Last Stand on Zombie Island

by Christopher L. Eger

  “We had about 60-registered Ham radio call signs on the island a month ago. A lot were summer residents, but about a dozen that were not, were on the island at the time of the outbreak, and survived. Of these, most volunteered to help to some degree and have been in and out.”

  “That’s good.”

  “They are handling the shortwave and HAM stuff. Doug and Wyatt here are working on getting the AM back on line. I have to admit, all I am doing is the production end of it. I took a couple classes when I was a broadcasting major at UWF.”

  “Looks like the outbreak interrupted your studies.”

  “Actually life interrupted my studies. I couldn’t afford to keep going and pay rent so the only thing the outbreak interrupted was my banking and finance career.”

  Reynolds nodded. She had started and stopped college a dozen times in her air force career working on her master’s degree and was still a couple years away from completing it between course costs, transfers, kids, and the divorce.

  “So how long do you think it will be before you get the AM station broadcasting to the public?” the major asked.

  “Doug and Wyatt said we are looking good for the next day or so. We had to bypass the emergency broadcasting equipment as it won’t let us broadcast anything.”

  “Ah, okay.”

  “Doug says we have enough diesel fuel once we start broadcasting for about ten days if we run 24-hours a day.”

  “About that, I’m sending someone by to get most of the diesel as we need it for other locations. On the bright side, the windmill gang say they will be up and running by the end of the week, and we will make sure you people get a line here.”

  The young woman gave her one of the best eat-shit looks she had ever gotten, which was saying something, as Reynolds was something of a collector of eat-shit looks.

  Wyatt, so far just an observer in the conversation, protested, “This isn’t fair, it’s our fuel. We are the ones that found it!”

  “I was told we had priority on this project by George,” Mack said confidently.

  “George is the civil administrator and fuel is a military item. Like I said, we will leave you enough to keep running for a few days and, as soon as we can, I will get your electric line turned on. We need this program to keep people informed and to give them a sense of normalcy. But I also need the diesel for defense and food at a higher priority.”

  Mack accepted that.

  “So what have the Ham guys been able to get? Have they made any outside contact? Any news to pass on?” Reynolds asked.

  Mack nodded and reached out to tap the Major’s shoulder. “Yes, come with me. They are in here,” the redhead said as she walked out of the studio room and down the hall.

  After talking to Edgar and Andrew, the two Ham radio geeks down the hall, Reynolds decided they were two sides of the same coin. Both retired, both proud little peacocks who delighted in outdoing each other, they had invested most of their time and treasure for decades into their hobby.

  The men did not know each other before the outbreak but since the town meeting asking for volunteers had been inseparable. They had been sleeping at the station and were putting in 16-hour days. Along with Doug, Mack, and Wyatt they were the meat of the communications project.

  They had scoured the island for multiple radios and antennas, then ganged them together through an old desktop PC and used advanced radio control software to hop over shortwave HF, UHF, CB, and other frequencies to listen for anything that might be out there.

  “So, what have you found out?” Reynolds asked.

  Edgar pushed his thick plastic-framed glasses up over his nose and cleared his throat. “Well. We have a few contacts in the Pacific Northwest. They are very fuzzy about saying exactly where but we guess they are in Idaho. Total nutjobs.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “A Canadian in Newfoundland. He says that they have Norwegian troops there on the streets and the outbreak is touch and go up in the countryside. He said the cities have all been overrun.”

  Reynolds nodded, “Go on.”

  “We got lots of broken stuff coming from Scandinavian call signs but their English is horrible and our Swedish-chef imitation isn’t going over well. What we can get is that the Russians have nuked a good deal of Europe and there is some sort of evacuation going on there.”

  “Friggin’ radio-active zombies!” Andrew broke in.

  Reynolds shot him a cool expression and firmed up her entire posture. “Let’s be clear here. This stuff needs to stay in this room. Most of it is just wild rumor and speculation. If I hear any of these stories floating around the island, I am coming here with the MPs and locking the whole place down. We clear?”

  Andrew and Edgar paused before they said, “Clear,” in unison.

  “Good. Anybody closer than Canada?” Reynolds began the questioning again.

  “Nothing in the tri-state area. I am guessing that at this point, there is a big issue with power. About the closest we have is a fella somewhere up the Florida Atlantic coast who is broadcasting all the time. His name is Ike but he is being coy about his exact location. I guess people are paranoid. He’s all questions but few answers.”

  “Sounds like a policy we need to adopt gentlemen. When you talk to anyone, be sure to give minimal details about the size and formation of the military forces here, or even how many people we have here. You can give out our location but be fuzzy on everything else. We are not going to turn any refugees away but I don’t want to give out military secrets just in case there is actually a Russian U-Boat off Santa Rosa Island.”

  They agreed with the Major again.

  “Speaking of Russian U-boats…anything that seems funny? Any military units that you have made contact with?”

  “Shortwave station broadcasts are dependent upon atmospheric propagation and can only be heard certain times of the day, mainly at night.” Edgar explained with obvious fascination. “We hooked up an old shortwave to a PC-radio and we’ve been monitoring alternating between 2.3200 for FEMA and 5.6800 for the Coast Guard for long periods of time and all we get is nothing—except for when our local cutter keys up of course. We have been scanning everything else and have only gotten two stations with no call signs that every hour transmits an electronically synthesized English-accented female voice reading groups of numbers in sets of five. It is the same numbers repeatedly so we think it may be completely automated and possibly unmanned. We also get chatter on two freaks-,” motioning to Andrew who replied:

  “—6.697 And 6.7200—”

  “—exactly!” Andrew shouted out with hands raised like a revival minister. “They are transmitting what breaks down to be junk in bursts of high-speed Morse code.”

  “Why is it junk?” Reynolds asked. She noticed Wyatt beside her hanging onto every word that was exchanged. Mack had taken the chance to vacate and did so, retreating back to the studio while the two Hams regaled Reynolds.

  “We hooked it up to a printer and translated the code out and it doesn’t make sense. I’m guessing its military crypto stuff. But the stellar thing about this is that it’s always different, sooooooo…” Edgar said, again cueing to Andrew who replied:

  “The Empire is still out there and it’s communicating with itself.”

  Reynolds looked around at the three men and boys in the room, grinning ear-to-ear like Cheshire cats and only shook her head.

  — | — | —

  CHAPTER 34

  Along the Fort Road, ten miles outside of Gulf Shores.

  Spud watched the yellow diesel jug fill quickly from the garbage truck’s tank. Few people knew that if you had a length of garden hose, a couple of fittings, a cordless drill, and a $15 drill pump, you could fill a five-gallon gas can from a car’s gas tank in just over a minute flat.

  “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 I
sland 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 m
illing 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.