by Tony Baker
In particular, he thought back to an interview he had seen on GNN, which was the only network still broadcasting by that particular time, just about a week after it all began. Fortunately, right before the batteries in his small portable 10” television had drained out completely. An interview that helped wake him to the stark realities of life in this new evolving world, and motivated him to do the one thing he had not given much consideration to until that moment. Survive!
There had been a GNN helicopter flying in the Southern California area, between Los Angeles and San Diego he thought, apparently reporting on conditions as seen from the air. Harry had no real interest in what was happening some four hundred miles from his own Hell, but something caught his attention. He saw a large helicopter rising up to hover next to the GNN chopper. Turning up the volume, he listened intently to the exchange.
“Yes, Fox, the helicopter on that strange ship has taken off and is climbing towards me now. I am unsure of their intentions, but I will wait here to see if they are friendly. Wait a moment. It looks like I’m receiving a radio message on the emergency frequency. Hold on while I patch you all into the conversation ... Yes, this is Chet in the GNN news helicopter over the Port of Long Beach, who is calling me?”
“Hello there, Chet, this is Commodore Allen of the Sovereign Spirit, flag ship of the Survival Flotilla. I’ve been watching your broadcast and thought it would be a good idea to come up and meet you. Maybe we can set the record straight before you and Mr. Rusher jump to any wrong conclusions. I’m flying the helicopter moving into position next to you and I’d like to invite you down to conduct an interview, if you’re interested.”
“Yes, Commodore, we at GNN are very interested in interviewing you. But can you tell me and our viewers something about what you are doing right now? We are broadcasting live, so you can consider this an interview if you like.”
“Sure, Chet, we can do an interview over the radio if you like. It shouldn’t take too long. Go ahead and ask your questions.”
“Thank you, Commodore. Can you start by telling us who you are and what you’re doing here? Who are all the people with you? And all these ships and boats? What are your plans? And how have you survived the zombie apocalypse?”
“Those are a lot of questions to handle at once, Chet, but I’ll give it a shot. My name is Scott Allen. I’m in command of this Survival Flotilla by authority of the CDC, FEMA, and the Department of Homeland Security, with assistance from the Coast Guard and the U.S. Marine Corps. My current mission is to assist survivors on boats and ships along the coast of Southern California and to establish coastal safe havens for as many survivors as possible in the aftermath of what you are calling Z-Day, or the Zombie Apocalypse.
“My ship is called the Sovereign Spirit. She is a former cruise ship and ferry, converted into an expedition yacht before this crisis. Now she’s the Flag Ship of the Flotilla and serves as our command center and mother ship for amphibious rescue and recovery operations. As for the other boats with us, we’ve collected a growing number of what we call boat people who survived the zombie outbreak by going to sea. They have become my primary responsibility. What we’re doing here is securing a source of supplies to keep the people with us alive.”
“We’ve isolated a small area in this port as a safe haven for the Flotilla and we’re loading cargo that will help us establish more safe havens on islands and isolated anchorages along the coast. So, for the people listening, if you are on a boat right now and need assistance, you can come here to get it, or wait for us to come to you. But there is no way to get here by land anymore, unless you can fight your way through tens of thousands of zombies surrounding us.
“And even then you wouldn’t be able to get past the barriers we have built to keep the zombies out. In the future we hope to be able to open some sort of supply line to survivors inland too. But that isn’t possible right now. So, at least for now, only those who have access to a boat or a helicopter can come here for supplies. Otherwise, you won’t be able to get here, so don’t even try.”
“That seems a little unfair, Commodore Allen. What about all of the people trapped in their homes? Don’t you have any plans to help them too?”
“I’d like to be able to help everyone who’s listening to me now, Chet, everywhere. But you know I can’t do that. What I can do is tell them how to survive on their own, or preferably with the help of other survivors near them. There are a few critical things that we’ve learned since Z-Day. First, zombies don’t swim and are afraid of water. Use that knowledge to your advantage.
“Secondly, zombies prefer to walk down hill, unless they get attracted to something up hill. If you can get to high ground and avoid attracting attention, your chances may improve. Hilltop strongholds are a good place to organize a defensive community; not as good as an island or a boat perhaps, but much better than a house in a city or suburb.
“Third, and perhaps most obvious, we need to eliminate as many zombies as possible and the best way we know to do that is to shoot them in the brain. If you don’t have a gun, try to get one, or improvise a weapon to defend yourself. However, if our Flotilla is the only organized resistance force in this area, then Los Angeles is doomed. So get it together people!
“Don’t wait for the police, or the government, or the military to come and rescue you. They won’t. They can’t. The closest organized military resistance is in San Diego, and the only thing they can do for civilians right now is put them into crowded refugee camps on Coronado Island. So don’t expect help to show up here any time soon.”
There was more to the interview but it related to what was currently happening around their specific area in Southern California. Harry had understood though, very clearly, the basic concepts that Commodore Allen had been trying to get across. This was not a local, regional, or even national crisis. This was on a world-wide scale, and there was no assistance imminent for anyone. Except maybe those lucky enough to be in close proximity to this Survival Flotilla.
But the interview had given Harry optimism, and at least the initial building blocks of a plan. But, more importantly, it had given him a reason to live. All was not lost, as he had initially thought, and there were other people out there. Now those survivors needed to act, to help themselves and others when possible, or they would simply not continue surviving. Humanity was being pushed toward an extinction level event, and it needed to start pushing back if anyone was to survive this madness.
Okay Commodore Allen, I may not be able to get to your flotilla or your stronghold, Harry had thought with passion, but I have a very large bay, my own marina with boats, and several islands in the middle of that bay. Let’s just see what we can do about setting up our own survivor stronghold.
8
Stepping from the shower, clearing those thoughts, he looked in the wall mirror of the dimly lit bathroom, two small candles being the only light source. At fifty-four years old, soon to reach yet another birthday, his 6’6” frame was still in decent shape thanks to regular gym visits, eating well-balanced meals, and, as he had always said, “just plain ole good Midwestern genes.”
He still maintained a fairly youthful appearance, with piercing hazel eyes, which had most people thinking him at least ten years younger. He had started going grey by age twenty-five, which he had felt gave him an air of maturity. Now, looking at the short-cut, mostly grey head of hair, he thought it gave him an air of just being old. “Still, all things considered, not too bad, but am I really too old for this shit?” Harry asked his reflection, then turned away and headed toward the bedroom to dress.
He pulled on jeans, a well-worn and broken-in pair of tactical boots, and a heavy, long-sleeved shirt. From the closet he took out a lightweight leather jacket, along with a pair of Kevlar-lined leather gloves. Foregoing the much heavier, and bulkier, duty belt he had routinely worn while in uniform, he selected a lightweight nylon tactical belt.
To that belt he added the respective lightweight nylon cases containing an e
xpandable baton, Streamlight high lumen LED flashlight, and four polymer magazines loaded with .45 caliber 230-grain brass-jacketed hollow point rounds, and finally a high rise break front holster. The final piece of equipment, and undoubtedly the most important, sat on the desk in front of him – a Glock, Gen4 G21, .45-caliber autoloader that held a thirteen-round magazine.
Over the years he had found the Glock 21 to be one of the most reliable and durable service sidearms he had owned. The stopping power of this weapon was impressive, and it had a manageable weight and reasonable recoil. Picking the gun up, he pulled the slide back to chamber a round. Holstering the Glock, and locking it in, he thought, you’re a beauty, but I am going to need more than just you.
Harry had a total of sixty-five rounds loaded in magazines, thirteen per mag with four of those on his belt and one in the Glock, and only fifteen boxes of twenty to reload from. He knew that more fire power needed to be located if he was to have a chance at surviving for any length of time. Refilling the magazines was a bit time consuming, even though the springs in the five mags he had were fairly well broken in, allowing rounds to slide in a bit faster. But with zombies trying to bite his ass he had to increase the amount of firepower he carried. “I know just the place to get it, too,” he said with a slight smile.
The last items he picked up were his badge, a seven-point star he had already attached to a belt clip, and his wallet. The only difference between an active duty officer’s star and a Reserve’s were the small letters spelling out the word RESERVES just above the center badge number. He slipped the clip with the badge on his belt in a location designed to hold it securely.
Opening the wallet briefly, he saw the familiar police credentials, both with his picture on them, showing through behind opposite compartments covered in clear plastic. One was his active reserve officer ID and the other a regular police ID with the word RETIRED stamped on it. These just might come in handy at some point, he thought, closing and placing the wallet in a rear pocket on his jeans.
Turning to the laptop on the desk, with the intention of placing it in a backpack to take with him, Harry had a spur of the moment idea. Sitting down, he brought up Internet Explorer and then the Google search page, which loaded extremely slowly. Once the search page finally loaded, he typed in Scott Allen and Sovereign Spirit, then pressed the enter key. After staring at the screen for almost a full five minutes, watching the little working arrow spin indicating a search was in progress, he started to think the Internet had finally failed.
Just as he was reaching to turn the laptop off to conserve what battery was left, he was shocked to see search hits suddenly pop onto the screen. There was only one site that even remotely matched what he thought he was looking for, and that was sovereignspirit.net. He clicked on the website and impatiently waited while the server once again attempted to connect, his anticipation growing by the second.
To his relief, the website finally downloaded and opened. The homepage indicated it was originating directly from the ship Sovereign Spirit, and that they had their own web server with direct satellite link. Looking over the page, Harry located another link on the site that he clicked on. That brought him to a blog page, with the current date, inviting survivors to post information on their particular locations and what was happening!
Excitedly scrolling down the page, he read post after post from people across the nation detailing what was currently happening in their areas. Several seemed desperate, others seemed to have things under control for the time being, but what struck Harry was that he saw only one other post from San Francisco. This concerned him a great deal, and he wondered if maybe there had just not been that many people who had survived the zombies in the Bay Area.
Reading further, he saw that the posts were being answered by Billy Allen, onboard the Sovereign Spirit, who apparently was Scott Allen’s son. His replies were supportive but it was clear that the Sovereign Spirit would be unable to help most of those who posted or needed help. They were inland and Scott Allen had made it clear in his GNN interview that his focus was on the western coastal areas for now.
Harry decided to add to the blog the limited amount of information he had gained since the infection had hit, what he had observed in San Francisco, and what his plan was. For all the good it will do, he thought as he sat typing. “If nothing else, it will let them know there are survivors in this area, and they may decide it worth the effort to reach us at some point,” he muttered to himself.
My name is Harold Lancaster and I am in San Francisco. I have watched as the City has been flooded with the infected. Seemingly hundreds have died right before my eyes as a result of that ever-rising horde or whatever these things are. People have been torn apart in the streets and devoured. Or worse, have risen from attacks with horrific injuries to join the ranks of the infected. It has been like watching piranhas in a feeding frenzy or the worst horror movie ever made! There has been no sign of military assets anywhere in the City, and the police that initially attempted to control the storming masses of infected were quickly decimated.
All the established ‘safe zones’ set up by the local government have been completely destroyed. There must be other survivors, I am certain, but I have no idea of the numbers or their locations. Unfortunately, I know for a fact that weapons, guns of any type, are almost impossible to locate with this City’s strict anti-gun laws. I doubt folks were able to react quickly enough with other forms of weapons to defend themselves before being overwhelmed.
I listened to the rather unorthodox interview between Commodore Allen and GNN. Because of what he had to say, I am taking responsibility for my survival. It is my sincere hope that other survivors in the City were able to hear that interview and act accordingly. Our local city officials have accomplished little in helping San Franciscans and, as typical, many mixed messages were sent out about what to do. That included instructions to shelter in place, which I believe caused the direct death of many more people.
I am a retired cop and have weapons in my possession. Not the level of firepower to do much at this point, but enough I believe to help accomplish a plan I have been roughing out. Upon completing this email I am headed to the closest police station from my location which is about ten blocks away. If I am able to breach the station I will attempt to locate additional firepower which will greatly aid my ability to get through the City.
I plan to attempt securing water transportation of some sort from our marina and head out to one of the Bay islands. Alcatraz is the closest to the marina and that seems the logical choice. I will be keeping an eye out for survivors that I may be able to help, but at this point I am not sure what I would be able to do in that regard.
The information you passed along about water and hills is extremely helpful. As you may know, San Francisco is famous for steep in-city hills. I believe that it might be possible to avoid some encounters with the infected by using stealth, staying quiet, and using some of the steep streets to my advantage. Although that may just be wishful thinking from what I have seen. However, the City is also burning, so I will have little choice but to move soon. I also observed something happen near or on the Bay Bridge. Looked like several large explosions but I have no idea what that was about at this point.
There is something else very important that I need to pass along in the event this could prove helpful to others. I had begun to notice a peculiar behavioral pattern developing in the infected the second day after the infection hit. In the late afternoon, always at about the same time, they seemed to start to move in what I can only describe as a migration pattern. I spent a couple of days watching them but the reason for this behavior eluded me. That was until I saw the GNN interview with the Commodore! The infected are afraid of water and the realization of what was causing this strange movement hit me! It’s the fog! They are trying to get away from our heavy moisture-laden fog!
Although I realize the Flotilla cannot help us here, we can nonetheless take the example of what you have done. Human
ity stands at the doorstep of an extinction level event but we certainly do not have to go quietly into the night. San Francisco is dead but the Bay may offer hope. I know it will offer at least a chance rather than waiting here to either burn to death or be consumed by these spawns of hell. I will write more if, and when, I am able. Luck to us all!
9
After completing the blog entry, which he also copied and pasted into an email to the Sovereign Spirit, Harry powered down the laptop and slipped it into the backpack that was sitting by the desk. This pack contained the boxed ammunition, several energy bars and a few bottles of water, a small first aid kit, and a change of clothes. “Thank God for earthquake preparedness,” he said, shaking his head. “If the Big One could only have been the least of our worries.”
Taking one final look around the apartment, realizing he might not see it again, he walked toward the front door, slipping on his leather jacket, pulling on the thin Kevlar-lined tactical gloves and shouldering the backpack. He looked at several mementos, photos with friends, several framed commendations, art he had collected over the years, and several other items that once held sentimental value for him. Each item now seemed different, void of anything meaningful somehow.
What he had once seen in those objects was now gone. “There’s no more room for stuff other than what can keep me alive,” Harry said to himself. He knew the old life was dead, and it was time to move forward with the plan he had formulated after finally realizing he had an unexpected ally of sorts; an ally that had almost gone completely unnoticed.
Harry had been watching the infected closely from his apartment windows since the first day. He’d watched the growing horror unfold; the survivor population was quickly being disseminated, with more zombies than people left on the streets. That was when he began to notice what he’d thought was a pattern of behavior, but with the stress of everything, his brain wasn’t getting what his eyes were seeing.