Operation Zulu: Dos

by Gamboa, Allen

  “No…” Camacho said quietly as he recognized the dress that was moving in the warm, late night breeze. “Mama!”

  Using all his strength, Camacho pulled free from Cross and ran over to the front of the vehicle.

  “Mama!” he shouted as he tried to yank his hands out of his zip ties.

  The thing that had been Gloria Camacho slowly lifted its broken face from the hood of the Humvee and jerkily turned in his direction. Still impaled on the horn, she made a hissing noise and tried to move closer to her son.

  “No! Mama!” he screamed, tears running down his face.

  “Shit!” Morgan spun in his direction. “Grab him!”

  Before Cross could reach the drug lord, he’d been able to sidle up next to the rotting corpse of his mother. The demon reached out with hungry hands and pulled him in closer to her snapping jaws. Camacho stopped fighting as his mother’s fetid breath and jagged teeth grew closer to his neck. He closed his eyes, ready to accept the long awaited kiss from his mama.

  “Bob!” Hale shouted as he raised his Beretta, ready to shoot Gloria. “Get down!”

  “Mama…” Camacho mumbled as the Gloria cannibal sunk her nasty teeth into his neck. Gloria’s head exploded as Hale fired a round into the side of her face. Taking a chunk of Camacho’s throat with her, she flopped back onto the hood of the Humvee. Camacho dropped to the ground, blood flowing freely from his new wound.

  “Doc!” Hale shouted, holstering his pistol. “Doc!”

  “Hold positions!” Morgan said to the others as he hurried over to where Camacho lay bleeding.

  Hale was already kneeling down next to him while Cross stood staring at the motionless corpse on the horn.

  “What the fuck?” She poked the body with her rifle barrel. “What the fuck?”

  “Hold on, Bob,” Hale said, trying to calm down the wounded cartel boss. Doc Kegy squatted down next to him carrying his aide bag. “He got bit in the neck.”

  “Great.” Doc pulled out some antibiotic and a bandage. “Hold still, Bob, this is gonna sting like a bitch!”

  “Mama!” Camacho cried, rolling around on the ground.

  Hale pinned the cartel man down on the ground so the medic could treat his wound. Hale couldn't care less about Camacho, but he knew they might need him alive to help get back home.

  “You got this?” Morgan asked.

  “Yeah.” Doc Kegy nodded as Camacho started to calm down. “I’ll wrap up his neck then we’ll be good to go.”

  “Swell,” Morgan looked over at Cross. “Some fucking day, Ronnie. Help me pull the body off the horn.”

  “Sure.” Cross slung her rifle and moved over to the front of the vehicle.

  Morgan grabbed the right side of Gloria’s battered corpse while Cross had a hold of her left. Both soldiers grunted as they slid the cartel woman’s remains off the stainless steel steer horn and onto the ground. The smell was horrible and Cross stepped back, covering her nose with a gloved hand. She noticed Gloria’s body had a weird gray pallor to it and a nasty black fluid dripped from her wounds. “What is wrong with her, Morgan?”

  “You mean what was wrong with her?” He shrugged. “Something in the water?”

  “She looks like shit.” Cross still studied the body. “Think it’s contagious?”

  “Yes,” Morgan nodded. "But I don’t know how.”

  “Probably saliva,” Doc Kegy said, finishing wrapping up Camacho’s wound. “Amatuzo was bitten; look what happened to him.”

  “Bites?” Cross glanced down at Camacho. “Maybe we should leave him then or shoot him."

  "No,” Hale stood up. “We still need him.”

  “I am fine!” Bob said, trying to sit up.

  “Sure you are, Bob.” Kegy patted him on the shoulder then slightly shook his head in Morgan’s direction.

  “Cross, Doc, get him back in the Hummer.” Morgan looked over at Hale. “We’ll sort this out once we get to the yacht.”

  “Keep your eye on him, Cross,” Hale said as they helped the cartel man back to the vehicle. He threw a look over at the dead woman’s corpse. “That his mom?”

  “Hell, I guess so.”

  “That’s some fucked up Shakespeare shit.” Hale took another swig from the water bottle. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  BOB’S MAMA ISSUES

  EN ROUTE TO PUNTA ARIAS HARBOR

  The customized zebra striped Humvee reached the Punta Arias Harbor in less than twenty minutes. There hadn't been any traffic on the roads so Hale was able to speed all the way to the docks. The gates that led to the boat slips hung broken off its hinges and a body lay face up in front of it. A handful of cars littered the parking lot; some of them still had their car doors and trunks open.

  Hale pulled the big vehicle in close to the damaged gate. Several large streetlights illuminated the parking lot and harbor area.

  “Looks like somebody had the same idea.” Hale shut off the Humvee’s engine.

  “I hope Bob’s boat is still here.” Morgan grabbed up his rifle and pushed his door open.

  “Time to unass this bitch and find us a boat,” Hale said, climbing out of the front seat. He couldn’t wait to get to a phone to call home. He now realized how much he missed his family.

  “What’s the name of your boat?” Redwood asked as he helped Cross and Camacho out of the Humvee.

  “It’s a yacht and it’s called the Gloria.” Camacho swallowed; his mouth unusually dry. During the short ride to the harbor, he had become very weak and feverish. “I named it after my sainted mother.”

  “Let’s find this boat,” Morgan said, glancing around the parking lot.

  “Yacht,” Camacho corrected him again. “Yacht. It should be the biggest one here.” Sweat ran down his cheeks. “Can I have some water? I am not feeling well.”

  “Sure.” Kegy popped the top of a water bottle and poured some into Camacho’s open mouth. The medic could see that the man was fighting some kind of infection. More than likely from the bite and more than likely very dangerous. Doc Kegy handed the water bottle to Cross and walked over to where Snake, Morgan, and Hale stood over the body that lay by the gate. The medic noticed it was a man wearing the badly torn up and bloody remains of a night watchman’s uniform. Doc knew immediately the man had fallen victim to the ravenous flesh eaters. “Trouble?”

  “Appears that way.” Morgan nodded at Snake. “Take Duley and Vanelli and go have a look.”

  “Roger.” Snake turned to head for the gate when the dead man on the ground grabbed his ankle and jerked him off his feet. The young soldier fell hard on his pack, dropping his rifle. The dead security guard, still lying on his back, pulled himself up in between Snake's legs and bit down hard on his right inner thigh. Morgan smashed his booted foot into the man’s jaw, smacking the top of his head onto the asphalt. As Snake screamed in pain, Morgan brought his boot down again on top of the cannibal’s face, caving in his skull. The undead man groaned, his mouth full of Snake’s flesh, and then lay still.

  “Doc!” Snake screamed as he sat up and tried to grab his bleeding thigh. The flesh eater had found the soldier's femoral artery and severed it with its terrible teeth. ‘Snake’ Pushkin, was rapidly bleeding out.

  Hale quickly reached down, lifted the corpse from between Snake’s legs, and easily tossed it aside. Doc was instantly down working on the soldier's horrible wound.

  “Sergeant Morgan!” Duley shouted. “We have company!”

  “Shit!” Morgan looked up from where Doc Kegy was frantically working on Snake.

  “We got this.” Hale slapped Morgan on the shoulder then dropped down to help Doc work on the badly wounded Snake.

  More of the dead were starting to swarm into the parking lot. A least two dozen of the flesh eaters were staggering their way. As Cross turned to face the oncoming threat, she pushed the cartel boss behind her and brought her rifle up to her shoulder. As much as she despised the little man, she knew he was still their responsibility. Redwood stepped up beside he
r and brought his weapon to a combat position.

  Redwood gave her a knowing wink. “Don’t sweat it, Ronnie.” He grinned.

  “You see me sweating, big guy?”

  “Cover behind the Hummer!” Morgan shouted to the others as the group of fast moving dead closed in on them.

  “Let ‘em have it!” he yelled, using the front end of the Humvee as a rifle rest. He squeezed off several head shots taking out the lead flesh eaters.

  “Where in the hell did they come from?” Vanelli asked as he unloaded on more of the approaching hungry dead.

  “Doc…” Snake mumbled as he grew weaker. “Doc…”

  “You’re gonna be fine, Snake,” Doc said as he tried to grab the artery. His hand was slick with the young soldier's blood. Hale tried to assist the medic in finding the damaged vein, but there was just too much blood.

  “Mom… mom…” Snake moaned.

  “Hold on, buddy.” Hale patted him on the chest with his free hand. “We’ll get you home, Snake, just hold on.”

  “Fuck,” Doc mumbled to himself; he could tell he was quickly losing the soldier. “Snake, I got this,” he lied. “You’ll be back drinking beers with Redwood in no time.” He wiped some sweat from his forehead leaving a smear of the wounded man’s blood.

  “Mom…” Snake grabbed Doc by the arm and squeezed him tightly. “I don’t want to go…” He sputtered and spat out some blood. “I…”

  The medic could feel Snake’s grip on his arm loosen as the soldier exhaled loudly, his head drooping to the side.

  “Snake?” The artery had stopped pumping blood and the soldier's arm dropped to his bloody thigh.

  Doc Kegy halfheartedly reached up to feel for a pulse he knew wasn’t there. The medic shook his head slowly and sat back on his knees. Eyes clouded with tears, he glanced over at Hale. “He’s gone.”

  Hale had figured when he first saw the soldier's wound that it was fatal, and that they would probably lose the young man. This was another face and name Hale would have to push back down into that black pit where he kept all the dead and broken. Rollie wondered how someone like Doc dealt with all of it. Before he could say anything, Vanelli shouted from where the rest of the team was positioned behind the Humvee.

  “The docks!” Vanelli had turned to rest his back against the vehicle while he reloaded when he caught sight of the dead stumbling at them from the boat dock.

  Hale looked over to see a group of five of the fast movers coming from behind them. He stood up and drew his Beretta and fired a round into the closet flesh eater.

  “Is this what you call being the donkey?” Hale shouted to Morgan.

  “Exactly.” Morgan slammed another magazine into his rifle. “Need help?”

  “No.” Hale hit another of the undead in the leg, sending it crashing into two of the others and knocking them all over the side of the pier and into the water. The last flesh eater smashed into the gate then stumbled through the opening and into the parking lot. As Hale drew a bead on the ravenous teenaged creature, its head exploded and the rest of it crashed to the asphalt. The sergeant frowned and looked down to see Doc Kegy in a kneeling firing position, still holding his rifle. “Doc, it’s okay. You got him.”

  The medic stared at where the dead boy had been for a few seconds then dropped his rifle to combat rest. He glanced up at Hale through tear-filled eyes and just nodded.

  Hale reached a gloved hand down to Doc and gently pulled him to his feet. He could see that wherever Doc kept his pain it was just about full.

  “Clear,” Morgan said into his headset. At least two dozen bodies of the re-killed flesh eaters lay strewn about the Humvee. Not a single one had gotten through to the team. Morgan dropped his rifle to his side and walked over to where Hale and Doc stood over Snake’s body. He turned and grabbed the cartel boss from where he stood next to Cross. Camacho, weak from the bite infection, didn’t offer any resistance.

  “See that man? He was a good man. Twenty four years old.” Morgan gripped Camacho’s jaw and turned his head to face the body of the young soldier. “His name is Ivan Pushkin and he was worth more than you’ll ever be.”

  “Was he a rich man? Was he a celebrity? Why should I care? He’s a nobody. Just another fucking dead soldier. He’s just a fucking trained monkey! A dead one at that!” Sweat poured down his face and he tried to wipe his cheek on his shoulder.

  “Bob… Bob, look at me,” Cross said from behind. Irritated and feeling like shit, the cartel boss turned to face the redhead.

  “Listen bitch.” Cross slammed Camacho hard in the face with a gloved fist. Camacho staggered a bit before a hellfire of savage blows fell on him from her small but hard fist. The drug lord fell to the ground as she continued to angrily rain punches on Camacho’s bloody face.

  “Ronnie.” Morgan gently grabbed her right arm as she raised it for another strike. “Ronnie. We need to go and I need this piece of shit to be able to talk to his boat crew for us. He can’t help us if he has no teeth.”

  “Yeah… yeah.” She let go of Camacho’s collar with her left hand and stood up. Cross wiped her bloody glove on her pant leg and stepped back.

  "No more talking, Bob.” Morgan jerked Camacho to his feet. The cartel boss spat blood on the ground near his own feet. Morgan was very impressed at Cross’s handiwork. The swollen faced drug lord couldn’t bring himself to meet the redhead’s laser stare. “Redwood, you take lead.”

  “What about Snake?” he asked. “He might turn into one of those things.”

  “He will turn into one of those monsters,” Doc Kegy added. “That’s how this thing is spread.”

  “He wouldn’t want to become one of those meat sacks.” Cross wiped her eyes. “We can’t let that happen to him.”

  “I’ll do it.” said Redwood, sadness deep in his voice.

  “No.” Hale stepped forward. “He was your friend. Take point and get the team to the yacht. I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Hale.” Redwood nodded and headed through the broken gates. Seconds later, the rest of the team followed the big point man to the yacht. Hale slung his rifle and turned to the lifeless form of Ivan Pushkin. The Air Force sergeant checked the small magazine on his pistol then popped it back in. He chambered a round and as Snake’s eyes slowly opened, he fired.

  IF YOU LIKE PIÑA COLADAS

  PUNTA ARIAS HARBOR

  Morgan and the rest of the team approached the eighty foot yacht that was docked in the harbor. He noticed many of the other boat slips were vacant; obviously their owners had the same idea of leaving. Whatever was happening here was spreading. The soldiers needed desperately to get back home while there still was a home to return too. The team stopped next to the grand yacht that was moored alongside the pier. The boat’s interior lights were off and the vessel appeared empty.

  “Bob,” Morgan turned to the cartel boss, who was now being supported by Cross and Redwood. “I thought you had a crew here.”

  “I do,” Camacho said quietly. Sheets of cold sweat poured down his face as he tried to stand. The infection was quickly tearing through his immune system and Camacho was growing weaker by the second. “They should be aboard.”

  “Call to them. Tell them to come out.” Morgan grabbed him by the shoulder; his shirt was drenched in perspiration and his hair was a sweaty mess. Camacho swallowed and nodded .

  “Come out!” he yelled in Spanish. “It is I… Robert Camacho!” His voice cracked as he used up almost all of his energy calling to the yacht crew.

  “It is safe!” he yelled then slumped back into the two escorting soldiers arms.

  “El Jefe?” An older man in a white captain's uniform stepped out from the darkened flying deck of the yacht. The grey bearded sailor timidly held a baseball bat in his hands. “Señor Camacho?”

  “Si.” Camacho weakly waved at the crewman then said in Spanish. “I’m coming aboard with my American… friends.” As weak as he was, the contempt still was thick in his voice. Camacho struggled to remember
the man’s name. “Captain?”

  “Meza,” the crewman shouted down at him.

  “Captain Meza.”

  The sailor climbed down to the main deck and hurried over to where Camacho and the others stood on the pier. He hastily dropped the gangway and eagerly waved them aboard. The captain seemed a little skittish when he realized the men with Camacho all were heavily armed and looked ready to shoot something. Captain Meza also noticed that Camacho was in zip ties and not walking free.

  “Señor? What is going on?” Meza asked his boss in Spanish.

  “Just a misunderstanding.” Camacho glanced at Cross and Redwood. “It will be resolved shortly.”

  “You speak English?” Morgan asked the yacht captain.

  “Si—uh, yes.” Meza nodded.

  “Good. We are confiscating this boat— yacht in the name of the United States. You good with that, Captain?” Morgan asked as he stepped in close to the crewman.

  “I don’t want any problem.” He looked over at Camacho and saw his boss was obviously on the bad end of things.

  “Good. I’m Sergeant Morgan and the big guy coming aboard is Sergeant Hale. We’re the El Jefe’s now. Your boss is in our custody. We just need a ride to the United States.”

  “Captain Meza, these—” Camacho started a coughing spell and again collapsed into Cross' and Redwood's arms.

  “Find a room and lock Camacho up,” Morgan said to Redwood and Cross. “Now, Captain, how many crew and do you have weapons?”

  “It is just me and first mate, Julio.” He held the bat up. “These are our only weapons. We have been hiding from those creatures aboard the Gloria.”

  “Just you and Julio?” Hale asked as he stepped next to Morgan.

  “Our families are here too.” The soldier could see the fear in Meza’s eyes. “Please, we are just trying to keep them safe from the monsters outside. We were thinking of sailing the yacht to the United States. We thought maybe El Jefe was dead.”

  “No such luck, amigo.” Hale raised a gloved hand. “How many of you are there?”