Undead

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  “And how did you come by this information?” Max asked.

  “We have a source in their top-secret research lab. He contacted us willingly.”

  “That was damn nice of him. And all he’s said is that they’re working on some immortality potion? Bullshit. How far along are they in somehow weaponizing that substance? Have they reproduced it yet?”

  “All we know is they are in the testing phase, and that their scientists grow closer to perfecting it every day. They’ll attempt to produce preliminary samples within the next couple of weeks, perhaps sooner. They’re facing pressure from the highest levels. We need to act fast.”

  “We? I haven’t agreed to anything. What do you want from me?”

  “You know what we are up against better than anyone. I need you to help me lead a raid to destroy it.”

  Max considered her words for a moment. “Sounds extremely high risk. Let’s talk payment. Banner: what do you have on him?”

  She smiled enigmatically. “Communications from the time in question. Some old emails from Banner to a certain someone regarding a mission of personal nature.”

  “Who?” Max nearly growled the question.

  She slid even closer to him, placed one hand gently on his thigh and another on his shoulder. She breathed into his ear, “I’m not at liberty to say right now. But the information you seek is in encrypted files on a flash drive back in my hotel room.”

  Her close presence, the sudden, husky quality of her voice blowing in his ear, Max felt himself slipping into an almost hypnotic state of pleasure both spiritual and erotic. She noticed the latter sentiment and gently grasped his hard cock through his pants.

  “It’s all yours, Max. All you have to do is come and take it. Do we have a deal?”

  Don’t... Just don’t. His brain’s halfhearted protests fell deaf upon his member as she squeezed it firmly. He pulled his head away from hers, certain that if they separated for just a few seconds he could get back to business.

  She stared over his shoulder at something. “Don’t turn around.”

  “What’s going on?”

  She whispered in his ear. “Two men just sat down four booths away, one Asian, one white. Executive types.”

  It didn’t sound unusual to Max; businessmen were known to treat visiting clients to nights on the town. But he trusted Juno’s judgment. If she believed they were tailing agents, then they probably were. Nevertheless he said, “Maybe they’re just on business, waiting for their escorts to show up.”

  “Possibly.” She moved onto his lap. “But our business here is concluded. It’s time to change venues.” She rose, pulled two hundreds from the bust of her micro dress, and let them flutter to the table.

  Max got up, and they walked out together. The whole place seemed to gawk at Juno Rey’s fluid and seductive movements. She briefly scratched her nose with her middle finger as she strutted past the executives. Max couldn’t help but chuckle. He glanced back into the VIP lounge when they reached the top of the stairs. Sure enough, the Asian had risen from the booth, perhaps to use the restroom.

  “Move faster,” Max muttered.

  They descended the spiral stairs. Juno pinched the blond cage dancer’s ass as they passed her. The tall bouncer on the side door wished Miss Juniper and sir a good evening as they exited and turned left down the alley. For a woman wearing six-inch platform heels, she moved with astonishing speed to the street, where two senior citizens visiting from the provinces prepared to take a cab that had just pulled up. Juno dashed past them and dove into the back seat.

  “Hey, what the hell, lady?” the man roared in pissed-off Texan.

  Despite their dire situation, Max felt guilty about stealing the cab from them. But it was the right move right now. “My apologies, sir,” Max said as he moved around them. “But we need to leave now.”

  “I don’t give a good god damn!” the woman yelled into his ear as he ducked into the cab. “You can’t just steal—”

  Max closed the door on her ranting.

  “MGM Grand,” Juno said to the driver as they pulled away.

  * * *

  Max entered Juno’s suite and closed the door behind them. The foyer lights illuminated automatically; the generous living space beyond remained in darkness. There were suites at the MGM that cost five figures a night. He wondered how much John Q Taxpayer was footing for this one.

  He didn’t have time to consider it. Juno grabbed his hand and led him through the suite to the bedchamber, moving quickly, as though agents still tailed them. Eerie, bluish light from the Strip far below reflected off her dress, and her hair shimmered in the light. She turned to Max and began removing his jacket.

  “The drive,” he said.

  She pulled off his jacket and tore frantically at his clothes. Max was dumbstruck—he hadn’t received such rock star treatment in the bedroom since his early days with Janet.

  Don’t even compare them. The brief thought forgotten in an instant.

  She popped the last two buttons on his shirt when she ripped it off. She leaned in, kissed him, rammed her tongue damn near down his throat. Her hand found his fly and deftly unzipped.

  Max pulled back and seized her by the shoulders. “I want that drive first.”

  “Oh no.” She broke his hold on her by simply walking toward him. “I’m not giving you anything. You want it, you earn it.”

  “Fair enough.” He grabbed hold of the hem on her micro dress and yanked it off over her head. She wore a G-string beneath, no bra. Again, he reached down and pulled. The g-string tore and parted. He tossed it away as she undid his belt and dropped his pants.

  A perfectly good king-size bed sat a few feet away, yet somehow Max wound up fucking Juno on the floor, which satisfied his capricious animal urges. He hadn’t had sex in some time, and for a while he visited another world where the dead didn’t inhabit his dreams, nor idiots follow his every move.

  Despite her relentless and aggressive sexuality and her repeated cries of ecstasy, Juno remained aloof. This wasn’t just sex for the sake of having sex—it was a business transaction. Max didn’t have a problem with that, as long as he received what he was paying for.

  * * *

  Max awoke to soft daylight shining through the open curtains. His eyes roamed the spacious bedroom, his body still asleep, befuddled and motionless, and he wondered where he was. Janet? No—Janet was in her grave. Juno. Ghostly memories of last night, poorly lighted, returned to him. He started to grow hard again. The rawness down there made him think Juno had fucked the skin right off his cock.

  He stirred, rolled on his side, found himself alone in bed. Well, shit. Raw penis or not, and despite a twinge of guilt buzzing around his brain like an incensed gnat, he could have easily gone another couple of rounds with her.

  The flash drive.

  He found it on the nightstand weighing down a note written in a spiky yet elegant hand on MGM Grand stationery.

  Files PERS1 and PERS2. Password: Ahlgren. Wait for my call, departing in next 48 hours.

  Max took the note to the bathroom, tore it into tiny pieces and flushed it. A glance in the mirror became a stunned stare as he inspected the various bite marks and bruises she’d left all over his torso, along with pink smears of lipstick. It took him several minutes to gather his scattered clothing and dress. Three buttons on his shirt were missing, and she’d ripped open one of the shoulder seams on his jacket while tearing it off. He would need to visit a tailor. Yeah, getting right on that. He shrugged into the ripped jacket, double checked to make sure he had everything and then departed, the flash drive clutched securely in his hand, where it would remain for the journey home. This was no time to trust in pockets, what with the present state of his clothes.

  So anxious to leave Max didn’t bother to check out the rest of the suite. John Q Taxpayer be damned; he had shit to do.


  Max took a taxi home and went immediately to his safe room, where he plugged the flash drive into his laptop and viewed the contents. One file labeled AUDITS 08 appeared on screen. A double click on the file revealed several hundred more files arranged numerically first and then alphabetically. Adrenaline quickened Max’s pulse as he scrolled down and located the file PERS1, a PDF document. A pop-up informed him that this was an encrypted file and demanded a password. He typed in his last name and hit enter.

  Emails, just as she’d promised. Was this the jackpot he’d been hoping for? He started reading.

  8/4/08

  From: PPonca@PersianRugLiquidators.com

  To: BJarvis@UnitedWool.com

  Subj: JD Operation

  Mr. Jarvis:

  I have succeeded in exporting MA. Proceed with your end of the operation. I trust your sales team is ready?

  Regards,

  Peter Ponca, President, Persian Rug Liquidators

  Without question, a missive from Banner, who’d turned his hometown of Ponca City, Oklahoma, into a phony surname. Max knew the rough time period but had to Google a 2008 calendar to check the specific days. August 4th was a Monday. Right, I remember now. Max had departed Las Vegas for Georgia, the former Soviet republic, on a Sunday evening. He remembered because he’d been planning to return to Minnesota that week to take David on a fishing trip. Janet was furious when he called to cancel. The Russo-Georgian War began around the 7th, a Thursday, and ended about five days later.

  Max read on. BJarvis—Burt Jarvis, a code name Max did not recall ever hearing—did not respond until Friday the 8th: Schedule confirmed: tomorrow evening. Weather may even cooperate.

  Banner responded less than an hour later: Damn the weather, just make it happen! We did this your way, and it had better work. The situation is rapidly deteriorating. This might be your last chance to pull this off clean.

  Janet and David died around 10:15 pm on Saturday, August 9th, when a suspected drunk driver rammed her car causing it to plunge into the Mississippi River as they returned from a team party hosted by David’s baseball coach. They’d been swimming all day, had a great time, and might have stayed even later if thunderstorms hadn’t interrupted the fun. Janet died instantly, according to the coroner, for the driver rammed straight into the driver’s-side door. David likely lived a couple of minutes longer before drowning in the river below.

  Police forensics estimated the perpetrator’s 2003 Cadillac Escalade, reported stolen two days previous, had been traveling at approximately forty miles per hour when it struck Janet’s car. Other than that, they were baffled.

  A person involved in such an accident would have likely been seriously injured, yet no blood trail or other tracks from the scene were found, and no patients at area hospitals that night had injuries that matched an unreported car accident victim. Police blamed the thunderstorms for washing away any other potential evidence.

  The Escalade’s fuel tank ruptured on impact; the interior of the SUV burned and melted down to bare metal. No DNA evidence survived. Forensics found a few blackened blobs of the green glass used to bottle certain alcoholic beverages, enough to convince them it was a drunk driving incident.

  Max received news of his family’s death four days after it happened. Banner, of course, delayed delivering that information until Max’s team finished the mission he’d sent them on. He had worked for Banner off and on during his tenure in the CIA. He knew the guy was a lying snake, like most everyone in the agency, but at the time he would never have believed Banner had masterminded the assassination of his family.

  Jarvis sent the final email, dated August 10th at 12:13 am: Mission accomplished, nothing compromised.

  Banner finally received his due portion of justice from an alien beast in Alaska. But what of the mysterious Burt Jarvis and his “sales team”?

  Max clicked on file PERS2, another PDF, and entered his surname in the password box. Another window popped up and informed him that his password was incorrect. He retyped it, this time watching the keyboard as he did so—he’d become a fair typist from his exhaustive research—and again hit enter. And again, the password was denied.

  “What the fuck!” he growled. “You fucking bitch.”

  He entered various passwords incorporating his first or last name. The computer denied him every time. So he tried variations of other names: Banner, Juno Rey, Janet, David, Burt_Jarvis. Nothing. You’re wasting your time. She only gave you half the pie and a wild ride.

  Max logged off his computer, exited the safe room, and deposited the flash drive in the wall safe in his bedroom. Guess I should start packing.

  Early in the afternoon his phone rang, an unknown caller. “Yeah?” Max said.

  “How’s your bod today?” Juno asked.

  “Raw. And you only honored half of our bargain. I paid in full, several times.”

  “You will receive the second password when we reach South Korea. Should you decide to go...”

  “I’m starting to think I’m being double dipped.”

  He could see her shrug. “Think what you want. But if you want that password you’ll accompany me on this mission.” She paused. “So, are you in or out?”

  6

  Max pushed aside his apprehension the moment he accepted the mission. No sense in questioning it now—that comes when I get to Korea. He did not look forward to pressing Juno and her CIA pals for more information. One of the things he’d enjoyed about working with his former team was the lack of duplicity all around. He’d never had to worry about one of them assassinating him at the end of a mission, withholding mission-critical information, or selling out the team to score brownie points back in Langley. Best consider all possibilities. You’ve crawled back into bed with the company. Literally.

  Refusing Juno Rey’s advances had never been an option. If she wanted a man he inevitably became hers, at least for the night. Is that all it was? Or does she still have you? He couldn’t answer that question and didn’t wish to ponder it. She might have what I need. And I’ve done worse—much worse—to obtain information. The fact he’d had sex with her didn’t bother him. Her employers did. Of the dozens of operatives he’d met during his time in the CIA, he perhaps trusted only two or three.

  Max would receive more than just a password and a night to remember for accepting the mission. His financial situation had grown tight over the last couple of years. He still had several hundred thousand in the bank, but he’d once been a multimillionaire. Raising and equipping another team would easily consume such a small fortune. Since this was government work, he’d demanded three million dollars, to which Juno agreed without a moment’s hesitation. Should have asked for five. But no matter. He would clean up his financial woes, provided he survived, and then get back into private security.

  As weary and depressed as he’d been after the Alaska mission, Max still had the presence of mind to replace most of the gear lost or destroyed fighting the creatures. Max stored all of his combat gear in a hardened concrete bunker built into the foundation of his home. He put aside a MultiCam black combat uniform along with his plate carrier, body armor, helmet, and a large black backpack capable of carrying enough gear and provisions for three days in the field. The large pack probably wouldn’t be necessary—he hoped the mission would be an in-and-out affair—but it was best to err on the side of capacity. He packed binoculars and night vision goggles, all familiar, top-of-the-line optics at least as good if not better than what he could expect from CIA issue. He didn’t bother with packing ammo or other provisions. The CIA would supply the team with munitions, comm gear and food, and perhaps combat uniforms if a special camo pattern was designated.

  In the corner of the room sat the massive walk-in safe where he kept his arms and ammunition. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to replace every weapon lost in Alaska. He would most miss the 40mm pump-action grenade launcher, a custom-built w
eapon. You could have had another one built, but you were too goddamned lazy. He corrected himself. No, not lazy. Obsessed. He’d been busy tracking down leads on his family’s murder. Still, the fact he’d been negligent in replacing the launcher irked him, especially now that he might be facing the same beasts he’d used it on to such great effect. Blasted the guts out of one of those things.

  He opened the safe’s door, stepped inside, and took stock of the weapons in the racks. Some of the rifles and handguns were valuable historic items, but most were weapons of modern warfare. He owned machine guns civilians weren’t supposed to have: a SAW, an old M60, and a new Mk 48 he had only fired once at the test range, a backup MG for his old team. In Alaska, against the beasts, his gunners Bergman and Jackson, better known as Red and Sugar, had used Mk 48s. Enough to slow them down for a few moments but we’ll need something more effective.

  Aboard the spacecraft they’d found advanced alien weapons capable of killing the creatures: one that shot bolts of electricity and another that fired exploding fléchettes that detonated within the creatures after they punched deep into flesh. You won’t have those this time. But would they need such weapons? According to Juno, the North Koreans had yet to weaponize the substance. Could be more bullshit; you won’t know until you get there. And if they succeeded already, it might be too late. He could see them reproducing the substance; he could not envision them being able to control it. The damn things might be running around the countryside already.

  If that was the case, a lot of war hawks would get what they’d crowed for: North Korea would be nuked to destroy the threat. Though he had no affinity for the North Korean regime, Max didn’t wish to see the country flattened in a nuclear holocaust. It was easy to take a broad brush and paint an entire nation as the enemy. Max had seen enough of war to know this for a farce. Brainwashed. Makes a lot of them dangerous. But the North Korean average Joe is just trying to get through the day with enough to eat and avoid being hauled off to jail for some careless comment.