Z Plan: Red Tides

By Mikhail Lerma

After escaping a zombie attack in the midst of the Iraq War, a U.S. Soldier continues his trek home across the deadly sea in this military horror series.

After zombies attack his army base in Iraq, Cale barely escapes the Middle East alive. He made it across the treacherous desert only to find himself alone and adrift on the open sea. As a virus turns the human race into a walking nightmare, Cale knows there’s little chance of being rescued. His own thoughts nearly drive him mad . . . until a voice crackles over the boat radio.

It’s nothing short of a miracle, yet Cale’s rescue isn’t quite what he imagined it would be. He’ll have to keep his wits about him as he continues his grueling journey home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781618683502

Book preview

Dedication

This book is for my three daughters; Amilia, Rebekah, and Delilah. I love you girls with all of my heart.

Special Thanks

I would like to thank my family and friends for their unwavering support of the first book. I would also like to thank my military family at the 2-123 FSC Illinois National Guard for their support. Thank you K.M. for the insights of your experiences. Thank you S.E. for providing me with the opportunity to experience a vehicle rollover first hand. It gave me a perspective that I could only speculate on before. A big thanks to Keith Chawgo for his hard work over this last year. I’d like to thank my editors, Glenda Wildeman and Bobbie Metevier, who tirelessly worked to meet their respective deadlines that were unexpectedly sprang on them. I appreciate all you’ve done. And finally I’d like to thank of course my wife who knows just what to say to give me that extra boost.

Part I

Odyssey Continued

"While there is life, there is hope."

-Marcus Tullius Cicero

1.

The Brig

Cale was ordered to place his hands behind his head and drop to his knees. He did so without protest. Just seconds ago he’d been planning to clean up and then kill himself. He was relieved to see actual people: living, breathing, thinking people. The armed men lowered a rope ladder from the now visible submarine to the deck of the Freedom Runner, and Cale watched as the first man climbed down clumsily. The second man followed when the first touched down.

Remain where you are and don’t make any sudden moves! the man with the bullhorn ordered.

Four men were now on the disabled vessel, and Cale sat in the middle of the circle they’d formed. All of them had weapons pointed at him. The man giving the orders, along with five others, remained on the sub. The men spoke among themselves in their native tongues. Cale looked up at the grey sky. Clouds kept the sun from breaking through, and it started to drizzle. The man directly in front of Cale approached slowly, the muzzle of his rifle almost touching his nose. He was shorter than the others and slightly rounder. He wheezed loudly, no doubt out of breath from the climb down. His beard hid most of his face, and his dark eyes glared at Cale. The man’s uniform was tan camouflage. Cale couldn’t see any form of identification, such as a name or service rank. He looked past the armed man and back at the submarine. What showed above the surface was approximately three times the length of the Freedom Runner. It too lacked identifying marks. The men broke formation and searched the ship.

Cale could hear them banging around below deck and questioned their motives. He thought they might just take his belongings and leave him to die, or even kill him themselves. He regretted surrendering so eagerly.

The fat man shifted back and forth on his feet. Cale could smell him; it must have been some time since he’d bathed last. Cale knew he didn’t smell any better, having not wanted to leave the radio unattended. His chin stubble made him look rugged and older than he actually was.

The men filed out carrying the boxes of MREs. One of them shouted to the man with the bullhorn. Cale speculated they were discussing his supplies; of course they’d be taking them, but what were they going to do with him?

The man with the bullhorn replied, speaking in Egyptian Arabic. One of the men began stacking the cases of MREs next to the ladder, while the others went back down for the rest of the supplies. Cale turned his head to see what they’d bring up next, and the fat man jabbed him in the chest with the barrel of his rifle. He turned back to look at him, and the fat man sneered and shook his head. The man with the bullhorn snapped at the fat man, and he backed off a bit.

Sorry about that. We’ve come across a few ships that weren’t as cooperative as yours, said the man with the bullhorn.

What happened to those…? Cale hesitated to ask but finished anyway, to those uncooperative ships?

The only reply he received was a smile. It made Cale feel uneasy, and he feared even more that they would kill him and take his supplies. The men brought up the last of his provisions and stacked them near the ladder. His mission bag, pistol, and Zach’s knife were among the items. The men spoke to one another, then to their leader. As he spoke, he pointed at Cale, and two of the men approached, revealing plastic zip ties and a black bag. The fat man smirked at Cale as they did so.

This is only a precaution; we will have to restrain you and place you into quarantine before you can be processed.

Before Cale could do anything, they placed the bag over his head and wrestled him to the ground. One of them pressed his knee hard into Cale’s back. They bent back his arms and fastened them together.

Get the fuck off me! Cale shouted.

Cale heard the fat man chuckle. The others shouted at each other and then lifted him to his feet. Clumsily, they moved Cale to the edge of the Freedom Runner, lifting him up. He imagined they were throwing him overboard, and he thrashed against his captors, trying to reclaim his freedom. He could feel the hands trying to lift him, but they dropped him back onto the deck. The boarding crew began to kick him as he flailed. Cale’s body crumpled more after each blow.

Stop resisting, we’re attempting to bring you aboard, the leader assured Cale.

They tried to hoist him up again, and this time Cale was still.

We need you to walk now, their leader ordered.

Cale nodded, and was assisted to his feet. Someone grabbed his arm and moved him forward. The metal walkway banged under each of their footsteps. The chilly sea air was replaced with the warm stuffy air of the sub. He stumbled over one of the thresholds but was kept upright by the man clutching his arm. They took him through numerous corridors, occasionally warning him to watch his step. They halted abruptly, and Cale could feel them cutting the ties that bound his wrists. The bag was removed from his head, revealing a row of barred cells. Two or three people occupied a cell and only a few cells were empty. Cale was pushed into one with two inmates. The door closed behind him with a loud clang, and one of the men produced a key and locked it.

Hope you understand this is just procedure. We’ll observe you for a few days, and if by then you show no signs of infection, your equipment will be returned to you, the leader explained.

Cale rubbed his wrists. All of my things?

The man laughed as he and the guard turned to walk away. His situation wasn’t ideal, but at least they hadn’t killed him. Cale looked at his fellow inmates. One of them was African, and the other looked Middle Eastern. They sat at opposite ends of the bench.

English? Cale asked

Both men shook their heads. The Middle Eastern man was sweating profusely. Cale looked toward the other cells.

Does anyone here speak English?

No one answered. The room smelled like piss. None of the cells had toilets or washbasins. He placed his back against the bars of the door and slumped to the floor. He eyed his cellmates, sizing them up. The Middle Eastern man was about Cale’s size. He had moved from the bench and now sat trembling in a corner, coughing violently. Cale observed the man closely, looking for signs of infection. He hoped the man simply had the flu. He then turned his attention to the African, who stared back at him, probably sizing him up as well. His skin was dark and his hair was short and he was very tall and very muscular. If he were infected he’d definitely be dangerous. In one of the other cells, someone was coughing and retching. This room was a paradise for any kind of virus.

Fucking great. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Cale said to himself.

Two small bulbs at opposite ends of the room provided the only light in the room. The brig contained four cells and thirteen occupants, including him. The majority of them were men, and all of them were adults. Cale was in the cell farthest from the oval metal door. The vessel creaked and groaned as it descended back to the depths of the ocean. The prisoners sat silently in their cages. Cale watched as one of the inmates walked to the edge of his cell and urinated through the bars and onto the floor. He thought about how many people must have pissed on those floors. Quickly, he jumped to his feet and looked around at the disgusting space. The African laughed at him as Cale checked his pants for a wet spot. The other man was asleep finally and didn’t stir. Cale looked at the African, and started to laugh along with him. The other captives looked at them. The large man rose from his perch and approached Cale, extending his hand to him.

Naeem, he said, as he gave Cale’s hand a firm shake.

What? Cale asked, sounding confused.

He pointed to himself and said it again, Naeem,

Naeem? Cale asked again.

The African nodded in confirmation. Cale was clueless for a moment, and then realized what the man was trying to say. Naeem was his name.

Cale, he replied. English?

The man shook his head again. They weren’t able to communicate, but at least they knew each other’s names. The sleeping man whimpered but didn’t wake. Cale motioned toward him, but Naeem shrugged his shoulders. The man must have been too sick to speak with him. Cale made a biting gesture and pointed at him again. Naeem shook his head once more.

Well, so much for communicating, Cale scoffed.

Naeem shrugged and looked confused. Cale shook his head, and the two looked around at the others. Three women occupied the cell next to them, one of them elderly, and the other two much younger. A man was coughing loudly in the cell farthest from them, where he shared a space with three other men. The third cell, between the coughing man’s and the women’s, contained three African men. They shared the bench as they slept. The man in the far cell coughed even louder, until he vomited and fell silent. His sleeping cellmates went undisturbed. Naeem returned to his seat and leaned against the wall, and Cale surveyed the floor once more, looking for a place to sit. Again, he leaned against the bars of the cell, and slid to the floor. His eyes blurred with exhaustion, and his stomach growled. His eyelids grew heavy and gently closed. Despite his predicament, he managed to find sleep.

2.

Defectors

The man with the bullhorn entered the command deck, with two men following him. The room was filled with men working at consoles that beeped and blinked. The vessel’s commander watched over the crew, ensuring all ran smoothly.

Prepare to submerge, he ordered.

The man’s voice was gruff, and his appearance matched. Admiral Selim was a man of average height and build, approximately forty years of age. He wore a light brown uniform decorated with various medals. A beard hid most of his tanned face. His dark eyes scanned the room, and he stood like a stone gargoyle, unwavering and determined. An alarm sounded, signaling the vessel was returning to patrolling depth. Once the vessel reached the correct depth, they continued their course.

Report, the admiral demanded.

The bullhorn man jumped, startled by the admiral’s tone.

An American soldier, sir.

Alone?

Yes, sir. He had a ship full of supplies. We brought them aboard, sir.

Good. What of the vessel?

It couldn’t be salvaged sir. We set it on fire like the rest.

Selim nodded his approval. He wasn’t the original commander of the vessel but was actually three ranks below admiral. His predecessor, Admiral Mamish, had been careless and had become infected. After they lost radio contact with command, they’d surfaced just north of the hub of naval operations in Alexandria. It was then that they discovered the dire reality of this new plague. Mamish had given the order to bring survivors aboard, leading the expedition himself. A woman who appeared injured had attacked him. It was Commodore Selim who did what was necessary, and held the crew together. Selim field promoted himself to the rank of admiral, and no one questioned his authority. He sealed his title as absolute leader with a speech delivered over the ship’s intercom.

Our leaders have fallen to this new plague, and it is up to us to keep going, to keep living. We must hold together, for together we are strong. His heart had thumped with a surge of adrenaline, and endorphins flooded his blood stream. For the first time, he’d felt in control. Under my leadership, we will prevail!

The men on each deck had cheered; they felt lucky to have such a leader. Selim lead without hesitation, and they started tracking down other naval vessels immediately. Most of them had sustained casualties trying to aid civilians fleeing the continent of Africa. He reestablished order from their chaos, and they pledged their loyalty to him.

Once he’d successfully gathered a surviving ship, he met with the vessel’s commander. Among these leaders were two men who, in actuality, outranked Selim: Vice Admiral Runihura and Rear Admiral Kalfani. Neither of them liked that Selim had promoted himself, and they argued over command of the fleet. The other commanders watched idly as they shouted obscenities at one another.

What Selim did was considered murder in the old world, but this was the new one. Selim didn’t want to give up his newfound power, so he shot both men without hesitation, and then addressed the other commanders. He informed them that he would be calling the shots, or there would be consequences. None of them challenged him and all agreed to his cover story—a neat little tale of how the Vice Admiral was homicidal and had tried to kill them all. Each ship pledged its unwavering allegiance to him, thus ensuring Selim the power he’d always wanted.

Lieutenant Commander Amun clutched his bullhorn tightly; he hated bothering the Admiral.

Sir, what do we do if he clears quarantine?

What do you mean?

He’s American, sir. His government will want him released.

Look around, Lieutenant Commander, Selim replied waving his hands. What government? No one will be looking for one soldier.

Yes, sir.

Once he has cleared quarantine, he’ll be processed like the rest of the… he paused a moment to carefully consider what he should call them. Refugees, he finished.

Yes, sir, Amun saluted.

Dismissed, the admiral replied, returning the salute.

Amun and his bullhorn exited the command deck. He was a young man, the youngest to ever graduate from the Naval Academy. This had been one of the benefits of having a well-connected family. Whenever he’d had a problem, his father would simply throw money at it. Amun had given up trying to impress his father a long time ago. His father firmly believed that Amun had only made it because of him and his money, never giving his son the chance to prove himself. Amun hated his father, and hoped he was dead, shuffling down the streets of Desouk. Amun smiled at the thought of his father, doomed to walk endlessly, while his body rotted away. His mother had died giving birth to Amun, something his father had never forgiven him for. His father had been a hypocrite; he’d been out fucking anything with a hump hole long before Amun was born. Still, he referred to Amun’s mother as the ‘love of his life,’ as if she were listening from Heaven.

Amun walked down the narrow corridors, each step rattling the metal grate beneath his feet. The sounds reverberated down the passageway. Amun entered his private quarters. Only he and Admiral Selim, the highest in rank, were allotted this privilege.

Amun was second in command, but Selim definitely didn’t treat him that way, especially considering that, before this madness, they had considered each other friends.

Since his rise to power, Selim had gone through an extreme change. Amun speculated it was the stress of being in charge. It was Selim, after all, who’d discovered the vice admiral’s plot. Once the other commanders agreed that Selim should be in charge, he appointed Amun to handle the refugees. It felt more like indentured servitude.

Once they cleared quarantine, they were assigned to one of the vessels in the fleet. They were paired up and placed under the authority of a handler, who was, in actuality, an armed guard. The handlers would then take their charges ashore and gather supplies. Each ship was assigned a city, and each handler was assigned a zone within the city. This had been a plan that Amun had come up with, but Selim had taken credit for it. Many of the ‘refugees died, and occasionally a handler. Because of this, they continually had to restock their ranks. If a pair lasted long enough, and there was an opening in the crew, they would be forced to fight each other to the death for the spot.

Amun thought about how much the world had changed in the past two months. The crisis of the plague only expedited it. It was amazing how fast men could turn on each other, when survival was at stake. Indentured slaves were only one aspect of the new world. Amun believed they were nothing more than pirates now. They were defectors, free to make their own decisions. He sat down at his desk to tally up the refugees they had and assign them to ships. None of them had any noticeable bites, but that was why they had the two-day quarantine. Symptoms of illness would start to show within that period, so they’d remain in quarantine until it passed. Most of the time, one of them would have the flu or a cold, but every now and then one would be infected. It didn’t matter; the refugees took care of any infected in their midst.

Amun thought about the American they’d recovered. If he wasn’t infected, he could become a valuable part of the crew. They’d never found anyone with military training, and he’d made it far without becoming infected. He quickly marked the American to stay onboard under the direction of Pashet, the fat man. Ensign Pashet was the lowest ranking officer on board, but he spoke English; almost all officers were fluent in a handful of languages. Pashet wasn’t normally a handler, but being the lowest in rank, he’d have to deal with it. Amun wanted to keep the American soldier close.

3.

Tainted Cargo

Ya know you always quoted the rules of any zombie movie when we played video games. You never split up; someone always gets killed when that happens, Zach stated.

Yeah, but those people aren’t you and I. Cale smirked.

Zach grinned back. I guess you’re right. But if I get bit I’m coming for you, Cale, he said, jokingly.

The two of them shared a laugh, and started a game of rock, paper, scissors to decide who would go where.

Winner takes ground floor? Zach said, preparing his hands for their ritual.

Sounds good, Cale replied.

One…Two…Three! the two said in unison.

Zach formed a ball with his hand making a rock, and Cale extended two of his fingers out, scissors.

Damn. Best two out of three? Cale said with a smile.

Nope. Have fun, Zach answered.

Cale ascended the stairs cautiously, his rifle at the ready. Once at the top, he looked back down for Zach, but he was gone. The house filled with screams, and shuddered like a bomb had gone off, doors and windows rattling.

What the hell?

Cale awoke to Naeem’s terrified face. The room was filled with shouts and moans. Naeem was shaking Cale violently, pointing at their cellmate. He was convulsing on the floor, where he’d vomited blood.

Shit! He’s infected Cale exclaimed.

He wasn’t alone; the occupants of the two farthest cells were also infected. One of them had a death grip on the elderly woman through the bars of his cage. One of the younger women tried to assist her, but the old woman had already been bitten. The second young woman pressed against Cale’s cell, screaming for help. The Middle Eastern man sat up, awkwardly at first, but then jumped forward and grabbed her easily. Before Naeem and Cale could react, he’d pulled her arm through the bars and had taken a mouthful of flesh. She shrieked in pain and fell to the floor, clutching the bloody hole that was once her tricep.

Together, Cale and Naeem pulled their undead cellmate to the floor and took turns stomping on his skull until it was a soggy pile of bone and brain matter. The man’s body continued to twitch, despite his brain being stuck to the bottom of Cale’s boot.

The duo backed up against the wall, far away from the cages that contained the undead. They watched as the infected feasted on those who hadn’t reanimated yet, their mouths slurping and smacking. The sound was horrible, but the smell was worse. The stench of bile and feces flooded the tiny space.

Hey! We need help in here! Cale shouted, hoping a guard would hear him, but no one came.

Cale and Naeem watched in horror as their fellow inmates ate one another. The elderly woman, now fully infected, snacked on the woman that had tried to help her, gnawing on her forearm. She’d all but cleaned it to the bone before she stopped and moved toward the whimpering girl, who was still clutching her arm. The hag started on the girl’s face, digging her teeth into her soft left cheek. The girl, in shock, passed out; it was probably better that way. The old woman moved on to her left eye, greedily plucking it from its socket. She squeezed, and it popped in her fingers, oozing into the palm of her hand, where she lapped it up. The elderly woman’s first victim rose, and moved toward the feast of human flesh. She was only able to use one arm, the other having been picked clean. This didn’t slow her down however, and she clawed into the stomach of their meal. It was disgusting to watch her, pulling out organs and eating them, and then diving in for more, but Cale couldn’t look away. Naeem threw up in the corner of their cell.

In the other two cells, the infected chewed on pieces that were perhaps too mutilated to reanimate. Two infected fought over a raw stump that was once the arm of their third cellmate. He’d been ‘parted out’ to the point that he couldn’t come back. His severed head lay on the floor, his brains scooped out. His entire body was littered about their cell. Urine covering the floor became the least of Cale’s worries, as the gore spread and flooded the entire holding area. He and Naeem could only watch, trapped, and unable to escape.

The younger woman reached through the bars, clawing at the air between her and the two survivors. Cale closed his eyes and tried to imagine being somewhere else, but the sounds and smells snapped him back to reality. He looked at Naeem, who was doing the same. Together they pressed themselves as flat against the wall as they could.

Help! Cale shouted again.

Naeem did the same, but in Arabic. Still, no guard came or answered. Their shouts did, however, gain the attention of the rest of the tainted cargo. Bloody and mangled hands reached, despite being two cells away. Strips of flesh were wedged between their teeth, and Cale could see one of them had broken his teeth trying to bite into his victim’s femur. The now eyeless girl got up and joined her freakish comrades. Even blind, she attacked whatever she touched, testing it out like a toddler by first biting it. The other infected paid no attention to her annoying nibbles, and continued shouting and moaning for warm flesh.

Oh God, please somebody help! Cale shouted again.

Even though there were about four feet between them and the viral clutches of the undead, Cale felt claustrophobic. One of the women was attempting to crawl through the bars. Her body compressed as she did so, and it seemed only a matter of time before she’d get through. Cale looked at Naeem and saw that his eyes were still closed tight.

Naeem! Cale shouted as he grabbed him.

Naeem opened his eyes and looked at Cale frantically. Cale pointed to the woman contorting her body and trying to get into their cell. Her head easily slid through the bars, and she had one foot in their cell. Soon, she managed to get half her body through, and time was running out. Cale reached out and grabbed her arm. He started to pull her, and Naeem prepared to do his part. Together, they yanked her the rest of the way through and pushed her to the wet floor. They took turns stomping on the poor thing’s head until it quit moving.

The eyeless one chewed on the bars of her cage, desperately trying to find the meal she could smell and hear, and her teeth chipped and broke off.

The elderly woman’s body was almost too wide to fit through the narrow gap, but she continued to try. Behind her, the reanimated bodies of the other captives followed suit, and began squeezing through the bars. If Cale and Naeem hoped to survive, they’d have to take them all down, one by one.

Naeem seized the old woman by her disheveled hair and began to yank her through to their side. Her breaking ribs could be heard over the animallike calls of the other infected. She wasn’t as easy to put down on the floor, but with Cale’s help, they managed it. Once she was down they began stomping her head like the two before her, her brain matter spilling out of the fractures in her skull.

The two of them, out of breath now, took a moment to rest. Some of the undead had made their way into the second cell, and were now trying for the third.

In the third, the blind zombie continued biting whatever she touched; she wasn’t as much of a threat as the others. Soon one of the men wiggled his mangled body into her cell, and wasted no time in assaulting the bars that led to Cale and Naeem’s section. His ravaged arms reached through, and Cale grabbed them and held them in place.

Naeem! he shouted.

Even with the language barrier between them, Naeem knew exactly what to do. He reached through and locked his hands behind the man’s neck and then slammed the zombie’s head into the bars, repeatedly and with great force. The man’s nose broke with the first blow, and with the next, his jaw. Naeem slammed its face forward into the thick metal bar until its face folded to accommodate the steel. He drooped limply, and Cale released his arms. Bits of his face clung to the metal, and slid to the floor.

Four down and six to go, Cale said.

4.

Gory discovery

Outside the brig, the guard stood, completely unaware of what was transpiring inside. He heard shouts from time to time, but that was normal among new refugees. They’d try almost anything to get out. What these new recruits didn’t know was that once you were collected you didn’t have a choice; it was serve or die. At least that was the choice the men were given. The women were traded between vessels for various and obvious reasons. He thought about the last time he’d felt the touch of a woman. It had been a long time, a very long time. He hadn’t had anyone special before things changed and hadn’t really given it thought. The guard reminisced about the last time he’d been with a woman. She’d been an olive skinned beauty; he remembered her soft grunts as he pushed deep inside of her. Just remembering, he felt a twitch in his loins, and his pants grew a little tighter. He quickly thought about something else to avoid further arousal. He jumped when the inmates shouted, startling him, and cursed them out under his breath. Whoever was yelling was doing it in English, a language he didn’t know. It was followed by a plea in Arabic, a claim that the illness was on board. The guard laughed and listened while they continued to shout.

He stood at his post a while longer, nodding to the occasional passerby. The yells for help were something they’d all become accustomed to. The guard hardened his demeanor as Lieutenant Commander Amun approached him; it was time to feed the refugees. The officer was followed by three men carrying the brown plastic bags they’d acquired from the American’s boat. They hadn’t bothered to read the MRE bags as they rummaged through the box. The contents were edible and that’s all that mattered. The guard offered a salute that Amun ignored. Inside the brig, the survivors yelled for help again.

How long has this been going on? Amun asked in their native tongue.

About twenty minutes, sir.

Have you checked on them?

No, sir.

Amun waved him aside and lifted the metal latch that secured the door. The smell spilled out and assaulted their senses as he pulled the door open. The men stepped over the threshold and into puddles of blood and brains. Amun watched as the last two living refugees took turns stomping on one of the undead. The guard raised his firearm to dispatch their infected cargo.

Think of where we are, Amun said, and raised his hand to the guard. Breach the hull and we’re all dead.

The foolish guard lowered his weapon. There were four infected left, and their attention turned to their new guests.