Last Stand on Zombie Island (29 page)

“Hey, boss, we got another patrol coming,” one of Spud’s disciples called down from the back of the truck. The damned patrols were new. For nearly two weeks, Spud and company had been the only presence along the Island from Fort Morgan to Gulf Shores. Now these damned hummers kept tooling along the coastline, watching for Germans or some such shit. Every time they came around Spud and his people went to ground and hid behind condominiums and sand dunes until they passed. It was cramping the shit out of his program.

“Get back behind the dune over there, I’m almost done here. These clowns let this thing break down in our neighborhood so I’ll be damned if I let it out of here without paying taxes on my road,” Spud said as the fuel level topped out in the yellow can.

“They are getting pretty close, Spud. This is the third one today,” the burnout said.

“Relax,” Spud replied as he crab-walked low behind the truck and over the sand dune with the five gallons of diesel. “This is my house; they are just driving through.”

The National Guard hummer, with two chubby guys in bright camouflage uniforms in it, passed by. They did not even glance at the garbage truck or Spud and his partner hiding behind the sea oats just past it. No matter how much he protested it, Spud knew that the happy times of his life were already in trouble.

“Okay, let’s head back to the Clubhouse and see what everyone else has come across this morning.”

««—»»

“Want to hear the Gulf Shores burnout mating call?” Spud shook a pill bottle to where the Oxycontin inside hit against the lid with a plastic
tap tap tap
.

His tribe laughed at their chief as he went over the day’s take: a few bottles of booze, some more gas, some diesel. They already had dozens of milk jugs, gas cans, igloo coolers, and just about any other thing they could find with a lid full of gas stacked everywhere around the back of the condo, hidden from site from the road by the multi-level structure. Ammo that did not fit any of the guns they had, and guns that were vice versa. Some pot, some smokes, lighters, and a few other miscellaneous items.

What worried Spud was the fact that the amount of food brought in every day was dropping as cans of soup, tuna fish and chili became increasingly rare.

“So what’s for dinner boss?” one of the newcomers named Jeff or Jett or something said. Spud thought he looked vaguely familiar in the sense that he had served time with him. Was it in Donaldson or County?

“Go grab a can and get to work if you hungry son, damn, you know the rules here. Get in where you fit in,” Spud replied as he popped an Oxycontin washed down with a priceless
Mountain Dew.

“They got hot food in town boss,” the newcomer protested.

“Then take your ass into town and get some food. Be sure to register and get your little card and work your ass off for those clowns. I hate working a job. Terrible way to make a living. Takes up all your time,” Spud said making a joke of it.

“Just saying, boss, maybe we should look into it.”

“That is how I lived my goddamned life man and I ain’t going back,” Spud said.

The newcomer started to sputter a reply and Spud took the sign of weakness as a cue to make sure the man would not challenge him again. He grabbed a quart-sized mason jar full of stewed tomatoes and clobbered the man on the forehead with it. The thick glass jar exploded against the newcomer’s skull in a shower of water, vinegar, glass, and tomato flesh. It was hard to tell what was gore, and what was tomato, as the man hit the floor with both hands to his face.

“Eat some tomatoes if you hungry, bitch,” Spud said as the whole house looked on at the incident in silence but did not get involved. His position in the house secure for now, Spud returned to his seat, licking the tomatoes from his hand and feeling the familiar sandy glint of broken glass in his mouth.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” somebody in the next room said laughing at the newcomer moaning on the floor.

He had to do something. He knew it. There had been more and more rumors of civilization returning to Gulf Shores. Warm food, new faces, new boats, security, there was even some wild rumor of electricity coming back.

It used to be that people’s purpose in life was to get a new car or buy their own house. Now, their main goal was to survive to see the sunrise tomorrow. To get something to eat. Spud had to see to that to keep his empire intact.

“Tiny, get the car. I’m going into town to get dinner for everyone,” Spud announced, “to go.”

««—»»

A week previously, in one of the large unoccupied homes along Navy Cove, Spud had found a key chain with a set of dice on one side and the keys to a classic Cadillac El Dorado on the other. After looking under a tarp in the home’s garage, Spud had fell in true love for the first time in his life. It was with a beautiful land-yacht of a car. All white, made in 1959 with power windows, a retractable ragtop, red leather seats, a cast iron 365-cubic inch monster engine with twin carbs, and only 4,001 original miles on it. By the time Spud got to the Gulf Shores city limits from the Clubhouse, it had 4,019.

In the trunk of the car, Spud had a few cardboard boxes of party favors meant to trade with. Liquor, ammunition that did not fit any of the guns they had, some pills, some pot, as well as a few other miscellaneous items, filled three boxes. Within minutes of passing the city limits, he saw a number of old acquaintances. It seemed that addicts were drying out everywhere, both the legal and illegal type, as their stashes ran out.

He found himself being asked for all sorts of things he had not even imagined. Things that were oh-so-common before were the new crack post-outbreak. Items like contact lenses, baby diapers, paper plates, deodorant, condoms, even friggin’ Tylenol of all things were highly sought after.

“Are you kidding me? Tylenol?” Spud asked his newest customer, so lost in his surprise that he did not even notice First Sergeant Reid coming up behind him.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the prodigal son returned,” Reid said as he clamped a vice-like hand on the miniature man’s shoulder, gripping hard enough to send pain cascading down Spud’s spine.

Spud turned around and shrugged his shoulder loose of the old sergeant. “You still alive, you old shit?” he asked.

“You still wearing two pairs of underwear and only sometimes avoiding dude-rape?” Reid chuckled.

“Ha-ha. You are a laugh riot, funny man. I’ve been at the hizzy until all this walking-dead crap blew over. We about out of food there, though. Where can a skinny white boy go get some chow around here? I heard there are hot meals now,” Spud said to the First Sergeant. His customer had since vanished and Spud stood on the corner alone with the camouflaged uniformed MP.

“Only have chow for citizens that are productive and I’m pretty sure that rules you out.”

“You know, I may have gotten my GED in the penal system, but that sounds communist to me boss man. You a communist now?”

Reid stepped to within a foot of Spud and looked down at him. The old man was at least a foot taller and he gave off the impression of being constructed of asbestos and angle iron. Spud could smell the stank rot of wet Skoal in the man’s front teeth and could see the razor-burned skin and prickly grey stubble on his chin. “Want to dance, son?” Reid whispered.

The door of the hummer parked behind Spud’s Cadillac opened and another MP got out and walked up next to Reid.

“Everything ok, First Sergeant?” the MP asked, his hand on the pistol in his holster.

Reid swallowed dip juice, “Oh yeah. We are good here. Why don’t you get the keys to this fine car from the young man and drive it over to the armory. I’ll be right behind you with my passenger here in the hummer.”

“What the hell, man?” Spud protested.

“The easy way or the hard way, Mr. Potato Head, which do you want?” Reid said and fluttered his eyelashes and smiled sweetly, “Please say the hard way…”

««—»»

As Reid pulled into the Armory, Spuds head was on a swivel taking everything in. He saw his old hippy high school guidance counselor walking around with a sniper rifle. A bunch of kids that looked like they should still be in high school were doing push-ups and yelling. Groups of a dozen people with motorcycles were milling around. People stacked boxes of supplies everywhere.

Reid parked the classic caddy in front of the brick building after returning the nod of the guard at the gate and looked at Spud. “Let’s go, punk,” the old First Sergeant said as he climbed out of the car and walked towards the door.

Spud left his car and followed two steps behind the man quietly. Through the hallway, past a broken marble slab upon which an MP in a t-shirt was drawing a set of old crossed pistols with a sharpie they walked. They moved past rows of pictures of men in uniforms, a portrait of the former president, and a copy of the Constitution. Past a huge handwritten sign that read,
“What have you done for the people of Gulf Shores today?”
They kept walking until Reid stopped at a dark wooden door with a cheap plastic sign marking it as being Stone’s office.

A giant German Shepherd, easily heavier than Spud, waddled its way down the hallway at an increasing speed directly towards them. The huge dog, more black than brown stood up on its hind legs and placed its front paws solidly on Reid’s shoulders, one on each side and looked the sergeant in the face, eye-to-eye. The dog began a high-pitched whine like bad brakes on a car and licked the sergeant with a long flat tongue.

“Down, Jenny, down,” the man said to the dog, pushing her back onto all fours. The huge dog remained at the sergeant’s side.

Reid rapped on the door once before opening it, poking his head in, and announcing them.

“Wow, I guess it’s true, the Spud liveith,” Stone smiled. He did not offer his hand or stand up to meet the little man.

Reid manhandled Spud down into the heavy grey metal chair in front of Stone’s desk. The German Shepherd followed them into the office and settled on the floor in a mass of fur and flesh.

“So where have you been, Spud? Nobody has seen you since the attack. We all just figured you got pushed in a mass grave somewhere around the bridge,” Stone said.

“I’ve been making it, lost my brother and mother,” Spud replied.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Everyone has lost someone these days.”

“Thanks.”

“So really, where have you been?” Stone asked, no smile remaining on his face.

“Out by the fort, I’ve got a house out there. My uncle’s place.”

Reid dope slapped Spud on the back of the head. “Cut the crap. The only uncle you have is probably at Donaldson wearing a skirt and lipstick.”

Spud looked sideways at the sergeant, the huge dog at his feet staring up at him doe-eyed. He looked back at Stone and tried his best pitch.

“No, really. There was nothing left in town for me so I moved out to a relative’s place. I’m doing okay out there but I’ve got mouths to feed and heard there was free meals in town. We can use them.”

“How many mouths?”

“A few.”

“How many is that?”

“Maybe ten or fifteen I guess, we have been taking in people wandering around.”

“That’s a pretty big family kid. You got the Brady Bunch going on or something?”

“I got a big family and lots of friends. Cut the shit guys, come on.”

“There’s been a lot of looting going on outside of town. Seems like where the city limits stop, the thieves start. Know anything about that?”

Spud shook his head and involuntarily swallowed.

“Old Spud is too good for all that now—isn’t he Captain?” Reid said, dripping sarcasm.

“We haven’t been doing anything but surviving. It’s like the damned end of the world these days if you haven’t noticed,” Spud protested.

“Ok, let’s cut to the chase here,” the First Sergeant said. “We figured as soon as we started up regular patrols down the island from town to the fort that we would flush out whoever the looters were. By coincidence we started the patrols yesterday and today you pop up in town driving Elvis’s car.”

Another dope slap. Jenny the German Shepherd stood up, looked at Spud, then at the Sergeant, then back at Spud, and curled a lip.

“So, I have a proposal for you, Mr. Spud,” Stone said, leaning back into his office chair. “You come clean about how many people you have, and what kind of supplies your little group has put together and I may just leave you well enough alone.”

Spud leaned forward and licked his lips. Gang rules be damned, when the going gets tough the Spud gets going.

“I have about thirty all together,” he bluffed. “We have some stuff, not a lot mind you, but some stuff you may be interested in.”

“Like what?” said Stone, skepticism screwing his face into a scowl.

“Well I’ve got a pretty good amount of booze…”

“Not interested. What else?”

“I can lay my hands on a lot of cars and trucks.”

“Go fish.”

“How about some ammo?”

“What do you have?”

Spud smiled. You always give the first bump away free, then they come back for more, and that is when you start charging.