Monkhouse was standing next to Tate, sizing up the tasks ahead of him. The boat on the right side of the dock was down-river of the current, and debris had piled up around, making it look like the boat was sitting in a birds nest. The protective tarp tied over its awning was in tatters, and the hull was partially filled with green scummy water.
The boat on the left side of the dock was in much better condition, partly from being protected by the dock. The tarp over the awing was weathered, but in good condition; at least it wasn't listing to one side like its counterpart.
"Looks like you have your hands full," said Tate, with a wry smile.
"Maybe it's not so bad," said Monkhouse with a shrug. "How much time do I have to get them usable?"
"You're the engineer. How much do you need?"
"Well, the batteries are probably flat. The fuel's gonna have condensation, so I’ll need to drain and refill the system, and check for cracks in any hoses. Fix any leaks in the collars..."
"I get it," said Tate, taking the hint. "How long?"
Monkhouse absentmindedly scratched a bug bite on his arm. "Maybe six hours."
Tate said nothing, but stared at him.
"Or five," said Monkhouse. "I could do five. Is five okay?"
Tate stared at him, unblinking.
"Four," said Monkhouse. "Bare minimum. Anything less and I promise you that tub will break down before we get halfway there.”
"You have two," said Tate. "Grab who you need to help. If they're not ready by then, we strip the boat down to the hull and row. I'd hate to be the one to tell the squad you're the reason they have to paddle to our objective."
"Two hours? I thought I was the engineer."
"You are," smiled Tate. "And I'm the guy in charge of the engineer."
"You know, you're letting this sergeant major rank go to your head," said Monkhouse good-naturedly, as he walked down the dock and disappeared under the tarp of the left boat.
A short while later, the rain trailed off, until it stopped entirely.
Monkhouse had assessed the condition of both boats, and was handing out assignments to squad members.
Tate was going over the landmarks they'd use to plot their course to the ambassador’s villa and back, when Monkhouse gave him a report on the boats.
"The right boat is a mess," said the engineer. "With a lot more time I could get it working, but I can get the left one running in less than an hour. Between the two boats, I think I can rig up working parts."
"Good to hear," said Tate. "It'll be nice to get out of the jungle onto the open water. I can't remember the last time I felt fresh wind in my face."
"We were in a helicopter, like just a few hours ago," said Monkhouse. “Wasn't that windy enough?"
"I wonder if the local Vix have ever tasted Monkhouse," said Tate. "What do you think?"
Monkhouse took the threat in his stride, but got the message. "I think I hear someone calling my name. Lovely chatting with you, but I have to go."
Monkhouse returned to the usable boat, where Rosse was taking the filter off the fuel line.
He showed it to Monkhouse, who examined it with disappointment.
"Look at this thing," said Rosse. "It's shot. Them billion dollar satellites didn't tell us about that."
Monkhouse frowned as the filter seeped black gunk over his hand. He tossed it back to Rosse, hoping it would splatter him with the sludge, but it didn't.
He grabbed the rag hanging from Rosse’s belt and wiped off his hand. "Do you need a billion dollar satellite to tell you to grab the filter off the junked boat?"
"That is the one from the junk boat, smart guy."
"I really treasure these little moments with you," said Monkhouse, as he tucked the mucky rag in Rosse’s pocket. He walked over to Sergeant Wesson, and explained his dilemma. "I need your help finding another filter. Maybe it's in storage. If you can't find that, then I'll settle for solvent. Maybe we can wash the thing, maybe not."
Wesson called over Private Cooper, and they set off in search for a storehouse or work shop.
The compound had been designed to handle up to thirty permanent personnel, and everything needed to sustain them for six months. While the admin building and barracks didn't require much space, the support facilities, DFAC, garage, medic station, and storage made up nearly seventy percent of the compound’s size.
Wesson and Cooper's search took them near the back of the compound, where they found the headquarters and barracks. The doors were locked, and since it wasn't likely boat parts would be stored in either, they left them alone.
Looking through the grimy window, Cooper saw a row of bunks with footlockers at the end of each. The side table nearest the window had a small picture propped up against a windup clock. A woman and small boy smiled out of the photo, cheek to cheek. A blue toy dinosaur stood next to the picture.
It was an unwanted reminder of the day the sirens abruptly came to life in Cooper’s small town. National Guard trucks roared onto their street, and soldiers pounded their fists on everyone’s doors. The defenses had been overrun.
Get out now, or we'll leave you. Everything he had disappeared as the truck turned the corner, and his home was gone from sight.
They came around the back of a long building, which they discovered was the DFAC. Further up, they could see across the compound to the gate leading to the boat dock, but a building blocked their view of the dock and the people working on the boats.
The only thing Wesson and Cooper hadn't checked out was the row of steel cargo containers next to the DFAC building. Eight of them sat in a row, some green, a couple red and a blue one. There didn't appear to be any order to them, with nothing on the doors to say what was inside.
Cooper unlatched the thick steel handle on the first one. The door groaned on the hinges as he strained to open it.
Beyond the limited reach of the sun, the interior of the container was darkness. He groped over the flashlight clipped to his combat vest, looking for the on switch.
It only took a moment to snap on the light, but in that moment Cooper’s mind had filled the darkness with rotted, clawing hands reaching out for him.
The beam of light banished his imagined fears, leaving him looking at stacks of boxes. He went inside and started pulling them out.
Wesson went to a red container next to Cooper’s, and shoved up on the latch to get it to move.
As she heaved the door open, a wave of putrid stench rolled out of the container. Adrenaline shot through her body, and she jumped back as she grabbed the pistol grip on her LM-948 and leveled it at the darkness within the container, with her finger squeezing the trigger.
Nothing happened; no sound or movement came from inside it.
With a shaking hand, she reached across her chest and turned on her flashlight. The beam revealed only boxes and a couple of large broken jars that had exploded from the prolonged heat. Greasy ooze had run down the jars and puddled into a disgusting mound of yellow and green mould.
Wesson took a breath and let go of her death grip on her machine gun. She looked around, fearing someone had seen her acting like an idiot, but her few seconds of fear passed completely unnoticed.
Wesson shouted over to Cooper, louder than she wanted. "Hey, Cooper. When you're done with that container, I got another one here for you."
Cooper’s voice dully echoed from the other container. "Yeah, okay."
Wesson went to the third container and pushed up on the latch. She was mildly surprised how easy the latch was to move, when the steel door slammed into her.
Seeing stars, she stumbled backwards and tripped over her own feet, falling hard on the ground with a grunt.
Blurry figures sputtered and growled as they came into the light. The world came into horrifying sharpness as a pack of Vix shambled near her, staring up into the sun.
After nothing but darkness, the sun was the strongest sensory input to them, but Wesson knew she only had a few seconds before they turned on her.
She looked for her gun, which had fallen a few feet away. To get it she'd have to move and certainly draw the Vix’s attention.
But it didn't matter, because one of the Vix tripped over her foot and fell on her. Small slivers of rotted flesh fell off when it smacked into her.
Instantly, the thing started chewing on Wesson, clawing and ripping at her.
Luckily, it was attacking her combat vest, but the Vix would shred though that protection quickly.
An involuntary scream blew out of her lungs as she tried to fight the thing off, which instantly galvanized the team.
When Cooper came around the container door, it took a moment to process what he was seeing. A few of the things were standing looking left and right, trying to zero in on where the sound of food was coming from.
Four of them were on the ground, digging at something, and that's when he saw Wesson’s arm flailing from under the pile.
He ran straight for her arm. As he reached her, one of the Vix on top of her looked up at him, growling.
Without slowing down, he kicked the thing in the face, shattering its head into fragments of bone and ooze.
Adrenaline was pounding through him, and when he grabbed Wesson’s arm he yanked her so violently that he pulled her clear of the mound of thrashing corpses.
Wesson was beating at the empty air, locked in the grips of panic.
Now all of the Vix were fixed on the both of them and coming.
Cooper let go of Wesson and went for his rifle. It wasn't there; he'd left it leaning inside the container.
He looked up, just as the nearest one reached for him. He kicked the thing in the chest, knocking it back, but lost his footing in the muddy ground and fell next to Wesson.
As Cooper struggled to get up, his hand fell on something hard. Looking down he could see the shadows of the undead throng, nearly on top of him.
Under his hand was Wesson’s LM-948. He didn't think about chambering a round, or checking if the safety was on. He just squeezed the trigger.
Bursts of flame strobed as Cooper poured an endless salvo of machine gun fire into the converging Vix.
Chunks and limbs flew off, as wads of supersonic lead cut through them, until there was nothing left but a pile of wrecked pieces.
He and Wesson were littered in empty shell casings, as smoke hissed out of the glowing red barrel of the gun. It had only been seconds, but the terror still gripped him. Cooper’s ears were ringing and he didn't realize he was screaming until he ran out of breath.
* * *
A scream echoed around the compound, making it hard to tell the direction it came from.
Tate brought up his rifle. Quickly scanning his surroundings, he took a head count.
"Where's Wesson and Cooper?"
Monkhouse shook his head. "Somewhere in the camp."
Tate fought down the panic trying to hammer out of his chest. "Rosse, Fulton, Ota, go left. Everyone else with me!"
They began to fan out when a long burst of gunfire ripped the air, stopping everyone where they stood.
Tate identified the direction of the sound and charged towards it.
The others hesitated a moment then chased after him.
Tate rounded a building, catching sight of the carnage, but all he saw was Cooper next to a mound of bodies.
"WESSON!" A splinter of horror shot through him.
An instant later, he saw Wesson on the other side of Cooper.
"Someone get Cooper," Tate yelled over his shoulder. He skidded around Cooper and dropped to his knees next to Wesson.
The rest of the team arrived a second later, and ran over to Cooper.
"You're okay. You're okay," chanted Tate, but it sounded more like pleading than a promise.
She looked up at him as he tore to get her combat vest off.
"Monkhouse, check her arms and legs."
Monkhouse immediately went to work, checking Wesson for wounds.
"How's Cooper?" shouted Tate.
"Checking," yelled Rosse, kneeling over Cooper.
His eyes were fixed straight ahead, and he didn't seem aware of Rosse next to him.
Rosse tried to take the machine gun from Cooper, but his hands had a death grip on it. Rosse put a gentle hand on Cooper’s arm and gave him a reassuring squeeze.
Cooper broke his gaze and faced Rosse, recognizing him with mild surprise.
Rosse gave him a friendly smile as he eased the gun from Cooper’s grasp. "It's okay, tough guy. You got 'em."
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE VILLA
Cooper vacantly looked at the pile of meat scraps he'd created as Rosse and Ota lifted him to his feet, before examining him for wounds. A solid pat on the shoulder from Rosse snapped him out of his daze.
"He's pretty rattled, boss, but he's okay. No bites."
Monkhouse gave Tate a nod that Wesson was okay, too.
Tate got her combat vest off and flipped it over, relieved to see the Vix hadn't clawed through it.
Tate scooped her up in his arms and squeezed her to his chest. "I'm here, now. I'm here," he whispered to her.
"Uh, they top?" said Monkhouse, gently. "Maybe she'd feel better if we got her away from all this."
Tate looked around at the bodies and nodded in understanding. "Yeah. Take them back to the boat dock. Give them some water and something to eat if they can manage it."
They helped Wesson to her feet and walked both of them over to the boat dock, while Tate and Ota stayed behind.
Together they walked around the cargo container, then came back to the pile of destroyed Vix.
Tate forced himself to refocus his mind. He'd almost lost Wesson, but that was then. This was now.
"You notice something wrong here?" said Tate.
Ota nodded in agreement.
Tate looked at the inside of the container door. "It's not like they locked themselves in the container to hide. There's no way to latch the container door from inside."
"They still got a lot of meat on the bone," said Ota. "I don't think they've been dead very long."
Tate looked at Ota with surprise. "Are we looking at the same thing?"
"These guys are stewed," said Ota, "not rotted. Put meat in a sweltering steel box and let it simmer in its own juices..."
"Yeah, okay," said Tate. "I get it. What else have you got?"
Ota took out his K-bar knife and picked through the scraps of undead remains, and lifted up a ripped sleeve of camo pattern shirt. Sewed onto the shoulder was a round patch, with an eagle holding two daggers. Written in the border around the patch was 'Brigada Fuerzas Especiales'.
Ota rummaged through the remains, finding more clothing. All of it appeared to be from uniforms.
"What the hell are Colombian special forces doing in a cargo box?" Tate thought aloud.
Ota stopped his gruesome probing and grinned at Tate. "You're gonna love this," said Ota.
Judging by Oats grin, Tate knew he wouldn't. He knelt down next to him and looked at what Ota was tapping with the tip of his knife.
Tate picked up the shattered remains of an arm with a broken wristwatch. He slid the watch off and wiped away most of the reddish-black organic sludge.
It was a cheap Rolex knock-off, with chronograph display and oversized bezel that tried too hard to look rugged and tactical.
What caught Tate's attention was that the watch had been broken two days ago.
Just then, Monkhouse walked up, looking over their shoulders. "Good news, Top. I got one of the boats working. We can leave when you're ready. Hey, nice watch. Can I have it?"
* * *
The twin, in-line six cylinder turbocharged engines pushed the boat through the water at forty knots without cracking a sweat.
A couple of times one of the engines coughed, belching out black smoke, but Monkhouse said it was just buildup and nothing to worry about.
Tate barely noticed as he puzzled over the bodies in the cargo box with Wesson and Ota.
"The pieces of uniform on
the Vix weren't new, but they were clean, and one scrap had a crease from being freshly ironed. At face value, those men had been alive a day ago, two at the outside."
Sergeant Wesson was recovering quickly from her near death, and the fresh sea spray helped clear her thoughts.
"So, not only were those Columbian special forces guys in that DEA camp, someone else was there and killed the Columbians."
"Busy place," said Ota.
Tate furrowed his brow as he thought through the details of the camp. "Whoever it was went to a lot of trouble to cover their tracks. There weren't any shell casings."
"And if there were any boot prints, the rain would have washed them away," added Wesson.
"My bet is even if it didn't rain we wouldn't have seen anything," said Tate. "And that leaves the thing that's bothering me the most."
Ota turned his face into the wind and smiled as it whipped through his hair. "You're wondering why they put all the effort into making it look like nobody was there. Why not hide the bodies in the jungle?"
Tate's expression went from thoughtful to troubled, as his gaze turned to the passing coastline. "I think someone killed those men and left them in that container, knowing they'd turn. I think it was a trap."
Wesson followed Tate's stare and looked at the lush foliage crowding the coast, imagining hidden eyes watching them and feeling very exposed out in the open.
"Someone knows our mission."
"Yes, they do," said Tate.
The sun was a couple of hours from its zenith, as the boat rounded a small point of land and brought their objective into view.
A simple dock extended from a beach of cream-colored sand that rose up to the front of an impressive Spanish-style house.
A large flag-stone patio opened onto the beach. Behind it, the grand two-story house overlooked the entire cove from glass walls that spanned the entire front of both floors. A balcony jutted out from the second floor on the right end of the house, with a decorative black wrought iron banister.
Attached on the left end of the house was a high turret, covered in river rock; its arched windows overlooked the beach and patio.
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