by Mark Tufo
Lester Tomey and Harold Lancaster had gone through the academy together and even worked a car together several years later until Les had been promoted to sergeant.
“Who the hell names their kid Lester?” Harry remembered kidding with him when they’d first met and been teamed up for take-down drills.
“They were probably the same kind of folks who would name their kid Harold,” Les had immediately replied, laughing and then adding, “Let’s get pizza later.” Harry knew they would be friends.
Les promoted up through the ranks to captain, and the word had been he was in line for the next commander position. Those positions rarely opened up, but Les was patient, and he had made it clear on more than one occasion that he would retire only when they dragged him out “kicking and screaming and tossing my ass through the door.”
Harry unfortunately had not spent much time with him over the past several years, as life goes on and all, but he had always wished him well and much success. He hoped Les had survived the April 1st onslaught, or that he had at least died quickly and was not a zombie somewhere.
After the promotion, which really only meant Harry got a new star with a different word on it, he began to work a higher than average of twenty-five to thirty unpaid hours per month. Normally assigned security at special events or demonstrations for crowd control, he had also been utilized many times in regular street patrol. That had thrilled him, and although his reserve status did nothing to increase his pension, or pay him an additional salary, he nonetheless felt that old sense of fulfillment he had missed after retirement.
Harry’s thoughts at the time, finding himself back in police work, had run along the lines of the more things change, the more they stay the same, but as it turned out the decision to enter the Reserve Unit had ultimately saved his life. Being a Level I Reserve came along with a California PC 832 peace officer status, allowing him to carry, keep, and maintain firearms much more easily than as a retired cop, especially in the City and County of San Francisco with its progressive anti-gun laws. Harry clearly understood now what being truly screwed would have meant on April 1st when the madness began.
6
Pulling his thoughts back to the present, Harry stood up from the bed and walked the few short steps to the heavily curtained window. He had installed the curtains several years ago to block light from entering the bedroom when he had still worked the graveyard shift. It had been hard enough to get use to sleeping during the day without sunlight flooding the room, reminding him what a normal nine-to-five working person should be used to.
Now the curtains kept any light from the battery-powered lantern he had been using, not to mention the laptop and small television he had brought into the bedroom, from escaping the apartment and announcing his presence. Carefully pulling back a small section of the curtain, he looked upon a scene straight out of a horror movie. He said with a smirk, “Wonder what the new owners will do about a little zombie infestation.”
Nothing in his twenty-five years of dealing with the worst humanity had to offer could have prepared him for what he had been witness to since this all began. There were at least fifty of those things directly below in the street. They were going in and out of buildings, which were obviously breached, pounding on doors of those they could not get into, all the while emitting that incessant moaning.
It was also apparent that the screaming he heard this morning had been from more survivors being found. Zs were pouring into the building across the street. Harry clearly saw, even in the dim morning light, fresh blood on the steps and sidewalk of the building that had not been there the day before. The bodies of the permanently dead kind lay everywhere, in every conceivable position, most mutilated beyond recognition.
Between the dead bodies and the zombies, the smell was horrendous, even through the closed window. Harry had come to know that odor intimately while responding to welfare checks on the elderly or the home bound left forgotten. The odor was of death personified; it permeated clothing, and assailed the senses almost to the point where you could taste it. Clothes could be cleaned, but that indescribable stench would linger in the nose for days. This was what once again assaulted Harry but a hundred fold; that, and an underlying trace of smoke.
Looking up slightly at the skyline above the buildings with concern and a real sense of dread, he saw the glow of the city burning. “This must’ve been how the folks felt who witnessed the ‘06 fire,” he said, closing and sealing the curtain.
Although the fire might possibly destroy the City, he was fairly confident that it would do so at a much slower rate due to the automated fire suppression built into buildings along with fire retardant construction materials required by the vastly improved building and planning codes since the 1906 earthquake, and the resulting fire that had destroyed the majority of San Francisco east of Van Ness Avenue to the Bay.
“The City will surely die, but at least it will take out a large percentage of those fucks as she does,” Harry thought. The spread appeared to be moving from the south side north, and although still south of Market Street, he knew his time frame to remain in the building was quickly closing.
“And I hate packing!” he said sarcastically.
It had only taken two days before the local TV stations went off the air and Internet service began to fail. But during those two days, there had been all manner of speculation as to what had happened. A virus, “Maybe.” Terrorist act, “Probably.” Some super-secret government experiment gone wrong? “Who knows?” Every religious zealot known seemed to be crawling out of the woodwork spouting, “End of Days has arrived; repent as God’s wrathful judgment is at hand.”
Then ‘respected government experts’ began describing medical reasons to explain why they were seeing “people suddenly becoming extremely aggressive, attacking and appearing to bite and consume their victims, with many of the victims then getting up and joining the hordes of infected”— and something about a mutated form of “Super Rabies”?
The local TV stations had field reporters in every part of the City, all with endless rhetoric about the events unfolding, although much of their descriptive had just been superfluous information. The old adage “a picture is worth a thousand words” was never a more true observation based on what was transmitted through the camera lens those first couple of days. Crowds of people, either pursuing or being pursued, running through the streets or pouring from buildings, with the infected indiscriminately attacking anyone they could get their hands on.
During all this, on a banner scrolling at the bottom of the screen from the San Francisco Office of Emergency Management, instructions were being relayed that all citizens should evacuate to one of the listed “established safe zones”. Other officials from the police department were encouraging citizens to remain wherever they happened to be, to lock all doors and windows, and that “help would be dispatched to your location as soon as possible”. Too many mixed messages to effectively save anyone.
Hastily assembled police skirmish lines, replete with officers uniformed in complete riot gear, were unable to hold back the hordes of people they had sworn to protect. Verbal commands were useless, as was the use of non-lethal weapons such as batons, pepper spray, or tear gas. Even less than lethal weapons – shotguns with rubber composite rounds – proved ineffective. At the point somebody decided to finally use lethal force it was obviously too late. The infected overwhelmed the lines in mere moments.
The officers surviving an onslaught at one particular line were seen regrouping to establish a new line, until there was simply nobody left as they finally succumbed to the massive size of the zombie horde. Most of the mauled cops, like many other victims of the zombies, were seen standing up, with all manner of horrendous injuries, to join the exponentially growing ranks of the infected.
Harry knew that even if he had been able to respond to the call out he had received on April 1st he would have also been killed, or worse yet, become one of the infected. That fact did little to ease the s
ense of deep loss for friends and the horrific way in which he’d watched them die live on television.
Every part of the City, from the Financial District, Russian Hill, Telegraph Hill, the Avenues, South of Market and all other districts, were in complete chaos. Harry watched as those “established safe zones” that had been set up in Golden Gate Park, AT&T Park, and a couple of other centralized locations were overrun by the infected.
The local TV channels showed the same horror until the field reporters either abandoned their cameras as the hordes were closing in on their locations, or were ripped apart waiting too long to join their fleeing colleagues. More than one reporter was heard screaming just off camera, while surely realizing their dream of a Pulitzer for their “career changing exposés” had been flushed. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” A few made it, but most did not. Finally, the stations just stopped broadcasting.
7
Thanks to the large water storage tank still used on the roof to service the apartment building, there was enough backpressure to shower. Although the water was cold and the pressure low, Harry did not care. Standing under the weak and frigid water, the events of the past several days inundated his thoughts.
In particular, he thought back to an interview he had seen on GNN, which was the only network still broadcasting by that particular time, just about a week after it all began. Fortunately, right before the batteries in his small portable 10” television had drained out completely. An interview that helped wake him to the stark realities of life in this new evolving world, and motivated him to do the one thing he had not given much consideration to until that moment. Survive!
There had been a GNN helicopter flying in the Southern California area, between Los Angeles and San Diego he thought, apparently reporting on conditions as seen from the air. Harry had no real interest in what was happening some four hundred miles from his own Hell, but something caught his attention. He saw a large helicopter rising up to hover next to the GNN chopper. Turning up the volume, he listened intently to the exchange.
**“Yes, Fox, the helicopter on that strange ship has taken off and is climbing towards me now. I am unsure of their intentions, but I will wait here to see if they are friendly. Wait a moment. It looks like I’m receiving a radio message on the emergency frequency. Hold on while I patch you all into the conversation ... Yes, this is Chet in the GNN news helicopter over the Port of Long Beach, who is calling me?”
“Hello there, Chet, this is Commodore Allen of the Sovereign Spirit, flag ship of the Survival Flotilla. I’ve been watching your broadcast and thought it would be a good idea to come up and meet you. Maybe we can set the record straight before you and Mr. Rusher jump to any wrong conclusions. I’m flying the helicopter moving into position next to you and I’d like to invite you down to conduct an interview, if you’re interested.”
“Yes, Commodore, we at GNN are very interested in interviewing you. But can you tell me and our viewers something about what you are doing right now? We are broadcasting live, so you can consider this an interview if you like.”
“Sure, Chet, we can do an interview over the radio if you like. It shouldn’t take too long. Go ahead and ask your questions.”
“Thank you, Commodore. Can you start by telling us who you are and what you’re doing here? Who are all the people with you? And all these ships and boats? What are your plans? And how have you survived the zombie apocalypse?”
“Those are a lot of questions to handle at once, Chet, but I’ll give it a shot. My name is Scott Allen. I’m in command of this Survival Flotilla by authority of the CDC, FEMA, and the Department of Homeland Security, with assistance from the Coast Guard and the U.S. Marine Corps. My current mission is to assist survivors on boats and ships along the coast of Southern California and to establish coastal safe havens for as many survivors as possible in the aftermath of what you are calling Z-Day, or the Zombie Apocalypse.
“My ship is called the Sovereign Spirit. She is a former cruise ship and ferry, converted into an expedition yacht before this crisis. Now she’s the Flag Ship of the Flotilla and serves as our command center and mother ship for amphibious rescue and recovery operations. As for the other boats with us, we’ve collected a growing number of what we call boat people who survived the zombie outbreak by going to sea. They have become my primary responsibility. What we’re doing here is securing a source of supplies to keep the people with us alive.”
“We’ve isolated a small area in this port as a safe haven for the Flotilla and we’re loading cargo that will help us establish more safe havens on islands and isolated anchorages along the coast. So, for the people listening, if you are on a boat right now and need assistance, you can come here to get it, or wait for us to come to you. But there is no way to get here by land anymore, unless you can fight your way through tens of thousands of zombies surrounding us.
“And even then you wouldn’t be able to get past the barriers we have built to keep the zombies out. In the future we hope to be able to open some sort of supply line to survivors inland too. But that isn’t possible right now. So, at least for now, only those who have access to a boat or a helicopter can come here for supplies. Otherwise, you won’t be able to get here, so don’t even try.”
“That seems a little unfair, Commodore Allen. What about all of the people trapped in their homes? Don’t you have any plans to help them too?”
“I’d like to be able to help everyone who’s listening to me now, Chet, everywhere. But you know I can’t do that. What I can do is tell them how to survive on their own, or preferably with the help of other survivors near them. There are a few critical things that we’ve learned since Z-Day. First, zombies don’t swim and are afraid of water. Use that knowledge to your advantage.
“Secondly, zombies prefer to walk down hill, unless they get attracted to something up hill. If you can get to high ground and avoid attracting attention, your chances may improve. Hilltop strongholds are a good place to organize a defensive community; not as good as an island or a boat perhaps, but much better than a house in a city or suburb.
“Third, and perhaps most obvious, we need to eliminate as many zombies as possible and the best way we know to do that is to shoot them in the brain. If you don’t have a gun, try to get one, or improvise a weapon to defend yourself. However, if our Flotilla is the only organized resistance force in this area, then Los Angeles is doomed. So get it together people!
“Don’t wait for the police, or the government, or the military to come and rescue you. They won’t. They can’t. The closest organized military resistance is in San Diego, and the only thing they can do for civilians right now is put them into crowded refugee camps on Coronado Island. So don’t expect help to show up here any time soon.”
There was more to the interview but it related to what was currently happening around their specific area in Southern California. Harry had understood though, very clearly, the basic concepts that Commodore Allen had been trying to get across. This was not a local, regional, or even national crisis. This was on a world-wide scale, and there was no assistance imminent for anyone. Except maybe those lucky enough to be in close proximity to this Survival Flotilla.
But the interview had given Harry optimism, and at least the initial building blocks of a plan. But, more importantly, it had given him a reason to live. All was not lost, as he had initially thought, and there were other people out there. Now those survivors needed to act, to help themselves and others when possible, or they would simply not continue surviving. Humanity was being pushed toward an extinction level event, and it needed to start pushing back if anyone was to survive this madness.
Okay Commodore Allen, I may not be able to get to your flotilla or your stronghold, Harry had thought with passion, but I have a very large bay, my own marina with boats, and several islands in the middle of that bay. Let’s just see what we can do about setting up our own survivor stronghold.
8
Stepping from the shower, clearing t
hose thoughts, he looked in the wall mirror of the dimly lit bathroom, two small candles being the only light source. At fifty-four years old, soon to reach yet another birthday, his 6’6” frame was still in decent shape thanks to regular gym visits, eating well-balanced meals, and, as he had always said, “just plain ole good Midwestern genes.”
He still maintained a fairly youthful appearance, with piercing hazel eyes, which had most people thinking him at least ten years younger. He had started going grey by age twenty-five, which he had felt gave him an air of maturity. Now, looking at the short-cut, mostly grey head of hair, he thought it gave him an air of just being old. “Still, all things considered, not too bad, but am I really too old for this shit?” Harry asked his reflection, then turned away and headed toward the bedroom to dress.
He pulled on jeans, a well-worn and broken-in pair of tactical boots, and a heavy, long-sleeved shirt. From the closet he took out a lightweight leather jacket, along with a pair of Kevlar-lined leather gloves. Foregoing the much heavier, and bulkier, duty belt he had routinely worn while in uniform, he selected a lightweight nylon tactical belt.
To that belt he added the respective lightweight nylon cases containing an expandable baton, Streamlight high lumen LED flashlight, and four polymer magazines loaded with .45 caliber 230-grain brass-jacketed hollow point rounds, and finally a high rise break front holster. The final piece of equipment, and undoubtedly the most important, sat on the desk in front of him – a Glock, Gen4 G21, .45-caliber autoloader that held a thirteen-round magazine.
Over the years he had found the Glock 21 to be one of the most reliable and durable service sidearms he had owned. The stopping power of this weapon was impressive, and it had a manageable weight and reasonable recoil. Picking the gun up, he pulled the slide back to chamber a round. Holstering the Glock, and locking it in, he thought, you’re a beauty, but I am going to need more than just you.
