The Zombie Terror War Series (Vol. 1): When the Future Ended

by Spell, David

  Eddie laughed. There was nothing that police officers liked better than poking fun at their fireman brothers.

  “So, he got a job with one of the local FD’s, became a firefighter and a paramedic and did that for a few years. But, you know that itch, Eddie. It doesn’t just go away. Scotty decided to do the same thing I did. He applied to do some military contract work overseas. That was when his name popped up on Rebecca’s computer.”

  Eddie nodded. “And what about Ms. Johnson?”

  Chuck glanced over at him. “And what about her?”

  “You know, are you and her, you know, going out or anything?”

  “Man, she's our boss. I can’t date the boss. You know that.”

  “Yeah, ok,” said Marshall. “If you say so.”

  Powell’s business was located in a small industrial complex, just east of Atlanta. McCain parked in the back next to a heavy metal door. He pushed the buzzer and then stepped back and looked up at the camera. After a moment, the door clicked and Chuck and Eddie stepped inside.

  Gunny rolled his wheelchair towards the two men. Powell had lost the use of his legs in the First Gulf War. He had been trained as an armorer in the Marines so after his medical discharge it was only natural that he start making money for his talent. “Gunny’s Guns” was quietly becoming a leading force in the firearm's suppressor industry. He was wearing a Kimber .45 ACP pistol, cocked and locked, in a cross-draw holster across his chest.

  "Good to see you, Chuck." They shook hands.

  “Hey, Gunny, this is Eddie Marshall.”

  The two men shook hands.

  A smiling, gray haired woman came out of a side office. She was wearing a Glock in a hip holster. “Hey Chuck! It's great to see you!”

  “Hi Jeanie. Good to see you, too.” He introduced her to Eddie.

  “This is Gunny’s much better half. If she wasn’t here he’d be broke. You know those Marines are great in a fight but aren’t too good with numbers. Is he still making you work for free?” McCain asked Jeanie, motioning with his head towards Gunny.

  She laughed. “He thinks I work for free. What he doesn’t know is that I use his credit card anytime I want. And since I pay the bills, I can get away with it."

  Gunny looked at the two big men and shook his head. “CDC Police? What kind of crap is that, Chuck? Why do we need more federal police officers?”

  Chuck felt Eddie stiffen. “You’ll have to excuse Gunny, Eddie. He thinks that the federal government is out to get him. There's nothing he likes better than a good conspiracy theory. He doesn't even believe that we landed on the moon!”

  “We didn’t land on the moon,” he said gruffly. “Everybody knows that was one of the biggest hoaxes in history. And what are they feeding you guys over there at the CDC? Is this some kind of new super steroid cop program?”

  Chuck laughed but Eddie wasn’t sure about the steroid comment.

  “This guy was a linebacker at Notre Dame,” McCain said, pointing at Eddie.

  Gunny nodded. “You look like you could still play. Maybe you could help the Falcons?”

  That got a laugh out of Eddie and he finally started to relax.

  “You still fighting, Chuck?” Gunny asked. “I got to a few of your local fights. The last one I saw, I thought you’d killed that guy! He was out cold for like five minutes.”

  Chuck rubbed the big scar over his left eye. “Yeah, he was the one who gave me that scar. And that was my last fight before I went to Afghanistan.”

  “Well, he paid for that, for sure. Wasn’t he the kid that the UFC was trying to sign?”

  “Yeah, but it didn't work out so good for him.”

  “Come on, Chuck,” said Eddie. “You've got to tell me about this. You beat a guy that was going into the UFC?”

  “Well, kind of,” said McCain. “I got a call from my promoter.”

  Lieutenant McCain was sitting in his office at police headquarters trying to figure out what to do next. It was only ten in the morning but he had already finished his administrative duties for the day, he had answered his emails, and had returned his phone calls. His big task now was deciding where to eat lunch in a couple of hours. Being a lieutenant was not nearly as glamorous as the movies made it out to be.

  His cell phone vibrated, alerting him to an incoming call. It was Antonio “Tony” DePoli, a local fight promoter. He was a New York transplant who had dreams of promoting the big fights. In reality, he put together some local talent every few months at one of the popular Country and Western bars. He had promoted all of McCain’s thirteen fights.

  “Chuck, you working hard crushing crime?”

  “Oh yeah, Tony. If any crime happens in my office, I'm all over it. Actually, I'm bored out of my mind. If you don’t want to do any police work, just get promoted to lieutenant.”

  “Well, maybe I can help you a little with the boredom. You want a fight?”

  “Man, I’d love a fight. Who is it?”

  “You know Tyreese Hopkins?”

  “Yeah, but not well. We've fought on a couple of the same cards. Nice kid. Heavyweight, right?”

  “That’s him. All-American wrestler from the University of South Carolina. He was an alternate for the Olympic team in the last Olympics. In MMA, he's undefeated as a pro with nine wins. And he must have a good publicist or something. There's a UFC scout going to be at this fight. The word is, if he wins, they're going to offer him a contract.”

  Chuck grunted. “When is it?”

  “Here’s the thing, Chuck. Tyreese was originally scheduled to fight Big Bubba Brown. You know, he’s the bouncer at that biker bar downtown. Well, he must have said the wrong thing to the wrong biker because he's out of the fight with a fractured skull. So I need somebody to step in on short notice. The fight's in two weeks.”

  “Wow, real short. How much does it pay?”

  “Bubba was going to get two grand. If you say 'yes,' I’ll bump it up to twenty five hundred because it’s such short notice. And this is the main event for the card.”

  That’s two firsts, Chuck thought. This would be the biggest payday in his fighting career and it would be his first main event.

  “Are you in your office, Tony?”

  “I am.”

  “Print out the contracts. I’m on my way to sign them.”

  McCain took vacation from the police department for the next two weeks to prepare. He wasn’t in bad shape but he definitely wasn’t in top fighting shape. He normally lifted weights and worked the heavy bag five to six days a week. He also did MMA training two or three times a week. To really prepare for a professional fight, however, took a minimum of four weeks and preferably six.

  For the next two weeks, though, he cut back on the amount of weight he was lifting and spent hours every day hitting the bag, hitting and kicking the pads with his coach, and sparring. He also worked with a couple of the top students at his MMA school who had a background in wrestling. It was short notice but Chuck felt pretty good and he had something that always gave him a chance to win any fight he was in. He was a power puncher and kicker and had always been known as a guy with heavy hands and devastating kicks.

  The weigh-in was the day before the fight. Chuck normally fought at light-heavyweight. He hated cutting his weight down to the two hundred and five pound limit. At the same time, he was undefeated at light-heavy with five knockouts, one submission, and one decision victory.

  All four of his defeats were decision losses fighting at heavyweight. He also had two wins, both knockouts fighting the big men. In reality, he was a big light-heavyweight but a small heavyweight. As a professional, he had nine wins and four losses. All of his fights had been in small venues in the Southeast. This was easily the biggest fight of his career.

  This match-up with Tyreese Hopkins was a heavyweight fight so McCain would not have to cut any weight. Tyreese wasn’t one of the really big guys in the division but McCain still anticipated giving up fifteen to twenty pounds. Tyreese was also an inch taller, and, of
course, Chuck was giving up seventeen years in age. Tyreese was twenty-four and he was forty-one.

  Chuck weighed in at two hundred and fifteen pounds. Tyreese tipped the scales at two hundred and thirty six. After their weights were announced, they did the traditional face-off for the cameras. Hopkins tried to stare McCain down but Chuck just started laughing at him. Tyreese could not hold the stare and started laughing, too. They shook hands and embraced.

  “I’m going to kick your ass, old man.” Tyreese said, the smile still on his face.

  “Pack your lunch, sonny. I’m not coming to lose.”

  On the day of the fight, Chuck followed his normal pre-fight rituals. He was nervous, but no more than normal. For him, this was just another fight. All of the pressure was on Tyreese. No one expected McCain to win. He was old and he was a light-heavyweight fighting a really talented, young heavyweight. He knew Hopkins was good but you never really knew how good someone was until the bell sounded.

  When the bell rang for Round One, McCain started off in his southpaw stance. He used his movement to avoid Hopkins' takedown attempts. Chuck was able to punch or kick and then move away. He couldn’t afford to trade heavy punches with a guy who outweighed him by over twenty pounds.

  By the middle of the round, Chuck had landed several good combinations to Tyreese’s face and had opened a small cut over his opponent’s right eye. He also was able to connect with some solid body shots that clearly hurt the bigger man. More importantly, McCain had stopped every one of Hopkins' takedown attempts.

  Towards the end of the round, Chuck felt himself getting tired. He got a little sloppy and Tyreese caught him with a nice double-leg takedown and ended up on top of him. McCain knew there wasn’t much time left in the round, so he grabbed him around the neck and pulled him down tight against his body. This smothered Hopkins' attacks. Worst-case scenario, the referee would stand them back up.

  The best-case scenario was that the round would end and that was what happened. The bell rang and Chuck released Tyreese. As soon as he was free, though, Hopkins brought his right elbow crashing down on the left side of Chuck’s face, opening a large cut over his left eye. The referee pulled him off of McCain. The strike was clearly after the bell. The referee gave Tyreese a warning but did not deduct a point. McCain was groggy as he got to his feet and he knew that he was cut bad.

  His corner guys pulled him over to the stool and sat him down. His MMA coach was working his corner and pressed a towel against the cut, trying to stop the bleeding.

  “It’s a pretty bad cut, Chuck,” his trainer whispered. “I think we should stop it.”

  “I’m fine. Don’t stop it.”

  Another face peered into the corner. It was the ring doctor. He pulled the towel off of the cut and shook his head. Chuck smelled the alcohol on his breath.

  “That's a really bad cut, young man. I'm going to need to stop the fight. It's nothing to be ashamed of. You fought very well.”

  “Doc, if you stop this fight, I’ll kick your ass. I'm fine. It's my face, but I promise you, if you stop it, you and I will be the next main event. Please, just go sit down and have another beer.”

  The fans who were seated on Chuck’s side of the cage in the small arena saw the drama taking place in his corner. They began the chant of “Let it go, let it go.”

  Fans on the other side of the auditorium sensed what was going on and took up the chant as well, “Let it go, let it go.”

  The doctor shrugged and said, “It’s your life, son. I tried to protect you.”

  The referee had come over to the corner to see what the verdict was. The doctor told him to let the fight continue.

  “That was after the bell, ref,” McCain said. “Are you hoping to get a contract with the UFC, too?”

  When the bell rang for Round Two, the fighters met in the middle of the ring. Chuck's left eye was still bleeding but not as much. His corner had done a good job with direct pressure and the application of a coagulant into the cut.

  He started the round in an orthodox stance and was moving well, staying outside of Tyreese's punches. Chuck landed a couple of strong left jabs to Hopkins’ cut right eye. Tyreese’s head recoiled from the force of the punches and his eye started bleeding again. McCain fired another jab and then faked like he was going to step in and throw a straight right.

  This was the move that Tyreese had been waiting for. He ducked under the right and went for the double-leg takedown again. As he came in, head first, just like he knew he would, Chuck threw a vicious knee strike that caught him under the jaw. Hopkins’ head snapped back and he was knocked several feet across the octagon, landing on his back. He was probably already unconscious but McCain rushed in and dropped a devastating elbow strike onto his face before the inept referee pulled him off and declared him the winner by knockout. Tyreese was unconscious for several minutes and was loaded onto a stretcher to be taken to the hospital for evaluation.

  After the fight, the UFC scout came to Chuck’s dressing room to congratulate him on his win.

  “That was one of the most impressive wins that I've ever seen. You played him like you knew exactly what he was going to do. And for what it's worth, if it was up to me, I'd offer you the contract to fight with us but we normally don’t hire guys that are over thirty-five.”

  “So, what about Tyreese?” asked Eddie. “Did the UFC ever pick him up?”

  “No. He was in the hospital for about a week after that. He was messed up pretty good; his jaw was broken to go along with his concussion. I heard that he never fought again. I think he's a wrestling coach at some high school. I hate it for him but that’s the fight game.”

  “But I guess you’re retired now?” Gunny asked.

  “I haven’t really thought about it, Gunny. I haven’t had a fight since I got back from my two years in Afghanistan. I was fighting a few times a year before that. I guess if I got a call from the promoter, I’d at least think about it but I'm not as young as I used to be.”

  “Well, guys, I need to get back to work.” Gunny spun his wheel chair around and said, “Come on and get these rifles.”

  “We get to test them first, though, right?” McCain asked, winking at Marshall.

  Gunny had a small bullet-trap and backstop set up in his workshop. He had to be able to test fire his work. If his neighboring businesses had any idea what he was doing, they probably wouldn’t like it. Gunny’s primary business, however, was suppressors so the other companies had no idea that he was regularly test-firing weapons every day.

  Chuck and Eddie each fired a magazine through their now suppressed M4s. While not completely silencing the gun, it did reduce the sound dramatically. “Really nice, Gunny. Really nice,” said Marshall.

  They carried all the rifle cases out to Chuck’s truck. McCain stepped back in to talk to Gunny about getting threaded barrels and suppressors for their Glocks. He got a written quote that he could take back to Rebecca to see if he could talk her into buying them, as well.

  Eddie saw that he had a voicemail on his smart phone. He had not had phone service in Gunny’s warehouse. He tapped the screen to listen to the message from his assistant team leader, Jimmy Jones. Eddie’s face tightened and he forced himself to control his emotions.

  Chuck was saying goodbye to Gunny and Jeanie. He saw the expression on his partner’s face and started for the truck. Eddie was trying to call Jimmy but he wasn't answering.

  “What’s up, buddy?”

  “Jimmy just left me a message. He said that Marco’s dead.”

  One hour earlier, Thursday, Southeast Atlanta

  The two teams had gone in different directions. Fleming and Smith, from Team One, were on the interstate west of Atlanta. They were driving to check a house that might be a safe house or a distribution center for the bio-terror operation. The address came up in some of the information that the Clean Up Team had found in Team Two’s empty house the week before.

  Andy and Scotty were going to conduct a surveillance at the locat
ion and see what they could learn. They both felt a little naked not having their rifles with them. Each Suburban did have a Remington Model 870 12 gauge shotgun as part of the standard equipment. The men preferred their M4s but the shotgun would add some extra firepower to go with their pistols if they needed it.

  García was traveling with the CDC Director to Washington for two days as his bodyguard. Any of the men could have handled that job. Luis’ time with the Secret Service, however, meant that he was the first to get volunteered for those assignments.

  The three men of Team Two were heading to an address in Southeast Atlanta to retrieve another package of tainted medicine. This one had been sent from a location in Dallas, Texas. The notification had come in from the UPS through the FBI and Rebecca had dispatched the men to go and get it. Marco Connolly was driving. Jimmy Jones was in the front seat and Alejandro Estrada was in the back.

  They would normally call the location first to warn the people not to take the medicine and to let them know they were coming to get it. Jones had located a phone number for the address but there had been no answer when he had called.

  “So what’s the plan, Jimmy?” Marco asked the assistant team leader.

  Jimmy was six feet tall and weighed a hundred and eighty pounds. He had run track and field and wrestled at the University of Alabama where he had graduated with a degree in Criminal Justice. He joined the Marines as an officer after college and was deployed twice to Iraq, first as a lieutenant and then as a captain of rifle companies. As it turned out, he was very good at leading men in battle.

  After eight years in the Marines, though, Jimmy’s mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She had raised him as a single mother and there was no way that he was going to let her go through that on her own. He left the Marines and went back to Birmingham to look after her. She hung on for almost a year before succumbing to the disease.