Zombie Wake
By Storm J. Helicer
Zombie Wake
Copyright © 2013 by Storm J. Helicer
All Rights Reserved. Apart from fair use, no portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher. Contact us at [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Incidences, names and characters are not factual accounts.
Table of Contents
Plum Thumb
Vehicle Collision
Bear Hug
Refinery Emergency
Remember the Head
Night Dancers
Pulling the Trigger
Bullets
Red
Tilt Rotor
Testing
Infection
The Burn
Plum Thumb
1
What has transpired since I closed the gates at sunset, since the light from the sun was replaced with the glow of sodium lamps, is something I'm sure even the beady eyes of the bird to my side knows as atrocity.
In my career as a park ranger, aside from a feral pig eradication project, I have only discharged my weapon at the range. I've been a park ranger for almost ten years now, all of it at California’s Gaviota coast. I was looking forward to having a full career here—life and family too. I didn't know it would end like this. How could I know, it's been three hours. Today seemed normal. Now I stand at the end of the pier, my only witness a brown pelican.
Earlier, as I patrolled the pier, the familiar fish odor wafted in bursts. The pelican perched on the rail, as it does now with tar smudged across its chest, eyed fishermen for handouts. I've seen a thousand brown pelicans in this ocean park, but none with such a prehistoric likeness. Its beak, on the shorter side of average, tells me it, she, is female. Though, the tip looks like a curved tooth; like the tooth a chick uses to emerge from its egg. This pelican, however, is fully mature.
I first noticed her this morning when she outstretched her wings gaining an ominous stature. Lifting off the railing with one flap she propelled toward the ocean, circling to make her way to a new station. Positioning herself next to a yellow vinyl rope tied around the splintered wooden beam, the bird pointed her tooth toward the rope's origin, a black mesh metal basket containing three fish.
I stepped toward Makimo, who is nearly a resident here. Her hands, in yellow rubber gloves, fed the rope one over the next, raising the dangling basket to show me her catch. The fish gleamed blue and green along the top, silver on the bottom. The largest lay motionless on its side, eyes bulging and glassy. The two smaller fish flopped, arcing their spines like they were trying to keep time with a high frequency wave.
“These are for the cat. I keep them fresh,” she gusted. The water below was unusually murky-brown. Small waves sloshed and foamed around the pilings. “I saw your son yesterday playing on the swings. He’s tall for a little guy. He’s gunna be big like you?”
“We'll see Makimo,” I said.
*
But at this moment in the cold, wet night air I don't—can't—take time to contemplate. My training, my muscle memory, at the instant when I make my way to the end of the pier, take over.
The first one I shoot, I recognize. Not his face or clothing, those are too drenched with blood, scabs and froth. It's the thumb, the plum thumb as I had referred to it this morning that I notice. Earl.
I had come into contact with him twice in the last month. The first was for illegal camping. He was under the pier, sitting on the sand, stick in hand, leaning against a piling, poking into a small fire.
Four college-aged boys pointed him out to me after a short conversation through my open truck window. They were walking with fishing poles and chuckling. Their faces sobered as they noticed my white truck. Three of them gave me what I call the straight smile, a slight smile with a glance downward. I receive the look occasionally when off duty but often while in uniform. I have a theory that it has to do with a primal male dominance/subordinate behavior. Normally my height of six foot eight inches attracts looks, questions and the like, but the vest adds a bulk, not intrinsic to my body type, that must make me seem... intimidating. Since I generally make a habit of telling goofy jokes and wild stories, rapport with the public has never been a problem.
“How's the fishing,” I asked through my truck’s window.
“Not so good today,” said the one raising a green cooler to the tip of his index finger.
“Then, it ain’t the fishing that's bad, it's the catching. Besides, someone’s gotta make sure the pelicans have fish left to eat.”
And so it happened that the brief conversation with the boys ended with the story of the man under the pier. He had approached them trying to sell what he called Indian marijuana. They said he was stubborn and wouldn't take no for an answer.
A few minutes later, I stood at the foot of the fire, speaking into the radio, “R1122, I need a wants and warrants check on one, ID in hand, first of Earl: Edward, Adam, Robert, Lincoln, second of Dunkle, David, Union, Nora, King, Lincoln, Edward; DL number CA0076487.” Earl had voluntarily emptied the contents of his pockets, a crunched up paper bag filled with large white trumpet shaped flowers, toxic Jimsonweed, a wallet, and a black comb.
While I waited for the response, Earl inhaled his cigarette with force, which is often a sign of outstanding felony warrants. I widened my stance and looked toward his hands. Seeing my eyes on his thumb, he said, “Man, I'm just trying to make a buck. You know the Chumash drink it as a tea. They're just flowers. Listen, I've had a pretty shitty go of it.” Holding up the purple plum, he went on. “It's been nearly two years, I wish they'd cut it off. I was up in Alaska on a crab boat. I went to grab a cage and my thumb got caught in the winch. The thing took off all my skin down to the bone. I didn't have any insurance and still the doctors decided to save it—got an old doctor, treated guys on the field in World War II. So they cut a slit here in my belly and sewed my thumb in it.” He lifted up his shirt and ran his good thumb down the scar. “When they took it out three months later, it was like this. Look.” He pushed the bulb toward me. “There's a nail in there I can't even cut. I can't do a damn thing with it. The whole hand hardly works and it's throbbing all the time.”
*
He had changed significantly in the two days since I last saw him. He was walking with both hands outstretched, like the thumb was guiding him. Even though we're trained to shoot for the heart and head, it was the hands my first bullet hit. Shooting the hands occurs frequently in simulated gunfire trainings. The “victims” walk away from these trainings with paint blotches all over the chest, head and hands. I didn't notice it was Earl as an individual until I pulled the trigger and saw the red spatter and flying fingers.
With the rest, distinguishing anyone was next to impossible. They, more like it, was one mass, traveling like molasses, rolling down the hill through the campground. There were two groups, one from the east and another from the west. In the parking lot, they merged. I knew the campground was at capacity but it seemed like the number moving toward me was more than the 450 person upper limit. I was too far away from my vehicle to make my way through the sea of scabs and froth.
Vehicle Collision
2
Just over a week ago, I dressed in the dark to respond to a vehicle collision. Car accidents are too much of my occupation these days. Because the park is bordered by a major highway, California’s Highway 101, rangers are often the first on scene arriving ahead of the highway patrol, fire, and ambulance. That day, just north of the campground, during the first rain of the season, a bus slid off the road. It was probably the most gruesome accident I have witnessed. Ju
st south of the Gaviota tunnel the road juts to the left. In a depression where the road curves, a pool of water gathers every rain. Year after year, cars speeding through that section of road hit the puddle and veer off, sliding, spinning, and sometimes going over the edge. A similar sequence of events occurred with this bus.
It was a short, blue and white bus with thirteen passengers, the driver and twelve patients. Traveling north, from Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital to Stanford Medical Center, the bus, the highway patrol concluded later, hit the water, slid across three lanes of highway, rolled as the tires made contact with the center clearing, slid on its side taking two sedans from the southbound side and pushed them all over the embankment. The bus itself stopped short of going over the edge. But two sedans plunged twenty feet into the creek, which flowed fast with fresh mountain rain. I was the first on scene.
I don't know if you need a certain personality type to deal with these situations, or if the training we receive teaches the detachment needed to get through them. Or if, eventually, there will be some kind of ramification. Either way, I went into the deliberate mode that I’ve also heard other peace officers speak about.
Bodies spilled out of the vehicle, some on the ground and some partway through the window, with muddy skid marks pointing over a twenty-foot drop, all reflected in the blue/red strobing lights of my patrol truck. Into the radio I said, “R1122 on scene. I have an incident involving a full bus. It is a multiple victim incident. We need expanded response, multiple AMR response. Call out L855 for aquatic rescue. Begin critical incident notifications. I'm going to begin triage and will provide updates as possible.” I heard the female voice respond with a tone equally flat, “R1122, I copy. I will relay by landline to county.”
Feeling the rain on my head start to run down the back of my neck under my green rain gear, I made a conscious effort to keep my hands from flipping my hood over my head. I couldn’t spare time. Instead, I unzipped the red first aid bag sitting in the backseat of my truck, pulled two latex gloves over my wet hands and grabbed a handful of tags: green, yellow, red and black.
By the time I heard Dylan's voice, I had tagged everyone on the freeway and had scrambled down the embankment into the creek. I was sliding knee deep in mud, looking down the creek where the beam of my flashlight had fallen on a large woman's naked body half submerged and pinned against tree roots when I heard a shout in the distance, “Storm.” Slowing my forward movement, I grabbed a sapling and turned. Seeing that Dylan and Joe were suited in their swift water gear jolted me back into my thinking head. I wondered if I was going to let myself step into the water, a maneuver that could be devastating and something I knew better than to attempt. But the motion my hand made, reminded me of my current objective. “R1122” I said into the radio. Dispatch didn't echo.
Reception was unreliable near the tunnel and in the creek there was none. I started to reach for my cell phone then turned toward Joe and Dylan, who were following a line, making their way down. I could see the reflection of the bag, the source of the rope, which had been thrown to a position in front of a large boulder nearly twenty yards from me. Aside from their reflective yellow vests and helmets, they resembled burglars with their dark wetsuits and booties. Waving to them with my flashlight, I motioned up stream.
By this point I was amazed to see a survivor. Up on the road, every person I evaluated was a black tag. Blood, and grey fluid oozed from heads and noses. Two victims of the bunch appeared completely intact but their pulseless necks secured them the dark label. I spent too long searching one woman’s soft neck. Through my gloves, the skin felt unusually warm—though my hands were icy cold. She was one of the few remaining in the vehicle, buckled into the dark vinyl seats, the backrest high enough to minimize neck injury. In that compartment's dome lighting, her face looked too alive. I have heard of situations where the physical impact of the accident is enough to sheer the aortic valve from the heart leading to instantaneous, mark-free death. I wondered if this was the case. Then reminded myself that I'm not a doctor, that my job is to show the EMT which victims to start with, which victims have a chance. But there was something about the lady that made me linger. Moving her hair from her neck, I noticed that she had what appeared to be a reverse dye job, the roots were black for inches, then the remainder of the hair, grey. After trying three times to find any sign of life, I gave up and looped the elastic band with tethered black tag around her head.
Bear Hug
3
Tonight’s call came to my cell phone as a bear sighting. As with all callouts after the ranger goes off duty, I received the call by phone as opposed to radio. At 3:00 am, I mumbled to the dispatch operator jotting down the location on a pad of paper, Gaviota campground, near the trash bin “I'll suit up and be en route,” I told her. Then touched Claire on the shoulder, “Someone has reported that there's a bear in the campground.” I'll call you when I know how long it's going to be.” I put on my vest, snapped my gun into its holster and slid my flashlight into my belt. The motions of this process were routine and I accomplished the task in minutes even though I wasn’t rushing. This wasn’t a car accident and animal callouts are usually more bluster than hazard. I sighed at the thought of my last animal callout. Maybe I’d find a raccoon or opossum this time. It was never the animal that the call was about. But I decided to take the extra caution anyway. I shook my pepper spray three times and put an additional magazine of bullets into my cargo pocket. Then I grabbed the tactical rifle, the AR15. Later, the first bullet fired would emerge from that rifle and hit the shoulder of a three-legged bear.
I pushed the rifle into the trucks gun holder letting the ratchet lock click shut. At 3AM, the truck is a deafening nucleus of noise. Between the sound of the heavy engine, the knocking under the hood that occurs when it’s pushed to speeds over 85 mph and the whistling from wind rushing through the brackets of the light bar, not to mention the incessant chatter of other agency scanner traffic, there is hardly room for thought.
“Surcom 1122, in service. You can show me en route Gaviota,” I said into my radio.
“1122 copy. Be advised reporting party will be awaiting you at the trash can,” echoed the dispatcher over 100 miles away. It sounded like Deb; princess Debulan. Seven years ago, I called her queen Dubulan because she’s the one in charge of the dispatch center. But she thought that queen sounded old so I christened her princess Debulan.
I wondered what it was like to be a dispatcher, sitting with headset at 3:00 in the morning, tediously tracking each officer every seven minutes without ever seeing the situation, without ever putting face to voice, motionless while responding to potential critical incidents--the only physical outlet, a slight stepping motion on a foot pedal that keys the microphone. Stuck in that little room with two glowing computer monitors staring at maps, a criminal database and an assortment of other necessary information sounds miserable.
I made a sweeping left turn from the highway into the campground. Saturday night the campground was packed. I turned down my radio and flipped on my spot light. One tent had been blown on its side next to a cooler. The sound of sand pelted the side of the truck, a typical Gaviota night, I thought. The camp host RV was the only light in the area and there was shadowy movement behind the shade. Next to it, a large beige trash bin stood with black lids flipped open. I turned my spot light toward the bin. Something red was streaked down the side. Trash. Blood?
“Surcom 1122, I’m at the trash can. I don’t see anyone. I am going to attempt to contact Host,”
“co_y, sqrsssssk…,” Deb’s voice was broken. Typical, I thought again. I checked to make sure my cell phone was in its holder on my belt and leaned into the truck to remove the AR15. I swept the spotlight around once more and this time saw motion. Over by the bathroom, three men with wild hair staggered through the door. One was carrying a disposable red cup. Drunk. Guess I’ll end the party. But first…
“Bernadette,” I said. Marching up the metal steps, I mentally prepared myself
for the conversation. As with many retired camp hosts, Bernadette and Phil are dedicated, conscientious volunteers. But Bernadette has a sharp edge. Last time she called to report a disorderly drunk driver she huffed, “Git over here! I’m not going to let this baboon leave this park.” As I drove up, I saw her barrel-belly half in his driver side window. Oh Bernadette, you’re going to get your head bashed in, I thought. It looked as though she was grabbing the steering wheel. As I made my way closer, I could see that she was standing tip toed with a park map spread out in front of him. “Well Sir,” I heard her say as I made my way to the lifted pickup truck, “I see that trail but I just can’t for the life of me figure out how to get there from here.”
Tonight though, it would be an understatement to say Bernadette was embracing her harsh tendencies. “Phil,” I said testing the door. As it came unlocked I saw Phil’s bloody hands cradling his head. “Phil!” What’s happening? He sat wedged between the bathroom door and the kitchen table that converted into a bed, his white hair dripping with red. Grabbing a dishtowel, from the table, I moved toward him. “He’s got her,” he screamed, “down there,” he pointed toward the beach and went on, “She’s crazy, you have to get her.” He took the towel from my hand and placed it on his head. “I’m OK,” he said. “It’s just a cut from when I fell onto the counter. Get Bernie!” I heard my radio make an unintelligible squeal again.
“OK,” I said, “Let me call Surcom first.” I pressed a speed dial button on my cell phone and waited. “Deb,” I said, “I’m here at Gaviota with Phil the camp host. He has a severe laceration on his head. I’m going to need an ambulance. And the bear has apparently attacked Bernadette. Can you call Joe, Jose, Danny and Animal Control. Phil is in the trailer and the bear has Bernadette down by...”
Zombie Wake Page 1
