Within a half minute, the other 11 Rough Riders thundered down after Tiny and into Zombieville.
“How many bullets you think it would take to put that big bastard down?” Reid asked.
“Let’s not find out.”
««—»»
The dozen Rough Riders had broken up into six patrols, two riders each, so that if one machine broke down they could still make it back on a single bike. Five of the six teams had returned within three hours, the only team still out past 3pm was Tiny and his partner.
Reynolds stood nervously next to Stone, taking time to debrief each of the riders as they returned from over the bridge. The returning patrols had brought some good news and some bad. There were infected roaming the streets, but only in small groups. No one had seen more than a five or six in any one pocket. The roads were jammed at most intersections, but were not completely impassible. There had been several fires, but many of the businesses and homes had survived. All of the riders complained in quiet tones of being watched by wild dogs wherever they went.
“The last patrol was the one scouting the airport right?” Reynolds asked, chewing on a fingernail.
“Yes they were going up through Foley all the way, then doubling back and checking on the airport,” Stone explained.
“Have they responded to the radio?” she asked, spitting a bitten fingernail out across the hood of the hummer.
“Not for an hour or so, but those bikes are so damned loud they probably couldn’t hear anything short of a nuclear blast.”
She nodded. They stood alone at the hummer separated from the MPs watching the roadblock by fifty feet. The sharpshooters were thoroughly disappointed. They had only seen four infected all day, none of which had come within rifle range. Reid had even joined their rotation as a spotter with no luck.
For once, the number of survivors who came to the roadblock outnumbered the zombies. Each town only had a few survivors out of every hundred or thousand, and they were making their way to Gulf Shores. These were not just any normal people. These were people who had seen everyone they knew, and thousands that they did not know, die. Then those who had just died would reanimate, and promptly attempt to kill them. It did not make any sense.
Modern Americans just did not have the psychological fortitude to handle this strange turn of events. One day they were drinking a Starbucks and eating a scone, the next you were digging through dumpsters while hiding from gangs of undead and packs of feral dogs. Several of these survivors began to make their way to Gulf Shores because of the radio broadcasts. With their inevitable goggles, scarves, and improvised ski masks they wore as preventative from infection, they looked like shell-shocked World War I pilots who had spent too much time in No Man’s Land.
The bridge guards were amazed to find out where they came from and what their story was. Many of these newcomers did not feel like talking. One even turned around after an hour and wandered back up the highway into the zombie wilderness, unable to be around other normal living people.
“I got the translation of that logbook you gave me the other day,” Stone said as they stood there waiting for the last of the Rough Riders.
“More good news?”
“Depends on how you look at it. You want the summary or the whole details?”
“Hit the high points, Captain,” she said.
“Well most of it is boring, ships-movement type stuff. The last few pages are the gripping tale. Not to ruin the ending, but the hold is full of infected crewmembers. The character at the wheel with the 9mm Q-tip in his ear is the ship’s engineer. He was infected along with the rest of the crew. He trapped them all below decks, jettisoned the ship’s life rafts in the ocean, and dropped anchor at sea.”
“Problem solved.”
“Well, you would think. However, a couple more things caught my attention. They left Odessa in the Ukraine three weeks ago with an infected crewmember aboard, so they did not get it here. In addition, they carried old radiological equipment like every good former Warsaw-Pact ship does. They were picking up a good amount of radiation at sea off Florida and Virginia,” Stone related as he kept looking down the highway towards Zombieville.
“Great.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the whine of a pair of motorcycles over the horizon, like the buzzing of an overworked chainsaw in the distance. Soon enough, two huge riders appeared down the highway bearing down at the roadblock head to head beside each other.
“That would be Tiny and Pugsley.”
Stone and Reynolds stood against the hummer and only had moments to wait as the two bikers downshifted and finally stopped just feet away from them.
“Man, that was a kick in the ass,” Tiny said, rubbing the top of his head after he killed his bike and removed his helmet.
Reynolds had not even let the big man step off his bike before she was interrogating him. “Did you recon the airport?”
“If you can call it that. Every damned plane out there is a burned hulk. That place went up like a pyromaniac’s wet dream. There is a jumbo-jet across the runway that is more ash than anything else. About all we found of your plane was the tail, or at least that’s what I think it was from the markings,” Tiny said, scrolling through a small digital camera he pulled from his jacket pocket before passing it to the Air Force major.
Stone looked over her shoulder as she moved through the photographs on the view screen. Burned hangars, melted tires, the frame of what could have been a fuel truck, and charred private planes appeared in picture after picture. A pile of nearly cremated bodies emanated in all directions from the grey wreckage of Reynolds’s CV-22.
“I guess the fire and explosion took out about a couple hundred of them that night. Good thing, or else we might not be here today,” Tiny said, digging in his backpack. Stone noticed a couple of heavy gold nugget rings on the man’s hand that he had not seen before, but he dismissed it.
Reynolds handed the camera back to the biker. “Get me a full report on everything. Keep up the recons and make sure all the teams have cameras. I want a daily update,” she said as she turned around and started walking off the bridge back to town.
“She always that friendly?” Tiny asked as he pulled a football jersey signed by Joe Montana from his backpack and replaced his dirty shirt with it. When he pulled his old shirt off, he displayed a chest and upper arms in which every inch was covered with dozens of bright tattoos. The oversized autographed jersey barely fit the huge man’s barrel chest.
“What in the hell is that?” Stone asked.
“We got a lot of good leads. Found a few shops that hadn’t been looted. I got a plan to scout out everything from here to Mobile in the next week. But it’s all good, boss,” Tiny said. He held up an ID card that said Requisition Detachment on it. “We’re all on the same side right?”
Tiny tossed a bag of miniature candy bars into Stone’s hand while he ripped into another for his own use. “Happy Halloween, boss.”
“Tell Spud to add iodine to the list,” was all Stone could think of.
— | — | —
CHAPTER 40
Gulf Shores City Hall Board Room
November 6 1015hrs
Z+27
Reynolds rapped her fingers on top of the meeting table as they waited for Doug to arrive. She stared across the table at George and the 3-Blind-Mice. Then she looked at Jarvis and Stone to her left and right.
“Let’s go ahead and begin; we can catch him up when he gets here,” Reynolds said.
“Agreed,” George said, nodding along with the three colonels.
“As you all know, at this point we are looking into options to further explore the brave new world that we have found ourselves in,” the senior most retired colonel, the Ringknocker, announced as he rapped his nugget on the tabletop for emphasis. “Now I would like to hear from each of you what you planned out over the past week. Major, since you are our resident aviation expert, why don’t you begin and then we will take Captain Stone and Lieut
enant Jarvis with their proposals in order.”
Reynolds cleared her throat. “Doug has two 77,000-cubic foot hot air balloon canvases along with burners at his house. He has a plan to sew the two together, suspend a gondola under them, install a small engine, and make a hot-air blimp that is capable of flying as far as eight hundred miles in twenty hours.”
This statement brought guffaws and a few chuckles from the men in the room.
“Doug? Oddball Doug, the phone repair guy that’s been hanging out at the radio station?” Stone asked.
“The same,” replied Reynolds. This was going to be a tough sell.
“Major, I know Doug well,” George said. “He is one of the more eccentric figures we have in town. He went to my church with his family before they moved. I can promise you that he is one odd bird, but—he is a hell of a smart person.”
“He came to me with the plans after I asked about the ballooning equipment and it seems possible. He even has a FAA Balloonist certification and showed me pictures of when he attached weather balloons to a La-Z-Boy and floated 4,000 feet up in it.”
George replied, “Yes, I remember that. He drifted into airspace in Pensacola. The press was all over that. If he hadn’t of done it during the Balloon Festival in Foley, Homeland Security was going to take him to Guantanamo Bay.”
“I think it will work. We did the math together and with that much canvas, he can lift 2500-pounds. That allows a gondola, engine, fuel, propane, and a two-person crew. With a little help he can have it built in a week.”
“Two-person crew? I can’t imagine anyone crazy enough to stake their life in Doug’s hands,” the Ringknocker stated.
“I was going as observer and navigator. He doesn’t have enough of an aviation background to fly over the horizon and he wouldn’t know what to look for even if he did. It would be a wasted effort for him to go alone or with anyone but me.”
The 3-Blind-Mice looked amongst each other before the Ringknocker spoke. “I’ll be the first to say that we need you here too much to risk you in an experimental aircraft. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure it would be worthwhile to risk anyone on this thing.”
Reynolds bit her lip. “But sir, with the range the blimp would have, we can scout from here to New Orleans to Montgomery to Pensacola and back in a single trip. I can’t see that in any other possibility.”
“We’ll take that under advisement,” the Ringknocker said before looking at Stone. “What did you have in mind, Captain?”
Stone slid an open notebook across the table to George and the three colonels of the military council. On it was clipped a road map of southern Alabama and several index cards with carefully written information. Colorful symbols, boxes, and blocks dotted two of the cards with arrows and numbers outlining movement.
“I’d like to take a supply convoy across the bridge into Foley, and then up to Summerdale and back. My scout teams on route reconnaissance have gone as far as Miflin to the east, Weeks in the west and as far north as Robertsdale, so we know the area well,” Stone said.
“What did the scouts find?” asked the Ringknocker.
“A lot of damage, arson, and bodies. It looks as if the infected that are left are systematically destroying the remaining buildings and infrastructure itself, for what reason I cannot say. However, we have identified several intact stores, gas stations, and other businesses that still have useful items. I have made a list on Card 3 there of the fifteen sites I would like to hit, collecting supplies at each.”
“Is it safe enough to stop out there?”
“In the month since the outbreak a lot of the infected have moved off, been killed in fires, or otherwise been put out of action. While there are still good amounts across the bridge, they are spread out and we can achieve local area dominance while we collect supplies before their numbers are a threat.”
“How big of an operation is this, Captain?” George asked, “I don’t think we can risk sending the whole island’s defense force no matter what the prize at the end.”
“A dozen vehicles and forty personnel, about half will be shooters and the other half volunteer drivers and supply handlers. There would still be fully manned defenses here on the island for contingencies, and we will be in radio contact at all times. It will be a one-day OP, covering 16-miles round trip,” Stone replied before coming to a rest.
“Sounds good. We’ll get back to you,” the Ringknocker said and turned his head to Jarvis. “Lieutenant?”
Jarvis stood out among the group at the meeting, freshly shaved and in his winter blue uniform with a perfectly tied tie and decorations. He was in stark contrast to the rumpled and well-worn army camouflage uniforms sported by Reynolds and Stone.
“As you know, the Fish Hawk overheard military communications during our recon of Mobile Bay nearly two weeks ago. After consulting with the Army signals people here, we believe the transmission may have come from military units in the Gulfport, Mississippi area.
“I also have reason to believe that there may be other Coast Guard assets there. I spoke with Captain Stone and related to him directly the result of our mission to Mobile Bay and the land route to Mississippi is completely sealed off by the traffic jam over the Bay. We have also continued to receive sporadic contact from the cruise ship Gulf Mariner. By signal bearing, we think she is adrift somewhere south of Dauphin Island. This information, coupled with the information given me by Major Reynolds about what is contained in the hold of the reefer ship Pamyat Ilicha, I propose that the cutter take a three day trip to scout Gulfport and Pascagoula, scout for the Gulf Mariner, and sink the reefer ship on the return leg of the trip.”
“How do you plan on sinking such a large ship?” asked the Ringknocker.
“We are still working that out, sir. I have a couple of options that I will report back on as soon as I have more information.”
“Are you staffed enough for this, after the loss of your man?”
“I’m glad you mentioned that, sir. Even with our tanks filled, we only can carry enough diesel to get us about 400-miles away from here in a straight line before we would have to turn back. However, that is not the big problem as we can make Gulfport and back on half that— the big problem is navigation.”
“How so?”
“Without GPS we have to hug the coast so we can figure out where we are. We can use celestial stuff if away from the coastline but without a ship’s alidade and good charts, I would be wary about sailing much farther than a hundred miles or so from here. I know the waters around the Bay and the island itself fairly well enough not to be worried. Nevertheless, I have only sailed to Gulfport once; I am leery of going there without some detailed knowledge of the harbor. Is there one of these charter captains that knows the area that we can borrow?”
Stone laughed and poked Jarvis, “I’ve got it covered. I have just the charter guy for you. Young, total sea salt, expert in the waters around Biloxi and Gulfport. Nothing but guts.”
««—»»
When the meeting rejoined after lunch, Doug was already pacing the room by the time Reynolds walked in with the rest of the members in tow. The short spastic man rushed up to Reynolds immediately as she entered the room.
“Did you tell them about the Depplin?” he asked with a hushed voice using his pet name for the blimp. “What did they say?”
Reynolds hated Doug’s pet name for the blimp and refused to use it. Instead all she did was take the man by the elbow and walk him down to the end of the table, quietly imploring him to be quiet. He had evidently brought with him a clipboard full of paperwork, a model of the Depplin and a yellow plastic suitcase the size of the microwave that lay on the table already.
“You are all about some clutter, aren’t you?” she asked him as they took their seat, to which he looked back at her with a hurt expression on his face but did not say anything.
“Doug, good to see you again,” George said as he walked in and took his seat. “Major Reynolds told us all about your balloon this morning
.”
“It’s a non-rigid hot gas airship actually, sir, kind of like a blimp but not,” he explained, passing the model across the table to him.
The foot-long model looked like an upside down taco with a piece of latticework under it. On the latticework was a miniature propane tank, gas cans, a motor, and two GI-Joe action figures, one male, and one female, zip-tied to it in a seated position. The word Depplin was written in a black marker across the top of it with tiny smiley faces inside the p’s.
“It’s not to scale, of course. I just made that up so you would have an idea of what we were talking about.”
“Depplin huh?” Stone asked as the model was passed around the table.
“Catchy, isn’t it?” Doug said with a smile.
“What’s in the box, Doug?” George asked, pointing to the yellow case at the end of the table. It was a large banana-yellow Pelican waterproof case of the type used to carry around sensitive electrical equipment.
Doug stood and pushed his glasses up over his nose as he opened the case. When he turned it toward the inside of the table for all to see, he stepped back like a magician in the middle of a trick.
“Holy shit,” Stone said with a whistle and stood up smoothly. The man knew enough to get mobile when the situation warranted.
Inside the case looked to Reynolds to be an improvised explosive device. Although she had never seen one in person, she had to sit through enough PowerPoint presentations before her last few deployments to have a good idea what they looked like. She could see a clock, wires, a charge of what could be explosives, and an ignition circuit.
“Don’t worry, it’s not armed,” Doug said, trying to calm the room down.
“What is that thing and why did you bring it here, son?” asked the Ringknocker.
“I read an old British book, an autobiography of a watchmaker who came up with a whole workshop of dirty tricks to use on the Nazis in World War II,” said Doug with a smile. “And one of these was a limpet mine.”
Last Stand on Zombie Island Page 26
