Verge of Extinction (Apex Predator Book 3) (25 page)

A young boy stepped forward.  In his hands he held a single brass trumpet.  He raised it to his lips.  The first notes of Taps began to play.  Even those attendees who had managed to fight back tears couldn’t control them any longer.  The young man continued to play the melancholy tune.  The mourners continued to mourn.

Kerry led the small procession to the little cross.  In her hand she held an olive colored piece of nylon.  The nylon was several inches in length, shaped like a roman scutum (shield), and backed with Velcro.  Embroidered on the patch was a black fleur-de-lis with a black X crossing behind it.  It was the unit patch of the 256
th
Infantry Brigade, Louisiana National Guard.  It was also the parent unit to the 108
th
Cavalry.  The same patch adorned both shoulders of SSgt Brown’s uniform.

Tears flowed freely again as she drove the nail through the thick nylon and into the wood of the cross.  The patch was surrounded by a picture of two beautiful women on one side and a chrome name tag on the other.  When she was satisfied, she kissed her fingers and gently placed them on the newest addition to the memorial.  As she stood, another mourner took her place.  Each said a few silent words before repeating the gesture.

Day 48

The Island

“Wait,” a woman’s voice yelled.  SSgt Brown had just grasped the door handle to the HEMTT.  He turned to see three women walking quickly towards him.  All three were armed and kitted out as if they were going outside of the wire.

“And, where do you ladies think you are going?”

“We’re coming with you,” Theresa announced.  The three women stared intently at the older man.  It was clear that they were not asking permission to accompany him.  They were telling him that he was taking them.

“We’re the last five left of our original group,” Jen pointed out.  “We are going to stick together no matter what.  Wherever you and Sergeant Procell go, we’re going with you.”

As if on cue, the younger NCO rounded the front of the truck.  SSgt Brown glanced at the North Carolinian.  The smirk on his face told SSgt Brown that the man had been in on this little mutiny.  He began to protest, but decided against it.  It wouldn’t do any damn good anyway.  He just hoped Mr. Westergart wouldn’t mind his only nurse trading in her scrubs for a rifle.  Oh well, he thought, too late now.

SSgt Brown glanced at Jen as the engine of the big truck turned over.  The other three people had loaded themselves into a nearby HMMWV.  The woman had a grim look on her face.  He knew she had been devastated by the recent losses the group had suffered over the last few days.  He understood.  Although he was not there for his family, he had long ago accepted their deaths.  Jackson’s death didn’t just hurt, but it angered him.  Not so much that he had died, but, more that the young man had become complacent.  Jen had told him that they didn’t realize something was amiss until the mob of zombies had poured from the Little Debbie.

A knot formed in the pit of his stomach.  He had thought that today’s mission would be what was referred to as a milk run, an easy job.  They were going to deliver one of the Little Debbies to Roy and his people in Gulf Port.  Again he looked to the woman to his right.  He couldn’t help but hope that she had learned the lesson of Jackson’s death.  They could never let their guard down again.

For her part, Jen couldn’t even look at SSgt Brown.  She had spent more than a week telling herself that she didn’t blame Jackson.  She believed it, but the young man had served as a reminder of her husband’s death.  She glanced quickly at the big man sitting next to her.  She realized he must feel the same about her.

He and Jackson had been very close. They had been combat veterans together.  Jackson had been the last of SSgt Brown’s unit still alive.  “I feel like I just let his kid die,” she had confessed to Kerry the previous night.

She opened her mouth to speak.  Nothing, she couldn’t say anything.  She simple closed her mouth, thankful the older man hadn’t seen her failed attempt at an apology.  Finally, the truck lurched forward.

US Highway 90 west of Pascagoula

Chief Romanov was pleased with the progress his people had been making.  For the past few days they had been clearing Highway 90 of stalled cars.  Not only were they clearing the road, but, when they could, they were using the cars to form a barricade along the shoulder.  The idea was to create a safe route from Pascagoula to Gulf Port.

So far, they had cleared about twelve miles of road.  The cars they had been able to move had served to ensconce about three miles of road behind a wall of bumper-to-bumper cars.  Many of the cars they found were either out of gas or the batteries had run out.  Some of them were occupied by the dead.

A few, however, were populated by the undead.  When one of these vehicles was found, the door would be jerked open.  The ghoul would inevitably fall to the ground while exiting the vehicle, or would remain locked in its seatbelt.  Either way, a quick thrust from a sword or spear would dispatch the monster.

He was talking with one of the people from the Haven.  She was a scrawny little thing.  If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought she was a crack head.  She was so skinny and her skin was a dotted with little red pock marks.  But, she seemed to be a hard worker.

As he spoke to her, she rhythmically rubbed her knife on the jeans covering her right thigh.  A streak of dark black blood grew as she smeared the gore into her jeans.  The stain was from a zombie who had wondered in from a stand of trees.  The girl had been the only one on the ball, dispatching the monster only five feet from a pair of survivors trying desperately to pop the lock on a small Japanese car.

He glanced at the body lying ten feet away from them on the road.  The monster appeared to have been a teenaged boy before it had died the first time.  He wore a pair of baggy pants and a too short tee-shirt.  Chief Romanov couldn’t help but notice the dark stain on the young man’s plaid boxer shorts.  He imagined the stain had been caused by the teen evacuating his bowels when he died the first time.

He never liked the baggy pants style to begin with.  The kid’s dark skin had taken on a truly ashen color as it had decayed these last months.  His kinky hair had been fashioned into tight corn-rolls with little white beads in it.  Some of the beads had been permanently stained blackish-pink.

The sound of a heavy diesel engine interrupted their conversation.  He thanked the girl again for being on the ball and then dismissed her to return to her duties.

He saw the big HEMTT, led by the HMMWV, as they crested a hill about a mile away.  He could see something on the rear of the big truck.  From this distance, it appeared to be a shipping container.  He thought for a moment.  He couldn’t think of anything that the Haven was short of at this time.  As far as he knew the town of Gulfport had all the supplies the seventy-five residents of the Haven needed.  What was in the container?

Sgt Procell pulled to a stop next to the sailor.  The women in the vehicle dismounted, immediately taking up positions at both passenger-side corners.  Seaman Hauser climbed out of the driver’s-side rear seat.  His left arm was bandaged and in a sling.  A holster with a 9mm Beretta pistol hung from a webbed belt around the man’s waist.

The two women glanced at the three military men before returning their gaze outwards.  Chief Romanov had seen this behavior before.  They looked like a security detail. The only thing missing was someone on Sgt Procell’s elbow.

SSgt Brown soon joined the duo.  Again, the lady in the truck with him took up a position at the rear of the big truck.  The Chief saw her head move methodically from side to side.  He was missing something.  The black kid!  Where was the black kid that had been with them?

SSgt Brown’s face dropped into a deep scowl.  He knew people would ask about Jackson.  He thought he was prepared.  He wasn’t.  “He was killed yesterday,” was all he could say. 

The Chief wanted to ask how.  But, he’d seen enough people die to know two things.  First, now was not the time.  Second, it really didn’t matter.  The kid was dead and that sucked.  He placed a hand on SSgt Brown’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.  His voice was somehow not as gruff as usual.  “He was a good man.  He’ll be missed.”

“Thanks Chief,” he said quietly.

The Chief pointed to the Little Debbie.  “You bringing us some groceries or something?”

SSgt Brown explained what the little Debbie was and how they had used it, mostly successfully, over the past few days.  The Chief was ecstatic.  He decided then and there where he wanted the Little Debbie.

Thirty minutes later, the Little Debbie was a-half-mile down the road.  He placed the skinny girl in charge of the group he had sent with it.  She had proven to be someone who could be counted on to keep her head this morning. The sound of a car horn in the distance reassured the rest of the group that any local zombies would head away from their construction project.

“So, how long do you figure it will take you to get this road finished?” Sgt Procell asked.

“Well,” Chief Romanov began.  “We’re making about a mile-and-a-half per day.  The problem we’re running into right now is that we have cleared the cars off of about ten miles of road and only fortified about three or four miles of road. We need to start thinking of other ways to fortify this road or there’s going to be gaps.”

“Why don’t you use sand?” the engineer asked.  “You have a bulldozer.  The road runs along the beach.  Why don’t you use the ‘dozer to build a berm on the seaward side of the road?  That’ll free up the cars and such for your landward side.  Heck, you could use it to build a berm on both sides if needed.”

“You know there’s more dozers and shit at the base,” Seaman Hauser interjected.  A shiver ran up SSgt Brown’s spine at the thought of going back to the naval base.  He left too many people behind on his last trip, and he wouldn’t have Jackson with him this time.  Finally he nodded his head.

“Ok, one more time.  Let’s go talk to Roy.”  He turned towards the truck and his self-appointed security detail.  “C’mon ladies.  We’re taking the humvee.”

“How many men do you need?” Roy asked.  Chief Romanov and Sgt Procell had spent the last ten minutes explaining their plan for what was being termed the yellow brick road.  Sgt Procell pointed out that the same process could be used to wall off the city of Gulf Port.  That’s what finally sealed the deal for Roy.  SSgt Brown even promised to lead a detachment of Island soldiers to help sweep the city once the earthen wall had been erected.

“Not many,” the NCO answered.  “Give me all of Chief Romanov’s Seabees and maybe ten more folks.  The Seabees and Sgt Procell are trained to drive the dozers.  The rest will be security.”

“I’ll do you one better.  I think I’ve got a few guys who have some experience with frontend loaders.  I’ll send them too.  Bring back as many dozers and frontend loaders as you can.”

He turned to an older man who had been listening quietly to the conversation.  “Go round up Steven, Perry, and ten strong reliable men.  Have them bring the humvee and two pickups.  Make sure they bring plenty of food, water, and ammo.  Let them know they’re going outside the wire.”

He turned to the gathering of military men.  “Will that do?”

Chief Romanov shrugged and looked to SSgt Brown.  The cavalry NCO nodded his head.  “Sure, that’ll do fine.”

Roy led them into a nearby house.  The living room was already occupied.  Four men and three women were crowded around the coffee table.  Papers were scattered about.  Two of the men were arguing.  They quieted as the group entered the room.  All eyes gazed at the armed men.

“Sorry folks,” Roy announced.  He looked to the new outsiders.  “These fine folks have agreed to draft the Haven’s first code of laws. I can tell by the commotion that they are having as easy a go at it as real law makers used too.”  This last comment served to break the tension.  Several of the lawmakers actually chuckled.

“C’mon,” he ordered.  “Let’s get a drink while we’re waiting for everyone else to get here.”  He pulled a handful of glasses out of the cupboard, setting them on the counter next to a half full bottle of Jack Daniels.  He deftly unscrewed the lid and poured an inch or two of the brown liquid into each glass.

SSgt Brown, Jen, and Theresa led the little convoy in the humvee.  He looked in awe at the gate that the Seabees had constructed between the derelict cars lined along the edge of the road.  It was an intricate setup that used a red compact car as a counter weight for a larger, silver Buick that served as the actual gate.  The man operating the gate didn’t appear to exert much effort as he lifted the Buick ten feet off the ground.  Nice, he thought.

The convoy continued up the street that led them through the “grey zone.”  People in the Haven have broken their town into three zones.  The Haven itself was considered to be a green zone.  It was controlled by the living and free of zombies.  The yellow zones were the areas directly outside the fence line.  There were few if any dead roaming those areas and were considered to be at your own risk areas.  Then there was the rest of the rest of the world. The grey zone was controlled by the dead.  Roy had started referring to The Island as the blue zone to denote them as friendly.  Not everyone in the Haven was onboard with that yet.