Zombie Factor

by Timothy Stelly Sr

  Zombie Factor

  By

  Timothy N. Stelly, Sr.

  For my daughter Kimberly, the most avid reader

  and sweetest kid I know.

  Cover design: Juan Shirley

  O N E

  Thursday, 3:03 a.m.

  “Cash, I’m getting fed up with your shit.”

  Cassius “Cash” Parker turned his back to his woman, Claudia. The last thing he wanted to do was to blow the unholy blend of toothpaste and fortified wine into her face. Still her glare punched holes in the darkness that filled the room and he could feel her white-hot glare. The scent of liquor that emanated from his pores served as kindling for the fire that raged inside the skinny, freckled-face woman lying next to him. Despite his effort to ignore her, the night was far from over, because when Claudia Henderson wanted to argue, nothing short of a natural disaster would stop her.

  “Claudia, I don’t want to spend the rest of the night rehashing the same thing you bitched me out about this morning.”

  “You need to get something going for yourself so I don’t carry the load by myself!”

  “Saying it loud isn’t going to make it any more meaningful,” Cash answered with a clenched jaw. “Tomorrow Roy and I…”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of that bum?” Claudia’s words sounded like a shriek from a horror film. She rose onto one elbow and he felt her harsh respiration on the back of his neck. “You just spent half the night getting drunk with him and doing God knows what else.”

  “We didn’t do anything for you to worry your pretty little head about.” Cassius couldn’t have sounded more condescending had he stuck out his tongue and punctuated his sentence with a “nyaaah, nyaaah, nyaaah.”

  “That’s part of the problem. You two never do anything.” The resignation in Claudia’s voice was evident. “Daddy said he’d hire you at…”

  Cassius turned to face her. “I don’t want to work for anyone I can’t stand, and did you forget dear old dad can’t stand my black ass either?”

  “He only wants what’s best for me.”

  “He should divorce your mother and marry you.”

  “Fuck you. You always got something smart to say.”

  Cash slid deeper underneath the comforter and felt the tension transfer from her body to the mattress.

  “I don’t need anyone to hold my hand on the way to the poorhouse,” she snapped.

  “You don’t have to be so dramatic, Susan Lucci.”

  “Why do you go by the nickname Cash and you’re always broke? That’s like being a fat man named ‘Tiny.’”

  “Maybe the man has a tiny dick,” Cash quipped. “You’re not burdened by anything like that, are you?”

  “Making a relationship work requires more than just good sex.”

  Cash poured out a weary sigh and looked at the red numbers of the digital clock on the nightstand. It was after three o’clock and he knew Roy would be by early, which would be something else that would set Claudia off.

  “No need to panic. I’m going to hold up my end of the bargain.”

  “You said the same thing a month ago.”

  “How come you can remember that, but you’re so quick to forget I paid the telephone and cable bills last month, and bought you that pair of heels you wanted?”

  Claudia plopped onto her back, stunned but not vanquished. “You’ve got a week, baby.”

  “If you want me out, just say so and I’ll leave tonight.” There was a noticeable edge to Cash’s words.

  “Like I said, you’ve got a week.”

  Her voice cracked in a couple of places and Cash smiled confidently. He believed a woman would never put a man out if she thought there were greener pastures to go to. Claudia didn’t want him to leave in a week no more than he wanted to get out in the frigid air at three a.m. She was on the other side of forty, more than ten years his senior, and he probably represented her last chance at finding love, or the illusion thereof. Thus far in their relationship he mastered supplying the latter.

  Cash started to tell her as much, but thought better of it. She worked two jobs, which allowed him to boast, “She’s an old sista who knows how to take care of a brotha.”

  No way do I want to lose my meal ticket.

  It was the last thing he remembered before both he and Claudia sank into the arms of sleep.

  T W O

  4:27 a.m.

  When Admiral Craig Pederson said “Jump,” his underlings didn’t ask, “How high?” Instead, they would start jumping and wouldn’t quit until he yelled, “Stop!” His fervor for taking raw recruits and turning them into automatons was legendary, as was his conviction that a man unwilling to die for his country was a lower form of species than a dog. His stature in the eyes of his men was enhanced by the fact that he wore an artificial hand after having performed his own battlefield amputation.

  His weathered face, gray temples and permanent frown said more about him than all the medals pinned to the front of his uniform. As an advisor he’d stepped on battlefields in Grenada, the deserts of Iraq and Kuwait, and into the mountainous terrain of Croatia and Afghanistan. The powerbrokers at the Pentagon respected his strategic acumen, but they found his personality abrasive. Still, rumors circulated along the Washington Beltway that he would be named the newest member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  Pederson saw it as talk and nothing more.

  On this morning, before roosters could get a chance to crow, or the first red ray of sunlight zigzagged through the hilltops and lighted the ripples of nearby Almond Creek, Admiral Pederson’s boys were jumping. When he arrived and ordered them at ease, the bone-weary half-dozen of twentysomethings bent over with their hands on their knees.

  The Admiral stepped from his car and waded through a field of knee-deep weeds to get a look at a four-car train that the men loaded. The soldiers around him were thankful that the Admiral’s eyes were shielded by the darkness, for his gaze was intense like that of a bird of prey, and even when he laughed his gaze was intimidating.

  Pederson turned to a red-faced young man named Winston Rhodes, who stood a full two steps in front of five other men.

  “Captain-Lieutenant Rhodes, are you ready to make history?”

  The young man pushed out his chest, saluted and replied with a crisp, “Yes, sir!”

  “What you and these men have done is take the first step toward revolutionizing combat. You have provided the United States with an insurmountable battlefield advantage.”

  “I only have a rudimentary understanding of what we put on the train, sir.” Watson swallowed audibly before asking, “Has the weapon been tested in actual combat?”

  Pederson frowned. “Captain-Lieutenant Rhodes, did your men load all of the crates as instructed?”

  “Yes, sir!” The young man replied.

  “Un-holster your side arm, soldier.”

  The nervous Captain-Lieutenant did as told. One of the soldiers behind him coughed and his respiration became audible and unsteady. The Admiral patted his own pistol that was holstered to his hip.

  Pederson said to the men, “Victory never comes without sacrifice. The ultimate sacrifice is death.” He again turned to Rhodes. “Is there any man here who is afraid to die for his country?”

  The Admiral’s question was followed by silence. After several seconds, he asked, “Captain-Lieutenant, do you want to know what’s in those crates?”

  The Captain-Lieutenant’s voice was heavy with tremors. “We just noticed that each crate is covered with Haz-Mat markings.”

  “That constitutes knowing too much.”

  “I apologize, Admiral, but with all due respect, as military men we are trained to be observant.”

  “Are all of your men present and accounted for?�
�

  Rhodes thought the answer was obvious, but he answered nonetheless. “Yes, sir!”

  “Captain-Lieutenant Rhodes, I want you to draw your firearm and discharge it, shooting all five of your men in the head.”

  The young officer’s brow furrowed. He managed a half-smile, as if the Admiral was joking. “Sir?”

  The Admiral drew his gun and aimed it at Rhodes’ face. “I gave you a direct order!”

  Rhodes fumbled with the snap on his holster as he drew his gun, then he leveled it at the others. One of the men was near tears and soiled the front of his pants. A black recruit took a step backward and never took his eye off Pederson.

  “You’re kidding, right?” The black man asked.

  He decided not to wait for an answer. He spun and lowered his body, and made like an Olympic sprinter as he high-kneed it through the weeds. His arms pumped furiously as he zigzagged toward the top of the hill, leaving flattened grass in his wake. The Admiral needed but one shot to fell the wayward soldier. Blood spurt from the hole in the back of the wounded man’s head as he crash-landed face down into the tall grass.

  Pederson glared at the others. “Make your peace with the Lord, boys.” He turned to Rhodes. “Handle your business, soldier.”

  Rhodes told each soldier to kneel, and when they did, he made a silent count to five and discharged a bullet from his M-9 pistol into the front of each man’s skull. They fell silently, like dominoes. Pederson stood over them wearing the same stoic expression as when he first arrived.

  “Want me to tell you what these men died for, Rhodes?”

  Rhodes voice came in a weak whisper, the way one speaks when freezing. “Y-y-yes, sir.”

  “In a nutshell, we have the means of changing the parameters of life and death.”

  Rhodes swallowed with difficulty. “I don’t understand.”

  “In those containers is a synthetic form of adrenaline. Before going into battle our soldiers will ingest a tablet similar to that. Once in the war zone aircraft will spray the area where they are fighting with a second chemical known as SR-Seven. When our soldiers are killed in battle, the combination of SR-Seven and the increased adrenaline will allow them to reanimate and fight on for several hours.”

  Rhodes expression morphed into one of befuddlement. “Like zombies?”

  “Exactly.” Pederson clapped Rhodes on the shoulder and his gaze held fast. “Imagine the psychological effect on our enemies, to see our mutilated soldiers rise from death and continue to wage battle.”

  Before Rhodes could answer, his skull was shattered from point-blank range by Pederson’s Sig Sauer .9 mm. Pederson took a hand-held device from his front pants pocket.

  “Pederson to Operations. Load ready for departure. Over.”

  “Tracks are cleared for next sixty-one miles. All trains scheduled for northeast line rerouted. Over.”

  “E.T.A.?”

  “Load departing from Naval Weapons Station at seventeen-fifty hours, due to arrive at Port of Stockton at nineteen hundred hours. Over.”

  “Need sanitation crew to retrieve and dispose of collateral damage. Over.”

  “Roger.”

  T H R E E

  11:51 a.m.

  Roy Owens and Cash Parker were inseparable and referred to themselves as “twin sons of different mothers.” From boyhood they’d done everything together, including jail time. For the moment they were free and without restrictions of probation. The two spent their morning sitting in the enclosed back porch of the house Cash shared with Claudia. They passed back and forth a joint and a bottle of Wild Irish Rose as they bobbed their heads to the Joe Sample CD Swing Street Cafe. The volume on the stereo was turned down and they could hear Claudia as she stomped through the house.

  “Sounds like your woman’s about to go on the rampage,” Roy noted.

  “Because you come knocking on the door before eight o’clock.” Cash chuckled. “Man, its no puzzle why none of my old ladies ever liked your ass.”

  “I guess they’re envious of my charm.” Roy took a toke of the joint, held the smoke in his lungs like an asthmatic might hold in the mist from his inhaler, and blew out a long, blue cloud. “So what, we gonna sit here and listen to music all day?”

  “The old lady ain’t gonna let us chill in peace.” Cash sounded like a teacher scolding a student that guessed instead of taking the time to ponder his answer. “If I don’t get busy with the job search, she’s gonna end up giving my ass the boot.”

  “That’s why we gotta do this hustle.” Roy leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Ain’t you tired of nickel and dime hold ups? These little mom and pop restaurants don’t hold any cash, and some of them Asian Chinese muthafuckas would rather get shot than part with their loot.”

  “So what do you propose?”

  Roy held eye contact for so long, Cash thought he had said something to offend him.

  “I been listening to my cousin Jayson…”

  “The fruity one who works at the bank?”

  “Yeah, that trick.” Roy spit the words out as if he’s eaten something spoiled.

  “At least he did give you a Seiko for Christmas, but maybe it was his way of saying watch out.” Cash’s off-the-cuff crack elicited some laughter from Roy, who coughed up the smoke he was trying to hold in.

  “No shit.” After Roy caught his breath, he continued. “Listen, I overheard him talking one day and he said that if robbers were smart they wouldn’t rob the tellers, but the merchant’s window.”

  Cash set the bottle of wine down. “Why?”

  “It’s the area where the big money’s kept.”

  “You’re saying we should rob the merchant window of the bank where your cousin works?” He didn’t allow Roy time enough to answer. “Think about it. Jayson wouldn’t turn a blind eye to this. He’d identify us.”

  “He’s not working today. He’s driving his neighbor to her doctor’s appointment.”

  Cash’s fingers tapped against the side of the bottle. “You’re serious about this?”

  “Where else are we gonna hit for some big money?”

  “I mean, we just can’t walk in a bank and rob it. Most banks nowadays won’t allow you in if you’re wearing sunglasses or a hoodie.”

  “So we run in wearing ski masks.”

  “Keep it down,” Cash whispered harshly. “I don’t want Claudia overhearing us.”

  “Look, we catch everyone by surprise. We knock the shit outta that fat ass guard they got by the door, we fire off a gun for special effects, get the money and cut. We run through the Foster apartments and beat it back to my sister’s place in ‘the Low.” He was referring to a low-income housing facility known as The Willow Tree Apartments, or The ‘Low for short.

  “You really want to do this?”

  “All I gotta do is go home and get my gat. We’ll lay low until five-something, hit the place right before they close.”

  Cash took the joint and passed Roy the remnants of the fortified wine. “It’ll be raining around that time.”

  “What, we’re not supposed to get our take on just because its raining?” Roy scoffed at the notion. “That’ll make the police response time even slower.”

  “It’s obvious I could use the loot.” He looked over his shoulder as if he expected Claudia to be there. “Especially with old girl walking around with her ass on her shoulders.”

  “She’ll be whistling a different tune when she sees the money you bring home.”

  “Sheeeeit, I ain’t letting her in on a damn thing. You know she goes to church.”

  “I forgot about that. She might get in church and start to confessing and carrying on,” Roy said laughing. “Next thing you know, your ass is in lock up for real.”

  “I dunno, Roy. We’ve never done anything like this.”

  “I don’t want to do this job with anyone else.”

  Cash closed his eyes and thought about what he was getting into. If successful, and he recalled that few such ventures were, he could lie
and tell Claudia he was working. He would have to get a homey to cover for him. However, in the event they were caught, it was state prison for a long time.

  After several seconds, he opened his eyes. “All right, I’m down.”

  “Good. Let’s go get another brew.” Roy looked at the chain hanging from his friend’s pocket and chuckled. “Man, you crack me up walking around with that chain on your wallet, like a white boy.”

  “Like a white boy, I usually have some green stuff in it.”

  “Yeah, but in your case that green stuff is mildew.”

  They laughed, leaned on each others shoulders, and then set out, with Claudia calling behind them, “Cash, where you going?”

  He turned her no answer and left the house without looking back.

  F O U R

  1:43 p.m.

  “One little drink before work never killed anybody.”

  43-year-old Archibald Walker believed those words with all his heart. A drinker since age 16, his selective amnesia would not allow him to remember a time when his being under the influence ever cost him anything. His wife, Trudy, was able to cite the numerous incidents, but over the years he’d perfected his skill at tuning her out.

  It was two hours before he had to punch in for his shift at Intercontinental Rail Lines. Archibald liked to nap before his shift, but doing so held an element of risk, as he was a heavy sleeper and he didn’t want to arrive late and get reprimanded. He used the alcoholic’s mantra and decided to have “just one” drink. In his eleven years on the job, he’d never been written up for being under the influence, though his boss, the everpresent Alice Henderson, was forever nagging him about tardiness and his lethargy.

  He made up his mind that even if he drank, he would not be late. Another can of something as harmless as a Coors won’t make me late.

  Archibald stepped into Ollie’s Bar and Grill and ordered a tall glass of Coors. After the first drink he looked up at the clock on the wall, decided that he had plenty of time to make it to work and requested a second beer. After he drained the second glass, he noted his lack of a buzz and chased those beers with two vodka tonics.