Operation Zulu: Dos

by Gamboa, Allen

  “Eight. Julio, his wife and baby, and my wife and three children. Please.”

  “Listen Captain,” Morgan patted him on the shoulder. “You get us to San Diego and we’ll drop you off wherever you want in the States, no questions asked. Sound good?”

  “Yes.” Meza smiled. “Yes.”

  “Does this yacht have enough fuel to take us there?” Hale asked.

  “Yes. Plenty.”

  Morgan looked over at Hale, clearly relieved they now had a way home. "I guess we’re not the donkey anymore.”

  “What donkey?”

  “It’s a joke I heard. I’ll tell you later.” Morgan slung his rifle. “How about getting this tub moving, Captain?”

  “Yes, Sergeant, right away.”

  “Have Vanelli and Duley check out the rest of the boat,” Morgan told Hale.

  “Roger that." Hale nodded. "It’ll be nice to get outta this goatfuck.”

  “This feels more like a Chinese circle jerk than a goatfuck.” Morgan chuckled.

  “Short and quick?”

  “No. Everyone’s stuck holding their own dicks.”

  MORE THAN YOU DESERVE

  ABOARD CAMACHO’S YACHT

  “This looks small enough,” Redwood said squeezing his frame through the doorway of one of the yacht's smaller cabins. Cross held onto Camacho as the other soldier did a quick search of the tiny room. Satisfied, Redwood peered out of the open doorway and gave the cartel man a big smile. “This looks just your size, Bob.”

  “My cabin is near the bridge,” Camacho said, still indignant.

  “Still don’t know when it’s over, do you?” Cross pushed him through the open doorway. All three of them were almost squished together in the tiny cabin.

  “Sit down, Bob.” Cross pointed to the twin bed that took up most of the room.

  “When I am free…” Bob mumbled, the sickness causing him to start coughing again.

  “About that.” Cross pulled a water bottle from her pack and tossed it onto the bed next to him. “Sergeant Morgan said to cut you free so I am. But you try anything, Bob, and it’s overboard for you. Understand?”

  Camacho just glared daggers at her with his red, infected eyes.

  “I think that’s a yes, Cross.” Redwood smiled.

  “I believe you're right, Redwood.” Cross pulled out a tactical knife and placed a hand firmly on Camacho’s shoulder. “I’m cutting your zip ties. You make a move and I’ll scramble your brain.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Cross cut the restraints then stepped back. Camacho sat frozen. “We're going to lock you in. The Doc will be by to check on you. And that’s more than you deserve, you drug dealing fuck.”

  “Rich, drug dealing fuck.” Camacho smirked through the bruises on his face.

  Cross flipped the knife in her hand and raised her arm to smash the cartel boss in the face. Redwood stepped in and shoved Camacho back onto the bed.

  “No,” Redwood said softly as he gently ushered Cross out of the cabin and into the narrow hallway before he closed the door and locked it.

  “Veronica.” He rested a giant hand on her shoulder. “He will pay for his crimes. The darkness will be coming for him soon I think. Don’t waste your anger on him anymore. The evil shit he’s done is coming back to him.”

  She nodded and wiped angry tears from her eyes. “You’re right. God will judge him.”

  “God already has,” Redwood said ominously.

  I’LL LET YA TAKE A PEEK AT MY JUNK

  CAMACHO’S YACHT

  Camacho’s yacht had a large entertainment cabin that had the biggest television screen that Duley had ever seen. The soldier, stripped down to his Cleveland Indians t-shirt and his dirty BDU pants, sat down heavily on one of the big overstuffed couches. Duley laid his rifle across his lap and pointed the remote control at the TV screen. Nothing but static greeted him as he searched for something to watch.

  “Satellite's out.” Vanelli, shirt-less with his rifle slung across his back, entered the big cabin carrying a couple of plates with what looked like huge omelets on it. “At least that’s what the first mate told me.”

  Vanelli set the plates down on the couch and removed his rifle. He then grabbed up the plates and sat down next to Duley. The other soldier just stared at him hungrily.

  “Where the hell did you get that?”

  “Captain Meza’s wife,” Vanelli said, handing Duley a plate. “When I was patrolling in the galley she was making breakfast.”

  “Thanks, bro,” Duley said, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth. The soldier smiled as the omelet proved to be quite delicious. “Awesome, just fucking awesome.”

  “Ain’t it?” Vanelli took a bite. “Captain’s wife says they’re just happy just to be leaving Mexico.”

  “Can you blame them?”

  “Not at all.” Vanelli nodded. “Whole time we were in Mexico we didn’t even get a chance to take in one of those donkey shows.”

  “Dude, if you really feel you’re missing out, I’ll let ya have a peep at my junk and it won’t cost you a dime.”

  “I’ll pass. I got enough problems with my self-esteem.” He stabbed the omelet with his fork. “Those fucking skin-eating assholes. I was in serious code brown mode the whole fucking time we were there.”

  “You are one lucky son of a bitch, Vanelli. Tiger attack, fuck.”

  “No shit. I wish Travis had been as lucky.” He stood up and walked over to the full sized bar. “Snake… Amatuzo… I can’t wrap my head around that.”

  “I think I’ll be sleeping with the lights on for a long fucking time, Vanelli. You think those things are everywhere?”

  "I don’t know.” Vanelli pulled open the refrigerator and rooted around in it. “Zima. Fucker's got nothing but Zima.”

  “Vanelli,” Duley set his plate down and glanced over at the other soldier. “What if it’s like this back home?”

  “Shit.” Vanelli found two cokes and tossed one to Duley. “Then we’ll hit the beach, guns blazing!” He popped open the lid on the soda can and took a swig. “When do you have watch?”

  “An hour. Doc is on right now.” Duley stared back up at the blank TV screen. “Vanelli, what if it’s like this all over?”

  “I don’t know, Duley.” Vanelli sighed heavily. “Sergeant Morgan has been on the ship’s radio and hasn’t been able to raise Command or the Coast Guard.”

  “That’s real reassuring.”

  “Look, brother, we have guns and we are the biggest and baddest motherfuckers out there. Right?”

  Before Duley could answer there was a blood curdling scream from below.

  BOB’S TURN

  CAMACHO’S YACHT

  Doc Kegy, still wearing his tac vest and combat gear, strolled below decks making sure everything was safe and secure. The entire team shared a one hour security rotation aboard the big yacht and it was Doc’s turn now. He would also use this time to check in on Camacho’s status.

  Doc carried his rifle low at his side so he could walk freely through the narrow corridors. The mission had been one hell of a strain on the medic’s already fragile state of mind. He had been burned out for a while now and the past night’s events had really pushed him closer to the edge. He hadn’t been this wound since they had come across the Christian school massacre in Syria. Forty children had been beheaded by members of ISIS and their heads were mounted on stakes in the schoolyard. That was a rough one. One of the medics working with Doc had had a break down and was shipped to a mental hospital in Germany. Doc had shoved all of that down inside until it ruined his marriage and almost destroyed his career. He had needed to pull himself together to continue to save more lives, which he did.

  A woman’s scream came from far down the narrow corridor. Doc raised his rifle up to his waist and charged in the direction of the disturbance. A woman tumbled backwards out of a tiny stateroom, spilling a pile of blankets and sheets into the hallway. Camacho sprang out of the cabin and tackled her to the deck. Growling and h
issing, he ravenously tore at the woman’s clothes trying to get to her flesh. Doc couldn’t get a clear shot at Camacho so he flipped his weapon around and slammed the butt of his rifle into the cartel man’s head. Camacho grunted, but continued his attack on the woman.

  Doc again smashed him in the side of the head with his rifle, finally knocking Camacho off the terrified woman and onto the deck. Camacho rolled onto his back and, spitting black drool, tried to get to his feet. Doc raised his rifle again to strike the reanimated drug boss when a loud pistol shot filled the corridor. Camacho’s forehead exploded in a shower of flesh, bone, and black blood. Doc stepped back away from Camacho’s corpse and slowly lowered his rifle to his side.

  “Damn that felt good,” Cross said, sliding her subcompact Beretta into her holster. “You okay, Doc?”

  “Yeah.” Kegy nodded as he glanced down at the woman, who sat crying on the floor. “Señorita, you okay?” he asked in Spanish.

  “Si,” she sobbed.

  “I’m a medic,” Doc told her. “Did he bite you?”

  “No. He was a demon,” the woman cried.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Doc told her. “Let me make sure he didn’t hurt you.”

  “What the fuck is going on?” Morgan asked as he and the rest of the team quickly filed into the corridor.

  The soldiers all had their weapons ready and were scanning their surroundings for any other threats. Hale glanced down at Camacho who was sprawled out on the floor with a fresh hole in his head. He could see by the condition of the drug lord’s body that he had recently turned into one of the flesh eating undead.

  “Aw, shit.”

  “What happened?” Morgan asked Doc, who was conversing with the frightened woman in Spanish.

  “She’s the first mate’s wife, Sandra,” Doc grabbed one of the blankets off the floor and wrapped it around the shivering woman’s shoulders. “She was bringing blankets and sheets down for us when she heard a pounding on a door.” She said something else in Spanish; Doc nodded then looked back over at Morgan. “She asked if they needed help, but got no answer. She has keys to all the doors so she opened it and…” The woman rattled off something else and Doc patted her gently on the shoulder. “She’s not bit, Sarge.”

  “Good.” Morgan nudged Camacho’s corpse with his foot. “I guess we know for sure that bites spread this.”

  “Damn,” Duley said, trying to look over Redwood's shoulders. “That’s some fucked up shit.”

  “He got what he deserved,” Cross said, handing the woman a bottle of water from Doc’s medical pack.

  “I guess Bob’s gonna miss out on all that shower sex.” Vanelli smirked.

  “What now?” Hale asked.

  “Zip-tie him just in case he gets up again. Dump him in a body bag and secure it.” Morgan looked around at the other soldiers in the corridor. “We don’t know how this thing works and I don’t want him getting out again. Watch the blood; don’t get any of it on you in case it’s contagious. I don’t want to lose any more people. Camacho, I couldn't give a fuck about.”

  “Give me a hand, Duley.” Redwood slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and bent down to grab the dead cartel boss by the shoulders. He pulled the corpse into the cabin, leaving a trail of black body fluids behind it.

  Duley picked up one of the discarded sheets and wiped up the mess, tossing the soiled linen onto Camacho’s still form. Redwood quickly zip tied the drug lord as Duley unfolded one of Doc’s body bags. The soldier laid it out on the floor next to Camacho and zipped it open. Both men then lifted the corpse into the bag and closed it up. Redwood secured the body bag with a couple of zip ties. Once they were finished, both men stepped back into the hallway.

  “He’s heavier than he looks,” Redwood said pulling off his gloves. “All that evil must have gone straight to his ass.”

  “Who's on watch?” Morgan asked.

  “I am,” Doc said, still tending to the frightened woman.

  “I’ll cover it, Doc,” Duley said, nodding to Doc. “I was just sitting on my ass anyway."

  "Thanks, Duley.”

  “The rest of you grab some shut eye. We still have several more hours before we reach San Diego and who knows what the hell is waiting for us there.”

  A WORLD OF SHIT

  CAMACHO’S YACHT,

  SOMEWHERE ON THE PACIFIC OCEAN

  It was once again night as the yacht cut its way through the warm Pacific Ocean toward the Southern California coast. Hale stood on the aft deck, dressed down in his black, too-tight, Under Armour shirt and his green BDU pants. He leaned against the stainless steel railing and drank from a water bottle he’d grabbed from the galley. Barely make out the lights of the San Diego coastline in the distance, Hale figured they were still a good couple of hours away. To him, it seemed like they’d been stuck on the yacht forever. No matter how much Hale had willed it, the yacht still would only go so fast. He hadn’t been able to get a hold of his wife and he was just about ready to jump out of his skin with worry. Nothing mattered anymore but his family’s safety. Hale had a real gut feeling that this outbreak of flesh eaters wasn’t just an isolated incident.

  “I see you’re still wearing your ol’ ladies shirts.” Morgan had stepped out of the entertainment lounge and onto the deck. “I’m surprised you’re not grabbing some z’s like everyone else.”

  “You kidding?” Hale turned to face Morgan. “I’m about ready to jump overboard and swim in.”

  “We’ll get there soon, Rollie. Hell, you can see the city from here.”

  “Not soon enough, brother. You have any luck on the radio?”

  “Command isn’t responding. At least none of the mission channels are answering; which isn’t good.” Morgan frowned. He could see the pained look in his partner’s eyes. “I… uh… got in contact with the Coast Guard.” He continued. “Seems like this shit is happening all over. I called for a chopper but they didn’t have one to spare; seems they’re up to their necks in rescues.”

  “I gotta get home, Lin,” Hale said, glancing back at the slowly advancing coastline. He swore he could see flickers of what could be flames and even darker clouds of black smoke rising in the distance. “I need to get to my family.”

  “I know.” Morgan nodded in agreement. “We have to drop Camacho’s body off at the San Diego Naval Base to complete the mission.”

  “Fuck the mission, Morgan. Camacho’s dead, and all hell is breaking loose.” Hale leaned back against the rail. “I’m done. I don’t give a flying fuck if they send a squad of MPs after me. I need to make sure my wife is safe.”

  “I get that, Rollie, I really do. Listen, brother, too many of us died trying to nab this fucker. We need to finish this mission, which means turning over Camacho’s body to somebody. I don’t even care if it’s to a fucking private fresh out of boot camp. Somebody’s getting Camacho’s body.”

  “When we hit port, Morgan, I’m gone.”

  “Look, Rollie, help me deliver Camacho’s remains and, hell, I’ll come with you to Oregon.” Both men could see the flickering lights of the city growing closer.

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “If this shit is all over the place, you could definitely use someone watching your back.” Morgan noticed a jet fighter zip by high above them headed toward the city. “I have nothing to lose, Hale; besides, I’m hoping your wife lets me snag one of her cool shirts.”

  “Thanks, Lin.” Hale nodded, growing more anxious as the yacht drew closer to shore. Another A-10 rocketed across the night sky in the direction of San Diego. “I think we are all about to be in a world of shit.”

  “Maybe now is a good time to tell you my donkey joke.” Morgan grinned.

  SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL

  MANHATTAN

  Black stood on the porch of his Manhattan high-rise, looking out at the city below. He adjusted his dark suit coat and casually walked over to his bar and poured himself a shot of whiskey. It was great to be back home—no matter how brief. Black swi
rled the drink around in his hand and bobbed his head to the music that wafted out from inside his spacious living room. Below the millionaire was the pleasant chorus of emergency vehicles, screams, and gunshots. All was falling into place.

  “Sir?” Baasch, his chief of security, stepped onto the porch. “Your helicopter is ready.”

  “Very good, Baasch. We are about to become very wealthy.” Black took a cultured drink of the whiskey that cost more than his security chief made in a year. “Load up my case and I’ll be right there.”

  “Yes, sir.” The German nodded then made a military precision left face back into the building. Black smiled and, like Nero watching ancient Rome burn, he gazed upon the fires that engulfed the nearby buildings. There was a lot of money to be made out of chaos. A muzak version of Sympathy for the Devil played in the background as Black finished his drink and turned his back on the burning city.

  He grinned. “Now for the real fun to begin…”

  More about the Author

  I'm a retired California State Peace officer and former Air Force Sergeant. I live up in Bigfoot country with my beautiful wife. I love all things horror and cake.

  For more information or to get in touch, follow me on Twitter @allenkillszombi or email me at allenkillszombies@yahoo.com

  SIXTH CYCLE

  Nuclear war has destroyed human civilization.

  Captain Jake Phillips wakes into a dangerous new world, where he finds the remaining fragments of the population living in a series of strongholds, connected across the country. Uneasy alliances have maintained their safety, but things are about to change. -- Discovery leads to danger. -- Skye Reed, a tracker from the Omega stronghold, uncovers a threat that could spell the end for their fragile society. With friends and enemies revealing truths about the past, she will need to decide who to trust. -- Sixth Cycle is a gritty post-apocalyptic story of survival and adventure.