Refuge from the Damned
As the sun rises on the endless horizon, the U.S.S. Eisenhower continues its voyage. The massive aircraft carrier is accompanied by its escort ship, the U.S.S. Carthage, a medium class Cruiser. They had set out from Newport, Virginia only a few days before the first case of the Green Flu was reported in Virginia Beach. Since then, the pair of ships had been patrolling aimlessly, waiting for orders that would never come. The only orders that had been encrypted on the ship's radio were coordinates for a rendezvous point somewhere in the Florida Keys. So without further delay, the Eisenhower and Carthage steadily sailed south, being forced to use older maritime instruments, as most, if not all satellite information was knocked out.
Petty Officer Alvin York, a 25 year old Naval Academy graduate, observed with growing concern the tension growing amongst the crew. It was unspoken, but Alvin could feel it in the nervous looks and muffled whispers coming from the younger sailors. None of them could have possibly known what was occurring back in the United States, or even if the United States still existed.
In actuality, their fears were justified: from the first outbreak in Fairfield, Pennsylvania, the Green Flu devastated the continental United States, infecting tens of millions, and forcing what few remnants of the military to retreat to safe zones that they were assured were secure, but as the plague evolved and the number of surviving, non-infected humans dwindled, the remaining units pulled out of the mainland, establishing protected zones in remote or isolated locations, a few including a few islands in the Florida Keys, Anchorage, Alaska, and the Baja Peninsula. For the time being, these bases were secure from infected invasion, but as supplies dwindled, many commanders faced a choice: stand back and watch as their men slowly succumbed to disease and starvation, or make incursions into infected territory to gather supplies.
Others had more radical ideas…
On an early June morning, the pair of ships, having been at sea for almost 6 months spotted land on the horizon. The men became ecstatic, until they saw their welcome home party…
Hundreds of derelict, rotting boats, from small dingys to a massive ocean liner, dotted the once blue waters. And that is when the stench hit them. Thousands of infected had desperately tried to escape the mainland, only succumbing to the infection while at sea. After they had killed their non-infected or immune shipmates, the infected slowly starved over periods of weeks or months, eventually becoming the bloated and rotting corpses the sailors saw while reentering coastal waters. Some of the infected were even still alive, growling and trying desperately to move their weak, frail bodies in an effort to attack their newfound prey.
On one derelict ship, sailors on the Carthage spotted the outline of a woman. As the Carthage neared the wrecked fishing vessel, they observed the mysterious figure crying, her malnourished frame shaking with each agonizing sob or moan. One of the greener sailors yelled out to her, asking if she was alright. She turned around to the source of the voice, and all the sailors jumped at the sight of her: her blood-red eyes burned into them as she let out bone chilling wail. As she stood up, the sailors saw her massive claws and disheveled form, and two of them became sick on the spot. She lunged at the massive ship, sinking like a rock into the unforgiving surf. The men were clearly shaken by this; around five had to be interned in the ship's hospital bay.
As the two ships neared shore, something became more and more apparent about many of the ships still in these waters: most, if not all had what appeared to be bullet holes gracing their sides, some of the larger ones had massive holes in their sides. Up in the command tower, this development made Admiral Christian Jacobson, a veteran of Vietnam and both Gulf Wars, very ill at ease. As he was about to tell over the intercom to be on the lookout, the radio operator, who had had no contact in the last few months, rushed into the command room and said, exasperated, "Sir, you better come quick. We have radio contact with the rest of the fleet."
Jacobson ran over to the radio in the next room. "Hello, this is Admiral Christian Jacobson, commander of both the U.S.S. Eisenhower and the U.S.S. Carthage. Who am I speaking to?" The reply heard over the radio shocked him. "This is Rear Admiral David Whiteman, commander of the U.S. 7th Fleet. We are now stationed around 10 clicks from your established position." A smile crept over Jacobson's face, as he said, "We'll be there at 0800. Over and out." He told the crew over the intercom about what he just heard, resulting in a resounding cheer being let out from crews on both ships. "Well," he said to himself, "I think we are through the worst of it."
The old man stared out the window of his office, observing with a half smile the pair of approaching ships. "Every sword needs a tip, for without it, it would just be a club," he thought to himself. A flicker danced in his eyes. "Gentlemen, I believe you will be more than perfect for the job."