by Scott W Cook
I nodded, “We’re going to take the dink. Actually, we’re going to take a couple of boats across the bay. Then we’ll hotwire a pickup truck or a van and drive that to the base.”
“Sounds like a cake walk,” Andrea quipped.
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Tony said sardonically.
“Isn’t that what somebody always says in the horror movie right before the monsters burst in through every door and window?” Andrea asked with a grin.
“Yup,” Tony quipped.
“So you just want to tempt the fates then,” Andrea said, “Give the defiant finger to the universe and hope it doesn’t take offense?”
“Fuck it,” Tony said flatly but with a gleam in his eyes.
“Are we having a conference?” Came the sleepy voice of Andy. He appeared in the companionway with a cup of coffee and came and sat on the other cockpit bench. He gazed at us with bleary teenage eyes.
“Yeah,” I replied, “We’re going to recon MacDill and see if we can stock up on extra ammo.”
“Yeah, and old Tony here is giving a big up yours to the fates,” Andrea added.
Andy looked a little confused.
His mom chuckled, “You know, like in every horror movie, or even cop movie, there’s that one guy who either flippantly says it’s all gonna work out, or that he’s three days from retirement and just bought a camper…”
“Right” Andy said with a grin, “And in the next scene, he’s the first to get eaten or shot?”
Tony shrugged.
“And if he’s black…” I added with a grin, “Fuck me, Tony…”
“You guys suck,” Tony grumbled in mock peevishness.
“So what’s the—“
Andy was interrupted by the sound of automatic weapons’ fire in the distance. In the extreme quiet of early morning, it was hard to tell exactly how far away it was, but the direction was clear.
“That sounded like it came from Fish Tails,” Tony remarked.
“Fuck…” I moaned.
Fish Tails was a dive waterside restaurant just at the south end of the Harborage Marina property, about four blocks away. The small outdoor restaurant was situated next to the marina’s high and dry storage and the fuel dock.
Weapons fire meant people, and automatic weapons fire meant well-armed people. It might also mean large numbers of zombies. Additionally, if somebody had an automatic rifle or two and had them rigged for full auto… and were firing on full auto… they were either in deep shit or weren’t exercising good firing discipline. Either way, we’d have to check it out.
“Okay,” I said reluctantly, “Playtime is over. Grab your weapons and magazines and let’s go see what the hell is going on.”
I’d rather just ignore it, but the firing repeated again and it was too close. Our little hideaway was far too precious and I wanted to keep it a secret as long as possible. So our little team had all agreed from the beginning that proactive was always the best approach.
If somebody, or a group of somebody’s, was battling zombies, then it behooved us to help eradicate them. If these folks were decent types, then helping them was the right thing to do. If they weren’t decent folks… then checking up on them was good policy.
Tony and I had opted for a pair of M4’s this morning. As Andrea had pointed out, the standard Nato 5.56 round was the most common and would be the most plentiful. When it came to most fighting, it was all you needed, really. I personally liked the M4 carbine the best – it was a little smaller than the M16, more reliable and in my opinion a better tactical weapon.
Andrea carried one of the pump action Mossberg twelve gauges and Andy one of the Winchester’s. The kid was a crack shot and had more than once proven himself to be a great sniper.
That made his mother happy too. We could position Andy in a secure and hidden location to cover us all the while keeping him out of immediate danger. The kid had already earned his stripes, but even in a Z-poc, a mom was a mom.
We headed along B dock and took a left at the main cross dock. Up the gangway and through the gate and right under the office building. We quickly trotted past the already green and algae-covered pool and the picnic tent. It always made me a little sad when I went in and out of the marina. The amenities had been one of the things I’d liked about this place when it was alive.
As we exited the parking lot and started jogging south on third street, we heard another long burst of fire.
“Jesus,” Tony groused, “They’re wasting ammo and making a goddamned racket. Who knows how many G’s we’ll run into.”
“Can’t be helped,” I said, ‘let’s get there fast and handle it fast.”
We got to Fourteenth Avenue and turned left. Directly in front of us was the four story high and dry and as we peeked around the corner we could see the Fish Tails parking lot and building a block away. It was surrounded by zombies.
“Christ,” Andrea breathed, “There must be hundreds of them!”
There was more weapons fire from the direction of the defunct restaurant…
“Looks like the restaurant is open for business again,” Tony quipped, “Today’s special, humans on the half shell.”
“Fucking nice,” Andrea said and smacked his arm.
Andy giggled and I shook my head, “wow man… okay, I can’t see the shooters, so they must be inside. Andy, you know the drill. Take the service ladder up to the roof of the high and dry and give us covering fire. Keep your headset tuned in.”
Andy nodded and dashed across second street and inside the storage structure. It was possible there were ghouls inside, but it was a mostly open area and the service ladder was mounted to the wall just inside. The kid knew enough to watch his ass.
He proved it as I watched, too. He bent low behind a parked van and crept forward, rifle at the ready, scoping the interior. He made his way to the side of one of the entryways and waited a moment for his eyes to adjust, did a quick scan and bolted for the ladder.
“Nice job, kid,” I said admiringly.
Andrea looked at me with a smile, “I can’t believe I’m letting my seventeen year old son do this shit.”
“He’s almost eightteen… a man now, Andrea,” Tony remarked, “He has to be. And he’s getting pretty damned good, too.”
She sighed, “I know, but that’s a mixed blessing.”
“Okay,” I said, squeezing her shoulder, “Let’s divide. Tony, you and Andrea get up on the roof of that panel truck over there—“ I pointed to a small delivery truck that was parked close to the gate that led between Fish Tails and the High and Dry, “—I’m going to move along the fuel dock and see if I can make contact with the living people trapped inside. You guys just start blasting G’s. That may distract a bunch of them and take the pressure off the people inside and me as well.”
“Exposed?” Andrea asked.
“Sort of,” I said, “You’ll be high up and should be able to escape by climbing over the fence from the hood of the truck if you need to.”
“And if the folks inside are hostile?” Tony asked.
“Not an issue right now,” I said, “Unless they’re really well armed, it looks like they’re overwhelmed.”
Fortunately, although Fish Tails was an open air place, it had two main entrances on either side of the closed off kitchen. One opened onto the parking lot and the other was around the side of the main building on the marina side. We could see that whoever was inside had killed enough zombies that a pile of them had built up in the entryways. Ghouls were still clambering over their dead buddies, but it was a slow and clumsy process.
Unfortunately, the sound of their moans and snarls along with the chatter of weapons’ fire was drawing more of them in. Every few seconds, one or two of them would shamble toward the group from Fifteenth Avenue and we could see more headed our way down fourteenth.
“Let’s move,” I ordered.
Chapter 6
From the personal journal of Samuel R. Decker
I took the sa
me path that Andy had inside the high and dry.
I made my way silently between the boat racks south toward the far end of the building. Might as well stay concealed as long as possible.
There were no deaders inside, which I thought was a bit odd. Although upon reflection, I’m sure that if any had been they’d been drawn to the commotion next door. Still, I crept along stealthily and looked behind every pillar, wall and structure big enough to conceal one of those rotten stink bags.
There were a lot of boats in there. I don’t know why that caught my attention, it was just one more oddity of this brave new world. Unlike a nuclear holocaust or the aftermath of a tremendous conventional war, there was no physical damage to property.
Sure, there were some burnt out buildings, smashed cars and a few utilities that had run out of control and caused some kind of mess… but by and large, this post-apocalyptic world was one that had come about from a disease, if you will. So it left most things intact. I guess I just couldn’t quite reconcile my mind to it sometimes.
I stepped out of the far end of the high and dry and onto the pavement near the fuel pumps and fuel shack. A fence ran along the property from the gate to the water, and behind it, no more than a few dozen yards from me, was a writhing mass of G’s.
On the other side of the fence was the side entrance to Fish Tails. It was far more open than the front entrance, but the people inside had killed enough of the deaders between the side of the building and the fence to create a decent barrier. The problem was that the barrier was only slowing the zombies down, not stopping them.
I could see a group of people in the shadows of the restaurant. There were two of them firing on my side and another two at the far end of the bar firing into the ghouls there. I thought I saw another one or two in the middle of the restaurant lying or sitting on the floor but my view wasn’t so good from that angle.
I climbed up into a small cuddy cabin boat on a rack that was positioned along the fence line and leaned out over the gunwale. From there, I had a clear field of fire into the G’s trying to scramble over their dead buddies as well as the two people, a man and woman, firing only a few yards from me.
The woman caught sight of me and looked up in astonishment.
“Good morning,” I said cheerfully as I took aim and began plugging zombie skulls.
“Who the hell…” She asked in surprise.
“We heard your shots,” I replied, “My friends and I came to investigate and lend a hand.”
At that moment, I heard several controlled bursts from ahead of me. I saw Andrea and Tony standing on top of the delivery van firing into the crowd of zombies. Several dozen of them had turned to the new sound and a group was shambling over to get a better look.
The woman squeezed her trigger and emptied a magazine into the crowd trying to get at them.
“You’re wasting ammo,” I chided her, “One shot one kill. All that firing is sending more rounds into their bodies than their heads. Not to mention drawing more in.”
“Who the fuck are you?” The man asked indignantly as he also emptied his magazine into the crowd of animated corpses. As expected, only three G’s fell out of the thirty rounds or so he used.
“Captain Sam Decker,” I replied, still cheerfully, “U.S. Navy SEAL’s, retired.”
“You think you can do better, sailor?” The woman asked with a mixture of indignation and amusement.
“Watch,” I said.
I sighted in on a ghoul who’d managed to tumble over the four foot high body barrier. He got unsteadily to his feet, raised his arms, opened his mouth to a disturbingly wide aperture – much of his cheeks had been chewed away at some point, moaned and began to shuffle toward the two.
They weren’t fast, yet these G’s weren’t turtle like either. When excited by a meal, they could move at what you might call a brisk walk.
I put a round between his eyes. The zombie jerked backward and fell half upright onto the pile.
Three more ghouls had managed to clamber up onto the top of the body pile. I took a breath, aimed, fired, exhaled and repeated the process three times in less than two seconds. Every shot was a kill.
“Damn,” The man admitted grudgingly, “Nice shots.”
“And I’ve still got forty-six rounds in my banana clip,” I said, “I don’t mean to criticize, but if we go about this the right way, we can take these fuckers out and stop the flow of new ones.”
“How?” The woman asked as she set what looked like an M-16 to single fire mode and took careful aim. Her shot struck another ghoul in one of her milky eyes and what had been a young woman toppled backward into another of her kind.
“Tell your friends on the other side to quit firing,” I said, “Do you guys have any kind of melee weapons?”
“A couple of machetes,” The man answered.
“Okay,” I said, “Tell them to sling their automatic weapons and use machetes. They’ve created a pretty good bottleneck over there. Just go up to the pile and swing at their noggins. My team on the van will pick off the group. Once the majority are dead, we’ll go out and take care of the stragglers with our own melee weapons.”
“Who the fuck put you in charge?” Another man asked. This one was a tall skinny guy who was part of the other group covering the main entrance.
“You want to live?” I shouted to him, “Or maybe you have an unlimited supply of ammo and can waste ninety percent of your bullets. I don’t’ give a shit. You don’t want my help, we’ll bug out.”
“No, no!” The woman exclaimed, “You make a good point. Do what he says Mark. You too, Hector.”
The two men further along hesitated a moment. I couldn’t really blame them. Having a few hundred flesh eating monsters trying to get at you was unnerving. To intentionally stop shooting and get close and personal with a machete wasn’t exactly a comforting thought.
They did it, though.
I pushed the talk button for my radio headset, “Blue, green this is red, take out as many of those zombies in the parking lot as you can and then we’re going to switch to hand to hand.”
There was a single click. In keeping with combat doctrine, each of us had a color assigned. I was red, Tony blue, Andrea green and Andy orange. We also used the standard who you want, who you are radio protocol with single click acknowledgements. This helped confound enemy forces who might be listening on an open channel.
Was this necessary in a situation like this? Maybe not, especially when dealing with civilians, yet training and experience were hard to ignore and served very well. Better safe than sorry.
“What about me?” Came Andy’s disembodied voice.
He hadn’t identified himself or said anything indicative of his position. The kid was rapidly becoming a pro.
“Monitor,” Was my only reply.
Andy knew the drill. His job, above all, was to protect us not from zombies, unless things got really bad, but other humans. His rifle was powerful and accurate even from hundreds of yards away. It was a lever action weapon, though, so not particularly fast. As a sniper, his job was to provide insurance.
We had a series of signals worked out that Andy would look for. He’d watch the three of us. His actions would be directed by what we told him to do through our signals.
The man and woman close to me began to fire single shots as I was doing. Before long, we’d managed to kill enough zombies who were coming over the pile to make it tall enough that they could no longer climb over.
A zombie, although not well coordinated, could perform some simple complex tasks. They could walk at a fair pace and they could grab at you and pull you in for a bite. They couldn’t open a car door or turn a knob, but a push bar from the inside was no problem – they simply walked into it. Even pulling on a handle outward seemed beyond them. A zombie who walked up to a door that you opened outward like at a fast food restaurant, for example, would simply walk into the glass and start banging at it with his or her hands. So they certainly could smash a window or
a glass door or wall with enough of them hitting it simultaneously.
They couldn’t climb. That is to say, a ladder or a steep ramp was beyond their power. They could struggle upstairs and even clumsily clamber over a small pile of bodies, as they’d been doing that morning, but despite what you might have read in books, any real climbing was out of their power. They certainly weren’t’ shimmying up an anchor line, for example. At least not above the surface. Although if the freeboard on your boat was low enough, one could reach up and grab you.
“Okay,” I said, “It’s hand to hand time. Climb over the fence and we’ll go out and take these rotten bastards down.”
The man looked hesitantly at me. It was clear that the idea of getting close to a pack of hungry ghouls was not his cup of tea.
“We’ve only got one machete,” The woman said, slinging her rifle. Another woman, a young woman, probably not out of her teens came out of the restaurant and handed it to her.
I shrugged, ‘Then one of you climb this fence and come with me. The other can stay and pick off any G’s that might make it over the pile.”
The woman climbed up the fence and I helped her over and into the boat. She was maybe in her early forties. She had long dark red hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a washing in a while. Her face was pretty and she had a body on the thin side. Small breasts, narrow hips and long limbs.
“Thanks,” she said with a small smile, ‘I’m Brenda. My friend handing me up the knife is Carl.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, reaching down and taking the offered machete from Carl, “Are you ready for this, Brenda?”
Brenda was fairly tall, maybe five foot seven. She looked up at me and nodded. I went down the boat’s boarding ladder and she followed me. Brenda climbed down easily and I handed her the bladed weapon.
“Here’s how we’ll do this,” I said, “No matter what, you stand shoulder to shoulder with me. We move as one and you focus on what’s to our left and I’ll focus on the right. We’re both right handed, so that will keep us from hitting each other or smacking blades.”