“I would say fair to good,” Walker said. “But that is on my scale of judging such things. I will also say that catenary is going to be a bitch.”
The freighter was not rocking much in the relatively smooth seas. The Bella, on the other hand, was bouncing quite a bit. And they were not rocking in time.
“Always is,” Sophia said. “Okay, shooting challenge. You, me and Olga. As skipper I’m going to have the edge on both experience and weapon so I’ll spot myself one zombie.”
“Are you sure about that, Skipper?” Walker said. “My definition of good would be most people’s definition of excellent.”
“Choose your weapon, Mr. Walker,” Sophia said.
“Is this a duel?” Olga asked. “Don’t you need seconds?”
“A pistol?” Sophia said. “Okay…”
She’d turned out with her personalized M4 with Leupold scope. Olga had her M4. Walker had a 1911.
“I am capable enough with a rifle, ma’am, but pistol or submachine gun are usually my preference,” Walker said turning his right shoulder towards the zombies clustered by the rail. “Whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”
“I think I’ll spot,” Olga said, setting her weapon down and getting on her stomach.
“Works for me,” Sophia said, getting in the prone and wrapping the sling around her arm. “The one item I will note on this is always miss high if you’re going to miss. The one thing you don’t want is rounds coming back at the ship.”
“Understood, ma’am,” Walker said. “Thank you for that tip.”
“Why do I think you knew it already?” Sophia said, lining up a target.
“I did not, actually,” Walker said. “Makes sense. But this is, in fact, a new experience for me, ma’am.”
“I’ll work forward to aft, you work aft to forward. Engage at will.”
Walker missed his first shot, high, and was less angered than pleased. He knew that he would not be doing any better with a rifle at this range. And he had missed because of the catenary. Which meant he had something new to learn about shooting and that was becoming increasingly rare in his experience.
Sophia missed her first two shots but she was used to that. Catenary was, as Walker had noted, a bitch. The U.S. Navy SEALs had managed to shoot three pirates in similar if reversed conditions, each with one shot apiece, at night, without hitting a hostage. How, she was still wanting to learn. But so far although the Marines were somewhat trained in catenary shooting, no real “expert” had turned up.
Her third shot scored, high and center, on one of the infected and he dropped out of sight.
“Excellent shot, Ensign,” Walker said.
“Thanks,” Sophia said, keeping her eye in the scope.
Walker was firing one-handed, arm extended, his left hand on his hip. It was not a normal firing position but it gave the added advantage of being very flexible. That flexibility had him, at first, chasing the targets. When he realized that wasn’t the best choice, he waited until they came into his target zone, then adjusted minutely.
Head shot.
Now he was getting in the groove….
There were originally seven infected on deck. Sophia and Walker fired nearly simultaneously and the last target dropped.
“Okay,” Olga said. “That was definitely a head shot. But I can’t tell which of you got him. And you were neck and neck up to that point.”
“Walker,” Sophia said.
“Skipper’s,” Walker said.
“From the way the head came apart I think it was both,” Olga said.
“Since the Hole is so interested in ‘Marigold,’ whoever he is, upload this to General Brice’s attention,” Lieutenant Commander Vancel said, watching the screen. “And let’s go find some more prospects.”
“That’s gotta be a both,” Olga said. “Yuck.”
“It was,” Walker said, chuckling. “This is the forty-five going in here on the cheek. The skipper’s five-five-six went into the right eye. I’d say either one was a kill shot. The interesting question is what is in the container.”
The answer was fruit juice in cardboard containers. The infected had managed to rip their way into the pallets and get both liquid and some nourishment. The bodies of a few crew as well as feathers of seabirds indicated there had been other sources of protein.
“I’m glad I’ve got a respirator on,” Walker said. He’d armed up with a 1911 and a pump shotgun and changed into his blue coveralls. But other than that he was just wearing a respirator. Olga was in full combat gear with a balaclava against bites to the neck. “Let’s check out the rest. You lead.”
“You’re such a gentleman,” Olga said.
“I’m a firm believer in female equality,” Thomas said. “After you.”
“I really don’t like this,” Olga said. Belowdecks was dark as a tomb. Also silent as one except for a rattling and banging of metal as the freighter slowly rocked in the swells. Each bang, though, was startling. They were too irregular to predict.
“Does get the blood pumping, don’t it?” Thomas said as they swept through the crew quarters. The area was a mess and the reason was apparent in a naked body, past bloat and long dead. “Don’t think we’re waking him up, no matter how much noise we make. But the body hasn’t been mauled. That would tend to indicate this area is clear.”
“So we can go back, right?” Olga said.
“Mechanical spaces still to go I would think. But you’re in charge.”
“I think the engine room was closed up,” Olga said, sweeping around one of the massive generators. “No crap, no dried blood.”
“And no body,” Walker said. “I would say this is legal salvage and in decent condition.”
“Flotilla, Division Seven,” Sophia said, then looked down to the aft deck at the clearance crew. “You two, get out of your gear and grab a drink. I know how nerve-wracking that can be. Flotilla, Division Seven.”
“Division Seven, Flotilla.”
“Ship is clear. Seven live infected now KIA. One previous KIA in the interior. Mechanical and working spaces in good shape. Diesel engines and onboard fuel. Recommend this one for a salvage team. Geared and loaded with cargo.”
“Will pass that on to Squadron, Division. Any problems?”
“Walk in the park, Flotilla.”
“Okay, let me make this real clear,” the salvage crew boss said. “This one had better actually be cleared.”
Adam David Saddler had been a master mariner, driving ships like this one, for thirty-five years before the Plague. What he had not been, had no desire to be, was a cop, a soldier or, for that matter, a zombie hunter. He thought anyone who did it for kicks or for pay was an idiot. He’d had to kill one of his crewmates when the poor guy turned on their lifeboat. He was not interested in meeting more.
“Had that problem before?” Sophia asked.
Two off-shore inflatables were filled with a crew from the Grace Tan, ready to, if possible, get the ship underway to join the squadron.
“Yes, we have had that problem before,” the captain said. “And we don’t find it funny. Did you clear the engineering spaces?”
“Yes, we cleared the engineering spaces,” Olga said. “They were closed. We only found one infected belowdecks. It was dead and it hadn’t been chewed on.”
“Don’t suppose you cleared out the bodies,” one of the crew asked.