by Allen Gamboa
“Fuck me!”
Screaming louder, he fell to the ground as blood flowed freely from his self-inflicted wound. The zombies seemed to be excited by the scent of Hector’s blood and, in a frenzy, fell upon him. Hector weakly swatted at the hungry demons as they bit and tore at his flesh. The cartel man angrily cursed the monsters that ravaged his body. He wished his various STDs on them as they ripped him open from neck to groin.
PARKING FEES
CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
Nero, Tanya, and Baylie had made their way to the crowded parking lot within the compound. At least three dozen other vehicles were parked in the designated area. Most were SUVs or trucks so Baylie’s old Impala stuck out like a sore thumb among the rows of newer cars.
Nero, who was at least a foot taller than the women, immediately noticed the muscle car. He tapped Baylie on the shoulder and pointed her in the direction of the dusty black Chevy.
“There’s your car.”
“I see it.” Baylie nodded as she anxiously pulled the car keys from her pants pocket.
“How do we get out of here?” Tanya asked, glancing up at Nero.
“Once you get to the parking lot exit,”—he pointed to a large archway that led into and out of the parking area—“take a left and you’ll run into the main gate about a quarter mile down. The patrol shouldn’t be a problem. Tell them your friends of mine.” He smiled.
“You’re not coming with us?” Baylie grabbed Nero’s arm hoping the big man would leave with them.
“I can’t.” Nero said quietly.
“Come on,” Tanya said, placing her hands on her hips. "We have plenty of room in the car. Seems to me this place is a dead end.”
Nero rested a hand on her shoulder. “I have to get to Monterrey. My daughters need me.”
“I can’t fault you for that Nero.” She stood up on her tiptoes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks for all your help.”
“You sure, Nero?” Baylie asked as she gripped his forearm. The cartel man had made her feel safer than she’d felt in a long time. It made her a little sad and scared he wasn’t going with them. “Those things in the town…”
“You will be fine, Baylie. Go around the town and hit the highway. Keep going until you reach Cabo.”
“Look, Nero,” Baylie still held his arm. “We can give you a ride to Monterrey.”
“We can?” Tanya glanced over at Baylie who nodded eagerly. “Sure, sure we can, Nero. We don’t have any place in particular to go.”
Suddenly, music blasted loudly throughout the compound. All three turned to look up at the P.A. system that ran the length of the grounds. Camacho had once used to the P.A. system to make announcements and pipe music in, but the novelty of it quickly wore off and the broadcast system had been abandoned. Now a weird muzak version of the Door’s People are Strange, crackled through the cheap and weathered speakers.
“Party music?” Tanya frowned.
“I do not know. They haven’t used those speakers since I started.” He shrugged slightly. “You two wait at the car for me. I’ve got to grab some stuff out of my room and I’ll be right back.”
“Does sound like the perfect time to leave.” Tanya nodded and carefully extricated Baylie from the death grip she had on Nero’s forearm. “You heard the man, Baylie. We’ll wait at the car.”
“Nero?” Baylie pleaded one more time. “You are coming back?”
“Yes. Now go you two. Vamanos!” He grinned. “I will hurry.”
HOW FUCKING FUNNY IS THAT, BOB?
CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
The members of La Garra del Aguila or The Eagles Claw, were in the middle of a slow song when the blaring muzak drowned them out. The band leader, Vicente, threw down his microphone and walked off the stage in frustration. The other members of the band joined him at the side of the stage where they surrounded the clueless Nacho and angrily vented at him. The crowd of partygoers on the dance floor and in the courtyard all started yelling and shouting at the horrible noise that assaulted their ears and ruined their dancing.
“What is this shit?” the band leader, Vicente, shouted at the nervous Nacho.
“I don’t know!” Nacho turned to one of his men. “Check the P.A. system; find out what the fuck is going on!”
“Si!” the man said, running off toward the building that housed the broadcast system.
“I will have this fixed in a minute,” Nacho said to the bandleader. The cartel man was more worried about Camacho’s wrath than the anger of this small time musician.
“You better. I have never been so insulted before, you playing shitty elevator music in the middle of our set!” the bandleader spat. “We will pack up and leave if you don’t take care of this.”
“Not a big loss.” Domingo stumbled over to where the men stood arguing. Nacho noticed the cartel lieutenant looked like he’d had the crap beat out of him.
“How dare you!” Vincente shouted, indignant.
“I do dare.” Domingo grabbed the singer by his embroidered lapels. “You forget where you are little man.” He shoved Vincente back into his assembled band members then turned back to Nacho. “Fix this!”
“I am, Domingo.” The smaller man swallowed.
“Very good. Have you seen the American women?”
“No, I’ve been here the whole time.”
“How about Salazar?” Domingo asked as he removed the cork on a tequila bottle. “You seen him, Nacho?”
“Si, he’s in the main hacienda with El Jefe and his mother.”
“Salazar is probably up there kissing the old lady's ass.” He grinned.
“Domingo!” Nacho glanced around in a panic, worried that someone—the wrong someone—would hear.
“Never mind,” he growled as he pushed Nacho away and lurched out into the restless crowd on a dark quest to find the women that had refused him.
HE LIKES THAT WEIRD SHIT
CAMACHO’S HACIENDA
“Elevator music?” Camacho rolled onto his back on the cool expensive tiled floor. Salazar sat in El Jefe’s big over-stuffed recliner drinking hundred-year-old scotch. The ex-cartel boss drooled on himself as the GHB swirled through his system. “You hear that?” he asked his former underling.
The P.A. system ran throughout his hacienda and many of the other inhabited buildings. That fucker Black is pure evil. The new cartel boss just smiled and swirled the drink around in his glass.
“Salazar, do you hear that?” Camacho slurred his words.
“Yes, Bob the Butcher, I hear it.” Salazar poured himself another couple of fingers of the expensive drink. “The Doors I believe.”
“It's that bastard, Black.” Camacho chuckled. “He likes that weird shit. Why don’t you stop him? He’s ruining Mama’s party.”
“I think your mama had a great party.” Salazar leaned forward. “She was very happy when she left. I gave her a little…” He thrust his hips out in a vulgar manner. “She seemed to enjoy it.”
“Mama…” Camacho started blubbering again. “Mama…”
“Bob.” Salazar stood up and took a sip from the glass. “Your mama can’t hear you.” He raised the glass in the air. “Especially above all this noise.”
“Why don’t you shut it down?” Camacho looked up at the new cartel boss, snot ran down his face.
“Does it bother you, El Jefe?” he asked sarcastically.
“It hurts my ears.”
“Very good.” Salazar walked over to one of Camacho’s paintings of himself and yanked it off the wall. “I’m going to have to get me one of those interior designers. Spruce the place up a bit.” He laid the painting down on Camacho’s stomach.
“What about Black?”
“Why do you care, Bob? The American is my problem now… but not for long.” He smiled. “I put up with eating your shit for years. I even went to prison for you. No more, Bob.”
“Salazar…”
“Quiet, Bob. It is done. There will be no begging for your life.” He took a
sip from his glass. “Oh… and no more Zima.”
“Fuck you, Salazar!”
“Like I fucked your dear Mama? She’s a screamer you know.” Salazar grinned.
“No! No! No!” Camacho pulled at the ties and cried.
“And best of all—”he knelt down next to Camacho’s face—“Blanca is not even carrying your seed.”
“What?” Camacho grimaced.
“Yes, seems even your seed is useless. Blanca is carrying Domingo’s demon child. Not yours."
"No!” Camacho struggled even harder. “You lie, you bastard!”
“Domingo's demon seed will be running the Camacho cartel. How funny is that, Bob?” He stood up and retrieved the bottle of Scotch. “How fucking funny is that, Bob?”
LIBERACE'S CLOSET
CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
“Shit,” Snake whispered into his headset as he signaled for the squad to halt. The five soldiers were hidden in the darkened alleyway beside the crowded courtyard. In the original plan had been a clear path through the alley that led right to the kitchen door of the hacienda. At that moment, six men in outlandish garb and oversized sombreros stood in their way. To Snake, they resembled a bunch of Mexican restaurant musicians; not cartel members. Whatever they were, the group blocked the team’s entrance into the hacienda.
“Bravo Two, I have six subjects in the alley,” he said into his mic.
“Hold,” Hale whispered. “We’ll be right up.”
“Roger.”
Hale signaled for the rest of the team to move. The four soldiers quickly made their way to where Snake crouched behind a row of garbage cans and hunkered down behind him. Travis resumed watching their backs while Amatuzo and Vanelli continued scanning their own areas of responsibility. The Air Force sergeant tapped Snake lightly on the shoulder.
“They look like some kind of band,” Snake said as quietly as possible. The group of men was only about six yards away from their hiding spot. The smell of garbage and cigarettes filled the small, dark alleyway.
“We should shoot them just on principle.” Hale raised his Beretta to his chest. “They look like they robbed Liberace’s closet.”
“What do you want to do?” Snake asked.
Hale knew they had to move quickly. A small, black curtain separated the alleyway from the courtyard. It appeared the band was using the space for a dressing area. Maybe they could take the band members without killing them. The Air Force sergeant didn’t want to take anyone out he didn’t have to. If they could do it quickly enough, it shouldn’t be a problem.
“Snatch ‘em.” Hale nodded. “I’ll be right behind you. Vanelli, you come with me. Amatuzo, you keep an eye on the curtain, and Travis, you keep watching our backs.”
“Roger.”
“Roger.”
Hale gave Snake another squeeze on the shoulder and the point man was instantly up and charging at the oblivious band members. The soldier held his Beretta a little farther out than he usually carried it so it would be the first thing the musicians noticed as he emerged from his hiding place behind the shadow-covered garbage cans.
The band leader, Vicente, had been in the middle of a rant against the ineptness of the cartel when he saw the barrel of the big pistol staring right at him. The singer dropped the cigarette he was holding and started to turn to run. Hale grabbed him by a fringed shoulder and pulled him off his feet.
“Hola,” Snake said in Spanish to the other band members. “Hands up and quite!”
The band complied without arguing. Vincente figured it was the cartel pissed at his earlier outburst. He started to apologize when Snake ordered him to be silent. “Callate!”
“Si! Si!” Vincente looked up at the men who looked more like soldiers than the cartel enforcers. He peed himself a little wondering what the hell he had gotten into.
Snake ordered all the men to sit on their butts and put out their hands; Hale and Amatuzo swiftly zip-tied the men’s hands and ankles while Snake covered them with the suppressed Beretta. Hale then removed a roll of black speed tape from his pack and quickly tore off strips and covered the band member's mouths with them. Once that was done, Hale and Amatuzo dragged the men behind the cover of the shadows and the garbage cans.
“Snake, tell them to lay chilly and they won’t get hurt.”
“No se mueva y no vete a la mierda para arriba,” the big Ukrainian quickly rattled off to the band. The men’s eye grew wide and they eagerly nodded in agreement.
“What did you tell them?”
“Don’t move and we won’t fuck them up.” Snake shrugged as he returned his attention to the back door of the kitchen.
“That’ll work.” Hale smirked. “Bravo One, Bravo two, we are at the entry point.”
“Bravo Two, Bravo One. Hold in place,” Morgan’s voice whispered in his headset. “Waiting on go from Alpha leader.”
“Roger.”
Morgan and his small squad were stacked up along the glass double doors of Camacho’s master bedroom. The two big doors faced a small yard that was hidden behind the courtyard wall. The sounds of the party plus the piped in music disguised any noise the soldiers made. Through the multi-windowed doors, the team could see the darkened room was empty. The sergeant tapped on his headset and spoke lowly into his mic.
“Alpha leader, Bravo One. We are at target along with Bravo Two.”
“Bravo One, Alpha leader.” Kubicek continued to mimic Captain Galvan’s voice. “Alpha leader and Alpha Two at target.”
“Roger,” Morgan said, readying himself for the coordinated assault, unaware that Alpha team no longer existed.
“Alpha and Bravo teams,” the faux commander ordered, “Go!”
Morgan squeezed Redwood’s shoulder and the team pushed their way inside Bob the Butcher’s hacienda.
FREE SHEEP NIGHT
CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
Dirty Sanchez found himself happily humming along to the muzak version of Dean Martin’s You’re Nobody ‘till Somebody Loves You as he casually walked back to his shed. Sanchez had never heard the song before, but he found it very delightful; maybe it was just the mood he was in. The cartel man was mad that the band had stopped playing when this weird music had started but he was horny and needed to get back home to Elsa. All in all, it was a good night, even though he never found himself a fancy suit coat to go with his new clothes. The goat man decided he liked dressing up—not showering so much—but he did like the way he looked all dressed up. Maybe it was time for him to buy himself a nice suit. He could dress up like Salazar or even El Jefe. Those two would maybe even respect and fear him.
Sanchez continued to hum the wordless music as he passed the tiger cages. He could see Iceman and Maverick were sound asleep having gorged themselves on the young Manolito. Sanchez's only regret over shoving the young man into the jaws of the tigers was that he didn’t grab his magnificent tuxedo jacket before it was torn to shreds. Well, he could always have the intrepid Remiro track down one of those fine jackets for him.
As he made his way back home, he noticed something sprawled out on the dimly lit ground.
“What is this?” Sanchez asked aloud as he stifled an alcohol burp. The cartel man quickly drew the butterfly knife out of his pants pocket and flicked it open.
As he cautiously approached the lump before him, the shape became more and more familiar.
“Shit!” he cursed to himself as he stood over the small body that was now at his feet. Dirty Sanchez nudged the headless corpse with his foot. The goat was definitely dead; one of his trigger happy compadres had more than likely been responsible for it. Goats weren’t cheap but they were easier to deal with than women. There was no screaming begging or fighting. All you had to do was feed them.
Shaking his head in disgust, Sanchez felt the goat's body was still warm. Smiling, he grabbed one of its legs and dragged it into his shed. Closing the door behind him, he lifted the goat up and dropped it onto the crusty, dirty, blankets. Warm is good enough, he thought as he smiled and
hummed along to the muzak that played outside.
Dirty Sanchez neatly folded his new clothes up and, still humming, climbed into bed.
SOLDADO
SALAZAR’S QUARTERS
When Salazar had assigned Nero his living quarters, he gave the new cartel member an apartment right next to his. At the time, Nero just assumed all the cartel men lived like that but found it wasn’t so. Salazar, offering a promotion and giving him the best place he’d ever lived in, meant the cartel captain indeed had big plans for Nero. Well, too bad Nero wasn’t that guy or he’d have been happier than an ISIS member on free sheep night.
He quickly grabbed his backpack out of the closet and shoved some clothes and personal effects into it. Reaching under the bed, he slid out a lightweight rifle case and dropped it onto the bed next to the backpack. Nero popped open the lid to reveal an old M-16 rifle that appeared to be well-used and well-maintained. Four loaded magazines were pushed into the foam bedding next to it. Satisfied everything was still intact, Nero closed the lid and pulled on the backpack. He gripped the rifle case by the handle and started to head out of the apartment. He was pretty excited the two Americans had offered to drive him to Monterey, Nero knew he couldn’t spend another day among the men that ran the cartel; he didn’t have enough rounds in his magazine. Before he could open his apartment door, he heard a crash from Salazar’s room. Nero set the case down and dropped the backpack down next to it. He drew his .40 and slowly pulled the door open, carefully peeking outside. As he looked around, he could hear the muzak version of Suspicious Minds playing through the P.A. system.
What the hell was that? he thought to himself. Refocusing, Nero saw the front door of Salazar’s apartment had been broken into. Nero quickly stepped outside and hurried over to Salazar’s apartment. He raised the handgun up and tracked the inside of the cartel captain's living quarters. As he cautiously made his way through the damaged doorway, there was another crash.