by John Holmes
Chapter 7
“What are you doing?” I asked confused.
“We have to take this ship out, or they will use it to try this again. Next time, the ship may not be protected by an armed guard. What if these people got loose in England?”
“Take a minute to think about this. It’s the Navy’s problem, not ours. We don’t know what’s down there.”
“If they were threatening to sneak into your country, you’d try to stop ‘em, mate,” he said, with an air of finality, before he slid down the rope.
“God dammit,” I muttered, as I swung myself over the side, and realized for the first time just how much the ship was rocking.
As we were climbing down, I suddenly remembered the historic precedent for this. “You know, during World War I, the Allies would charge a German trench across no man’s land, and get chewed up by the artillery and machine guns. Then they would take lots of casualties and retreat. The Germans would think there was no one left defending the Allied trench and they would get up and charge, and be chewed up by the artillery and machine guns, and retreat. Then the Allies would think there was no one left defending the German trench and they would get up and charge again.”
“That’s ok, mate, we won World War I,” came the response from the bottom of the rope, where Adam had already cleared the main deck and was covering our descent.
One of the sailors was detailed to wait up top and make sure our escape route remained open. The rest of us were alone on the pitching deck of the trawler. We were the only people on deck. We moved quickly to the superstructure and breached the watertight door without opposition. Carefully, with Adam on point, we swept the pilot house. The survivors inside surrendered without a fight, and we zip tied their hands and feet, and left them lying there.
From there, we went below to secure the engine room, but first, we had to sweep through the crew spaces. We broke into two man teams to sweep the cabins. I kicked in the first door. Immediately a shotgun blast impacted near where I was standing. I jumped back against the bulkhead outside the room.
“I wish I had a grenade.” I said.
“Focus on what you have, not on what you don’t have,” Adam said. “It’s an old special forces mantra.” He then grabbed an empty magazine from my drop pouch, yelled “Grenade!”, and threw it into the compartment.
The empty metal stick clanked around, and we heard the sound of a person diving for cover.
Adam immediately breached and fired multiple shots into the person, who hid behind an upturned bed. By the time I followed him into the room, he was already bent over, picking up the magazine-turned-faux grenade. He handed it back to me as I entered. I stared at it dumbfounded for a minute, before dropping back in my dump pouch. Twenty round 9mm mags are hard to come by these days.
On the other side of the passageway, Ethan and William were running into problems of their own. As I exited the compartment I was searching, I saw them stack up to breach a room. Before William could kick the door, a pirate jumped out.
Ethan fired instantaneously, and, even though he dropped the target, the spent casing bounced off the wall and ricocheted back into the ejection port. No bullshit; I saw this with my own eyes: the spent brass ejected normally, hit the bulkhead he was pressed up against inches from the gun, and bounced back into the gun, stove piping, and jamming the gun. As impossible as this may sound, I have seen it happen. Luckily there were no other surprises while he messed with the charging handle to extricate his “magic bullet”.
We secured the noncombatants who had surrendered, mostly the elderly, women, and children, in the anchor windlass room at the bow, and continued our sweep and clear.
The only other episode of note as we cleared the ship happened in the engine room.
“Let’s place bets on what weapon the greasy mechanic will jump out and attack us with,” I said.
“How do you know there will be a greasy mechanic down there?” Adam said, as we stood at the top of the ladder.
“There’s always a greasy mechanic that pops out in places like this,” said Ethan. “Let’s bet twenty nine-millimeter rounds. I’m thinking it’s more than one guy down there, but the one who jumps out will be using a fire ax.”
“One guy with a socket wrench.” William said.
“How imaginative. I bet its two guys; one with a rubber mallet, and one with a knife,” I said.
“Ok I’ll play along; one guy with a gun,” Adam said after careful contemplation.
“What type of gun?” William asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ethan said. “It’s never a gun. Why would a greasy mechanic need a gun?”
Sure enough, as we moved through the machinery spaces, the stereotypical big greasy mechanic ducked around a boiler, and came at us with a monkey wrench. Ethan effortlessly raised the chopstick he already had in hand, and, in a vicious downward arc, swung it into the bad guy’s forehead. It imbedded with a “crathunk”.
In his best catchphrase voice, Ethan said, “Knife to meet you.”
William and I were of no more good after that. It took us a while to pull ourselves back together. The rest of the pirates must have been seriously put off by our uncontrollable laughter echoing through the ship, because they put up no more resistance.
“Pay up!” said William.
“Sorry mate, you said socket wrench, not monkey wrench,” said Adam.
“I was still closer than you,” William retorted.
I don’t think anyone ever paid up. About two hours later, a Royal Navy frigate showed up and took custody of the trawler and prisoners. They also offloaded the wounded from the cargo ship. I have no idea what they did with the prisoners. Of course, by the time the Navy arrived, we had already absconded with as much of the ammunition, food, and weapons and we could find, along with other supplies.
Chapter 8
A Royal Navy patrol boat escorted us into the anchorage of Scapa Flo, and conducted the inspection. The crew helped unload the ship, and prepare for another load of cargo and another trip across the Atlantic. A different team of security guards would escort her the next time she sailed. Adam and the three of us intended to take some leave.
When we went ashore, we were immediately taken to the quarantine facility that had been built for people like us. We were examined for bites and other communicable diseases. Adam somehow managed to bribe the guards to overlook the fact that we were not subjects of the crown, and waive the normal quarantine period.
We went to a place Adam rented in the Orkney Islands between cruises to drop off our gear. England was still gun-free, but swords had become normal accessories for people to carry with them. I could have made a comment about how medieval Britain is, but for once in my life I refrained from making a stereotyping joke.
Adam walked around with some sort of short sword on his back; it looked much larger on him because of his small stature. William, whose parents were both police officers, preferred to carry a simple wooden Billie club in a leather loop attached to his belt. Ethan carried a wakizashi, and he and William each had at least two or three pocket knives on them as well.
I wore my kopis machete and my Kershaw Camp 10; one on each side of my belt. Both have a forward curving blade like a kukri, but not as pronounced. The Kershaw has a ten inch blade, and I can best describe it as a mix between a kukri, a bolo, and Aragorn’s knife in the Lord of the Rings movies.
The machete has an eighteen inch blade and a seven inch grip; perfect for one or two handed strikes (I have small, girlish hands). It is the type of weapon carried by some of the greatest generals and armies of ancient times, including Alexander the Great and his Companion Calvary, as well as most of the rest of his Macedonian army; Hannibal Barca and his Carthaginian army; Pyrrhus of Epirus and his Hellenic army; and Leonidas and his Spartan Army. If it’s good enough for those guys, it’s good enough for me. The forward curve of the blade makes it a brutal, front heavy, chopping weapon with the same amount of chopping power as an ax, and the point st
ill lines up with the wrist for stabbing attacks.
That night, Adam took us out to a local pub for dinner. Because he was paying, he also picked what we ate. Let me just say this: I don’t care how infrequently I’ve gotten to eat home cooked food; haggis is not a pleasant thing to put inside your body.
He introduced us to some of his “mates”, who were in something like a local militia. With much of the British army deployed in Spain, and guns mostly illegal, they patrolled the beaches for zombies that washed up. Typically zombies avoid water, but with so many Europeans trying to escape by sea, especially to the relative safety of Great Britain, they inevitably end up in the water, whether their ship is sunk by the Royal Navy or by some other means and the current washes them ashore here. A few days in the water will kill the infection, destroying the zombie, but every now and then some struggled out of the surf, decaying and shuffling forward.
The folks who made up the Hoy Fusilier Militia were a rowdy bunch, who had presumably been drinking most of the day. They were made up of men and women, and let me tell you, I would rather fight the men! Even though they are bigger than me, I could at least kick them in the balls and run away, which was not so with the women (who were also bigger than me). They carried every type of medieval weapon you can think of; but maces, swords, and axes were particularly well represented.
One of the rowdiest of the group, Guy, who was about my age, noticed our matching IST5 patches on our jackets. We had put them back on as soon as we boarded the ship. “Oy! I’ve ‘eard ah you wankers! I ‘ear that the British Army uses ir-reg-a-lar scouts now too. I think you’re all overrated and should leave it up to the professionals.”
“We’ve seen our share of fighting, bud, why aren’t you doing your part?” William countered.
“I ain’t yer bud, pal,” Guy shot back.
“I ain’t yer pal, guy,” William retorted.
“Ank you, ahts mah name,” Guy said, pleased that William remembered it. “I signed up before any of this happened, but they won’t let you in if you have a peanut allergy. Ba’sides ah’ve killed way more Z’s here on Hoy ‘en I would evah meet over in Spain.”
“Where have you found Zombies to kill here?” Ethan asked.
“Ah bet ah’ve killed more ‘n you.”
“That’s pretty unlikely. A Brit like you would have never been allowed in Fort McHenry, much less survive the battle we fought there,” Ethan said matter-of-factly.
“Aw, come off it. That was just a staged publicity stunt,” he said.
“You need to calm down. You’ve gone too far,” I said, suddenly angry at his accusations. Everyone had a hand on their weapon, and tensions were high.
Adam intervened, just as things were about to get ugly. “Why don’t we all join you for your patrol tomorrow morning?” He suggested.
“Right oh! ‘En we’ll see if they can hack it,” Guy said, confident in his righteousness.
“Good luck keeping up with us,” I said.
“Not that we will see any zombies,” Ethan said.
“Yeah, we would be better off sleeping in,” William said.
As someone who doesn’t drink, I hate altercations with people who are drunk. I certainly tried to stay out of the argument, but after the hell on earth I saw in that old fort, I won’t tolerate anyone calling it a farce. I didn’t lose my team for a publicity stunt so that some foreigner who I could poison with a bag of trail mix could call it a God damn farce.
I hate losing control. I almost did talking to Guy. It was time for me to go. I left Ethan and William discussing how to smuggle a couple of beer steins out the door, and walked back to Adam’s cottage.
I went for a long run, reveling in the chilly night air, took a shower with hot running water, and spent the rest of the night oiling my 1911; it had been a while since it was properly taken apart and cleaned. It wasn’t as soothing as I had hoped and I was still angry when I went to bed. These people have no idea what it’s like for the rest of the world.
Chapter 9
After a restless night, I decided to get up early. I dressed in layers against the cold morning air, and tucked my 1911 inside the concealed holster in my waistband, even though I wasn’t supposed to have it in this country; better safe than sorry. Then I grabbed my blades and sat down for breakfast as everyone else started to get up. Hopefully they wouldn’t be too hung over.
It was a typical cold, damp, foggy morning. The sun had yet to come up. We walked to the western coast of Hoy, the island we were on, which formed one side of the protected anchorage of Scapa Flo. There were about three dozen people already there. They were brandishing a variety of melee weapons even more impressive than the ones they had in the pub the night before. Name an ancient or medieval weapon, shield, or piece of armor, and I guarantee you, it was represented.
We walked over to a tent where a lot of people were congregating. Guy was sitting behind a table. “Ah was wonderin’ if you lot were evah gonna show,” he said.
“You have a lot of people here; they’re going to be disappointed when we don’t find any zombies,” I retorted.
“You’ll see zombies mate, don’t you worry about that. I suggest you grab some equipment from the tent.”
We walked into the tent, which might as well have been an ancient armory. Just when I thought I’d seen every type of armor and weapon invented…
We set about arming ourselves from the hodge podge of gear. I grabbed some leather wrist bracers and leather greaves to protect my shins, and a round wooden shield. I chose to stick with my kopis machete. I didn’t think I would need any of the stuff in the tent, but it didn’t hurt to have it. Guy seemed pretty confident there would be zombies, and Adam had been strangely quiet on the subject. He was armoring up, so I figured it didn’t hurt for me to do the same. William and Ethan chose to abstain from taking anything, confident that they wouldn’t see any zombies.
We emerged from the tent to find the Hoy Fusilier Militia ready to go. We walked a short distance towards the coast, and lined up at one of the entrances to the beach. There was a stone berm on either side of us, and through the fog I could see that the entrance was protected by sharpened spikes, a ditch, and other devices that gave this whole evolution the feel of a medieval siege. One of them started to blow a big horn. I took a moment to contemplate the chain of events which had brought me here. How did I end up on the set of Braveheart?
After sounding several long calls from the horn, the trumpeter stopped. Almost deafened by the racket, I couldn’t hear anything at first, then starting out very faint, but quickly building in intensity, came the moaning sound that we have all come to fear. It was the sound of a large number of zombies getting closer to their prey.
The vanguard of the zombie force, their scouts, if you will, reached our defenses moments later, and began to resolve in form out of the fog. It was raining lightly, miserable weather, but exactly what stereotypes told me to expect from England. The trickle of zombies who were stopped by our siege works quickly turned into a flood as the bulk of the hoard showed up. While some were stopped by the ditches and spikes, the sheer weight of numbers they brought to the fight soon forced its way through.
The battle began with ranged weapons, long bows fired in high arcs to come down on the zombies’ heads, crossbows fired straight into the mass, and slings and javelins hurled towards the attackers. Most of the missiles missed the target area, the zombies’ head, but even those that missed tended to knock down the attacker or at least limit its mobility. It’s hard to turn when you have a javelin in your chest.
As the horde moved into close quarters range, the front rank locked shields and pushed forward against them. The people behind pushed those ahead. The front rank of zombies, unable to brace for a coordinated assault, fell over and made a mess of the tightly packed undead formation pushing its way through the pass.
Now battle was fully joined. Spears and other pole arms lanced out at their brains and people with swords and other similar weapons closed
in, while those with ranged weapons held back, firing over our heads.
I went in with the front rank of swordsmen, with Adam on one side and Guy on the other. Neither seemed disturbed by the horde they were facing. It’s like the Roman author Seneca said in ancient times, “Constant exposure to dangers will breed contempt for them.”
With my left hand I held the shield. It proved very impenetrable to the zombies trying to claw their way into my flesh. With my right hand I swung the big, front heavy kopis blade. I lashed out around the edge of the shield and felled most with one downward chop to the cranium or side swiping blow to the neck.
Occasionally I would encounter a zombie on the ground, either crawling or knocked over. I had to jump back or quickly stomp on them more than once. Let me tell you, I was very thankful to have the bite-proof leather shin guards, because while denim will stop some bites, I was much more confident with the leather.
