Adriana’s eyes were on the destroyed wall, the cracks spider-webbing along, and it was obvious that soon the wall would collapse letting in the hordes. “What have you done?”
“There was always a chance that Albert would get cold feet and leave us to fate. No problem.” Banks cleared his throat and looked out at the fortress. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a small square with an antenna and a button. It was smooth and he lovingly rubbed his finger along the sides and surface. “Be prepared, is the saying. Yes? Yes. Not so fast, Miss Moore!”
Christine was kneeling down and just reaching into the bag when the voice stopped her. “Trying to find something to dispose of us with?”
“Or a satellite phone. Whatever I came across first,” she replied with a chuckle as she stood. Her eyes zeroed in on the device in the man’s hands. “What’s that?”
“This…” He held up the device, and Christine knew instantly what it was: a detonator. “This is the back-up plan. What do you think is going to happen to Cuba?”
“I know exactly,” Christine said. “They’re going to wipe her clean. Napalm. Adios Habana.”
Adriana gasped and let out a small childlike, “No.” Christine looked at her and nodded; what she said was the truth.
Banks nodded his head. “Standard practices. What next? Years goes by, and then they start to rebuild; probably the Spanish or the Americans. Then a New Cuba in the shape of how they want it to be. I cannot let that happen. So, what happens if the threat is completely wiped out? Would that make them stop? Take a look.”
Christine followed Banks over to the edge of the tower and they both looked down. In the water below floating casually was the yacht. Christine glanced to Banks. “My escape route.”
“So what do you plan to do with that?”
“Havana has drawn all of the creatures to it. You know why?… No,” he chuckled. “A sense memory, if you can call it that. Something makes them come here and soon the entire city will be overrun with them. So this,” he waggled the detonator as they went back over to where the stunned Adriana stood, “this, will set off a chain reaction that will cause Havana to collapse into itself, destroying everything. Now, there is a chance that not all will be killed. But over the years, they will starve and die. At which point…”
“At which point you’ll come back and rebuild your own little island paradise?”
Banks nodded, impressed with how quickly Christine put it all together. “There needs to be a country like Cuba. Somewhere out of time that is truly a paradise. Now, will this happen overnight? No.” He sighed and looked at the gate. “But sacrifices must be made.” He clicked the button and the large gate exploded, taking down half of the wall.
“Pendejo!”
Banks turned and let out a small whimper as Adriana tackled him to the ground, the force making him drop the detonator. The two rolled and Adriana ended on top.
She began to throw punch after punch at Banks’ face, each hit connecting hard and splitting the skin, crushing bone and smashing teeth. “¡Mi familia!” Squelchy wet slap as her fist landed on Banks’ cheek. “¡Mi hogar!” Another; his nose caved in. “¡Mi pais!” She popped his eardrum and blood filled his ear. “Tienes que ayudar!” She split his lips and broke teeth, causing blood to pour from his mouth. “¡Salvanos!” Adriana stopped, panting and looked at her busted knuckles.
Christine stared in awe at the bloody mess that was Jeremiah Banks and also at the zombies pouring into La Cabaña. Slowly, she went over and helped the Cuban up. “Let’s get out of here. Cuba is lost.”
Adriana shook her off, her face set in stone. She had made a decision and nothing was going to stop her now. Christine watched as Adriana picked up the rope and tied Bank’s hands and then his legs. With a couple more ties, he could have been hogtied.
The man started to shake his head and moan as Adriana tied a length to his legs and then dragged him over to the edge. The zombies had smelt the fresh bad and gotten themselves worked up. Christine knew what was coming next but something in her said to let it happen.
Casually, Adriana looped the rope over a metal flagpole that stuck out of the tower. Any second now, she would send Banks to his doom. A messy long doom.
“Adriana, don’t,” Christine said as she quickly looked up at the sky. Any moment now the jet fighters would be heard and then the fire.
“He must die!”
“But…not…like this,” Banks wheezed as he realized what was going to happen. Adriana smiled at him. “Fuck you.”
Banks chuckled and kicked. His feet connected with Adriana’s chest and as she doubled over, he landed another hard kick that sent her over the edge.
Christine screamed as she watched her lover disappear, the rope tangling around her and unraveling rapidly. She dived for it and as Jeremiah Banks laughed, Christine saw the rope go tight.
Adriana swung out and seemed to float midair. Then gravity kicked in and she smashed into the side of the tower, her face hitting the stone, crumpling in on itself and blood exploding from the ears, mouth, and nose. There was a horrid crack and Adriana Prado was dead.
Christine stared down at the hanging body. Blood drained out of it and poured down, covering the zombies which caused them to get rowdy and reach up. Something in them knew that on top of the tower is where there was more food. If they found the door and got through it, both Banks and Christine were fucked.
“Why are you doing this?” Banks asked as Christine dragged him closer to the edge.
“What? Giving her justice?”
“No,” he said with a laugh. “Why are you still following orders? Albert’s. The dead whore.” He winced as she landed a kick. “The world is coming to an end. Let it happen. We can escape. Survive. Yes?”
Christine stopped, looking at the hanging body, her heart breaking as she realized that Adriana was actually someone she cared for. “Orders are orders,” she said.
“Even if they come from a traitorous old devil like him.” Banks was beyond surprised. “And what about her? Do you think she truly cared for you? Loved you?”
Christine’s eyes went wide as they watched the hanging body twitch, then shudder. With a moan and groan, Adriana’s body started to move and she looked up. The black eyes and snarling mouth said it all. Zombified.
“She had a job. To seduce you,” Banks was saying, trying to keep himself alive. “Anything and everything she ever told you was a lie… What do you have to say now?”
He watched as she turned, her face expressionless, and deliberately, she dragged him until he was on the very edge. Below, the zombies bellowed as they saw a free meal. Above, the sounds of thunder echoed. About time, Christine thought as the sound changed becoming that of jet engines.
Banks shrieked when she kicked him over.
He plummeted down the rope, pulling up the Zombie-Adriana until they were next to each other. Banks whimpered and tried to push her away, but his bound hands made it impossible.
Their motion caused them to swing to and fro; eventually, they would meet. Above, Christine pulled out a piece of shrapnel and waited. Luckily, she didn’t have to wait for long.
Adriana smashed into Banks and tore a chunk of his face off. His scream echoed and blood spurted out. He looked up at Christine, “Please!”
Christine Moore shook her head and with one smooth motion, she cut the rope.
Jeremiah Banks plummeted into the zombie abyss as the jet fighters flew over La Cabaña and dropped their payload.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The news reports all over the world were confusing to say the least. The British were reporting that a remote unknown nuclear power plant had exploded, causing a change reaction that wiped out all life on Cuba. The Asians said that it was an earthquake followed by tsunamis and that it was Gaia returning the balance. It didn’t matter; only the UN and the USA knew the truth. Them, and one other man.
Station Master loved Mexico. The people, the cities, the food, the drinks, and the wom
en. He had the money to buy anything and anyone. But the thing he loved most was Acapulco.
He sat on the terrace of the Hotel Mirador restaurant and waited for the cliff divers to begin their show. Four times that week, he had already been and watched, but for him, there was the hope that one day one of them would misjudge the leap and crack their skulls open on the jagged craggy rocks.
Shortly after getting the hell out of Havana, having witnessed the murder of his partner and the death of his dreams, Station Master had wasted little time in securing as much money from the accounts that he could. All in all, he had embezzled enough to last him the rest of his natural life and sometime into his unnatural life.
He sipped from the glass of tequila as he listened to the phone. He hated making calls like this, but these were now desperate times.
“Yes,” he said. “It was a complete success… Almost one hundred percent conversion rate… No, he didn’t make it out.” He chuckled and took another sip. “You were right about Jeremiah Banks… You are always right… Phase 2?” He glanced at the rocks and water and a part of him wanted to dive into it, just to see if he would survive. “Phase 2 is ready? Excellent. I’ll start the preparations… Good… Adios.”
He hung up, removed the sim card, and casually tossed the phone over the balcony. Looking at the piece of plastic, he held it over the flame of a lit candle. Slowly, it started to melt. When he was satisfied, Station Master tossed it over too.
The lovely señorita sitting next to him looked exquisitely beautiful in that way only a paid escort does. She looked bored and was staring out into the night. Station Master had had many women since arriving, but this one was definitely his favorite. I must put her on permanent retainer, he thought and shuddered slightly as a cool breeze came in off of the sea.
“Mi amor,” he said, patting her hand, “I’m cold. Why don’t you go and get my coat? The heavy one. You wouldn’t want me to get sick and die on you?”
The woman started to curse in Español; she was a prized escort, not a serving wench, but she got up anyway and left the table. The old man was paying well enough.
Station Master looked down and saw a large crowd forming on the viewing platform. There was something about the danger of diving into rocky waters that made him feel alive.
A cough brought him out of his reverie. “Gracias, mi vida.”
He turned and almost screamed.
Christine stood before him, a noose in her hand.
THE END
Christine Moore will return in Book 2 of the Apocalypse Virus Trilogy
<<<<>>>>
Read on for a free sample of Convoy 19
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
Thanks to Mapi for pushing me to finish this in the first place, also thanks should be given to my parents for giving me life and making sure I survived for this long. Special mention should go to Severed Press for taking a chance on this book. And to anyone with a dream or desire, thank you for not quitting. The world needs more people like you.
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Chapter 1
“Almost home,” Sergeant First Class Carl Harvey whispered under his breath, as he accelerated his military Humvee through the dark, rubble-strewn city streets. The windshield wipers, moving at full speed, barely cut through the torrential downpour that was so uncharacteristic of San Diego weather. Carl leaned forward in the driver seat struggling to lead his convoy of military vehicles home. The interior of the hummer was a noisy cacophony of confusion. Terrified sobs and screams from the civilians who sat in the back of his vehicle, mingled with the constant squawking of communications across the combat network. The .50 caliber machine gun mounted above him drowned the havoc in sporadic thunder and death.
A swarm of living dead was close behind. Carl had often wondered at the horrifying phenomenon that drove undead to gather in groups. Individually, they were dangerous, but easily dealt with. In groups, however, they could work themselves into frenzy. Hundreds, even thousands of rotting cadavers sprinted after the convoy like a ravenous marathon.
Agitated for long enough, a boiling swarm of zombies might pursue prey for miles until they were distracted. Carl knew that if he were to stop driving, the howls of the hungry dead would raise to a crescendo as they engulfed the convoy. He blinked away the mental image and pressed on the accelerator.
Harvey’s responsibilities as point driver – the lead vehicle of the convoy – were measured in split seconds – instantaneous judgment calls that led the convoy through the mayhem of a city consumed by the undead. A wrong turn, break down, even a flat tire, would cost lives. Having grown up in northern Michigan, he had learned to drive in an unforgiving crucible of weather that was encouraged and supported by a culture and family that loved everything about cars. Now, as the country struggled to survive a living nightmare of death risen to devour the living, he couldn’t help but remember the blizzards he had experienced in his youth. A relentless, high-intensity storm, where no one respected the law, cars being abandoned and debris littered every inch of the road. On top of all that, an armed hostile civilian or flesh-eating monster could, and often did, jump out at you at any second.
Carl Harvey was in his late-twenties, but the stress of the last year had aged him. His dirty-blond hair was cut military short and was beginning to show flecks of gray. His jaw was always covered in stubble. He walked and talked as if he was half soldier, half truck driver, and extended a cool aura of confidence that made him a natural leader. He was the kind of man that made other soldiers believe that, whatever shit the world threw at them, Sergeant First Class Harvey knew what he was doing, and he would get you through it. Aided by the obscenely high attrition rates among the convoy teams, he vaulted quickly through the ranks.
“Approaching Interstate 8, five miles east of US Naval Station. We’ll be home in no time boys.” Specialist Pamela Grace sat in the passenger seat speaking into her headset-mounted microphone. A laptop computer sat on a dashboard-mounted tray in front of her. Her words seemed to calm the civilians somewhat. As point vehicle communications expert, she was connected to an extensive network of communications, satellite feeds, and minute-by-minute reporting. This gave her a picture of how to get the convoy where they needed to go, without leading it straight into a roadblock, hostile civilians, or a swarm of flesh-eating dead who would stop at nothing to consume the living.
With a gentle spin of the wheel, Carl expertly turned his Humvee up an onramp onto a yellow-lit highway that would lead them to their destination. The machine gun fire gradually dropped from a sporadic thunder to a periodic rattle.
“What’s that?” Pam covered her microphone and sat up abruptly.
“What? SHIT!” Carl quickly pushed down on the accelerator before he slammed into a dozen figures huddled on the highway. Gore and body parts launched in every direction, smearing the windshield with thick gouts of blood. The civilians in the back screamed in horror.
Convoy drivers had been trained to neither slow down nor swerve, but rather to accelerate when something – living or dead – crossed the path of their moving armored vehicle. Swerve and you risk losing control or crashing; a very bad thing in the best of circumstances, a death sentence in most. Slow down unexpectedly, and you risk being rear-ended by the Humvee on your tail, ending up with a carcass on your hood, or giving an armed attacker with nothing left to lose that extra second he needs to put you in his crosshairs. It was best to use the Humvee’s kinetic energy to plow through anything that didn’t have the wherewithal to stay out of the convoy’s way.
The force of the impact jolted
the rain-soaked gunner out of his mount. Sergeant Miguel Ramos dropped down into the cab from his position and cursed. “What the hell?”
“More dead. Civilians know not to cross into the street by now,” Pam assured them both. As the situation across the country worsened, one of San Diego’s main arteries, Interstate 8, had been blocked off for strictly military purposes. The road served as a valuable pipeline connecting the various pockets of survivors scattered around the city to the US Naval Base. The U.S.S. Ronald Reagan, Nimitz-class supercarrier, and its accompanying battle group floated offshore collecting supplies and refugees. For over two months, the battle group had been filled with survivors from every reachable corner of California. The convoys were an essential component of a much bigger picture, whose focus was to survive an Armageddon no one had anticipated or planned for – the rise of the living dead.
“There comes a point when the threat from the walking dead is greater than the threat from us,” Miguel grumbled curtly. He made the sign of the cross over his chest, pulled his stocky body back into the gun mount, and resumed scanning for targets. As the lead gunner, he was responsible for defending the convoy from constant onslaught – a job that seldom lent itself to looking at the bright side of things. No one knew how many unlucky innocent civilians found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time when a convoy passed by. The saying “from behind a .50 cal everyone looks the same”, was common among gunners who would return to the Naval Base with the gnawing guilt in the back of their mind about something they had seen on a mission. Was that shadow an animated corpse or some teenager running for his life? Was that an attacker or someone trying to flag the convoy down for help? There were millions of questions like this that were probably best left unanswered.
The six-vehicle convoy had been making trips to and from the Naval base all day and well into the night, each time loaded up with civilians and supplies from Defensible Detention Centers. DDC’s - as they were called - had originally been set up as medical screening clinics all over the country when the outbreak first hit. As the outbreak grew, the clinics became more like detention facilities where those that had been screened were urged to remain to avoid infection. When the centers began to overflow with desperate people, the military had stepped in to provide security and supplies. Now that the entire country - indeed the world - was beset by the incomprehensible epidemic of cannibalistic undead, the decision had been made to evacuate the North American continent. Every convoy trip into the hell-torn streets of San Diego had cost lives, but had also saved countless more with the food, medical personnel, and supplies they brought to the fleet.
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