The Last Bastion

by K. W. Callahan

  The fishing boat, led by Andrew and Ms. Mary’s kayak that had just reached the riverbank, was still a good ten yards from shore when the next few biters made their appearance. They straggled down the access road that led past the levee to where the entrance of the locks met with the river. And by the time Andrew, Ms. Mary, and most of the others had clambered shore, there were at least ten of the fang-bearing creatures rapidly approaching down the access road.

  “Josh!” Michael called as he grabbed the packs that held their extra guns and ammo from his position at the rear of the freshly arrived fishing boat. “Take Julia and Charla and set up a perimeter! Patrick, get as many guns out and loaded as you can!” he handed the packs to his son. “Caroline, Wendell, Christine, Andrew, Jack, Justin, you all help move the boats! We don’t have time to unpack everything! See if you can carry the canoes without unloading them! We have to make this portage lightning fast!” he instructed as quickly as he could.

  Michael’s mind was swirling a mile a minute. First, it had been processing the possibilities of going over the dam. Then it was processing the possibilities of how to handle such a fate should it occur. Now it was dealing with how to manage the relocation of their fleet while staving off a biter attack.

  By the time Michael was out of the boat, Josh, Julia, and Charla had set up a perimeter defense about 20 yards from where the boats had landed. They were firing their handguns at the first few biters approaching from the access road. They fired slowly, yet steadily. Their experience told them to wait until the biters were close enough that they could take them down with just a shot or two, but not so close that they managed to be overwhelmed by the biters attacking en masse.

  Meanwhile, Andrew and Ms. Mary were in the process of hauling their kayak ashore.

  As soon as they had it up the levee’s slight incline, Michael called, “Andrew! Help the others with the canoes! As soon as you get them to open water, come back and help with the fishing boat!”

  Michael began unhooking some of the heavier supplies, like the generator, that would make the fishing boat too heavy to carry. As he worked, he would glance up to check the perimeter holding back the biters. From there, he’d glance over at Ms. Mary, still struggling with her kayak, then over to the group working to relocate the canoes, and then back to his own work.

  It was overwhelming. There just wasn’t enough time. More biters were coming down the access road. And Michael knew the three Blenders forming their current perimeter didn’t have the firepower or the spare ammunition to hold them all off.

  Caroline and Wendell picked up the fronts of the two canoes. Jack and Justin each grabbed a center support with a hand. And Andrew and his mother grabbed the rears of the canoes. They needed to heft the canoes the 600 feet past the locks to where they could put in where the river resumed its course.

  The team of six worked to carry the boats, waddling as quickly as they could, across a grassy area lining the locks. This led to a parking lot in front of a US Army Corps of Engineers building. Next they moved past the building’s entry drive, and finally down a hill that ran alongside a flight of at least 50 concrete steps leading to the base of the locks.

  Sweating and out of breath, the group set the canoes down on a landing beside the water and did an abrupt about-face. They again bypassed the steps, running back up the hill the way they’d come to assist with the fishing boat. But halfway back, they encountered a group of biters slinking through the parking lot adjacent to the Corps of Engineers building. This immediately stopped them as Christine paused to draw her handgun and dispatch the five biters, putting them all down with as many bullets.

  It didn’t take her more than a minute to dispatch the wayward biters. But by the time the canoe carriers had gotten the final hundred yards back to the end of the locks, they found the other Blenders embroiled in a scene of chaos.

  Michael had given up his work unloading the heaviest items from the fishing boat and had gone to help Patrick who had joined the perimeter defense. There were at least 30 biters coming down the access road and filtering through the tree-studded area surrounding it.

  Ms. Mary was still struggling to drag her kayak up the levee to the access road. But she was finding this difficult as she was still attached to the fishing boat by the tow line that had been tossed to her earlier.

  Unable to find a place on the kayak to attach the line when Wendell had tossed it to her while out on the open river, she had tied the rope around her midsection. The strain on her torso as she and Andrew had assisted in towing the bulky fishing boat had been almost unbearable. And while it was impossible for the others to hear her over the sounds of their paddling and panting, the pain it had caused was enough to have Ms. Mary crying out several times. In addition, the noosed rope around Ms. Mary’s midsection had been drawn so tight that she was now having difficulty detaching it from around her. And Michael was so busy directing the action, trying to unload the fishing boat, and then fighting off the approaching biters that he hadn’t noticed Ms. Mary still tethered to the line.

  “Mary! You doing okay?!” he turned to yell after shooting a biter closest to him in the chest and dropping it.

  “I’m fine!” she dropped her paddle to work at the rope still tied around her.

  She clawed frantically at the knot, but the rope had become wet, which had made the knot even more difficult to get undone. She then tried to wriggle her way out of the cinch. But again, she met with little success as the rope had pulled tight, noose-like around her soft midsection, making it too small to push past her hips.

  Meanwhile, the other Blenders had returned from the canoe drop.

  “See if you can get the fishing boat!” Michael called to them as he holstered his handgun, exchanging it for one of the few remaining rifles. “We’ll hold the biters!” he shot another biter, blowing half its face off in the process. “Josh! Go help them!” he called, not wanting to give up the firepower, but knowing the group would need the extra muscle.

  But even with Wendell, Josh, and Andrew in the water, hefting from behind, and the others pulling the fishing boat from the front, it was no use. They’d get it halfway up before the angle of the raised levee and the slippery rocks from which the levee was formed caused the fishing boat’s metal hull to slip back into the water.

  “Michael! We need help over here!” Josh cried. “Ms. Mary, can you help pull!” he called to the aged woman still tugging at the rope that bound her to her kayak. He knew it wouldn’t be much extra help, but every little bit counted. They were so close to getting the fishing boat up the bank. They just needed that little something extra.

  “This damn rope!” Ms. Mary gestured in frustration to her bindings.

  “Hold on!” Josh pulled out a pocketknife. In seconds, he had the knife open and the rope cut from around Ms. Mary’s waist.

  “Thank god!” Ms. Mary heaved a huge sigh as her constricted abdomen was released. She felt like she’d just unbuttoned her tightest pants after a humongous Thanksgiving feast.

  “Come on,” Josh grabbed her by the hand and led her to one side of the fishing boat. “On the count of three!” he instructed the others as they took up positions around the boat.

  “One…two…three!”

  Everyone pushed or pulled with everything they had, slipping and straining, red-faced and teeth gritted.

  But their efforts were still to no avail.

  “Hold on!” Josh called to the group over the increased firing of those securing their perimeter. “Let me get more help!”

  He ran the 20 or so yards over to where Michael had just taken down two more biters. Patrick let loose with a round from his shotgun. The shot laid out two approaching biters and sent another one screeching away in pain. It hobbled back down the road, its right leg riddled with buckshot.

  “Michael!” he yelled. “We still can’t get the fishing boat out! We need more muscle!”

  Michael turned to look at Josh. Josh could tell the man’s mental wheels were spinning. Michael
’s eyes darted back and forth as he searched for an answer as to how to handle the debacle they were facing. If he weakened their defensive perimeter by giving Josh extra people to help with the boat, he risked their position being overrun by biters. Then they’d all be screwed. But if he didn’t give Josh the help he needed, they wouldn’t be able to relocate the fishing boat. Then they wouldn’t be able to get back to the safety of the river, thus, likely facing a death by biter anyway. It was an impossible decision, but one he had to make, and had to make quickly.

  “Patrick! Reload!” he called to his son as he himself reloaded his rifle. Then he pulled his .45 handgun and took up the point position in their defensive perimeter. “Charla, Julia, reload!” he said as he took down another biter. “Patrick and I have to help with the boat. Can you handle it here for a minute?”

  “Yeah!” came Charla’s confident response.

  Michael held his position until Charla and Julia had reloaded their handguns, then he gave Patrick’s shotgun to Charla and his rifle to Julia.

  “They’re both loaded,” he explained. “Use these first, your handguns as backup pieces. Fall back if you start getting overwhelmed. Don’t be heroes.”

  He could see still more biters coming down the road, and he knew the Blenders didn’t have long.

  “Come on,” he grabbed Patrick and pulled him along to where the others were standing around the fishing boat. “Grab that line!” he instructed Patrick, pointing to the rope that had just been cut from Ms. Mary but that was still attached to the front of the fishing boat.

  “Okay, everybody!” Michael called. “Positions!”

  He took hold of the line alongside his son and waited as everyone took up their spots around the fishing boat.

  “On the count of three! One…two…three!”

  The group all heaved in tandem, and gradually, the fishing boat slid up and out of the water, along the sloping side of the levee, and onto the access road.

  The group breathed a collective sigh of relief, but it was short lived. Michael quickly realized that while the most difficult lifting portion of their work might be over, they now had to carry, slide or drag the fishing boat the several hundred yards to the other side of the locks.

  “Come on!” he urged as the others regrouped, caught their breaths, and flexed sore hands and arms. “No time to waste! Let’s get this thing around the locks and back in the water!”

  Michael knew that if the biters kept coming at them piecemeal, Charla and Julia stood a good chance of holding them off while the boat was moved. But if the biters got organized, like the ones who had attacked the tower, the two women would be overwhelmed even with the additional firepower he’d provided them. It only took a group of a dozen biters attacking in unison, a fouled weapon, a little overzealous firing, both women having to reload their weapons at the same time, biters attacking from multiple directions at once, or some combination of the aforementioned issues for everything to fall apart.

  Michael did a quick scan of the access road and the area around it. His rapid mental calculation put the number of biters within a 100-yard radius at around a dozen, maybe a few more. At least 15 dead or dying biters lay sprinkled around the access road. Several more had retreated after being wounded or had crawled off into the overgrowth at the edge of the access road.

  Michael knew there was no time to lose. He had no idea how many more biters were out there or if this was just the advanced guard of a far larger herd.

  “Let’s go!” Michael ordered the others as he placed the generator and other heavy supplies he’d unloaded earlier back inside the boat.

  “Are we trying to carry this thing or what?” Patrick threw his hands up, not knowing what his father wanted.

  “I think it’s too heavy,” Michael said. “I think we just have to sort of drag it along the ground.”

  “Won’t that hurt the bottom?” Christine asked.

  “Won’t help it. But we don’t have much choice,” Michael answered. “Now come on. Once we get this thing moving, we need to try to keep it moving. We’ll have momentum on our side.”

  Everyone but the perimeter guard, and Ms. Mary, who had gone back to deal with her kayak, had formed up around the fishing boat.

  “Everyone ready?!” Michael called. “One…two…three!”

  The group got the fishing boat sliding along the access road pavement and eventually onto the grass, which allowed it to slide even easier.

  Meanwhile, the covering fire from Charla and Julia continued. They fired a round every few seconds as a biter got within what the women felt was an acceptable range to offer a high-percentage shot.

  The fishing boat team made decent progress and had reached the Corp of Engineer building parking lot in just over a minute. But there, the slippery grass ended, and with it, the ease with which they’d been sliding the heavy boat.

  Back at the access road, Charla and Julia were facing a sudden influx of approaching biters. While they’d dispatched at least six, more than double that number had replaced them. And a group of around ten more had appeared on the grassy area through which the fishing boat had just been dragged.

  With their role now to act as rear-guard more than perimeter defense, Charla realized that they themselves now faced being cut off from the fishing boat by the appearance of this new group of biters. They needed to move quickly and before they ran out of ammunition.

  “Let’s go!” Charla called to Julia, who had just taken down a biter with two rounds from the rifle that Michael had given her. Charla let loose with a blast of her own from Patrick’s shotgun, taking down another biter.

  The two backed away from the access road and made their way onto the grassy area, taking the path along which the fishing boat had just been dragged. Their departure seemed to energize the biters approaching on the access road. The sudden decrease in gunfire seemed to quicken the beasts’ pace.

  But Charla and Julia’s retreat only led them closer to the new group of biters approaching from the other direction. And they now found themselves cut off from the fishing boat that was already over 100 yards ahead of them. There were eight biters in this group spread out across the grass in front of them. Charla quickly assessed their situation and calculated the odds based on their available weaponry, skill with shooting, and proximity of biters.

  “You take those three over there,” Charla gestured toward the biters to Julia’s right. “I’ll deal with these,” she nodded toward the five biters in front of them, ranging in distance from 10 yards away to 40 or more. The two closest to her of the five were coming at her side by side. Therefore, she leveled Patrick’s shotgun, waited two seconds for the biters to close the gap by a few more yards, and then squeezed the trigger.

  The spray of hot lead ripped into the biters’ midsections, dropping one and sending the other one screeching away, limping and bleeding as it went. Charla didn’t bother to finish it off. Doing so would be a waste of ammunition. She advanced toward the next closest biter at a steady pace, ensuring that Julia remained close.

  Julia had already taken down one of the three biters she had been assigned, and she looked ready to deal with the second. When the biter was about ten feet from her, she squeezed the trigger of her rifle, but nothing happened. She squeezed it again, and then again, in rapid succession, but with no result.

  “Damn!” she hissed to herself. She swung the rifle around behind her on the shoulder strap on which it hung and pulled her handgun from where it was jammed into her waistband. But as she yanked the weapon out, it snagged on the top of her pants, pulling out of her hand and falling to the ground. She quickly knelt and grabbed it, but she picked it up upside down, and therefore had to right it. As she found the trigger and prepared to fire, the approaching biter was just feet from her, its arms outstretched, grasping at her. It grabbed the arm Julia was holding the gun in, keeping her from raising it to fire. She used her free arm to try to push the biter, a female, away, but it was grabbing, scratching, and snapping at her feroc
iously, and the two remained locked together. Julia held the handgun tightly and twisted her arm around and away from the biter’s hold, hoping to break its grip. After several more such attempts, she managed to free her arm. But the biter was still there, still grappling with her, scrabbling at her coat.

  Julia took several steps back, hoping to give herself room to get off a shot, but the biter pursued her just as quickly as she backed away. It clung to her coat, trying to bite her, its head lurching forward, teeth snapping at her neck, her face, her shoulder, her coat-covered arm that she held out against the biter to keep it at bay.

  Finally, after retreating a good ten feet, biter in tow, Julia found enough of a gap between them to get off two shots that hit the biter in the chest. It was Julia’s fourth shot out of seven that she knew she had in the magazine.

  But now, several more biters had joined the attack on her and Charla. The fishing boat ahead of them was almost out of sight. Julia prayed that someone would come back to help them. But it appeared they were all too busy trying to get the fishing boat to the water.

  It was then that she heard gunfire behind where she and Charla were fighting for their lives. She turned to see Ms. Mary behind them. They had forgotten all about the poor old gal in their own fight for freedom. Ms. Mary was standing beside her kayak, about 50 yards behind Charla and Julia, gun out, firing at the biters that had surrounded her at the edge of the access road.

  But there was no way Charla and Julia could help Ms. Mary. They could barely help themselves. While Charla had dispatched almost all of her assigned biters, six more had arrived to join the fight. And Charla was now out of shells for the shotgun and was relying on her own seven-round handgun for which she’d already burned three rounds on the freshly arrived biters.

  Julia glanced around her, searching for some way out. The locks, full of water, were behind them. They could make a jump for it, but then they’d be trapped in the frigid waters of the slick-sided steel and concrete box. It was at least eight feet from the top of the locks down to the water. Once inside, she saw no way for them to climb back up and out. They’d just freeze to death. But what other option was there? It was freeze in the lock water, be eaten by biters, or be bitten and become one.