by Allen Gamboa
“How much time?”
“Hours. You have three or four tops. Can you imagine the money we would make on a vaccine? So much more than what we’ve made in the past. Hell,”—Black waved a hand in the air—“we would own the States… we could own the world!”
“Three hours?”
“Maybe. Get off your ass and get working. You don’t want some other egghead finding a vaccine in your place, do you?”
“No.” Alexi stood up kicking the rolling stool aside. “I do not.”
“Good. You can diddle your Mexican Barbie later or even get you a new one, I don’t care. Get going on this vaccine, Volkov. Act like your life depends on it.” He glanced over at the snoring Leeland. “You sure that he’s protected?”
“That’s what Salazar said.” He shrugged. “What the fuck do I care?”
“Yes.” Black nodded and, fighting his inner demon, he started to leave the exam room empty handed. “Remember, no zombie screwing. Find me a vaccine. I have to go meet Bob’s mommy. Wish her a happy birthday.”
“Oh yes. The party.” said Volkov, a little disappointed.
“Easy, Alexi. You can have a drink later. Find me—find us—a vaccine.”
TIGER CHOW
CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
“You ever see a tiger before?” Dirty Sanchez asked the tuxedo suited driver as they casually walked toward the cages at the rear of the compound.
“No, only on the TV.” the young chauffeur said excitedly.
“Today is your lucky day, Manolito,” the goat man said as he put a heavy arm around the thin man’s shoulders.
Sanchez had been ordered by Salazar to take a shower and wear his Sunday best for his mama’s birthday. The smelly goat lover had at first balked at the idea but after the cartel captain had threatened him with the possible barbeque of his beloved Elsa, Sanchez relented and showered, shaved, and borrowed some clothes from Nacho. The white dress shirt fit so tight he was barely able to button it. Sanchez felt as if he were to flex too much, he was going to rip the fancy shirt right off his back. The pants didn’t fit him any better either; they were too short and exposed his different colored socks. His slick hair pulled back in a ponytail, he was quite the pathetic character. Sanchez just knew he looked good, maybe even good enough to score a dance with one of the party girls. Sanchez could always get the girls to dance with him but it was always out of fear or forced. For once, Dirty Sanchez would like them to ask him to dance. None of the other cartel men disagreed with the ill-fitting look of his too small clothes, they were just happy Sanchez had showered and temporarily washed the nasty animal smell off him.
“I should maybe go back.” Manolito fidgeted nervously with his dress tie as they approached the cages.
“Nah, we are here.” Sanchez smiled as they stopped a few feet away from the chain link fence that secured the two big cats. “Manolito, meet Maverick and Iceman.” He waved at both the tigers that were stalking back and forth in their caged area.
“Maverick and Iceman?”
“Yes,” Sanchez grunted. “El Jefe loves the Yankee movie Top Gun.”
“I see,” Manolito said, marveling at the size of the wild cats. “So big and beautiful.”
“See!” He clapped the young man on the shoulder. “You get the beauty and power of these animals.”
“Yes.” The chauffeur stared in wonder at the tigers that were now slinking over to where the men stood. “They look so magnificent.”
“I’m glad you appreciate this. So many of these bitches here do not even stop to admire their beauty and strength. They are afraid. You, my young friend, are not. Would you like to get a better look?”
“A better look?”
“Yes, come. We can get closer.” He tried to move Manolito forward but the other man stood fast. “It is safe, do not worry.”
Sanchez led the chauffeur to another caged area nearer the tigers. The big cats were growling low at the men as they prowled their section of the roomy cage. “Stay right where you are, Manolito.” Sanchez smiled as he backed out of the spot he’d directed the other man to. “I’m going to grab them a treat and you can feed them.”
“Feed them?” Manolito threw him a worried look. Sanchez could hear the fear in the other man’s voice.
“It is fine, Manolito. Do not move or you’ll ruin their appetite. Just keep your eyes on them.” Sanchez turned around and took a few more quick steps. “You still watching them?”
“Yes.” Manolito’s voice cracked a little as he watched the tigers move closer to the chain link that separated them from the two men. “Sanchez…?”
“Nothing personal, Manolito.” Dirty Sanchez groaned as he pulled the gate down behind the chauffeur. “I like you… but orders are orders.”
“What?” Manolito turned to face Sanchez who stood safely behind the newly shut gate. “Sanchez!” He sprinted over to where the other man stood and grabbed the chain link. “Let me out! What are you doing?” He frantically pulled at the fence.
“Do not struggle so much.” Sanchez gripped the tiger cage lever and quickly jerked it downwards. “The more you fight it, the longer it will take.”
“Please, Sanchez!” Manolito’s eyes grew wide as he desperately clawed at the fence. The chauffeur quickly started to climb up the sturdy chain link that was at least forty feet high. Sanchez shook his head in amusement; he’d never seen anyone scale the cage before. The tiger keeper frowned at the young man’s futile attempt to stay alive. Dirty Sanchez wanted to applaud Manolito for making it very exciting. Definitely a first for the tigers. Sanchez moved farther away from the climbing man. He didn’t want to get caught in a shower of blood and ruin his nice clean clothes.
Dammit! Sanchez cursed to himself, he should have grabbed Manolito’s beautiful tuxedo jacket before he trapped him. The jacket would have really complimented his outfit. What a waste, he thought as the two big cats leapt onto the screaming man’s back and pulled him to the ground. Sanchez shook his head sadly as he saw the wonderful jacket being slowly ripped to shreds. Manolito’s muffled screams barely registered to Dirty Sanchez as he trudged off in search of a tuxedo jacket of his own.
WASH YOUR HANDS
USS BOXER
“Captain?” Sergeant Kurtz said as he made a visor with his calloused hand and watched the two Blackhawks hover above the aft of the carrier. “We have incoming. It’s the Quick Reaction Force.”
“Finally, the QRF is here.” The captain impatiently glanced at his watch. “I was beginning to think we were going to have to scrub the mission.”
“Command probably hard a real hard time letting go of those birds, they aren’t like the lemon they stuck us with.” Kurtz nodded in the direction of the older Sea Stallion helicopter that Alpha and Bravo team were camped out around.
“Sergeant, it’s a classic.” Galvan saw Kubicek meandering across the flight deck toward them. Kurtz watched the lieutenant shuffle over to the rear of the Sea Stallion and clumsily drop his gear down on the aft ramp.
“Speaking of lemons…” Kurtz said, spitting some chew into a Styrofoam cup.
“Lieutenant Kubicek has decided to finally join us. Sergeant Kurtz, would you please go babysit him while I brief the QRF commander? I don’t want Morgan choking him out before we’re airborne.”
“Yes, sir. I may even have some wipes in my pack in case the lieutenant craps himself.”
“If he does, let’s hope it’s not on the chopper.” He headed off in the direction of the two Blackhawks that had just landed on the deck. “You call home, sergeant?”
“Yeah, I just got my daughter-in-law. The kid’s out in the field. You?”
“Wife said hurry up and get my ass home. She’s got a bottle of wine and a warm bed waiting.”
“Good woman.” Kurtz smiled as he watched the blinking lights of the choppers in the early dusk. He had been married for fifteen years—fifteen good years—before his wife had died in a car wreck. Kurtz had never remarried and for the past five years he’d rai
sed his two sons on his own. It was times like this he missed Carrie the most. The sergeant knew that however shitty the mission was, he always had her to come home to. It had almost killed him when Carrie passed. Alcohol and his own misery had almost destroyed him. A fucked up mission in South America had turned that all around and made him see the value of his sons and his own life. After that, he pulled himself out of his self-made hell and became the man he needed to be. But Kurtz still missed Carrie; he missed her every damn day of his life.
“Hey, Top,” Vanelli said when he met the senior NCO halfway across the deck. “I gotta hit the head.”
“Why you telling me? You need some tweezers?” Kurtz continued in the Sea Stallion’s direction.
“No. That Navy chow is really fucking me up.” Vanelli frowned. “I didn’t want to miss anything.”
“Don’t worry, Vanelli, the bird ain’t gonna leave without you.”
“Th…thanks, Top.”
“Wash your hands.” The sergeant grunted as he made his way to the group of soldiers spread out around the old helicopter.
“Top,” Redwood said looking up from his cell phone.
“Redwood. The QRF birds are here. Any of you need to use the head, I’d do it now.” He glanced down at the phone in Redwood’s big hands. On the small screen it looked like he was watching a soap opera. “What the hell is that?”
“What?” Redwood proudly held up his smartphone so the top sergeant could get a better look. “It’s Days of our Hearts. You’ve never seen it?”
“Is it one of them soap operas, Sergeant?” Kurtz squinted at the screen.
“Well, it’s a drama about the many trials of the human condition.” The big Native American said as he stood up and stuck his phone into a pocket of his tac vest.
“The trials of the human what?” Kurtz, immediately disinterested, waved him off with a hand. “Never mind, if it ain’t a western, I don’t even wanna know.” He glanced around at the other soldiers that were starting to stir. “Better hit the head now, ladies. Y’all don’t wanna get caught behind a cactus with your dicks in your hands and banditos in your asses!” He looked over at Cross, who was busy pulling out her earbuds. “Those of you that have dicks, that is.”
“A dick is just wind drag, Top,” Cross said as she slung her rifle and walked passed Kurtz toward stern of the carrier. “Well,”—she smiled—“some are.”
“Sergeant Skelton.” Captain Galvan extended a hand to the junior NCO has he climbed off the Blackhawk helicopter. The sergeant shook it and followed the mission commander away from the two helicopters as they powered down. Sergeants Morales and Hastings trailed behind the two men as the captain led them outside of the busy flight line. The rest of the teams on the Blackhawks disembarked and headed in the direction of the team leaders.
“Sorry about cutting it so close, Captain. We almost didn’t get the green light,” Sergeant Skelton said above all the ambient noise on the deck. “There is some kind of disturbance going on in L.A. and San Diego. Command is mobilizing most of the local air support to back up the guard and active duty units. It’s pretty fucking strange.”
“Sounds like it. I’m surprised we still have a green light.” Galvan was just starting to realize how tentative the mission was becoming. “Do you know what the disturbance is?”
“No, sir.” Skelton shrugged. “Just rumors.”
“Captain, I hear it’s rioting.” Sergeant Morales offered. “A lot of street violence.”
“As if we don’t have enough problems, now we have these idiots burning down their own neighborhoods.”
“Captain, I heard it’s just bat-shit crazy out there. People attacking and biting each other. Real weird shit.” Morales had a strange look in his eyes and Galvan could see he was worried about more than the mission. “My brother is an L.A. county sheriff and I talked to him an hour ago. He told me there were reports of people eating people. He hadn’t seen any of that but there’s a lot of rumors going around.”
“Rumors can fuck up your mind set, Morales.” Galvan frowned as he tried to read the younger man’s face.
“Probably drugs.” Skelton added.
“I don’t know.” Morales looked down at his boots. “Just repeating what I heard from my brother,”
“Maybe it’s bath salts.” Sergeant Hastings rested his hands on his belt. “You all remember that crazy stuff in Florida a few years back.”
“Look,”—the captain sighed, a little frustrated—“we have bigger fish to fry right now. I’m sure civilian law enforcement and the guard units can handle this.”
“Right.” Skelton agreed. Morales looked up at the captain and slowly nodded. Galvan could tell the Hispanic sergeant didn’t believe the bath salts theory but accepted that their focus right now was on the mission. Other people were tasked to handle the events that were unfolding in the rest of the world. His concern at the moment was Bob the Butcher’s apprehension.
“Sergeant Skelton, Alpha and Bravo will soon be heading out. I’ll call you every half hour once we’re airborne. If we miss a check-in, I want you guys in the air and dropping down on the compound with guns up. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, now get your men some chow and staged up.” Galvan watched a newer Sea Stallion lift off the deck and head toward San Diego. “If all goes as planned, we won’t need your team tonight.”
MORE LIKE EAGLE’S SHIT
CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
“Still no Bando de Gigantico?” Gloria Camacho asked her son as she walked down the wide, hand-carved staircase and onto the marble foyer flooring. Her oversized red flowing dress brushed the inlaid diamonds and black onyx that were imbedded in each tile of the fifty million dollar floor. Señora Camacho spun around in a small circle, giddy, like a young girl going to her Quinceanera.
“You look beautiful, Mama.” Camacho said, admiring his mother in the expensive, custom-made dress. He was thrilled to see that she seemed to really like his choice of party clothes. “It’s an Armani. Cost me a hundred K but worth it.”
“Thank you, mijo.” She lifted her dress a little and flung it around. “So nice. Now did you get Bando de Gigantico?”
“My best men are on it, Mama. They will be here soon. Garra de Aguila is playing in the courtyard right now; may I have the first dance?”
“Eagles Claw.” She frowned, repeating the mariachi band’s name in English. “More like Eagle’s shit.” She plopped down on one of the overstuffed couches. “You promised me Bando de Gigantico!”
“Dios mios, Mama.” He knelt down in front of her. The outrageously puffy dress buried his mother beneath it. He could only see the top of her blonde wig. “I am doing the best I can. All this is for you. All of it.” He pleaded as he dug around the folds of the dress to find her tiny hand. “Mama, please come and dance with me.”
“Did you take care of Manolito?” She asked, pulling her hand just out of Camacho’s reach. “Did you?”
“Si.” He nodded like the attention seeking child he was. “Dirty Sanchez told me the boy is no longer a problem.”
“Very good, mijo.” She patted Camacho gently on the cheek. “I will dance with you, son. Help me up.”
“Mama.” He slowly stood up and straightened out his pant legs. Camacho, who’d never lifted anything heavy in his life, grunted and groaned as he struggled to help his diminutive mother to her feet.
“Mijo, have I gained that much weight?” Gloria said to her red-faced son who was also breathing heavy.
“No, Mama, you are still trim as ever.”
“Maybe you should start working out, no?”
“Mama, I have an army. I don’t need to work out.” He drew a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped at the sweat on his face. “Dance?” He motioned toward the courtyard.
“Are you sure you are able? Helping me seemed to wear you out, mijo.” Gloria sneered at her son. “Maybe I should get Señor Salazar…”
“Fuck Salazar!” Camacho shouted. “He is
not a Camacho!”
“Mijo.” Gloria smirked. “I will dance with you. Just do not embarrass me.”
“Mama…”
“Quiet.” She raised a small finger. “Let us dance. It is my birthday after all.”
A TABLE FOR ONE
CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
When Leeland finally awoke, it was to the muzak version of the old Dirty Dancing song, Time of My Life. The shitty synth version of the shitty 80’s song wasn’t the most distressing part of it; Leeland found himself bound and gagged to what appeared to be a stainless steel autopsy table. He knew it was stainless steel because of the cool metal against his naked body. Leeland screamed in his gag and pulled against his bonds with all his might. The restraints held tightly, refusing to give up their captive. Leeland still didn’t understand what was going on. One minute he was broke down and sobbing in front of his old cellmate then the next he was strapped to a table, buck naked. He yanked at the straps and again failed to free himself. Leeland moved his head to the side to get a better look at his situation and instantly regretted it. He was obviously in some kind of butcher shop or horrible surgical center. There were trays of tools and saws; rubber aprons hung from hooks by the thick steel door. Leeland closed his eyes hoping it was all a nightmare and that when he’d open them again, he would be in the back seat of the Impala with Tanya telling him everything was okay.
“Hello,” a cheery voice said in his ear. “Glad to see you’re up and about.”
“Help!” Leeland mumbled into his gag—it came out sounding like huup instead. The small time hood slowly opened his eyes to see a terrifying looking man in a rubber apron smiling down at him. Leeland screamed again as he fought against his restraints. “Help!”