Last Stand on Zombie Island

by Christopher L. Eger

  Billy peered over the edge of the glacis and looked down into the moat below. Hundreds of infected had been pureed in the crossfire of the pair of old cannons and the pile of reanimated humans was cut back down to the ground. However, as soon as it happened, thousands more surged forward to take their place in building a new pile.

  He looked down the line and Theriot and his marines along with the rest of the defenders were taking turns reloading and firing from the muskets that still worked. While waiting for a loaded weapon, the shooter would kick the occasional infected whose head or hand came within range.

  Wyatt and Billy finished reloading and fired into the Horde again, Billy missing his shot and Wyatt making his. Once more, they started reloading as rounds kept firing raggedly to the left and right of them. The Civil War reenactor, who had instructed them on the parade ground the day before in how to use the muskets, had given them every chance to practice reloading. Still wearing his floppy black hat with crossed sabers on the front of it, the man had pronounced that a trained solider in the 1860s could reload and fire three rounds per minute. Billy was averaging one round every three minutes and was trying his best.

  Bert and Ernie showed up behind them to get a peek at what their cannon had accomplished. The bearded men still had their Mk18s slung over their backs even though they were out of ammunition.

  “That was awesome, Bert!” Wyatt said, busy pushing a ramrod down the barrel of his musket.

  Ernie nodded, his face covered in soot except for a white area around his eyes where he must have had been wearing his sunglasses when the cannon went off. “It was a pucker factor for sure. I thought we might be taking ourselves out of the food chain when they went off.”

  Bert chimed in, “I can’t taste anything but sulfur.” He was a carbon copy of Ernie and they even wore the same outfit. “Did we get many of them?”

  “Pretty good shooting guys. I say do that another 200-300 times and we should be alright,” Billy said, pouring powder from a recycled Coke bottle down the throat of his musket.

  “I wish we could,” said Ernie, shaking his head. “We used the last of our powder firing the cannon off. Everything else has been given out for use with the muskets.”

  Billy looked at his Coke bottle; he had enough for maybe ten more shots. Wyatt’s already empty bottle rolled underfoot as did several others up and down the line.

  ««—»»

  The reformed high school band played on the parade ground of the fort. Many of the kids were off key and out of tune, but they did not sound too bad overall. The band director worked them through the same ten songs repeatedly, taking breaks to walk around and grab some ice-cold water from the belowground cisterns. They formed the soundtrack to the battle.

  At one point during the afternoon a group of infected had stood on the wall closest the beach. A militia unit led by other high school kids commanded by a 16-year old girl had taken the initiative to remove them, fighting with bayonets and rifle butts.

  “I will have you doing monkey fuckers until you throw up your own asshole, you cocksuck!” he heard the little girl, who everyone called Oswald, say to encourage her group into the fight. He thought about Hoffman and Reid and assured their spirits that the torch had been passed to the younger generation of leaders.

  Bert and Ernie had joined the fight at that section and Ernie had finally tackled the last four infected from the wall, pushing them all off only to be carried down into the mosh pit with them. Bert shot his friend in the head with a musket to put him out of his misery as the Horde ripped him to shreds.

  To say that the survivors were gloomy was the ultimate understatement. Billy sat down in the grass and briars on the glacis and held his five foot long unloaded musket. Topped with a 21-inch rusty bayonet, the weapon was taller than he was. Edgar Wallace, his next-door neighbor, had climbed the steep steps to the top of the wall and sat next to Billy. The man had brought a jug of water for them to drink and a couple cans of salvaged ravioli for lunch. After the cold meal both of the men had ordered Wyatt to go down and the old judge would take his place on the line.

  “Never thought I would fight with a weapon older than I was,” the man said, looking at the musket in his hands. It, too, was unloaded as was common all along the line. It’s only use now was as a spear to force infected off the wall if they came close enough to the glacis to reach out to the defenders.

  “You just thought the Nazi’s were bad. These guys below will literally eat you,” Billy tried an effort in gallows humor.

  “Well, death is a natural part of life. I’m toting 87-years around with me and I’m tired,” the man replied. It was the first time that Billy had ever seen him not smiling.

  Billy looked down the line and saw Stone and two of the colonels walking along the wall, inspecting the defenses. One of the old colonels had died in the Great Retreat, caught in the evacuation of one of the barricades. The other two colonels had been muted ever since the fort had come under siege and seemed to spend most of their time in endless meetings with George and a few of the other county figures who had escaped town.

  When Stone came up to Billy, he did not even get up from the ground to meet him.

  “Gunslinger,” the Captain said in his characteristic drawl, “how are you guys holding up?”

  “I’ve got brains on me, man…”

  “So you’ve been getting some shots in?”

  “It’s kind of a hobby of mine lately.”

  “Good to see you in the line, sir,” Stone said to the judge, patting his back. His German Shepherd shadow licked the man’s hand.

  “I served under Patton sixty years ago and learned to fight where I’m needed, Captain,” the old man mustered.

  “Did you eat today?”

  “Yes, but I ordered the Kentucky Breakfast and they didn’t have it,” the old man said with a smile.

  “We may be able to muster that in the morning, what is it?”

  Ed grinned through his perfect teeth and explained, “A quart of whiskey, a beef steak, and a big dog, who is assigned to eat the steak.”

  Stone returned his grin, shared by the rest of the group. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Did anyone get a radio working to talk to the armada?” Billy asked. A few handheld VHF radios had been floating around the fort but they were all long dead. Without them, they could only wave and hold up homemade signs to communicate with Jarvis, Mr. Trung, Cat in Fooly Involved, and the other 100-odd charter boats, yachts, sailing ships, and shrimp boats that remained offshore of the fort. They were the moteliest flotilla imaginable, but were the only outside hope of the fort and its inhabitants.

  “No. The two ham radio guys tried to make a battery out of a can of orange juice and some wires but they couldn’t get it to power up the radio,” Stone said.

  “Well, I guess eventually they will sail off and start over somewhere,” Billy mumbled. “Then I guess we’ll die up here. So be it, I’ve got my spot picked out.”

  Stone looked around at the surging infected below, then to the scattered defenders around the rim of the fort on the glacis, and to the unarmed civilians sheltering inside the casemates inside the fort. The sound of the high school band filtered up through the air. The occasional musket and increasingly rare shot rang out in the distance in accompaniment.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Stone said, moving off.

  ««—»»

  The afternoon sun hung low in the sky and the situation had grown desperate. No one was talking anymore. It had been hours since the last gunshot had been heard. A crew of militia wandered up and down the line asking if anyone had any powder, musket balls, or percussion caps left.

  Billy shook his head and, although he was out of everything they asked for, neglected to mention the old .38 in his pocket with its last three rounds left. He was saving those for the end if needed, one for Mack, one for Wyatt, and one for himself. He was sorry for the judge, but that was just the way the ball bounced.

  The high sch
ool band had broken up after its all-day concert and the only noise was the moans of the undead in the moat and the distant crash of the surf three hundred yards away at the beach. He scanned the horizon back towards Gulf Shores and could see his house, the judge’s house next door, the ferry dock, and the fort road. For the first time in a week, the fort road lay open and empty. The end of the Horde could finally be seen. The fact that there must have been 20,000 infected in the half mile between the fort and his house dampened that fleeting piece of good news. If those 20,000 rushed the walls at night, with no lights to see them clamber over the glacis, the show would be over.

  “Dad?”

  He turned around to see Wyatt behind him. The boy stood there with Bert. The creepy bearded man hung back and let Wyatt talk.

  “I’m going to try to get to the boats.”

  Billy stood up immediately to kick the madness out of his son. “T-there is no way. There are thousands of them. No one could make it a foot into that crowd before the infected would get them. It’s mathematically impossible.”

  “I’m not going to run through them. I am going to swim under them,” the boy said.

  — | — | —

  CHAPTER 57

  Billy looked down into the brick chamber under the fort’s 10-hole latrine at the churning brown water lapping at the sides of the wall. Two centuries of calcium and salt deposits had turned the red brick a chalky white and the insane formation of stalactites and stalagmites mingled with fresh floating human waste.

  “It looks like you would gag a maggot down there,” he said. “Are you sure this will even work?”

  The two Fort Morgan curators were there, one armed with a sabre, the other holding a flintlock pistol that he set down on the yellowed builder’s plans of the citadel as a paperweight. Around the table were seated Stone and the two remaining colonels.

  “The three-foot wide pipe from the beach to the latrines runs five hundred yards straight out. It should come up about a hundred feet offshore at low tide.”

  “There is no way he can swim that far!”

  Bert held up a short black can that looked like one of those keychain bottles of pepper spray, only it had a small pink mouthpiece on it.

  “It’s a HEED. You use them to escape from a helicopter if it ditches in the water. It will give you a breath or three of spare air to reach the surface. We had a couple left from when we came ashore.”

  “I can make the swim. I am a certified diver. He is just a boy,” Billy protested.

  Bert pursed his bearded lips and pointed to the plans, “That’s just it. There is a giant S-trap here, with 48-inches of clearance around the curves. It was designed big enough to let waste move out to sea, but just too small for a swimmer to get into the fort from a ship offshore.”

  “He can’t make that turn, he is five feet tall.”

  “I’m four-seven, Dad, and we already tried it with a mock up. I can bend my legs and arms enough to snake around,” Wyatt said.

  Billy looked at him and thought hard for a minute before saying anything else. “And you said this will save us all? May I ask how?”

  “He will be carrying a message for the Florida.”

  “What’s the Florida?”

  Bert did not even blink. “A converted, Ohio-class submarine. She is a few miles offshore observing the situation.”

  “Guess there really was sightings of a periscope after all,” Billy said. “How long has she been out there?”

  “That’s not important, sir, what is is that we get this targeting package to her so that she can make it rain.”

  “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  Bert held out a military ID, showing a much cleaner version of him in a dark naval uniform and tie. “Senior Chief Cryptologic Technician Charles Novak.”

  “He’s a SEAL, Billy,” Stone said. “We didn’t even know ourselves until about an hour ago. They came ashore in Fairhope a few weeks ago and have been keeping an eye on us.”

  Billy struggled to take it in. “Why didn’t you guys help us before this? Why don’t you just radio your sub and do your thing? What is the deal here?”

  “I landed with eight guys, we ran into those advancing infected north of the bridge and fought our way out, losing our commo gear and six of my guys. Now it is just me left.” He rolled up the leg of his cargo pants showing numerous bloody bites from human-sized jaws. “And I don’t have long…we haven’t tried to call in support yet because there hasn’t been an ideal opportunity like we have now.”

  “How the hell is this ideal?”

  As they outlined their plan, Billy felt less and less confident.

  ««—»»

  As the sunset turned to darkness and the moans of the infected drowned out all the other sounds coming from the outside world, Billy sat back on his makeshift cot deep inside the cold concrete powder magazine of Battery Duportail with Mack beside him. That part of the fort dated to the 1890s was constructed to house modern 12-inch disappearing guns, their 1046-pound shells, and the 268-pound bags of gunpowder that propelled them. Over his head were reinforced Portland concrete walls five feet thick, strong enough to withstand a hit from a battleship’s shells. At least that is what the historic informational sign said that hung above him.

  Around him were huddled hundreds of other refugees, the entire population of Gulf Shores that remained on dry land. Stone, Mack, George, and the colonels had gone around ordering all of the civilians into the battery, then moved what was left of the food and as much water as possible in after them. Finally, the call had gone out for the defenders on the glacis to abandon their positions and retreat to the battery as well, locking the four-inch thick blast doors behind them. There they waited for the story to end.

  Within an hour hundreds of infected pounded on the doors and grated ventilation slats, drawn to the smell and sound of the living inside. Billy could only imagine the thousands of zombies who now staggered around the parade ground outside the doors, overrunning the fort and filing its casemates.

  Across from him sat Ed and George, old men in a dank dark hole, carrying on a conversation about Patty Duke. Theriot and his two marines, battered, bruised, and still arguing amongst themselves, played dominoes for cigarettes. Stone sat there beside them, reading Homage to Catalonia by George Orwell quietly. His giant German Shepherd whined like bad brakes as Oswald petted her.

  “Any words of wisdom, Captain?” Billy asked.

  “Waiting for the end to come. Wishing I had strength to stand. This is not what I had planned. It’s out of my control.”

  “You write that, or is that Clausewitz again?”

  Oswald laughed as she rubbed the dog’s belly. “That’s Linkin Park.”

  Stone laughed and went back to his book. As he did so, Billy sat back on his cot and felt Mack lean close to his shoulder in the flickering darkness. He thought of Wyatt as he lay there. Billy’s last words to him were a story that his grandfather had told him long ago about surviving. He gave him advice on the swim and on life in general. He hugged him, watched him drop down past the floor, and submerge below the black water of the latrine chamber, hoping to escape the fort with the outgoing tidal flush. The last gift he could give him was the old .38 and he hoped the boy would not have to use it.

  “He’ll be ok,” Mack whispered to him.

  Billy nodded and kissed her for the first time.

  — | — | —

  CHAPTER 58

  US Coast Guard Cutter Fish Hawk

  A thousand meters offshore of Fort Morgan

  2040 hours

  Jarvis watched in anticipation at the dark water around point where the fort jutted out into Mobile Bay. Two hours before, just as twilight descended on the area, all of the defenders along the top wall of the fort waved at the flotilla of fishing boats and disappeared inside of the fort. Only minutes after the militia were gone the infected could be seen swarming over the walls in waves.

  The feeling across the water was one of deep loss and pain. Boats
sounded their horns in mourning. Some fired flares into the air. Others threw flowers, pictures, and clothes in the water for their own reasons. No one knew what had happened. The last communication they had before the militiamen climbed down all at once from the walls was a bed sheet that hung from the outside wall of the fort. In words a foot high, it read: We are ok. Watch for signal. Be safe. It was the only thing that kept mass panic from taking root in the flotilla.

  “See anything yet, Boats?” Jarvis asked the Bosun mate. A half hour after the militia had left, the flotilla called over the radio reporting Morse code signals from a light high above the fort. One of the boaters, an old radio operator read the message and said that it was someone asking repeatedly for the Fish Hawk. The Bosun was alerted and soon was flashing back and forth in the darkness with someone claiming to be a navy seal, holed up in the old condemned observation tower twenty feet over the fort.

  “Just said for us to order all the boats nautical mikes out to sea and for us stand off and wait for a light in the water a few hundred yards offshore of the fort. Then make our GPS available to the swimmer.”

  Jarvis nodded. He had already called out over the VHF and ordered all ships to stand back. He advised that everything was under control and that the fort had a plan. The Coast Guard officer could see a Christmas tree of navigational lights out to sea but a few still stayed close to shore, watching the opera before them.

  “I’ve got someone, sir!” the Cook yelled out, pointing to a flashing strobe light nearly submerged in the water between them and the fort.

  “Launch the small boat, go get ’em!” Jarvis yelled, slapping the chart table. The Cook and Bosun were off in a flash, barely making contact with the ladder leaving the rear of the wheelhouse as they headed to the zodiac on the deck below them. All of his Coasties had made it off the island when the wall fell except for Myers, his 18-year-old seaman from California, and for a week, the remaining shell-shocked crew was dying to help in any way they could.