Nurse Alissa vs. The Zombies | Book 6 | Rescue

by Baker, Scott M.

  “Damn it,” she muttered, closing the door behind them.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s no machine gun.”

  Chris chuckled. “You’re having way too much fun.”

  Alissa opened the rear hatch and helped Nathan inside.

  “Another Humvee?” he protested good-naturedly.

  “Sorry. All the limos were booked.”

  “An ambulance would be nice.”

  “You can lodge a complaint with Miracle Air.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll explain later. Where’s Shithead?”

  Glancing around, she saw the dog ten feet away hunched down by one of the moorings, doing his business. When finished, he sniffed the pile, lifted his left rear leg, and pissed. Alissa whistled. Shithead broke into a run, bounding through the snow, his tail wagging, as if on a country walk. He jumped into the back deck and shook himself off, splattering Nathan in melted snow.

  “Thanks,” said Nathan.

  Shithead apologized by giving him a face bath.

  Alissa closed the hatch and climbed back into the driver’s seat. Rebecca joined Chris in back.

  The two drivers performed three-point turns and headed back to the parking area.

  By now, the fourteen deaders had surrounded the M1150, clutching at Hoskins and Ames, but posing no immediate threat. Twelve more sauntered across the parking lot.

  Costas tapped the lieutenant and pointed to the Humvees approaching, “They’re here, sir.”

  Hoskins placed the headphones back over his ears.

  “Woody, do you know how to get to Belfast Airport?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Then let’s roll.”

  The M1150 lurched forward and headed across the parking lot, crushing seven deaders beneath its treads. Woody cautiously made his way to the drawbridge, running over four more of the living dead. The two Humvees followed. The surviving deaders staggered after the convoy.

  Once across the drawbridge and on open road, Woody became more confident and accelerated, increasing speed to thirty miles per hour. He turned north on Route One. They drove for twelve miles, passing snow-covered fields that seemed like postcards. And not a deader in sight.

  Thirty minutes later, they entered Belfast. By now, the storm had stopped, with only a few flurries drifting to the ground. Off to the east, the dark clouds had started to break, revealing a few patches of blue sky. Night would fall in about two hours.

  At the airport, Woody turned left and brought the convoy to the terminal building. As they parked, Carrington, Sparks, and the civilians came out to greet them.

  Sparks ran up to Robson. “We thought you were dead after we lost contact with you.”

  “We ran into unexpected problems.”

  “Did you rescue the survivors?”

  Carrington interrupted. “Let’s get everybody inside and settled. They can brief us later.”

  * * *

  Amenities at the terminal were scarce. No blankets. Only a few comfortable seats to sit on. And no food, those who had arrived two days ago having eaten what few items remained in the vending machine. They found coffee in the break room but, with no electricity to run the water pumps or coffee maker, they were out of luck. The only water available came from melted snow.

  Still, it was preferable to being stuck on Warren Island surrounded by deaders.

  The civilians not rescued that day had asked that Nathan be isolated in the break room, most of them fearing he would turn into one of the living dead and attack them. Carrington knew better but asked Nathan if he would agree, explaining he already had enough problems keeping them calm after what had happened. Nathan had no problem with it.

  While everyone else briefed the doctor on what had gone down during the rescue mission, Alissa stayed with Nathan and filled him in on the past three days. Beginning with his being infected but not reanimated by the virus. Then she went into detail about the trip to Warren Island, the encounter with the stampeding deaders and their rescue by the National Guard, the mission to Boston to retrieve the vaccine, and the escape from Warren Island, leaving out the sexual tryst with Chris at Mass General. Nathan said nothing during her explanation. When she finished, he stared at her disapprovingly.

  “What is it?” asked Alissa.

  “You risked four lives to save me after I had been bitten?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “That I didn’t want to lose you,” Alissa protested.

  “Not only did you put Chris, Kiera, and Rebecca in danger, you left Miriam and Steve all alone with Little Stevie and Connie?”

  “Yes.” This time her protestation had less emphasis.

  “Why didn’t you shoot me?”

  “We would have if you turned, but you didn’t. That’s when I decided to get you medical help. Dr. Carrington thought they might be able to use your blood to develop a vaccine for the deader virus.”

  “But you didn’t know that when you left the cabin, did you?”

  Alissa averted her gaze.

  “Let me guess,” continued Nathan. “You planned on driving me to the island by yourself but Chris and Kiera wouldn’t let you go alone.”

  “Yes.”

  Nathan leaned his head back against the wall and sighed, an expression that quickly transformed into a chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Alissa.

  “You could stick your hand into a bucket of shit and pull out a Rolex, that’s how lucky you are.”

  “So, you’re not mad at me?”

  “A little, but it doesn’t matter. Does the doc really think he can develop a vaccine from that blood you got from Boston?”

  “He’s certain of it.”

  “Then it all worked out for the best and you came out on top.”

  “Thanks.” Alissa took Nathan’s hands in her own. “Let me ask you a question. If the rolls were reversed and I had been bitten but not turned, would you have done the same thing for me?”

  “Rationally, no. I would never endanger four people to save one probably dead already. Emotionally, though, there’s a good chance I would have taken the risk, especially since it was you.”

  Alissa smiled, not only because of what Nathan had said, but because the disagreement had ended in a draw.

  Nathan let go of her hand. “Did Chris try to blow up anything at the hospital or on the island?”

  “No, I didn’t,” answered Chris as he entered the break room along with Hoskins, Robson, Woody, and Sparks.

  “Really?” Alissa teased. “What about the grenades at the hospital?”

  Nathan’s eyes widened. “You used grenades inside a hospital?”

  “Yes, but there were extenuating circumstances.” Chris raised his hand to end the teasing. “We came to talk to you because we have another problem.”

  Robson stepped forward. “Now that the storm has let up, the chances are good the Iwo Jima will send a search party to look for us in the morning.”

  “What’s the problem with that?” she asked.

  “We can’t communicate with them,” answered Sparks. “The terminal’s radio is useless because we have no power, and the radios on the Humvees don’t have the range. Our only way to communicate with a rescue party would be through visual contact.”

  “What about lighting some fires?” suggested Alissa. “There have to be some fifty-five-gallon drums around here we can use.”

  “That won’t work,” said Woody. “The center of Warren Island is over twenty miles away. It’s doubtful a rescue helicopter would even notice such a small fire.”

  “Even if they did,” added Robson, “it’s doubtful the pilot would even pay attention to it being so small.”

  Hoskins nodded. “Once they see the destruction on the island and the wreck of the Seahawk, they’ll assume we’re dead and leave.”

  “Assuming the rescue mission leaves without finding us, what options do we have?” asked Nathan.

  “D
amn few,” answered Hoskins. “There are no other military installations left in New England. The closest I’m aware of is in up-state New York, and we haven’t heard from them in a while. We could drive around, hopefully find a place with a working radio to contact the Iwo Jima, but with all this snow and not knowing what the deader situation is like out there, doing that would be like shooting craps at Vegas. And Saunders won’t last that long. Without proper medical care, Boyce says he’ll be dead in a week to ten days.”

  “Shit.” So much for Alissa’s good luck.

  “There’s an old traffic control tower a few hundred feet from here,” said Sparks. “We’re going up to see if we can find any solutions. Would you join us?”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  The air traffic control tower Sparks had mentioned was a relic from the 1960s. It stood two hundred feet in height, all metal, with an exposed exterior staircase leading to the control booth, a room with windows covering all four sides. The tower had been abandoned in the late 1980s when the number of flights into Belfast decreased. Now it stood as a rusty hulk, the insides long since gutted and the glass windows broken. It only existed because of a dispute among the town council between those who viewed it as an eyesore and wanted to rip it down and those who wanted to preserve it as part of the town’s history, a debate that died along with billions of people during the apocalypse.

  Alissa, Hoskins, Sparks, Robson, and Woody climbed the ladder to the control room. The higher they went the more the wind cut through them. They finally reached the top landing and stepped inside, decreasing the gusts only slightly. A flock of birds nesting in the corner, startled by the intrusion, flew out the empty panes, leaving behind a flurry of feathers. Despite being open to the air, the control room stank of bird shit, which covered the floor half an inch in depth. The group ignored the mess and crossed over to the side of the tower looking out over Belfast.

  The town ran north along the western banks of Belfast Bay, starting out east of the airport as a small residential area and gradually becoming more populated farther to the north. Even in the dimming light of dusk, deaders could be seen meandering through the streets, oblivious to the food thousands of feet away. Luckily, none of the living dead lurked around the airport.

  “Do you see anything we can set on fire?” asked Robson.

  “Yeah,” answered Sparks. “There’s several buildings we could set fire to.”

  Hoskins shook his head. “Too risky. In this wind, the flames could take out the whole town.”

  “I’ve lived through one firestorm,” said Alissa. “That’s more than enough for me.”

  “What about lighting off the gas station?” suggested Sparks.

  “Same problem,” said Woody. “The explosion would be seen for miles but runs the risk of spreading.”

  As the others explored their options, Alissa made her way to the portion of the tower looking to the south. Her interest piqued.

  “What’s over there?”

  The others joined her.

  “That’s the Belfast Transfer Station,” said Woody.

  “In English,” asked Robson.

  “It’s the town dump and recycling center.”

  “I’m correct in assuming that the mound is a pile of old tires?”

  “Yeah.” The realization suddenly struck Woody. “I see what you’re getting at.”

  Alissa smiled. “Gentlemen, we found our bonfire.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Captain Evans stood on the bridge of the Iwo Jima as it sailed north toward Warren Island. The storm had dissipated over the past few hours, a small plus. It worried him that they had not heard from anyone on Warren Island or the missing Seahawk in over twenty-four hours. He feared no one had survived.

  Lieutenant Commander Channing joined him on the bridge.

  “Any word from our missing people?”

  “Nothing yet, sir. Comm has been trying to reach them for hours. We’re monitoring all frequencies for traffic, military as well as civilian.”

  “Damn it.” Evans waved Channing closer. “We’ve been ordered by the acting president to deploy to the Gulf of Mexico and resume rescue operations there. With Warren Island gone, we no longer have any units in the northeast.”

  “What about any survivors in the area?”

  “The president doesn’t feel it’s worth the expense of resources. Our groups west of the Mississippi can help anyone who requests it.”

  “What should we do about our missing people?”

  The captain thought for a moment. “Send a helicopter to the island in the morning. If anyone is alive, we’ll extract them. If not, then any survivors are on their own.”

  “Yes, sir. Let’s hope for the best.”

  And expect the worst, thought Evans.

  * * *

  Alissa slept restlessly that night, which did not surprise her, even though they were in a relatively safe location. She recalled dreaming although she could not remember the details, assuming they must have been of the days before the apocalypse since they left her with a sense of happiness. When Hoskins shook her awake an hour before dawn, she experienced that momentary disappointment when the desires of her dreams gave way to the nightmare of reality.

  “Miss Madison, we’re heading out. Did you still want to join us?”

  “Of course.” Alissa met his gaze then blinked a few times.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” lied Alissa. The vision in her left eye was blurred. Not blurred. A dark spot in the center of her eye blocked approximately one-tenth of her vision. She focused on the embroidered nametag on Hoskins’ chest and closed her left eye. She read the name with no problem. When she closed her right eye, the nametag and the area around it were blacked out.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I just woke up, that’s all.”

  “The others are waiting for us.”

  Alissa had been laying by Nathan, who had fallen asleep. She kissed him gently on the forehead and followed Hoskins out into the terminal. Woody and Ben had found three plastic five-gallon Jerry cans and filled them with fuel syphoned from the M1150, which now stood by the exit. Woody, Costas, and Ames hovered by the door.

  Hoskins addressed the group. “We’re heading over to the transfer station to set those tires on fire. Hopefully, it’ll attract any rescue missions sent to the island. The rest of you stay here. Corporal, I’m leaving a radio with you. Signal me if there are problems.”

  Murphy nodded.

  “Won’t the flames attract deaders?” one of the civilians asked nervously.

  “It might, but there doesn’t seem to be too many of them in town. Even if there are, they’ll be attracted to the flames so you’ll be safe as long as you stay quiet.” Hoskins turned to his team. “Are we ready?”

  “Let’s do this,” responded Costas.

  The corporal led the way out, followed by the others who each carried one of the plastic Jerry cans. Ames brought up the rear.

  The stack of tires sat less than half a mile from the terminal. Now that the storm had stopped and the winds died down, the walk had not been as grueling as on Warren Island. It did take longer than usual due to the accumulated snow and being careful about deaders buried under the drifts. They made it to the pile with no incident. Orange streaks tinged the eastern horizon as the sun prepared to dawn. As Costas and Ames took up position on their flanks, the others stepped over to the tires.

  Woody pulled three tires off the pile, brushing off the snow and flipping them over to expose the dry side. He stacked them against the others then removed three more tires, placing them so one end sat against the top of the stack and the other on the remaining tires. Taking a Jerry can, he unscrewed the cap and emptied the fuel, saturating the stack and the three tires placed at top. The second can he used to douse the tires surrounding the stack. With the third, he splashed the fuel up the length and side of the pile, creating riverlets of fuel that extended for a hundred feet on both sides an
d toward the peak. Woody withdrew a lighter from his pocket and turned to the others.

  “I’d step back if I were you.”

  The rest of the team retreated fifty feet.

  Woody flicked on the lighter and extended his arm, inching forward until the flame touched the tires. The fuel ignited. The stack instantly burst into flames, spreading to the adjacent tires and working its way along the streaks of fuel. The smell of burning rubber filled their nostrils. Black smoke billowed into the sky.

  Woody picked up two of the empty Jerry cans. “Let’s head back before the fire attracts deaders.”

  “Don’t we have to keep it going?” asked Alissa.

  “That’ll burn on its own for days. Let’s hope someone from the military sees it.”

  * * *

  Captain Jim Alwell flew the Super Stallion on a course that took him directly from the Iwo Jima, currently circling ten miles off the coast of Maine opposite Penobscot Bay, to Warren Island. He flew at an altitude of five hundred feet. The sky was cloudless, allowing the sun to reflect off the ice flows extending from the various islands in the bay. From up here, the coast looked so beautiful, so pristine, so untouched. It reminded Alwell of a nature documentary. God only knew what they’d find when they reached Islesboro.

  The helicopter made landfall at the southern tip of the main island and headed north, following the primary road. Alwell looked for a sign that anyone had survived the outbreak, so far without—

  “What happened here?” muttered Lieutenant Anthony Canderossi.

  Alwell focused on what the co-pilot had seen. Up ahead looked like a battle zone. It appeared as if a tree had blocked the road and been sawed into bits to make passage. Several sets of tire tracks disturbed the snow. What stood out most were the bodies extending north along the road and the snow drenched crimson in blood. Alwell hovered over the scene as he and Canderossi examined it.

  “Are they the living or the dead?” asked the co-pilot.

  “Probably a mixture of both. I’m assuming someone survived that skirmish because whatever vehicles made all those tracks are no longer here.”