Last Stand on Zombie Island (21 page)

“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.

A long, wooden-stocked rifle, almost as tall as the hippy, rested inside. A short metal scope about as long as a cola can was mounted solidly on the weapon.

“Russian Mosin sniper rifle, eh?” Stone said as he peered in the bag. A product of Stalin’s WWII assembly lines, Stone had seen a few in Iraq where the local insurgents often made good use of them. They could reach out almost a full kilometer with pinpoint accuracy.

“Ever shot that thing?” Reid asked.

“I bought three, 800-round cases of ammo back for that Y2K scam and got about a case left. It’s a pretty groovy old gun,” the hippy said, putting the earpiece of his mp3 player back in his ear as he zipped his guitar case up.

“You’ll do,” Stone said and patted the hippy on the back as the man nodded to the sound in his ear buds.

“Yeah, yeah, fucking
groovy,
man. I beat up hippies in the ’70s, eat a dick,” Reid muttered through his dip behind Stone.

“Let’s get them sworn in, Top, training starts tomorrow.”

— | — | —

ChapteR 27

Chief Hoffman sat on the deck with his head resting against the life ring on the hook above him. He bounced the back of his head against the life ring rhythmically to a beat only he could hear.

“This shit is gonna get old fast, kid,” the Chief said to Myers as he blew smoke up into the air from his menthol, the young Coastie standing by the Mark II machinegun on the port bow. The cutter’s only other seaman was operating the Mark II on the starboard bow.

A 66-foot twin-masted sailing sloop from Destin was dead in the water 300-yards off the cutter’s bow. The sloop had appeared early that morning from the Gulf and signaled that they had no radio. A crowd of about a dozen stood on her deck looking across to the
Fish Hawk
and its ominous machine guns.

“Fly a yellow Q-flag if you have one and remain on your boat for 72 hours, anchored away from the dock, or we will open fire on you, understood?” called out Jarvis’s voice over the loudhailer.

The collective group on the sloop could be seen nodding and talking to themselves.

“If you need food or water just signal and we will have some brought to you. We only do this for everyone’s safety,” Jarvis called out to the boat. This brought smiles from the new arrivals as they waved and began to make their way just off the harbor to drop their anchor and moor for the next three days.

Since coming back from Dauphin Island, the
Fish Hawk
had anchored just off the marina, acting as quarantine vessel. It was their job to check every boat coming into the marina for infected, and add anyone clean enough to pass to the list of new residents. It was boring and usually they would only see one or two new boats a day. Refugees from Mobile or Pensacola who had been at sea during the outbreak on fishing trips or recreational cruises made up the most part. The boaters had found their original harbors overrun and wandered the coastline trying to find a safe port. None relayed good reports of the coastal cities of Florida they had passed to get to Gulf Shores.

The cutter was able to maintain her existence but not much else. The Cook had fired up the desalination equipment; making their own freshwater at a rate of 200-gallons per day. This meant they had all the water they could drink, and short fresh showers. Commodities donated by a local restaurant whose owner was a retired Coastie augmented whatever they already had on board, and what they could catch with the fishing poles and tackle the crew had.

This kept the cutter’s contact with the shore to a minimum, which is just the way Jarvis wanted it.

The
Fish Hawk
had some 2800 gallons of fuel oil in her tanks when she left Dauphin Island on the first day of the outbreak but she was starting to run low. While at anchor she only used four gallons an hour on her generators, but after ten days, she was riding high in the water.

Myers, the Coastie on the port machinegun, was an 18-year old fresh out of training. The poor kid had needed six months to get through Cape May. Somehow, he had been reverted twice during boot camp. On his first day aboard, Hoffman had caught the kid trying to sneak a four-pack of hard lemonade onboard in his bag. Now the young man looked like he was growing a mustache. The fresh faced kid needed to shave every three days, more out of principal rather than need, so his effort resulted in nothing more than a thin film on his upper lip.

“What’s on your lip, kid? Forget to wipe it after chow or something?” Hoffman asked.

“I was thinking of growing a ‘stache, Chief.”

“Just hold up right there. A ‘stache is a commitment. It will change your life. A mustache will rock your world. It’s noble. You ever seen a porn star without one? All I am missing is a red Ferrari. Ever seen how a mustache can take a punch? The enemy sees this mustache and I am inside their OODA-Loop, which is right where I want to be. It repels cold sores, hell even Jesus had one,” Hoffman explained.

The two stood there as the young seaman laughed and looked out over the calm water. A dozen boats were moored around them waiting for their quarantine to end.

“Is it true what the Cook was saying about the Skipper, Chief?” the kid asked Hoffman.

“Well that depends on what he said, Seaman Myers,” Hoffman replied.

“He said that you two were stuck on that bridge fighting for your life, and the Skipper left you there with no support. He also says that the Skipper refused to let us handle business at Dauphin Island,” the boy said quietly

Hoffman lit another cigarette. He was down to his last square and was dreading the end of the line. “The Skipper is young and this is his first command. You should know something about how that works. Didn’t your mom tell you that you learn as much from mistakes as you do from successes?”

The boy blinked and shrugged, “Rodriguez and I wanted to go ashore with you guys at the bridge, but Skipper told us no.”

“Cookie and I had it under control up there and besides, someone had to stay on the boat and man the machineguns, copy? Besides, doing anything at Dauphin Island would have been a waste of ammo.”

The boy nodded. Once you have their buy-in, the rest was cake. Hoffman had been an NCO for years and knew that was the secret. Some kids had to be shown the light, others had to have their balls beaten down by the light, but it was all up to them and he could do it both ways. It may have been Jarvis’s command, but it was the Chief’s boat. When the first coastal cave dweller took a canoe out to sea that was large enough to have a crew, you can bet he had a Chief Petty Officer on board to make sure they came back.