by Glyn Gardner
She had never been what you would call super religious. Oh sure, she’d go to church with her parents, and occasionally she would pray. After the world came to an end, she had stopped praying. The Adams brothers and the hell they had put her and Simon through, had convinced her that God wasn’t answering prayers these days.
But, then Mike had died. She could see it in Jen’s eyes. The woman needed something, something more than Kerry could give her. She needed hope. She could hear her uncle’s voice asking her if she’d prayed for Jen or Mike. She had known then that the people of the Island needed something more. When Mrs. Hebert died, she knew she had to do it. She didn’t have a choice.
She nailed the larger cross above the door of the small building. On the steps, just off to one side of the door, she placed the smaller cross. She placed her uncle’s coin at the base of the cross. Mike’s name tag earned a place of honor at the center. Below it, she used a small nail to secure Ms. Hebert’s picture.
She stepped back to inspect the fruits of her labor. She was overtaken by grief. She fell to her knees and began to sob for the dead. She cried and she prayed. She prayed that they were finally at peace. She prayed for protection for the living. And, she prayed for the souls of the undead.
Day 40
The Island
Kerry woke early for breakfast. She didn’t know why, but something felt different today. She wasn’t exactly happy; she just didn’t feel as sad as she had for the past 40 days. As she descended the steps, she saw a small crowd gathering. There weren’t many, maybe ten people. It took her a moment to realize that they were gathering in front of her statue.
She could hear people talking as she got closer. “Who thought of this?” “When did they put this up?” “Is this going to be a church?”
She looked at the wooden statue. It was not the same statue she had left the night before. She saw the items she had placed there before her prayers. But, there were others. Someone had left a baseball card, the kind you’d find in a package with a stale piece of bubble gum. They had scribbled a name on the card. The name was Walt. It had been pinned to the cross right below Mike’s name tag.
There were others. Someone had placed a small pink teddy bear at the foot of the cross. Several other pictures had appeared. As she looked on, and the ever-growing crowd continued speculating, Sam knelt beside the cross. Tears fell from his cheeks. He used a thumb tack to fix a dark blue piece of cloth too the cross. The cloth had been cut from a shirt, and had a name on it. It read Frank Huddleston.
Kerry stepped forward and placed an arm around the big fireman. The others could not hear the words she whispered into his ear, but they saw his reaction. He turned towards her and wept. His back heaved and convulsed as he sobbed into the younger woman’s shoulder. She held him close.
A black man with a grey beard knelt beside them. He put his arm over Sam’s shoulder. Soon, his body too was convulsing as tears ran down his cheek.
Soon another person joined the huddle. This woman was in her thirties. Kerry had seen her on their first day on the Island. She remembered because the woman had had a pink teddy bear stuffed into the pocket of her red coat; the same bear that was at the foot of the cross. Kerry wept harder at the thought of the child who had originally held that bear for comfort.
The rest of the crowd stood and watched. Each and every one of them knew the unending pain that these people felt. Every one of them had watched as loved ones died, sometimes they had not been mere observers in those deaths. No one judged these poor souls. The love and compassion that the group held was palpable. Soon the foursome stood, eyes red and faces slick with tears.
As if commanded to do so by a single thought, the crowd converged on the four survivors. They embraced each other. It was as if someone had called for a group hug. Then as one, the hug ended and the group separated.
There, standing fifteen feet away from Kerry was Jen. Her face betrayed her confusion. She gasped slightly as her hand rose to her mouth. She had seen it. She saw the cross. She knew instantly what it was. She saw Mike’s name tag at the top, above all others. Tears began to pour from her eyes. She couldn’t contain herself. She fell to the ground, prostrate, before the cross.
This time, the crowd did not wait. Mike had died since he arrived on the Island. People knew of him, and they certainly knew of The Angel of the Island. As one, they closed in on her and embraced her. People whispered their condolences and other words of kindness.
Finally Kerry made her way to face Jen. She could see the pain. She held her tightly, letting her friend cry. She cried with her for the second time. Finally she whispered three words to her friend. The words didn’t have the power to end Jen’s pain. But, they did have the power to give her hope, to lift her heart just a little. “I love you,” Kerry had told her.
With those words, Jen knew that she couldn’t quit. She had to find the inner strength to go on. She didn’t have a choice. For, in the past month, she had grown to love not only Kerry; but Theresa, Jackson, SSgt Brown, Sgt Procell, Indira, Mrs. Arrington and the children. She had lost the love of her life, but there were so many more people who loved her and whom she loved.
“Thank you,” she whispered to the younger girl. “I love you too.”
Terence Westergart felt his heart sink as the man with the Cajun accent continued to talk. The last month had been hell for the 62 year old professor of military history. He and several members of his class had spent most of that time dodging zombies and collecting survivors as they crossed the state of Missouri on foot. He had even managed to save three children under the age of six; a feat that had not, according to the River Rats who rescued them, been accomplished to date. “Even Staff Sergeant Brown hadn’t managed to pull out any young kids,” reported one of the soldiers.
The man was railing on about his word being law, banishment being the only punishment. This did not sit well with Terence. The black man had served 20 years in the US Army, finally retiring from the Special Forces community as a Major. He was first-and-foremost a patriot. The man in front of him did not sound like an American leader, but a dictator right out of some banana republic shithole like the ones Terence had been in during the 1980’s.
“In closing,” the man finally said. “Our foraging groups have run into some people who are, well, not very friendly. We are on a war footing here on the Island. I will be breaking you up and assigning you to different work groups.”
Oh crap, Terence thought. He’d led his group out of the hot zone and into a war zone. This was not going to end well. The man began walking down the line of newcomers. There were 27 in all, many from Terence’s original group. The children were separated immediately.
The man would stand in front of each person and ask them a few questions. He would then point them towards one of four waiting individuals. Two of those individuals were wearing military uniforms. One was a tall guy with glasses. He wore a silver bar in the center of his chest. The other was shorter and looked a few years younger. He wore a gold bar on his uniform. The shiny metal contrasted with the camouflage. It didn’t look right to the old soldier.
“Where did you come from?” the man asked Terence as he stepped in front of him.
“I’m out of Joplin, Missouri,” the older black man said quietly. The man’s eyes lit up as a smile crossed his face.
“You’re him,” he announced. “You’re that guy who got all those folks out of Missouri.” He reached out a hand. “Your reputation precedes you. Welcome to the Island. I’ve got to hear how you did it someday. But for now, I need to know what you did in Missouri before the world ended?”
“I was a teacher,” he answered. He noticed the man had not released his hand.
“And, before that?” the man continued to pry. “What was it in your past that taught a professor of military history the skills needed to evacuate over thirty people from a busy university? Then, you walked them from one side of the state of Missouri to the other All the while, you were able to rescue other
survivors. So, Mr. Westergart, what did you do before you became a teacher?” It didn’t go unnoticed by Terrance that the man knew what subject he taught.
“I retired from the Army,” he answered stoically. He could see the frustration building in the other man’s face. He knew eventually, the story was going to come out. Ok, he decided, he might as well spill it. “I retired as a Major. My last seven years were spent with the seventh Special Forces Group.”
He could see the man’s anger subsiding. He thought he’d won. Fine, let him think that. It didn’t matter. The man smiled a crooked smile and pointed to the tall soldier with the silver bar on his chest. “Go see Lieutenant Brown. I think he might be able to use you.”
Lt. Brown watched carefully as the eight men and two women walked towards him. They all seemed to be in good shape and fairly young; all but one. He stood out like a sore thumb. He was short, about five-six or so, he thought. He wore fairly thick glasses and was a little large around the middle. Lt. Brown estimated the black man to be in his late 50’s
He wasn’t wearing jeans and hiking boots like the rest. The man was dressed in a pair of dark slacks and blue button-up shirt. The only thing missing from the black man’s clothing was a tie. That and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
“Good morning,” he announced as they got closer to him. “Please line up here, facing me.” The group fell in shoulder-to-shoulder. He noticed that the older man was at the end of the line.
“I’m Lieutenant Brown,” he began. “If the Bishop has sent you to me, then he believes something about you will make good soldiers. I truly hope so.” He paused as he let that news sink in. The black man on the end was the only one who did not have an expression of surprise. Who is this man?
“We’ll see.” He walked in front of the first man. He was tall and lanky. He had a full beard, and his hair was longer than Lt. Brown would have liked it. He looked to be about twenty. “What’s your name?”
“Harold Hanson,” the man answered.
“So Harold, tell me about your life before the fall.”
“Sir, I was a boatswain’s mate in the Coast Guard.”
“Good, where were you stationed?”
“Sir, I was stationed at Gulfport Mississippi for three years before I got out to go to school.” The young man answered. Before Lt. Brown could ask another question the man continued. “Sir, are you the Staff Sergeant Brown we’ve all heard about?”
Heard about, who had heard about him? He was taken by surprise. “Well,” he said as he regained his composure. “I was Staff Sergeant Brown. The Bishop has seen fit, as the civilian authority on the Island, to promote me to Lieutenant.” At that, the group let out a collective sigh of relief. The man in front of him suddenly shoved his hand out. “Sir, it is an honor to meet you.” He accepted the man’s hand
The next few minutes he met with the rest of his new soldiers. Harold was the only one with actual military experience. Two had gone to ROTC in high school, one was in college ROTC, two had been washed out of basic training for one reason or another, two were cadets at different police academies, and one was actually a police officer.
Finally he stood in front of the older man. His story astonished not only Lt. Brown, but the rest of the group as well. Four of them had crossed the state of Missouri with the man and hadn’t known his story.
Terrence Westergart had joined the US Army in 1971 as a Private at the age of 18. The war in Vietnam was winding down. In 1980, he was given the opportunity to earn his Ranger tab and black beret. While a Ranger, he jumped into Grenada in 1982. By that time he had earned the rank of Staff Sergeant. The next year he was selected for the Army’s Officer Candidate School.
By 1985, he had passed the Army’s Special Force’s Q Course. He was then assigned to an A-Team in Honduras. He spent the better part of the rest of the 1980’s in Central America. He was wounded during Operation Just Cause in 1989, the invasion of Panama. He lifted his shirt to show them the scar as he told this part of his story.
While recovering from his wounds, he was promoted to Major. He was sent to Columbia after four months convalescing. There, he took over as commander of a Special Forces B-Team. Two years later he retired from the Army with a nice pension, and a chest full of medals; most of which, he reported, are still classified.
After earning a Master’s degree in International Studies, he began teaching. He had held several different positions at several different schools in the mid-west. “But,” as he said,” that is the boring part that no one wants to hear about.”
Harold picked up Mr. Westergart’s story from there. He told them of the day the zombies had overrun the campus. He couldn’t praise his professor enough for saving the lives of many of his classmates. He reported that many more could have been saved had they only listened to the quiet and unassuming history professor.
Lt Brown and Mr. Westergart watched as another truck drove through the gate. It was the sixth truck of the day. He’d been mulling over this conversation in his head all afternoon. “Mr. Westergart,” he began.
“Terence,” the older man interrupted. “Please call me Terence. I’m Mr. Westergart to those kids back there. I’m Terence to an old soldier.” Lt. Brown smiled. He felt at ease around this man. There was something about him that just gave him a sense of peace. That was when he knew he had to continue.
“Terence,” he finally said. “I don’t know how to ask this, so I’m going to just say it. These people need you. They need you to lead this little army of ours. You have way more training and experience than any of my soldiers, me included. Hell, I was just a weekend warrior until I got activated for this.”
The older man looked him in the eyes. He had a look of compassion and confidence. “I had a feeling that’s why you wanted to take a walk with this old soldier.” He placed his hand on Lt. Brown’s shoulder and smiled.
He knew what the man was going through. Despite the stories going around, not everyone who followed him had survived. He had made mistakes and people had paid for them. He had spent more than a few sleepless nights asking God to let someone else lead his people to safety. He had finally accepted the fact that God had put him where he was for a reason. God was truly using his skills to finally save lives and not take them.
He simply nodded his head. “Ok,” he said softly.
Later that evening, Lt. Brown and the Bishop discussed Terence and his experience. At first the Bishop was against the idea of handing his army over to Mr. Westergart. Lt. Brown did not understand why. The man had more combat experience and training than the rest of the island combined. Finally, the Bishop relented. Lt. Brown immediately felt the weight lifted from his shoulders.
He found Terence eating dinner. He’d forgotten that the man hadn’t eaten a decent meal in over a month. He and two of his students were laughing and joking as they ate. Lt. Brown almost felt sorry for the man. He had a bad feeling that he wouldn’t be seeing the man laughing and joking much in the near future.
“Major Westergart,” he interrupted. The man and his companions stopped laughing. The companions looked confused. They had been present for Terence’s story, but they had not been made privy to the conversation he and Lt. Brown had at the main gate. Terence’s smile disappeared. “It’s done?” he asked quietly.
“Yes sir,” the younger man acknowledged. The older man’s demeanor changed. He set his jaw, his eyes set in a look of professional determination.
“Good. Show me what you guys are using as a TOC around here.” He stood from the table, excusing himself as he did. “You can show me what we’ve been doing and what you folks have planned. I want to know everything you do about the other folks out there.” This last statement was made as he walked. Mr. Westergart, unassuming professor, was back leading soldiers again. He felt exhilarated inside. This was why God had brought him to this place. This was his raison d’être.
Leaning over the map, Major Westergart pointed to an area south of I-10. “This is where you ran into th
em?” Lt. Brown nodded his head in the affirmative. “Any idea how many there are? How about weapons and equipment, could you tell?”
“I don’t know. There were around a dozen motorcycles in front of the church. I don’t know if there are others or if there are folks without bikes. As for weapons, I know at least two of the weapons firing at us were rifles. The rest sounded like pistol.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry sir, we got caught in an ambush. I was too worried about getting my folks out.” He’d known better. He’d always trained his scouts to fight with their eyes, ears, and brains. He’d forgotten to look and listen. The scout in him was ashamed.
“Don’t sweat it,” Terence said as he saw the look of consternation on the younger man’s face. “You got your people out of an ambush. You made it home and were able to warn these people of the danger.”
An hour later, Terence felt like he had a good handle on the situation. He knew as much as he was going to about the potential enemy. He knew about the Haven. He knew about the plans that had been put in place to secure the island. He didn’t like them
“So, how many of these shipping container bunkers do you have on this island?”
“We should be up to about ten or eleven by now,” Lt. Brown answered.
“OK that’s plenty,” Terence proclaimed. He could see that Lt. Brown looked dejected.
“Look, I like the idea of throwing up some static defenses on the Island. It gives people something tangible to see and touch that makes them feel safe. But, we don’t have the man power to keep them manned and ready to repel bad guys all the time. Plus, we can’t get them close enough to the beach for them to stop an invasion from the water. That means we give up the woods on the south side of the island to an invader.”