Dead Island:Operation Zulu

by Allen Gamboa

  "Truck sits high enough the zombies can’t see." He shoved his rifle between the bench seat and door. Wheezing, Arkady reached into his now filthy vest and pulled out a battle dressing. Orlac's eyes grew wide.

  "Squeamish, Doctor?" Arkady grinned. "It’s just a little blood."

  "What are we doing?" Orlac asked impatiently.

  "Getting aboard the plane." He grunted as he dumped some antibiotic on his wound. "You must be patient, Doctor." He chuckled then coughed. "Don’t you have several million euros to spend?"

  "You get us aboard that plane and keep your mouth shut, and I’ll pay you five hundred thousand euros," Orlac said. This time, the doctor’s voice had a definite edge to it. Gone was all the pleading and fear.

  "Why, Doctor?" Arkady groaned slightly as he tightened the battle dressing. "Why would I say anything?" He peeked out the passenger window then looked over at Orlac. "Trade me places, but keep your head down." Orlac nodded, and both men awkwardly crawled over each other so they wouldn’t be seen by the zombies or the Americans. Arkady carried his rifle with him and accidentally whacked the doctor in the face with the synthetic stock. Once they had changed places, Orlac wiped his sweaty face on his dirty lab coat and coughed.

  "Can you open a window? It’s an oven in here, and it stinks like shit."

  "Sure, Doctor, I open a window, and our friends will climb right in. Besides, the smell kind of make me homesick." He shook his head.

  "Homesick? Where is home?" Orlac asked, annoyed.

  "Cherepovets. Smells just like this." Arkady smiled. "Cherepovets means City of Skulls.” He laughed. "Most polluted place on Mother Earth." He finished up his dressing. "Probably got that way because of bastards like you and me."

  Orlac rolled his eyes and quickly changed the subject. "Do you at least have a key for this truck?"

  "Not need key, Doctor." Arkady examined the control console. "Is Czech vehicle. Very fine vehicle." He tapped the steering wheel. "Push start. Simple."

  "Then what are we waiting for?"

  "Opportunity, Doctor.” He pulled the empty magazine from his rifle and inserted his last one. "Opportunity."

  There was a high-pitched scream from somewhere outside. Orlac almost jumped at the sound and had to restrain himself from grabbing the mercenary and pulling him close for security. Reading the doctor's body language and recognizing the screamer outside, Arkady's smile grew wider.

  "Seems like dear Nico has just run out of opportunities."

  ***

  Nico was half crawling and crouching, trying to make it over to the fuel truck where Arkady was hiding. Trailing blood, Nico dragged his damaged leg behind him. To anyone alive, he would have appeared like one of the deaders on the tarmac. The only thing that would have given him away was all the crying he was doing. Nico sounded like a two-year-old bawling for his mother. Snot and tears running down his face, the drug-addled mercenary lay down on the hot runway, unable to pull himself another fifty feet to the fuel truck. Cursing the world, he curled up into a ball and started wailing. He reached into his blood-soaked vest and pulled out his bottle of OxyContin. Nico popped the lid, and with shaky hands, he dumped the pills into his grimy palm. At least he would go out in a mindless haze instead of the painful hell he was facing. Staring at the handful of OxyContin, he grinned, happy to at least be the master of his own death. Suddenly, a large, gore-crusted boot stomped down hard on his open palm, crushing his pills and all the bones in his right hand. A loud, high-pitched wail came from deep inside Nico. It was a sound he’d heard from many of those that had been unlucky enough to encounter the evil mercenary over the years. Most of those desperate screams had come from women. Many women. Eyes bulging, drool and snot dripping from his mouth and nose, Nico looked up to see whom the bloody boot belonged to. Nico screamed again, this time louder and much, much higher.

  "Alona!"

  The female mercenary towered over Nico, crushing his hand into pulp. The huge ex-weightlifter looked down at the druggie with hungry, undead eyes. Black liquid dripped from her torn and broken mouth. Her once thick, strong legs were almost chewed to the bone. She looked like some weird half-human, half-machine hybrid. One of her arms had several large bites out of it, while the other was still intact. Smoke drifted from where her skin had been charred in the jungle fire.

  "Alllooonnnaaa!" Nico screamed in sheer terror. He pulled his destroyed hand from under the zombie’s heavy boot and used his free hand to help bring it up to his face. Among the torn flesh, exposed bones, and blood were the powdered remains of his OxyContin. Without a thought, he greedily began snorting the drug’s remnants, taking his own flesh, blood, and bone slivers up his nose. When he was finished, he wiped his bloody face with his other hand and glanced up at the zombie.

  "Alona! It’s me, Nico! Remember me?" He stared at up his fellow mercenary. His glassy eyes stopped abruptly at her chest. Alona’s vest and shirt had been ripped to shreds, leaving most of her chewed-up breasts exposed. Drugs flowing through his system, Nico felt good and was starting to find himself turned on by the zombie. Maybe, just maybe. Nico unsheathed his tactical knife with his uninjured hand. Maybe Alona did remember Nico. The powerful zombie reached down and with a violent tug ripped Nico’s pants clean off. The mercenary winced in pain, but he found himself even more turned on. He giggled at finding himself hard at this strange turn of events.

  "Alona?" he whispered hopefully.

  The big zombie moaned mournfully then reached down between the drugged-out mercenary's skinny legs and grabbed him by his nasty crotch. Smiling, high on OxyContin, Nico knew he was in for a good time. He’d always wanted to screw the big Russian, but she’d despised him. He couldn’t even take it from her because she would have killed him. Mind swirling, he smiled.

  "Alona, baby, I knew you wanted it."

  The ripping sound was horrible, but Nico’s screams were even worse. The thing that had been the Russian mercenary Iosif slithered across the tarmac behind Alona’s booted feet. The Iosif zombie, or what was left of him, was still bound up in zip ties, and his remaining skin was burned black from the fires. Iosif couldn’t crawl, but he could maneuver whatever was left of his body like a snake. The Iosif zombie slowly slithered over to where Alona had dropped the part she’d ripped from Nico and quickly gobbled up the small, bloody piece before it grew cold.

  CHAPTER 69: SCHOOL KIDS?

  Newman was changing out his Beretta’s magazine as he cautiously approached the half-open aft ramp. He glanced down at the bloody pile of dead bodies below the hatchway and kicked a few of them, making sure they weren’t going to jump up. The big Aussie looked around the underside of the plane, checking for any deaders milling about. None, at least none that were close enough to cause any problems. Satisfied he had a little bit time, Newman yelled up at the open ramp.

  "Poncho! Poncho!" He cupped his hands and shouted again, "Aye, mate. It’s Alby!" No response. Sighing heavily, Newman holstered his pistol and rubbed his hands together. "Gettin' too damn old for this, mate." He made a lame leap for the open hatch and barely grabbed the lip with one hand. Hanging by his right hand, he grunted heavily and was then able to grip it with the other hand. He slowly pulled himself up onto the ramp and rolled onto the alloy decking. Groaning, joints aching, the sergeant rolled to his knees and drew his Beretta. Sanchez was sprawled atop the blankets and netting, unconscious. Alby noticed an AK-74 lying at Sanchez’s feet. The Aussie felt the soldier's neck for a pulse and found a strong one. He gently slapped Sanchez a few times on the cheek. After a few seconds, Sanchez came to.

  "Alby?" he asked groggily, eyes slowly opening.

  "Yeah, it’s me, Poncho. What 'appened?"

  "Aw, fuck, Alby." Poncho sat up and rubbed his wounded shoulder. "Fucking Russian shot me then tried to capture the plane. Got him good, Alby."

  "I see that." Newman smiled and stood up. "Not much of 'im left on the deck. Gator?"

  "No." Sanchez shook his head. "They blew him up."

  "A lot of that go
ing around," Newman said grimly. "We need to get the plane running. The captain and a bunch of school kids are on their way." The sergeant headed toward the cockpit.

  "School kids?"

  "You’ll see. Lower that ramp, and make sure nothing gets in.” He started up the ladder. “How’s your shoulder?”

  “Shot.” He checked the AK-74 and smiled when he saw he had a full magazine. “Don’t worry, Alby, I’m ready to go home.”

  ***

  There was a loud pounding on the cockpit door. Crossley jumped in his seat at the sudden, unexpected noise from the cargo hold. Jackson turned in his jumpseat and aimed the Beretta at the secured door and, with shaking hands, pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing happened. He’d forgotten the safety. Crossley stood up and grabbed the gun away from the co-pilot. The pounding continued.

  "Back the fuck away from the door or we’ll blow your head off," Crossley said, trying to sound intimidating and failing.

  "Don’t shoot, ya twats," came a familiar voice. "It’s me, Sergeant Newman. Ya shoot me an’ I’m gonna be pissed."

  "Newman!" Crossley smiled, relieved, and shoved the pistol in his pocket. The pilot quickly unlocked the cabin door and pulled it open. The big Aussie pushed his way into the cockpit.

  "That would be a right fuckin' good day ta be shot by a couple a twat flyboys. Just a cherry on the fuckin’ top of this shit ass day."

  "Sorry, Newman," Jackson said, happy the Australian was still alive but a little worried he was now going to rip their heads off. "Thought you were a Russian."

  "Naw, I 'appen to shower regularly." He smiled. "I need you to fire up the plane. The cap'n and the others are on their way back."

  "Fucking A," Crossley said, slipping back into his jumpseat. "We’re going home!"

  "Yes!" Jackson started to flip switches. "No more of these, Nate."

  "No more," Crossley said starting, the plane's engines. "I don’t care how much they offer us!"

  CHAPTER 70: QUIT FUCKIN' AROUND, CAPTAIN

  Brooks and the two remaining members of her team finally reached the nose of the cargo plane. The captain stopped and raised her hand to signal to the presidents to hold up. Washington turned to watch their rear as Jefferson stepped up close to the captain, his rifle at point shoulder. Brooks could see the aft ramp was still partially down, and there were a handful of deaders eating something near the fuel truck. Cord had succeeded in drawing most of the deaders away with him.

  "Ready?" she asked the presidents.

  "Good to go, Captain," Jefferson said, keeping his rifle aimed at the small group of feeding undead.

  "Slow and easy,” Brooks said quietly as she pointed at the feeding deaders and waved the two soldiers forward. They could hear the terrible chewing and rending sounds coming from the deaders as they ravenously continued their feasting.

  "Nasty," Washington mouthed to Jefferson, who just frowned and put a stained, gloved finger to his lips. Washington rolled his eyes and followed behind the other two, making sure he didn’t make any noises that would give them away. There was a faint boom in the distance, and all three soldiers froze on the spot. A giant, female zombie held the meal's severed head in her hands and was chewing on his face. She looked up, still chewing, and glanced over toward the muffled explosion. Fortunately, the sound had come from the opposite direction of Brooks and the presidents. The undead woman stared off in the direction of the noise, saw no movement associated with it and, with a weird, twitching motion, resumed eating the face. Brooks and the other two were sighing a collective breath of relief when there was a loud, whirring noise as the aft ramp started to descend to the tarmac. This time, the hulking zombie quickly turned its head in a weird, jerky motion toward the aft of the aircraft. The big, dead Russian focused a pair of black, lifeless eyes right at the captain. Brooks stopped in her tracks as the zombie fixed the officer in her hollow gaze. The other four deaders looked up from their rapidly cooling meal and hungrily eyed the fresh meat that was just a good shamble away.

  "Shit." Washington stepped back and raised his rifle up to fire. "Captain?"

  "Head shots!” she shouted.

  The zombie angrily tossed the head at the three and jumped up into a crouch, growled, then ran full speed at Brooks. The captain fired a round, which struck the Russian's shoulder. The big, female zombie didn’t even acknowledge she had been shot as she sprinted at the officer. Charred flesh flapped loosely from her freshly damaged deltoid. Brooks' mini-14 locked open, the magazine empty. Jefferson shot one of the other charging deaders in the throat, instantly decapitating it. The head made a wet splat on the tarmac and caused the deader behind it to trip over it and fall face down on the runway as Jefferson's second shot flew by harmlessly.

  Washington fired at another of the fast movers and hit it in the nose, blowing off the back of its head. The deader continued to run several more feet then collapsed like a sack of cement, its bloated body exploding as it crashed onto the tarmac. Intestines and rotten organs splashed Washington's face and torso. The stench was unbearable. Washington started to retch when he suddenly felt pressure on his right boot. The soldier looked down and saw a nightmarish snake man trying to eat through the leather of his Danners. "Monster! Monster!" he screamed, higher and shriller than any six-foot-tall grunt in known history. Washington tried to pull his foot free, but the slithering deader held his ankle tightly in its mouth. He shook his boot as hard as he could, still unable to get free from the abomination's mouth. Quickly gathering his wits, he jammed the barrel of his rifle into the top of the scary deader's head and emptied the mini-14's remaining rounds into it. Skull fragments and blood added to the horrible abstract painting Washington's uniform had become. After the action on his rifle locked open, the soldier continued squeezing the trigger and screaming.

  Brooks dropped her empty rifle and drew the Beretta. Using a combat stance, the captain squeezed off three rounds. One grazed the giant deader’s cheek, another sliced the skin off her neck, and the third buried itself in her chest. Before she could get off more shots, the Russian zombie barreled into her, sending both of them crashing to the tarmac. The zombie tore at Brooks' tac vest, ripping the harness free. Powerful hands grabbed Brooks and smashed her down against the pavement. Gasping for air, pain shooting through her back, the captain punched the zombie in the mouth. Jagged and broken teeth chomped at her Kevlar-covered hand, unable to puncture her skin. Brooks then realized this was the Russian that they had left tied up in the jungle, back from the dead with one helluva bone to pick. Alona growled and grabbed Brooks by the hair and pulled her head up to her face. The captain dragged her gun hand out from under the deader's extensive bulk, punched the Beretta’s barrel through the bottom of her chin, and fired. Three .40 caliber bullets evaporated the top half of Alona's head. A rain of black blood, bone slivers, and hair-covered scalp pieces showered down on Brooks. She shoved the mercenary's body off her and jumped to her feet.

  "Quit fuckin’ around, Captain," a familiar voice said from her left side. Wearily, she turned to see Newman hurrying down the lowered aft ramp, followed by Sanchez. Both men swept the surrounding areas with their rifles. Brooks waved and gave them a tired smile. She looked over to the presidents. Both men were covered in blood but still alive and unbitten. Letting out a breath, she nodded at them then waved for them to get to the ramp. The whine of the aircraft's engines was a beautiful thing to hear. Grabbing up her rifle, she followed Newman up the ramp.

  "The others?" Newman asked.

  "I don’t know," she said as they hurried up the alloy deck. Brooks looked at her watch again and prayed that Wu and West were on their way. Suddenly, gunfire exploded from behind. Brooks drew her pistol and spun around. Newman was already kneeling on the ramp, rifle jammed against his shoulder. The captain could see Sanchez at the bottom of the ramp, firing at a fuel truck that was headed for the aft ramp. He was aiming for the vehicle's engine, afraid to hit the big fuel tank on its back. Newman followed suit. Steamed and smoke started to pour from u
nder the truck's hood as it slowly rolled to a stop.

  "Get out of the fucking truck!" Brooks shouted as she aimed her gun at the cab. "Get out of the truck, and put up your hands!" Newman and Sanchez were still covering both sides of the fuel truck. The driver's door swung open, and Arkady and Orlac quickly climbed out, staying behind the cover of the door.

  "Put up your fuckin’ hands, mate!" Newman shouted.

  "Yes, yes," Arkady said, tossing his rifle to the ground and slowly stepping out from behind the door, still using Orlac as a shield.

  "What are you doing?" Orlac asked.

  "Trying not to die." He grabbed the scientist and jerked him forward. "I am Commander Pavel Arkady. This is Doctor Orlac, and this …" he raised the case, "… this is what you want."

  "What makes you think we just won’t kill you and take the doctor and the case?" Brooks asked, slowly walking down the ramp toward the Russian.

  "I have information you need," Arkady said, tapping a bloody finger to his head. "Kill me and how do you say … we are all fucked."

  Brooks glanced quickly from Sanchez to Newman. She knew all she had to do was nod slightly and they would send the commander back to whatever hell he’d come from. The captain glanced at her watch. Time was short. "What is this information?"

  "No, no." He smiled and shook his head. He slowly put his free hand over his bloody dressing. Maybe the wound was worse than he thought. Biting back sharp pains, he wiped some sweat from his forehead.

  "Quit movin,' mate," Newman said, malice deep in his voice. Arkady picked up the dark tone in the sergeant's voice and froze.

  "Australians. Well, g'day and all that shit. I did not realize all the players were involved."

  "Stop with the crap and tell me what’s so important." Brooks stepped closer to the end of the ramp. Deaders were starting to stagger their way from the buildings.

  "Listen. Take me aboard, and I will help you save the world."