by Allen Gamboa
"I need …" the man threw his glass at the senator, striking him in the stomach and splashing his already wet suit with alcohol "… you to show me some fucking respect," the man said, barely raising his voice.
"Why?" The senator looked shocked and hurt as he tried to wipe the alcohol off with his hands. "I—"
"Enough." The man dismissed his whine with a wave. "I need you to focus and listen to what I'm saying."
"I—"
The man lifted up another glass from the bar, and the senator stopped and just stared. It almost looked like the senator was going to break down. The man filled up his glass and took another long drink. "Good. Drink?"
"No … no thank you, Mister Black," the senator said softly.
"Good." Another long drink. "Let us get down to business now, shall we?" The senator nodded obediently. "Now, tell me about Eller Island."
"We were running the test with an Australian drug company. They say they have a vaccine that works one hundred percent against the Shambler strain. Much better than the vaccine we have now," the senator said proudly.
"So what is the problem?"
"Well …" the senator swallowed.
"This is your problem, isn't it, Senator?"
"Well, Matol Laboratories assured us there wouldn't be a problem."
"Well," the man in black swirled the ice in his glass, "apparently, they were wrong."
"Yes, yes," the senator said too eagerly. "The virus got loose in testing, and now we have a prob— a situation on the island."
"Tell me this situation."
"Matol needed the Shambler virus to test their vaccine, so we gave them several vials of it. One of the researchers was infected during the testing and had some kind of reaction to the vaccine. Now, we have an undead outbreak on Eller Island."
"This vaccine works a hundred percent, I see," the man said sarcastically.
"It works, or is supposed to work, better than the auto-injectors. One shot, and it kills the virus for good. Never another chance of infection."
"Well, that would be a helluva cash cow, wouldn't it?" He smiled, exposing teeth that reminded the senator of a shark. "Key is that it works."
"They are working on it. The tester just had an unexpected reaction to it. Something they are trying to iron out."
"Hmm." Another drink. "How many infected on this island?"
"Up to three thousand," the senator said sheepishly.
"Not good. Not good." The man looked out the limo’s window. After a few seconds of tense quiet, he slammed his glass down. The senator jumped in his seat. "Are you terminally stupid, Senator? Who okayed using the virus?"
"Well." He cleared his throat. "Senator Collingsworth and I did."
"You two are the most worthless bitches I have on my payroll!" He shook his head. "We had plans to weaponize that virus!"
"It's okay, Mister Black. Strategic Solutions has a team en route to retrieve the virus, vaccine, and scientist."
"Hmm."
"These guys are real good at extractions."
"Great. I want the island sanitized. Get a couple of drones from Aerotech."
"No problem," The senator said too quickly.
"Uh huh." The man could feel a migraine coming on. "You fuck this up, and you and Kubicek are dead!" The senator’s eyes grew wide in fear. "I mean it. Dead. Bullet through the eye. No coming back." Then the man thought for a moment and smiled darkly. "No, you will come back. Chained up in my basement." He leaned forward. "Get it? Chained up. And I will pay someone to rape you every day!"
"Y-yes." The senator turned pale and was starting to bail out of the door before the limo had come to a complete stop. "I get it!"
"Good!" the man in black growled as the door banged shut. Black chuckled to himself. Things were starting to play out just as he had planned. He leaned back in his seat and imagined how two undead senators would look chained up in the basement of his summer house. Smiling, the man poured himself another drink and moved on to other dark thoughts.
CHAPTER 4: AIRBORNE- ELLER ISLAND OR BUST
"So what is this fuckin' island anyway?" Crossley asked Jackson as he tapped the fuel gauge cover with his finger. The gauge jumped from empty to half-full. Crossley smiled. Nothing but the best.
"Eller Island used to be a small air base during World War Two." Jackson shrugged. "That's all I know, Nate."
"Hope it's got a decent landing strip," Crossley said, staring out the cockpit window. "Don't feel like springing for new landing gear."
"Just charge the commandos for it."
"Yeah," Crossley said thoughtfully. "Maybe. That female officer looks like she'd rather shoot us than pay us."
"That worries me, boss."
"Ah." Nate steadied the plane's yoke. "I don't think that Hale fella would do that."
"Maybe don't push him for more." Jackson finger-flicked the altimeter gauge. "I think we may have used up all their goodwill."
"Yeah.," Crossley nodded.
"That female officer sure is hot though."
"Yeah, Cal, she's just your type."
"See? You see it too!" He slapped him on the back. "Now, let's find this little island."
"I guess we look for the one with the deader vibe." Crossley smiled.
"See," Jackson chuckled, "you do have a sense of humor in there."
CHAPTER 5: MARCHING ORDERS
"Okay." Hale knelt down on the floor of the huge cargo bay and unrolled a map of Eller Island. The rest of the team gathered around him as the plane rocked and shook. Raising his voice, the major tried to compete with the other noises from the aircraft. "Eller is a small airstrip built in '41. It has two landing strips and a small tower. There should be an administrative and a terminal building along with four or five hangars." He pointed to a section marked in red on the map.
"Who is in charge of the airfield now?" Sergeant Wu asked.
"The French." Hale looked up at the former Army Ranger. "The local language is French."
"Great. All I speak is Farsi." Sergeant Terrance "Gator" Knox, a former Marine, spat some chew onto the alloy deck.
"That's okay because Captain Brooks and Lieutenant Wickham are fluent."
"Oui?" Clarke gave Brooks a suggestive wink.
"Parlez vous shut the fuck up!" the redheaded officer said angrily, staring down the giant Australian.
"Sorry, Cap'n." He raised his hands in surrender. "Sorry."
"You're fucked, mate." Sergeant Zoe West, one of Clarkes' Australian team members, chuckled. Clarke rolled his eyes and slunk back to the rear of the group.
"Exactly four miles from the airport is the Matol Research Center." Hale pointed to another marked location on the map. "Road 101 goes right from the airfield and passes by it. Almost a straight shot."
"Nice," Sergeant Roberto "Poncho" Sanchez, another former ranger, nodded.
"Pretty easy. We drive right up to the door and grab our targets then drive back to the bird and head home." The major nodded. "There should be thirty staff inside. We load up those we can in our vehicles and the rest in whatever transport they have. "
"What do we do with the infected?" Wu asked.
"Terminate," Brooks said. "We can't have this virus leaving the island. Locals and techs—it doesn’t matter. Infected? We put them down."
"Great," West said quietly.
"The research data, virus, and vaccine are the most important things," Hale continued. "Home office seems to think this vaccine is the real deal, better than what we have now. Remember what life was like ten years ago." The major scanned all their faces. "We almost lost everything. Hell, some of us did. Anyway, the vaccine is important. This should be a cake walk. Any questions?"
"Yeah, Major, this mission got a name?" Washington asked
"It does, Sergeant." Hale frowned. “Operation Zulu.”
"Not givin’ anythin’ away with that one," Zoe West said sarcastically.
"What kinda weapons we ‘ave?" Newman, the platoon sergeant, asked.
"Mini-14
s, a few sniper rifles, some nines, forty-fives, and a few rocket launchers."
"Company must’a got a deal on the minis," Newman smirked.
"Hell, they got a deal on us!" Clarke chuckled.
"Major." Lieutenant Wickham, a former Australian SAS operator, stepped forward. "Is there a police force or security team there?"
"Yes, Lieutenant. Matol has ten private contractors working for them. GlobaTech guys I believe."
"Not as good as us," Gator Knox smirked.
"Obviously," Sanchez agreed.
"There is a small police force. I think they have a handful of cops," Hale added.
"What about the civilian population?" Wickham asked.
"Around thirty-five hundred." Hale rolled the map up and shoved it into a cardboard tube. "Reports have most of them infected. Don't hesitate for a headshot. I just received word on the SAT phone that once we are airborne, the island’s going to be sanitized."
"Sanitized," former Navy Seal Bob "Mac" McDonald crossed his huge tattooed arms. "Nuke? We better be far enough out. I ain't gettin' irradiated for what they're paying us."
"Don't worry, Mac." Wu patted him on the back. "That's the least of your problems."
"We have plenty of firepower and ammo, so that shouldn't be an issue. Like I said, this should be a cakewalk."
"Heard that before," Sergeant Anthony "President" Jefferson said, popping a gum bubble.
Hale ignored the comment and continued. "All our weapons are suppressed, so we won't be drawing more of those deaders every time we fire. Again, shots to the head. Most of you have dealt with this before."
"Too much!" Gator spit out some chew.
"Aye, mate!" Sergeant Alby Newman, another Australian, yelled. "Watch me boots!"
"Sorry, Governor," Gator mocked. "Didn't know your boots were so dainty."
"Knox!" Hale growled. "Stow that shit! Grab a fucking cup like a civilized person and spit your shit into it, or I'll have you shining Newman's boots and cleaning the deck!"
"Ah, no problem, Major." Knox turned and started to look for a cup.
"Listen up, people. When we land, Captain Brooks’ team will clear the hangars, and Lieutenant Wickham’s team will check the buildings then assist, if needs be, with clearing the rest of the hangars once they are done." Heads bobbed in agreement. "Once we finish here, we load up and head out to the research center." He looked at his dive watch. "We have approximately thirty minutes before we touch down, so gear up, people. Elbows and assholes!"
"In this case," Brooks smiled, "it's assholes and assholes!"
CHAPTER 6: DOESN'T LOOK SO BAD
"There it is," Jackson pointed to a dot in the horizon.
"Doesn't look so bad." Crossley watched the island slowly growing in the sea of green. "Think I should try their tower?"
Jackson shrugged. "Can't hurt."
"Right." The pilot grabbed the radio mic and clicked it on. "Eller Island Control, this is Flight 4607 requesting landing instructions." Static. Crossley repeated himself. Nothing but static again.
"Fantastic," Jackson said.
"Well, can't say we didn't expect that." Crossley hung up the radio mic. "Ready for some excitement?"
"You know me, Nate." Jackson wiped some sweat from his forehead on his orange Hawaiian shirt.
"Yes I do." Crossley grinned. "So no."
"Uh huh." Jackson smiled weakly. "Doesn't look like we have to worry about any other air traffic though."
"That's a plus." He clicked on his headset, which sent his voice into the cargo bay. "Attention all passengers. This is your captain speaking. Please fasten your seatbelts, for we are about to land. Prayers are always welcome, and thank you for flying Crossley airways." The pilot clicked off his mic. Eller Island was quickly approaching. Nate could make out the small airfield below. Two C-130 cargo planes were parked on one of the small runways while the remains of a charred Chinook helicopter and a small Cessna lay near one of the hangars. "Got some aircraft below."
"See 'em. Does not look good."
"No, it doesn’t. Look at the tower."
"Crap."
The roof of the tower appeared to have been blown off. Smoke was still rising from the remains. About a dozen bodies were strewn about the airfield below along with a half-dozen parked and overturned vehicles.
"Hey, General," Crossley spoke into his headset, "looks like there was some kind of firefight down there. No sign of any deaders either."
"Thanks," Hale said into his headset mic. Hale hoped it was just the outcome of the outbreak and not something else. He looked back at Sergeant Wu, who was seated behind him. "Sergeant."
"Major?" Wu looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"When we land, grab a sniper rifle and head up through the roof hatch. I need an overview of the airfield."
"Yes, sir."
"Problem?" Brooks asked.
"The pilots report the remains of a firefight at the airport. No deaders though."
"Sounds like there was a run on the planes." She shrugged.
"Yeah, I hope that's all it is." He went and sat back down. They would be landing soon. He hated landings. Hale had survived two crash landings and relived them every time he flew. The first crash, he'd escaped with his life and third-degree burns on his back and legs. The second one was in a Blackhawk during the outbreak. Hale walked away from that one. "I hate landings," he mumbled to himself.
"It's alright, Major." Brooks squeezed his forearm. "We've got the best money can buy up front."
"That's comforting, Captain. Thanks."
"Anytime, sir."
CHAPTER 7: ON THE GROUND
As Crossley and Jackson shut down the plane's engines, Sergeant Wu climbed up a service ladder in the cockpit. Wu opened a roof hatch and climbed out carrying a wool cargo pad and an M-40 sniper rifle. Hale and the other soldiers grabbed their weapons and gear and headed towards the plane's aft ramp. Lieutenant Wickham grabbed up the ramp controller as the others formed up behind him.
"Major," Wu's voice came across the officer's headset. "Looks all clear. No movement. Appears to be thirteen bodies on the tarmac. No living or deaders."
"Good job, Sergeant. Stay posted."
"No problem, Major." He was glad he had the forethought to bring the thick cargo pad to lie on. The hot, tropical sun was already starting to bake his ass.
"Crossley," Hale spoke into his mic, "we are going to unass the plane. As soon as we are out, close up the aft. Sergeant Wu will remain topside providing cover."
"Poor bastard. We'll button up tight, General. You paid for a round-trip ticket, so don't worry your pretty lil' head about your ride home."
Hale winced at Crossley's sarcasm. "Good, Crossley, 'cause I'm not a big fan of having to shoot civilians." The major took a measure of his assembled troops then hit Wickham on the shoulder. "Lieutenant, pop the ramp!"
"Major." Wickham nodded and punched a button on the controller. The huge aft ramp slowly opened. The heat from outside quickly rolled in. "Go! Go!" the lieutenant shouted. Knox and West were the first ones down the ramp. West motioned clear, and the rest followed them out.
"Commandos are out!" Jackson shouted from where he was standing in the open doorway of the cabin. "Close the door, Nate!"
"Gotcha, Cal," Crossley said, operating the remote ramp controller.
"Rear closed." Jackson shut the cabin door and sat down next to the pilot. "Snug as a fuckin' bug."
"What about the commando on top? Must be a hundred out there."
"He'll let us know when he wants back in." Crossley yawned. "Get some shut eye, Cal. Any deaders out there won't be able to get to us."
"I know," Jackson said uneasily. "Deaders still make me uneasy, Nate."
"Your momma makes you uneasy." The pilot lifted up his aviators and gave him a wink. "If you're not going to take a snooze, at least let me. Wake me up when the commandos need their ride back."
"Sure, Nate." Jackson pulled a dog-eared paperback out of a side pocket on his cargo pants.
Crossley looked at him sideways and grinned. "Not done with that yet?"
"Eat, Pray, Love. Best book I've read in years," he said, waving the book in his face.
"Any pictures?" Crossley yawned. "Never mind. Just wake me up when General Forearms and his buddies get back."
"You really should read this, Nate. The chick that wrote it really knows how to live."
"Uh huh," Crossley mumbled as he drifted off into one of his trademark naps.
CHAPTER 8: BUTTERFLY TATTOOS
Captain Brooks guided her team through the remains of the airfield's terminal building. Nothing but debris and dead bodies greeted them. Some of the corpses were starting to decay while others were freshly dead. All had bullet wounds. Most were headshots. They quickly cleared the building without incident.
"Looks like the Matol contractors were able to clear out the airstrip," Captain Brooks said.
Hale nodded and spoke into his headset. "How's it look, Wickham?"
"Clear," the Australian lieutenant’s voice came over his headset. "A few bodies. All headshot. Nuthin' else, Major."
"Good. Meet us back at the plane, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir."
"Any luck contacting the lab?" Hale turned to a tall, rangy soldier standing behind him.
"Still nothing, sir," Sergeant Tim Diamond, Hale's radioman said then hung the handset up on his backpack radio.
"Transmitter probably blown along with the cell towers," Hale told him.
"I'll keep trying, sir."
"Nevermind, Sergeant. You'd just be wasting your time. Thanks anyway." Hale glanced down at his big dive watch then turned to Brooks and the five other soldiers gathered around her. "Something doesn't feel right about this."
"Wickham?" Brooks asked.
"They found the same as us. Nothing outstanding but a lot of dead. Mostly headshots. No contractor bodies."
"Lucky?" Mac asked.
"No," Hale shook his head. His gut ached.