The morning fog had finally pulled back toward the coast, exposing the little island of Yerba Buena to a bright and clear August day. A Humvee pulled up quickly to the United States Coast Guard station's Command building. Two men leaped out, carrying their chosen death dealers
: the Coastie
carried an M-16A2 in one hand and a .40 Caliber SIG-Sauer on his hip; and the Civie
carried a Browning semi-automatic 12 gauge shotgun in his hands and both a 9mm Glock on his hip and a .38 Smith and Wesson in his belt, pressed into the small of his back.
They each wore concerned looks as they hurried up to a Coast Guard officer standing on the steps of the Command building. The Coastie
-- Chief Petty Officer Hugo Rhymes -- explained his expression by lifting his rifle before him and saying, "We're out."
The civilian -- Mark James, a former US Navy petty officer contracted to the base as an electrician -- repeated the gesture with his shot gun and clarified, "Out of everything. We need more ammo if we're going to keep them back, let alone take and secure the island."
"We don't have more," responded the officer, Yerba Buena's now
-Commanding Officer, Captain Lee Stewart. After 36 hours of mayhem -- sometimes including killing their own friends, family, and fellow servicemen -- Lee was the highest ranking officer known to still be alive on the island in the middle of the San Francisco Bay. "Pull the fifty from the cutter and--"
"Done that, Captain!
" another voice called from where a group was repairing a chain link fence that had been overrun by Walkers during the night. The pretty but also muscular woman in a USCG uniform, First Class Petty Officer Emily Hanover, hustled over as she explained, "We moved the fifty caliber to a Humvee last night and took it up to the north east entrance to fight back the Oakland wave. Tried conserving ammo, but ... hell, Captain, they just kept coming."
"Where the hell
are they all coming
from?" asked Rhymes, the fear and tension showing in his voice. He'd joined the Coast Guard because he thought he'd be serving his country chasing down drug smugglers in speed boats and rescuing shapely and eternally grateful swimmers from the chilly waters of the bay and ocean, not
hunting down crazed monsters
who were eating the flesh of the people he knew and sometimes loved. "There's so many of--"
"Treasure Island," James cut in, jerking a thumb to the northwest, in the direction of the man made island on which he lived. As a civilian contractor, he wasn't allowed to live on Yerba Buena itself, which was reserved for security reasons to military and Homeland Security personnel and their families.
Continuing on about Treasure Island, he said, "There was no way for the people there to escape, 'cept by boat or swimming the bay ... and we know how easy that is from the history of Alcatraz, don't we? The bay bridges are clogged. No ones going no where on those."
"But the Walkers are still using them," Hanover said. "We saw it when we were up there, constructing more barricades. They're walking right through ... coming onto YB. Why the hell can't they go the other way, toward Oakland or the City?"
As the conversation continued, James considered their situation. He looked to his left, toward the southwest and San Francisco. He couldn't see the western expanse of the Bay Bridge from here on the east side of Yerba Buena, but he knew the situation: both levels of it were closed by a multitude of wrecks, and only foot traffic -- human and Walker alike -- was moving upon it now.
He looked to his right, to the east and Oakland. He could only see a small portion of the newer
expanse of I-80, but he knew that it, too, was closed by wrecks, as well as a huge fire that had been burning for the past several hours.
He had a better view of the old eastern expanse of the bridge which had been undergoing demolition for the past couple of years. It was thought that the bridge's demise was still at least 10 years away.
James considered that for a moment more. Would the bridge's demise come now that society's demise had come before it? Was this the end of mankind -- of life -- as they knew it? It hadn't even been two days, and jet James couldn't help but think that this
was the end of the world as he knew it.
He suddenly realized that someone had said his name, and he quickly looked to Stewart saying, "Yes, sir."
"We need to check every house on YB for survivors," the Captain said, his expression suddenly gaining a very concerned expression. "I can't order you to do this. You're not Coast--"
"I'll do it," James cut him off. This wasn't his first dealings with Captain Stewart. James knew the man was more than just a set of gold eagles on a spoiled Academy graduate. "I actually live on Treasure Island, but ... I'll still do it. We have to know."
"He'll need someone to go with him," Hanover said, her tone making it obvious that she was volunteering. "But we'll need weapons ... and ammo."
Stewart set in motion the search for weapons, ammunition, and anything -- food and bottled water included -- that might be of value. Boats, buildings, and vehicles were to be thoroughly searched, with anything of value brought back to the armory, which was the most secure building on the base.
James stepped over close to Hanover and said, "Thanks. I ... this is a bit overwhelming for me ... all this shooting people and stuff."
"Been there, done that."
The woman smiled as she raised the sleeve of her work shirt, revealing the big tattoo on her muscular upper arm. It commemorated Fire Fight Albacore
, in which a sea going USCG vessel and its smaller boats took on four boats of Somali pirates that had been trying to seize and Italian fishing trawler.
"You were there?" James asked surprised.
Again she raised part of her shirt, this time exposing her belly and the ugly bullet wounds there. "Took two for the team ... but not before tearing apart the ass ends of a boat load of ... arrrgh
She laughed, partially at the shocked look on James' face. He couldn't believe that at a time like this, she was making jokes about having almost been killed -- and by normal every day killers,
not the monstrous
kinds that eat your body even before you're dead.
"Eighteen hundred," Stewart was saying, catching James' attention again. He finished handing out orders to those who would continued working on barriers, who would search for and gather weapons and other good of value, who would stand watch, and more.
The Captain asked for four more volunteers amongst the two dozen people assembled to go out with James. He got them: a Coastie, a civilian contractor, a tourist, and a minimum wage worker from one of the base's little shops. He didn't ask them if they had experience with weapons, let alone with combat: they were running out of experienced warriors
, so it was time to go with the B-team -- or the C- or D- or Z-team, if that was what they had.
"Eighteen hundred," Stewart repeated, "anyone without a current assignment or anyone who is done with their current assignment by then, report right
here. We'll work on the next step then. That'll be all."
(OOC: I will be writing James, Stewart, Hanover, and Rhymes, though for how long I don't know, as they might be expendable characters. The four people mentioned two paragraphs above, as well as any of the others, are available characters. If you have an interest in this RP, PM me for more information. I will produce a Profile Sheet tomorrow. For right now, I have things to do.)