Stranded Series (Book 5): Into The Gulf

by Gray, W. S.

  “He’s saying that we need to get to their base. It shouldn’t be far,” Harry said. Then he grunted. “Fucking metric system,” he said.

  “What?” Trey asked.

  “It’s about eight hundred feet,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I guess there are two of them, though. One for the French Foreign Legion, the other for a regular Marine detachment,” Harry said. “But, apparently, it’s going to be dicey getting there,” he said.

  Trey laughed. “You think?” he asked. He glanced back toward the port, which was now filling with all sorts of chaos. It appeared that a large horde of the filthy undead had also decided to join the fray. “Shit,” he said. He pointed.

  Harry turned and stared, frowning. He stood there for several seconds, gazing out at the rusted trucks filled with armed crews. “Well, this ought to be fun,” he said.

  “What the hell are we going to do about the crew?” Trey asked.

  Harry pivoted and had a tense exchange with Maxime, which lasted about a minute. Then he smiled. “So, I guess we drew the short sticks. We get to be the guinea pigs,” he said.

  “What does that even mean, dad? Come on!” he said.

  “It means we’re going outside the wire. Again,” he said. “They’re leaving most of the Marines behind to guard the ship. And Sofia,” Harry added. “But we’re going with two other squads down to rendezvous with the others,” he said.

  “We already had to take up all the people from the other frigate. How are we supposed to…” Trey shook his head. He didn’t like any of this.

  “They have two transport planes,” Harry said.

  “THEN WHY IN THE HELL DO THEY NEED US?” Trey asked.

  “Good question,” Harry conceded. But he shrugged in resignation nonetheless.

  Chapter 22

  Trey hesitated.

  The people in front of their squad wore blue helmets and official-looking uniforms. Trey’d been around enough military personnel over the last couple of weeks to be able to recognize a martial bearing, even at first glance. And the dozen or so heavily armed personnel who seemed to want to stop them certainly had that look.

  His finger poised on the outside of his trigger guard, his legs trembling, he watched them, waiting for the first move.

  Thankfully, something diverted the opposing force’s attention.

  Trey watched as a truck screeched to a halt. Several lanky men wearing cheap neon sunglasses and red berets jumped out of the back, leveling their semi-automatic weapons on the blue-helmeted crew and firing.

  As Trey moved in a crouch toward concealment with his dad and the others, he felt adrenaline surging through his veins. It was the familiar thrill of battle. He didn’t like that he liked it, but, yet, it had become something he endeavored to enjoy. He sought out such moments now. And he doubted if he’d ever be the same, if the world managed to eradicate the zombie threat.

  “Should we return fire?” Trey asked, having to shout.

  Harry just stared for several seconds. Then he laughed. “Technically, we wouldn’t be returning it. Guess we’d been initiating contact,” he said. “They’re not shooting at us. They’re shooting at each other,” he said.

  “Who the fuck are they, anyway?” Trey asked. He watched as several of the blue-helmeted people began running aimlessly. They were mowed down, shot mercilessly in the back as they fled.

  Harry turned and yelled to Maxime, who’d took a position not far away, to their left. After a quick exchange, Harry returned his attention back to Trey, smirking. “Guess some of the locals don’t like the U.N. Something about them raping the locals,” Harry said. He shrugged.

  “So…” Trey shook his head. He was confused. He didn’t know anything other than he was crouched behind a noisome dumpster, trying not to get shot.

  “Let’s go,” Harry said. “Same thing as when we went to the bird in Papeete,” he said.

  Trey needed a second to remember exactly what that meant. After all, he’d never been in the military. He didn’t know anything about such procedures. Hell, he’d kicked off the zombie apocalypse stabbing the undead with a shoeshank and bashing heads in with a fire extinguisher. He’d been running around with cans of Diet Coke and a squirt gun, for crying out loud. He’d never even held a gun before Sapphira Island.

  Nonetheless, the others offered him a primer. Harry and Trey ran forward as the others covered their advance.

  Once Harry stopped, Trey went to the opposite side of him, finding cover behind a large cargo container. Raising his rifle, he fired off several rounds, watching as he hit one of the crew from the truck in the leg. The others came forward.

  Then they repeated the process, offering protection so that Trey and his dad could leapfrog back to the front.

  The process seemed so orderly and smooth. There was a certain beauty and even artful elegance to the synchronicity with which they moved. Trey didn’t even speak French, but he could coordinate his activities with the others wordlessly, simply by following Harry’s lead.

  It all went well.

  Until it didn’t.

  Out of his peripheral vision, Trey caught sight of a growing horde. He heard their growling. Panic rising in his throat, he turned. The mob that confronted him cast a damning fear over his entire heart.

  “Dad,” Trey said. He pointed.

  “Shit,” Harry said.

  In unison, father and son aimed their rifles and began firing. They reloaded their magazines as one and then fired again, zombie heads exploding in a fine mist as the NATO rounds impacted their foul, necrotic flesh. Yet, even as the herd was culled by the purifying effects of extreme violence, the mob grew stronger as it advanced.

  Trey paused, understanding that they’d be overwhelmed in seconds, despite their best efforts, if things didn’t drastically change. They needed a miracle. And fast.

  Apparently some divine being had heard their call and elected to answer it. For suddenly, an amazing sound ripped through the humid morning air.

  Their miracle took the form of close air support.

  BRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

  The craft glided through the air, tearing into the undead horde until the only thing that remained was a foul, flopping vestige of its former self. Piles of zombie bodies lay on the ground, their corpses torn and dismembered.

  “Holy shit! When did the French get a Warthog?” Harry asked.

  Chapter 23

  Another group tried to stop them.

  “Shoot!” Harry yelled.

  They’d gotten to within eyesight of the French Foreign Legion base, and the only thing barring their way was a group of heavily armed men in what appeared to be military uniforms, their small trucks positioned in the middle of the road so as to impede anyone’s progress.

  “At them?” Trey asked.

  In response, Harry, with the others, opened fire.

  The crew ahead quickly scattered, only a few of them even bothering to offer more than scant resistance. They fired up their trucks and began retreating almost immediately.

  “That’s how you know,” Harry said, breathing heavily. “I knew they weren’t national police,” he said.

  “How did you know?” Trey asked.

  “Their uniforms. The way they wore their belts,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Come on,” he said.

  And, with that, they were moving forward again.

  They arrived at the gate, out of breath and exhausted from the recent exertion. They probably didn’t appear like the sort of people one might want to let in. And, Trey realized, as he watched and waited, the French Foreign Legion troops hadn’t been given any signal that they should’ve been expecting company.

  The guard positioned behind the gate seemed unimpressed by Maxime’s credentials. He wasn’t opening it. Instead, he merely sat and stared, a small grin crossing his cherubic, closely shaven face.

  Suddenly, a truck roared past.

  Turning, Trey watched with first alarm, then wry amusement as a horde of zom
bies followed the vehicle. When it had moved down the narrow access road about six hundred feet, it suddenly sped up, turning violently. As soon as it had done so, mortar rounds whistled through the air, exploding into the undead mob. Bits and pieces of the creatures flew into the air as their collective growl of confusion and anger met the sudden attack.

  Then the truck that had been maneuvering the zombies rushed forward, approaching the gate. A tense exchange ensued between the guard, the truck’s sole occupant and driver, and Maxime, before finally the gate slowly started opening.

  Maxime motioned for the others to enter the premises.

  “Welcome,” the guard said, smiling and waving at Trey.

  Despite the circumstances, Trey paused. He stopped and stared at the guard. He squinted. “You speak English?” he asked after several seconds.

  “Australian English,” the man said.

  Unable to control himself, Trey rushed forward and gave the uncertain man a hug.

  To be continued…

  Thank you for reading. Please consider leaving a review on Amazon. They help indie authors create the content you love and also give them valuable feedback on what went well… or what didn’t.

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  If you enjoyed this work, you might also enjoy Cops and Zombies.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for inviting me into your heads and homes.

  It is a unique privilege to be given the opportunity to entertain you. I hope you enjoyed this work and will continue along with Trey as he gets closer to home, which also means closer to determining the origins of the zombie apocalypse.

  It may be worth noting that I am aware the French do not have America’s iconic A-10 Warthog. Though there have been reports that the U.S. has contemplated selling the model to other allied nations, it hasn’t happened yet. Hopefully one can suspend their disbelief long enough to get over that minor point in the story. Knowing that many of America’s finest have witnessed the beauty of that characteristic BRRRRRRRTTTTTTT, it seemed fitting to add it at the last minute as a sort of tribute to everyone who’s ever needed a little help from a friend in the sky.

  As always, mistakes are my own. But the true successes are not. Anything that went well is the result of some great people who helped make all of this possible. At the worst possible moment, my personal computer went down just as this manuscript was being completed. Literally hours before it was due. Yet, my girlfriend took care of our sick baby, while mourning the loss of her mother just days prior, so that I could get up extra early and make sure the finished product reached you in time. After spending hours on hold with one company, they told me to talk to another company, who charged me an arm and a leg just to tell me it was really the other company’s fault, and that I’d need to entirely reset my computer. Of course, when I got to a working computer, it turned out my edits and four thousand words had also vanished from the USB I had, and I’d apparently neglected to back up the finished file on the other USBs, which also meant having to conjure up four thousand words in about 2 hours, all on essentially no sleep, in a busy, noisy environment, on a computer I’m not used to writing on, etc.

  The point is, others made this work possible. They gave me time and support so that I could LARP as a writer. Without that help, I couldn’t maintain even a fraction of the output.

  On a related note, one of those supporters was Peg Major, a gifted musical theater performer, director, and one of the kindest, most wonderful humans the world has even known. A creative genius with the rare capacity to turn even the blandest drama into a work of art, she inspired so many and transformed so many lives. Not only that, but she was a great grandmother to my daughter. She always offered to babysit to help me. She offered so much support in every sense of the word, and taught my partner how to be a mother.

  She wasn’t necessarily the zombie apocalypse type. Nonetheless, this book is dedicated to her memory. If you’d like to support a worthy cause and advance the arts in a small community, the Storybook Theater in Cottage Grove, Oregon would be a great to do so while also honoring the legacy of a wonderful woman.

  Thanks again for reading.