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you?”
                He turned around so they could see his bare legs. He was clear of any wounds, but the sailors tried to keep from laughing at the spectacle.
                “That’s fine, Senator, you can redress now, sir.”
                The sailors moved on to other survivors and the senator dressed himself. They finished checking out their group and found another person that was trying to hide the scratch marks on his stomach; they separated him.
                “The rest of you, form a line, single file, and follow that sailor to hangar bay two. You will be provided with a bunk and food,” the sailor said as he pointed to another service member who waited by a hatch.
                The eighteen or so did as they were told; they were too relieved to have cleared the screening process to argue the fact that they were being herded like cattle. The senator was last in line, he watched the infected man walk to the edge of the deck with the sailors behind, he stopped and said something to them, but the senator couldn’t hear. The man turned and faced the ocean and they shot him in the back of the head. The senator watched him fall out of sight with such fright he almost urinated himself. The wind from the ocean and the aircraft was strong on the deck and it rustled his clothes so hard they flapped wildly, exposing his right ankle, the one the sailors failed to inspect—
                His black sock was ripped .
                And wet…
     
                Ardent and Bear entered the bridge, it was very busy since the officers, chiefs, and seamen here controlled the entire ship.
                “Captain on the bridge!” a chief announced.
                “Situation report?” Ardent asked.
                “Sir, rescue efforts are still underway in San Diego, Long Beach, and Los Angeles, but the amount of survivors we’re finding has dropped dramatically since you left this morning, sir.”
                “How many survivors have we rescued so far?” Ardent asked.
                “As of fifteen minutes ago, when I received the last count, we have four hundred and fifty-three in hangar two, Captain.”
                “That’s all?”
                “Yes, sir.”
                “Get me the lead helicopter in the Los Angeles group.”
                “Yes, Captain,” the chief said and gave a radio operator a hand signal to do so.
                “Los Angeles group, Rescue One, this is the Ronald Reagan, do you copy?” the operator said.
                The speaker crackled with static and then they received a response, “Ronald Reagan, go for Rescue One.”
                “Standby for the captain,” the operator said.
                The operator handed the handset to Ardent, “Rescue one, this is Captain Keller.”
                “Yes, Captain, go ahead.”
                “What’s your status?”
                “Captain, we currently have thirty-six survivors onboard and are continuing to search for others, but we haven’t come across any in almost an hour now.”
                “Understood, Rescue One. What does it look like over there?”
     
                Los Angeles was in turmoil and engulfed in vast destruction—fires burned out of control throughout the city that reported many black smoke trails that stretched across the sky. A Sea Stallion helicopter flew slowly over downtown as they searched for any survivors on rooftops, because landing on the street was impossible. Other aircraft were in the air as well, including fighter jets loitering over the suburbs running tactical assaults on the dead they found in the streets; they weren’t using bombs or missiles, only their cannons to avoid destroying any structures.
                Tanks