Last Stand on Zombie Island

by Christopher L. Eger

  “I’d much rather be headed back to Mobile, sir,” Chief Hoffman said.

  “Noted and agreed with, Chief. I would have preferred to stay at the bridge,” Jarvis replied.

  The Perdido Pass bridge at the far end of Mobile Point had been struck by an out of control barge earlier in the morning and a span had fallen into the pass. Jarvis and his cutter raced to the scene after an uneventful morning stopping a few fishing boats. There were no injuries and the Alabama State Police on either side had shut down traffic going each way, to prevent a Wile E. Coyote ride into the green water 80-feet below.

  The Fish Hawk had done the initial investigation and taken names and numbers of the push boat crew responsible for the eight lashed together barges. Two of the push boat’s crew were missing: the helmsman and the captain. The remaining crew had said the helmsman had been sick all morning.

  Sick or not, you cannot just ram a bridge over a navigable waterway without expecting to answer for it. The accident had left the 26-mile long Mobile Point peninsula and the town of Gulf Shores dependent on just the ICW Bridge going north from the city’s center as its sole link with the mainland until repaired.

  “Still can’t get any news out of Mobile, Skipper,” the ship’s Cook said. Situated in the cutter’s small galley/mess room in the center of the boat directly under the bridge, the Cook had the benefit of having a 35” flat screen hooked up to a satellite in his workstation.

  “Any other news?” Hoffman asked the Cook.

  “Looks like crap all up and down the West Coast. New York and Chicago are crazy. It’s bad overseas, too. Worse in Asia, apparently that is where it first started. They say Indonesia and Australia appear to be ground zero. Europe is showing outbreaks, too. Said it is a virus that causes extreme psychopathic behavior. Takes about an hour to take effect and then you go batshit. Spread by bites and fluid. Of course that’s just what the guys and I can figure out from the BBC and Al Jazeera.”

  The good thing about the satellite service was that the Coast Guard, outside the regular Department of Defense food chain, was not chained to the filtered AFN network, thus they could receive a feed from all over the world. This meant that when the regular US-networks switched over to the Emergency Alert System, the cutter could still watch Spanish game shows and topless Italian soap operas interspersed with the occasional news forecast.

  “Anybody got phone calls from Mobile?” Chief Hoffman asked the Cook.

  “No, Chief, just the occasional text message, and most of those sound crazy. People everywhere going apeshit. Schools closing. National Guard called out. Bad stuff. And almost zero www-action, the internet decided to quit this bitch.”

  The Chief nodded and exchanged looks with Jarvis. This gelled with what they had been hearing from scanning the local FM radio stations on the bridge’s radio and the VHF traffic they monitored from fishing boats and recreational vessels.

  The Fish Hawk was home ported nearly 30 miles north at the top of the Bay in Mobile itself along with her sister ships, the Cobia and Stingray. They had been called over the HF radio by Sector Mobile while at the sunken bridge and advised to return to base. Then, only an hour later, they were given a direct order to stay away from Mobile by a Rear Admiral in New Orleans, and divert to Dauphin Island instead. New Orleans advised that Sector Mobile was offline.

  Jarvis and the Chief had failed to raise their sister ships in Mobile by radio. The three Mobile cutters typically pulled a 21-day rotation, with one ship on a seven-day patrol and the other two on standby and stand down respectively at the dock. The Fish Hawk was on day five of her weeklong patrol. Most of her crew, Jarvis included, was single men from other parts of the country. Only the Chief had family in Mobile.

  “Welcome aboard Station Dauphin Island, Fish Hawk,” the radio called out as the cutter tied up to the dock. The station normally only operated a pair of well-used 45-foot response boats, for which its 60-foot slip usually sufficed. However, the Fish Hawk’s 87-foot length took up the entire dock and still hung out into the Bay.

  As the Bosun directed the crew in tying up, and the Chief used the thrusters to hold the cutter against the dock, Jarvis was making his way down the ladder at the rear of the bridge to the deck below.

  “Good to see you, Senior Chief,” Jarvis said to the already saluting blue uniformed petty officer standing on the dock waiting for him. The Senior Chief was the station commander of the small Coast Guard base whose main mission was near-shore search and rescue and law enforcement in the waters too shallow for the Fish Hawk to follow. Jarvis noted the Senior Chief wore a SIG P229 automatic on one side of his waist with two extra magazines in a pouch on the other.

  Jarvis returned the salute and he walked with the Senior Chief briskly along the dock to the small brown concrete station house.

  “What have you heard, sir?” the Senior Chief asked.

  Jarvis brought him up to speed with the orders first from Sector Mobile then Sector New Orleans, as well as what he had been told by his own Chief and what the Cook had passed on.

  The Senior Chief grunted, “It’s a real soup sandwich in Mobile. My wife lives here but she is from there. Her family made it down through all the traffic jams and riots down here just a few hours ago. If only half of what they are saying is true then it is bad. Real bad,” the Senior Chief said.

  “What are your current orders, Senior Chief?” Jarvis asked.

  “I got a call on the landline about an hour before you got here from the OPS desk at Mobile and they advised me to recall everyone and issue small arms as well as to keep the station closed to the public. They specifically stated to keep the boats in and await further orders. Then you showed up,” the Senior Chief said.

  “Have you heard anything else about other units?” Jarvis asked, hopeful the Cobia or Stingray was underway to join him. The Stingray’s skipper had gone to the Academy a year ahead of him and they had been on the schools Boxing Club together. He had won a Bronze All-American Letter. Jarvis got one in Silver the next year.

  “We copied some traffic from the Air Training Center to Keesler saying they were sending their 14 aircraft to New Orleans, to refuel before shagging ass to Ellington Field at Houston. So it looks like for the first time since World War I, we got no air in the Bay,” the Senior Chief answered.

  “This keeps getting better,” Jarvis said.

  “And last but not least we got this faxed to us from Sector New Orleans about five minutes ago,” the Senior Chief said, passing over a folded piece of paper.

  The note on the letterhead of the Department of Homeland Security Director had only one paragraph.

  US Code of Federal Regulations Title 32 Part 501, The United States Military is now assuming a Martial Law. The United States is under a Defense Emergency: A major hostile attack on United States is underway. The Department of Homeland Security and all of its organizations are now under the operational command of the Department of Defense. USNORTHCOM Peterson AFB, CO (Cheyenne Mountain) in charge. Federal Armed Forces will exercise police powers previously inoperative in the affected areas, restore and maintain order, insure the essential mechanics of distribution, transportation, and communication, and initiate necessary relief measures.

  Jarvis finished reading and passed it back to the Senior Chief, “I’m going to need a copy of this.”

  As they entered the Coast Guard Station, Jarvis noticed a dozen station members gathered around a television. While this in itself was not unheard of at a small SAR station, the fact that every Coastie wore body armor and carried either an M16 or a shotgun was. Jarvis felt conspicuously unarmed.

  The Station’s flat screen had the Emergency Alert System’s red white and blue emblem splashed across it. After a year of listening to this is only a test messages in the middle of the night, there now was an actual emergency. The screen scrolled through narrated updates power-point style. Most of the information appeared to be pre-written generic tidbits about health protection and pandemics. The reports had taken to c
alling the illness Disease-K and it had stuck.

  “Wash your hands often with soap and water. Stay home. The CDC recommends that you stay home from work and school to limit contact with others. Follow public health advice regarding school closures, avoiding crowds and other social distancing measures. Develop a family emergency plan including storing food, medicine, facemasks, alcohol rubs, and other supplies,” the unseen narrator droned.

  Jarvis looked behind him as Chief Hoffman walked up.

  “I liked Al Jazeera better, at least they had the Simpsons on,” the Chief muttered through his moustache.

  — | — | —

  CHAPTER 9

  Gulf Shores

  Community Center

  They waited at the school for three hours before a convoy of five school buses with MP drivers had come to evacuate Billy, Cat, Sergeant Durham, Spud and the nearly 200 other students, teachers, and guardsmen. Billy noticed that the National Guard hummers who escorted the convoy had machine guns mounted and most of the MPs that arrived with it wore black bug-eyed protective gas masks and rubber gloves.

  The busses drove to the town green where Gulf Shores had its police station, fire department, city hall, and library in four large buildings that shared a common square along 1st Street. Across from the library was the Community Center that doubled as a Red Cross shelter during the frequent hurricanes that struck the coastal town. It was into the Community Center that the Guardsmen herded the children and teachers.

  People from all over the island were collecting there, signing in, and looking for missing family members. A team of haggard volunteers in red vests clung to procedure to keep from being overwhelmed in the moment. Paper cups of coffee and water, along with packages of cookies and crackers, were handed out. A female paramedic was tending every scrape and cut, looking for signs of trauma and shock in the new arrivals. Most importantly, no bodies were anywhere and the site had all of the signs of being one of the last safe places in town.

  Billy signed in both Cat and himself, lying about not having a weapon on him when asked. He scanned the legal pads where other people had signed, hoping to find Wyatt’s name. It was a madhouse. People mingled around, carrying backpacks, suitcases and recycled plastic shopping bags filled hurriedly with food, water, socks, and underwear. Parents were arriving looking for lost children. Children were sitting in small groups talking about anything but what they had seen and been through that morning. People debated whether it was safer to leave the center and head back home, pull stumps and go to the mainland, or to simply stay at the center. Eventually small groups would form and make a choice to either stay or go and live with it.

  Cat had run into a group of her friends from the high school at the center. Billy left her with the gaggle of teens, busy comparing stories. He advised her not to leave the center and that he was going to the police station to try to find out more about Wyatt, to put in an official report. Cat was told to keep her eyes peeled for him or any of his friends that she recognized at the center.

  As he walked across the street and into the police station, he observed Sergeant Durham huddled in a group of cops listening to a chubby man in polo with Deputy Chief embroidered on the chest, reading from a clipboard.

  “With the MDC offline, I need each of you to use paper forms to complete reports. Submit these paper reports at the earliest possible time to the supervisor working the area where the report was taken. The supervisor will ensure that the approved report is collected and logged for entry by the admins when the system is back online,” the man droned to the collection of officers, many of whom had bandages. One had a torn epaulette on his uniform and his pocket ripped off. None seemed too interested in the deputy chief’s monologue.

  Billy caught Sergeant Durham’s face as he walked by and the look Durham gave him told him all he needed to know.

  Sitting in a chair next to the wall was a handcuffed Spud, still in his quick-lube uniform. This time, one cuff was on his wrist and the other affixed to the chair in which he slumped.

  Spud greeted Billy by gesturing an upturned middle finger in his direction.

  Billy walked up to the main desk behind a window sandwiched in metal screen. A woman glanced at him blankly as she tried to get the phone on her desk to work.

  “I need to place a missing persons report. My twelve-year old son is missing from the elementary school,” he said.

  “Have you gone across the street and checked at the Community Center? They are setting up a shelter over there,” she advised, pressing button after button on the multi-line phone and listening patiently for any sign of life.

  “I already tried that. His name is not on any of the lists they have.”

  “Keep trying sir, that’s all I can tell you for now. We have officers out looking and reports of kids running all over town. I got a woman in labor and I can’t get anyone to her. I got report after report coming in and now the phone doesn’t even work. It’s a mess.”

  — | — | —

  CHAPTER 10

  Gulf Shores, Orange Coast Bank

  Mackenzie’s day had deteriorated at the satellite bank. Starting shorthanded and alone already, she had her computer go offline during the first hour of the day. A call from the bank’s operations manager told her to limit cash transactions to $100 going out for bank customers only and to advise them that the Federal Reserve was offline and to try back tomorrow.

  Lines of cars asking for large cash withdrawals, and complaints their ATM cards were not working soon eliminated her cash supply. When she called to get a cash fill, they told her to put a sign in the window saying Deposits only, and they would call her back later.

  This cut off the rest of her business. Cars would motor up with a frantic driver waving a checkbook or identification card, see the handwritten sign, throw their hands up and drive away cursing.

  She had tried to call her mom during lulls in the morning but the cell phone network was nothing but busy signals and error messages. Occasionally, a text message or part of one went through hours apart from when it was originally sent. Her Facebook application on her smartphone had a red asterisk on her notification icon where she had tried to post updates on how crappy her day was turning out on her wall.

  In quiet Gulf Shores, it was rare to hear sirens, but that day she had heard them nonstop. First coming from one direction and then another. Once she looked out the window just in time to see a line of camouflaged military hummers race past.

  The sound of what at first she thought were firecrackers and then realized were gunshots only added to her anxiety.

  She looked up from putting her battery back in her smartphone, hoping it would jumpstart its connection, and saw fast movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned and looked towards the street and saw children running past. She was an eternal clock-watcher, and lived her day one sixty-second minute at a time while at work but she did not need the clock to tell her that it was not time for school to be out.

  One of the children turned and ran right at her drive-through window. He was a young boy about twelve with a backpack as big as he was. The boy’s face was red from exertion and his long hair and side swept bangs were wet with sweat.

  “Help me, let me in, please!” he yelled, sweaty palms flat on the drive through window.

  She shook her head and tried to explain that she simply could not.

  He pounded on the window and looked frantic.

  “Get away from the window or I’m gonna call the cops. You can’t be here. This isn’t funny,” she called out over the intercom, losing her patience.

  The boy shook his head and pounded again on the window, his sweaty palms making little wet smudges where they had made contact with the plate glass.

  “Please!” he yelled drawing out the end of the word, his voice almost a squeal.

  She pressed the duress alarm button under the counter to summon the police to her location within three minutes. Mackenzie did not think that the Justin Bieber gang was robbing her
but she knew she did not want to get involved in whatever was going on. The police could sort it out.

  “You don’t understand…they are coming for me. They are right behind me,” he continued, dancing around under the drive through canopy waving his arms.

  The boy turned and looked over his shoulder with his mouth open. He looked back at her horrified but could not make a sound.

  Mackenzie saw three boys explode around the side of the bushes, one tripping over the bush but the other two running right for the sweaty boy. The sweaty boy shrugged off his heavy backpack and threw it at the pair of kids trying to tackle him, knocking them away. This enabled him to take off running again. He made it to the other side of the bank, opposite of Mackenzie where the other teller, absent today, worked an identical drive through window. He pounded again on the glass across from her and implored her to help him.

  He kept this up for a good thirty seconds before the three kids who were chasing him found the other side of the bank and he started kicking and pushing them off, running again. The fact that he was slightly larger and looked to be a year or two older made just enough of a difference to be able to slip away from the trio again.

  “You kids need to cut this out, the police are coming!” Mackenzie called over the external intercoms, hoping it would end this childhood fight and scare the kids away.

  She did not have any kids and was not going to put up with these brats. Finally having enough of it, she pulled open the side door of the bank branch. “Get out of here right now!” she screamed out at the four kids.

  The sweaty kid made a beeline for her and ran as hard as he could directly for her and the open door. Before she could close it, he bounded inside and pushed her away, slammed the door closed behind him. Within a second, the sound of the three kids chasing him pounding on the other side of the steel door and scratching at it with their bare fingernails was almost deafening inside the small bank branch.