“Been taking booze off of the locals, Captain?” she asked.
“One of the items brought in by the Requisition Detachment, Major. If nothing else it’s medicinal mouthwash and disinfectant.”
Stone turned onto Highway 59 and began driving up the tall bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway.
In the half month since Stone and his men had closed the bridge in the dramatic stand, a rotating MP roadblock had kept it shut down. Stone had advised her that every day they engaged a few infected, killing almost a hundred in the past fifteen days. Occasionally they had a survivor or two walk up, shell shocked and half-crazy. These they would shuttle to the city jail to be locked up for 72-hour quarantine before given a new home in one of the thousands of available condos and resort hotel rooms on the island.
Stone pulled in behind the roadblock and shut off the hummer as they came to a stop. As the group dismounted the vehicle, Wright reached behind her seat and pulled out a plastic drip pan on a chain that she slid under the hummer to catch leaking fluids.
“Walk with me, ma’am. I’ll give you the grand tour.” Stone said, already stepping forward from the hummer.
The roadblock was the front line of the island’s defenses. The bridge was the only remaining connection that they had to the outside world. Across the bridge, going north was referred to interchangeably as Zombieville, Dead City, and Maggot Town. Two handmade plywood signs were posted sandwich-board style at Post one. One read: Zombies Ahead Next 3000 miles, the second: Here lies the end of the world.
The roadblock consisted of a huge Gulf Shores Fire Department laddertruck stretched across all lanes; its ladder like the arm of a tollbooth to let vehicles pass if needed. Sandbags, an old green 18-foot wide GP medium army tent, a generator on a trailer, and a machinegun emplacement all abutted the laddertruck and completed the roadblock. Only one MP, a fat man with a red face wearing mismatched camouflage sat at the roadblock next to a radio and a sound powered phone resting on a box.
Reynolds turned to Stone, “Where is everyone?” Certainly one clown armed with a Sudoku book and a pencil was not the entire first line of defense.
Stone pointed to the far northern end of the bridge past the laddertruck, where the land touched the beginning of the span. There sat two hummers and a few prone figures lying down on the pavement with rifles. A solar powered road department sign flashed a warning to stop.
“At night we pull the roadblock back to the laddertruck here at Post 1 and nothing moves in or out. Then during the day, two hummers and six MPs move forward a half mile to the foot of the bridge. It lets them catch anyone before they get on the bridge and extends our fire zone down the road. Plus if they get jammed up, they can fall back to the laddertruck and we can send up the rapid reaction team from the Armory within minutes,” Stone explained as they walked to the foot of the bridge. Specialist Wright stayed behind with the laddertruck.
Reynolds remembered running across that bridge in the early morning sunrise dew, her crash helmet hiding the exhaustion and fear in her eyes. She remembered how she had not even looked back as the cop, followed by Harris and Stone, ran past her. When she was told later that the cop had been killed, she felt bad for his family, but would not have traded places with him. She had not been there since then and, while it was less dangerous, it was no less ominous.
As they approached, a young girl, even younger than Specialist Wright, stood tall at attention and called out, “Attention on deck,” in a teenaged voice.
Two MPs inside the hummer only half-turned in their seats to see who was coming up behind them. The three prone on a pad made of sleeping bags and a few sandbags, moved not at all.
“Damn it, Oswald, cut that crap out,” Stone said to the young female MP standing at ridged attention and returned her sharp salute casually. “No more salutes or exposing your position in the field or I’ll discharge you and send you off to the wharf to unload shrimp all day.”
“Sorry, sir,” the girl stammered and tried her best to look sloppy and casual with horrible results.
“This is your JROTC group commander,” Stone said to Reynolds, gesturing to Oswald.
Reynolds extended her hand to the teenager and shook it with a smile. “I heard you are quite a good shot.”
The girl blushed and smiled back, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Have you guys seen any today?” Stone asked.
“Just one so far. He did not come within range though. But we are keeping an eye out,” Oswald said
“How do you know he wasn’t in range?” Reynolds asked.
The girl pulled out a small notebook from the shirt pocket of the Army ACU jacket she wore and flipped it open before handing it over to the Major. It had a carefully hand-drawn map of the area just north of where they stood. On it, reference points such as wrecked Hyundai 740 meters and gas station sign 1200 meters were sketched out and noted.
“Pretty smart,” said Reynolds as she handed the pad to Stone.
He took one look at it and tossed it back to Oswald. “How did you get these ranges? You aren’t allowed north of this spot.”
“Mr. Johnny has a laser rangefinder, so he lased everything we could out to 2000-meters and noted it. I was going to make a down-range map from the laddertruck when we pull back tonight,” the tiny sharpshooter explained.
A barely audible digital alarm chimed from the phone in the pocket of Oswald’s jeans and she reached in and turned it off. Most people still carried their phones, even though there was no network left to support them. They recharged the devices as best they could from car chargers and the few enterprising people in town who had set up charging stations with a generator and spaghetti of extension cords and power strips.
October 10th was known largely among those under 20 as the Day Twitter Died. Reynolds did not miss everyone texting, tweeting, and checking their Facebook accounts, but it did seem funny that everyone still carried their phones. It was a mix of habit as much as the devices still had alternative uses as clocks, cameras, notepads, and MP3 players.
“OK, time to rotate,” the girl announced to the group as she reset her phone. She turned to Reynolds and Stone and explained, “Since the Mosin has the longest range out here, and we rotate every 30 minutes with one shooter on the rifle, two spotting from the ground, and one spotting while standing. The other two MPs are in the hummers ready to call into the TOC and get us out of here if needed.”
Reynolds and Stone exchanged looks as the tiny commando excused herself and assumed her spot behind the rifle. Up from the mat stood a scruffy longhaired man with a beard vulgar both in its length and in filth.
“John Winston, you can call me Mr. Johnny, everyone does,” the dirty man said as he stood up and took over the book and binoculars that Oswald had left on the hood of the hummer.
“Another of our new volunteers,” Stone leaned forward and muttered to Reynolds. She could smell the spicy preserved meat scent of beef jerky on his breath.
“Thank you for your service. You could have done anything for your community and you chose this. That says a lot about you, sir,” Reynolds said to Mr. Johnny as she shook the thin burnout’s hand.
“Not a lot of call for musicians these days so I thought I would get in where I could fit in,” he said, laughing through yellowed teeth. He wore a pair of army pants and web gear with a faded Led Zeppelin shirt poking from under magazine pouches, first aid kits, and a camelback.
“Are you from Gulf Shores?” Reynolds asked.
“Is anyone?” the hippy replied, peering north up Highway 59 for any movement.
“I understand. I’m originally from Pittsburg myself.” Reynolds offered.
“Ahhhh, played there at the Buckhead years ago. I suppose the crowd is probably more sedate these days,” the hippy said, laughing again.
“So what was the nature of the infected you engaged this morning, Winston?” Stone asked.
The hippy shrugged, “You can see him just past the Hyundai out there. Shambled up, then
ran across the street, and ate some garbage he saw on the road. Then it took a shit in the ditch. I dropped him when he was pinching it off.”
“How did you know he was infected?” Reynolds asked.
“Cause we shot it,” one of the MPs behind the wheel of the hummer chimed in. “And his eyeball was hanging out and it didn’t seem to bother him too much.”
There had been word of competitions between individual soldiers, squads, and platoons…to see who had the most confirmed kills.
“You said he ran? They can still run? And are processing food?” Stone asked.
“The slow ones are all gone it seems, and yes, I guess they take it in, and pass it out. Seemed to digest right on through. Guess it’s still natural to some degree,” the hippy said.
“Make sure to write up a report on any engagements so we can track this. I know you guys are new, but we need to document all of these things for after action reports,” Reynolds said to the group by locked eyes with Stone specifically. It seemed like these new volunteers could rapidly slip over that line from professional army to a mob with guns, if not developed properly.
“Target right, 450 meters out!” one of the spotters on the mat announced. All eyes swung to the area mentioned. The intersection there led directly to the Jack Edwards airport that had been turned into a giant barbeque joint the night Reynolds’s CV-22 blew up. Just past the road sign and green airport marker, a row of azalea bushes rustled in excess of the breeze coming from the Intracoastal Waterway.
“What do you see?” Stone asked.
“Standby,” the spotter, a regular MP with a tour in Iraq behind him replied as he worked the magnification on the small spotting scope.
“End of the bush. Wearing a black helmet and body armor. It’s a pizza face all right. You have it?” the spotter asked of Oswald.
“I have it. Confirmed infected,” Oswald replied, having turned the long-barreled, wooden-stocked Russian sniper rifle towards the spot where everyone’s eyes were fixed. “What’s the range?”
“471-mikes, no wind,” the spotter said.
“Got it,” Oswald replied after adjusting her aim.
“Send it,” the spotter said.
No sooner had he said it than the rifle cracked loud and harsh, its report echoing off the concrete and asphalt. Reynolds was watching the teenage sniper rather than the bush and she was impressed at how fast and efficient Oswald fired the round, absorbed the recoil, worked the bolt action, and regained her aim on the target.
To the cheer of the crowd, a grey-suited figure had fallen out dead from the azalea bush, arms and legs akimbo and still.
“Looks like he used to be a swat team guy,” Stone observed through the binoculars taken from the hippy. “I don’t recognize the uniform though, maybe was a Foley cop or State police. Not from here, anyway.”
“Hell of a shot,” Reynolds said. She had qualified with an M4 at 100 meters and the tiny front sight of the rifle totally covered the target at that range. She could not fathom a shot almost five times further than that at an obscured target.
“I went for the face, corrected my dope about 60-inches up for the trajectory for bullet drop and then a few over. I didn’t think I could get through the helmet on a forehead shot. Still got the Fatal-T though,” Oswald said, watching patiently through the scope of the rifle for any movement.
“If you see one with a Kevlar helmet aim for the temple area by the ear flap; it’s the weakest part of the helmet. Your round should punch right through,” Stone said to the group.
After a half minute of silence Oswald asked, “How did you find that out, sir?” while still looking through the sniper riflescope. Her little girl voice belayed the fact that she was emotionally as hard as a coffin nail. She was not concerned, just curious.
Stone shrugged. “In Iraq we would arm, equip, and train the local army and national police guys. As soon as we did, we started fighting insurgents wearing Kevlar helmets and carrying M16s.”
“Roger that,” was the girls only reply.
“You almost feel sorry for the infected,” the hippy said as he looked at the still body behind the green azalea bush.
“It’s either them or us,” Oswald nodded and continued her watch. “Mr. Johnny, did you see where my kill brass went?” she asked one of the spotters, referring to the empty brass cartridge casing from the bullet she had fired that was ejected a few feet away from her.
“I’ve got it right here,” the hippy said to the sniper, leaning over and picking the piece up.
“Put it on the hood and I’ll add it to my collection please,” the little girl said sweetly.
— | — | —
CHAPTER 37
WGSH AM Radio Station, Gulf Shores
October 28th 11:30am
Z+18
“This gumbo really isn’t that bad, I promise,” Billy said as he grabbed the cardboard box of containers from the bed of his truck.
“I hate gumbo,” Mack said, peering into the box as he picked it up to see if there was anything else besides soup in there.
“Not this one, you’ll love it. Good stuff. Lots of shrimp,” he said as he carried the box inside the radio station. He saw his son hunched over a radio receiver with a set of headphones up to his ear like some half-assed DJ.
“Wyatt, boy, go grab that cooler in the truck. I brought some iced tea from home for you guys.”
“Any Cokes?” Doug, the former phone technician asked as he looked up from a pile of circuit boards laid out on a makeshift worktable in what had once been the waiting room of the station.
“Those are getting rare. I hear Fantas are worth a half gallon of diesel on the black market right now. Would hate to know what a Coke is worth,” Billy said as he set the box on the corner of the worktable. The Charter Boat Association and their newly found Vietnamese connection brought in varying amounts of deep-sea fish, oysters, and shrimp but this was for subsistence only. Things like red meat, fresh vegetables, and fruit had vanished in the first week. Now canned items were the new luxury item on the island. You can only eat so much fish.
“That sucks,” Doug said, standing up and digging in the box while Mack looked over his shoulder.
Billy noticed that Doug wore a uniform shirt for a kid’s softball team over his dirty jeans, work belt, and boots. After a couple weeks with no power and little water, clothing choices on the island had become odd. Survivors were wearing literally the only things they had left that were clean. It seemed like every other person was the World’s Greatest Dad and so forth. The distressed denim look was in as many residents wore the same pair of jeans repeatedly without washing.
“So how did the trip out to the windmill work out this morning?” Mack asked.
Billy shook his head. He had been sucker enough to run Ted and the rest of the average white guys out to their windmill oilrig for the past few mornings, and then come back before sunset to pluck them off. It was only a mile offshore and the trip took five minutes, but it seemed to last a lifetime. Besides, they were gouging the fiberglass deck and sides of his boat with their toolboxes and equipment.
“They are out there and I got five hours to kill before I have to go get them.”
“Why don’t you just stay out there with them instead of going back and forth?” Wyatt asked, setting the cooler of iced tea from the truck down besides the box of food.
“Hell no. I did that the first day and, for the diesel I saved, I traded years off my life in boredom,” Billy said. It truly was like watching paint dry. The engineers and the pair of local electricians they conned into joining them were baffled all day. For every three steps forward they made towards getting the line hooked up to send electricity to shore, they seemed as if they took one back and two sideways. Billy had tried to pass the time fishing for reds and mackerel off the structure but the conversation wore him out. He considered spearfishing with his mask and snorkel so that he could fill his ears with seawater, but the Gulf water temperature was already down into the 60s s
o he ruled that out.
“This smells good,” Doug said as he opened one of the containers of gumbo and lifted it up to his face. He had already produced a large stainless spoon from his pocket and was sampling it. The new way of life in Gulf Shores meant that most people did not leave the house without a weapon, a flashlight, and the most important tool known to post-Z man: the spoon.
“Are they still planning to turn on the power tomorrow?” Mack asked.
“That’s what they say. The turbine is running, they just have to flip the switch to send the juice down the line on the seabed to shore,” Billy said.
“They have had a crew at the substation by the marina all week getting it ready to send it to the grid,” Wyatt interjected. “It’s really pretty fascinating how they are going to step it down.”
“I’m sure there will probably be phase-outs all along the grid once it goes live,” Doug said, dripping gumbo down the corners of his mouth as he ate.
This degenerated into a highly technical discussion between Doug and Wyatt, joined by two other radio geeks from down the hall about electrical lines, transformers, kilowatts, volts, amps, and so forth during which Mack and Billy picked up their mason jars of gumbo and moved down the hall into the radio studio.
“Good luck with that,” said Billy as they made their getaway.
“They aren’t that bad. We are ready to start transmitting as soon as they get power to the grid.”
“That’s good, with that melt-down in San Antonio last night people are going to need something to listen to,” Billy said. He was referring to the end of the only radio station left on the air. The broadcast had been very popular through the island and all radios with any batteries left tuned to it every night. The Texas DJs and their security guard buddy had run out of food, drank toilet water, and went a little nutty before finally signing off.
Last Stand on Zombie Island Page 24