02 Flotilla of the Dead

by David Forsyth

  “Okay, Captain,” said Scott. “I’m all ears. What are they?”

  “When we took the patrol boat around the island we confirmed that at least two more ships have power and crews aboard. One is a Ro-Ro transport that’s part of the Ready Reserve Force of the Military Sealift Command. It’s named the Cape Inscription. It’s designed to transport entire armored battalions overseas. We confirmed that at least some of the crew is still aboard her. They hailed my men as our patrol boat went by. My men told them we would be back to assist them tomorrow.”

  “Wow,” said Scott with a low whistle. “That could be very important. We’ll have to contact them and see if they are interested in working with us. What else did you find, Captain?”

  “There’s another ship, actually two vessels, right next to the Cape Inscription that might interest you too. They’re the Sea Launch Commander and its floating launch platform.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Scott. “Isn’t that the private space company that launches satellites on rockets from a floating platform at sea?”

  “Yes sir,” replied McCloud. “And it looks like there are people aboard them too, as well as a helicopter on the helipad of the command ship.”

  “I’m not sure how that fits into our plans,” Scott pondered. “But it sure is interesting. Where exactly are these ships?”

  “They’re all docked on the old Navy Mole which is a narrow manmade peninsula across from the former Navy Yard. It’s on the ocean side of the island. Not far from the Reserve Center. I just thought you should know about them.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Scott replied. “We’ll need to think about how to approach them as soon as we check the armories. And what was the other facility you thought was important?”

  “The Terminal Island Federal Prison,” replied Fisher with a tight grin. “It’s right next to the Coast Guard Station. As I recall it’s a medium security facility for about a thousand prisoners. A lot of them are white collar criminals, but they also held Al Capone there when he got moved out of Alcatraz and Charles Manson was there for a while before he started his gang of killer hippies. It might be full of zombies now, or the inmates may have gotten loose, but they could also still be uninfected and locked up in there.”

  “Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Scott. “It sounds like Terminal Island could be full of surprises. What will you do if you find out the prisoners are still there and not infected? Release them?”

  “I really don’t know, Scott,” replied Captain McCloud. “I’d have to at least make sure they had food and water. Then, it might be a good idea to interview them. Sort of like parole hearings, but we probably won’t have time for that. What do you gentlemen think we should do with them?”

  “Screw them,” said O’Hara. “They’re criminals. We have enough good people to take care of as it is.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?” commented Captain Fisher. “It seems to me that we should draft them. Turn them into a workforce to conduct salvage operations on Terminal Island. They’ll obey orders if the option is being expelled from the safe haven.”

  “I like that idea, Jordie,” said Scott. “But the decision will be Captain McCloud’s to make, after he finds out what condition they’re in. Let us know if you need us to back you up with the Marines. If that’s all, gentlemen, I think we better tell our crews to get ready for some action tomorrow. Terminal Island is a lot bigger than the peninsula we’ve secured so far. That means there could be a lot more zombies too.”

  *****

  When the sun rose over Long Beach on April 9, 2012, two squads of Marines were already saddling up in their big Amtracs. A fire team from the third squad was forming up on the helipad and the fourth squad, plus three heavy weapons fire teams, was deployed to defend the perimeter established around the Queen Mary and the Cruise Ship Terminal. A few minutes later the rest of the volunteers began to arrive. Scott had gone through a hell of an argument again with Michelle to get her to agree that Billy should be allowed to come along. In the end Scott had promised that Billy would ride ‘shotgun’ in the armored car, where he would remain and only fire through the firing slits, not get out, if they encountered any zombies. Billy brought along his friends Mitch and Justin, as well as the gun loving brothers Shawn and Bruce Smith. All of them had been given semi-automatic AR-15 rifles the night before and practiced with them in the bowling alley. O’Hara had confirmed that they were all acceptable marksmen, at least at close range, due to frequent practice with air-soft and paint ball guns.

  The volunteers also included Mark Argus and his fifteen year old son Jake, who was an excellent marksman from frequent practice with real guns. Mark carried the same M-203 combination rife and grenade launcher he had used in San Diego. Jake chose a Thompson submachine gun like the one he owned at home, but also wore a Beretta 9mm pistol at his side and had a machete strapped to his back. The other young people looked at him a little strangely, but they hadn’t gone through airborne jump school in their sophomore year of high school, especially not in the jungles of Central America. Jake had.

  Mark chose a black H2 Hummer from the vehicle deck and drove it out next to the Amtracs and armored car with Jake standing up through the sun roof, Tommy Gun with 50 round drum clip at the ready. Clint Murdock walked up with his own M-203 and joined them in the H2. A dozen other volunteers from the ship’s crew and an equal number from the Queen Mary were given pistols and assigned to either the shuttle bus, or the big-rig truck with an empty container that would carry back the arms they planned to liberate. George Hammer drove another big-rig himself, but his was a flat-bed with a forklift strapped to a hydraulic lift on the rear end.

  Scott decided to drive his own big armored car, with Billy in the passenger seat and his friends in the rear compartment. The Amtrac with the bulldozer blade would lead the convoy, followed by the armored car and the rest of the vehicles, with the other Amtrac bringing up the rear. Half an hour after sunrise Scott got on the radio to launch the expedition. Moments later a dozen engines fired up. The loudest was the helicopter that Mick Williams and Sam Waters would pilot overhead. The combined rumble of all the vehicles carried with it the reassuring thrum of modern civilization. As the convoy moved out, and the helicopter lifted off, Scott noticed people coming out onto the decks of both the Sovereign Spirit and the Queen Mary to wave and offer their hopes and prayers for a safe and successful mission.

  A squad of Marines assigned to defend the safe haven opened the gate to the passenger terminal and calmly shot the handful of zombies that had gathered there overnight. The lead Amtrac drove past without pause and Scott pulled the armored car into formation behind it. They had all agreed to obey a 25 mile per hour speed limit and keep ten yard intervals between vehicles, but Scott was not surprised to see Mark pass him doing 50 mph in the parking lot. ‘Oh well,’ thought Mark. ‘I guess we can use a scout on the ground too.’ It was soon clear that Mark was pacing the advance of the helicopter above and he might indeed be valuable in scouting the path to the George Desmond Bridge. Scott stuck to the plan, though, and followed the Marines in the Amtrac at a leisurely speed.

  It was a beautiful morning with the sun creeping up from behind the skyline of Long Beach. Scott spent just a moment to appreciate that those high rise buildings were probably all overrun by zombies now. Perhaps there were still a few survivors starving or dying of thirst in locked offices, apartments, and condos. There was no more he could do for them right now than there had been for the people trapped in the hotels of Cabo or the houses in Malibu. The best thing he could do for any survivors was to get more weapons to use against the zombies. Only then could they think about mass rescue operations.

  The first part of the route was complicated, since the main roads from the Queen Mary and cruise ship terminal were intended to get people out of the Port area to the freeway or the city of Long Beach. They had to cross those roads after leaving the parking lot and enter the maze of truck routes inside the port until they passed under the S
easide Freeway overpass at the official 710 terminus and looped back up onto the Seaside’s northbound lanes. It was a short drive, only a mile or so, but quite confusing. The lead Amtrac used its dozer blade to clear several crashed or abandoned cars and trucks from their path. Apparently Mark had been able to go around them in the 4x4 H2, because he was already out of sight in front of them.

  Once they were up on the Seaside Freeway it was a straight shot to the bridge and, beyond it, to the Navy and Marine Corps Reserve Center. Scott swerved out of formation to run abreast of the Amrac so he could see the road ahead of them. There were only a few abandoned cars and trucks on this part of the highway and he could see the black H2 pulled up next to the barricade of containers that had been erected on the bridge. He thought he saw movement around the containers, but couldn’t make out any details.

  *****

  Mark and Jake were excited to be on this mission. Jake kept talking about all the weapons they might find and claiming first dibs on some of them. Clint was as calm and collected as usual, reclining in his seat and seemingly napping, as they sped up to the Gerald Desmond Bridge, even though he had been the one to suggest that they scout ahead of the convoy and secure the bridge. Mark pulled to a stop one lane over from the steel gate mounted between the stacked cargo containers blocking the rest of the bridge. This was an old bridge, obviously in poor repair. A sign near the approach described a replacement bridge under construction and Mark could see the earthworks that had been in progress on either side of the existing bridge when Z Day put a stop to all such normal activities.

  When Mark got out of the H2 he walked to the side of the bridge and looked down. Then he let out a whistle when he saw the nylon “diapers” wrapped under the bridge to catch big chunks of concrete that were spalling off the bottom of the roadway. ‘Yes sir, they definitely needed a new bridge,’ he thought to himself. He also remembered Scott saying that much of the nation’s containerized cargo had passed over this bridge and onto the LA freeway system, so he decided it would probably hold up to the passage of their little convoy. Mark leaned out around the containers stacked up to the edge of the bridge and recoiled slightly as he saw diseased arms reaching around the other side of the containers, ten feet away. The face of a zombie followed the arms and a deep moan sounded at that same time that Mark heard a scraping metallic clanking sound behind him.

  Mark spun around in time to see his son Jake complete the action of pulling back the heavy steel bar that held the welded gate in place. The idiot who had installed it had put the gate and hinges on this side of the containers, so the gate swung back towards the H2. And swing it did! With dozens of zombies pushing against it, the gate literally flew open, lifting Jake off his feet and smashing him back against the metal on the hinge side of the nearest container. Only the hinge stops and angle of the adjoining container kept the gate from crushing the life out of Jake.

  “Zombies!” yelled Clint, as he jumped out of the H2 and leveled his M-203. His 40mm shotgun shell blasted the front rank of zombies head-on, blowing several of them to pieces and knocking others down as the bodies were propelled back through the wide open gate. The gate was twelve feet wide, though, wider than even the spread of a shotgun grenade could cover effectively, and many more zombies were pushing through. Clint shifted to rapid semi-automatic rifle fire and scored at least twenty head shots with his thirty round magazine. Even that was not enough to stem the flood of zombie flesh that poured through the portal.

  “Oh shit!” yelled Mark as he unleashed a shotgun blast from his own M-203, careful to keep Jake outside of the spreading cone of buckshot. The blast took out at least half a dozen zombies on his side of the stampede, but others poured around them. All of them seemed fixated on Clint, who was directly in front of the undead onslaught.

  Clint yelled a battle cry as his finger pulled the trigger of an empty weapon. With no time to reload, he dropped the M-203 and pulled out two 9mm automatic pistols that he fired in rapid succession. Almost every bullet was a head shot. A few shots even took out two zombies as the bullet passed through one skull and into another. But his two fifteen round pistol clips were not enough to defeat the number of zombies rushing towards him. At least three of the terrifying creatures got through the hail of bullets and got their hands on Clint, lunging forward and trying to sink their teeth into his skin. Clint used the empty pistols as hammers to pound their sculls. It was a valiant, but desperate effort.

  Mark had also switched to rifle fire and was knocking zombies down as fast as he could pull the trigger. He was able to keep most of the zombies away from Clint, but didn’t dare fire at the ones grappling with him. The chance of hitting Clint by accident was too high. Besides, his greatest concern was for his son, Jake. The flood of zombies pouring through the open gate was still coming on strong as Mark paused to replace his empty magazine.

  Jake saw this and jumped out from behind the gate with a wild yell and opened up with well aimed bursts from his Tommy Gun. Zombies fell like wheat before a scythe as the 45 caliber bullets tore them apart at head level. Jake’s 50 round drum clip ripped a wide swath of oblivion through the flowing river of zombies during the five seconds it took for Mark to reload both the rifle and grenade launcher of his M-203. Jake ran out of bullets and ducked back behind the open wing of the gate. Mark brought his weapon back to bear on the zombies. Another shotgun blast from the grenade launcher blew most of the bastards back through the gate. Single shots to the head took out the rest.

  “Close the damned gate!” yelled Mark. He saw Jake push it forward but realized immediately that zombie bodies would stop it before it was even half way closed. Before panic could set in his brain registered the thumping sound of a helicopter approaching. He looked up and saw Mick Williams bring the helicopter into a hover as Marines leaned out the side doors to provide more firepower. Jake saw them too and pulled the gate back to cover himself from both the zombies and any incoming fire from the Marines.

  *****

  Scott was horrified as he watched the zombies pour through the open gate and attack his friends. The convoy was still 500 yards away when Scott floored the accelerator of the armored car and zoomed past the Amtrac. Not only did he want to get to his friends fast, he also wanted to obstruct the aim of the grenadier in the Amtrac to make sure he didn’t take any indiscriminate shots into the zombies who were now mingling with his friends. Scott screeched to a stop behind the H2 and told Billy and his friends to stay inside as he jumped out of the armored car with his own M-203 at the ready.

  The fight was almost over by then. Rifle fire from the helicopter had helped Mark dispatch the last of the zombies trying to come through the gate. Mark had just found time to come to Clint’s assistance as Scott showed up. Clint had bashed in the heads of two zombies, but was still grappling with a third that was hanging onto his left arm. Scott ran up, stuck the barrel of his rifle into the zombie’s ear, and blew its brains out the other side of its skull. Clint rolled away swearing.

  “God damn it!” Clint bellowed as he clutched at wounds on his left wrist and forearm. “I’m fucked! The fucker fucked me! It bit me! I’m dead meat, man. You might as well blow my brains out now, Scott. I’m a goner, dude.”

  “Oh shit!” Scott swore. “What the fuck happened here?”

  “Mark’s kid, Jake, opened the gated and they rushed us,” Clint said in a subdued and resigned tone of voice. “He didn’t know, man. Don’t blame him. None of us knew they were all waiting on the other side like that. Someone should have thought to put firing slits in that gate so we could see what’s on the other side and shoot them before we opened the door. But it’s too late for that now, damn it! I’m dead meat.”

  “Hang in there buddy. I’ll call the chopper down to get you back to the ship for treatment,” said Scott, obviously refusing to accept the inevitable death of his friend.

  “Treatment!” shouted Clint hysterically. “What treatment? You know there isn’t any fucking treatment for this! The only thing they co
uld do back on the ship is hand me over to your mad scientist and let him turn me into a lab rat! No thank you, buddy. Just shoot me now, or give me a damned bullet for my pistol, please!”

  “Shoot him dad,” said Billy, who had disobeyed the instruction to stay in the armored car. “He’s going to turn into a zombie. You have to shoot him now.”

  Scott still couldn’t accept that. Thinking fast, he took off his belt and wrapped it around Clint’s wounded arm just below the elbow, tightening it quickly to improvise a tourniquet. Then he turned to the Marines who had deployed from the Amtrac.

  “Get me a real tourniquet! And some morphine! And find me a saw! Hurry!” yelled Scott.

  “What the hell are you doing, dude?” asked Clint.

  “What do you think, man? I’m going to cut off your arm,” replied Scott with a fake smile. “It’s the only thing that might save your life now, so that’s what we’ll do. Okay?”

  “Oh shit, man,” Clint moaned and looked like he might faint. Billy started to say something, then turned and walked back to the armored car.

  “Here, let me look at that bite,” said Scott. He reached down and pulled Clint’s right hand away from the wound. A piece of flesh about the size of a golf ball was missing from Clint’s forearm and blood had flowed freely, but Scott didn’t think any major veins or arteries had been torn open. There was a chance that amputation at the elbow would stop the spread of the infection. He had to try it. “Hang on, man,” Scott said to Clint. “This is going to hurt, but it just might work.”

  The Marine medic, Corpsman Jeff Reston, ran up with the field surgical kit from the Amtrac. Another Marine brought a battery powered reciprocating sawzall with a ten inch blade that could cut through almost anything. The Medic installed a proper tourniquet above Clint’s elbow and prepared two injector tubes of morphine. Scott took the saw and met Clint’s eyes as the medic injected the morphine.