.
“Sierra One: Life raft. Military. Item: Three. One Item appears emotionally disturbed. Recommend security team, over.”
“Gimme the coordinates, over . . .”
* * *
“Here you go, sir,” Staff Sergeant Alfred Joseph “AJ” Decker said, pinning the bound second lieutenant down and trying to avoid the snapping teeth. “It is lunch time, sir. Nice juicy fish eyeball, sir. You know how you like the fish eyeballs, sir. Full of tasty goodness and vitamins, sir. Private First Class Condrey, help me assist Lieutenant Klette with his midday meal.”
“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” Private First Class Steve Condrey said, pinning the thrashing officer to the deck of the rubber lifeboat. He held him down with his remaining weight and helped the staff sergeant pry the lieutenant’s jaws open.
They managed to get the fish eyeball into the officer’s mouth and the lieutenant chewed and swallowed avidly, then let out a howl for more.
“I regret to say that that is all there is available, sir,” Decker said, rolling off the officer. “You are aware, sir, that we are on short rations.” He gagged the officer to avoid being bitten and then picked up a small slice of mahimahi. The flesh of the fish was actually considered, by long-term survivors, inferior to the eyeballs. “Good afternoon, Private First Class. How is your midday meal?”
“Excellent, Staff Sergeant,” the PFC said, swallowing the small sliver of fish like a guppy. “Finest sushi money can buy, Staff Sergeant.”
“Every day is a holiday and every meal is a banquet in the Corps, PFC,” Decker said, chewing the fish slowly.
“God Bless the Marine Corps, Staff Sergeant,” the PFC said.
“God Bless the United States and her glorious Constitution, Private First Class,” the staff sergeant replied. “Time to set the watch bill, Private First Class Condrey.”
“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant . . .”
* * *
“Staff Sergeant, permission to report!”
“Report, Private First Class!”
They were sitting in the boat back to back, as close to the position of attention as possible in a rubber raft, each of them intently scanning the horizon in their “zone.” Lieutenant Klette had drifted into a zombie hibernation.
“Possible sighting of a boat under power on the horizon, Staff Sergeant!”
“Bearing?” Staff Sergeant Decker asked.
“My nine-thirty, Staff Sergeant!” Condrey replied.
“Acknowledged,” Decker said without turning around. “Maintain watch on that contact as well as continuing visual sweep.” He set his watch to alarm in five minutes.
“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant!”
* * *
“Private First Class Condrey, status report on possible sighting?”
“Vessel continues to close our position, Staff Sergeant. Range approximately one mile. Vessel appears to be a motor yacht, Staff Sergeant. Personnel on the bridge are visible at this time, Staff Sergeant.”
“Acknowledged, Private First Class,” Decker said, turning around, still at attention. He shaded his eyes and nodded. “Vessel is confirmed. The private first class will assist the staff sergeant in dressing Lieutenant Klette.”
“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant!”
* * *
“Bleeding arseholes,” Sophia said, looking through the binoculars. “That’s a fucking zombie! They’re dressing a fucking zombie.”
The survivors were Marines from their uniforms. And they still had combat gear. And a live zombie. She had no clue what had possessed them to keep a live zombie onboard a fucking life raft but she was going to have to think about how to handle it. She had the funny feeling that shooting it as soon as it was in range would not be the right move.
What got her was that they were also close shaven and had nearly bald heads. Their uniforms were not even that bad.
She made an instant decision and slowed the boat.
“Walker,” she said over the intercom. “Take the helm. I need to go below for a second.”
“Roger, ma’am,” Walker said, running up on the flying bridge. “Issues?”
“Those guys are . . . They’ve got a live zombie on a life raft. I’m going to go get into uniform.”
“Can I look, ma’am?” Walker asked, holding his hand out for the binos.
“Go ahead,” Sophia said. “Am I right that I’d better be in uniform, with all my doodads, when we pull these guys in?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Walker said, looking through the binos. “That would be for the best. And Olga as well. I don’t know how or why they did this, but we’re going to have to handle this very carefully, ma’am.”
“Agreed,” Sophia said, heading below. “Do not approach until I’m back up.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
* * *
“Good afternoon, Marines,” Sophia said, from the aft deck. She was in her best uniform with her new gold bars glittering in the sun.
“Good afternoon, ma’am!” the staff sergeant boomed, as close to attention as he could get in a rocking lifeboat and saluting with his M4. “Staff Sergeant Alfred Joseph Decker reporting with a party of one, Ensign. Our officer has suffered what appears to be heat stroke, ma’am. Permission to come aboard!”
“Permission granted, Staff Sergeant,” Sophia said, returning the salute. “Evolution is as follows. You will toss us your line. My crew will assist you in bringing the lieutenant aboard. The PFC will board followed by yourself. You and the PFC will lock and clear all weapons before boarding. We will then do what we can for your lieutenant and his . . . heat stroke.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Decker said, his composure starting to crack. “Ma’am, permission to speak, ma’am.”
“Granted,” Sophia said.
“Ma’am, my last orders from my gunnery sergeant were ‘Take care of the LT,’ ma’am,” Decker said. “I know the LT is . . . in bad shape, ma’am and I know you outrank a gunnery sergeant, ma’am. But I will remain in this lifeboat at my post before I will allow anyone to put my lieutenant down, ma’am.”
“One moment, Staff Sergeant,” Sophia said, turning around. She put her hands over her eyes and tried as hard as hell not to cry. She wiped away the slight moisture and turned around.
“Staff Sergeant, I am an officer of the United States Navy,” she said. “You have my statement that your officer can be boarded to this boat and absent orders to the contrary I will not terminate him for his current condition. However, Staff Sergeant Decker, you are now back in the United States Marine Corps. What orders are given by superior officers I cannot control and you cannot control. And I shall and you shall obey the orders of officers appointed over us. No matter how distasteful they may be. Nor may you disregard your oath to protect our nation and its Constitution to go floating around on a cruise on your lifeboat. Your life, your lieutenant’s life, my life, are forfeit by the oath we swear. Do you understand me, Staff Sergeant!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Decker said.
“For your information,” Sophia said. “I may only be an ensign but I’ve been with this squadron since before it was a squadron, and my dad happens to be LantFleet. So what I will add to that earlier is . . . I’ll do what I can for your officer, Staff Sergeant. But that’s all I can promise. Now, lock and clear your weapons and prepare to board . . .”
* * *
The staff sergeant and his minion had been remarkably adept at feeding their lieutenant soup. They’d hardly spilled a drop as the zombie attempted to eat them. Afterwards the officer had been taken out to “relieve himself” off the aft deck, then secured below. She could hear him howling from the flybridge.
Then and only then had the two Marines accepted the offered tomato soup. They drank it at attention. They did everything at attention.
She made sure their guns were secured in the safe in her cabin. They were out of rounds, anyway. She wasn’t sure about their knives but they’d been persuaded to divest themselves of their combat gear.
“What happens in the compartment never stays in the compartment,” she muttered, rubbing her face. “Just when I thought I’d seen it all . . .”
She picked up the radio. She knew when she was out of her depth.
“Flotilla, Division Seven. I need Flotilla Actual, over.”
* * *
“I am aware of the SOP in this matter, Flotilla,” Sophia said. “Break. However, these guys are so tightly wound you could use them to power the Alex. Request that Marines handle this as it is basically a Marine matter. If the gunny and the captain put this poor bastard down, that’s one thing. I’m not sure what will happen if I try. Over.”
“Roger, Bella. Will pass this to Squadron. The one absolute condition is maintain the safety of your boat and your crew. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, Flotilla. Will ensure the safety of my boat and my crew, over.”
“Flotilla out.”
“Passing the buck are they?” Walker asked.
“Hell, I did,” Sophia said as the zombie in the cabin howled. “Jesus, how did they stand it?”
“The most important factor in maintaining one’s sanity, to an extent, in a survival situation is something to hold onto,” Walker said. “Something to do and take care of and cherish. I had a knot record.”
“Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?” Sophia asked.
“Knot,” Walker said. “K-N-O-T. It’s a way of keeping track of events, days, using simple string. It was the Incan’s only form of writing. Each type of string has a meaning, each type of knot. Very simple and infinitely complex. More complex than Chinese.”
“What happened to it?” Sophia asked.
“I left it in the compartment,” Walker said. “It was a way of surviving there. It was unnecessary in the outer world. But I have been found to be so aggressively sane it’s a form of insanity. These Marines survived, in part, by caring for their officer. Which is a devotion so doglike it is virtually unheard of in the modern world. And by grasping so hard to their duty that it is nearly broken. Marines tend to be fairly OCD, anyway. The question is whether they can recover from their current mental state. Right now, they’re having a hard time not following their ‘Watch Bill.’”
“Any suggestions?” Sophia asked. “About what to do about the lieutenant?”
“Either keep him alive in a padded room,” Walker said, shrugging. “Which will be interesting. Or have a formal ceremony where he’s passed to the great beyond, preferably with a fast-acting poison. Play ‘Taps.’ Bury him with honors at sea. They took care of him until the decisions could be passed on to others. But it would have to be an honorable way to go out. Not you or I or Olga putting a bullet in his head and tossing him over the side. They would, I assure you, flip the fuck out if we did that.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you curse,” Sophia said.
“Right now, ma’am, I want to revel in the glory and honor of the words: Semper Fidelis,” the man said. “And burn the world down at the same time. I have seen a lot in my many years, ma’am, but this takes the cake. Truly wins the fucking lottery.”
“I think I’m gonna have to get a little drunk to sleep tonight,” Sophia said as the zombie Marine howled below.
* * *
“D . . . do . . . What?” Captain Smith snapped. “They kept him alive? How? Why?”
“The staff sergeant’s last orders from his gunny were ‘take care of the lieutenant,’” Isham said. “So they took care of him. Kept him alive. Kept him fed and watered, even at their own expense. Soph describes them as so tightly wound they could power a sub.”
“Bloody hell,” Steve said, picking up his phone. “Get me Gunny Sands. Now!”
* * *
“Lieutenant Klette, huh?” Gunnery Sergeant Sands said, shielding his face with his hand. “And Decker. That . . . I’d say it makes a certain amount of sense but it really doesn’t, sir, I’m aware of that. Lieutenant Klette was the armor platoon leader. Newly arrived. Gunnery Sergeant Haughton was kind of a stickler about obedience to orders.”
“Did I just hear a gunny say another gunny was a stickler?” Steve said. “This is hereby a Marine matter, Gunny. I’ve got enough on my plate. You and the captain have the authority and responsibility of figuring out what to do. I’ll back whatever decision you make as long as it doesn’t significantly affect overall operations. But that lieutenant needs to be off that boat. Fast. Take my boat, get out there. You at least, you and the captain if he has time. We’re done.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Sands said, standing up. “What’s that word your girls use, sir? A zammie? This is a zammie for sure, sir.”
* * *
Walker watched the radar screen, looking around occasionally on a visual sweep, then looked back at the screen. The Bella Señorita was cruising west under fair skies and a following sea, the most perfect conditions you can be in on a boat. And they were headed home, eventually. Back to the Land of the Big PX, sort of. It was one hell of a lot better than being in the compartment or, for that matter, any number of places he’d been in his life.
Even with the occasional howl from below. Besides, the zombie had mostly settled down after they put enough food in his stomach.
There was a blip on the radar screen and he noted it. Sometimes you got ghosts. But it was there again on the next sweep, and noticeably closer. Someone was in a hurry. And based on the next sweep, headed for the Bella.
“Bella Señorita, Bella Señorita, Achille Cono, over.”
“Achille Cono, Bella Señorita, over.”
“Approaching your position. Flag is not, repeat, not aboard. Here for pick-up on the Marines. Wake the semi-sane ones up if they’re not. Out.”
He went below and woke the skipper first. Knocking at her door.
“Enter,” the skipper said. She was sitting up in bed when he opened the door, pistol in hand. “I was awake, anyway. I didn’t think I wanted earplugs in with a live zombie on board.”
“Your dad’s fast boat is inbound,” Walker said. “He’s not aboard. They’re here to pick up the Marines.”
“Okay,” Sophia said, getting out of bed. She was wearing PT shorts and a T-shirt. “I’ll get my uniform on. How long?”
“Ten minutes or so,” Walker said.
“I’ll head up on deck in a minute,” she said. “Get the staff sergeant up. Carefully.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Walker said.
“You need backup?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” Walker said. “I can handle it.”
He knocked, hard, on the door of the cabin the Marines had been assigned.
“FIRST CALL, MARINES! ON YOUR FEET!”
“Status?” Decker said, yanking open the door.
“Inbound fast boat,” Walker snapped. “Sounds like Gunnery Sergeant Sands. Five minutes. Uniform is MarPat and boots. No LBE, no weapons, no K-pot.”
“Roger,” Decker said. “You heard the man, Private First Class. Inspection in two minutes!” He slammed the door shut.
“Wow,” Walker muttered, shaking his head. “Talk about wrapped like a string . . .”
He darted into his compartment and rummaged for a second, then came back out and stood by the door.
It snapped open and Decker nearly collided with him.
“Kiwi,” Walker said, holding up the can. He slammed it onto the bigger Marine’s chest.
“Roger,” Decker said, taking the can. “Thank you, Mr. Walker.”
“You are welcome, Staff Sergeant Decker.”
* * *
“Your coffee, ma’am,” Walker said, handing the ensign a cup. She was in uniform but still pretty bleary. “Status report, ma’am?”
“Please,” Sophia said, taking a sip.
“I rousted out Olga, she has the conn,” Walker said. “Fast boat is still few minutes out. The Marines are prepared for inspection. If I may make a recommendation. Have you ever performed an inspection, ma’am?”
“Of people in uniform?” Sophia said. “No.”
“The way it works is the junior, usually an NCO, goes first and performs a preinspection. Then the inspector performs the inspection. There should be someone following to accept notes from the inspector. I would recommend, ma’am, that I take the first position and perform a preinspection. Then you inspect. You just have to seem to be looking at stuff. I’ll make sure they’re as ready as they’re going to be.”
“Any idea who was on the boat?” Sophia asked.
“I’m pretty sure it was the gunny on the radio, ma’am,” Walker said. “Never met him but, met one gunny you’ve met them all. Marines are on the aft deck. If that idea meets with your approval, give me one minute and I’ll be prepared.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Sophia said.
“Be right back.”
* * *
Walker pulled out a piece of double-sided tape and taped down one corner of a pocket that was sticking out on PFC Condrey’s uniform.
“Staff Sergeant Decker, ensure that both these uniforms are turned in for direct exchange as soon as possible,” Walker said. “The LeafBrown pattern is sun-faded.”
“Aye, aye, Mr. Walker,” the staff sergeant said.
“Boots are clean and polished but unserviceable due to exigency of conditions,” Walker said. “Again, DX item. Otherwise, good turnout, Marine.”
“Thank you, sir,” the PFC said.
“The PFC is ready for your inspection, ma’am,” Walker said.
Sophia checked the PFC’s uniform as if she knew what she was doing, then the staff sergeant’s. She didn’t find any fault.
“The order is ‘Parade Rest’ then ‘Rest,’ ma’am,” Walker whispered in her ear.
“Marines. Parade rest. Rest,” Sophia said, then looked at Walker. The man nodded as the Marines assumed the position of parade rest.
“Ol— Seaman Apprentice Zelenova! Status on the inbound.”
“One mile out and still closing, ma’am.”
“Radio to have them come up on the port side.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” Walker said, taking her arm and drawing her lightly away from the Marines.
“Problem, Mr. Walker?” Sophia asked.
“They’re facing to starboard,” Walker said quietly. “They need to turn around.”
“Okay, well . . .” Sophia said, starting to open her mouth.
“If I may,” Walker said, pressing on her arm. “Wound tighter than a mainspring on an AK, ma’am?”
“So they can’t turn around?” Sophia said.
“Start with ‘Marine Detail, ten-hut!’ Barked, ma’am.”
“Marine Detail, ten-hut!” Sophia said.
“About face,” Walker whispered.
“About face.”
“And ‘Parade Rest,’ ma’am.”
“Parade rest,” Sophia said. “Was that right?”
“Do you want me to give you the class on command voice and drill commands?” Walker asked, smiling tightly.
“What I’d really like to know is how come you know so much about it, Mr. Walker,” Sophia said quietly.
“I’m a man of many parts, ma’am,” Walker replied. “And the boat is coming alongside.”
“Celementina,” Sophia said. “Mr. Walker. Get the lines.”
* * *
“Permission to come aboard, ma’am!” Gunnery Sergeant Sands boomed.
“Granted, Gunnery Sergeant,” Sophia said. “And this Marine detail is yours, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Detail, ten-shuh!” the gunny boomed as soon as his feet hit the deck. “Parade . . . Rest! Rest! Decker, Condrey, good to have you back!”
“Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant!” Staff Sergeant Decker boomed.
“What’s the status on the LT, Staff Sergeant?”
“The lieutenant is below, Gunnery Sergeant,” Decker replied. “The lieutenant is not in optimal condition, Gunnery Sergeant Sands. The lieutenant should have medical attention at the earliest possible instance, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“The LT is a zombie, Decker,” Sands said. “Which doesn’t mean he’s not a Marine. And Marines take care of their own. God knows I’ve killed enough Marine zombies and I and you and the PFC will keep on killing Marine zombies as long as we have to to secure our nation. But the decision has been made to keep the lieutenant as a psychiatric patient, barring needs of the service saying otherwise. If at some point we can avail ourselves of research facilities, the lieutenant may become a research subject. However, that research will be noninvasive. He will not be dissected, his head cut open or anything else along the lines. He is a Marine officer and will be treated with the most respect possible given his condition. That, Marine, is the final word of the current chain of command. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant,” Decker said.
“Do you have any questions, Staff Sergeant?”
“Gunnery Sergeant . . .” Decker said. “The private first class and I are . . . familiar with the officer’s needs. Would it be possible for us to—”
“IS YOUR MOS PSYCHIATRIC CORPSMAN, STAFF SERGEANT?” the gunny screamed. “ARE YOU IN THE NAVY, STAFF SERGEANT?”
“NO, GUNNERY SERGEANT!” Decker replied.
“We need every Marine we can get, Staff Sergeant,” Sands said, more gently. “Your mission, which you achieved against incredible odds, was to take care of your lieutenant. You did that. New mission. Kill every other fucking zombie on Earth until humanity is safe from that Scourge. Do you understand that mission, Staff Sergeant?”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Marines! Do you understand that mission? I can’t heeear you!”
“YES, GUNNERY SERGEANT!”
“You ARE going to get your headspace and timing back, Marines!” the gunny barked, starting to circle the two. “You are going to drive on with the mission! You are going to remain eternally faithful to our Nation! You are Marines! And you are relieved of the duty of taking care of your lieutenant! Is that understood, Marines!”
“YES, GUNNERY SERGEANT!”
“Just so’s we’re clear,” Gunny Sands said. “That was one hell of a job you did, Decker, Condrey. You’re not going to get any medals for it, but I’ll see if I can convince ’em you’re not Section Eights. Because it was stupid and it was crazy. But we’re United States Marines. Stupid and crazy is what we do. Oorah.”