Now here she was, sitting on an ancient bunk that had never seen better days. The walls were old and caked in mud and moss. There was graffiti on the walls and when she had read them, her stomach turned somersaults. There was mention of Theodore Roosevelt and his Roughriders; another dealing with Batista and Castro. She swallowed then shuddered when she saw the toilet. At least she hoped it was. In one corner, some industrious felon had managed to chisel and crack away at the cement floor until there was nothing but a small hole. The rancid smell told her that this was the facilities.
From outside, she could hear screams, sirens, gunfire, and general pandemonium. A loud PA message was being repeated over and over. Unfortunately, the power was failing and she could only hear every other word. But the gist of it was, “Stay inside. Do not go out. If anyone in your house is sick, then get them out of the house ASAP.”
Christine started to pace the cell. She had been in this situation before, but there was always a distraction. The cold in Siberia; the flies in Bali; the city in Mexico. But here? Nothing. Absolutely nothing except her own mind, and the apocalypse happening outside. Apart from that, she didn’t know how long she had been in this cell. There were no windows.
A thought started to form in the back of her mind. Is it really worth it? After all that has happened to you, why not give up? The thought continued to spread and as it did memories of all her past failures started to fade into view.
Rafael’s dead body, the eyes staring unblinking at her; the face frozen forever in uncomprehending horror and shock. How could she have let him die? Then she saw Juan, his bloated body bobbing up and down in the Bay. He seemed to beckon her towards him, but that would mean giving up. Christine could not do that, never would. The mission was always first. Nothing came second.
Adriana. The name whispered itself and Christine frowned. She was the cause of everything shitty to ever have happened to her. Christine started to count backwards all the ways Adriana had hurt her.
The most recent was lying to her about Jeremiah Banks and working for the government. Christine could forgive the lie about the government. After all that was her job: to lie and steal secrets for the Cubans in whatever manner she deemed fit.
Used to be her job, Christine reminded herself. Used to be. But then how long had Adriana been actually working for Jeremiah Banks? Apart from that remark from Juan about recruiting her, Christine actually knew very little about the woman who professed her love.
Christine snorted. Love. Had they ever really had that? Even back five years ago, it had seemed so. But when Christine started to think about the way it was, she knew that Adriana had played her perfectly.
The night she asked Christine to give her information came just after they had told each other that they loved them. Then they had made their way to La Bodeguita and while dancing Adriana whispered, “I need your help, Chris.” Christine, naturally, offered to do anything. “No, not this. Forget I had ever asked.” Adriana then kept the subject light the rest of the night.
Days had gone by and all was fine between them. The sex was intense, the missions daring and dangerous, and their nights at dinner romantic and perfect. Then one day, Adriana arrived at the Nacional with bruises and cigar burns on her body. “The most dangerous man in the world did this to me, as punishment for not getting something.”
Christine begged her to tell her everything, that she wouldn’t be angry or hate her and that their life together was more important than sides. Adriana smiled and said. “Thank you, mi vida, pero you cannot help me. No matter how much I want it, this is something you will never do.”
The sadness in her voice broke Christine’s heart and she said, “I will do anything for you.”
“En serio?” Adriana replied. “Then what this man, this terrible plague on the planet wants is the names of all Station agents in Cuba.”
Christine had shaken her head at that and walked away. For almost a week, neither had said anything to the other and her life was duller, but the job was easier without the distraction. During that period, Christine had grown worried and had started to make an investigation into this terrible man. That was before she had gotten the call.
Adriana had been raped and left for dead. Christine had the address of the hospital and raced over the moment she had gotten the news. She was in intensive care and fighting for her life. The doctors didn’t think she was going to last the night. The next morning, Adriana opened her eyes and smiled at the sleeping Christine. They spoke soon and apologized for being idiots and then Christine asked who had done it.
Adriana said one name and Christine knew what she must do. “Don’t worry about Jeremiah Banks,” she had said. “I’ve been tracking him. Soon, he is going to die. I promise.”
But the Cuban shook her head. “If he dies, then I die. Christine! There is only one way for him to leave me, us, alone. Give him the names.”
Again, Christine repeated that she could not do that but caved after Adriana said, “He promised that the next time he found me, all that would be found would be my…nipples. He said those because you out of all the people in Cuba would know them.”
Christine took a day before giving Adriana the names and getting a promise that after this they would be left alone. She was a fool for believing the lies.
The ten other agents were found and then publicly executed by a Haitian Death Squad. A note was left on the bodies saying that if anyone touched them, they would meet the same fate.
Three days had passed before the people started to scavenge the bodies, taking the wallets and money first, then the clothes, and finally leaving the naked rotting corpses for the birds and dogs.
Christine was exiled and threatened with death by Station Master and sent to Siberia. For two years, she was locked away, fighting for her life every day, until she got the call to go to the Alps and pick up a delivery.
And now here she was, in Havana again, and having to worry about not only an assassination but also the fucking end of the world. If this gets off the island and to either Mexico or the USA, how long until the world is gone? The question floated in her mind until she realized that all her problems had come from one place and one person.
“Station Master!” She cursed the name with every ounce of loathing and hatred she could muster.
“What have I done,” an old voice asked.
#
Station Master sat there in his wheelchair, a light tan suit on and in his lap a floppy panama hat. He looked distinctively odd compared to all the other times Christine had seen him, always in a black or dark gray suit, sometimes a cardigan on top and never a hat. “What have I done to deserve that kind of hatred?”
Christine leapt to her feet and ran to the bars. “You,” she exclaimed. “You have been at the heart of all my problems.”
Station Master chuckled. “Just like my own daughters,” he said. “Always blaming me for their own actions. Let me tell you something, Miss Moore. If I wanted it, you would still be rotting away in that Siberian prison, remember? That was the consequences for your own actions. That is what life is: action and reaction. You do something and there are consequences. Never forget that!” His breathing was labored and he gripped the armrests of his chair.
“Then why are you here? You’ve always played it safe. We fuck up and you throw us under the bus.”
“Don’t act like such a child,” Station Master reprimanded her. “Now, give me the SITREP.”
Christine blinked. What was he doing here? Instead of asking that, she said, “Fucked beyond all recognition. You must’ve have seen it?”
The old man nodded and looked up at the roof. “From above, like a god I did. Christine, what has happened here?”
“Station Master? We don’t have time for this! We have to save Sanderson! That’s the mission now. Please!”
A chuckle escaped the ancient mouth. “You don’t dictate the mission. I do. Never forget that. Now, report!”
The tone snapped Christine’s training into ac
tion. “Somehow the dead have risen. Zombies. They have taken the island, sir. Unless we get out now, our chances are slim to none. As for the original mission, Jeremiah Banks is a lunatic who believes he is a revolutionary. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants. I believe that maybe he is responsible somehow for this outbreak.” That last part made her blink. “Station Master, I have to get out of here. President Sanderson is in danger. He just got off the island.”
The old iron cell door screeched open. Station Master was beside the controls and he smiled. “The mission has changed, Christine. Are you ready?”
Even though she was far from ready, her body screaming at her to stop and rest, her mind at the breaking point, Christine Moore nodded. Station Master smiled. “Good. You need to find Jeremiah Banks. He is of vital importance”
“Why?”
“You said it yourself, ‘He maybe is responsible for this.’ NATO and my contacts in the USA agree; they think he is or knows who has caused this. We need him alive. He has vital information. Get him back to the Station House, alive. Understood?”
There was a large explosion outside that caused the building to shake and dust fell from the roof. Christine looked around, checking to see if there were any cracks or structural damage. Station Master checked his watch and shook his head. “That can’t have been them. I was guaranteed another three hours.”
“Who guaranteed what and why?”
She watched as the old man casually wiped from sweat away from his face. It was the first time she could remember seeing him do this. “Station Master?”
He sighed. “Presidente Esposito has given his clearance and NATO has accepted it that in light of the bio-hazard that has hit Cuba, the mortality rate and the unknown source and way to cure it… Cuba is going to be bombed; a mixture of Thermite and Napalm. In about three hours, the jets will deliver the payload and wipe the slate clean. You have that time to not only capture Jeremiah Banks and get him off the island, but also you have to save President Sanderson.”
“Really? Fuck?”
Station Master nodded. “You may be right about Sanderson being in danger. Do you know where he’s getting picked up from?”
Christine shook her head; of course she didn’t know. Station Master knew this too and loved the power of knowledge. “La Cabaña. But here’s the thing, Christine, there may be a mole in his protection. We have reasons to believe that the head of his CIA detail, an Agent Harris, is working for Banks. Sanderson’s EVAC is happening at La Cabaña, but there is the high chance that it is a trap set up by Banks. So—”
“I need to get Sanderson to change his EVAC location and then find Banks. And then get the fuck out of Dodge. All within three hours. Easy.”
“Glad to see you think so,” Station Master said with a slight smile.
Christine smiled as she stepped out of the cell. “How long have I got?”
Station Master flicked his head to the door. “You better move.”
#
The sun was shining brightly and it nearly blinded her. It took a moment for Christine’s eyes to readjust to the light after the dingy darkness of the jail cell. Looking around, Christine saw the cause of the explosion. A petrol tanker had smashed into a building and exploded. Her eyes locked onto La Cabaña and she smiled. It was close, maybe two kilometers; an easy walk normally, but who knew how many of the undead she would find.
A buzzing made her look up and she saw the helicopter hovering expertly while a two-man team waited with safety lines. One saluted her while the other constantly looked about, worried. “Sanderson first, Miss Moore,” Station Master said as he rolled over to the two men. Quickly, they set about connecting the chair to the lines and secured him. Then they connected themselves and waited as a third man above them activated the winch and slowly they rose into the air.
“How do I find Sanderson?” Christine called.
“With this.” A small GPS dropped from the helicopter right into Christine’s open hands. “And that.”
Christine followed the finger and smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
All 14.5 tonnes of the BTR-50 APC crashed through the abandoned apartment block. The bricks, mortar, and rebar did very little to slow the vehicle down. Inside, Christine was enjoying herself immensely as she used the six large wheels to crush the undead that came between her and Sanderson’s convoy.
Glancing down periodically at the GPS, she saw that she was getting closer to her target. All she had to do was figure out a way to stop them without causing any injuries. Why not go and handle this yourself, she thought, imagining Station Master sitting next to her. The President is more likely to believe you than me. Christine fought a giggle as she remembered their first encounter. How to win friends, she mused as she spun the wheel to the right. She didn’t know which street she was on. It didn’t really matter though. All she had to do was force the convoy to stop. Easy enough when you’re driving an armored personnel carrier.
Another fifty meters and she would have caught up with them. The GPS showed a T-intersection coming and Christine had an idea.
The speedometer read 35kms; not nearly fast enough. Christine shifted into fourth gear and punched it. The heavy armor-plated vehicle surged forward, roaring as it hit the maximum speed: 44kms. Silently, Christine hoped that the cold-welded steel plates would hold and not bend inward, impaling herself. She lined up the BTR-50 and braced herself.
#
“Fuck me sideways,” President Aaron Sanderson could only utter as he watched a small hotel’s base exploded and then toppled. The brick, wood, and tiles blocked the path perfectly. His convoy had to swerve and come to a screeching halt. The force of the sudden stop made him drop his cigar in his lap and spill the bourbon he was sipping at.
“Sir, stay in the vehicle,” one of the Aviator-wearing CIA agents ordered as the president watched the rest step out of the vehicles and flip the safeties on their weapons to off.
He couldn’t believe his fucking luck. A day ago, he was lounging about in a rooftop swimming pool with the crème de la crème of Cuban pussy, having anyone he wanted and not needing to worry or give a fuck about the language. Then, drinking and smoking as much as he wanted. And all this on the American taxpayer’s dime. Fucking heaven. Of course, that was then. After that night when that crazy bitch nearly twisted off his pecker did it all start to go downhill.
First, Esposito started demanding more and more, wanting a guarantee that whatever happened with the negotiations, he would be paid well. Fucking politicians, Sanderson always thought. Next, they get reports that there are fucking zombies sweeping across the island. Fucking zombies! All the agents say they need to EVAC ASAP, but the boys back in D.C. nix the idea; not news friendly for the president to run away.
Since then, he’s seen all different kinds of shit and just wants to go back to Nevada. But, here he is, watching a country crumble and tear itself to pieces. Literally.
“You have got to be fucking kidding,” he exclaims, eyes going wide and his mind not comprehending. Before his mind knows what is happening, President Aaron Sanderson is out of the safety of his vehicle, walking over to the wreckage and shouting, “You should be in fucking jail!”
The CIA agents all had their weapons, Beretta handguns, Glocks, a couple had small Uzis and one had an AK he had gotten from a Cuban, pointed at Christine who was casually climbing out of the BTR-50. A smile on her face and a casual gait to her walk, Christine Moore looked calm, cool, and collected as she sauntered up to the president. “Sorry, I didn’t quite hear that.”
The agents didn’t know what to do as their commander-in-chief stood dumbstruck. “You. Should. Be. In. Fucking. Jail,” he finally managed to spit out. His face looked as if he had been slapped with a large black cock and been told that was dinner.
“You need to listen,” Christine began, not giving a shit about the agents, their weapons, or the powerful man before her. “You are heading to a trap. Whoever told you that La Cabaña was safe is setting you
up to be eaten.”
“Eaten,” one of the agents scoffed. The rest laughed but were silenced by Christine’s look. She did just after all collapse a hotel on their asses.
“Yes, fucking eaten.” She turned to Sanderson. “Do you wanna live? Go back to fucking your way through the interns?”
Sanderson nodded slowly, his mind trying to find the logic in this situation. Only one thing came to his mind. “Why should I trust you?”
A scream from one of the men made him jump. The rest turned, weapons going up and they forgot how to fire. The poor soul was being munched on by a small horde of zombie children. They had come up from the wreckage and gone for the first man. His legs buckled as they bit and clawed at the knees and ankles. The moment he fell, it would be game over.
“Open fire,” Christine barked, shocking the rest of the entourage into action. The bullets teared and shredded the small dead flesh to pieces and the zombified children died gasping. The agent collapsed but quickly started to snarl and crawl towards them.
“Jesus Christ,” Sanderson exclaimed, sidling up next to Christine for protection.
They’re changing faster, she thought and hoped that more would not show up.
“Sweet fancy Moses.”
From out of the abandoned buildings—well to Christine they looked abandoned but then this is Havana—the undead shambled shuffled and crawled out and onto the street; men, women, and children all at various stages of decay. The children looked the worst for in life they had been malnourished and mostly skeletal, but in death, the skin had stretched across the faces, pulling up at the cheekbones, making them appear as if they had a permanent grin. Those without facial wounds, that is. Most had been attacked and lost chunks of flesh, pieces of ears, limbs, and other body parts, making the herd a dangerous disgusting Picasso.
Christine felt something clammy clap itself to her arm. Her hand sprang up automatically and she had to fore herself not to break Sanderson’s hand. He was pale and sweat poured off him. For an instant, Christine felt sorry for the man, being in a situation that nobody on Earth had training for. Then just as quickly she realized that was everyone stuck in Cuba. Fucking cretin, she thought, slapping the hand away.
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