“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.”
CHAPTER 2
“This is the voice of Free Texas, broadcasting from Hamlin. Primary assembly area is the silos on the southeast part of town. Bring your all your guns and ammo, come peaceable and be prepared to work. We got a big job ahead of us, freeing our great state from the zombies. Stay away from the center of town, it’s still crawlin’…”
“This is a sad profession,” Olga said, shutting the door to the cabin. From the looks of things, they were months too late for the occupant.
“If you pick up a weapon, you are embarking on a career of great sadness mixed with rare touches of glory,” Walker said, stacking rolls of toilet paper in a cloth grocery bag. “It is one of the reasons not to pick up a weapon.”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t do this job?” Olga said. “That a woman’s not good enough?”
The Ferretti 68 was well stocked. The owners had prepared for a long voyage away from resupply. Unfortunately, one of the things they had stocked without realizing it was the Plague.
“Far from it,” Walker said. “You are good at it. You are a woman. Good, however, is a variable term in the profession of arms. There are those who are very good with weapons, but not so good at killing. They are expert marksmen, but could not shoot so much as a rabbit. There are those who are good at killing, but not so good with tragedy. I knew a very good, experienced, combat NCO who retired after Rwanda because he was broken by the senselessness of it all. And this world is a mass of tragedy. Doing your job, you see that more than most. Being good at killing is not all that you must be good at to do your job.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Olga said, pulling out a pile of sheets that were in a closet. “Faith really tries to avoid going in cabins that don’t respond to a knock. She got that way after clearing the Voyage.”
“The lieutenant is young,” Walker said. “She may harden to the point she can withstand the sadness or someday simply walk away. In the meantime she is certainly good at killing infected and she acts as a strong motivator to her Marines. That is enough in a young officer.”
“You seem to know a lot about the military for an English as a Second Language instructor,” Olga said.
“As I told the ensign, I am a man of many parts,” Walker said, grinning. “Celementina, let me help you with that,” he added, picking up a case of oil jugs.
“Salamat, Tomas,” the woman said. “I let you. Every time I squat and lift I’m afraid I will simply pop the bambina out. And then every time I hope I pop the bambina out! I am ready to have this child out of me!”
The engineer had already declared the engine a loss. The boat had been under power when an infected broke an oil line. Both engines had eventually seized. While the Grace could probably repair them, there was no real need for the boat and so they were stripping it rather than calling for a prize crew.
“We’re going to have to do a supply drop pretty soon,” Sophia said as Tom Walker tossed the case of oil onto the aft deck of the Bella. The two boats were lashed together in the light seas, the fenders keeping them from damaging their hulls.