The Age of Zombies: Sergeant Jones (27 page)

There was another zombie that Jones had to contend with first. The zombie hovered over the Sarge’s assault rifle, which was knocked out of his hands during the break in. The zombie bent down and picked the gun up. He trained it right on Jones.

Jones shot up from the ground and dove behind the couch. The zombie unloaded half the AK’s magazine. Jones felt the rounds whiz by his head as he dove for cover. The rest of the lead sunk into the couch and tore up its upholstery.

“Hooah! Die, you mutant motherfucker!” Wimpy shouted.

Several rounds were fired off a split second after.

“Got ‘em, Sarge!”

Jones came out from hiding. He rushed over to the zombie and peeled the AK from the dying monster’s grip. In a flash he turned to the last remaining zombie and unloaded the rest of the magazine into his guts. The giant let out a ghoulish groan that echoed throughout the apartment. He fell to the ground, taking El Sagrado down with him.

Wimpy ran over and stood above the zombie. The monster was still groaning, and squeezed Sagrado tight to his chest. Wimpy held both pistols straight to the zombie’s head. Two trigger pulls later and the monster was no more.

El Sagrado was in bad shape. Half of his left arm was missing. It was still attached to the bone, but significant chunks of flesh had been tore out. He was also bleeding bad from his guts. Two bullet wounds appeared to be the culprit there. Worms from the zombie’s brain gravitated towards the midget’s open wounds.

“He’s losing steam Sarge,” Wimpy said.

Jones dropped his AK and rushed over to examine the midget. He slapped El Sagrado across the face. “You with me?” he said. “Say something, Sagrado. One, two, three. Repeat after me. One, two, three.”

Sagrado’s eyes were inky and red. His wife beater was soaked with his own blood. His left arm dangled at his side.

Jones slapped Sagrado again. The midget groaned in pain.

Jones shook his head and pulled out a cigarette. He lit up and blew the smoke right in Sagrado’s face. The midget didn’t even react. “We don’t have time,” Jones said to Wimpy. “Let’s get this over with now, before any more of these ghouls show up.”

Jones reached for Wimpy’s .45 S&W. The beautiful silver pistol traded hands. Jones always enjoyed the way a large caliber pistol felt in his grip. Holding this piece of work made him feel like he could take down anything. He felt like he could shoot through time and space itself, and ride off into eternity. That’s where El Sagrado was going, anyway. Off to the great beyond.

Jones steadied the pistol. He puffed his cigarette down to the butt, and left it dangling from his lips. “Rest in peace, Sagrado,” Jones said. “Give St. Peter my regards.”

The .45 sent a reverberating boom throughout the apartment courtyard. Nobody was there to hear it, however. The skirmish with the zombies had sent the entire apartment building packing. Even the curiosity of the boldest on the block wasn’t strong enough to keep them there.

Jones looked around the apartment. The stacks of cash, which he estimated to total at least a hundred grand, were useless and stained with blood and debris. Even the large cache of weapons would be useless in assisting Jones with the next stage of his mission. From here on out his strongest weapon would be his own cunning. A pistol or two wouldn’t hurt, though.

“We don’t have much time,” Jones said. He lit two cigarettes and handed one to Wimpy. “They’re shutting the city down now. Let’s hightail it down to the docks.”

Wimpy nodded and accepted the cigarette. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smoked, but that didn’t matter now. His nerves were shot and he felt like he had to hurl. The cigarette calmed Wimpy down enough to gather up some extra ammunition for his pistols.

The two soldiers walked out of El Sagrado’s apartment with their heads held high. The blood on their hands was the blood of victory. They were one step closer to Shanghai. Jones was that much closer to holding Emma Jo in his arms again.

The drive down to Long Beach was chaotic. Traffic laws were being flouted in panic. News of the outbreak of this cannibalistic plague was spreading fast. Nobody knew where they were going. They just wanted to get away. Wimpy lamented the fact that no matter how hard these people tried, they weren’t going to get anywhere. The whole country was on lockdown. They could fight, they could flee, but they were ultimately stuck. Wimpy figured that it wouldn’t be long before the full force of the authorities in charge of this operation came down hard on the people.

The question was: who was really behind all this?

Wimpy counted hundreds of United States military vehicles along the freeway. The orders were coming from a high place. How high could it go?

What was the goal?

Wimpy always figured there’d never be a third World War, simply because it would cripple economic production. There’s money to be made in wars, to be sure. But to send the world into a devilish tailspin in this day and age would spell certain doom for all parties involved. He speculated that there’d always be conflict. No matter how advanced and prosperous the world became, there’d be zones of rebellion and bloodshed.

The only logical conclusion in Wimpy’s mind was that these zombies, whatever they were, had usurped power from humankind. He had no idea what their numbers were. He had no clue about where they came from. But they were definitely the ones behind the chaos that was spreading across the land. They were the ones who had intruded on the lives of his friends. Slaughtering Big Boy, stealing Roddy, taking everything from Sergeant Jones.

What had these monsters done to him?

Wimpy gazed out onto the city of Los Angeles as it sped by. He realized that they hadn’t gotten to him yet. Not in the deeply personal, tragic, devastating ways they had destroyed his comrades. Wimpy knew that it was only a matter of time before they did. But what could they do? Wimpy’s family was gone, his only friend sat right next to him in the Jeep. And he wasn’t afraid of death.

Wimpy asked for another cigarette. He lit up and sucked the smoke deep down into his lungs. He figured picking up the habit wasn’t so bad an idea. With the entire world about to go up in flames, some smoke in the lungs soothed him.

Jones sped down the 710 freeway, dodging the crazy drivers that stood in his way. There were at least three dozen accidents between L.A. and Long Beach. The traffic was rough but Jones was able to weave his way off the exit that would take them down to the docks.

They finally arrived at the Port of Long Beach.

Jones scanned the port, which was like a city unto itself. He spotted a huge transport liner, painted red and scrawled with white Chinese characters along its side. Beneath the Chinese was the English he was looking for: Shanghai Ltd.

“Let’s get our asses on board,” Wimpy said. “It looks like they’re about to take off.”

The ship was loaded with large steel cargo shipping containers. A dozen men were at the dock preparing the liner for its journey back to China.

Jones sped the Jeep across the port to the ship’s dock. He slammed on the breaks and the two soldiers hopped out. They ran over to the men preparing the ship for departure. They were all Chinese nationals. Jones shouted at them to get their attention, and they stopped what they were doing. They looked like they had seen ghosts when they saw the two soldiers. The men started shouting in Chinese. They pulled out knives and moved towards the soldiers.

Jones realized why they were scared. “We’re healthy,” Jones said. “No worms, no worms.”

One of the Chinese dockworkers stabbed the air with his knife. “You zombie,” he said. “You zombie. Go! Go away!”

The other dockworkers spread out and formed a circle around the two soldiers.

Wimpy looked over at Jones. “They’re not gonna listen, Sarge.”

“How many Chinamen does it take to screw in a light bulb?” Jones said. His right hand hovered right above where his pistol was.

“Damn, Sarge,” Wimpy said. “A thousand? There are enough of them.”

“This ain’t no time for jokes, Wimpy,” Jones said. “But right now I wish that I had a punchline.” He withdrew his M9 pistol. He looked straight into the eyes of each dockworker, one at a time, turning around until he locked eyes with each one. “One of you knows El Sagrado.”

The dockworkers didn’t respond. They inched closer with their knives, flailing them in the air.

“Sagrado,” Jones said. “El Sagrado. Los Zetas. One of you Chinese fucks knows El Sagrado.”

Wimpy pulled out his .45 S&W. The dockworkers quickly backed down.

One of the older workers stepped forward. “I know Sagrado. You friends?”

“Amigos,” Wimpy said.

“Yes, we’re friends,” Jones said with a nod.

“You got the worm?” the old Chinaman said.

“Healthy,” the two soldiers said in unison. “No worm.”

“Come with us then,” the dockworker said. “This ship goes to Shanghai. You stay down. You stay at bottom of ship.”

Wimpy tucked his pistol back into his belt. “That’s the ticket, Sarge,” he said. “We’re headed to China.”

The old dock worker stopped the soldiers before allowing them to board. “But first you drop your guns.”

Wimpy looked at Jones with skepticism. The dockworker insisted that the soldiers disarm. Jones ordered Wimpy to toss their guns out into the water’s of the port.

“Very good,” the dockworker said. “Now come with me.”

The two soldiers followed the dockworkers down a ramp that led them into the ship. The freightliner was musty and cold inside. The head dock worker brought the two soldiers deep down into the belly of the ship. He finally stopped at a small room, dimly lit by a kerosene lamp. A water spigot and a dirty mop were the only defining features of the room, besides gray steel and plastic.

“In two weeks I come for you,” the worker said. “I bring water and bread.”

Jones gave the worker a pack of cigarettes. “Thanks for the help, buddy.”

The dockworker’s face lit up with delight. “Oh, smokes, smokes!”

With that the two soldiers were left alone.

The trip to China was long and arduous. The soldiers were fed gruel of varying degrees of consistency and quality. In one fateful bowl, Wimpy thought he had found a hunk of pork. Jones said that it was probably a ship rat that the cooks hacked up.

Jones struggled with his hunger for human flesh. Being locked up alone with Wimpy was gruelling. He constantly had to resist the urge to tear into his fellow soldier’s flesh. The struggle was tiring. It exasperated the throbbing pain inside his skull. In his more lucid moments, Jones would remember why he was going to China. The pain of being apart from Emma Jo and his son to be was excruciating when it surfaced.

The two soldiers didn’t talk much on the way to China. There wasn’t much left to say. The feeling that the whole course of human civilization was turning started to sink in for Wimpy. He felt like he was in a weird sci-fi novel. He got a kick out of that. It reminded him of Roddy and the books that he wanted to write. Far out stories of soldiers battling impossible enemies on distant planets. Except this time, the fight had come right to earth.

After what seemed like an eternity of traveling by sea, the two soldiers got word that they would dock in Shanghai within a few hours. Their spirits immediately perked up. One of the shipmates brought a bottle of cheap vodka down for them to share. The soldiers and the shipmate passed the bottle around until its last drop was emptied.

Once the ship docked, Jones felt a tingle run up his spine, as if somebody he knew was returning home from a far away journey. He stood up, drunk from the vodka, and waited. Within a few moments, the doors of the tiny room flung open.

Jones stared into the eyes of a zombie. Four more giants stood in the hall.

Wimpy tried to resist, but the zombies overpowered him.

The soldiers had stepped into a great trap, and from their vantage point, there was little they could do to escape.

In a strange way, Jones felt that he was in the right hands. He felt close to his captors, as if they were going to bring him to his destination.

The soldiers were separated into two different military vehicles.

The black trucks sped away into the lights of the neon city. One going north, and the other south.

Chapter Fifteen

Forgotten Dreams

“Put the women in the cell,” Gorud said. He was an Orobu scientist and was facilitating this experiment. He directed the four guards that stood in front of Savannah’s cell on a rotating schedule.

Another couple zombies had just kidnapped a prostitute from the streets of Detroit. The woman was scared to death, but she didn’t have the strength to fight back against the giants. “This is a test run. We have to see how the inmate reacts.”

Savannah was being held in an abandoned insane asylum in rural Michigan. Ever since her capture in Kansas, she had been held here in secret. Not a single human soul knew of her whereabouts.

The Orobu were using Savannah as a test subject for a newly improved version of the weaponized M-Worm. The Orobu paid good money, two billion dollars, to a rogue pharmaceutical company out of China to extract the worm from the Orobu zombies and test it on chimpanzees.