Dos

by Allen Gamboa

  “Doctor?” Nurse Tomas leaned inside the doorway.

  “The phone isn’t working.” He held the receiver in his hand.

  “Si, they have been out all day.” She shrugged. “Use your cell phone.”

  “Dammit, I left it in the car. Rosa, go ahead and check on Señor Garcia. I’ll be right back.”

  “Si.”

  “Gracias,” Doctor Cuevas said as he pushed past the younger nurse.

  As he went out the back door of the clinic toward the parking lot, a nasty rotting smell immediately greeted him. Cuevas wrinkled his nose up at the horrible odor thinking it was maybe a dead dog or some other animal. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out an almost empty pack of Camel cigarettes. He quickly lit one up and strode over to his dusty Geo Metro.

  The doctor stopped beside his well-used vehicle and took a few more drags from his cigarette, trying to calm his rapidly fraying nerves. Things around the clinic had been crazy for the past two days; drug overdoses… people biting each other. Cuevas took another drag and dropped the cigarette butt onto the gravel, crushing it under his tennis shoe. He unlocked his car door and was about to climb inside when a scream from inside the clinic made him jump back, letting go of the car door handle in the process.

  “Dios Mio!” The doctor looked back in the direction he’d just come from; more screams and crashing noises were coming from inside. Cuevas first reaction was to jump into his crappy little car and drive until he was safe in Mexico City; instead, the good doctor reluctantly hurried back to the clinic. Cuevas threw open the rear exit door and peeked inside. Screams and cries for help echoed throughout the small building. He could see patients and medical staff attacking each other—biting, tearing, and chewing. Blood was splashed everywhere. Cuevas felt his bowels give way as he backed out of the clinic and sprinted for his car. The doctor fumbled with his keys but was finally able to get his vehicle started. Crying maniacally, Cuevas whipped the car out of the gravel parking lot and sped off into the late afternoon sunlight.

  LET ME ADJUST YOUR STRAPS

  CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  Alexi Volkov stared at the woman that lay on the steel exam table violently trying to free herself from the thick leather straps that held her down. The once beautiful Mexican woman thrashed her head back and forth, viciously snapping her teeth together. Volkov’s chief assistant, Fisher, stood next to him observing the dead woman struggle violently against her bonds. After a few minutes of watching, Lorca looked over at the taller scientist.

  “This is truly amazing, Doctor Volkov.”

  “Is it, Fisher?” The doctor ran a hand through his messy hair, his eyes never leaving the woman.

  “Why of course, you’ve found the key to eternal life,” the assistant said with awe in his voice. “Man has tried forever to bring back the dead. Doctor, you’ve succeeded. This is huge. You’re going to be world famous.”

  “Hmm.” Volkov frowned. “As you can plainly see, Fisher, This is far from perfected. All I’ve done is create hungry dead that ultimately create more hungry dead. Last time I checked, there wasn’t a big demand for that. Hell, I can’t even figure out why some move faster than others or why some turn more quickly. I’ve been working on it but I can’t put it together.”

  The two men’s voices were clearly starting to agitate the zombie on the table. Her actions were becoming more violent and desperate.

  “This is still amazing, Doctor. It’s a start of something big. What does Mister Black think?”

  “Black does not care so much about what the side effects are or their ramifications. The only reason I’m doing research is to find a vaccine if we need one. If this gets out of control, it’s going to be very hard to enjoy our new found wealth, right, Fisher?”

  “Right, Doctor, but this is a big opportunity. All kinds of research can come from this,” Fisher said above the undead woman’s moans and snarls.

  “Yes, yes,” Volkov said condescendingly as he patted him on the shoulder. “Right now we need to finish up with the Krokodil; that’s our bread and butter. Come help me secure her head to the table.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Fisher’s disappointment was heavy in his voice. Both men walked over to the table where the woman was secured. Volkov held a long thick leather strap in his right hand. “Grab her head on the sides. I’ll strap her down.”

  “Okay,” Fisher said nervously.

  The undead woman snarled at the men; black liquid flowed from her mouth as her teeth angrily crashed together. After a few tries, Fisher was able to grip the sides of her head and hold it tightly against the steel table. Volkov quickly pulled the strap over her snapping jaws and firmly secured it to a couple of hooks on the sides of the table.

  “Easy peasy,” Volkov said, wiping his sweaty hands on his lab coat. “You can go now, Fisher. I have some more tests to run. Can you check on the batch of Krokodil for the Netherlands? It should be about ready to go.” He pulled off his lab coat and hung it on a rack. “If you need me, you can just give me a call. I shouldn’t think I’ll need your help anymore tonight. Go have a drink and relax.” Volkov smiled. “You earned it.”

  “You sure you don’t need any help, Doctor?”

  “No.” Volkov glanced quickly at the woman on the table. “You can go.” Fisher just nodded and hurried out of the room. The Russian made sure his assistant was gone then locked the door. Grinning broadly and with renewed vigor, he quickly stepped within arm’s reach of the reanimated woman.

  “Hello, my dear, I never thought he’d leave us alone.”

  The zombie struggled harder in her bonds. Volkov could see the strap that covered her mouth vibrating violently as she tried to furiously chew her way free. The woman’s eyes rolled wildly from side to side as the Russian scientist leaned in closer. Volkov slowly ran a hand through her long, thick, black hair. “My dear, dear sweet girl, it’s okay. Shhh…” He put a finger against the mouth strap, and could feel her mouth moving behind it. “I brought you a gift. You want to see it?” The woman's moans were muffled beneath the leather strap. “Of course you do.” Volkov stood up straight and walked over to a large roll away tool chest. He pulled open a drawer and withdrew two brightly wrapped packages. Closing the drawers, he returned to the woman.

  “You don’t have to thank me, Esmerelda—at least, not yet.” He smiled and held out the biggest package. The woman continued to tirelessly move against her straps. Volkov dropped the smaller package on her stomach. The zombie didn't even notice it; her sole focus was on the doctor beside her.

  “Here… I’ll open it; you seem to be tied up at the moment.” Volkov giggled as he cheerfully proceeded to tear the package open. The doctor tossed the wrapping paper on the floor and held a pretty black dress in his hands. “You like? It’s Vera Wang. I bet you’ll look beautiful in it.” Volkov laid the dress across the top of the dead woman who still tried to get out her straps. “I think it will fit you quite nicely, Esmeralda. Oh and I have one more present for you, my dear.” He grabbed the package off her stomach and tore it open. “Not as exciting,” he said, eagerly holding a small black case in his hands. “It’s makeup. Not that you need it, my dear, you’re beautiful as you are. I just thought you might like it. I even went on Google to find it. The makeup, it’s MAC. Supposed to be the best.” He shrugged. “Let me adjust your straps, my dear, and we’ll try on your new gifts.” He reached into the back pocket of his pants and pulled out a pair of pliers. “First, we must take care of those pesky teeth.”

  PIÑATA FOR MAMA

  CAMACHO'S COMPOUND

  “No, Mama,” Camacho said into his cell phone. “Everything will be fine. The party is all set.” He looked over his desk at Salazar, who sat sprawled across one of the overstuffed couches. His second in command just smiled and played with the toothpick in his mouth. “Si, Mama. I also have a big surprise for you… Si.”

  He set the phone down and took a swig of Zima before turning to Salazar. “Where is Blanca?”

  “In one of t
he guest villas, I guess.” He shrugged.

  “Find her when we are done and send her straight to me.”

  “Si.”

  Camacho picked up the phone and spoke into it. “I will see you in the morning… No; we can’t have it on the yacht. I told you, the Americans are watching me like a hawk… Mama, I guarantee you will love this surprise… Si, love you too.” He set the phone back down on his desktop and shook his head. “That woman is frustrating. You close to your mama?”

  “No.” Salazar rolled the toothpick around in his mouth. “My dear mother was a whore. We do not talk.”

  “Sometimes that is not a bad thing, eh?” Camacho chuckled. Salazar just shrugged and sat up straight.

  “Does not matter; a whore is a whore.”

  “One day you will miss your mother, Salazar.” He opened the glass top humidor and pulled out a Cuban cigar. “Cigar?”

  “Gracias, El Jefe.” He stood up and took the fat cigar from Camacho’s extended hand. “Your mother is an angel.”

  “Yes, she is.” He grunted as he cut the head off the cigar with the solid silver cutter then tossed the mini guillotine to Salazar. “Everything set?”

  “Si,” Salazar snipped the tip of the Cuban then handed the blade back to his boss. “Remiro will be stopping by with a custom made piñata from San Antonio.”

  “San Antonio?” Camacho smirked as he lit up the cigar with a gold plated lighter. “He had to go to Texas to get a piñata?”

  “You wanted the best, El Jefe, the best piñata come from a shop in Austin.” He took the offered lighter. “He did get it cheap though.”

  “Well, Mama will love this party. She wanted it at sea but… well, you know we can’t do that right now. This will be just a much fun for her.”

  “Si, everything else is set. We were able to get Bando de Gigantico to play. All the food is here. Hell, I even got Dirty Sanchez to promise to take a shower.”

  “A shower?! Salazar, how did you do that? Never mind.” He waved his the cigar hand. “That is why you are my top commander. You get things done.”

  “Thank you, El Jefe.” The cartel captain smiled as he took a drag from the thick cigar. “I also have news about the Americans.”

  “Yes?” Camacho leaned back in his big chair. “They still think it was us that killed their little princess?”

  “Well, it was… at least, by accident.” Salazar sat back down on the couch.

  “Shit happens.” Camacho shrugged.

  “Si, but that was some deep shit, El Jefe.”

  “Nothing we don’t have big enough boots for.” He tapped some ashes into a small porcelain bowl that his Goddaughter had made for him years ago. “The Americans can’t touch us. The government won’t let them and if they try, it’ll be a real big mess—especially for whomever tries.”

  “This is good news.” He leaned back. “The gringos think it was the Plaza cartel behind it. We are off the hook.”

  “Plaza cartel? Why would they think that, Salazar?”

  “We were able to plant some bogus evidence on some of the Plaza cartel men we captured last week. We put the weapons our men used during the shootout on their bodies. The Yankees will think they have their men.” He leaned forward and waved his hands. “Bang, we are off the hook.”

  “Very good, Salazar.” Camacho smiled broadly. “Very good. See? I was right to choose you. Maybe I should be worried, my friend?”

  “No, no, El Jefe. I like where I’m at. You are like my older, wiser, and better looking brother.”

  “I feel the same way. You shall be well rewarded for this. That was brilliant.”

  “Thank you, El Jefe.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Two things.” Salazar tapped his cigar ashes into an empty beer bottle. “I have a friend—a gringo. We did some time at Pelican Bay together when I got popped for that parole violation.”

  “That was a long two years, Benito,” Camacho said calling Salazar by his first name—a rarity from the cartel boss.

  “It was.” He nodded, smiling. “This gringo, Leeland, he saved my ass from picking up more time after I hit that shot caller from the Plaza cartel. Remember?” Camacho nodded as he puffed on the cigar. “Well, I owe him and told him to look me up if he ever needed a place to lie low. He called me last week and I invited him to come on up.”

  “Salazar,”—Camacho set the cigar down on the lip of the bowl and leaned forward—“now is a chaotic time to have outsiders here.” The cartel leader sighed and spread his hands open before him. “Ah, Salazar… how can I deny you, eh?” He retrieved his cigar from the bowl. “I’m sure we can find a place to hide your Yankee friend for a while. Not a problem. Anything else?”

  “Señor Black.”

  “Our American partner. What is it?”

  “I know we have’ been doing big money with him, but I do not trust him. There is something going on with some of the Krokodil test subjects, and his personal demands—”

  “Let me worry about Señor Black.” Camacho said cutting him off. “Mister Black's time with us is getting very short.” He winked. “Come now. Let us get ready for Mama's birthday party.”

  “El Jefe, if I might be so bold as to ask but what is this big surprise you have for your mother?” Salazar smiled.

  “Blanca, she is pregnant. Mama has been hounding me for years for a grandbaby so I…” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It is a miracle. Never thought it possible after I had that vasectomy, but it must be Saint Malverde wishes.”

  “Si.” Alarm bells went off in Salazar's head as he jumped to his feet. “Well, congratulations, Robert.”

  “Why, thank you, Salazar. It wasn’t planned, you know how much I hate children, but it’ll make Mama happy.”

  “Si. I better find Blanca for you.”

  “Thank you, Salazar. Soon we will be in-laws and you will be an uncle. We’ll have fun, yes?”

  “Yes,” Salazar said, forcing a smile as he hurried for the door.

  GOT ANY PICTURES OF YOUR MOM?

  AIRSTRIP, CREECH AFB,

  NEVADA

  Hale quietly watched as the huge Sea Stallion helicopter disappeared over the rooftops of the hangars that lined the sparse airfield. He pulled off his helmet, dropped it onto his pack then wiped some sweat from his forehead. He slung his mini 14 then turned back to the rest of the team, who were also in various states of removing their gear. The Air Force sergeant pushed his sunglasses up onto his unruly mess of brown hair and sighed.

  “That training went smooth.” he said absently.

  “I agree,” Morgan said, dropping his pack to the ground. “No one tried to shoot me this time.”

  “That you know of,” Cross said, sitting down on her pack.

  “You okay, Hale?” The platoon sergeant noticed Hale had turned back in the chopper’s direction and was staring off into the horizon.

  “Yeah.” Hale nodded as he faced Morgan. “Those birds still make me a little nervous,” he confessed. “I’m getting better. Just going to take time until I’m hundred percent comfortable again. Call me a pussy.”

  “Nah, not unless you mean you want me to call you some pussy.” Both men chuckled and Morgan pounded him on the shoulder. “That sounded like a pretty bad crash you went through. Hell, it’ll take time. We all got our issues. Don’t fucking worry about it.”

  “Thanks, Morgan. Good training today.”

  “Yep, I think even Cross broke a sweat.”

  “Just a little.” Cross made a tiny space with her thumb and forefinger. “Kurtz is a fucking animal.”

  “I think Top ran back here carrying the captain over his shoulder,” Redwood said, walking over to the other three sergeants. ‘I didn’t see him get on the chopper.”

  “Don’t believe the hype, Redwood.” Vanelli was sitting on the ground trying to open a water bottle. “I saw him up front with the pilots.”

  “Whatever.” The big Native American waved him off. “Top is still an animal.”

 
“Five mile run and a bullshit obstacle course then a kill-house and another five mile run.” Duley slowly ambled over toward Morgan. “Feel like someone is trying to kill ol’ Duley. “

  “Soon Duley,”—Morgan pulled a water bottle out of his pack—“you’re going to have a whole bunch of Mexicans wanting to put a hole in you.”

  “And not a good hole either.” Redwood smiled.

  “What the hell is a good hole, Redwood?” Duley frowned at the giant soldier.

  “If you don’t know the difference between a good hole and a bad hole I feel sorry for your girl.” Morgan smirked. “And your mama.”

  “What the fuck?” Duley shook his head.

  “Come on, Duley.” Cross stretched her legs. “I thought ‘ladies, superglue your panties to your butt, Duley is in the house’ was your motto?”

  “Well… yeah.” He scratched his head. “But… my mama, Sarge?”

  “Your mama good looking?” Morgan asked.

  “She beautiful.”

  “Well, then why not?” The platoon sergeant took a swig from the warm water bottle as Duley just stood there staring blankly at him.

  “Hey, Duley, got any pictures of your mom?” Vanelli asked. “I’ll trade you pictures of mine.”

  “You guys are fucked up,” Duley said, skulking away.

  “They’re in color…” Vanelli said, reaching into his chest rig.

  “Hey, Vanelli,” Morgan shouted, “let me see that photo of your mama. See if I know her.”

  “That’s my mom!” Vanelli said defensively.

  “Might be your mama,”—Kurtz walked through the group of soldiers carrying his pack over his left shoulder and his rifle in his right hand—“question is, who’s your daddy, Vanelli?” The senior NCO stopped in front of Hale and Morgan. “Sergeants.”