Verge of Extinction (Apex Predator Book 3) (15 page)

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 them?”  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.”

He waved his hand across the map.  “That means anyone lands down there and our little defense force is going to have to assault through wooded terrain to clean ‘em out.  It’ll get bloody real fast.  I’m not planning on losing anyone.  Are you?”

A smile crossed the younger soldier’s face.  He had been right to turn over leadership to this man.  “So, what do you propose?”

Terence turned to a map taped to a wall behind him.  “The Coast Guard,” he said.  “Somewhere on this coast is a Coast Guard station that still has a boat or two tied up.  Those Coast Guard boats are going to have surface search radar.  We get a few of those patrolling around the island. Until then, we do it the old fashioned way.  Patrol boats with the old Mark 1 eyeball.  Once we secure the sea lanes, the only way at us is down a long and narrow bridge.”

He drew a finger over the long narrow bridge connecting the Island to the mainland.  “Here’s what we’re going to do tomorrow…”

Day 41

Gulf Port, MS

This time it was Kerry who eased the
Sea Witch
into the shallows of Gulf Port.  The hull made a soft grinding noise as the she beached the craft.  One hundred yards away, on the road was the big Ford pickup and the Orange Jeep.

Her passengers leapt from the boat, splashing in the knee deep water.  Jackson and Theresa, as usual, led the way to the vehicles.  Terence, Lt. Brown, Jen, and Harold rounded out the passenger manifest.  Terence wanted Lt. Brown to introduce him to the men and women of the Haven.

She watched as the two vehicles drove slowly from the sand and across the blacktop.  Her CB radio burst to life as Theresa tried to contact Roy.  She never heard his response.  Once the team had reached the vehicles, Kerry moved the
Sea Witch
into deeper water.  She assumed she was out of range of the Haven.

She looked to her left.  Sam sat in quietly, black rifle pointing outward.  He’d been very quiet since Frank died.  She tried to remember the day they had met Sam.

She and her group had been brought in by a young man who had slammed his car into one of the vehicles that her group had commandeered.  Unfortunately for the boy, Sam’s only daughter was in the passenger seat of that car and did not survive the wreck.  When they arrived at the fire station with the injured boy, Sam had launched into a furious rage.  When Frank had died, he had slipped into a deep depression.  She had tried to make him talk about it.  He merely shrugged.  “Later,” he’d say.

Theresa had tried several more times to reach the Haven.  There was still no answer.  She shrugged.  Maybe they had their CB turned off or something.

A few minutes later, she was sure that was absolutely not the problem.  As they rounded the corner, she could see a large column of smoke rising in the distance.  She knew from their last visit that the smoke was coming from the Haven.  Her heart skipped a beat.

Jackson too had realized where the smoke was coming from.  The truck lurched forward as he jammed his foot on the gas.  She looked back.  The Jeep was lagging behind, but only slightly.

As they crossed the railroad tracks 100 yards from the Haven, they were forced to stop.  There, in front of them, car after was lined bumper to bumper along the east-west running road, completely impeding north-south traffic. 

A large man with a blue tee-shirt and brown cargo pants immerged from behind one of the cars.  He held a black rifle in one hand.  The other was held near his mouth.  Jen assumed he was talking to someone with a walkie-talkie or something.  After a moment, he put a small black object into his pocket and climbed over one of the cars.

“Sergeant Brown,” he asked as he got close to the Jeep.

“Actually, it’s Lieutenant now.  I got promoted yesterday,” the former NCO responded.

The man didn’t look impressed.  “We’re kind of expanding right now.  This is the southern wall.  If you go two blocks east, then turn left, you’ll find the gate.”  Without another word, he climbed back over the car and resumed his seated position.

They followed the man’s direction.  The entire westbound lane was bumper to bumper cars.  The same was true for the southbound lanes on the eastern wall.  The Haven was being surrounded by a wall of driverless vehicles.  Under the circumstances, Jen thought it was actually a pretty good idea.

A man at the gate, Jen thought it looked just like the rest of the wall, signaled them to stop when he felt they were close enough.  Roy walked through the makeshift gate and shook Lt. Brown’s hand energetically.  “Damned good to see you again,” the bald man said.

“Good to see you too,” he responded with equal enthusiasm.  “We saw the smoke.  We were worried there was a fire.”

“Oh, that?  Na.  We’ve been pushing out a bit.  That’s the bodies we’re burning.”  His smile faded ever-so-slightly.  “Most of them were already dead.”

Lt. Brown’s smile also died away.  “How many did you lose?”

“We lost six on the first day, four on the second day, and only one yesterday.  We finally figured out how to do it right.”  He reached his hand out to Jen also.  “I’m glad to see you.  We have had a few… uh… injured over the past few days.”  His face betrayed the concern his heart felt for his people.  She returned his handshake.

He looked at Harold and Terence.  Without asking who they were, he offered his hand to Terence.  “Roy Blanchard, Petty Officer 2
nd
Class U.S. Navy; welcome to the Haven.”  Terence took the man’s hand with a firm grip.

“I’m Major Terence Westergart, U.S. Army, formerly retired.  This is Harold.  He was Coast Guard before he found his way into my classroom.”  The two shook hands.  “I’ve been asked to lead the military personnel on the Island.”  Terence didn’t feel the need to tell Roy everything.  He still wanted to feel the man out a little.

Josiah led Jen to one of the houses about a block from the gate.  There were two guards armed with both guns and swords standing outside of the door.  The man on the left gave Jen a crooked smile.  She wasn’t sure why, but it made her feel uncomfortable.

“We’ve got a few injured we’d like for you to look at if it’s ok,” Josiah told her as they passed between the two men.  Jen’s curiosity was peeked.  “How many injured, and what types of injuries?”

“Four people who’ve been cut, we had a fall injury, and… a… ah… special injury.”  Jen felt that familiar knot form in her throat.

“What do you mean a special injury?”  The knot in her throat had turned into a stone in her stomach.  He did not answer.  He merely opened a door to another room.  This one also was guarded.  Three men stood outside the door.  Two never looked at her, only the door.

There on a makeshift stretcher, tied down, was a woman.  She looked to be in her mid thirties.  Her dark hair had been recently cut very short.  Her right hand was wrapped in a large white bandage.  Blood seeped through the gauze.  She was pale; her face was awash with sweat.  The experienced ER nurse in Jen thought the woman looked like someone who was about to…  No, she thought.  They didn’t really bring that… that… thing in here.  She was astonished how fast she went from seeing her as a patient to a threat.

“She was bitten last night,” Josiah began.  “She didn’t spike a fever until this morning.  Roy thought you could help.  Her fever is only 103.”

Jen thought about another survivor who had been exposed to the plague.  He hadn’t even been bitten as far as they could tell.  His name was Father Albright.  He had reanimated and killed another survivor while her group had been trapped in a veterinarian’s clinic.  Her heart began to race.  She couldn’t catch her breath.  No, no, no, no, she thought.  I can’t do this.

She was about to tell Josiah the same thing when the girl turned towards her.  Her eyes were sunken.  But, there was something else.  She was obviously dying, but her eyes pleaded with Jen.  “Help me,” she croaked.  “Please, I… I… I have a… a… little girl.”  The woman began to sob.  Jen noticed that no tears flowed from the woman’s eyes.  If nothing else, she was dehydrated.  Shit!

“Has anyone done anything for her at all?”  She demanded.  He shook his head as his eyes fell to the floor in shame.  She could feel the anger welling inside of her.

“We didn’t know what to do,” he finally replied meekly.  The words and his tone took the wind right out of her sails.  Damn it!  She moved close to the woman, taking her backpack off as she did.

“What’s your name, baby?”  She asked the woman.

“Sherry,” she answered.  Her voice was weak and hoarse, just a bit louder than a whisper.

“Sherry,” Jen began.  “My name is Jen.  I’m a nurse.  I’m going to help you.  Can you tell me what happened?”  As the woman spoke, Jen began to assess her.  She was breathing and it was even.  Her heart was racing at about 140 beats per minute.  This could be from the fever, or because she was going into shock.  Probably both, Jen thought.

Her skin was pale, hot, and wet.  Jen knew these were ominous signs.  The wound on the woman’s hand was the only one that Jen could find.  She listened to her lungs.  They sounded clear.  Her heart rate was even, although fast.  The pulses in the woman’s wrists were weak and thready.  When Jen squeezed her fingers at the nail, it took about five seconds for the nail beds to return to a nice pink color.  OK, low B/P she thought.  She mentally cursed herself for not actually bringing a B/P cuff.

All the while, the woman told her story.  She had not been bitten at all.  During an encounter with a zombie, she had shoved her hand under the zombie’s jaw in order to keep its teeth away from her.  The zombie had apparently received some form of facial trauma in the past.  Sherry had found out the hard way that the zombie had a sharp piece of jaw bone jutting below its chin.  She had impaled her hand on the bone only an instant before another survivor had shoved a knife through the top of the monster’s head

Jen reached into her bag and withdrew everything she would need to start an IV.  She was very glad that she had thought to bring gloves.  The thought of touching this woman’s possibly infected blood with her bare skin sent a shiver up her spine.  After a moment of sheer terror, she was able to get an IV catheter into the woman’s vein.  Soon the woman was connected to an IV bag of normal saline draining into the woman’s vein as fast as gravity would pull it through the catheter.

Again, Jen thought of Father Albright.  She had not known at the time that the priest was dying of the plague.  She believed he was suffering from another illness like pneumonia or bronchitis.  She had infused several doses of antibiotics to no avail.  She had a bad feeling that Sherry was going to meet the same fate as the priest.