Strands of Sorrow Read Free Page A

into the body and ripped it out of Jefferson’s hands.
    “Think we need a bigger boat, sir!” Garcia shouted nervously.
    “It’s like feeding the dolphins at Sea World,” Jefferson’s voice quavered. “But way, way, way grosser.”
    “Which is probably how the fish feel,” Garcia said.
    “Just toss the next one,” Lyons said. “Carefully.”
    Fortunately, the COB had backed the RHIB out of the “zombilanche” and slowed it as the shower continued.
    “Oh, that’s just wrong,” the chief of boat said, shaking his head. “Look at the Jimmy .”
    The hangar deck openings were lower and more in line with the Jimmy Carter . Most of the infected being shoved out as the mass tried to reach the RHIB were landing on the deck of the submarine. Or the sail. Or the fairwater planes. All of which were very hard steel. Most of them were surviving but only with severe orthopedic trauma. Which was exacerbated when another infected would land on top of them.
    The top deck of the Jimmy was also curved, somewhat slippery and seemed to be the primary territory of the Humboldts. As the writhing mass of screaming, broken infected would discharge a member, the giant squids would reach up out of the water and pull them in with claw-covered tentacles.
    “That is a behavior never before witnessed,” Lyons said. “And it just put paid to swimming off the Southern California coast for my lifetime at the very least. These things have been proven to be smart, adaptable and to have very good memories. There are some indications they even learn socially. Which means this behavior might just be passed down generations. Okay.” He keyed his handheld. “Commodore?”
    “Just come back to the boat,” Montana replied. “Back to the drawing board . . .”
    “Are we there yet?” Gomez asked, groaning.
    * * *
    “The positive aspect to this latest debacle is that Lieutenant Lyons found an easy way to kill zombies in job lots,” Montana said.
    “Pull a boat up and let them avalanche?” Lyons said.
    “Got it in one,” Montana replied. “The tricky part is making sure the boat crew survives.”
    “I’d prefer not to bring this boat in any closer, sir,” Commander Halvorson said.
    “They wouldn’t recognize it as a target, anyway,” Montana said. “But using the RHIB again is out of the question. We need a better boat.”
    “This is San Diego Harbor, sir,” Lyons said. “Even with people punching out due to the plague there are plenty of boats available.”
    “However, this is an untenable objective at the moment,” Montana said. “We’re going to drop back and punt. We need a base and to start building personnel. Let’s fall back to the NALF for now. See about clearing that first.”
    “Aye, aye, sir,” Halvorson said.
    * * *
    “More infected than I’d expected,” Lyons said, looking at the shores of the barren island.
    San Clemente Island was a twenty-one-mile-long brown, barren bit of rock sticking out of the Pacific Ocean about ten miles from the California coast. Part of it was an impact range but on the north end was a support facility and the Naval Air Landing Field. And there were infected. Not as many as North Island. New York didn’t have as many as North Island. But quite a few. Most were clustered near a few of the large buildings on which, yes, there were clear survivors. Quite a few of those as well.
    “If you start rhyming every statement I shall have to find a new aide, Lieutenant,” Montana said.
    “Noted, sir,” Lyons said, looking through a stabilized scope on the sail. “And the relatively high number of survivors as well as infected is now explained.”
    “Oh?” Montana said. “Don’t keep me hanging.”
    “I recognize people on the buildings, sir,” Lyons said. “Looks as if NavSpecWar moved . . .”
    * * *
    “Damned right we moved.”
    Captain Owen Carter was the former commander of Navy Special Warfare, Basic Underwater Demolitions/SCUBA School, universally referred to as BUD/S.