Food was becoming an issue, not immediately, but soon enough to begin considering options. Medicine was a bigger problem; both our Western-style drugs and various traditional herb remedies were beginning to run low because of the civilians. Many of them had special medical needs.
Mrs. Pei, the mother of one of our torpedo men, was suffering from chronic bronchial problems, an allergic reaction to something on the boat, the paint or perhaps machine oil, something you couldn’t simply remove from the environment. She was consuming our decongestants at an alarming rate. Lieutenant Chin, the boat’s weapons officer suggested, matter-of-factly, that the old woman be euthanized. The captain responded by confining him to quarters, for a week, on half-rations, with all but the most life-threatening sickness to go untreated by the boat’s pharmacist. Chin was a coldhearted bastard, but at least his suggestion brought our options into the light. We had to prolong our supply of consumables, if not find a way of recycling them altogether.
Raiding derelicts was still strictly forbidden. Even when we spotted what looked like a deserted vessel, at least a few zombies could be heard banging belowdecks. Fishing was a possibility, but we had neither the material to rig any kind of net, nor were we willing to spend hours on the surface dropping hooks and lines over the side.
The solution came from the civilians, not the crew. Some of them had been farmers or herbalists before the crisis, and a few had brought little bags of seeds. If we could provide them with the necessary equipment, they might be able to start raising enough food to stretch our existing provisions for years. It was an audacious plan, but not completely without merit. The missile room was certainly large enough for a garden. Pots and troughs could be hammered out of existing materials, and the ultraviolet lamps we used for the crew’s vitamin D treatment could serve as artificial sunlight.
The only problem was soil. None of us knew anything about hydroponics, aeroponics, or any other alternate agricultural method. We needed earth, and there was only one way to get it. The captain had to consider this carefully. Trying to deploy a shore party was as dangerous as, if not more than, attempting to board an infested ship. Before the war, more than half of all human civilization lived at or near the world’s coastlines. The infestation only increased this number as refugees sought to flee by water.
We began our search off the mid-Atlantic coast of South America, from Georgetown, Guyana, then down the coasts of Surinam, and French Guyana. We found several stretches of uninhabited jungle, and at least by periscope observation, the coast appeared to be clear. We surfaced and made a second, visual sweep from the bridge. Again, nothing. I requested permission to take a landing party ashore. The captain was not yet convinced. He ordered the foghorn blown…loud and long…and then they came.
Just a few at first, tattered, wide-eyed, stumbling out of the jungle. They didn’t seem to notice the shoreline, the waves knocking them over, pushing them back up on the beach or pulling them out to sea. One was dashed against a rock, his chest crushed, broken ribs stabbing through the flesh. Black foam shot from his mouth as he howled at us, still trying to walk, to crawl, in our direction. More came, a dozen at a time; within minutes we had over a hundred plunging into the surf. This was the case everywhere we surfaced. All those refugees who’d been too unlucky to make it to the open ocean now formed a lethal barrier along every stretch of coastline we visited.
Did you ever try to land a shore party?
[Shakes his head.] Too dangerous, even worse than the infested ships. We decided that our only choice was to find soil on an offshore island.
But you must have known what was happening on the world’s islands.
You would be surprised. After leaving our Pacific patrol station, we restricted our movements to either the Atlantic or the Indian Ocean. We’d heard transmissions or made visual observations of many of those specks of land. We learned about the overcrowding, the violence…we saw the gun flashes from the Windward Islands. That night, on the surface, we could smell the smoke as it drifted east from the Caribbean. We could also hear islands that weren’t so lucky. The Cape Verdes, off the coast of Senegal, we didn’t even see them before we heard the wails. Too many refugees, too little discipline; it only takes one infected soul. How many islands remained quarantined after the war? How many frozen, northern rocks are still deeply and dangerously in the white?
Returning to the Pacific was our most likely option, but that would also bring us right back up to our country’s front door.
Again, we still did not know if the Chinese navy was hunting us or even if there was still a Chinese navy. All we knew was that we needed stores and that we craved direct contact with other human beings. It took some time to convince the captain. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation with our navy.