The Apocalypse Virus Trilogy_Book 1_Big Smoke

by Blackstone, R. F.

  “My apologies, Mister President,” the reporter said rather too quickly. She knew she had lost her moment and had to recover. “Well, my question is this… Are the rumors about the talks between Presidente Esposito and yourself regarding Cuba becoming another territory of the United States true?”

  Sanderson chuckled dismissively. “See,” he said, “this is what happens when you let women ask the serious questions. My dear, you must realize that when two heads of state get together, they have a multitude of issues to discuss. President Esposito and I have had meetings. True…”

  Christine trailed off, her mind wandering to the building she was in. Sanderson was just spouting the usual presidential drivel designed to bamboozle reporters. He was a natural at this, which is why Christine was able to move away from the group and make her way up the emergency stairs to the next floor.

  The Partagas factory has three floors not including the roof. The factory was small but able to produce as many as ten million cigars per year, almost as much as Montecristo.

  On the second floor, Christine could not see anything, just large bulky tables covered by sheets. This must have been where the rolling happened, the Galera. She took a deep breath. All the smells had become ingrained into all the wood surfaces, tobacco and premium Cuban leaf. Christine Moore was in heaven.

  “I don’t fucking believe this!” The man’s voice snapped her out of her reverie.

  Don stood next to a small cabinet. He wore a T-shirt and cargo shorts, looking more like a turista than an agent. In one hand, he held the handle of a large carry-case, the heavy-duty kind that are used to transport cameras, valuable technical equipment, and weapons. In the other was a small notebook. The expression he wore was one of absolute disbelief.

  “Hola, guapo,” Christine said with a smile, noticing the bandage wrapped around his left hand. “What happened? Did some little piggies go to market and forget to come home?” She laughed.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, hefting the case in is hand.

  “Oh, I just thought I’d pop by and stop a killer.”

  Don glanced around the room, hoping for an escape route.

  “Why don’t you put that down? It looks heavy,” Christine said, taking a step forward.

  Don shook his head rapidly. “You can’t fuck this up for me. Not again. I need this.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  The man smiled then his eyes flickered to just behind her. Christine turned in time to see Sanderson and the rest start to appear from the stairs.

  “Gun! Gun!” Don shouted.

  The CIA agents swarmed the area, pushing past Sanderson, going straight for Christine. She grinned sheepishly at them then ran like a bat out of hell.

  Don was already on the move, barreling up the stairs onto the next floor. As Christine dodged the tables nearing the cabinet, she grabbed it and pulled. It toppled over, clanging to the ground and spilling its guts. Old torcedores equipment, the chaveta, goma containers, tablas, casquillos, the cepos and guillotinas tumbled out of the cabinet right into the path of the agents. They tripped and skidded. “Leave them!” Sanderson barked as the reporters started taking videos and asking awkward questions.

  Christine leapt up the last couple of steps onto the third floor. This was where the cigars were put into boxes and had the bands applied. Stacks of pre-cut wood towered over her. There were far too many places for Don to lay ambush.

  A noise caught her attention.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  “Finders keepers,” Don called back.

  His voice came from near the back. He was close to the stairs to the roof. If she wasn’t careful, he might be able to get away. Christine moved slowly down the room. Each step she made as silently as she could. Any movement she heard she spun towards; a mouse here, a cockroach there. She was sweating and trembling.

  “Colder. Colder,” Don’s voice bounced throughout the room. In the distance, she could hear the oncoming storm of the CIA. She would have to do something fast.

  “You really are in over your head,” Don was saying. “Why not just go back to your hotel and let the inevitable happen?”

  “I hate waiting,” Christine replied as she gave a hard shove to one of the stacks of wood. It swayed back and forth before collapsing against another stack.

  The domino effect was magnificent to watch as each tower of wood fell one after the other. The wave of wood crashed against the stairwell, blocking it.

  Christine turned back and saw Don’s feet stampeding up the stairs. “Fuck,” she said to herself.

  #

  The carry-case smashed into her stomach the moment Christine emerged into the open. She doubled over, grabbing the handle. She spun to the left and the movement wrenched it away from Don. Christine kicked out at him and he danced backwards. She bent over, breathing hard.

  Don didn’t wait for her to recover properly. He dived at her, picked the woman up, and then threw her into the wall of the stairs.

  Christine collided hard with the wall and was thankful for the support. Don was upon her again, throwing punches at her face. She ducked down and the first hit contacted the wall.

  Don winced then recoiled, holding his hand. Christine lashed out with her leg, connecting with his and continuing the follow through. The man fell flat on his ass.

  Christine got to her feet and went for the case. She hoped there was a knife or handgun in it. There were questions that needed answering. Her hand found the latch as Don grabbed her leg. He pulled, dragging her across the cement.

  “You really are a pain in my ass,” he panted, using his free hand to hold Christine’s other leg.

  He was pulling her towards the edge. Christine looked around, reaching out for any weapon she could find. Then she saw it.

  “Glad to be of help,” she said through gritted teeth. Then using her own body as leverage she bent upwards. With her arms, she reached up and grabbed Don’s hands.

  He stopped then turned.

  Christine pulled back, using gravity to flip the man.

  She watched as he sailed over her then kissed the cement with his face. His momentum kept him going and he slid across the roof, leaving a trail of blood and clumps of flesh.

  Christine stood and dusted herself down then started walking towards him. “Rule one, Donny, never claim victory until the battle is over.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” the man growled as he lunged at her with a switchblade.

  He sliced down and got her arms which she had brought up in defense. Christine winced and cried out but spun, landing an elbow against his back.

  Don grunted but recovered quickly. He turned and drove the blade towards her. Christine brought her hands down to break his wrist. He was expecting this and as she made the move, he turned to the left and spun around her. The blade traced along her back and the blood stained her shirt.

  Christine cried out and then grabbed his arm as Don lunged. She pulled while at the same time ducking down and driving her fist into his knee.

  Don’s own momentum made him fall onto the blade. It slid easily into his stomach as he hit the roof. He rolled and coughed blood. Only the very tip of the hilt was visible.

  Christine knelt next to the man. “Confess your sins.”

  Don tried to laugh. Instead, he coughed up blood and squealed like a pig. Christine looked at the wound and knew one thing. He would be dead soon.

  “Now is the time to confess,” she said. “Unburden yourself and find peace.”

  The dying man shook his head. “No point.”

  He was wheezing and his breathing was weak. He had turned pale and there was so much blood leaking from the wound. The fall must have torn open the cut, Christine thought.

  “There always is.”

  Again, he shook his head. “We are all damned if we do and damned if we don’t… That’s what happens…when…yo…you work for the…devil.”

  His eyes closed and his head lolled to the side. Chr
istine stared at the peaceful face; she needed more. Gently, she held the hilt of the blade and then yanked it out. Blood squirted up and the amount doubled to leak out of the wound.

  Don’s eyes popped open and he groaned. “Jeezus Christ,” he exclaimed. “Let me die in peace!”

  “Not until you give me something useful. No bullshit.” Christine held the blade above his crotch.

  “An empty threat,” he coughed and chuckled. “But, do me a favor. Please?”

  Christine nodded.

  Don smiled weakly. “Get the bastards who set us up.”

  “Who? Give me names.”

  “Adriana Prado…she isn’t Cuban Intelli…” he stopped talking as he took a deep shuddering breath. “Intelligence, but for Esposito…” Christine was about to speak when he grabbed her hand. He looked frantic. “CI has been disbanded for years. Esposito doesn’t need it when he has…he has…”

  His voice faded away as life finally left him.

  Christine knelt there staring at the dead body. She didn’t know what to do.

  “Dios mio! What have you done?”

  Juan de Dios limped onto the roof, his face shocked and startled by the sight that greeted him. He made short time to get over to where the body and Christine was. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. “Have you gone mad? You know you have doomed us all now.”

  Christine didn’t say a word. She stared at the old man.

  “Come on,” Juan said. “Once more, I must clean up after you.”

  He turned and began to limp his way back over to the stairwell. When he realized that Christine was not following him, he sighed and then looked back. “Christine, vamos!”

  She shook her head. “Not just yet.”

  Juan shooked his head. “¡Por el amor del Dios!”

  He stormed back over to her and roughly grabbed her arm. “You are a silly girl and… Dios mio!” He let go of her arm and quickly backed away.

  Christine smiled as the once dead body of Don, screamed back to life and shuddered. The eyes blinked open and stared blankly at her. “There we go,” she said to herself.

  “What on Earth is happening?” Juan was practically babbling and calling for his mother.

  “I told you,” Christine said with calmness and joy at being proven right. Slowly, she stood up and watched as the Zombie-Don shambled to its feet. From the knife wound, intestines started to unravel. Like the others she had seen, the skin was pale and slightly more translucent.

  “Kill it!”

  She turned her head slightly to glare at Juan. That was her mistake.

  Her eyes flicked back just in time to see Zombie-Don lunge at her. Both went down with him on top, snarling, biting, and clawing at her face. His teeth were slightly yellow now.

  Christine kicked out, trying to flip him off her, but his weight was too much and he kept her pinned. His mouth was lightning fast as he tried to bite into her flesh. She screamed as she strained to dodge the attacks.

  A mighty hit from Juan’s cane sent Zombie-Don rolling off Christine. She coughed and watched as the old man hurried over and began to stab the undead body with the end of the cane. It easily slid into the deceased flesh. Again and again he stabbed while the zombie growled and shrieked. Violent and disgusting looking, Juan’s attacks were completely useless.

  “Juan, you’re not doing anything,” Christine said as she took the bloodied cane from the old man. “Like this,” and with a single stab, Christine Moore rammed the end of the cane through the skull and into the brain. Zombie-Don shuddered and when she wrenched the cane out, the creature died.

  Panting, she turned to Juan. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It hadn’t taken long for the authorities to cordon off the area surrounding the factory. President Sanderson had been escorted quickly and quietly back to the Saratoga while the body was removed and the entire building searched.

  Juan had taken Christine out the back. He looked shell-shocked, as if he was questioning everything he had ever been told in his entire life. Christine knew he wanted to ask her what had happened, but his initial instincts were to be furious with her. It wasn’t until one of his minions approached him with the carry case and Don’s notebook which was covered in blood that he remembered who he was and what had happened earlier during the tour.

  The old spy master tried to pry it open, but after being in the sun for too long, the blood had dried. Christine had covered her giggles by coughing at the sight. He stared daggers at her then casually put it and the case into the trunk of his Coup Deville. “He’ll want to see this.”

  “Who?” Christine asked. “Who will want to see it? Esposito? Jeremiah Banks?”

  Juan turned to her then reached over and grabbed her arm. “Get in and be quiet.”

  They drove in silence. Juan didn’t even have the radio on. He gripped the wheel tightly, his knuckles white. His face was set in a grim stare. Christine had to keep brushing the hair out of her eyes, the wind was that strong. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

  “No. No, I don’t.” The old man’s voice was definite. Something had snapped in him during the attack, something that made Christine uneasy. So she tried a different track.

  “Where are we going, Juan?”

  “¡Cállate!” He snapped as he steered the car onto the Malecón.

  Across the sea wall out towards the Caribbean were thick dark clouds. Christine could see the waves being kicked up. There were periodic flashes of lightning and she had one thought, If it rains, please let us be indoors.

  The car started to slow and Juan looked for a place to park. It didn’t take long and the car came to a sharp shuddering stop. He looked at the beautiful spy next to him. “Get out.”

  Christine did as she was told then watched as the old man followed. He held out his arm to her and they slowly walked together. “I tried to tell you about them. That something was happening. You wouldn’t believe me. It’s not just here either, Juan. All over Cuba…zombies. I still can’t fucking say it without laughing. Zombies are in Cuba.”

  She waited for the old man to answer her as the continued to walk along the Malecón. The sea wall was built in sections. Juan kept looking at each one. Christine soon realized that he was never going to talk about the monsters. She sighed. “What are you looking for?”

  “This!” he answered with a wave of his walking stick. The tip of it pointed to a slightly misshapen slab. “Go, mira.”

  Christine wasn’t sure about any of this. Tentatively, she stepped towards it, her head moving around, scanning for any threats.

  “If I was going to kill you, do you think I would do it in public? Give me some credit.”

  The woman smiled apologetically and stared at the concrete section. It was like all the others, nondescript in nearly every way except for the two corners pointed to sea being eroded. Christine could not see anything of importance about it. “I don’t see anything.”

  “¡Aye, por favor!” Juan hissed as he limped over to her. Using the stick, he tapped the face of it. A dull metallic click could be heard. “There.”

  Bending down, Christine saw a small rectangular plaque. It was old and withered. With a sinking feeling somewhere between abject terror and disbelief in her stomach, her eyes ran over the inscription:

  FOR THE FALLEN UNJUST

  THE STATION HOUSE IS ALWAYS

  OPEN TO YOU.

  “This is to be your fate, mi amor,” Juan said softly, “if you continue to fight me. I am not your enemy.”

  Christine was sobbing as she rose to her feet. She took the perfectly folded linen kerchief from Juan and dried her eyes. “I thought their bodies were never found.”

  The old man nodded. “They never were.”

  “Then…?”

  “Station Master forbade it. Something about no traces of his operatives ever. ¡Al carajo! No old foreigner pendejo is going to tell me what I can and cannot do on my own soil!” Juan was livid with the memory. “I am the
head of Cuban Intelligence! I decide what I do! So I had this erected in tribute.”

  Christine hugged the old man. His arms went up to defend himself then stopped when he realized what was happening. He smiled as he gently disentangled himself from her. “No thanks required, but you are going to have a plaque here, if you’re not careful.”

  She nodded. “But why bring me here now? You’ve had plenty of chances.”

  “Blame the foolishness of age,” Juan said as he rubbed his face suddenly tired. “I thought that you were going to be able to handle yourself. Like you used to. Alas…”

  Christine puffed herself up. “I’ve been doing fine, thank you. It would have been better if you and Adriana had not—”

  “Adriana?” Juan asked, his eyes blazing. “What is that puta doing here? Why are you working with her? Are you a pinche idiota?”

  “Cuidate, old man,” Christine said softly. “She has been more helpful than you. At least she went to Guantanamo Bay.”

  Juan had to sit on one of the concrete sections he was laughing so much. “You blind fool.” He continued to laugh until he was attacked by a coughing fit. “Guantanamo is no longer in operation,” he said finally.

  Christine stood there shocked. Slowly, she sank next to Juan.

  “You’re really in over your head,” he said sweetly.

  “But…but…she told me what happened.”

  Juan de Dios shook his head. “Let’s start at the beginning. Remember?”

  Christine chuckled. “I’m not fresh out of the gate “

  “But you are,” Juan said gently. “You are acting the same way.” He cleared his throat. “This is the problem with growing old. You can see the mistakes of youth so much clearer than your own…” He turned and stared out at the coming storm. “Do you know why I was so vexed with you on the roof? Don’t shake your head stupidly. Either answer or keep quiet.” His tone wasn’t harsh but that of a teacher. “That man you had killed was working for me.”

  “What?!”

  Juan nodded and patted Christine’s hand. “Niña, let me ask you this. Have you ever trusted Station Master? Think carefully before answering.”