Two police officers on the Green had stopped to reload their empty handguns, only to be attacked by the inmates. More shots rang out from the gas-masked National Guardsmen running through the Town Green towards the police station. Billy saw police and infected alike lying motionless. More orange-clad inmates erupted from the police station and the MPs took a prone position to engage them with their M4s.
As he heard screams and yelling throughout the Town Green, he turned and pulled Cat close to him. “Go find your friends and get as far away from this door as possible. We’re gonna shut it. Do not come back up here no matter what. You understand?”
She nodded and turned away, running into the panicked crowd inside the Community Center.
Billy looked at the two volunteers at the table next to the door. They were motionless and wide-eyed. “We have to close these doors,” he said, pointing at the doors.
With that, one of the volunteers stood and moved around the table towards him. They closed the first set of doors and just as the volunteer took a step towards the second, a coverall-clad inmate burst into the doorway. The inmate’s face and neck were bathed in blood. He attacked the elderly volunteer and knocked her to the ground. When the volunteer hit the cement floor, her head bounced once like a basketball before the inmate started stomping up and down on her face with both feet in a gory game of hopscotch. Even over the horrified screams and gasps of the crowd in the Community Center behind him, Billy could hear the bones and cartilage of the volunteer’s face break apart under the relentless downward kicks of the infected inmate.
Billy brought his old .38 out from its hiding place in the pocket of the cargo shorts and thrust it at the inmate. The revolver’s muzzle was only three feet away from the inmate’s face and Billy hoped that when he saw it, the man would stop and surrender. All the inmate did, through a face that showed no inclination for mercy, pity, or fear in the slightest degree, was smile like a twisted jester and blow bloody bubbles through his lips.
Billy sent a 158-grain jacketed hollow point into the man’s left eye and his body was falling backwards as it exited through the rear of his skull, showering the doorway behind him in blood and bone. Billy jumped across the body and snatched the open doors, pulling them closed. His hand was slippery on the bloody handle and he ignored the feel of the hot stickiness as the door closed shut. He fell against the inside of it as he heard a cacophony of fists and bodies hit the door trying to get inside the Community Center.
Billy’s mouth went dry. His heart rate went through the roof as his blood pressure flew past 160. Auditory exclusion, the phenomena caused by being in a desperate fight-or-flight situation, blocked out the sounds of the fists and screams coming from the other side of the steel door that he just closed. He could not speak any more. He could not move.
He looked out across the crowd inside the Community Center and all eyes were on him. Every mouth, some covered by a hand in shock, was quiet. Billy saw his daughter looking back at him from thirty feet away with an expression he had never seen before. Her eyes were wide open and he knew she would never be the same.
He had the feeling he would not be either.
— | — | —
CHAPTER 13
The Fish Hawk pulled away from the dock at Dauphin Island, her twin diesel engines in reverse. On the dock was the Coast Guard station’s Senior Chief, casting off her lines.
“How much ammo did we get from the station?” Jarvis asked Hoffman, who was busy at the ship’s throttles.
“They gave us four cases of 7.62 in ammo belts, plus a case of 5.56 and another of 9-milly. They didn’t have any .50-cal but we have a good bit of that in the small arms locker,” Chief Hoffman advised.
Jarvis watched the station grow smaller on the horizon before the cutter pivoted and moved back across the bay towards Gulf Shores. He looked out the bridge’s windows and saw the cutter’s two seamen busy mounting the vessel’s main armament, a pair of Mark II .50-caliber heavy machine guns, one on each side of the boat’s foredeck. The NOMEX-clad seamen were wearing flak vests and carefully feeding belts of gleaming brass ammunition into their weapons. The shielded guns mounted on the bow fired cigar-sized rounds almost two kilometers away and were capable of shooting down a low flying aircraft or sending just about any drug runner to Davy Jones’ locker.
“Mr. Jarvis, did you want me to arm up, too?” the Cook asked from the galley ladder-well below.
“Yes, grab a SIG, make sure you find a holster for it, and keep it in there,” Jarvis said.
“Aye, sir,” the Cook said before disappearing back down below the hatch.
Normally the only weapon not locked up in the small arms locker below deck was a lone M4 secured in the ready rack on the bridge. That rifle was usually not even loaded. The Coast Guard is geared toward saving lives, not taking them. It was only when the cutter was conducting a boarding that the 4-man boarding team would arm themselves with side arms. It was rare that the entire ship was armed, and rarer still that the Mark II’s up front were brought out and mounted. Some of the cutter’s newer crewmembers had never seen the vessel with her teeth in.
“So what’s the plan once we get to Gulf Shores, Skipper?” Hoffman asked once they were alone again.
“We link up with that National Guard MP Captain that’s been tearing up the radio and hand over this spare ammo. Then we hightail it back here to Dauphin Eye and hole up with the Senior Chief and his crew until this thing dies down or we get new orders,” Jarvis explained.
“What did the SAR station’s sparky say was going on in Gulf Shores?” Hoffman asked. He had not been privy to the conversation that Jarvis and the Senior Chief had dwelled on over the base’s radio suite.
“They are an MP unit that has been conducting ops in the town over there and they are risking being overrun by rioters. They never got their ammo draw and are sitting around trying to put this thing down over there with only their bad breath,” Jarvis said.
“Glad to know our command structure is working better than the Army’s, I guess,” Hoffman laughed in dark humor.
“The MPs over there have a bunch of M240-Bravos and no 7.62 to feed them with, so we are bringing them what the Senior Chief felt he could spare. We’ll hold on to most of the 9 and 5.56 for our own locker,” Jarvis said.
“What did Sector say about giving away USCG ammo to the boys in green?” Hoffman asked.
“We still can’t reach Mobile. I called the Situation Unit, the OOD and the Operations unit from the station’s satellite phone and no one picked up. We finally made contact with New Orleans and they strongly cautioned us against it, but advised it was our call. The MPs at Gulf Shores say they are going to be wiped out without any ammo,” Jarvis said.
“So, short story long, here we are again headed to Gulf Shores. Shit, maybe I can grab a Bushwhacker before we head back to D-Eye,” Hoffman grinned through his moustache.
The Cook popped his head up into the bridge from his hatch below. “Sir, you should see this,” the Cook said with a grim look plastered across his face.
Jarvis left his spot on the bridge and descended the ladder into the galley below. The three members of the engineering crew and the ship’s Bosun were crowded around the flat screen on the wall. On the screen was a talking head that Jarvis vaguely recognized as being an obscure member of the Senate whose name eluded him. Behind the Senator on the monitor was a generic framed copy of the Declaration of Independence and an Air Force seal.
“In this, my first address to the American Public, I have a heavy heart. Many of you have heard me speak before; this is the first time I do it as your President,” the man on the television said with a somber face and heavy baritone voice.
“First of all, I need to state that all US forces at home and abroad are to continue to follow their orders and remain in allegiance to the Constitution of the United States of America. I hereby order immediate activation of the National Unorganized Militia. This group of men, created by the Militia Act of 1903, consist
s of every able-bodied male citizen of at least 17 and under 45 years of age who are not already members of the National Guard or regular military or reserve. The Retired Reserve, consisting of all members of the United States Military forces that have honorably retired, is likewise recalled. Please report to your local military authority for immediate assignment,” he continued.
“My fellow Americans, you should know that currently, a state of war exists between the US, and her NATO and Pacific allies against Russia, China, and North Korea. It is not known if the current epidemic that has attacked our great country is the product of this evil alliance— but that possibility has not been ruled out. What is known is that an exchange of various acts of war have been both witnessed and endured across our mutual continents.
“I began my career in public service 37 years ago and never sought or even dreamed that one day I would be President of our great land. To have come to such a post during this crisis in our history is a profound and heavy burden. While I cannot begin to tell you why this current crisis is happening, I can tell you that help is on the way. Until that help arrives, please help your family, help your neighbor, and help your community. The American way of life and our culture, heritage and heart will persevere in this time of crisis as it has in every other.
“I am humbly at your service and I will never waiver from fulfilling the duties of this office. May God bless you and keep you, and may his provenance shine down upon you and upon the United States of America,” the new President said. His face faded away to blue screen, which displayed the written text of the speech that had just aired.
Jarvis looked at the half of his crew assembled in the galley and tried to formulate his thoughts.
“I think what he is saying that the government is there, but only to wish you the best of luck…” Hoffman said, breaking the silence.
— | — | —
CHAPTER 14
Orange Coast Bank, Gulf Shores.
Mackenzie played on her phone while Wyatt slept. After an hour had passed with no activity, the boy had leaned his head back against the wall and fell asleep. Mackenzie tried everything she could think of to get her phone working again. She took the phone apart, reset the battery, turned the radio signal off and on, and dumped her cache. She just needed five minutes of good signal to get in contact with the police, or if nothing else, at least find out what was going on in the world outside of the tiny bank branch.
She tried once more to make a call, only to receive a busy signal. In one last attempt to reach out, she opened the Facebook app on her phone and noticed that her inbox icon had mail for the first time all day. With her face red with excitement, and her eyes going slightly off focus from the adrenaline infusion, she clicked on the inbox.
There were three messages. Two were random junk mail admin messages apologizing for obvious nationwide network and system outages. The third was from her mother in Texas.
“I’ve tried reaching you all day but all the lines are busy. Phil and I were assaulted trying to get to the airport and are at the hospital now. He is sick and they think he may have been infected. They say it is something called Disease-K. One of them bit me but I think I am ok. So far, all I have is a terrible migraine and body aches. I hope things are better in Alabama than they are here.
“Dallas has been without power all morning and there are people in the streets. The National Guard is here now so maybe things will get better before tonight.”
Mackenzie put her phone down on the counter and willed herself to stop playing with it.
— | — | —
CHAPTER 15
Community Center, Gulf Shores.
“Guess you are a good guy to have around in a tight spot, but we gotta stop meeting like this,” Stone said to Billy while the two stood at the reopened Community Center door with Sergeant Durham.
“I agree a hundred percent,” Billy said.
The three men looked out across the town green at the surreal sight they encountered. Nearly fifty bodies were scattered akimbo around them.
The bodies of the infected were easy to tell apart from those who were not. Most of the infected had been shot in the open as they ran towards possible victims. Their poor victims were, almost without exception, against the walls of the surrounding buildings where they were trapped. The victims were horribly kicked, torn, strangled, and ripped to death by the bare hands of their attackers. Billy saw random people stop and take a picture of the unreal diorama with their phones, as if to make sure that it was real and not a dream.
“It looks like it started in the jail with a couple of infected inmates. The poor bastards locked up with them didn’t stand a chance,” Stone explained.
“We lost half of what’s left of the department in there. There are many more infected bodies in there than there are out here,” Durham said.
“Do I need to make a statement about this?” Billy asked Durham, motioning to the body of the inmate he had shot in the face, as it was drug from the Community Center by a pair of MPs.
“I’m sure someone will talk to you about that but I wouldn’t imagine, under the circumstances, anything will come of it,” Durham said.
“There really wasn’t any other choice. I told him to stop but he just wouldn’t,” Billy said.
Stone nodded, “Did you have that .38 on you the whole time we were at the school this morning?”
“Yeah, it’s been a hell of a day,” Billy confirmed.
“Well, from the sound of the situation, it’s a good deal you had it with you. If those zombies had gotten inside that Center we might not have been able to contain the outbreak,” Stone said.
“Zombies, huh?” Billy asked.
“That’s what all the troops are calling them. It seems somewhat appropriate. We’ve already noticed that it takes headshots to drop them. They’ll keep coming at you all day until you give them a little love to the dome,” Stone said.
The infected seemed to be the ultimate catalyst for change.
From what Billy had seen, they were nothing but unlocked self-driven carnal desire. The ultimate psychopaths. They killed, raped, maimed, and ate every living thing they could get their hands on. They were relentless dead flesh with occasional synaptic flash to kill, to break, to fuck, to burn.
In short, they are the anti-human. They are everything that had ever been thought of to be human— but in reverse.
“Next thing you know they’ll wind up making a movie out of this,” said Durham.
“I want Charlie Sheen to play me in the movie,” Spud yelled from his chair propped next to the Community Center door. The heavy metal chair had actually saved his life during the massacre in the town green. He had fallen on his back and used the chair as a shield to keep the infected attackers off him.
“You know, Spud, you may very well be the last living inmate in the Gulf Shores jail right now,” Durham said over his shoulder.
“And I’m still suing the piss out of all of you!” Spud yelled.
“Get in line. The only line I have longer than people trying to kill me lately is people trying to sue me,” Durham said.
“So can I at least get unlocked from this damned chair?” Spud whined.
“I’ll see what I can do, Spud, just sit tight,” Durham said and laughed.
Stone gestured at the police department, “Isn’t that the police chief over there by the wall? The one with the shotgun lying next to him?”
“Yes, that’s him. Dead as a doornail. And the deputy chief is inside the station with his throat ripped out,” Durham said.
“So who does that leave next in the chain of command for the department, Sergeant? You?” asked Stone.
“Not me, I’m just the senior guy that they can reach,” Durham said.
A small Nissan pickup truck careened down the road in front of the Community Center and came to a halt about five feet from the group. A brick-shaped older man in his fifties with the illusion of close-cropped hair on the sides of his head stepped out. He wore
the same camouflaged uniform as the Captain with the exception of a set of six black sergeant stripes, three up, and three down with a black diamond in the center on his chest rank tab.
“Glad of you to finally join us, Top,” Stone said to the newly arrived older man who walked up to the group in two smooth strides before putting on his camouflaged cap and saluting.
“Decided to stop for coffee and pie, sir,” the newly arrived soldier stated. His voice had the quality of gravel ground in an industrial blender full of sand. He ran his words together in some sort of mashed grumble as if he was projecting his voice through clenched teeth.
“This here is First Sergeant Reid, the Road Dog’s senior NCO. Top, this is Sergeant Durham of what’s left of the Gulf Shores PD and Mr. Harris, a local firefighter turned fisherman and recent gunslinger.”
Everyone nodded at one another.
“How is Daphne, Top?” Stone asked.
“It’s a madhouse; crowds of people trying to get out of Mobile coming in from the west, crowds of people leaving Pensacola coming in from the east. I loaded Jenny in the truck as soon as I could get away from the prison and left this morning for here. It took me the past six hours to get the 40-miles down 59 to here. I just dropped her at the armory and they said you were here, so now I am too, sir.”
“We are glad to have you, Top. As you can see it’s gone a little pear-shaped around here,” Stone said.
“What’s the plan, sir?” Reid asked. A good two-inch wad of tobacco snuff was plugged in his bottom lip like worm dirt. Billy noticed that he had not seen the man spit yet.
“Did you see any infected along the highway from Daphne to here?” Stone asked.
“Yes, sir, we had to divert around them. Seen some pretty fucked up stuff but just kept driving. Didn’t look like anything I could handle myself, especially with Jenny in the car. We’re in for a world of hurt when and if they decide to come down the highway.”
Last Stand on Zombie Island Page 8