02 Flotilla of the Dead (37 page)

            “We have at least five hundred people in the campground, including thirty sheriff’s deputies and dozens of firemen and forest rangers.  What kind of assistance can you offer us?”  There was still a hint of suspicion in the ranger’s voice.

            “Well, we could provide an airlift of critical supplies,” Scott suggested. “This is the only amphibious plane we have right now, but I’ve got helicopters that could land here and small planes that could drop supplies too.”

            “Why would you want to help us?” asked the ranger.

            “Why not?” answered Scott.  “Our mission is to help set up safe havens for survivors.  I assume you have been able to secure the campgrounds from zombie attacks, right?”

            “Yeah,” answered the man who had recognized Scott from TV.  “We’ve added more fences between the highway and the lake and we have armed guards patrolling them.  But we really haven’t seen a lot of zombies up here.  Only a few dozen have made it this far.  There weren’t a lot of people around here to begin with and a lot of the local ranchers are well armed.  They had trouble with zombies over in Solvang, but there weren’t enough of them to overrun the town.  The highway patrol has a road block on the 101 freeway at Gaviota Pass, so only uninfected refugees get through there.  And, with the mountain pass to Santa Barbara cut off, we didn’t get too many refugees or zombies from down south.  Any zombie coming from that direction now would have a long walk up and over the mountains.  They say zombies don’t like to climb big hills.”

            “That’s true,” agreed Scott.  “So, are you saying that the rest of the valley is free of zombies too?”

            “Not exactly zombie free,” said the ranger.  “There’s still quite a few of the bastards wandering around out there.  But it’s nothing like what the TV is showing in the cities.”

            “That’s great news,” said Scott.  “If you can keep the Santa Ynez airport secure, it will make it a lot easier for us to bring you more supplies and keep you in contact with other safe havens.” 

            “You’d have to take that up with the Chumash Tribal Council.  The airport is right next to their reservation.  They took over protection of the airport last week when they moved all of their people into the casino and hotel there,” said the ranger.   

            “The Indians took over the airport?” asked Michelle.  She had been quiet throughout the exchange, but this news startled her.

            “Yes,” replied the ranger.  “They’re well armed and organized.  They gathered all of their people at their casino and blocked the roads in and out of their reservation.  They won’t let anyone in now.  They’re calling it a Native American quarantine zone and the airport is inside of it.”

            “That’s interesting,” said Scott.  “Are you in contact with them?”

            “Yes,” answered the ranger.  “By radio.  They seem friendly, but they don’t want any visitors.”

            “Maybe we can work something out concerning access to the airport.  I’m sure they could use supplies too.  I think we could trade.  My people will be looking for a source of fresh produce.  The land is fertile up here.  I know a lot of farmland has been turned into vineyards, but there will be a lot more demand for vegetables and grain than wine now.  We could help you plant crops.  We’d be happy to trade lots of things for fresh produce.  As long as the coast is overrun with zombies, the best way for us to trade with you would be by air.”

            “What would you trade with us?” asked the man sitting next to the ranger, who had long since lowered his own rifle.

            “You name it,” said Scott.  “We have a whole port full of shipping containers, as well as tankers full of oil and refined gasoline.  We could deliver portable generators and solar powered lights, fifty gallon drums of gasoline, propane tanks, and spare parts for vehicles, or farming equipment.  The list is almost endless.  We just need a secure airport that can land a C-130 transport plane.”

            “You have a C-130?” asked the ranger. 

“Not yet, but the Coast Guard does and I know where to get more of them,” replied Scott smugly.  “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.  Today I’m just here for a picnic.  I can come back again in a few days for a meeting with your leaders, and hopefully someone from the Tribal Council.  But today we’d just like to be left alone to enjoy ourselves, if that’s OK with you.”

            The men on the boat exchanged bewildered glances and the ranger finally cracked a smile and gave a low chuckle.  “Okay, Commodore,” he decided.  “Go ahead and enjoy your picnic.  We’ll tell the rest of the people here about your ideas and pass along your offer to the Chumash Council.  You’ll be welcome to land in the lake again when you return.  Any idea when that will be?”

            “We’ll be busy helping survivors down south for a few more days, but we’re working our way towards Santa Barbara.   This was sort of a scouting mission and I’m glad that we found you people here at the lake.  I’ll come back, or send representatives from the Flotilla via helicopter, as soon as our ships reach the coast of Santa Barbara.  If all goes well, that should be soon.”

              “Good enough,” said the ranger as he backed his little patrol boat away from the island.

            “Have a great picnic, Mrs. Allen, and happy birthday!” called the other man in the boat as he gave a friendly wave.  The patrol boat rejoined the other two boats waiting offshore and they all turned back towards the marina at a slower and more economical speed than during their approach to the island.

            “They seemed nice enough,” commented Michelle as the boats retreated across the lake.  “Maybe we’ve made some new friends here.”

            “I hope so,” Scott agreed.  “We need to befriend some inland safe haven communities, if we ever want access to fresh produce.”

            “Do you think these people will be safe here?” asked Michelle.

“I think this valley is probably one of the safest places within a hundred miles,” replied Scott.  “Zombies shouldn’t climb over the mountain passes to get here, at least not in significant numbers.  This lake is a sustainable source of water too, fed by runoff and small springs in the surrounding mountains.  It supplied most of the water for Santa Barbara, but there won’t be much demand for water there anymore, if my guess is right.  That means that a lot of it can be used for agriculture.  If the number of zombies in the valley is as small as they implied, and there are organized survival groups like the one here and at the Chumash reservation, not to mention all of the ranches and vineyards, I think they have a very good chance of long term survival here.” 

“So why would they want to share their fresh produce with us and your flotilla?” asked Michelle.

“Well, honey, there’s a big difference between survival and civilization,” Scott explained.  “Think about all the zombie and apocalypse movies that I forced you to watch with me over the years.  You even liked some of them.  Remember the Road Warrior?  Mad Max was just a survivor and a scavenger.  So were the bad guys zooming around the desert.  But remember those people Max helped to escape from the wasteland?  The ones who were refining oil into gasoline?  They were trying to restore civilization.  There’s the difference.  The people here in this valley might be safe from zombies, but without more fuel, spare parts, and appropriate technology for sustaining an isolated community, they would eventually fall back to barbarism, or pre-industrial feudalism.  And without a market for their wine, vegetables, grain and livestock they wouldn’t have any incentive to produce more than they need for their own consumption. That’s what happens when civilized people become pure survivalists.”

“So what’s your point?” asked Michelle with more than a hint of exasperation.

            “What I’m saying is that they will need us as much as we will need them,” replied Scott confidently.  “We will help them maintain a civilized agricultural and ranching community here by offering them a market for their produce in return for the other resources and supplies that they will need to keep the system running.”  Scott paused to pour each of them another glass of wine.  “But these are all thoughts for another day.  This is your birthday, baby, and I don’t want you to concern yourself with anything besides enjoying it.”

            Michelle relented for a moment and raised her glass in a toast to their picnic.  Then she asked, “So if these people represent the civilized and productive part of society, what are we?  Mad Max?   Or the bad guys?”

            “Good question,” said Scott with a smile.  “We’re not the bad guys.  And we’re not exactly Mad Max either.   The analogy isn’t perfect, but the truth is that everything we are doing, from gathering the Flotilla to setting up coastal safe havens and even securing the resources stockpiled on Terminal Island, is purely survivalist.   We’re focused on preserving and exploiting as much of the remaining assets of civilization as we can, but we’re not producing anything ourselves.”

            “So we’re scavengers?” asked Michelle with a puzzled smile.

            “Exactly,” replied Scott proudly.  “And that’s what it takes for us to survive right now.  We have to make use of the resources and technology available to us.  That’s what we need to keep the
Sovereign Spirit
and all of the other ships running.  And the stockpiles of supplies in the ports and supermarkets are what we need to keep all of the Boat People alive.  Even the safe havens that cities like LA are setting up will rely on scavenging existing supplies to keep their people alive.  But, if we want to survive long-term and restore even a semblance of civilization, we need to cultivate productive communities that will add new resources into the equation.  That’s why I think the people we found here today will be important later.”

            They consumed the rest of the afternoon with wine, cheese, and a backgammon board that earned Michelle a hefty profit from her husband’s now meaningless bank accounts.  In the end he wrote her a check for $100,000.00 and they laughed until their sides ached.  They spent another passionate hour entwined on their blanket before packing up for the short flight home
.

            As Scot placed the gear back into the airplane Michelle said she needed to take a little walk for a call of nature.  He smiled and nodded. It was a beautiful day and she felt like it was the perfect end to one the best birthdays of her life.  The zombie that attacked her came as a total surprise.  She heard a noise coming from behind the trees on top of the hill and turned just in time to see it coming.   She turned to run, but slipped and sprawled in the mud next to the lake.  She wanted to scream as she saw the zombie running towards her, but Scott was much too far away to be of any help.  This was her moment of truth.  In that instant Michelle’s thoughts crystallized around her survival instinct.  This was a do or die moment. 

As the zombie ran towards her, Michelle tucked her mud coated knees up to her slim belly and, when the undead fiend lunged at her, she kicked out with both feet.  All of her strength was focused in that movement.  Her feet connected squarely with the zombie’s stomach. She arched her back as the zombie’s ravenous face approached and then receded from her own.  The force and angle of the attack and defense literally launched the zombie over her head, past the mud, and into the lake.

Michelle turned to watch the zombie flail and then sink beneath the surface of the water.   She was surprised to realize that she wasn’t even shaking with fear.  This was the closest she had ever come to facing her own death.  This was the first time she had needed to defend herself in earnest.  It was also the first time that she had ever killed anything even close to human.  She didn’t feel fear, or grief, or remorse.  She felt alive, but she also felt dirty.

Michelle walked halfway back to the plane, where Scott was waiting and probably starting to worry, before she decided to wash herself off in the lake.  She remembered that they used to give tickets out for swimming in this lake and that made her smile as she stripped down to take a quick plunge.  She wanted to wash off the mud and she also needed to cleanse her soul.  She had no regrets.  She did what she needed to do to survive.  It was her or the zombie and she was certain that she had made the right choice on that score.  The water was cold.  When Michelle returned to the picnic spot Scott was clearly worried and upset.  He was holding his big gun and looked like he was about to search the island for her.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he asked.  “Didn’t you hear me yelling for you?”

“No, honey,” Michelle replied.  “I decided to take an illegal swim in the lake.  Things were getting a little too heated around here.”  She smiled and walked past him to wade out and climb into the airplane by herself.  Scott stood by dumbfounded, than gathered the rest of their stuff and followed Michelle into the airplane.

*****

            George Hammer had kept everyone in the port busy since the
Sovereign Spirit
and the better part of the
Flotilla left for Catalina.  Hundreds of boat people, including many from the
Queen Mary
, had spent the past two days helping to secure all of the bridges on Terminal Island.  Meanwhile George dispatched fire teams of the newly formed Safe Haven Militia to sweep the island for stray zombies.  But he spent most of his time supervising recovery teams that continued to identify, secure, and stockpile perishable cargo on the docks.  Their combined results were impressive.

             The priority stockpiles on the Navy Mole and Pier 400 were growing and a fifty car freight train was loaded with containers full of food for distribution to LA safe havens, as soon as local authorities were ready to receive them.   The port of Long Beach had been declared free enough of zombies that hundreds of boats had moved into the ship basins and tied up to the commercial piers.   A community of sorts was developing along the secured piers, with an open air market set up along the quays and tents erected in front of the boats docked there.  People were out and about, walking and talking, trading and begging.   Rotating squads of militia patrolled the perimeter established along the docks, guarding against any stray zombies.  Everything seemed to be proceeding according to plan.