by Rockow, B.
The pieces started to come together for Jones. Roddy was attacked and kept alive. Shortly after this, he went on his own rampage. He attacked as a cannibal. The thought that this was some sort of zombie phenomenon crossed his mind. It was foolish to think that zombies were real. But Jones was prepared to leave plausibility at the door. Less than two months ago he been on a transport mission in Afghanistan, and his fireteam was ambushed by two giants. They were cannibals. Nothing like Jones had seen before. They left evidence of consuming hundreds of US soldiers. And now that Roddy had turned to cannibalism himself, the prospect of zombieism seemed very close and real.
Jones was facing a threat much bigger than he originally imagined. It was a threat that was much greater than he, or the world, was ready to digest. He knew he couldn’t face it alone. Wimpy had always been a loyal grunt, ready to move and fight at the drop of the hat. But he was a wild card. “Wimpy, none of this surprises me,” Jones said. “These damn monsters have hit my own family. I think they’re after us. And I think they’re zombies.”
“Damn, I was afraid of that,” Wimpy said. “But there’s more, Sarge. You know that shit that went down in Kansas with the kids going to church camp?”
“Yeah, the bus incident.”
“Big Boy’s sister was there. They got her and her whole family. They’re after us, Sarge. I know they are. It’s those giant freaks we found out in the mountains. They’re after us.”
“I know it, Wimp,” Jones said. “We need to work together. Where are you right now?”
“I’m in Colorado. Outside of Denver.”
“Get your ass to Los Angeles.” Jones reached over to the nightstand and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. He lit one up. The smoke was warm and calming as it entered his lungs. “That’s a direct order.”
Jones ended the call. He had a pounding headache now. Every thought was an exertion that inflamed the throbbing, dull pain that radiated from the inner core of his brain. Jones tossed his phone onto the nightstand and plopped back down on the bed.
He was out cold until a car backfired and abruptly disturbed his sleep. The haze of fatigue and pain, coupled with the trauma of combat, caused an error of judgement. Jones mistook the car backfire for a flash of gunfire or an IED. His brain kicked into danger mode. He shot up out of bed and went straight to his shotgun. He aimed it at the motel’s steel door, waiting to blast anything that moved.
Nothing was there, of course.
He threw back some more bourbon. He sat back on the bed and turned on HBO. A rerun of Game of Thrones was on. He watched it until the end, sipping the bourbon as the show progressed. Once his nerves were calm again, Jones prepared to find the man he was looking for. He packed up his weapons and gear, and dialed the number that Cockroach gave him. Jones jotted down the instructions to his house.
Casper didn’t live more than a half mile away. Jones thought that his motel’s neighborhood was gritty, but this one was much worse. Broken glass and crack fiends littered the sidewalk. The only commerce in the neighborhood involved guns, liquor, or payday loans. There were several spots along the street where bouquets of flowers were placed, along with pictures of young men, forty ounce bottles of malt beer, and candles with the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe painted on them.
Fallen soldiers, Jones thought.
He made it to the right house, which was neat and tidy compared to the others around it. The lawn was well groomed, and hosted several flower beds, which were blooming with tulips, daffodils, and poppies. There were a couple red rose bushes on the side of the house.
Jones knocked at the door and waited. After a minute or two, the door creaked open.
“Hey brother, I’ve been waiting for you. Come on in.”
Casper stood in the doorway extended his hand out to Jones. They shook. Casper stood five foot six inches and couldn’t have weighed more than a buck fifty soaking wet. He wasn’t the cartel hitman that Jones envisioned, but he vaguely fit the part. He was incredibly pale. He wore a wife beater and a pair of gray sweatpants, along with some navy blue house slippers. He wasn’t intimidating at first glance, but the more that Jones studied his features, the more this guy looked like a killer. It’s hard to mistake the face of a killer. Something’s taken from a man when he kills. His own vitality is sapped, and some new spirit, a shadow’s touch, grafts itself onto one’s face.
Casper had this sort of face. It was sunken in, shadowy, and mean. He rolled his tattooed neck, letting out a couple nice pops. “Cockroach says you and I have a lot to talk about.”
“That’s right,” Jones said. “The name is William Jones. Most folks just call me Jones.”
Jones stepped into the house and sat down on the sofa. He felt prepared for this meeting. The nap had grounded him. Jones was well aware of how sleep could make or break a man when entering high intensity situations. The service taught him that. And he had a hunch that whatever he was about to get himself into was going to be much, much worse than what he ever had seen in the battlefield.
Jones offered Casper a cigarette. The two men lit up. “The monsters got my family,” Jones said. He wanted to get right to the point. He respected Casper for welcoming him into his home to find a solution and rescue their families. He figured that he’d cut to the chase. “And I have experience with them. Back in the service, my fireteam was running a mission. It was an important transportation operation.”
Casper lifted his eyebrow. “What were y’all carting around?”
Jones didn’t talk about classified information. But he wanted to make an impression on Casper. More importantly, Jones needed to gain his trust. Missions of high importance are only delegated to soldiers who can do the job right. Jones was that kind of soldier. He needed to gain Casper’s confidence in short order. They had to work together as a team to find their families. “Four and a half billion US dollars,” Jones said. “Cold hard cash, meant for the government in Kabul.”
Casper shook his head and furrowed his brow in humored disbelief. “Damn homie,” he said and blew a couple smoke rings. “I don’t even wanna know who you were fucking with over there.”
“Sometimes it’s best not to know,” Jones said enigmatically. “I’ve seen a lot of shit over there. Spent eight years. Not planning on going back. At the same time, I always knew I wasn’t cut out for civilian life. Ever since I was a kid I remember a voice telling me that I was meant for the warrior’s path. It’s funny man. Something in me dreaded coming home to my family. Whenever I was out in the forsaken lands, the barren deserts and the bald mountains, I felt at peace with myself. Even when war raged all around me. Afghanistan and Iraq are places that aren’t of this earth. When you’re over there, you feel closer to heaven and hell.”
“That’s some spooky shit,” Casper said. He kicked back on the couch, cracked open a Pepsi, and took a sip. “But I feel you, man. It’s the same way with me and the streets. I was raised right. Both of us brothers were. Our father was an astrophysicist for Chrissake. Mom was always home. She was a painter. Watercolors, oils, acrylics. You name it. And look at me. All tatted up. Prison tats, man. This one right here,” he pointed to a wild demon painted on his left forearm with red tattoo ink. “I earned that on my first kill.”
Jones shook his head. “We’re fated to kill.”
“And to be killed,” Casper said.
“Not before we find our families first.” Jones reached into a black leather bag he had brought with him. “This is a picture of my family. My wife here, her name’s Vanessa. I loved her.”
“Hey, don’t give up hope,” Casper said. “We don’t know what’s happened with her.”
“No man,” Jones said. “I know she’s alive. I can feel it.”
Casper bobbed his head up and down with approval. “That’s love man,” he said. “Feel the same thing with my wife, wherever she is.”
“I don’t love Vanessa,” Jones said. He thought back to coming home early from deployment. How innocent things felt then. Picking up Emma Jo and t
ossing her in the air. Taking her to Dairy Queen. Sleeping in with Vanessa, and waking up and watching Saturday morning cartoons. All of it spoiled the minute he walked into his own bedroom to find his wife grinding her ass on some jogger dick. “I don’t lover her, man. But I am gonna rescue her. She’s the mother of my daughter. And she’s about to give birth my son.”
Casper nodded. He knew that whatever Jones was going through was just as tangled up as what he was going through. He didn’t want to get deep into his family history, either. Things had been rough with them lately. His kids were getting in a lot of trouble at school and with the law, and his wife didn’t seem to care anymore. But they still meant everything to him. His whole life revolved around them. He never claimed to be noble, honorable, or a good guy. But he loved his family. He was a faithful husband and a dedicated father. He possessed a silent, indestructible love for them.
“Let’s start drawing up our plans,” Casper said. “We’ve got to act quick. From what I know, these monsters have a plan and they’re not wasting any time.”
“You’ve been working with them?” Jones asked. He needed to know what he was getting into before taking any more steps.
“That’s right,” Casper said. “I’ll be square with you. I’m a hit man. I only kill those that deserve it.”
“Same here,” Jones admitted.
“Glad we’ve got something in common already,” Casper said. He smiled wryly at his macabre sense of humor. “I work for this guy named El Sagrado. He’s been dealing with these giants, these monsters, for the last couple months. They’ve paid him well. In turn, I’ve been a busy man.”
“A busy hitman,” Jones said. “Tell me something about the jobs you’ve been doing. What kind of people are you taking out?”
Casper shrugged. “I don’t read much into their lives,” he said. “That’d give me nightmares. I’d rather not know much about them. But, generally, they’ve got bad debts. Or it’s to settle a score.”
“And the increase in business. The hits you’ve been doing the past couple months, have they been any different?”
Casper was silent.
“You’ve got to be upfront with me,” Jones said. “We’re in this together.”
Casper stood up and chugged his Pepsi. He started pacing around the room. “I’m not proud of it, man. But the money was good. Damn good. A half million dollars good.”
“What’d you do for that kind of dough?” Jones said
“Damn, man. It was nasty. I’d call it genocide. For three straight nights they sent me out to different warehouses around L.A. When I would get there, I was asked to kill everybody inside. I was told that they were vagos, deadbeats to the cartel. They hadn’t paid their dues.”
“So you smoked them.”
Casper started sweating. His face blushed. “There were kids, too. Women, children, old men. About one fifty, two hundred people in each warehouse. After the killing, the giants came in and cleaned up. They sucked their bones dry. They ate everything, even the brains. Shit man, I think these are zombies.” Casper crushed the Pepsi can with a clench of his fist. “I guess all of this is karma, man. That’s what my brother said.”
Jones had to reassess his trust of this man. Who would murder innocents on that scale? The pay was good, sure. But at some point, one’s conscience would step in. But Jones also considered the fact that Casper was a trained killer. He had probably been doing it for upwards of twenty years. At a certain point, murder, even on such a horrific scale, means little besides the money that’s attached to it. Blood money. That’s what makes the world go round.
“You killed a couple of these zombies, too,” Jones said.
“That’s right,” Casper said. “The blood between Los Zetas and these zombies has soured. I killed a couple of these monsters. And now they got their revenge.”
Casper sulked and couldn’t look Jones in the eye. The Sarge stood up and walked over to Casper. Jones realized that working with Casper was the only chance that he’d be able to find his own family. “Forget the past,” Jones said. “We’re selfish bastards right now. What’s done is done. We’re gonna find our families. What do we have to do first?”
Casper looked up with determination. His remorse evaporated, and resolve remained. “First thing’s first, we’ve got to get a hold of El Sagrado. He’s the one that got me in this mess. And he’s gonna be the one that gets our families back. He’s got intelligence on where these monsters are keeping low.” Casper walked over to the kitchen and tossed his empty Pepsi can into the garbage. “It’s gonna come with a price tag, though.”
Jones snuffed out his cigarette in a large oval crystal ashtray. He could tell that Casper knew a lot more than what he was letting on. This wasn’t a time to question allegiance, however. Any information would be good information. “Let’s call this El Sagrado,” Jones said. “We don’t have much time.”
Casper reached into his pocket and pulled out a burner phone. He started to dial.
“Hey, before you call,” Jones said. “What’s El Sagrado mean, anyways?”
“The Sacred,” Casper said. The phone call connected. Casper stepped into the other room and shut the door behind him.
Jones looked around Casper’s livingroom. The place was full of mementos of better times. The family kept the home incredibly neat and tidy. Everything had its place and was ordered in an even fashion. It reminded Jones of a film out of the seventies. The portraits along the wall showed a loving family. Casper, his old lady, and their three children looked happy. The kids were anywhere from a year to twelve years old, as far as Jones could tell.
The family also collected masks. There were examples from all different times and places. Jones recognized the Kabuki theater, shamanic headhunters, and classical Greek comedy and tragedy. He appreciated that this family, who lived by the gun, could also have a deep appreciation for human culture.
The call took longer than Jones had hoped. He got up and peeked out the window blinds. A couple Mexican kids zipped by on their bikes, laughing and calling out boyish insults as they chased each other down the quiet street. Jones could see himself living down here in South Gate. Not with Vanessa or Emma Jo. But if he was dealt cards that said he would be alone from here on out, this would be where he would go. He would be a stranger in a strange neighborhood. Nobody would know his name.
Just as Jones was getting comfortable with this idea, his phone rang. It was Wimpy. “It’s not a good time,” Jones said. “I’m hashing out some heavy stuff right now.”
“I just got to L.A.,” Wimpy said. “I’m here to help, Sarge. Just tell me where I need to be.”
“Check into a hotel for now,” Jones said. “Text me the details later.” Casper stepped back into the room. He didn’t like what he saw. Jones was standing by the family mantle, examining a wooden box, chatting on the cell phone. Jones quickly ended the call and pocketed the phone.
“Who was that?” Casper said.
“A buddy of mine. He was just checking in on me.”
Casper was hasty in his assessment of the situation. “You’re scoping my stuff,” he said. “I didn’t invite you all the way down here from Oregon so that you could poke around that box.”
Jones was embarrassed. He slowly placed the box back where it originally was.
“Anyways,” Casper said. “You’re probably wanting to know what El Sagrado had to say.”
Jones regained his composure. He could withstand the pressures of a battlefield, but couldn’t shake the embarrassment of invading Casper’s privacy. “That’s right,” Jones said. “What’d the dude say?”
A fiendish grin broke out on Casper’s face. “He’ll show us where the monsters are,” Casper said. “And he’ll get us wherever we need to go from there. But there’s a catch.”
“There’s always a catch,” Jones said. “What’s the guy want?”
“He wants one of these monsters alive,” Casper said. “He said that there’s a group of four or five of them up in the San
Gabriel mountains. They’re staying in a cabin up there. We’re to capture as many as we can, and bring them back to El Sagrado alive.”
“He wants them working for him,” Jones said. “Does this maggot got puke for brains?” Jones hadn’t riffed on random insults in a while. It felt good getting back into the swing of being a Sergeant. He was mentally prepared to lead this mission. Something switched inside him once Casper gave him the details of El Sagrado’s demands.
Casper chuckled at the insult. He had a hunch that Jones was military. He was wondering when it would shine through. “Listen man,” Casper said. “We’re gonna go up in those mountains and bring Sagrado what he wants. I don’t care how stupid it all sounds.”
“Stupid? Stupid?” Jones said. “Stupid doesn’t scratch this one, son. Ol’ Sagrado’s got saggy balls where his brains should be. And by the sound of it, they’re spitting blanks.” Jones lit another cigarette. It calmed his nerves. “I’ve got a grunt from my fireteam that just landed at LAX. We’ll pick him up on the way. Show me your arsenal. I know you’ve got one stashed away in this place of yours.”
Casper wordlessly waved Jones into a back room. He pushed a bookshelf to the side and opened a panel that was built into the wall. Inside the panel was a red switch. He flipped it. Jones heard a loud rumbling noise coming from beneath him. Casper had a secret stash of all sorts of contraband down in a corridor beneath the basement.
Cabinets on either side of the corridor were built from floor to ceiling and stored shotguns, automatic rifles, pistols, grenades, and even a couple rocket launchers. Each weapon was categorized by caliber, utility, and design. Beneath each weapon was another drawer that housed its respective ammunition. Jones felt like a kid in a candy store. He picked out two pistols, two automatic rifles, and a rocket launcher. For some reason he was drawn to the Russian models.
Casper complimented him on these choices. He picked out his own weapons, along with weapons for Wimpy, and the two men lugged them back upstairs. They needed to keep their choices simple but strong. They knew what they were up against, but at the same time had no idea what to expect. The men packed a couple bologna and American cheese sandwiches with a spread of mayo and mustard for the ride. Casper grabbed a six pack of Pepsi from his garage’s fridge.