Shaking his head, Morris Jacobi, watching them load into the boats, said softly, “I can’t believe we’ve come to this. I can’t believe the human race has sunk to this level so soon. Where is our humanity?”
Robert Mills looked at him. “We are it, my friend.”
“And we have to slaughter everyone?” Emma Jacobi asked wide-eyed.
Jake looked at them and then back to the departing group, now just barely perceptible in the driving rain. “It’s not so surprising. Rwanda, Bosnia, tribal killings, revenge murders, honor killings…Civilization was always a stone’s throw from complete anarchy. It was always just the fear of reprisal that kept the bulk of the masses from joining the rest of the crazies. The zombies took away humanity. It’s every man for himself, and we all drank the Kool-Aid.”
“But surely it doesn’t have to be like this,” said Margaret Mills.
“No, it doesn’t,” said Robert. “Right now the human race is fighting the global war against the zombies. But it’s a two-front war. It’s us versus the zombies and us versus the immoral, opportunistic criminals who are part of us. The zombies are mindless, unthinking, unfeeling hulks that really just are programmed by this Pandora virus. They walk, they see, they kill, they eat. That’s it. No more, no less. But the parasites among us are even more dangerous. You see a zombie, and you know exactly what its response will be and just what to expect. These…people; they shake your hand and then cut it off. You don’t know who they are or what they’ll do. The zombies are the danger you know; these parasites are the danger you didn’t know was out there.”
After a moment of silence, Emma said, “I hope Antigua is going to be better.”
Jake looked at her and said, “One can only hope.”
Bouchard sat in his “liberated” house, swigging rum out of the bottle. With Corso not around keeping an eye on the man, his crew was more undisciplined than normal. And that was saying something. Nothing and no one was safe around them. Bouchard didn’t really give a good shit. Boys will be boys. Most were already quite drunk tonight. However, that didn’t matter. The three important men tonight were already gone. They each had another bodyguard to make sure that they reached their intended goals. Tank had enough people on guard, so screw it. Let them party. Tomorrow they would be just a clean-up crew anyway. Once the three had done their work, all Bouchard’s crew would have to do was stroll in, take what they needed, and, above all, capture that beautiful yacht sitting out at the pier. He noticed the name when they dropped off their package earlier. My Way. He liked the sound of that. He started singing, gaining in volume as the rum bottle drained. “I ate it up and spit it out. I did it my way…”
Carlos Guzman was in his abattoir, straightening up his growing collection of torture instruments. He had a knack for finding the most evil, vile things to do with the most mundane of utensils. He didn’t want to go outside with the rest of the men. They went out of their way to avoid him, and that was perfectly fine with him. Crude, ignorant, and dirty, they were not his kind of people. He wanted as little to do with them as they did with him. Being here was just a means to an end. As far as he was concerned, they were here to provide for him the subjects of his…well, shall we say, experiments in pain. So, humming to himself, he continued tidying up.
Tank went up to two of the men guarding the four boats they used, which were tied at the dock. They stood up as he came up to them. One of them dropped his AK47 as he stood. Bending over to pick it up, the fat, bearded ex-biker almost fell on his face.
“Hey,” said Tank sharply. “Y’all supposed to be guardin’, not drinkin’.”
“Relax, Tank,” rasped the miscreant biker. “Who’s going to mess with us anyway?”
The two guards laughed at that, obviously stinking drunk.
“Well, you be payin’ attention now,” scolded Tank as he walked away.
As Tank disappeared into the dark, the two drunken men looked at each other and laughed. Tossing off a loose, sloppy salute, the biker said in a gravelly voice, “Yassir, boss-man!” The two of them roared with laughter. So much so that he dropped his weapon again.
Tommy put his fist up, and the rest of his raiders stopped behind him. The rain was coming down in torrents. They all were wearing either ball caps or boonie hats to help keep water from dripping into their eyes. Tommy, on one knee, looked around the compound the ersatz pirate crew was using as its home base. They were using homemade torches and Coleman lamps to provide light. Most of the torches had fizzled out due to the torrential downpour. The men there were spread out between three houses. Except for several drenched and unhappy guards huddled under whatever shelter they could find, no one was out. There were no zombies around either. They did a pretty good job clearing them out, although this was a little off the beaten path. He was sure whatever zombies were left would also be huddled under something. They also, for some reason he could not yet fathom, didn’t like getting wet. He looked at his watch and, turning to the rest, whispered, “Five more minutes.”
Cpl. Foley slowed when he saw the small group of houses at the waterside. They had circled around the VA Outpatient Clinic and had come in at a westerly angle. Halting the soaking-wet group, he crept ahead and looked through some heavy foliage. Glancing quickly at his watch, he saw he was right on time. His group had the longest route, but even with the heavy rain and darkness, they made it to their checkpoint quickly. Looking out, he saw two guards sharing a bottle under a carport roof. He turned his head back toward his group and pointed to his eyes. He then held up his thumb and forefinger, indicating two tangos. Putting the silenced weapon to his shoulder, he took aim. As one man leaned back to drain the last of the bottle, Foley shot the other in the head. Bringing the bottle back down, he looked surprised when the second bullet shattered the glass and entered his chest. Foley motioned the group forward, and as he rose and ran ahead, he heard three explosions from behind him. They had come from the western part of the city a few miles away. Quickly putting it out of his mind, he silently made his way toward the houses.
Tommy had just taken down a Jamaican guard with long dreadlocks. Motioning his group forward, he too heard the three explosions coming from the center of Key West.
Bouchard heard them also. When they went off, he smiled and said, “Et maintenant, les zombies viennent.”
Tank had just come out of one of the houses. He had given up trying to enforce the rules and joined the party. They had two local girls inside and were all taking turns. There were ten of them there. Having to pee really badly, he went out, stood on the porch under the awning, and started to unzip. He thought he saw a figure creeping up from a group of large palms on the edge of the lot of the next house. Puzzled, he squinted his eyes and looked closer. When he then spotted five more figures moving in, Tank knew there was trouble. Still being relatively sober, he quickly swung the Uzi up from its sling over his shoulder and started firing at the shadowy forms.
Sgt. Ortega’s men had just come around the corner of the house when they heard the submachine gun go off.
Bouchard, hearing this also, knew he had unwanted visitors. He jumped up, grabbed an AR15 that was leaning against the wall, and stepped out of the doorway. Tommy’s group was the closest, just coming in from the water. Tommy saw him and quickly fired a burst that splintered the doorframe beside Bouchard’s head. The pirate leader ducked back inside.
Tank’s wild spray almost emptied the whole clip. Yelling as he was firing, Tank stepped off the porch and walked toward them, shooting in the rain. The initial rounds caught Del Nolan in the hip and then stitched their way up his body. As the last rounds to hit him took the top of his head off, he fell backward onto the muddy ground. The “good guys” had suffered their first casualty.
Three more of the pirate gang came bounding out of the door. Two were trying to get their weapons ready while the third was still pulling up his pants, his beer belly getting in the way. Just then, Sgt. Ortega came around the corner with Jamal and Travis. They caught the oth
er three with their backs toward them, and, with practiced precision, each put two three-round bursts into the unsuspecting buccaneers.
Rich, Regina, Frank, Paul, and Malik, caught in the open, fired back at Tank. Rich Foley had just begun to mount the stairs to the middle house when Tank opened fire. As he turned to fire back, the door he was heading toward opened. Quickly spinning back, he saw two men standing there. One was young, with sleepy eyes, and the other stocky, with a moustache and long scar that ran all the way down the left side of his face. Seeing Cpl. Foley standing there, they both gave him hateful looks and brought their handguns up to fire. As Rich pulled the trigger of his AR16, they both fired.
Bouchard, meanwhile, had run back into the house and out the other door. While Tommy’s unit poured concentrated fire through the doorway, he threw a grenade through the window. Seconds after the grenade blew, they poured through the doorway, firing at all corners.
Carlos was sorting his tools, getting ready to start on a man they found hiding in the VA Clinic. The man was totally harmless and pleading for his life, but Bouchard felt that Carlos needed something to occupy his time. He didn’t want him getting bored. When all the shooting started, he ran to the door and looked out. He was in a small building set off to the side of the others that was almost completely surrounded by foliage. Unlike most of the structures in south Florida that were bathed in bright pastel colors, this building was painted in a dark tone. The others called it the Death House in honor of its sole inhabitant, Dr. Death himself.
The foliage hid most of the action from Carlos, but he could see the flashes of light and chatter of automatic weapons that told him a firefight was in progress. Slamming the door and running back inside, he oscillated back and forth, completely at odds as to what to do. Oh my God, he thought, where am I going to go? Looking down at the small, frightened man tied to the chair, he panicked and said, “Oh, this isn’t good at all.”
Rich Foley sprayed the two men with a sweeping motion. Both shooters were blown back through the doorway. Rapidly grabbing a grenade from his webbing, he pulled the pin, threw it inside, and then twisted back out the open door. Dodging to the side of the doorframe, he flattened himself to the wall as the grenade exploded, blowing wreckage and body parts out the door.
Manny, Jamal, and Travis moved to cover as automatic weapons fire sprayed from the two front windows of the third house. Mike and Luis, meanwhile, went around the back and kicked in the door. They caught several men racing for the back door, either to escape or to try to flank the raiding party. Either way, Mike and Luis cut down the surprised criminals in midstride from the kitchen they were now standing in. Luis threw a grenade into the living room, and they both ducked down behind the counter. The front door flew open, and two of the gang came running out. Manny shot them before they even got off the porch, and the windows and front door blew out as the grenade erupted.
The two drunken guards whom Tank had spoken to earlier had Sean, Mario, and Jack pinned down. They had run in from their position and caught the group exiting Bouchard’s house. Tommy and Carol had separated from the group, and they ran along the waterfront, heading in the direction they saw Bouchard go.
Tank, standing in the middle of the water-soaked lawn, fired until his Uzi clicked empty. Shirtless, his skin glistening in the torrential downpour, he looked down at the weapon, pulled the clip out, and, seeing it was empty, threw the clip and the gun at his opponents. Having just shot up the last of his steroid cache, he was feeling the pump. Regina had already put a round into his massive shoulder, and Malik had taken most of his right ear off with a shot. With his diamond-studded teeth bared in a grimace, he pumped his two clenched fists together in a Hulk-inspired “crab” pose and yelled out in pure, unadulterated rage. Taking one glancing shot through the side from Paul and a through-and-through from Regina, Tank roared and ran directly at them. It was as if a huge, black train were bearing down on them. In the lights from the fires, they could see the steam from his body heat rising off him as he rushed at them.
Malik, Regina, and Paul poured rounds into him as he stormed through the downpour like a rage-filled machine. Running across the lawn as the bullets tore holes in his gargantuan body, he started to slow. With huge gouts of blood flying behind him, he staggered the last few steps, his breath whistling out of the holes in his chest. Finally, facing Regina, he stopped. His face still radiating hate, he wobbled a bit then straightened. Looking him right in the face with a stoic expression, Regina raised her rifle and shot him right between the eyes. Like a tree, he fell back, his body splashing heavily in a puddle. As he lay there dead, the blood running freely from his riddled body turned the water red.
Cpl. Rich Foley was leaning against the house, panting, when Regina came up to him. “Let’s check out what’s left in there.” She paused. “Are you okay?” When he looked at her blankly, she pointed to his shirt. “I think you’ve been shot.”
Rich looked down. The khaki T-shirt he was wearing was four shades darker because of the soaking rain, but around his abdomen, the shirt was a dark, dark red. “Oh, shit,” he whispered. Looking up at Regina again, all the pain that the adrenaline rush had concealed hit him. His knees gave out, and he collapsed to the porch. As he bent over, grabbing his stomach, Regina looked behind him and saw an ugly, gaping wound through the tattered hole in his shirt.
Paul and Malik came rushing up to him. “Rich!” Paul yelled. This brought Manny, Jamal, and Travis as well. Luis and Mike were still in the house. They all gathered around Rich, Manny getting on his knees and holding him. Rich looked up at him and then started coughing up blood. His coughing turned to gargling gasps. Grabbing Manny, he opened his mouth to speak…but then his eyes rolled up in his head, and he died.
As Manny and Rich’s units were clearing out two houses of the last remnants of pirates, Sean, Jack, and Mario were still engaged in a firefight with the two remaining guards. The big biker turned to his companion and said, “This ain’t good. Let’s get the hell outta here.”
As they moved to run away, Sean hit the other one with a direct head shot. The biker, seeing his friend go down, realized he had no chance. He threw his assault rifle out on the ground in front of him. “Okay, that’s it. I give up. Don’t shoot; I’m coming out.” Stepping out from behind his cover, he raised his hands and clasped them behind his head. He stood there, grinning at them. “You takin’ me t’ jail?”
“Fat chance!” said Jack. Then he and the other two raiders opened fire on him.
The rain was just starting to slow as Bouchard, feet splashing in the surf, ran down the beach. He was huffing and puffing, his long hair flying behind him and his gaudy pirate shirt plastered to his body with rain and sweat. Carol had just entered the beach behind Tommy, who was in wild chase. As the rain dwindled, the moon peeked out of the clouds and illuminated the shoreline.
She looked at Bouchard running ahead of Tommy and said out loud, “I got this.” She brought her rifle to her shoulder, sighted down the barrel, and, letting out her breath slowly, took the shot.
On the porch, Paul and Frank carried Del’s body, placing it next to Rich Foley. They all gathered around, shedding silent tears for their fallen comrades. Mike said to Manny as he surveyed the carnage, “Hey, Travis says he saw another building down the beach. It was dark, but as the moon shone, he noticed it through the palms. Take Travis and Jamal, and go check it out. I want to take a head count of the bad guys.”
Mike grabbed the two soldiers, and the three trotted cautiously down the path to the darkly painted building.
Bouchard felt a sharp, stinging pain in the small of his back. Reaching back, he tried to feel what was wrong. All he could feel was the soaking-wet shirt. He stumbled a bit, and he looked over his shoulder. He could see Tommy running hell-bent at the water’s edge. As he turned back and tried to increase his pace, his legs suddenly stopped working. His lower half felt numb, and he collapsed, falling on his face in the shallow water. Picking his head up by propping himself o
n his elbows, he tried to rise again. From his waist down, he had absolutely no feeling. He couldn’t move his legs. Hell, he couldn’t even feel them. Tommy came running up to him. Breathing hard, he looked on with contempt at his helpless nemesis. Bouchard looked up at him and said incredulously, “I can’t feel my legs. I can’t get up.”
Tommy looked down and could see the hole in the small of his back. Smiling he thought, Nice shot, Carol.
Bouchard kept trying to head back toward shore, but his arms kept sinking in the soft, wet sand. Every time he pushed his elbow down to drag himself forward, he sunk up to midbicep in the soft bottom. Every time that happened, the incoming tide washed over his head. When the tide went out, Bouchard picked his head up, spitting and coughing seawater, and screamed, “You fuck, help me. I’m drowning here!”
Carol came up to Tommy’s side. He glanced at her, smiled, and said, “Thanks for the help.”
They stood and watched Bouchard as he coughed and gasped and struggled to drag his half-paralyzed body to shore. When it finally looked as though Bouchard was starting to make some progress, he looked up triumphantly to Tommy and Carol. A sneer formed on his wet, sandy face. As he lifted his right arm to gain more distance, Tommy stepped forward and, putting the toe of his boot in Bouchard’s armpit, shoved, tipping him over onto his back. As his eyes opened wide in shock, a wave came rushing in, washing over his body completely. Even as the tide ebbed, his head and body were still underwater. Only his wildly waving arms rose above the surf.
Tommy bent over, wearing a grim and unfriendly smile, and stared into Bouchard’s wide eyes. As they locked gazes, Bouchard knew immediately that it was over. He opened his mouth, and his shoulders bucked a few times. Tommy stood there and watched the light go out of his eyes. When that was done, he stood up straight and looked at Carol, and then they both turned and trudged back toward the compound. As satisfying as that was, he knew it wouldn’t bring back Vince.
Pandora 2: Death is not an Option Page 6
