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

They entered a small building tucked between two large hangers.  SSgt Brown thought it had the feel of an operations center.  There were maps plastered to the wall.  Several of the maps were of the southern US.  One was of the entire eastern seaboard, another showed the Rockies, and another represented the west coast.  There were large areas outlined in red.  Shreveport was smack dab in the middle of one of the red areas.  Most of the major US cities were surrounded in red.  One of the maps on the wall represented Atlanta.  Most of the city was colored in red.  However, he could see, there was a small area outlined in black.  The center of the small circle seemed to glow white on a map covered in subdued colors.

The Bishop waved a hand at several folding metal chairs along the wall.  “Have a seat,” he ordered.  They did as they were told.  A small woman entered the room.  The tray she carried contained several varieties of soda.  Jen could see the water beading on the side of the cans.  She realized they were cold.  She hadn’t had a real cold drink in what seemed like forever.  The woman never spoke as she offered the drinks to the new arrivals.  After the last person, Sam, removed his can from the tray she turned and left without a word.

“Welcome to the Island,” the Bishop said with a smile.  “I‘ll cut to the chase.  I’ve asked you guys here because you have specific skills that we need here.”  He waved his soda in the direction of Jen and Indira.  “You ladies both have medical training. As you’ve no doubt noticed in your travels, people have a bad habit of getting injured in the brave new world.”

He took a long drink from the red can.  “Right now I have two paramedics and three military guys with basic first-aid training.  You ladies are a God’s send.  I’m going to assign you two to the dispensary.  You can keep or relieve any of the current employees you wish.  I just ask that you keep the dispensary open 24 hours.”  Again, Jen was sure that he was not asking, but demanding.

Without waiting for them to answer, he turned to the soldiers.  “Staff Sergeant Brown, you are now my top soldier.  I have three other trained soldiers on this base.  They are now yours.  I also have a fairly robust volunteer force.  Most of them know how to handle themselves.  They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.  I want you to organize and train them.  Keep in mind that their main mission is foraging on the mainland.”  He handed the big NCO a sheet of paper.  There were about twenty names on it.  Jackson, Sgt Procell, and his names were smack dab on the top.  He also saw Theresa and Kerry on the list.

Again, the Bishop didn’t wait for a response.  He turned to Sam.  “You and your firemen are the only people I have who know the first thing about water, pumps, plumbing, anything like that.  I have a water purification unit here.  Your people are going to get it running.  I want fresh water in the dining hall, and I want showers.”

Sam was beside himself.  He was fireman, not a damned plumber.  What the hell did he know about water purification?  “Sir, with all due respect…”  The Bishop stood, leaning over his desk cutting Sam short.  “Look, Captain,” he began, “you and your men have been given a job.  If you can’t handle it, I can always make sure your names find their way onto Sergeant Brown’s list.  Maybe your people will be better at dodging the dead than fixing the water.”

The message was clear:  Do as I tell you, or go with the foragers to collect batteries and toilet paper.  “Yes, sir,” he stoically replied.

“Jerry!” he bellowed.  The younger man from earlier, burst through the door.  “Take these people to their quarters.  Then you can take them on the tour.”  He motioned for them to follow.

An hour later, SSgt Brown was sitting on a cot that would serve as his bed.  The tour they had been given was actually pretty informative.  The base really did appear to be secure.  The bridge had been blocked with several overturned 18-wheelers.  It was close enough to the mainland and far enough away from the island that the local undead didn’t pay it any mind.  There were two men sitting on top of the trailer.  Each had a sword on his belt and a spear close enough for him to grab.  They also had rifles slung over their backs.  Jerry had told them that the guards had not fired a single round in two weeks.

The rest of the base was laid out in a big circle.  There were a few warehouse-like buildings near the waterfront.  Several buildings that were obviously office-type buildings and a couple of hangers that were farther off of the water made up the rest of the base.  Jerry had told them that there were currently eighty seven souls on the Island.  “One-hundred-twenty-seven if you count the River Rats,” he had clarified.

“Are there any other survivors?” Indira had asked.

“Well,” he began.  “There’s a bunch of people in Atlanta.  You know the CDC?  They’re holding on, but food is becoming a problem.  The word is there are still a lot of folks in the northwest.  It seems that someone got smart and sealed Denver off from the outside world.  That city is overrun, but the rest of Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, and the western part of the Dakotas’s still have fairly large living populations.”  He wasn’t able to tell them where he’d heard all of this.  But, at least it was some news.

Day 36

Singing River Island

SSgt Brown could hear the click-clack of someone walking on crutches before he saw the man.  “How do you like my new legs?” Sgt Procell asked.

“Not bad,” the older man answered.  “You know you can’t go out like that right?”

The younger man looked dejected.  “Oh, Staff Sergeant Brown, you have so little faith in the resourcefulness of this highly trained and experienced combat engineer.”  He smiled widely.  “I believe that anything you do today will require the use of a water-borne mode of transportation.  While I may not be able to outrun a one-legged zombie on land, I can easily outpace him from the driver’s seat of a boat; a boat that we need to go and pick up soon.”

Last night one of the “volunteers” told them how foraging had been conducted.  Each five person group was to acquire a boat from one of the many marinas on the gulf coast.  That was then their boat.  They used it for all of their foraging raids.  SSgt. Brown would be expected to have his own boat by the end of the day, and foraging was to begin the next day.  The man had explained that foragers didn’t get days off unless their captain was willing to go into Indian country with less guns.  This was simply not done.  The prevailing attitude amongst the three captains was the more guns the better.

SSgt. Brown couldn’t help but think how much this sounded like an island run by pirates.  He was a teacher when he wasn’t playing soldier in the National Guard.  He remembered hearing how the pirates of Nassau operated.  He rubbed the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin.  Greybeard he thought to himself.  Na, he chuckled, not very scary.

He found Jackson, Theresa, and Kerry waiting on the dock.  Behind them was a 22 foot boat.  A large blue strip ran down the side with the words “Queen Anne’s Revenge” on the bow. Standing in the cockpit was a short man with arms that looked like undersized beer kegs.  SSgt Brown was sure the man had to have his shirts tailor made just to fit those huge arms.  He wore a maroon baseball cap with the letter
“
A
”
in white on the front.  Two men with rifles were standing on the bow of the boat.  He recognized the trio.  Their names had been on his list.

“Well don’t just stand there gawkin,’” the man in the baseball hat yelled over the sound of the engines, “get onboard.”  His southern drawl was as thick as any SSgt Brown had heard.  They climbed aboard.

SSgt Brown sat next to the captain.  “Do you guys have to do this every time someone new comes along?”

“Sure do.” He answered.

SSgt Brown didn’t like that.  Like most military guys, he was of the belief that more is better, and way more is way better.  When they arrived at whatever marina they were going to, he would make sure that he returned with more than two boats.

The man in the Crimson Tide cap suddenly chopped the throttles.  The bow of the boat dipped and the wind stopped.  The world didn’t go completely silent, but it did become quite a bit quieter.

The end of the pier was about a half mile away.  “Two bobbers off the port, two-hundred yards,” called one of men. He was taller and he had a deep brown tan.  SSgt Brown thought his name was Jimmy G or something like that.  He could tell the man had worked outside most of his young life.  He wore a black concert tee-shirt for a band that SSgt Brown was convinced did not exist any longer. “I got ‘em,” the captain acknowledged quickly.

SSgt Brown leaned in close to the captain’s ear.  “What the hell is a bobber?”

“A bobber is a floating zombie,” he replied, never taking his eye off of the sea in front of him.  “You see, them zombies get all full of gas in the belly.  Just like real dead things do.  So, when they chase after us and fall in the ocean, they bob around like a bobber on a fishing line.  Gotta be careful with ‘em.  Sometimes they ain’t all the way dead. They can still bite.  They got sinkers too.  Them’s the ones who ain’t got no air in their bellies no more.  They just sink.  Water’s about twenty-five foot deep at the end of the pier, so they ain’t no worry.”

The thought of a bunch of zombies bobbing around in the water just waiting to bite a passing sailor sent a shiver down SSgt Brown’s spine.  He wondered how long the bobbers bobbed.  He was going to ask, but they were approaching the end of the pier.  No more chit-chat.

He moved next to one of the boatmen.  It was the one who called out the bobbers.  “How many times have you guys been to this pier?” he asked quietly.  “Three times,” the man replied.  “We usually ground the boat on the beach, or ‘Bamma here keeps circling out past the surf.  Pier is a mighty bad place be.  We try to avoid it.”

SSgt Brown realized that these men had a system worked out for raiding the mainland.  He mentally kicked himself for not talking to them earlier about tactics and procedures.  He made a mental note to get his boat captains together tonight and get his people up to speed.

‘Bamma quietly slid the boat alongside the pier.  The two boatmen with him, SSgt Brown couldn’t help but think of them as a shore party, soundlessly crossed to the wooden pier.  Each man grabbed a line and tied a quick figure eight to a cleat secured to the pier.

The man with the concert tee-shirt waved the others out of the boat and pointed at the deck next to his right foot.  SSgt Brown leaned in so the man could whisper.  “This is as far as we go.  The first four boats on both sides are either busted or we couldn’t find keys.  I can’t tell you anything about the boats closer to the beach.”

He motioned to the far end of the pier with his rifle.  “There’s usually a few Zeke’s that hang out down there.  So, keep it quiet.”  The soldier nodded.

Waving to the others, he moved down the pier slow and low.  He didn’t have to look back, he knew they would be following him.  As they reached the fifth boat on the right side, he motioned for Jackson and Theresa to take the one to the left, the sixth boat.  He, Mike, and Kerry would take the right boat.

The boat he climbed onto was about 20 feet in length.  The side was painted yellow and the bridge was protected only with a Plexiglas screen.  The bow of the boat was anchored firmly to the pier with a single rope.  The forward portion of the boat was open in the center with padded bench seats all around.  The aft part of the boat was the same.

They quickly searched the boat.  To their dismay they did not find any keys.  SSgt Brown was just climbing back onto the pier when he heard the engine in front of him fire up.   Jackson turned and gave his boss a thumbs-up.  The look on SSgt Brown’s face caused his smile to quickly vanish as he realized what he’d done.

A quick glance down the pier told SSgt Brown that they were on borrowed time.  The locals were aware of their presence.  He pointed to the boat across from them.  “Check that one,” he ordered Mike.  “Kerry, the one next to it,” he barked.  He charged down the pier to the next available boat.

This boat was larger than the others.  It had an enclosed pilot house.  He was sure it would have an area below decks also.  He grabbed the door to the pilothouse and threw it open without thinking.  It took only a nanosecond for his brain to acknowledge his mistake; too late, as it turned out.

The thing in front of him had obviously been dead for a long time.  The odor that poured from the enclosed cabin would have made SSgt Brown retch had he had time to think about it, which he did not.

The zombie had been a fat man in life, maybe 350 pounds.  It had no hair anywhere, making it look older than it probably was.  Had it not been for the vice-like grip and the gnashing teeth, SSgt Brown thought, this guy would actually look frail.  These thoughts took up the next few nanoseconds of SSgt Brown’s life.

Luckily for him, his training and combat experience kicked in before his conscious mind did.  His right hand shot underneath the ghoul’s chin, forcing its head away from him.  Next he allowed the weight of the zombie to push him back a half of a step.  This gave him room to get his foot up and kick the zombie in the chest.

Both zombie and would-be victim went sprawling in opposite directions.  He felt the boat rock gently on the water from the impact.  He clambered back to his feet, his mind clearing as he did.  He withdrew the pistol from its holster on his right hip.  The zombie was just reaching its feet as the big man fired a single .45 caliber full-metal-jacket round into the zombie’s head.  Black and pink mist exploded from the gaping hole in the monster’s head.