Last Stand on Zombie Island (51 page)

“I’m not going to run through them. I am going to swim under them,” the boy said.

— | — | —

ChapteR 57

Billy looked down into the brick chamber under the fort’s 10-hole latrine at the churning brown water lapping at the sides of the wall. Two centuries of calcium and salt deposits had turned the red brick a chalky white and the insane formation of stalactites and stalagmites mingled with fresh floating human waste.

“It looks like you would gag a maggot down there,” he said. “Are you sure this will even work?”

The two Fort Morgan curators were there, one armed with a sabre, the other holding a flintlock pistol that he set down on the yellowed builder’s plans of the citadel as a paperweight. Around the table were seated Stone and the two remaining colonels.

“The three-foot wide pipe from the beach to the latrines runs five hundred yards straight out. It should come up about a hundred feet offshore at low tide.”

“There is no way he can swim that far!”

Bert held up a short black can that looked like one of those keychain bottles of pepper spray, only it had a small pink mouthpiece on it.

“It’s a HEED. You use them to escape from a helicopter if it ditches in the water. It will give you a breath or three of spare air to reach the surface. We had a couple left from when we came ashore.”

“I can make the swim. I am a certified diver. He is just a boy,” Billy protested.

Bert pursed his bearded lips and pointed to the plans, “That’s just it. There is a giant S-trap here, with 48-inches of clearance around the curves. It was designed big enough to let waste move out to sea, but just too small for a swimmer to get into the fort from a ship offshore.”

“He can’t make that turn, he is five feet tall.”

“I’m four-seven, Dad, and we already tried it with a mock up. I can bend my legs and arms enough to snake around,” Wyatt said.

Billy looked at him and thought hard for a minute before saying anything else. “And you said this will save us all? May I ask how?”

“He will be carrying a message for the
Florida
.”

“What’s the
Florida
?”

Bert did not even blink. “A converted, Ohio-class submarine. She is a few miles offshore observing the situation.”

“Guess there really was sightings of a periscope after all,” Billy said. “How long has she been out there?”

“That’s not important, sir, what is is that we get this targeting package to her so that she can make it rain.”

“Who the hell are you, anyway?”

Bert held out a military ID, showing a much cleaner version of him in a dark naval uniform and tie. “Senior Chief Cryptologic Technician Charles Novak.”

“He’s a SEAL, Billy,” Stone said. “We didn’t even know ourselves until about an hour ago. They came ashore in Fairhope a few weeks ago and have been keeping an eye on us.”

Billy struggled to take it in. “Why didn’t you guys help us before this? Why don’t you just radio your sub and do your thing? What is the deal here?”

“I landed with eight guys, we ran into those advancing infected north of the bridge and fought our way out, losing our commo gear and six of my guys. Now it is just me left.” He rolled up the leg of his cargo pants showing numerous bloody bites from human-sized jaws. “And I don’t have long…we haven’t tried to call in support yet because there hasn’t been an ideal opportunity like we have now.”

“How the hell is this ideal?”

As they outlined their plan, Billy felt less and less confident.

««—»»

As the sunset turned to darkness and the moans of the infected drowned out all the other sounds coming from the outside world, Billy sat back on his makeshift cot deep inside the cold concrete powder magazine of Battery Duportail with Mack beside him. That part of the fort dated to the 1890s was constructed to house modern 12-inch disappearing guns, their 1046-pound shells, and the 268-pound bags of gunpowder that propelled them. Over his head were reinforced Portland concrete walls five feet thick, strong enough to withstand a hit from a battleship’s shells. At least that is what the historic informational sign said that hung above him.

Around him were huddled hundreds of other refugees, the entire population of Gulf Shores that remained on dry land. Stone, Mack, George, and the colonels had gone around ordering all of the civilians into the battery, then moved what was left of the food and as much water as possible in after them. Finally, the call had gone out for the defenders on the glacis to abandon their positions and retreat to the battery as well, locking the four-inch thick blast doors behind them. There they waited for the story to end.

Within an hour hundreds of infected pounded on the doors and grated ventilation slats, drawn to the smell and sound of the living inside. Billy could only imagine the thousands of zombies who now staggered around the parade ground outside the doors, overrunning the fort and filing its casemates.

Across from him sat Ed and George, old men in a dank dark hole, carrying on a conversation about Patty Duke. Theriot and his two marines, battered, bruised, and still arguing amongst themselves, played dominoes for cigarettes. Stone sat there beside them, reading
Homage to Catalonia
by George Orwell quietly. His giant German Shepherd whined like bad brakes as Oswald petted her.

“Any words of wisdom, Captain?” Billy asked.

“Waiting for the end to come. Wishing I had strength to stand. This is not what I had planned. It’s out of my control.”

“You write that, or is that Clausewitz again?”

Oswald laughed as she rubbed the dog’s belly. “That’s
Linkin Park
.”

Stone laughed and went back to his book. As he did so, Billy sat back on his cot and felt Mack lean close to his shoulder in the flickering darkness. He thought of Wyatt as he lay there. Billy’s last words to him were a story that his grandfather had told him long ago about surviving. He gave him advice on the swim and on life in general. He hugged him, watched him drop down past the floor, and submerge below the black water of the latrine chamber, hoping to escape the fort with the outgoing tidal flush. The last gift he could give him was the old .38 and he hoped the boy would not have to use it.

“He’ll be ok,” Mack whispered to him.

Billy nodded and kissed her for the first time.

— | — | —

ChapteR 58

Jarvis watched in anticipation at the dark water around point where the fort jutted out into Mobile Bay. Two hours before, just as twilight descended on the area, all of the defenders along the top wall of the fort waved at the flotilla of fishing boats and disappeared inside of the fort. Only minutes after the militia were gone the infected could be seen swarming over the walls in waves.

The feeling across the water was one of deep loss and pain. Boats sounded their horns in mourning. Some fired flares into the air. Others threw flowers, pictures, and clothes in the water for their own reasons. No one knew what had happened. The last communication they had before the militiamen climbed down all at once from the walls was a bed sheet that hung from the outside wall of the fort. In words a foot high, it read:
We are ok. Watch for signal. Be safe.
It was the only thing that kept mass panic from taking root in the flotilla.

“See anything yet, Boats?” Jarvis asked the Bosun mate. A half hour after the militia had left, the flotilla called over the radio reporting Morse code signals from a light high above the fort. One of the boaters, an old radio operator read the message and said that it was someone asking repeatedly for the
Fish Hawk
. The Bosun was alerted and soon was flashing back and forth in the darkness with someone claiming to be a navy seal, holed up in the old condemned observation tower twenty feet over the fort.

“Just said for us to order all the boats nautical mikes out to sea and for us stand off and wait for a light in the water a few hundred yards offshore of the fort. Then make our GPS available to the swimmer.”

Jarvis nodded. He had already called out over the VHF and ordered all ships to stand back. He advised that everything was under control and that the fort had a plan. The Coast Guard officer could see a Christmas tree of navigational lights out to sea but a few still stayed close to shore, watching the opera before them.

“I’ve got someone, sir!” the Cook yelled out, pointing to a flashing strobe light nearly submerged in the water between them and the fort.

“Launch the small boat, go get ’em!” Jarvis yelled, slapping the chart table. The Cook and Bosun were off in a flash, barely making contact with the ladder leaving the rear of the wheelhouse as they headed to the zodiac on the deck below them. All of his Coasties had made it off the island when the wall fell except for Myers, his 18-year-old seaman from California, and for a week, the remaining shell-shocked crew was dying to help in any way they could.

The sound of the zodiac launching down the stern ramp and roaring to life was comforting and Jarvis watched the boat race along the water to intersect the flashing strobe bobbing on the waves. The boat slid to a stop, the strobe ceased and then the boat roared back to the cutter. Jarvis kept watch on the fort for any signs of life. He looked out to the deck below and saw the engineer and a seaman pointing M16s to the water just in case anything was to pop up. There had only been one loaded magazine left on board when they left the island and they had split the thirty rounds between six rifles.

From the small boat emerged the Bosun and the Cook followed by a short boy who ran for the wheelhouse. As the boy got closer he could see that he was very young, maybe 12 or 13, and looked strangely familiar. The boy was soaked and shivering from the cold November sea swim. He also smelled like shit.

“Was there anyone else with you?” Jarvis asked as the boy climbed the ladder to the cutters bridge.

“No, nobody else would fit. I need your GPS.”

“What?”

“Got me, Skipper, the kids been babbling for a GPS before we even picked him up out of the water,” the Cook said, tapping his head and rolling his eyes to convey he thought the boy nuts.

“Why do you need a GPS? We know where we are and besides, they haven’t worked for weeks.”

“I don’t have time to explain, I just need it,” the boy gushed impatiently.

“Are you okay, kid?”

“Captain Stone said to tell you that I am on a mission from the 3-Blind-Mice, and my dad says you are a mullet marshal and that you would probably give me shit.”

Jarvis stepped back and felt a small laugh escape him. Damned Billy Harris’s kid. Looked like a miniature version of the salty bastard. Billy was the most dysfunctional man Jarvis had ever known but when he did function, it was normally well.

“Give me the ten second version of why you need my GPS.”

“Bert said you should have a differential GPS with a plug in for the new DSC system. With that I can get a message to the
Florida
.”

Jarvis looked at the Cook and Bosun who both had a baffled look on their face.

“I tell you what,” the officer bargained, “I will operate it and you tell me what to put in.”

The boy nodded and dug in the pocket of his waterlogged pants, producing a green waterproof memo pad. He flipped the book open and began giving instructions, “Okay, power it on and off, then before it boots up all the way. Type in: *#*#1472365*#*#-enter.

Jarvis did so and the screen came up with seven options.

“It should come up with Kaena Point STS as an option. Click on it, then click on Skyhook and it will open up a chat.”

Jarvis did so and an SMS-type message screen came up.

“Now type in ‘Seminole platform call-for-fire task-part tomahawk.’ Type ‘This is Bullfrog, Fire mission, Target 1.’ Punch in that grid number and direction shift mils on this sheet,” he said, passing the sheet of green waterproof paper to Jarvis. “Request blanket suppression bravo max ord 20,000 in open. Request confirm.”

Jarvis did so and in two minutes the message came back confirmed with the six digit grid coordinates he had punched in. The screen advised
flight time 29 minutes
.

“What happens in 29 minutes, kid?”

He smiled. “A fireworks show, now we have to get the crap out of here, man.”

The Cook was already moving to the helm to throttle the engines up even before Jarvis gave the order.

««—»»

Five miles out to sea the
USS Florida
came to a shallow depth and opened eleven of her 24 SLBM doors. One by one and over the span of three minutes, she quickly launched seven Tomahawk Land Attack Missiles (TLAMs) of her arsenal from each of these doors. The 77 TLAMs popped the surface of the water and rocketed to nearly 600mph in just a few seconds. They leveled out and shot towards Fort Morgan, covering a mile every six seconds.