Last Stand on Zombie Island

by Christopher L. Eger

  While the Cincinnati-shuffle was a hit for most of the island that still had radios, there was an ever-growing legion of fans that followed a station in San Antonio. Operating on a diesel generator with a security guard and two DJs in residence, they called themselves Radio Free Texas. The lonestar DJs did not have much to broadcast but seemed to have a decent music collection and a flexible format.

  “Okay, guys and girls, here we are again. The time is about fifteen-past the hour here in San Antone and you are listening to the voice of the survivors, Radio Free Texas. Tonight we have decided that in honor of our security guard Manny’s birthday we will be playing his favorite band, Rush, all night until we just don’t feel like listening to Geddy Lee any damn more. Followed up with as much Moldy Peaches as I can find to counteract it,” The mellow voice came weaving in and out of the vapor.

  Wyatt was all smiles.

  “Do you even know who Rush is?” Billy asked.

  “No, but that’s not the point, Dad, the point is that I got San Antone.” Wyatt said, smiling as he walked away.

  Billy listened to the opening chords of Tom Sawyer and asked himself what had become of Rush. He had never heard of the Moldy Peaches but he wondered what had become of them, too. He had always wanted to take Wyatt and Cat to a live concert and always said that there would be time.

  Hell that is why he took them from their life in Biloxi almost two years ago and moved to Gulf Shores—to have the time. Since then, Cat had gone to a few concerts on the beach with friends, but had Wyatt ever seen what it was like? Would his son ever feel the heavy electric earthquake of live music played for a crowd of thousands? Would anybody else?

  “Oreos for dessert, Pops,” Wyatt said as he plopped a bag of cookies on the table.

  “Our humble contribution to the meal, neighbor,” said James, one of the cousins from Fort Morgan. The pair had been living on the remains of snack bar and concession stand supplies that had been located at the Civil War tourist attraction and brought some every night to dinner at the Harris household.

  “So how did the fort make it through this whole thing?” Stone asked.

  “Pretty good, we shut it down early and let the volunteers who ran the office and gift shops go home, and then bolted up the entrance. The place is made out of 30-million red bricks and has twenty-foot thick walls surrounded by a moat. Safest place on the island,” James said.

  “You guys were armed too, yes?” Stone asked.

  “With retired state police wheel guns, a handful of .357’s to go in them,” James said smugly

  “They also have Robert E Lee’s arsenal in the museum there,” Billy said.

  “Oh, really?” Stone said.

  “Yes, but it’s all antiques and none of it has any ammunition,” the park ranger replied.

  “I’d like to take a look sometime. We may be able to use some of it. I have a formation in the morning with everyone that volunteered to join the guard force and you never know what will come in handy,” Stone said as he wrote a note in his small green memo book.

  “Doubt it will do much good, but you are welcome to come take a look,” the park ranger said. “They are literally museum pieces. Hell the place dates back to 1817.”

  “Like I said, you never know,” Stone said.

  “Captain, are you going to swear-in those volunteers to state service? I’m not truly sure they can be sworn into federal service without proper enlistment,” Ed asked, showing the legal side of the old judge.

  “That’s the plan. That way after all this ends they can maybe get VA, retirement and GI Bill benefits after the War,” Stone said.

  “The war?” Cat interrupted.

  “Well, from all accounts that’s what we have here. We know that the Russians attacked us. My bet is that this attack was some sort of bio-war strike against us as a precursor,” Stone said.

  “But the infection is all over the world according to the radio,” Cat said.

  “Well the Russians always were pretty sloppy,” Stone shrugged.

  The conversation died down as Wyatt disappeared into the next room followed by snores. He never was much of a night owl and Billy had him up late the night before, performing deckhand work on the Fooly Involved.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I suggest one final course to tonight’s splendid meal,” Ed announced as he reached for the canvas bag by the table leg. Out came an unopened bottle of scotch.

  “Well, I’m more of a beer kinda guy but I won’t let that stop me,” Billy said with a smile.

  Mack and Cat retrieved an assortment of glasses from the kitchen for the assembled crowd as Ed dutifully poured glasses.

  “Sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid this is slightly past your grade level at this point,” the old judge said as he skipped Cat’s outstretched glass.

  “Please, Mr. Ed, it’s not like I haven’t earned a right to try it,” the teenager said, looking at the old man with doe eyes.

  The judge softened immediately and looked to Billy, who looked to Mack.

  “Ok a sip, just a sip, to taste,” Billy finally said.

  The crowd, armed with their collection of jelly jars, tumblers and drinking glasses smiled and looked at each other in the dim light. A candle placed in the center of the table flickered across their faces and reflected in their eyes.

  “I suggest a toast,” Billy said. “Judge, it’s your bottle so take the lead on this one please, sir.”

  Ed looked down into the dark amber of his drink and thought for a second before raising his glass.

  “To absent friends,” he said in a clear voice.

  The toast was seconded by all present. The radio station continued to play Rush late into the night, as the bottle of Johnny Walker made its rounds.

  Billy did not notice the 36-roll pack of toilet paper left on the porch with a bow tied to it until the next morning.

  — | — | —

  CHAPTER 26

  October 22nd–9am, Armory of the 1183rd Military Police Company (Combat Support), Gulf Shores Alabama

  Z+12

  Stone stood on the parking lot of the Armory and looked around. Eighty volunteers stood assembled in a loose formation in the Armory’s parking lot. First Sergeant Reid’s right eye was twitching. “What the fuck is this? An Air Force parade?” Reid said on an exhale.

  “Good morning,” Stone called out using his best command voice. He was never one to use a bullhorn or microphone. Ever since he read Infantry Attacks by Erwin Rommel at age 14, he had made a decision to develop a command voice. “My name is Captain Stone and I thank you all for coming forward to volunteer.

  “To my right is Company First Sergeant Reid. He wears a combat infantry badge and jump wings on his chest because he was one of the last soldiers out of Vietnam, the first into Grenada, kicked Saddam out of Kuwait, and then retired to life and leisure in the National Guard. Since Saddam did not get the hint the first time, we took him back to Iraq with us in the Guard. He is the right hand of God as far as you are concerned,” Stone continued. The blue horse fly biting the back of his hand was allowed to continue chomping away lest it distract him.

  “Before we inspect you and see if you can pull your weight here, I want to give anyone who is having second thoughts the chance to walk away. I cannot and will not babysit anyone, and I assure you that the First Sergeant has no love in his heart for you. You have to be able to just ‘get it’- we are not going to be able to train you like in peacetime when we had all the time in the world. IF you are thin-skinned, are crybabies, if your feelings are easily hurt, or think we can fix you— then this may not be for you. If you think you cannot hack this for any reason, feel free to leave now. There are plenty of safer things out there to do. You can join a fishing crew, work in the body snatchers, fix streets, pick up trash, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,” Stone said as he gestured to gates of the armory, held open by four heavily armed and stoic MPs.

  A dozen men and boys looked around, hung their eyes low, and quietly walked away. There was a
line of about seventy men and women left. A few were smiling. Several wore threadbare old BDU uniforms, faded with time and wear. The majority of those left seemed to have had former military service but some did not.

  Reid barked a command that the group was to separate into two formations, one with prior military service to the left, and the other for those without to the right.

  “Let’s take a look at what we have left, Top,” Stone said through his tactical sunglasses. The scotch had been good the night before but as the sun came up, he felt it in his forehead.

  “I’d rather not, sir,” Reid said with a mouth full of dip.

  As they walked along the group with military experience, it wasn’t bad. Many of the former military men had not won a uniform since the Gulf War, and saw no reason to start now. Some were younger and had served in Iraq and Afghanistan in the past ten years. Handfuls were much older and mumbled references to divisions that disbanded while disco was on the charts. There were even a few old shotgun-armed relics in woodland BDUs from the State Defense Force, which formed something of the National Guard’s National Guard.

  One veteran, carrying a Winchester lever action .30-.30 over his shoulder, wore his old school 1970’s olive drab uniform, complete with white name strips. The original dark green uniform had faded over time to the color of mashed lima beans, but fit perfectly.

  Reid looked at the lima bean. “What branch were you in again?” he growled through a mouthful of dip.

  “Army,” the lima bean retorted through rheumy eyes. He still stood ramrod straight and had a flatiron stomach. The skin on his face and hands looked like paper, and was covered with liver spots.

  Reid paused for a solid ten seconds without blinking. “Union or Confederate?” he finally asked.

  “Let’s get these guys sworn in, Top,” Stone said as he pulled the First Sergeant with him down the line.

  The next group was a loose formation of ten chubby mid-life crisis characters armed with an assortment of British Lee-Enfields, Turkish Mausers and SKS’s assault rifles. They all had different camouflage but the same custom baseball cap emblazoned with “Tidewater Guards” on the patch. The patch had the familiar rattlesnake emblem with the words Don’t tread on me in small letters along the bottom. Their uniforms were unkempt, ill-fitting, and each had a paintball mask and goggles strapped around their arm.

  “And what is the Tidewater Guard?” Stone asked a man from the group with a colonel’s rank pinned to his collar along with Ranger tabs and other decorations.

  “Unorganized civilian militia,” the man said, poking out his chest. He wore a bright and spotlessly clean keffiyeh as a scarf around his thick neck. “We are a private military society.”

  Stone repeated what the man had said in his head and swished it around his mouth, “Do you guys have any military experience or training?”

  “Well, sir, before last month we had never seen any actual service, but we fought in hundreds of MilSim paintball and airsoft matches as a team. Brought home a lot of trophies,” he said

  “MilSim?” Stone asked. He was not sure if his raised eyebrow could be seen through his wraparound sunglasses, so he made sure to hyper-extend it for effect.

  “Military-Simulation. Tactical exercises; capture the flag type of stuff, you know,” the man explained.

  “So what kind of actual military experience do you have?” Reid interjected.

  “Well, besides the paintball stuff, we play Call of Duty a lot.”

  “How many of your group did you lose in the outbreak?” Stone asked, almost physically restraining Reid from smoking the ‘colonel.’

  “None, sir. We all made it through. Some of us helped clear our neighborhoods so the Guard didn’t have to,” he said, looking like a used-car salesman fixing to lose a deal. “We just want to help.”

  Stone nodded and thought about it. The fact that they had made it through the initial outbreak meant something. “Let me be clear about this. We can use you as a group but I need you to know that I will put up with zero shit from your people if they step out of line. Are you tracking me?”

  The man nodded and smiled like a little kid.

  “And stop your group from wearing any decorations and rank they’re not entitled to wear,” Stone said as he walked off. “Let’s get them sworn in, Top.”

  Reid nodded.

  “Get a good sergeant over these guys to babysit them. We can use them for the beach patrol if nothing else,” Stone said as they made it to the next group.

  He needed some capable replacements. His company had cleared more than a hundred houses on the island in the past few days. They had to take them down room by room, looking for infected. The best and most vital tool for that had been the human nose. You could smell a zombie. The rot, decay, and buildup of organic intestinal gas from swollen bellies gave them away. When you entered a house, it was your number one clue—your sense of smell. They did not teach you that at MOUT School. He had traded experienced MPs to learn that secret, and he had to replace those losses.

  The next group was a cluster of six kids in full dress naval uniforms including white officer’s hats, colorful medals, ribbons, and a necktie. Each wore brass NJRTOC insignia on their collar. They were assembled in two rows and standing at parade rest when Stone and Reid walked up. They snapped to attention as he and the First Sergeant approached.

  “Shit,” Stone muttered. He had heard about these kids.

  Several members of the Gulf Shores High School Naval Junior ROTC unit survived the outbreak and a small group of those cadets petitioned Stone to join the Guardsmen. After all, they had basic discipline, knew military drill, and had a modicum of small arms weapons training. Six of the volunteers had been on the school’s marksmanship team before the outbreak and had been preparing to represent the school in the Navy’s youth regional tournament. The cadets had trained relentlessly for the tournament by firing small caliber rifles at bull’s-eye targets one-eighth of an inch in diameter at ten meters from prone, standing, and kneeling positions. The cadets had been adamant about volunteering.

  “At ease cadet, I’ve heard of you kids,” Stone said to the girl standing to attention at the head of the formation. She had the most ribbons and medals of the group and conducted herself as their commander. She could not have been more than five feet tall and Billy’s daughter looked older than she did.

  “Sir, it’s good to be noticed, sir,” she sounded off crisply. Stone noticed two black flies buzzing in the soft hair of the cadet’s neck just behind her ear. She stood in a ridged parade-rest condition even though she could have swatted them away. Stone smiled to himself. He had started out in JROTC himself more than a dozen years ago. It led to a ROTC scholarship at South Alabama with the Jaguar Battalion, which led to the Army, which led to…

  “This isn’t a drill field, cadet,” Stone said, forcing gravity into his voice.

  “Sir, we aren’t expecting it to be, sir.”

  “Cut down on the sir stuff, cadet,” Stone said.

  “Sir, Aye aye…sir,” she caught herself and frowned.

  “How did you come through the outbreak?” Stone asked. She intrigued him.

  “Climbed on the roof of my house and stacked up 7 of them with 8 shots from my .22, sir.”

  Reid whistled.

  “We call her Oswald,” one of the cadets behind the pint-sized sharpshooter spoke up.

  Stone laughed and his expression broke the spell. The cadets slouched a little and began to laugh as well.

  “I take it you all saw a share of violence or you wouldn’t be here today, am I correct in this?” Stone asked the group. They all nodded and muttered agreement.

  “We aren’t here to babysit, so you guys need to step it up and be adults about all of this. Also, whoever you have as a guardian needs to write me a note saying its ok for you to join, Hooah?” Stone asked.

  The cadets looked around to each other. Finally, Oswald answered, “Aye, sir.”

  “And cut the navy stuff and
the dress uniforms, looks like you are in the Army now. Let’s get them sworn in, Top,” Stone said, walking off.

  “I’ll pick another sergeant to take charge of these kids,” Reid said. “That little girl scout is a hard ass.”

  Stone and Reid kept walking until they came to the last group. Twenty civilians, mostly men but with a few women as well, milled around in a circle talking to each other.

  During the worst part of the outbreak, when the overwhelmed police melted away, regular people had stepped in to fill the vacuum. Civilians armed with a collection of firearms that ranged from old black powder shotguns to AK47s, Saturday night special .380s to custom Colt 1911s, knives, axes, shovels, firebombs, crowbars and baseball bats watched over many neighborhoods, defending their families and homes against the infected as well as the widespread looting and lawlessness that followed. Those who felt better suited in joining the Guard rather than working the body snatcher or cleanup details showed up and were milling around.

  “Good morning,” Stone said to the group of neighborhood heroes as he looked over them. Most were out of shape and evolved the word motley to a new definition. Reid and Stone talked briefly to each one and told most to stay to be sworn in. A few who had made Stone’s Spidey-sense tingle were sent packing.

  An old hippy leaned against a blue Schwinn Stingray bicycle with rust poking through flaking paint. The white banana seat of the bicycle had yellow-brown foam poking through its split cover. A cloth guitar case with a psychedelic tie-dye design on it hung over the hippy’s back.

  “What’s in the case?” Reid asked, “Gonna play us a tune?”

  The hippy shrugged the case off his shoulders. His thin frame, round eyeglasses, long grey hair, and beard gave an impression of what John Lennon would have looked like if he lived to be sixty. He rested the case on the Schwinn and unzipped it to show off something John Lennon had not played.