Dos

by Allen Gamboa

  “What’s up, Nero?”

  “Take a look, Hector. Looks like someone's coming up the main road.” Nero pointed over to the dirt cloud that was growing closer to the main gate. Hector stood up in the jeep and glanced through the binoculars he had on a lanyard around his neck.

  “Three vehicles, esé… black Tahoe's.” He sat down and grabbed up a hand held radio from the floor. “Get to the front gate. It’s El Jefe’s mother.”

  A REST WON’T KILL US

  CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  “Great,” Domingo said gruffly into his radio. “Make sure she gets right in, Hector. You know how Señora Camacho can get.”

  “Si.” Hector’s voice sounded panicked over the radio.

  “Fuck,” Domingo said under his breath. He was just about to knock on the American woman's door when that stupido, Hector, hailed him on the radio. Now that El Jefe’s mama was here he would be too busy to have any ‘fun’ with the gringo women. Cursing to himself, Domingo turned from the front of the guest cottage and headed back toward the main gate to greet Camacho`s mom. Later, he thought in the dark of his mind, he’d have his fun.

  “What was that?” Baylie asked as she walked into the front room of the guest cottage. She carried an ice cold coke she’d retrieved from the cottage’s fully-stocked refrigerator.

  “That creep, Domingo. Looks like he was going to try and pay us a visit,” Tanya said, peeking out from the front window blinds. Baylie noticed she held Leeland’s .38 behind her.

  “Is he gone?”

  “Yes.” She dropped the blind and set the handgun down on a nightstand. “Maybe we should get back on the road. I don’t like the vibe here.”

  “I’m tired of driving.” Baylie sat on the edge of one of the room’s two queen beds. “I need a little break before we leave. We’ve been on the road a long time and Leeland’s still all messed up.” She took a swig of the ice cold soda. “Besides, Tanya, nobody is going to screw with us as long as you have that gun.”

  “I don’t like it here, Baylie.” She sat heavily on her bed, suddenly exhausted. Every bit of the events of the past few days all seemed to weigh in on her at once. ”Maybe a rest won’t kill us.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” Baylie finished the coke, set the can on a nightstand, and lay back on her own bed. “Just a little rest.”

  “Okay,” Tanya said, grabbing the .38 off the nightstand and shoving it under her pillow. “We get some rest then figure what to do later.”

  “Cool, what about Leeland?” she asked, crawling underneath the expensive sheets.

  “We find his dumbass and bring him with us,” Tanya said groggily. “Just an hour or two, okay, Baylie?”

  Tanya’s question was met with the other woman’s gentle snoring. “Well, hell. Leeland, you shit-head, what have you got us into now?” she said, closing her eyes and making a promise to God that if they made it out of this snake pit unharmed, she’d do something better with her life.

  GLORIA CAMACHO

  CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  “Mama!” Camacho cheered joyously as he hurried over to where a blonde-haired woman was starting to climb out of the dusty black SUV. One of his mother’s bodyguards helped her out of the vehicle and onto the cobblestone drive of the festive courtyard. The five-foot-tall cartel mother fussed with her smart business suit as her son scurried over to hug the most important woman in his life. Salazar, Domingo, and several more of Camacho’s men stood a ways back watching their bosses embarrassing and uncomfortable display of affection. The cartel members watched in utter horror at the train wreck of sad human interaction as Gloria Camacho stiffened in her son’s arms while he tried to give her a needy embrace. Both Camacho’s attempted some kind of awkward hug that eventually resembled two uncoordinated white guys trying to do a complicated handshake and failing. After a few odd seconds, Gloria pushed her son back and again adjusted her suit.

  “Mama,” Camacho said, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “It is so very good to see you.”

  “Compose yourself, Robert, your men are watching,” Gloria said sternly as she glanced around the huge courtyard, which was now brightly decorated. “Looks like someone is having a party.”

  “You like, Mama?” Camacho dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. “We have been working hard to get it all ready for you.”

  “It is nice,” she said flatly as the mariachi band played on a small stage. “You told me you were going to get Bando de Gigantico.”

  “Yes, Mama. I hired them, but they haven’t shown up yet,” he said, nervously tucking the handkerchief back in his jacket pocket.

  “Well then find them. I want dancing and we can’t have dancing without Esteban Morales’s heavenly singing!” Gloria said firmly. “This is my party, is it not?”

  “Yes, yes.” His smile quickly dissipating and he anxiously turned to Salazar and snapped his fingers.

  “El Jefe?” the cartel Captain asked as he stepped forward.

  “Send someone to find Bando de Gigantico’s whereabouts… now!”

  “Yes.” Salazar bowed slightly in Gloria Camacho’s direction. “You look lovely Señora Camacho.”

  “Why, thank you, Señor Salazar.” She smiled brightly. “You are still so very handsome.”

  “Such compliments from a beautiful woman like you, I do not deserve.” He saw Camacho glaring angrily at him out of the corner of his eye. “I must go, Señora. Please save me a dance.”

  “I will, Salazar. A slow one,” she said in an alluring tone.

  “Now, now, Mama.” Camacho gently took his mother’s arm and guided her toward the main house. ‘I have many fun things planned for you and a special surprise.”

  “More special than Bando de Gigantico?”

  “Now, Mama, Salazar will have that problem corrected soon enough. Come with me to the house, I have something I think you’ll love.”

  “Fine, miho, but first I need to freshen up. It was a long drive.” She glanced around the busy courtyard. “Why couldn’t we just have the party on your boat?”

  “Mama,” Camacho said softly. “You know the Americans are just waiting for me to do that. You will have a good time here, no?” He stopped in front of the huge oak doors that led into his enormous hacienda. “Your room is all ready for you.”

  “Robert, I need a favor.”

  “Whatever you need, Mama.” Camacho pulled one of the heavy doors open and politely motioned his mother into the house. Gloria refused to enter the doorway as the crisp air conditioning taunted them from inside.

  “I need you to take care of my driver, Manolito.”

  “Take care?” Camacho frowned as he tried to usher his mother inside. Gloria just stood still, unwilling to move until her son gave in to her demand. “Why?’

  “He’s stupido. I asked him to stop in Passado so we could get some of Olivia Hernandez tamales and he said we were running late. He went around the town because he said it was faster. Ass. You did invite Olivia?”

  “Yes.” Camacho sighed. He hadn’t invited anyone from that stinking town; now he would have to send someone down there to find this woman. “I did,” he lied.

  “Very good, miho. Now this business with Manolito. He is also a shitty driver. If I fire him, his mother will be upset with me. We watch our shows together. The Heart of the Wicked, do you know that one?” Camacho just shrugged. “Well, it has that Rodrigo Salcedo in it. Miho, if I was twenty years younger that man would be inside me all the time.”

  “Mama!” Camacho said, clearly embarrassed by his mother’s lurid comments.

  “Enough, son.” She still stood in the doorway, the cool air moving the hairs on her blonde wig. “What are you going to do about my driver?”

  “This is your birthday. Can’t we do this later?”

  “No. Now, miho.”

  “Mama, you put me in such a predicament.”

  “Do this for me.” She stared him hard in the eyes. Camacho suddenly felt himself disappear into that little boy tha
t still sought out his mother’s approval. “Yes, Mama, I will have Dirty Sanchez handle it right away.”

  “Good boy.” She patted him on the shoulder. “That is all I want. I will tell his poor mother that he was killed by the Federales and of course we’ll have to pay her something. That is her son after all, miho.”

  “Ah Mama, you are killing me. Come inside now, it’s hot out here.” He started to move forward but Gloria stood fast. “Mama?” She glanced down at the radio that was clipped to his belt. Camacho followed her eyes and sighed in frustration. The drug lord pulled the radio from his belt and quickly spoke into it. “Dirty Sanchez, I need you at my hacienda, now!”

  “Si, El Jefe. On my way.” Dirty Sanchez’s voice crackled on the speaker.

  “Mama?” Camacho shrugged as he replaced the radio on his belt. Gloria smiled and again patted him on the shoulder as she stepped inside the hacienda.

  “Very good, miho. All I want is a happy birthday.”

  FETCH BOY SINGS AIR SUPPLY

  PASSADO, MEXICO

  “Where are you headed, Remiro?” Nero shouted to the gunrunner as pulled the jeep next to the driver's side of the dirty Dodge Durango. Remiro leaned a hairy forearm out of the open window and spat some chew in the dirt between both vehicles.

  “Salazar has me chasing down Bando de Gigantico. I guess they are running late and his mommy is throwing a fit,” Remiro said as he shoved another wad of chew into his mouth. “I guess now I am the fetch boy.”

  “Careful how you talk about El Jefe’s mama,” Hector shouted from the passenger seat of the jeep. “You could end up a meal for his kitties.”

  “Whatever.” Remiro waved him off then looked back over to Nero. “I have to invite Señora Hernandez to the party. Do you know her?”

  “In Passado?”

  “Si, I guess she’s a friend of Mommy Camacho.”

  “She lives down on Alvaro Street; it’s a brown house with a yellow door. You can’t miss it.” Nero frowned. “Why does he have you doing that?”

  “Like I said, I’m the new fetch boy. I guess the guys he sent down there aren’t answering their radios. He wants me to find them too.” Remiro glanced uneasily at Hector and spat out some more chew. “Open the gate, Hector.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t want to keep mommy waiting.”

  “Kiss my ass, fetch boy,” Hector said as he jabbed the release button on the handheld remote. The big gate slowly swung open in front of the old Dodge Durango.

  “Be careful, Remiro,” Nero said, concerned for his friend’s safety.

  “Always.” The gunrunner waved at the two men as he pulled the SUV through the ornate main gate. Remiro shoved a cassette tape into the player and cranked the volume as an old Air Supply song rumbled through the worn speakers. Remiro tapped his fingers in time to the music as he guided the Durango down the dusty road toward Passado.

  In the rearview mirror, he could see the bright white adobe walls of the compound shrink away in a cloud of dirt and grit. As the big tires of his vehicle crunched on the makeshift road, Remiro spit some more chew out of the open window. He wiped his mouth again on the back of his hand then rubbed his hand against his grimy tank top. Remiro reached for the air conditioner knob and turned it all the way up. There was a whining sound then nothing. The gunrunner cursed and angrily pounded the dashboard with his fist. Damn cooling system was on the fritz again. One of these days, Remiro thought to himself, I’ll have a big Dodge truck with a CD changer full of Air Supply discs. Until that day came, the cartel ‘fetch boy’ would have to settle for the comfort of the mobile sauna and bootleg copies of Air Supply cassettes. That was the one thing about Mexico, you could get a bootleg copy of almost anything you wanted or needed.

  “I’m all outta love…” Remiro started to sing along with Russell Hitchcock’s pathetic whining. “So lost...” The heavy man turned onto the main road that led right into the heart of the small town. “So lost…” Remiro mangled the lyrics loud and proud as if he was on stage trying to out-sing Air Supply themselves. He rocked his head back and forth, flinging his dirty hair around then stopped and gave the rear view mirror his best soft rock snarl. “What are ju’ thinkin’…” He forgot the rest of the words and started humming instead. The stereo suddenly went silent as the tape player shut off.

  “What the….?” Remiro pressed the eject button but the cassette stayed lodged in place. He smacked the stereo trying to get it to work. “Fucking piece of shit!”

  As the gunrunner continued to curse at the broken tape player, he pulled onto one of Passado's side streets. Remiro quickly noticed the extraordinary amount of townsfolk that seemed to wander the usually empty streets of the small community. It appeared to Remiro that at least half of the town’s population was milling about outside of the cantina. He was about to turn down another side street when he caught a glimpse at the Chevy Blazer parked a few buildings down from the bar. Remiro figured that Barron and his partner had probably stopped off for a drink, and were probably drunk off their asses by now. A foul smell seemed to drift in through the open windows of the Dodge. Remiro sniffed his exposed pits and found, thankfully, it wasn’t him. The cartel man realized that the horrible odor was the town itself.

  “Hey, Domingo…” Remiro said into his radio. “Domingo.”

  “Yes?” The cartel lieutenant’s voice sounded annoyed over the radio’s small speaker. Remiro hated the underboss more than any of the other cartel officers. Anytime Domingo had asked him to locate something personal for him, he would always claim he couldn’t find it.

  “I found Barron and the other guy. They are at the cantina. You want me to get them?”

  “No. Just find that Hernandez woman then get that band. Señora Camacho is in one of her moods. I’ll deal with those two putos later.

  ”Okay.” Remiro dropped the radio in the driver’s seat. “Dickhead.”

  As Remiro started to back the Dodge up, he caught sight of several of the townspeople stumbling his way; a handful of them were starting to run in his direction. Remiro felt his stomach start to do flips. Something wasn’t right. As the crowd grew closer so did the awful smell along with a terrifying moaning sound. Remiro could clearly see most of the crowd was covered in fatal rips and tears that were smeared with dried blood.

  “GIRL YOU’RE EVERY WOMAN…” The stereo blared to life, causing Remiro to jump in his seat and smash his head into the sun visor. At the same time, he also had jammed his right hand into the middle of the steering wheel, accidentally honking the vehicle's horn.

  “Now you fucking work!” Remiro said, grabbing his racing heart. All the noise seemed to draw more of the rabid people out of the adjacent buildings.

  “Fuck!” Remiro spun the wheel around and hit a few of the advancing crowd with the front end of the Dodge. Even in his panic, he was able to maneuver away from the ever growing mass of people and pull the SUV down another street that appeared to be empty of life. He needed to find a way out of the place that would bypass the crazy townsfolk.

  Remiro had no idea what was going on, but he knew that he had to get the hell out of here. The earlier cartel men had obviously been attacked and probably killed by the angry mob. As Remiro sped down the narrow street he reached for the radio on the passenger's seat. He needed to call it in. As he fumbled for the walkie-talkie, a shadow stumbled out onto the road in front of him. Remiro quickly tried to swerve the vehicle out of the way, but only succeeded in crashing the Durango into one of the many dilapidated buildings.

  NO ZOMBIE SCREWING

  CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  “Experiment?” Black asked Volkov as he waved a hand at the obviously sedated man that lay partially covered on the Russian’s exam table. Volkov had been washing his hands when the millionaire quietly strolled into the small room. Alexi hated the way Black always snuck around the lab, checking on his work. The scientist dried his hands on a paper towel then tossed it in the garbage.

  “It is one of Salazar’s people. An
American. He was hysterical so I gave him a little shot of calm down juice. He should be out for a while.”

  “Too bad. I could use some fresh blood for my…” He stopped in mid-sentence, realizing he was rambling. Volkov stood anxiously waiting for him to finish. “Never mind, Alexi.”

  “Well, Ian, this man showing up here is bad news.” Volkov pulled up a rolling stool and sat down on it.

  “How so?”

  “The American was down in that Mexican town, Passado. Apparently, the tainted Krokodil has done bad things there. The infected are running wild.”

  “You mean the dead,” Black said pointedly as he tapped the unconscious Leeland on the stomach. “Can he hear us?’

  “No, he is how you say… three sheets to the wind.” Volkov rolled on the stool closer to Black. “Yes, I mean the dead.”

  “Have you affected an anti-virus?” Black asked, pulling the thin sheet up to Leeland’s chin.

  “Not yet.”

  “Too busy playing house with your zombie?” The millionaire patted the sleeping man lightly on the forehead.

  “No!” Volkov frowned. “That is not the problem.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “Whatever has caused this is in the foreign product we used.”

  “You mean the additive you brought in? That Nazi crap. We knew that. So?”

  “I can’t break down the components to figure it out.”

  “So what do you know, Alexi?”

  “Well,”—he crossed his thin arms—“I do know that those that now inject the Krokodil are infected faster. Those that are bitten by Krokodil users turn within minutes. The farther out the infection spreads from the original, the slower they turn. The only way to stop the infected is to destroy the brain. That’s all I know right now.”

  “Not much more than before.” Black rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We don’t have much time, Doctor, so I suggest we figure it out fast.”