The Age of Zombies: Sergeant Jones (3 page)

Roddy turned around and started to run. Jones walked at a steady pace after him. Right before they got to the entrance of the tunnel, Jones turned around and grabbed Roddy by the shoulders. “Now you promise me one thing,” the Sergeant said. Jones tightened his grip. “You swear on the code of all that you hold holy that you will not so much as utter a squeak about what you saw in here today.”

Roddy nodded in assent.

“I didn’t hear you, soldier,” Jones said. “I want to hear those words come straight from your gut and fall out of your mouth.”

“I won’t… I won’t… say a word.”

Jones pulled Roddy in closer, so that his breath warmed Roddy’s nose. “Conviction, soldier. I haven’t spent eight years in this godforsaken wasteland to have it all go down the drain because you lack conviction. Now this is a direct order. Swear on all that is holy, swear on your mother’s left tit, swear on your own two berries that there will not be a word.”

“I swear, Sergeant Jones,” Roddy said. “I, Javier Rodriguez, swear that when we leave this tunnel, it stays behind.”

Jones upped the intensity of his gaze into Roddy’s eyes. He held Roddy close for another half minute, and finally let him go. Jones lit another cigarette. “We’re leaving this behind. Now let’s go back up there and get Big Boy to the CSH.”

“What about those two monsters out there?”

“We’ll stuff them in this tunnel,” Jones said. “The worms will eat them. And we’ll bury them in our fucking dreams.”

Chapter Two

The Sandman

“Damascus is superb this time of year,” Lenin said. “Warm, dry, and just teeming with beauties.”

Lenin was suave. He sported slick black hair, with a pair of penetrating blue eyes, and a svelte frame all wrapped up in a fine Italian tailored suit. His accent was heavily Russian. And he loved his vodka and tonics.

Lenin sat with two other men in suits. The interior of their private jet was constructed like a lounge. Leather couches, glass coffee tables, and modernist art all worked together to form an attractive atmosphere for these corporate kings. The plane had departed from Moscow just a couple hours before.

“One of the oldest, continual human centers of habitation on our planet,” Boris said. He looked like a toad, with warts and all. “Damascus has developed a keen sense of what it takes to please men like us.”

A younger man with blonde hair, green eyes, and sharp facial features lifted his glass. “Friend, friends,” Fyodor said. “One of the oldest cities in the world? They must excel in the oldest profession in the world. No?”

The team of men let out a good laugh and raised their glasses. A jovial spirit swept through them. Talk of the raciest districts and clubs, and what type of women they wanted first dominated their conversation. “Club Bael is very welcoming to Russians,” Lenin said.

“I want a Ukrainian,” Boris said. “No, I take that back. I want a Latvian. I want to enjoy her in the Mediterranean sun.”

Fyodor nodded and raised his glass for a toast. “Joru Enterprises deserves this. We have worked hard this quarter. Record profits. Deals with the narcocartels. A new war in Syria. Conflict in Ukraine. We are set, gentlemen. Now it is time to enjoy our spoils.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Lenin stood in as the voice of reason. “We have work to do, too. Don't forget we have conferences to attend.” The group of men laughed even harder this time. “I will be hungover for every conference. That is my guarantee!” Lenin couldn’t resist a bad joke.

“My eyes will be red and my body sore,” Boris said. “The conference will just have to deal!”

Nothing could stop these men. They earned this trip. Work hard, play hard, as they say.

Presently, a door in the back of the cabin swung open. Three tall, brutish men with broad shoulders and thick skulls stepped through into the lounge. Their skulls were inset with large, gray eyes. Their hands were twice the size of most men. Bright red hair flared from the top of their heads. They unceremoniously took their seats among the suits. These three new guests dressed in military fatigues and were armed with bowie knives, grenades, and MP-433 Grachs, the pistol issued to Russian military. The mood in the jet's lounge subdued almost instantly. The three brutes each lit cigarettes.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” Lenin said. “We were just talking about what Syria has in store for us.”

One of the brutes turned to the Russian and eyed him up. “How much longer,” Grantha said with gruff. Where he got his name, nobody knew. But it fit. Grantha didn't have a Russian accent. It was more Germanic than anything.

“Shouldn't be more than three hours,” Lenin said. “Don't worry, my friend. We'll be there soon enough.”

“This is a low key operation,” Grantha said. “We can't spoil this with your team's antics.”

Lenin leaned forward with a grin. “There's a civil war raging in Syria,” he said. “The last thing they're gonna notice is a few Russians having a little fun with the locals.”

Grantha backhanded Lenin across the side of the face. “When I speak, you listen,” he said. “Our operation can't be spoiled. I do not want to see you fools staggering around Damascus in a bloodshot haze.”

Lenin recoiled in shock. Getting backhanded by a normal man was one thing; but Grantha was a monster; a massive fiend. Blood pooled at the corner of Lenin’s mouth.

Another Russian, an older bald man with a pudgy frame entered the lounge from a room in the front. Although he wasn't the most physically attractive or charming of the group, he was definitely the leader of the corporate suits. He sipped on his cocktail and turned his back to the group. “Ah, look what we have here,” Joru said. “Three suits and three brutes. If only I could paint. I would paint this very moment. It would be a wonderful painting. So rich, and full of character. The world would marvel at that painting. The world would marvel at the six of you.”

“I hate posing,” Boris said.

The pudgy man swung around and grabbed Boris by his chin. “But you have the face of a model. Wouldn’t you want the world to know it? Wouldn’t you want me to immortalize it in my painting?” Joru leaned in closer. “Boris, tell me. Wouldn’t you be patient enough to allow my art to shine through?”

Boris just sat there silent. He tried to turn away, but the grip on his chin was too strong. His face turned red from embarrassment. He felt like Joru was handling him like a woman.

Joru released the chin and turned to the three soldiers. “You three must remember what we've done for you,” he said. “We've worked very hard for your benefit. Instigating this conflict was no easy task. Many men will die for you, and you will reap that benefit.”

Grantha scowled. He was tired of humans messing around. “There's a quota, Joru. We hired your firm to fill a quota. Have all the fun you want, but the quota must be met. You know the terms of our agreement.”

Joru smiled and looked obliquely at his team of corporate suits. “We know the terms.”

“Repeat them to me,” Grantha said. He shined his teeth, which were jagged and sharp with wide gaps between them.

“We get you seven thousand heads, clean cuts, or you will have ours.”

Grantha grinned. His gums retracted from his teeth, exposing their yellowing trunks. “And for the delivery of each head, you earn a sum of $100,00. If fulfilled within two weeks, you will get a fifty percent bonus for your efforts.” Grantha looked at each of his comrades knowingly. He had more to say. “And if you do not fulfill this contract, we have your heads. But there's more. We discussed the details amongst ourselves and decided that we will have the heads of your families, too.”

The Russians murmured. They couldn't back out of this deal now. The ink of their signatures on the contracts hadn't even dried yet. Half of the fee, $350,000,000, had already been paid up front in cash to retain the services of Joru Logistics. This conversation was just a reality check. The Russians would be splitting the pot evenly, each of them netting at least $100,000,000 after accounting for the expense of the operation. And that was cash. No taxes, no lawyers, just cold hard cash. That amount of cash could go to anybody's head, even seasoned oligarchs.

Bhutar, the oldest of the three giants, stood up. “Tell us what the situation is like on the ground.”

Fyodor stood up to explain. “Our contacts in Russian intelligence tell us that our operations have been successful,” he said. “The civil war has spread like flames and is at its peak. Villages all throughout Syria are impacted. Several rebel groups have taken up the banner of radical Islam and are carrying out our dirty work. It’s working out quite well, in fact. Our logistics team has charted the quadrants of the country with the most casualties per square kilometer.”

Fyodor turned to a large flat screen TV hanging on the wall. He retrieved his smartphone, a Samsung Note 3, and with a couple flicks of his thumb the TV displayed a map of Syria. It was color coded by region, size of village, town, and city, along with colors indicating who controlled what population center: the Syrian Army, which reported to Assad, or the Free Syrian Army, staffed with oppositional forces. “As you can see here, the rebels have a stronghold in the northwest, the northeast, and the south. The casualty rate as of today, and we are speaking about casualties throughout the whole nation of Syria, has only reached thirty thousand. These deaths are spread out across the breadth of the country. There are also concentrated areas of killing. We have up to five thousand casualties in the northwest in the Aleppo governorate. In the southwest's Rif Dimashq, there are ten thousand.”

Grantha slipped his bowie knife from its sheath and licked the length of the blade. It was covered with pinkish-beige splotches, as if it had been used recently to cut through some type of food. “There's plenty of work to do then. Tell me what happens if the conflict doesn't escalate as planned.”

Fyodor grinned. “We have contingencies.”

“Contingencies, right,” Grantha said. “You know who we work for. Radoula and Boul are very understanding. That changes when bodies go undelivered.”

“I have known Radoula and Boul for many years,” Joru said. He patted Grantha on the back. Joru didn’t fear these giants. He had dealt with them for a very long time. Radoula and Boul were twin giants who facilitated the delivery of human bodies to other giants in need of food. They were the main suppliers of human meat for their race. Joru had a long standing business partnership with them. The twins bankrolled his company. “If they have any issue, they can speak to me directly.”

“Joru, you are a proud man,” Grantha said. “Of all the people in the world, you know the true nature of us zombies. We just want our brains. Our human meat.” Grantha twirled the bowie knife between his fingers. He handled it with great dexterity. “The world out there knows nothing about us. It’s men like yourself, Joru, who have protected your race from the truth. Their vision of zombies is so skewed, so laughable.”

“Thank Hollywood for that,” Joru said.

“Yes, Hollywood,” Grantha said. “But your company keeps our race in the shadows, away from the human gaze. Zombies walk safely on this planet because Joru Logistics offers a unique service. Now let’s make sure this operation is done right. That’s what matters. Radoula and Boul only care that it’s done right.”

Boris stood up and replaced Fyodor at the TV screen. He flipped through the smart TV's files and opened a PowerPoint titled
The Welcoming.
“That’s a fine compliment,” Boris said to Grantha. “With that being said, the events in Damascus are volatile, but going as planned. The rebels led an incursion into the city last week. Roughly three hundred casualties have been reported.”

“Men, women, or children?” Grantha asked.

“Mainly men, soldiers,” Boris said. “But to fulfill our obligation to you, we did contract our men to go after large families. In total we have twenty women and thirty seven children.”

“We're famished,” Bhutar said. He scratched a red patch of scruff on his chin. “Tell us when we can eat.”

Boris went to the next slide. “As you can see, we are prepared to host a feast for your crew outside of Damascus. We have found a suitable village a half hour northeast of the city limits. It's called Ma'loula. It's a stronghold of the Syrian Armed Forces. Assad has turned his eye, as it were, to the goings ons there.” The Russian was excited to explain what the feast would entail. “Three hundred heads will be prepared for your crew in the most dazzling fashion. Silver plates, cutlery, and goblets full of fine Greek and Persian wines will be at your disposal. The brains will be prepared by some of the finest chefs from the Kremlin. They have each been hand picked and blackmailed appropriately. Their wives would hate to find out what they really do down here in Syria.”

The Russian suits all laughed. The giants stayed silent. The third one, who was only known as Zamul, finally broke his silence. “No, no, no,” he said. “This is all wrong.”

Lenin stepped up to counter Zamul’s objection. He was under the impression that this arrangement would exceed the expectations of his clients. “But we have a great understanding of your tastes and proclivities,” he said. “Tell us where we went wrong, and we will fix it.”

Grantha crossed his jackboot over his knee. “We'd prefer to visit a fresh conflict,” he said slowly. “One that hasn't been prepared.”

“But that's dangerous,” Lenin contended. “That could lead to exposure. We don't want any visibility. This operation is far too sensitive.”