Operation Zulu: Dos

by Gamboa, Allen

  The drug lord mumbled untie me, you fuck into the speed tape. Ramos couldn’t understand a word and just reached over and ripped the tape from his boss’s mouth.

  “Ouch!” Salazar groaned as the speed tape took skin and hair with it.

  “Sorry, sorry!” Ramos panicked.

  “It is fine,” Salazar said with a mouth full of slobber. He didn’t want the dimwit running off on him so he managed a smile and said quietly, “Can you please untie me?”

  “Oh, yes.” Ramos eagerly ran into the kitchen and quickly returned with a pair of scissors. He cut the zip ties with shaky hands and helped his boss to his feet.

  “Thank you, Ramos,” Salazar said, rubbing his wrist.

  “Sal…” The chef started to say something when Salazar cut him off with a raised finger.

  “Listen, American soldiers are attacking the compound. El Jefe is with them. He’s a snitch for them. “

  “Americans?”

  “Yes.” He pointed at the man’s bandaged ear. “El Jefe is a rat. Do you have a radio?”

  “Si.” Ramos smiled at the thought of the asshole that had been so demanding and had cut off his ear was nothing more than a conniving rat. The pastry chef pulled his radio off its belt and handed it to Salazar. “It is set on the maintenance channel not security.”

  “I know,” Salazar said, changing the radio’s channel. “What is going on outside in the courtyard?”

  “I do not know. It’s crazy. People are fighting. It’s bad!” Ramos said wide eyed. “I just came in to check on the cake.”

  “We must take care of the Americans first.” Salazar brought the radio up to his mouth and spoke into it. “All security forces, this is Salazar. American soldiers are in the compound and heading for the rear gate. They have Camacho with them.” Salazar cleared his throat. “Camacho is an American spy. Kill them all!”

  “What about the courtyard?” one of the cartel men said over the radio.

  “Later, we’ll deal with the drunks later.” Salazar grabbed Ramos by the shoulder. “You come with me, Chef. You are now a security man."

  “What are we doing S-Salazar?” The pastry chef swallowed.

  “Killing Americans.” He led Ramos over to a closet and quickly unlocked it. Inside were several rifles, handguns, stacked magazines, and cans of ammo. Salazar reached in and drew out an AR-15 and shoved it into the chef’s manicured hands. "You know how to use this?”

  “No.”

  Salazar shook his head then yanked the AR-15 out of the chef’s hands. He slammed a magazine into the rifle, pulled back the charging handle, flicked off the safety, and dropped it back into Ramos’s arms.

  “Just point and squeeze the trigger. Simple.” Salazar pulled out a big multi grenade launcher and slung it over his shoulder. He withdrew an MP-5 and grabbed up several magazines for it. Stuffing grenades for the launcher into his suit coat, he turned back to the trembling pastry chef. “Relax Ramos. We will eat that cake when we are done.” He shut the closet door. “It is a good day, no?”

  HEADSHOTS

  CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  “I have movement up ahead,” Redwood said into his headset. He could see several figures staggering around in the dim light of the compound. Redwood also noticed a long building burning about a hundred yards away and thought it odd that no one had responded to the fire; the soldier knew that if it went on much longer there was a real risk of it spreading. Shots and screams from the courtyard reminded him that there was something else going on here. Something dark.

  “How many bad guys?” Morgan’s voice was in his ear.

  “Looks like seven.” He felt that bad twinge in his gut. “They appear to be inebriated.”

  “Inebriated?” Cross whispered. “Pulling out those scrabble words again, Redwood?”

  “Take ‘em out. I’m sending Hale and Snake up to you.” Morgan signaled for Hale and Snake to move up to Redwood’s position. Both soldiers stealthily and quickly made their way up to the big sergeant crouched in the darkness. “We need to get a move on.”

  “Roger that,” Redwood said watching as the group of cartel men fumbled about. Their movements were very strange and jerky. The smell of death suddenly filled his nostrils and the sergeant instantly knew his gut was on point. Hale tapped him on the shoulder making him almost jump in fright, something the Native American had never done in his career. Sighing to himself, Redwood signaled for Hale to take the two on the right, Snake, the two in the middle, and he would wax the other three.

  “On three,” Hale said lowly into his mic.

  “Roger.” Snake and Redwood agreed.

  Hale nodded slowly as he fixed his first target in his sites. “Three!”

  The suppressed rifles barked in the shadows as the three soldiers fired on the cartel men. Rounds slapped into their chests, tearing big exit holes in the targets' backs. All seven men had been struck with kill shots in the upper body but they still continued to stay upright. Now though, they seemed to notice the soldiers. Four of the cartel men let out a weird, collective moan and quickly charged at the team’s position while the other three limped after them.

  “We hit them,” Snake said, unbelievingly as he prepared to fire another round at the crazed group.

  “Again,” Hale said steadily as he again fired off two rounds that would have exploded any normal person's heart and put a softball sized hole in their back. The other two soldiers did the same. The cartel men staggered a little as holes were blown through their bodies and dark, black, blood splashed their faces.

  “Shit!” Snake cursed, squeezing the trigger again.

  “They must be wearing some kind of vest,” Hale said. Knowing his rounds had been right on, he couldn’t explain why the men were still standing. As the group advanced, the Air Force sergeant could hear them snarling and hungrily snapping their teeth. Hale knew if they didn’t put them down this time, the first four would be upon them.

  “Headshots,” Hale said, drawing a bead on the first one. He squeezed the trigger and the first man’s head exploded in a shower of flesh and black blood. Hale’s second shot destroyed his other target's nose, punching a fist-sized hole in the front of the man’s face and completely blowing out the back of his skull.

  “Damn.” Snake shook his head as he stared at the bodies that lay several feet away from them.

  “You see the look in their eyes?” Redwood said into his mic without taking his eyes off the area ahead of them. He still held his rifle up at his shoulder; he knew something dark and evil was happening.

  “Hale, I’m coming to you,” Morgan said into his headset. He glanced around at the rest of the team and saw they were all at the ready and watching their various areas of responsibility. He tapped Cross on the shoulder and made a quick sprint over to where the other three team members were crouched.

  “All the targets are down,” Hale said quietly as Morgan knelt down next to him.

  “What the fuck was that?” Morgan asked as he covered his mic with a gloved hand. “You guys had to shoot them three times.”

  “We dealt them all two fatal wounds.” Hale glanced over to where the bodies lay. “They kept coming. Headshots finally stopped them.”

  “Maybe they were all drugged up and shit.” Snake shrugged. “This is a drug cartel.”

  “Pretty fucking weird.” Hale covered his mic with his hand. “Spooked the crap outta me."

  “Drugs,” Snake reiterated.

  “It wasn’t drugs or body armor. That was something evil,” Redwood said, still staring ahead, his deep voice dead serious.

  “Headshots work.” Morgan took his hand off his mic and tried to ignore Redwood’s cryptic words. “Headshots people. Don’t waste bullets on center mass. They have some kind of body armor.”

  “Fuck me,” Duley said over the mic.

  “Let’s get going.” Morgan grabbed Hale by the thick forearm. “I don’t want to miss our bird.”

  “Provided it’s still there.”

  “Yeah.�
�� Morgan quickly removed his combat smartphone from inside his tac vest and clicked it on. “Bravo One to any assets… Bravo One to any assets…” An eerie silence greeted his calls. “Swell.” Morgan shoved the phone back into a pocket. “Let’s move.” He signaled the rest of the team forward, hoping they wouldn’t have to walk their happy asses to the border.

  DON’T BE A LITTLE BITCH, BOB

  LEAVING CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  Bob the Butcher staggered slowly as the red headed female soldier half-shoved, half-dragged him along with the team. The depth of his mother’s betrayal was almost too much for him to handle. Bob openly sobbed into the strip of speed tape that covered his mouth. His empire and burgeoning movie career had been so quickly flushed away into the hands of his trusted second-in-command that revenge weighed heavily on his mind. His mamma had obviously been seduced by Salazar's good looks and smooth words. Once Robert was in custody, he’d spill whatever information he had on Salazar and, for good measure, Black. He’d love to see the traitor Salazar burn for what he did to him. His mother would see Salazar for the evil man he was and happily take her son back into her heart. What Camacho didn’t realize was that he possessed no information the Americans needed. The Vice President only wanted blood for the life of his daughter. Bob the Butcher was just going to be dropped into a dark hole and forgot about. If Camacho knew that fact, he would be bawling even louder than he was.

  As the rest of the team quickly passed the dead bodies of the seven cartel men, Camacho tried to sneak a fast look at them. He recognized a few but they looked vastly different now, especially with their faces blown off. Camacho had witnessed the teams take down of his men from a distance. He’d never seen such a thing. His men lay in a jumbled mess and he knew they wore no body armor. Body armor was too expensive for him to buy for all his security men. Now, looking down at the corpses, his skin began to crawl. He whispered a prayer to Saint Malverde and wished these fucking Americans would hurry up. Cross gave him another shove which caused him to jump and let out a muffled squeak.

  “Don’t be a little bitch, Bob.” Cross smiled. She hated drug dealers with a passion. Her younger brother had fell victim to a life of drug fueled nihilism. She couldn’t help that it tickled her a little to see Camacho’s discomfort.

  “Puta,” Camacho mumbled into his tape. He was more startled than pissed at the female sergeant. For some reason, the image of that pendejo, Black, appeared in his mind. He knew deep down inside the American had something to do with whatever bad things were now happening. Camacho did hope that Salazar would follow through and kill the American.

  AZTEC WARRIOR

  CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  Dirty Sanchez had heard Salazar’s call for help on his radio. Still groggy from drink and feeling extremely satiated, the cartel man effortlessly rolled the headless goat out of his bed. The animal corpse hit the floor with a heavy thunk.

  Sanchez sat up and put his bare feet on the floor. With a loud belch, he ran a hand through his greasy black hair and stood up. He glanced at his naked, scarred, and tattooed body in the mirror above his bed. He looked like an Aztec warrior all ready to fight off any rivals. Thumping his chest with a hard fist, he pulled on his crusty jeans that were just barely held together by filth and DNA, and his oily, black, leather vest.

  Sanchez removed a metal box from under his bed. He used Elsa’s bloated body as a seat and quickly opened the lid. Inside and secured in foam padding was a street sweeper shotgun. He pulled out the big gun, sat it across his knees, and checked the drum to make sure it was fully loaded. Satisfied with the condition of the automatic shotgun, he also removed a Glock from underneath his brown pillow and slid it into his waistband.

  Dirty Sanchez stood up, kicked the headless goat corpse aside, and hefted the street sweeper in his hands. It had been a long while since he’d used the big gun, the invading Americans would be the perfect refresher for him.

  Sanchez also had another surprise up his shirtless sleeves. He grabbed the big whip he kept above his bed and walked outside to the tiger cage. Iceman and Maverick were quietly pacing around inside, the noise from the other side of the compound had them all riled up.

  “Easy boys,” he said to them calmly in Spanish. “How would you like to go for a walk?” He chuckled as he released the locks that held the cage doors shut.

  Dirty Sanchez cracked the whip loudly in his right hand, catching both the animals’ attention. They feared the whip; Sanchez had put it to good use with them in the past.

  "Vamanos!” he shouted at them as he flicked the whip in their direction.

  Maverick and Iceman quickly padded out of the cage and into the freedom of the compound. The tigers steered clear of the smelly man that wielded the whip. Since they were cubs they’d been subjected to Sanchez’s ‘training’. The whip and the man were about all the two tigers feared.

  “Vamanos!” Sanchez laughed as the whip smacked in the air, causing the tigers to disappear into the darkness. “Go get some white meat!”

  He cracked the whip again and started to jog in the same direction the tigers had run off in. “I hear it taste like chicken.” He laughed at his own joke then shouted it again. “I hear it taste like chicken!”

  YOU OWE ME

  PARKING LOT OF CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  The old Impala crashed right into the group of demons as they unintentionally blocked the exit to the parking lot. Bailey tried to hold hard onto the steering wheel as the muscle car plowed through the mass of undead bodies. The big engine roared and groaned as it tried to drive over the bodies that had fallen beneath the tires. Black blood splashed the broken windshield as grabbing bodies rolled over the hood and roof. To the four people inside, it felt like the whole car was about to come apart.

  Bailey regained control of the Impala briefly then the wheel shot out of her hands and to the left, causing the car to spin out. A wave of dark blood and flesh washed across the Impala as it slid over the slick mess of zombie guts and bodies. The car spun in a circle, flinging off any of the dead that were holding on and knocking down any that were close. Finally the car came to a hard stop, lifting on its right wheels a few feet then dropping back down to the gore splattered cobblestones. The Impala’s engine sputtered then died.

  “No, no, no!” Bailey mumbled loudly as she tried to restart the engine.

  “Everybody okay?” Nero said as he glanced over at the woman in the back seat. Tanya nodded slowly as she still held the teenage girl. Nero quickly looked out through the blood splashed windows of the car. He could see more of the demons headed their way. “Bailey?"

  “It’s dead!” she said, trying the starter one more time. “She won’t turn over!”

  “All right.” Nero looked at the girl and asked her if she spoke English.

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “Good. What is your name?”

  “Blanca."

  "Okay, Blanca, I’m Nero. That’s Bailey and Tanya.” He checked his M-16 to make sure it was functioning. “We are going to find us another ride.”

  “Do you know how to hotwire?” Bailey asked.

  “No.” He smiled and started to open the passenger door. “Everyone leaves their keys in the cars here. Who's going to steal a car from a cartel parking lot?”

  “I get that.” Bailey smirked.

  “We need an SUV. I see a white Range Rover not too far from us. I’ll make a distraction and you all run for it.”

  “Where are we going?” Blanca asked.

  “Monterrey.” Nero stepped out onto the wet cobblestones. The foul smell of death filled the air.

  “I … my brother is here,” Blanca protested.

  “We have to go,” Tanya said helping the girl out of the backseat. “You can call your brother when we are out of here.”

  “But…"

  "No buts, Blanca.” Tanya climbed out behind her and drew the .38 once more. She had two rounds left in the handgun; not good odds against the mass of crazies that were starting to bolt in
their direction.

  Nero rested his forearm on the sticky roof of the entrail and blood washed Impala. He aimed the M-16 and squeezed off a couple of rounds, knocking down some of the approaching demons. He glanced over at the three women who were standing outside of the car. Nero pointed at the white Range Rover.

  “Go!” he shouted. “I’ll hold them back!”

  The three women sprinted for the parked Range Rover as Nero continued to empty rounds into the group of at least a hundred demon townspeople. Nero had burned through a whole magazine before he turned to see if they had made it to the fancy SUV. As he glanced over his shoulder, he could see Tanya slamming the driver’s side door shut. Nero quickly changed out magazines on the M-16. He hoped and prayed that he was right about the car keys. Nero could see the ravenous crowd grow closer and knew he didn’t have enough ammo or time to finish off the horde of crazed cannibals. A great sadness descended upon him as he realized he would never see his daughters again. All of this had been for nothing. Nero cursed as he aimed and blew one of the demons head into black, bloody pieces.

  “Get in the car!” Bailey shouted from behind. Nero had been so wrapped up in shooting at the horde of demons that he didn’t hear the Range Rover pull up next to him.

  “Get in the fucking car!” Bailey shouted again. Dropping his rifle to his side, he sprinted from the cover of the Impala just as a wave of the cannibals crashed into it. Some of the crazed townspeople scrambled over the hood of the car or staggered around it. Nero ran around to the passenger's side of the Range Rover and jumped inside.

  “Go!” Bailey shouted from the backseat with Blanca.

  “One more time!” Tanya smiled as she stepped on the accelerator and pulled away from the cannibal carnage. The exit way was now clear of crazies so she drove the Range Rover right through it without a problem.