Voyage of the Dead - Book One Sovereign Spirit Saga (9 page)

Scott had constructed three arms caches aboard the ship.  Two were hidden and one was actually quite obvious and “official”.  The latter was the gun safe on the bridge where he kept most of his shot guns and hunting rifles.  The shot guns were officially used for skeet shooting, since the ship had skeet launchers near the stern, or bird hunting on shore excursions.  The hunting rifles were officially for safaris ashore and defense of swimmers from shark attacks.  That explanation was good enough to get them accepted by most authorities.  If not, Captain Fisher was always happy to let the locals put their own lock on the gun safe until the ship departed their jurisdiction.  

The two hidden arms lockers were less innocent.  One was a concealed compartment in Scott’s master suite that held several dozen hand guns and assault rifles, along with thousands of rounds of ammunition.  The real armory was a larger cache below the vehicle deck that held even more impressive hardware.  It was all hidden inside of an old sewage tank to discourage inquisitive customs inspectors.  Scott had not broken out any of the really heavy metal yet.  After all, this flight was only supposed to be a scouting mission.

            “So what do you expect to find ashore?” asked Sam Waters, the other pilot who had been listening to their discussion.  

            “Don’t ask,” said Scott with a frown.  “Probably the living dead, if not a living Hell.  If things are as bad as they look, it’ll be bloody too.”

“Do you have any real news from Cabo yet?” Sam persisted.

            “Not really,” Scott replied in a concerned tone.  “We did have brief radio contact with the local airport in Cabo San Lucas that caters to private jets.  I know it well.  The control tower there is right next to a small military base.  It sounded like they were fighting off hordes of attackers.  That might be the only secure area left in Cabo.  They requested our assistance, but I don’t want to land there.  You can bet those soldiers would commandeer any aircraft they can find, and who’s to stop them now?”

            “Yeah,” Sam said.  “Those Federalies were always highway robbers.  It must be pure anarchy there now.”

            “I don’t think the Federalies are the reason for anarchy today, Sam,” said Scott with close to a grin.  “But I wouldn’t be surprised if they are more interested in saving themselves than anyone else right now.  And, as the saying goes, if you’re not part of the solution you are part of the problem, especially when shit hits the fan.”

            “Well,” said Mick, “I guess we’ll find out soon enough, Scotty.  Here comes your special passenger.”  Mick gestured towards George Hammer who had just climbed the ladder onto the helipad.  He was followed closely by Scott’s friends Clint and Mark.  The latter two were carrying rifles strapped over their shoulders and had military style web gear with ammo and cargo pouches hanging across their chests.  Scott had asked them to wait for Mr. Hammer and keep an eye on him throughout the flight.  So far, so good.

            “George!  Right on time,” Scott called out.  “And I’m glad you decided to leave your wife aboard the ship.  If all goes well, she can join you and the rest of the family on the
Expiscator
, or stay here until you clear quarantine.  But at least she’ll be safe when you go ashore.”

            “Can’t argue with your logic, Mr. Allen.  You’re clearly the brains of this outfit,” said George Hammer in a jovial tone.  “I’ll be the first to admit that I look at every problem like a nail begging for a hammer.  No pun intended of course.”  The obviously practiced joke was corny, but seemed to convey honest sentiment.  Scott smiled and nodded.  He had a lot of experience with construction workers in his past life – pre-lottery that is – and was used to their straight forward approach to obstacles in their path, as well as their ability to set aside differences once their path was clear.   Now that Scott had offered George a ride to Cabo and possible salvation afterwards, instead of being the obstacle keeping him from his daughter and grandchildren, Hammer was all smiles.

            “I’m just anxious to get to Cabo,” George continued.  “When can we get this show on the road, uh, I mean bird in the air?  And where is that gun you offered?”  Scott had expected both questions.

            “We’ll be leaving in about five minutes, George.  You can climb aboard and get comfortable in the middle seat of the first row behind the flight crew.  That’s the VIP seat, by the way.  As for the gun,” Scott said as he pulled a deadly looking automatic pistol from behind his back, “this is a three-fifty-seven magnum Desert Eagle.  It’s one of my favorites, part of a matching set,” Scott patted his shoulder holster.  “So I hope you bring it back.  You can hang on to it and practice working the slide and trigger during the flight.  I’ll give you three full magazines and an extra box of hollow point rounds before we drop you off.”

            “What?” George replied sharply.  “You don’t trust me with a loaded gun?”

            “It’s not quite like that, George.  But I want you to practice with it empty while we’re in the helicopter and,” here Scott tried to sound sarcastic, “we all know that you have your own agenda.  So I think Micky and I will be able to make better and safer piloting decisions without the idea of a loaded pistol behind our heads, even if you have no intention of pointing it at us right now.”  Scott shrugged and said, “But who knows what you will want to do when you see what’s happening on the ground?” 

            The glare George gave Scott for a second could have doubled for landing lights, but the expression passed quickly into unwilling acceptance.  He nodded sharply, but politely took the proffered empty gun.  Hammer turned towards the helicopter and Scott exchanged glances with Mick.  Then Scott turned towards the two riflemen he had chosen to accompany them.

Clint was a former M60 machine gunner in the 82
^nd
Airborne Division.  He had been part of the invasion, or
liberation
as he would be quick to correct, of Grenada in 1983.  In that “weekend war” he had shot a few Cubans who were trying to defend a bridge.  That gave him seniority in the trained killer category aboard the
Sovereign Spirit,
as far as Scott knew.  He was certainly a trusted and confident friend.  That morning he carried a Browning BAR Safari 30-ought-6 semi automatic rifle with high power scope.  He appeared ready and willing to use it.

The other gunner, Mark Argus, was one of Scott’s best friends with a unique background that included unofficial membership in the elite airborne battalion of a friendly nation in Central America.  It was a position he had earned with more sweat than clout, even though he dished out a lot of both down there.  Mark loved guns and adventure, which Scott had learned when they were still too young to drink legally, so Scott knew that Mark wouldn’t have missed this flight for anything.  Mark had chosen to carry a Ruger Mini 14 with sniper scope and 20 round magazines.  Scott saw he was also packing a pistol and was sure he had several other nasty surprises stashed in the cargo pouches on his web gear.  It was nice to know that Mark had his back.

“Good to have you both aboard, brothers” said Scott.  “I hope we won’t need your firepower today, but if we do, I want you to only shoot zombies.  Not normal people.  It might be hard to tell them apart.  So you need to be very selective with your targets.  And you should only fire on zombies that pose a threat to us, or to Mr. Hammer and his family, assuming they aren’t already zombies too.  My point is that we’re not on a zombie hunt.  For all we know there might be a cure for them someday and, aside from the infection, most of them were probably good people.  So, conserve your ammo.  Go for head shots.  Make every shot count.  And keep cool.  OK?”

“Sure thing, Boss,” said Clint with a wink. Mark just nodded.

            “And one more thing,” said Scott.  “George Hammer is on a short fuse.  He’s got reasons.  But I’m not giving him ammo for that gun until we drop him off.  In the mean time you two will be riding behind him.  So please make sure that he doesn’t go nuts.  The critical time will probably be when he sees what’s happening down there.  So keep alert.”

“Charlie Mike,” said Mark, which meant
continue mission
in their private code.

“What are you packing there?” asked Scott, pointing at what looked sort of like a backpack that Mark was carrying.

“Parachute,” Mark replied.  “In case you want to insert me without landing.  Minimum altitude of 500 feet please.”   He smiled and turned to stow his gear in the back of the chopper.

“Don’t worry, Scott,” said Clint.  “I’ll make sure he straps into the safety harness too.  And you can count on both of us to deliver death from above; even it’s only to the undead.”  For some reason he decided to give Scott a military salute before turning towards the chopper.

It was less than 30 minutes into the flight when Mick announced “Land ho!”  Fifteen minutes later they made landfall at San Jose del Cabo and got their first personal look at zombie land.   It was not very encouraging.  Scott wagged the stick to let Mick Williams know that he wanted control of the aircraft.  Then he nosed down to sweep low along the beach.  It was only seven in the morning, but the beaches were already crowded.  Everyone on the beach seemed to notice the helicopter, because they all turned and raised their arms towards it.  But it soon became obvious that these were not normal tourists and they were not waving hello either. 

“Look at them!” exclaimed Mick.  “They’re all fucked up.  Everyone’s reaching up towards us.  Like they want to grab us or something.  Those are all frigging zombies!”

“No shit,” replied Scott.  “Let’s take a look inland.  We’ll make a pass over Los Cabos airport and then swing back up the coast.”

“Roger that,” confirmed Mick.  “You have the aircraft.”

“Can I whack a few of them first?” asked Mark over the intercom.  He was already sighting zombie targets through the scope of the Mini 14.

“No,” replied Scott firmly.  “This is a recon flight, not an assault mission; at least not yet.” 
Not quite yet.
  But Scott had to admit that the situation looked grim and he understood why Mark wanted to shoot every damned zombie in sight.  They looked unnatural.  Everyone on the beach or streets that they flew over had the same reaction of turn and reach.  They were all zombies.  Scott was certain that there were more, many more, normal people hiding inside their homes and hotel rooms, but the streets were clearly ruled by the zombies.  Not a good situation at all.  But it was nothing he could hope to correct right now.

Scott turned the helicopter inland and increased altitude to get a bird’s eye view of the city.  No cars were moving that he could see.  It became impossible to tell if the human specks were zombies or normals, but most of those below seemed to turn and move towards the sound of the helicopter with raised arms and gaping jaws.  Then they became mere specks on the landscape, some of many little things that would return the haunt his dreams.

Within a few seconds the helicopter was sweeping over the hills that surrounded the Los Cabos airport.  The new view was no less discouraging.  Only a few small private jets remained on the tarmac.  A 737 had obviously crashed at the north end of the field, spreading debris across the highway beyond which was jammed with burned and abandoned vehicles.    In response to the appearance of the helicopter there was movement at the terminals.  Hundreds of figures moved out towards the sound of the helicopter.  Obviously zombies, but not the slow shambling zombies depicted in most movies.  They
ran
out onto the runway.    This zombie horde was truly scary.  They moved fast.