Crossbones by John L. Campbell Page B

and had the same plastic-coated map strapped to his thigh as his co-pilot. It was Gourd’s job, however, to keep them on their planned flight corridor.
    â€œDue east,” the former hippie replied over the helmet intercom. “Cross Oakland Middle Harbor, locate the expressway, and come left zero-nine-zero. Then we follow Interstate 80 north.” His voice was developing the same businesslike tone familiar to aviators all over the world.
    â€œRoger that,” Evan said, smiling. The clean-cut young man in the right seat had come a long way from the casual wayfarer he’d been. They both had. Evan went from a lone biker wandering the highways of America, trying to write a novel, to an accepted member and then leader of a traveling band of hippies riding out the apocalypse on the road. Along the way he had made and lost friends, had fallen in love, and was now soon to be a father.
    The Seahawk climbed to five thousand feet as he leveled off, quickly crossing from water to land—
feet dry
—as it overflew industrial Oakland. A wide ribbon of elevated concrete was ahead, themultilane expressway packed with derelict vehicles. Evan began a slow left turn as he neared it, then lined up the nose of the helicopter with the metal graveyard below and flew north at an easy 140 miles per hour. Like the Black Hawk, the Navy bird could go much higher and much faster, but Evan was cautious. As the Russian frequently reminded him, he was an amateur, and dead pilots were of no use to anyone. Evan kept it simple, concentrating on his controls and cockpit readings, letting Gourd do the sightseeing.
    There wasn’t a lot of detail at this altitude, but it was clear to see that the world had died. The old world, anyway. Much of the urban sprawl of Oakland had been consumed and blackened by fire, and many of the motionless vehicles below were charred. Nothing moved. Nothing they could see from up here, anyway. But the dead were down there. Earlier, lower altitude flights revealed that the highways and streets were packed with what could only be estimated as millions of bodies, a slow-moving swarm of the undead. Vladimir setting down and waiting while the hippies scavenged for farming supplies was both a testament to the man’s nerve and an affirmation of his insanity.
Not this kid,
Evan thought. He liked it fine way up here.
    Evan made a correction to account for the twenty-knot crosswind coming off the bay, descended to three thousand feet, and kept the Seahawk moving north up the highway. They were flying over Richmond now, with Berkeley to the right. Starboard, he reminded himself. To port was the flat surface of the bay, sunlight burning through an overcast sky in places to touch the water with golden fingers.
    Gourd was fiddling with some dials, grunting in frustration. “I still can’t get the air radar to work in this damn thing.”
    â€œAre you afraid we’re going to run into another aircraft? Evan asked, seeing endless, empty skies all around them. “I don’t think that’s likely.”
    â€œThe boss expects me to know this by now,” Gourd said.
    Evan chuckled. “A few months ago you were wearing tie-dye, smoking weed in a van, and wishing your mother had named you
Moonbeam
.” He laughed at his own humor. “Give yourself a break.”
    â€œI would, but he won’t.”
    Evan couldn’t argue. Vlad was a stern teacher with high expectations. Personally, Evan liked the man’s methods, sarcastic or not. He thought he learned faster as a result. “Look,” he said, “if you’re going to play with something, get the weather radar online. We’re more likely to run into a storm than a plane.”
    â€œRoger.” Gourd began playing with a new set of dials next to a scope, and Evan kept them pointed north.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    X avier followed Petty Officer Second Class Banks into the superstructure, then up