Crossbones by John L. Campbell Read Free Book Online Page B

status of repairs for various ship’s systems, an overview of training as everyone learned new skills, and the usual
no results
in regard to their attempts to reach the outside world with the aircraft carrier’s communication gear. He spoke of crop conditions. Last fall, Vladimir had set his Black Hawk down in the parking lot of a Berkeley garden center, and anarmy of hippies had raided the place for seeds, tools, fertilizer, and bags of potting soil. A small farm was created on the hangar deck, close to one of the aircraft elevators so it could get sunlight. The winter crop was surviving. Many on board were hoping they would find some goats or even a couple of cows out there, and sling them under the chopper for the ride home. Xavier grinned every time he pictured a dairy cow clopping through a space that had once held jet fighters.
    Calvin wrapped up his report by stating there had been no excitement to speak of, just another couple of routine days for the survivors on
Nimitz
. It was just the way the priest liked it.
    â€œCal,” Xavier said, his voice soft, “we can talk any time.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œAbout anything. If you’re feeling . . .”
    The hippie raised a hand and gave his friend a gentle smile, but his eyes warned him off the topic. They had been here before.
    The priest nodded. “You know where to find me.”
    Calvin left without another word, departing as silently as he had arrived.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    X avier’s sneakers thumped on the rubberized coating of the flight deck as he ran, a Windbreaker zipped up to his neck with
U.S. Navy
across the back. It was California, but it was still January, and a chill wind was pushing in from the bay, giving him resistance as he ran. There were no aircraft up here, of course, nothing to interfere with his circuit of the deck’s perimeter. He was alone, the only other person in sight a single lookout high on a superstructure catwalk, bundled against the wind.
    Nimitz
was facing east, nose-in toward western Oakland, and stuck fast to a silt bed in the shallows about a mile offshore. The aircraft carrier tilted slightly forward and to the left, the result of adamaged hull that had taken on water. It had been torn by rocks and bridge supports as the great ship cruised unguided through the waters of the bay in the opening days of the plague, and many of the lower, forward compartments were flooded. The tilt was enough to notice when walking or standing, but not uncomfortably so. After what they had gone through in order to make this a sanctuary, complaining about
anything
seemed obscene.
    His heart rate and body temperature climbed as he hit his stride, running down the port side of the ship, toward the stern. Behind and across from him, the superstructure rose at the edge of the flight deck like an eight-story building, bristling with antennae, radar dishes, and air defense missile batteries. From here, the view north looked much as it always had, the flat expanse of the bay touched by wind and sunlight, darker smudges of land beyond, too far off to reveal any detail. Bridges still crossed the water, and gulls still swept through the air.
    As he approached the stern, however, the view changed, and left no question about what had become of their world.
    The Bay Bridge still teemed with the dead, their slow-moving shapes continuing to empty out of San Francisco and into Oakland, even after all these months. Beyond stood the ruins, where clean glass towers had once risen over the hilly city, where streets once hummed with the vibrancy of life. It looked gray now, burned and crumbling, wind sweeping through shattered windows and blowing clouds of ash before it. A city of the dead.
    The priest pounded across the stern and headed forward once more, up the starboard side. Another dead city lay ahead, closer than San Francisco, but no less ruined. Fires had done more damage here, spreading from the