by Allen Gamboa
CHAPTER 8: SGT. BILKO
Camp FedEx
Strategic Securities, Northern Base Camp, California
“What the fuck?” Captain Booker leaned back in his well-worn office chair and set the chipped coffee mug on top of his cluttered desk. The black officer placed his tattooed forearms behind his close-cropped head and impatiently rocked back in forth in his seat.
“What the fuck sergeant?” Booker leaned forward and again anxiously rested his elbows back on the desk top.
“They were in trouble Book.” Hale dropped his pack onto one of the two beat up chairs that faced the Captain’s desk. “Can’t leave folks to die.”
“Don’t get comfortable Sergeant. Just cause we fought together in Mali don’t mean we’re buddies.” He lifted the old mug and put it to his lips. “Saving civilians, this ain’t a nonprofit we’re running here.” The Captain took a sip from the lukewarm coffee then glanced back up at Hale. “You want to do shit for free you are more than welcome to rejoin the regular armed forces.”
“Good to know Captain.” The big Sergeant smirked. “I assume you called me in off the flight line for a reason?” He adjusted the M4 that was slung across his chest.
“Did you bring back any expended brass?”
“No.”
“Fuck Hale.” Booker shook his head angrily. “I’m going to have the armory up my ass for that. Did you at least salvage any ammo?”
“Not on this run.” The Sergeant grabbed up his pack off the chair. “Got about a thousand Hershey bars though.”
“Shit, I love Hershey's.” Booker stood up with the coffee mug in his hand. “That might buy some goodwill with the armory staff.” The black officer stepped over to a well-used coffee maker and set his cup down next to it.
“Try a little of this.” Hale pulled a bottle of fifty-year-old scotch from his pack and lobbed it toward the Captain. “That might help smooth things over.”
“Shit Rollie, that buys you goodwill with me.” Booker caught the bottle in his hands and cradled it like you would a newborn. The officer pursed his lips together as he studied the label on the bottle. “Not bad Hale. Don’t worry about the armory Sergeant.” He shook the bottle in Hale’s direction. “This will cover it.” Booker smiled, in a better mood. “Shit boy, you’re a fast learner.”
“Who are you calling boy?” Hale asked deadpan. Booker stopped for a tense second then grinned widely and again pointed the bottle at the muscular Sergeant.
“Fuck Hale, you got me. You fucking got me” He chuckled. “Now get the hell outta my office and remember next time to police up your damn brass!”
“Roger that, Book.” The sergeant nodded knowing full well and good that no one would ever try to grab up the expended casings, that was just suicide. Hale slipped his pack over his shoulder and gave him a salute that would make Sgt. Bilko proud. “Enjoy the Scotch, Captain.”
Camp Fedex was built on a recently abandoned airfield outside of Barstow, California. The base was named after the wreckage of a FedEx Boeing 777 that had crashed into the airstrip during the very beginning of the outbreak. Located several miles away from any cities or densely populated towns, it was a perfect location for the security contractor's base of operations. The hungry dead that straggled far enough out in their direction were easily picked off by the Strategic Securities snipers. The contractor base covered roughly twelve acres and was surrounded by twelve-foot-high walls made from HESCO barriers. On each end of the compound were a set of big steel doors. Sentries manned the walls and two big watchtowers in the middle of the base provided them constant visuals on the surrounding areas. The company that owned Strategic Securities had quickly added the barrier walls and put in a solar power and water system. Prefab classrooms and old FEMA trailers provided the administrative and housing for the occupying contractors. In the main courtyard were parked two dozen tactical and civilian vehicles along with two mission ready Sea Stallion helicopters.
Camp FedEx’s objective was to aid military operations against the ravenous undead, scavenge supplies and occasionally rescue civilians. Strategic Security contractors were made up of mostly ex-military, law enforcement and paramilitary types. They also had a looser Rules of Engagement policy than the Military did. The company paid their employees in money and supplies, which were still honored in the safe zones. It was a very good gig for a hired gun during the current undead outbreak.
Sergeant Rollie Hale stepped off the porch of the captain’s office and walked across the dusty courtyard toward the big Airstream trailer he and Major Linwood Morgan called home. The newly promoted Major couldn’t stand the cramped quarters of the FEMA trailer so he and Hale had ‘borrowed’ the base commander’s Ford F-150 and promptly liberated a new Airstream trailer from an abandoned dealership a few hours away. Colonel Cruz never even knew his truck had been missing. The next day on his way to the chow hall, the Colonel just shook his head in envy and amusement at the shiny new addition to the rows of old FEMA shacks. Morgan and Hale found themselves on some real shit missions for the next month. Cruz was not one prone to easily forgive.
“Hey Morgan,” Hale pulled open the front door and stepped inside the air-conditioned trailer. He dropped his rifle and pack onto a small couch. “I just got called into El Capitan’s office.”
“Yeah?” Morgan was sitting at the small kitchen table playing solitaire with a well-used deck of cards. Upon seeing Hale enter the trailer, the wiry, sandy haired officer tossed his cards down and glanced up at the big Sergeant. “El Capitan tell you to police up your brass?”
“Yep.” Hale pulled off his sweaty baseball cap and threw it onto his pile of gear. The sergeant sat down heavily in a chair across from Morgan and let out a breath, dropping his sunglasses on the table. “He had his panties all in a bunch. Like anyone’s gonna stop in the middle of a firefight and collect up their brass.”
“Did he order you to do that?”
“More or less.”
“Well then, fuck, police up your damn brass.” Morgan reached down into a big ice chest by his booted feet and pulled open the lid. He grabbed up an icy bottle of beer and set it down in front of the sergeant. “That clear?”
“Sure Major.” Hale said eyeing the cold, sweating bottle. “Police my brass.”
“That shit don’t grow on trees anymore.” He took a swig from his own bottle. Morgan was sinewy and built like a triathlete. “That sounds like an official reprimand?” The sergeant gave him a shit eating grin then nodded. “Good, now disregard that bullshit and drink your beer. Tell me about those civilians you rescued.”
“Jumping up to officer suits you Morgan. I mean Major.” He twisted off the top of the bottle and took a big swallow. Nodding in satisfaction he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled. “I needed that.”
“It’s always beer o’clock sergeant Hale. You could have snagged a promotion for yourself when we hooked up with this company. Hell, someone with your experience, you could be my boss.” Morgan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“I told you a long time ago I wasn’t a lifer.” He rolled the cold bottle around in his hands.
“As long as I can do some good here, I’ll stick around. Doing the kinda shit we did today, now that keeps me going.” Hale said quietly, his thoughts somewhere else.
“Hale, quit dicking around and tell me about this mission. Had to be a real butt pucker. I saw Doc a few minutes ago, when he came in looking for a beer. The whole time he was taking your name in vain.”
“Ha,” the Sergeant chuckled mirthlessly, “it was a close one. Doc weren’t wrong for being pissed off.”
“Doc hasn’t been right since Mexico.”
“Can’t blame him.” Hale glanced down at the trailer floor. “That’s when this whole damn world went pear shaped.”
“Hale…” Morgan was going to offer him some kind of lame sympathetic platitude when the Sergeant cut him off by waving the beer bottle in front of him.
“Do you want to he
ar about this damn rescue or not?”
“Yeah,” Morgan started to pick up the playing cards that were splayed about on the table before him. “Nothing good on cable these days so lay it on me.”
“That one stations not playing reruns of Sanford and Son anymore?”
“They’re not playing shit.” Morgan slid the TV remote across the table toward Hale.
“They stopped broadcasting yesterday afternoon. Hell, were not even getting a feed from the Armed Forces network.”
“What the hell?” The sergeant took a quick swig of his drink.
“This deader problem is really becoming inconvenient.” Morgan sat back in his chair and shuffled the small deck. “Why the hell do you think I’ve been playing Solitaire all day?”
“Because you don’t have any friends.”
“Funny and fuck you.” Morgan set the deck on the table and grabbed an old magazine off the table. “I’m so fucking bored I’m reading back issues of People Magazine. Do you know that there is a guy in Australia that can paint family portraits with his cock? Best I could probably do is something that looked like a Pollock.” Morgan sighed and tossed the magazine into the garbage. “Now, you gonna tell me this story or what?”
“Alright.” Hale nodded and took another swig from his beer. “The guy really used his dick to paint?”
“Yeah, though the pictures made it look like he could've used a bigger brush, now tell me the damn story.”
CHAPTER 9: TRUST ME, I’M A PROFESSIONAL
Underground Compound
The Muzak version of Miley Cyrus’ ‘Wrecking Ball’ echoed throughout the sterile underground chamber drowning out the high-pitched whine of the bone saw. A man dressed in surgical scrubs and a mask stood over a stainless-steel table that contained the motionless form of a large, white male. As he hummed to the Muzak, the bone saw operator deftly sliced the man’s arm off at the elbow. In one quick move, he dropped the saw back onto a surgical cart and grabbed the man’s arm with his left hand. The surgeon laid the limb across the patient’s chest and swiftly removed an emergency tourniquet and easily applied it to the stump of the man’s bleeding arm. Once he had efficiently stopped the flow of blood, the surgeon pulled down his mask and began humming loudly to himself. He hefted up the thickly muscled lower arm and bounced it up and down in his gloved hands. Blood, bone chips and small pieces of flesh splattered across the man’s bare chest.
“Not bad my friend.” He said as he studied the tattooed limb. The man on the table was dosed with a custom mix Zemuron and some other drugs that paralyzed the muscles but not the nerve receptors. The big man on the table couldn’t move but he could feel every bit of pain the bone saw had inflicted on him.
“Now why did you go and ruin this perfect arm with vacuous tattoos?” He smiled at the man, whose eyes were wild with fear and pain. Tears dribbled down the sides of his face and he tried in vain to scream.
“Of course, it’s a thing with you athletes.” Ian Black smirked as he dropped the limb into a bin next to the table. “I bet when you came over from Ukraine to play basketball you never thought such a thing would happen.” He patted the former Chicago Bulls forward, Egor Zbigovic, on the stomach. “The dead walk, what a strange and marvelous event. Don’t worry though. You are safe here underground. Those things won’t be able to get you down here.” Black turned back to the surgical tray and started to look for a specific tool. “You and I have hours of fun ahead of us.” Black found just the right scalpel and turned back to face the former NBA star. The big Ukrainian’s eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.
“Calm down Egor.” Black waved the scalpel in front of him. “Trust me, I’m a professional.” The satellite phone in his pants pocket suddenly rang. Black frowned and returned the scalpel back to the tray. As he quickly removed his rubber gloves he tossed them in a garbage receptacle and raised a finger at the man strapped to the carving table.
“I have to take this.” Black said reaching into his pants pocket and removing the small Sat phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, it’s me. We have a problem.” The man with the thick German accent said on the end of the phone.
“Problem?” Black turned and held a finger up to the obviously distressed Egor. “What is it Baasch?”
“The package is already gone. It’s caught a ride on a flight. A green flight.”
“Do you have a location?” Black asked running a hand through his expensive haircut.
“Yes.”
“Then get there and retrieve the package before it’s surrounded by green.” Black cursed under his breath at the sudden turn of events.
“I need more men and transport.” Baasch said evenly.
“Authorized. Anything you need just get that package.” Black needed the vaccine to the zombie virus. The vaccine was the key to the unlimited wealth and power Black desired.
“Any other problems I should know about?”
“Uh, yes…” Baasch cleared his throat and Black could feel a knot growing in his well cultured stomach. “We captured the team here at the target but one of them triggered a…”
“Triggered a what Baasch?” Black impatiently growled into the phone. “Triggered a what?!”
“Some kind of explosive device. The team and two of my men were terminated.”
“Baasch!” Black slammed his fist on the tray causing several of the instruments to jump up with a clatter. Egor’s eyes grew wider at the outburst. “Get me the damn package! I don’t care how much it costs in equipment, money or bodies. Understand?”
“Yes…yes sir.”
“You fail to get the package there will be problems Baasch. That team was our fail safe, now we don’t even have that.”
“I will handle this sir.”
“You better. Wait. I want you back here with me. Put what’s his name, Diego in charge. I need you here!” Black clicked off the Sat phone and shoved it back into his pants pocket. Angry, he glanced over at Egor, who appeared to be whimpering under the gag. “I know how you feel Egor. I feel your pain my friend.” He pulled on a new set of gloves and once more grabbed up the scalpel. “Don’t worry, I won’t take out my anger on you.” He pulled his surgical mask back up and started to run the scalpel across the Ukrainians chest. “This, this is a stress-free zone.”
CHAPTER 10: SAUSAGE CONNOISSEUR
Camp FedEx Chow Hall
0800 AM
“I don’t know why the hell you guys continue to volunteer for Sergeant Hale’s team?” Lieutenant Uribe asked as he dropped the Zylon food tray onto the long folding table in the makeshift chow hall. “It’s like he’s trying to save a world that can’t be saved.”
“He is.” Duley sat down next to the young officer. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”
“There is, if he is endangering the rest of the team and the interest of the company.” Uribe said glancing around the chow hall that was starting to fill up with contractors. Two prefabricated buildings had been shoved together to make an eating space that would house sixty contractors at a time.
“Endangering the rest of the team?” Cross shook her head as she took a sip from a lukewarm water bottle. The soldiers tight pony tail swayed back and forth as she spoke. Doc Kegy and Speedy sat next to her, busily digging into the bland chow on their trays. “When you have the dead running around eating the living, ‘endangering’ becomes a pretty ambiguous word.”
“You know what I mean. Look at today. We could have been in some real deep shit.”
“Deep shit with the company?” Cross smirked at the Lieutenant. “You didn’t have to give the orders L-Tee. You could have given the word to keep flying but you didn’t, you know why? Because it was the right thing to do.”
“Doc,” Uribe shook his head. “Back me up on this. Hale almost got you killed.”
“Yeah?” The medic shoveled a forkful of powdered eggs into his mouth, quickly washing it down with one of Morgan's pilfered beers. “And that big bastard has saved my life more than once.”
<
br /> “You were just complaining about the mission today.”
“That’s my thing loo-tenant.” Doc smiled as he chewed his lukewarm breakfast, wishing he had a smoke. “That’s what I do. I bitch. Keeps me from choking people out. See I have a weird love hate relationship with all this shit.”
“Without Doc’s bitchin’ we wouldn’t know how good we have it.” Duley said as he ripped a piece of stale toast and dipped it into his eggs. Doc Kegy, still chewing, reached over and gave the black soldier a fist bump.
“Speedy?” Uribe glanced over at the wiry Hispanic soldier.
“Don’t drag me into this, sir.” Speedy raised his hands. “I’m just the new guy.” Now, clearly annoyed, the Lieutenant glanced over at the Company’s other new recruits, Specialist David Fin, Specialist Mark Berry and Specialist Qumarious ‘Banjo’ Onabanjo, looking for some reassurance. The three green contractors just stared down at their food trays not wanting to get involved.
Cross angrily folded her sinewy arms. “What you are worried about is how Sergeant Hale makes you look to the company, wasting ammo and fuel.”
“Well…” Uribe started to sputter.
“I wouldn't say rescuing a bunch of little girls and their mother is wasting ammo and fuel.” The red headed sergeant smirked. “Sure, bullets and gas are in short supply but so are the living. The more breathers we have on our side the better off we are, don’t ya think?”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Looky here loo-tenant.” Doc smiled as he rubbed his tattooed forearm with his right hand. “Hale runs one of the best recovery teams out here. We haven’t lost a team member in six months.” He patted the officer on the back. “And now you are so very lucky to be part of it.”