Stranded Series (Book 5): Into The Gulf

by Gray, W. S.

  “He says there is a gap to the left of the second, shorter strand of concertina just inside the gate. He wants to set up a circular gun nest there, made up of sandbags. Maxime here thinks that’d be perfect for you and Marshall,” Harry said. “Someone will come along and show you the location. He says that there is someone on-base that was in Iraq and Afghanistan and worked alongside the Americans there. So, the guy knows some English,” Harry said.

  “That’s reassuring,” Trey said. He gathered up the courage to ask his burning question. “Hey, why did you rob that bank?” he asked, blurting it out. He averted his eyes when he did so, afraid of what he might encounter in the other’s face in that instance.

  After a perceptible pause, Harry cleared his throat and asked the question. He fidgeted and did his best to avoid meeting the Frenchman’s gaze after he had finished and began waiting for a reply.

  Finally, it came. However, when it made its way to Trey’s ears, it sounded surprisingly different than what he’d expected to hear.

  “He says they weren’t robbing it,” Harry said, bracketing the word robbing in air quotes. “Maxime says they were securing the gold and currency reserves. That was the nation’s central bank. Technically speaking, the currency here, as well as the entire financial and banking system is administered by and, thus, owned by the French government,” Harry said. “One of the last orders he actually received from Paris before they were cut off was to secure the money.”

  Shaking his head, Trey tried to come to grips with just how odd the world had become. Whether or not the man was telling the truth, it sounded plausible. And it didn’t do much good to antagonize Maxime, their only real partner with any capacity to help get them out of the mess they’d discovered themselves in. Nonetheless, what he remembered witnessing hadn’t looked like a normal, everyday mission. If they’d been conducting legitimate operations, why had they felt the need to conceal their identities?

  “That makes sense,” Trey said, lying. He didn’t think it did. Or, he didn’t feel like it told the whole story. Nonetheless, if the man got them out of there alive, Trey honestly could care less if he bilked the government. Or some bankers. Or some obscure combination of both. He harbored some doubts that anyone in Papeete might be wondering about their poor pension funds in the days and weeks ahead.

  “Okay, well…” Harry said, rubbing a hand on his pants leg awkwardly and frowning. “Is that all?” he asked. “Maxime here is busy,” he said.

  Trey nodded. He caught sight of Sofia and Melody. Deciding that he needed a break, he walked over to them. “How’s it going?” he asked. As he did so, it crossed his mind that they’d need to do something while the others were away, trying to rendezvous with the coming frigates. He shivered when he envisioned some of the things that the foreign troops might try to do while Trey or their commander wasn’t watching.

  Looking down, he saw Sofia using a coarse thread and a thick needle to stitch up a nasty-looking gash on her calf. Leaning against a large wooden crate with French stenciling all over it, she held one leg up while standing on the other, working in the low light offered by the buzzing bulbs high overhead.

  “How did you do that, sweetie?” Trey asked, gasping. He bent down and inspected the wound. The skin had torn apart about a full inch, and he could see faint traces of ivory bone underneath the blood and muscle tissue. “Geez,” he said.

  Getting up, his legs shaky, his heart racing, Trey closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. The sight disturbed him. Its garish image lingered in his mind. After several seconds, however, he gathered his bearings and turned to confront his wife. “What happened?” he asked, trying not to make it sound too much like an accusation. Even though, in his own head, that’s precisely what it was.

  “I don’t know, Trey. Why don’t you ask her?” Melody said, frowning. She glared at Trey for a second, one eyebrow raised. Then, when it was clear he wasn’t going to challenge her further, she calmed down a bit. “I was trying to help move things. I heard her yell and rushed over…” Melody shrugged and smiled sadly, looking down at her step-daughter. “Just be glad Sofia there is a tough cookie,” she said.

  Trey avoided looking at his daughter. The last thing he wanted to see was her ugly wound. “Did someone clean it, at least? I mean, they should have a medic or whatever, right? Did anyone look at it?” he asked, fighting hard not to speak too quickly. His thoughts jostled against each other like busy patrons waiting in line during the lunch rush. The words would become an incoherent jumble if he didn’t exert a little self-control.

  “Yeah, someone came over. I wasn’t able to talk with them, but, I mean, it was clear what was happening. So, uh, they put some powder on, or I guess I should say in, her wound there… And then they came back with the stuff for stitching it up. The guy actually pulled off what looked like a really bad scab…” Melody said, scrunching up her nose and squirming. “But, he cleaned it and everything. I’m assuming that the suture stuff was sterilized,” she said.

  “That’s crazy,” Trey said. “Hey, how did that happen?” he asked, finally daring to look down at his daughter. In the short time that he’d been talking with Melody, she’d nearly finished the job. Counting with one finger, Trey saw seven stitches.

  “Someone drove by with a forklift and clipped my leg,” Sofia said. She spoke matter-of-factly, as if recounting what she’d eaten for a snack, rather than detailing being hit by a fucking moving object and sustaining severe trauma to the leg.

  “Honey, that’s awful,” Trey said, looking around, trying to locate anyone on a forklift. He clenched one fist. He quietly seethed, promising himself that if he happened to catch someone operating one of those things, he’d punch their lights out before they even knew what hit them.

  Once again, Trey had an important moment interrupted by a Frenchman.

  “You Trey?” the man asked.

  A short, stout male figure with a bald head that glistened in the wan moonlight filtering in through the small windows at the top of the warehouse, he possessed thick arms that strained against the dark green camouflage of his uniform. His voice, however, belied his muscular physique. It carried a high, almost comical pitch that bore an uncanny resemblance to a famous fighter’s. “Are you Trey?” he asked again.

  Gulping, he tore his gaze away from Sofia. He turned and looked at the man, taking a few moments to analyze him in more detail. Clean-shaven, with hard blue eyes, the figure appeared far too young to have served in a war zone. Yet, Trey had no real reason to disbelieve the information he’d been given. Finally, Trey nodded. “I’m Trey,” he said.

  “Come with me,” the stocky Frenchman said, pivoting and marching briskly away without waiting for any more conversation.

  Sharing a quick look with his wife, Trey smiled and blew a kiss to his daughter before hurrying off to follow the man who’d give him directions.

  As he moved through the diminishing- though no less busy- crowds milling about in the large building, Trey nearly lost sight of the Frenchman’s profile. He searched the crowd, only just seeing the man as he turned the corner and retreated out into the fresh air. Trotting ahead, apologizing to people in English as he accidentally bumped them, he finally managed to close the gap and catch up to the combat veteran. However, once he’d gotten out of the cloying warehouse-sized building, Trey felt a sudden wave of nausea pass over him. Bending down, he placed his head and arms between his knees as he fought to breathe.

  The dizziness faded quickly. But when Trey straightened up, he looked into the eyes of a slightly concerned man. One who’d play a pivotal role in not just his own imminent survival, but that of his entire family. Everyone that Trey loved.

  “What?” Trey asked, a little brusque. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he’d placed both himself and his family in a predicament. He’d allowed it to occur. And he experienced a deep and abiding guilt at that fact. Nonetheless, he needed to move past it and confront the realities on the ground if he were to escape the unfolding
drama alive. The fact that the Frenchman he’d been given as a liaison didn’t seem to have formed a good impression of him based on their first and only encounter didn’t do much to dispel his feeling of foreboding and unease.

  “You okay?” the man asked.

  “Hey, how come they need a translator, if they have you?” Trey asked, squinting. He shook his head. “I mean, the whole charade is…”

  The soldier held up one hand. “Maxime wants your dad specifically because he knows the idiosyncrasies of English better than, say, me. The slang. Plus, I think he actually enjoys your dad’s company,” the soldier said.

  “How did you even know…” Trey shook his head. He smiled. “Okay, whatever. I’m just an open book. An open fucking JOKE book, apparently,” he said. He looked down at the ground. Traced the tip of his shoe around in the dust. “What’s your name?” he asked, after a few sullen moments of silence.

  “Enzo,” the soldier said. He reached out one hand by way of introduction.

  Tentatively taking the other’s hand, Trey looked into the man’s eyes. He saw something cold there. Something that made him shiver. However, rather than the fact that what confronted Trey was hard and angry, a barely suppressed rage seething beneath the surface, just waiting for an opportunity to be released into the world, it was his knowledge of that feeling that caused him alarm and discomfort. Trey recognized the look because he felt the same way. And Trey didn’t like seeing what he’d become.

  Wiping his hand on the front of his pants, Trey glanced back in the general direction of his injured daughter and his wife. He experienced a profound sorrow as his gaze lingered on them. For their entire way of life had been destroyed. They relied on him for their protection. And he was just one man. One imperfect vessel. How was he supposed to carry on? Knowing that a single failure on his part could cost him everything he loved?

  Shaking the foreboding thoughts away, he returned his attention back to the task at hand. “So, what’s the plan there, Enzo?” he asked. As he waited for a reply, Trey realized that he hadn’t seen Marshall for some time. He vaguely recalled his dad having told him that he’d be stationed with the man in a gun nest. Now that he’d been connected with his French liaison, Trey figured it’d be nice to know where his partner was. “Hey, I think Harry said something about being in a gun nest with… my black friend?” Trey said, sounding uncertain.

  Enzo nodded. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the plan,” he said. “So, he should be out gathering up the bags now. I’ll show you where in a second, and you can help. So, what we’re planning is to have you two secure this area here,” he said, waving a hand in the air around him. Then, suddenly, he snapped his fingers. “No, on second thought, let’s do this. So, I have no clue how long the… how long Maxime may be gone. Okay? Just being honest. So, you may need to sleep in your position. Plus, it really wouldn’t be a very good fighting position without a hole. So, you get to dig,” Enzo said, smiling. He revealed a set of bad, jaundiced teeth stained through years of tobacco use. He reached over and clapped Trey on the shoulder, chuckling.

  “Probably need to make the hole just big enough for the two of you to fit comfortably inside. Comfort here is a bit… what’s the way to say it? Umm… well, no matter. Look, comfort isn’t necessarily comfort here, if you get my saying,” Enzo said. He paused to make sure Trey understood, only resuming once his interlocutor had nodded. “Okay, good. So, yeah, umm… Yeah, so, make a hole. Not necessarily too deep. But we’re probably only going to be able to do up to three-high on the sandbags. And we won’t have much in the way of overhead cover or anything,” he said.

  Enzo grunted. He spat on the ground. “So, yeah, we’re not really expecting much in the way of armed resistance. Probably won’t get anyone trying to toss grenades in on you or anything or the sort. No. But I can maybe someone throwing some rocks or something. You know? And those can hurt just as a gun can,” he said.

  “We just need to be able to protect this flank from intruders. We’re going to place two single-man positions over there,” Enzo pointed. “That way, we can try to protect the weak points in the perimeter here, by the gate. As you can see, the second row of concertina wire behind the breached portion doesn’t extend very far,” he said. “We want frontal and flanking fire, mostly, to maximize the use of the beaten zone,” Enzo said.

  “Beaten zone?” Trey asked.

  Enzo blinked. At first, he appeared confused. Then he smiled. “Oh… you’re not military. I always forget these things. One can not always assume,” he said, pointing to his temple. “It’s a term for the effective reach of the heavy machine gun. Or, I guess the pattern formed by the impact of the rounds,” he said. He shook his head. “Look, just dig the hole. Marshall will be back with the sandbags. The point is to provide enfilade frontal…” He cursed in French and stomped one foot. “Just shoot at anyone who manages to break through,” he said. Then he smiled. “Is that easier to understand?” he asked.

  Chapter 6

  “Did you just fart?” Trey asked the deaf man.

  Then he laughed.

  Because Marshall couldn’t hear him. It was a constant struggle to remember to face his friend directly.

  However, in this instance, it didn’t matter much anyway.

  Because Marshall was snoring.

  Turning, Trey stared at his friend. Marshall had explained his odd ability to fall asleep on command at the most random of times while they were escaping to Tahiti, the island they now inhabited. Apparently, the man had developed the skill during his many years in the military, where he’d been forced to catch z’s whenever he could. The deaf Marine had learned to sleep with his eyes open while standing up, even, something he’d demonstrated to Trey’s amazement. Of course, Trey knew he could trust the man. Whenever it really counted, Marshall was there, ready and willing to do whatever dirty work it took to ensure their safety. Even without being able to hear, the man’s senses were still great. And he possessed a keen intelligence that their small crew sorely needed.

  Recalling that they’d agreed to take turns watching the perimeter, Trey returned his focus back to the obsidian night that enveloped the small base. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. The silence exacerbated his tension. It gave him space to think. And the last thing he wanted to do right then was to reflect back on all that had occurred since zombies had destroyed his humanity.

  His body hurt. Trey was wet and tired. And cold. He shivered as a breeze took the moment to creep past, tickling the exposed skin on the back of his neck. Glancing over at the others approximately one hundred feet away, he saw four eyes penetrating the darkness, returning the attention. Part of him felt vulnerable and exposed, despite the safety provided by concealment and cover. He didn’t like the idea of not being able to communicate with the other gunners, but Trey cast the doubts aside.

  He could tell from their gazes and demeanors that they’d act when called upon. They wouldn’t seize up and refuse to fight.

  Or, Trey thought, perhaps that was what he needed to tell himself. To reassure himself that things would go well.

  Of course, he hoped that nothing would occur at all.

  However, as the minutes dragged into hours and he was left alone with nothing but his thoughts, his mind began playing tricks on him. Treating him as a special experiment, his brain revealed moving shapes in the darkness where nothing existed. Shadows began to take on sinister, fluid forms that threatened him. Trey heard something and tensed, readying himself to fire. But then he slowly realized he’d reacted to nothing more than a bird hopping from one tree to another.

  Suddenly, something moved. Trey blinked. After experiencing an interminable period of quasi-hallucinations, he wasn’t sure if whatever he’d just sensed were real.

  “Arrêtez,” one of the other gunners yelled frantically.

  This was followed by the other gunner mimicking the gesture.

  The urgency of their tones communicated that they were, indeed, about to confronted by something nasty. Trey r
eached over and grabbed Marshall by the shoulder, roughly shaking him. He didn’t stop until he was sure the man was awake. Then he pulled back the bolt on the side of his heavy machine gun. Fumbling around, he found the thick black gloves the Frenchman had given him. He struggled to put them on his sweating hands as he furtively glanced out into the darkness.

  Several security lamps stationed just behind them offered a narrow cone of light. However, beyond a few hundred feet in front and to the side, Trey couldn’t see much of anything.

  He raised the gun to a firing position and waited.

  They were out there. Whomever they were. And they were waiting.

  When they attacked, Trey didn’t need to aim. Which was good, since no one had ever trained him in how to do so. The only thing he knew how to do was to pull the bolt back, push it forward, release the bolt, and then pull down on the trigger. He fired several blue-tipped rounds. As the spent casings were ejected out of the right side, they formed a pile on the ground by his feet.

  Despite the ringing in his ears and the pressure built up in his head after being rocked by the ferocious gun, Trey watched in amazement as each round erupted in a brilliant orange flash of flames as it impacted each target.

  The fact that these weren’t zombies bothered him. Yet, Trey had to cast such thoughts aside as he fired another volley at the encroaching mob. The desperate people- no matter how bad off they were- clearly understood that they weren’t welcome there. And they’d decided to try their luck, anyway. Perhaps, Trey thought, he was even doing them a favor. By releasing them from the burdens and perils of existence without condemning them to life as a roving, ravenous zombie.

  Several of the people that had suddenly appeared jumped straight into the second row of concertina wire, flailing and screaming as their bodies were ripped apart. Another wave formed behind the first, however, climbing handily over the dying husks of their comrades as they struggled to move into the base.