She continued to fire, pumping round after round, keeping them pinned down.
Hammond broke rank and rushed the barricade, gracefully flipping over it and landing in a crouch behind. Whitaker clicked empty and tossed the gun aside, grabbing another one from another corpse, taking position and continuing her volley of death.
Bullets whizzed by her from the other direction. “Checkpoint!” she barked to Hammond, and he snatched up a rifle, firing towards the checkpoint.
He couldn’t see a specific target, but the fire suppressed whoever was shooting at them.
“Move, Landry!” Whitaker yelled. “I’m not gonna shoot you!”
He darted out from cover, ducking as a bullet flew past his head close enough that he could feel the wind on his face as it went by. He attempted to do a flip over the barricade as the Sergeant did, but he slipped and ended up landing hard on his ass on the other side. He quickly scrambled up, grimacing at the sting in his tailbone, grabbing one of the AK-47’s as he got back to his feet.
Hammond emptied the clip he was using, and then tossed the gun aside, scrambling for another. He froze, eyes widening as four SUV’s pulled up and stopped on the other side of the barricade.
“We gotta go, now!” he barked, and began firing towards the checkpoint.
The others continued their assault on the original group, giving them enough cover to get across the interstate and into the brush. They tore through the branches and dirt, cedar slapping them in the face as they moved.
“Hope that was enough to get Mathis across,” Landry huffed.
Whitaker shrugged as she ran. “I took out ten or so of them when they came in,” she boasted.
“If that checkpoint had more men than that, we have bigger problems,” Hammond said as they burst out of the bushes onto the first residential street. “Ten blocks north, fifteen east,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Mathis remained out of sight, waiting for the diversion. He checked his watch, keeping track of the presumed timeline.
“If they don’t hurry, I’m gonna have to haul ass,” he muttered, and as if on cue, a giant explosion rocked the distance.
He snapped alert, staring over at the startled checkpoint guards. They chattered in Spanish, looking around for their weapons, but not moving from their post.
“Come on assholes,” he murmured as he studied them through the binoculars, “go help your friends.”
Gunfire crackled next, further putting the men on edge. They looked around, seemingly wondering if they should leave or not. As the shots continued, one of the men picked up a walkie-talkie. After some shrill Spanish, he waved for his men to follow, and all of them clambered up into the back of the pickup.
“Hell yeah, move it on out,” Mathis pumped his fist.
The man with the radio pointed at one of the guards, and barked in Spanish, apparently ordering him to stay put.
Mathis hung his head. “Shit.”
The truck loaded up and sped off towards the south, leaving the lone guard to stand there nervously, gripping his weapon with white knuckles. As the fight sounded like it was intensifying, the man ducked behind one of the cars, kneeling and pressing himself against the makeshift barricade.
Mathis checked out the houses on either side of the checkpoint, noting a lot of movement in the front yards. Several of the legless crawler zombies writhed around in the grass. They were close enough together that they formed a living floor of death, and he sighed.
“Well that’s a no go,” he muttered, thinking hard. Can’t snipe him because the blood would put them on alert. Can’t go around without risking being bitten… looks like it’s the direct approach.
He shook his head, not exactly thrilled with his decision, even though he knew it was the right one. He slung his bag over his shoulder and slit out from the play set, popping out onto the road. He began to whistle, hands by his side, strolling along like it was just another fall day in the desert.
As he grew closer, the man popped up from the barricade, aiming his gun and yelling something in Spanish. Mathis stopped, feigning shock, and raised his hands in the air.
“Hey now, whoa, calm down partner,” he said in calm tones.
The man continued to spit frantic words, motioning at him wildly.
“Okay, it’s okay, I’m not gonna move,” Mathis said gently, offering a friendly smile.
The guard came around the car cautiously, stepping up slowly. He reached out to pat him down, and pushed the duffel bag from his shoulder.
As soon as the bag hit the ground, Mathis grabbed the barrel of his opponent’s rifle and pushed it down with lightning speed, chopping with his other hand right into the guard’s throat. The man dropped his weapon and grabbed at his crushed windpipe, giving Mathis an opening to pull him into a headlock.
“Come on…” the sniper grunted as he tightened his arm. “Snap, snap…” He continued to apply pressure, until finally the man’s neck gave a loud crunch, and he fell limp.
Mathis let out a sigh of relief and dropped the guy to the ground, scratching the back of his head. “Now, what to do with your body?”
He looked around, pursing his lips at all of the legless zombies reaching for him from their front lawns. He glanced back at the play set he’d been hiding in, successfully keeping himself out of sight.
“Looks like you get a plastic mausoleum,” he said, and reached down to pat the guy on the chest before heaving him over his shoulder. He groaned as he carried the corpse back to the brightly-colored play set and shoved it inside, stuffing it into the fetal position in the bottom.
He checked his watch. “Fuck, time to get my cardio in for the day.” He ran back and picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he sprinted towards his destination.
CHAPTER SIX
The SUVs drove through town towards city hall. There was plenty of activity in the streets, Cartel members patrolling, men marching around, a few brave citizens scurrying about to try to get substandard goods from a dank supply setup.
Angel sneered at a couple of middle-aged men walking on the sidewalk, carrying brown paper bags of supplies. He rolled down the window and fired a few shots at their feet, causing them to jump back and spill their bags everywhere. They immediately dove and scrambled for the meager cans rolling away from them.
“Fucking parasites,” Angel spat as he settled back into his seat. “Why my father keeps them alive, I’ll never know.”
One of the Cartel members stiffened next to Reed, and the kid wondered if he thought about speaking up, but thought better of it because he didn’t open his mouth.
The vehicles pulled up to City Hall, screeching to a half just outside of the doors. When they stopped, Angel hopped out of the vehicle, turning to rip the back door open and going straight for the young wounded man.
He grabbed him by the collar and dragged him down to the street, wiggling the knife a bit.
Reed let out a grimace, nearly pitching forward onto his face.
“You’d better be stronger than that, boy,” Angel said, a maniacal grin on his face. “My father is going to do so much worse to you than that.”
Rodriguez approached quickly, head held high. “That’s enough, Angel,” he said firmly.
The younger Rivas let go of his prisoner, jutting out his chin in defiance. “Why do you take this murderer’s side?” he demanded, pointing a gold-adorned finger at him. “It’s almost like you care for this… boy.”
Rodriguez took a step forward, eyes blazing as he stared daggers down at the younger man. “Instead of throwing around insinuations, you should be thanking me,” he growled. “I don’t believe your father would be too happy with you for robbing him of his fun. Depending on how much of that last bottle he’s had today he just might substitute you for him, just because he can.”
Angel snarled, but his shoulders relaxed, his face almost forming a petulant pout when he realized the man was right. His father was a lot of things, but compassio
nate wasn’t one of them. A trait that he himself knew intimately, because he’d inherited it.
“Very well,” he said flippantly, as if there’d been no altercation at all. He motioned to the two guards waiting beside the vehicle. “You two, get him to the infirmary.”
Rodriguez waved the guards off, grabbing a groaning Reed by the collar and pushing him towards the stairs leading to the front door. “I’ll take care of it,” he declared.
Angel wrinkled his nose. “You two,” he said, turning back to the guards, “alert my father that we’ve arrived. He may need some time to… gather himself.”
They nodded and Rodriguez clucked his tongue at them. “If he doesn’t come to the door, knock once and leave it at that,” he added. “Then report back to the infirmary.”
They glanced to Angel, who nodded in agreement, and then walked off at a brisk pace to carry out their orders.
“Glad to see you agree with me on your father,” Rodriguez said as he led Reed up the stairs.
Angel trotted up after him to catch up. “I wouldn’t get used to it.”
Rodriguez cracked a small smile to himself, keeping his face turned away so the younger Rivas wouldn’t see it.
Reed struggled to get up the stairs, clutching his gut to try to slow the bleeding. He stumbled at the top, falling to one knee.
Angel kicked him square in the ass with his shiny expensive boot. “On your feet, dog,” he snapped. “Your day is far from finished.”
Reed seethed, resisting the urge to pull the knife from his gun and attack the smug bastard with it. Even if he succeeded in killing the prick, it would probably result in a headshot, and he had to focus on the mission. Despite the searing pain and torment he was enduring, the mission was the most important thing.
Besides, there’s a good chance my zombie self might take this asshole out, he thought darkly, and that thought pushed him just enough to get back up to his feet.
Rodriguez led him up another set of interior stairs to the second floor, then down a long marble hallway. There were several people working there, mostly Cartel workers but a few of the former staff from the building.
To distract himself from the throbbing pain of his gut wound, he wondered what the hell could possibly be keeping all of these people busy. He assumed it probably had something to do with the trading they had going on with different communities, or the facade of trading, considering it was basically slavery upon threat of death.
Rodriguez shoved him into an old break room that had been transformed into an infirmary. There were a bunch of hospital-style beds in there, three on each side of the room. Two patients were on the right side, one with his leg elevated and another with an IV bag.
In another valiant attempt to distract himself, he wondered why they’d put an infirmary in City Hall. For the Cartel captains, maybe? VIPs? He noted the tailored suit jacket hanging next to the guy on IV, and assumed that this must be the Cartel’s highest echelon of society and the kind of treatment they would receive.
“Good to know I’m getting the VIP treatment,” he slurred, marveling at how thick his tongue felt in his mouth. Fuck, I’m a lot farther gone than I thought.
Angel smacked him in the back of the head. “You’re not getting shit,” he snapped. “Our VIPs, however, are about to get a show.” He sneered.
“Enough, Angel,” Rodriguez cut in with a heavy sigh. “Go check on our guest over there. He is a VIP, after all. He deserves attention from someone important like you.”
The younger Rivas glared at him, clearly understanding that it was a backhanded compliment. He schooled his expression before strolling over to the IV man and greeting him warmly, shaking his hand and making small talk in Spanish.
Rodriguez roughly shoved Reed into a bed, and the kid grunted loudly. His hand slipped on the blade, and blood splattered all over him and the wall behind him.
“Doctor, I need you here,” Rodriguez said, trying to sound bored and nonchalant.
A man in scrubs and a mask busied himself with checking the broken-legged man, and held up a hand to motion that he’d be there in a minute.
Rodriguez leaned down, pretending to growl something menacing. “Hold on as long as you can,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry for what must be done.”
He straightened up, clasping his hands in front of him as he waited for the doctor. Reed nodded jerkily, and then turned his sweaty head towards an older man as he removed his surgical mask. He didn’t look Spanish, and the kid wondered if he’d been an El Paso doctor before being enslaved by the Cartel.
“What do we have here?” the doctor asked, his gravelly voice friendly.
Rodriguez crossed his arms. “Knife wound to the gut.”
The doctor leaned over, and then donned a fresh pair of latex gloves before inspecting the blade. He pressed around the outside of the wound a bit, prompting Reed to hiss, and then wiggled the blade a little to see how stuck it was.
“That’s in there pretty good,” he mused. “But don’t worry son, you’re gonna be okay.”
Rodriguez shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “Only thing I need you to do is remove this and stop the bleeding. Don’t sew him up, don’t treat the wound. Just pull it out and slap some gauze on there.”
The doctor stared at him, eyes wide with horror. “No.” He put his hands up, palms out. “I won’t do that. That’s inhumane.”
“That’s what your orders are,” Rodriguez replied, keeping a righteous expression even though his insides twisted. “I don’t know what the Cartel promised you to come here, but I will make damn sure it’s taken away if you try and treat that wound. We have limited supplies, and he’s not long for this world once Tiago gets a hold of him.”
The doctor froze at the name, and looked helplessly at the knife, and then at Reed’s pallid face. He clenched his jaw and stared back up at Rodriguez, jerkily nodding.
“Okay,” he said, and then took a deep breath. “The only thing I will do is give him a local antiseptic.”
Rodriguez opened his mouth to object, but the doctor put up a hand.
“Only enough to make sure he doesn’t go into shock from the pain of removing the blade,” he said loudly, leaving no room for argument. “Assuming you think it’s a good idea to make sure Tiago can get a hold of him.”
Rodriguez pursed his lips, and then nodded. “Get it done.”
The doctor scurried off to gather supplies, and a guard burst into the room, nearly knocking him over. “Rodriguez!” he huffed, out of breath. “You’re needed at the I-10 checkpoint. It’s under attack!”
Angel immediately broke away from his conversation, striding over in quick steps. “What’s going on?”
“There’s been a major attack at the checkpoint,” the guard babbled. “Don’t know how many are dead, but they had a car bomb.”
Rodriguez nodded. “I will handle it.”
“No, I think the men there can handle it,” Angel shot back, narrowing his eyes at the older man. “Just tell them to pull men from another checkpoint to wipe the attackers out.”
“Sir, they already did,” the guard explained, “and they were wiped out.”
Rodriguez raised his chin. “Assemble two hit teams and have them out front in three minutes,” he demanded. “Make sure they have a care package for me.”
The guard nodded and rushed back out of the room.
Rodriguez stared down at Angel cooly, as if daring the younger man to argue with him.
Angel begrudgingly nodded, that almost-pout coming back. “It sounds serious,” he said quietly. “You should go handle it. Besides, you never did have the stomach for this kind of work.” He motioned to the kid on the bed that was trying not to writhe in agony. “Go,” he said, waving Rodriguez away.
The older man immediately stalked away, not turning around to even give the kid a second look.
Angel’s lip curled and he leaned down, getting close enough to Reed’s sweaty face that he could smell it on him. “You get comfy boy,”
he said, low and menacing, “because after I get my father, we’re going to have all kinds of fun with you.” He laughed, holding his belly, and then strolled out of the infirmary, whistling as he went to fetch his father.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Cover fire!” Landry yelled, ducking behind the corner of a house. He fired in three-shot bursts towards another house on the corner of the road.
There were fifteen or twenty armed Cartel members taking cover across the street and firing in response. Some were around the houses, some behind trees, and a few behind an outbuilding. Landry narrowed his eyes as a small group of enemies ran down the street, looking like they were heading to the front of the house.
“Fuckers are trying to flank us!” he cried.
Whitaker whipped around. “On it!” She fired a single shot into the window of the house, shattering it. “Sarge!” She called, and he turned to give her a boost into the broken window.
She tumbled inside and landed on a bed in the master bedroom, hopping up quickly to her feet and prepping her weapon as she headed for the door. She flung open the bedroom door, and put down a zombie in the hallway with a quick shot to the head. As she got to the end of the hallway, she swept the main portion of the house quickly, finding the rest of it deserted.
She rushed to the front window just as a trio of Cartel members ran through the front yard in an attempt to ambush the soldier. She took aim and pulled the trigger just as one of them turned to notice her, the bridge of his nose exploding in a spray of blood.
As soon as he dropped, automatic gunfire ripped through the window, forcing Whitaker to leap back into the kitchen and take cover behind the wall. She crawled along the floor as bullets ripped the drywall to shreds, raining bits of house down on top of her.
As the gunshots subsided, there were two sets of footsteps that hopped down in through the window, sounding like each man was headed a different way to try to find her. She listened carefully, straining to hear their movements over the gunshots outside.
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