Joe Ledger: Unstoppable
Page 38
Joe poked around a little more. Nothing came scurrying, crawling, or slithering out of the burrow, so Joe reached into the hole, pulling out an olive-drab metal container about the size of two lunch boxes.
“It’s an ammo case,” he said.
“Ammo doesn’t usually slosh, right?”
He set the box down on semidry ground next to the root and flipped the latch up with the knife, opening the case the same way. Miracle of miracles, nothing exploded, and no poisonous snakes, spiders, or frogs slithered, crawled, or hopped out.
Joe dumped the contents on the ground.
Two more bottled waters, more energy bars, and a party-sized bag of potato chips, which Joe snatched up before I could touch it.
“You’re gonna share, right?”
He ripped the bag open, grabbed a handful of chips, and then held the bag out to me.
Junk food had never tasted so good.
“Seems to me,” he said in between bites of salty, greasy goodness, “that whoever set up this gaming board doesn’t want us dying too quickly.”
“Gaming board?”
Joe nodded. “Haven’t you noticed? This whole setup is like one big Dungeons and Dragons game. You find treasure in one room, and traps in another, and—”
The water in front of us exploded in a geyser of brown-and-white foam. Joe threw himself into me, knocking me to the ground as a reptilian nightmare snapped huge jaws shut in the spot where I’d been kneeling seconds before.
A scale-plated tail thrashed, spraying mud and water all around, and what had to be at least a ten-foot crocodile twisted around faster than anything that size had the right to move. I just knew it was looking for me. I lay on my back in shock, stunned at the impact of Ledger and the jungle floor, not to mention the sight of this thing bearing down on me.
Before its jaws could close on my leg, Joe grabbed it around what passed for its neck, looking like something on the cover of an old Men’s Adventure magazine. All torn shirt, muscles, and … well, crocodile wrestling. Croc and Joe rolled over in the mud several times before Joe managed to shove the point of the KA-BAR in one of the thing’s eyes.
It thrashed for a few seconds, churning up mud with its tail and feet in its death throes before finally subsiding into stillness. Joe lay sprawled with the croc across his thighs and hips, one arm still looped around the croc’s neck, the other hand still holding the handle of the KA-BAR. When the croc didn’t move after a good five minutes, Joe finally unclenched his grip, still half-pinned by one very heavy dead reptile.
“You really did build the Eiffel Tower out of brawn and steel, didn’t you?” I observed.
Joe shot me the bird without bothering to look at me.
I heard the moan before I saw the zombie dragging itself on its stomach out of the water. It had been a well-built man, the sodden remains of khakis and a black T-shirt still clinging to its body. Its degloved fingers grabbed Joe’s ankle, using it to haul itself out of the mud and water with a squelching sound. One of its legs was missing below the knee, deep gouges in the thigh where some nasty-ass teeth had dug in.
Joe gave a surprised and disgusted yelp and tried to pull his leg free from Swamp Zombie’s grasp, but couldn’t manage it what with being pinned by however many pounds of dead croc. It would be difficult for the zombie to bite through the leather and khaki covering Joe’s lower parts, but there was plenty of exposed meat on his arms and torso, and I had a feeling the zom smelled blood. Joe tried to pull his KA-BAR from the croc’s eye socket, but it was wedged in too tightly for him to extract from his position.
My turn to save his ass.
I rolled to my feet in what I’d like to say was one smooth movement, but what was in reality an awkward, painful lurch. Just as the thing opened its mouth to sink green moss–covered teeth into Joe’s shoulder, I jammed my forearm into its mouth, giving a yelp of pain as it chomped down right above the Kevlar guard into my wrist. I grabbed my tanto and jammed the point into one rotting ear before the zombie managed to tear out a piece of flesh.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered as it flopped down across Joe and the croc.
I shoved it off to one side, then lifted up the tail end of Mister Croc so Joe could extract himself. He then grabbed the hilt of his knife, braced one foot against the zom’s body, and pulled the blade free.
“You’ve been bit.”
I shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”
“You’ve been bit!”
The we’re truly fucked tone in Joe’s voice made me look up. The knife in his hand and regretful expression on his face made me step back.
“You’re not planning on using that on me, right?”
“I’ve seen what this shit does to people, Ash. It’s almost as bad as being eaten alive. Do you really want to go through that?”
“Wild card, remember?” I peeled back the sleeve of my right arm and held it out for Joe’s inspection. The scars of my original bite mark were still clearly visible.
“A small percentage of the population is immune to this shit,” I added. “A very small percentage.”
Joe shook his head. “I guess I thought it was too good to be true.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call anything about the process ‘good’ other than the not dying part. It hurt like hell.”
I retrieved the water bottles and held one out to Joe. He ignored it in favor of checking out the corpse. He flipped it onto its back, the movement accompanied by a slight jingling. Then he yanked the dog tags off Swamp Zombie’s neck, studied them up close, and then looked at me.
“Well, shit. Say hello to a member of the last team.”
This was not a good thing.
“How did he die?”
Joe shrugged. “Far as I can tell, a croc got him. No bullet or knife wounds.”
“And his teammates?”
“Either zombies or croc chow about now, I’m guessing.”
“Do you think this”—I gestured at the croc—“is part of the game?”
“Given the placement of the cache?” Joe gestured toward the estuary. “I’d say it’s the equivalent of rolling the dice and either getting lucky or getting eaten.”
“But why?”
Something glinted in a beam of sunlight that had managed to sneak through the trees. It was a very small video camera hooked up to a branch.
Somewhere, someone was watching us.
Joe shook his head. “Just when you thought reality TV couldn’t get any worse.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “This kid’s parents have influence with the DZN and DMS. So this rescue mission has to be a legit one, right? I mean…”
My voice trailed off as Joe shook his head. “It may have started out that way, but it doesn’t mean someone else hasn’t stepped in.”
“One of your enemies or one of mine?”
He shrugged. “You tell me. I have a few.”
“I thought I’d killed mine,” I said.
Joe gave a laugh that held little amusement. “Don’t you hate it when they keep coming back?” He dug in his pocket and then groaned.
“What?”
Silently he held out the GPS, which looked as though it’d been stomped. Or possibly rolled on by a very heavy crocodile. I stared at it.
“Well, shit.”
“Yup.”
“So what now?” I asked.
“Find the kid and get the hell out of the jungle before it gets dark. And if we see any more cameras?” He took out his knife, reached up, and shattered the lens with one solid blow. He smiled grimly and finished, “Smash the shit out of them.”
* * *
Joe’s plan seemed simple enough, but it turned out to be one of those “easier said than done” types of things. The jungle seemed endless and both Joe and I suspected we were, if not going in circles, at the very least retracing our steps. Our worst fears were confirmed when we found ourselves at the edge of the banyan grove. Several of the dead croc’s buddies had dragged its corpse down to the water and were
chowing down on it.
“Let’s keep going,” Joe said in an undertone.
I nodded silently, blinking back tears of frustration. Then I froze as I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps somewhere close by. Not the shambling, staggering gait of a zombie, either. These footsteps were even and purposeful, and headed in our direction.
I grabbed Joe by the arm, pointed in the direction of the footsteps, and then pulled him behind a clump of trees where we’d be hidden from view but could see anyone or anything approaching. To his credit, he didn’t argue or question my actions, and by the time we’d taken cover, the footsteps were clearly audible.
Two tough-looking men in jungle camo and combat boots strode into view, both armed with rifles. They stopped midstride and cursed in Spanish when they saw the crocodile convention at the edge of the water.
One of the men pointed to the broken camera up in the tree and cursed again. I recognized the words hijo de puta and nudged Joe in the ribs.
“That’s you,” I mouthed.
The other man pulled what looked like a replacement camera out of a canvas bag slung across his shoulder and tried to hand it to his buddy, who shook his head vehemently. I didn’t blame him—the old camera was mounted in a tree uncomfortably close to the feeding crocs.
They argued for a few minutes until the second man reluctantly set his rifle against a log, took the camera, and cautiously approached the tree, his attention on the reptiles. Meanwhile, his pal trained his own firearm on the crocodiles.
Which meant neither of them was paying attention when Joe quietly snuck out from cover and snagged the discarded rifle.
“¡Hola, amigos!”
Both men whirled around, the first raising his rifle to shoot. Joe beat him to the punch, however, firing two shots in rapid succession that hit the man in the chest and sent him staggering backward straight into the crocodile buffet. He screamed amid the grunts and roars of at least a half dozen crocs fighting to get the best bits while their food was still alive.
Joe trained the rifle at the man with the camera, who stood frozen in place.
“You’re gonna take us back to your boss now,” Joe said in a deceptively casual tone.
The man evidently understood English because he snarled something along the lines of “Go fuck your mother.” I was pleased I’d retained something from my high school Spanish classes.
Joe smiled. It was the kind of smile that made smart people run in the opposite direction. This guy was not smart.
He spit something else that hadn’t been covered in Spanish 101. Joe responded by putting a round about an inch above his head.
“Try again.”
“He’ll have me killed!”
“Maybe,” Joe said calmly. “Maybe not. But I’ll shoot you in the kneecaps and leave you here with your friend.” He pointed at what remained of the man’s partner.
The man blanched, his skin growing pale under his tan.
“So,” Joe said. “You wanna take us to your leader?”
* * *
Less than a half hour later we stood outside of a ten-foot wall, hidden in the deepening shadows of twilight as our new buddy unlocked an iron gate. There was a driveway and a motorized gateway big enough for vehicles, but we wanted a less conspicuous entrance.
As soon as the gate was unlocked, Joe gave our friend a sharp rap on the back of the skull with the butt of his rifle and left his unconscious body outside the wall. I raised an eyebrow at that and Joe shrugged.
“He’ll either wake up before a zombie finds him or he won’t. It’s more of a shot than he would have given either of us.”
“Works for me.”
Joe locked the gate after us. We found ourselves on the edge of a large courtyard with a large-roofed carport across the way. At least a dozen guards patrolled the area.
“How do we get past these guys?” I whispered.
Joe grinned. “Allow me to show you what I’ve learned during my time in the field.”
* * *
“Nicely done,” I said. I wondered briefly if any of the guards Joe had put down would be getting up again, and then decided I didn’t give a shit.
Joe gave a small nod. “Whoever planned all this may be smart, but he or she didn’t make allowances for his game pieces to break the rules.”
“That sounds oddly profound,” I commented.
“I know.” Joe looked pleased with himself. “Next I’ll be opening up my own line of fortune cookies.” He pointed toward a doorway in the carport. “This way.”
With one last admiring glance at the trail of devastation Joe had left behind us, I dashed after him through the door. Sometimes it’s nice to not be the only badass in the village.
I guess I was expecting all sorts of James Bondian villain traps, like sensor-activated laser-beam death rays and stuff, so the inside of the compound was bit of a letdown. Lots of high-beamed ceilings and tiled floors in a classic Spanish-style square, with a courtyard in the center, the better to keep the structure cool in the oppressive Central American heat.
We found what—and who—we were looking for at the back of the square. Two more armed guards stood on either side of double doors, looking all serious and tough and like something out of Commando, but thankfully without the tacky leather and chain-mail getup the villain had worn.
I hate tacky villains.
I didn’t bother offering assistance, instead hanging back and watching Joe make yet more flunky hash out of the poor suckers standing guard. Once again, he made it look like no big deal, like Bob Ross painting happy little trees in seconds. Except kicking butt instead of painting.
Okay, analogies are not my strongpoint.
Once the two guards were made happy little unconscious guards, Joe and I snagged their M4s. Joe made an after you gesture at the doors. I grinned and went inside in my best I’m a stealthy ninja imitation.
I was expecting a roomful of more armed guards, but the room appeared to be empty except for a bank of security monitors, each showing a different jungle location.
Joe held up a finger in front of his mouth and then pointed across the room.
Seated in a replica of Kirk’s captain’s chair on the Enterprise was a kid in his midteens who looked as if he were going through a particularly awkward adolescence. Shock of dark hair falling over an acne-studded forehead. Slightly overweight in a doughy way, with an unhealthy pastiness that screamed too many video games and too much junk food.
Like the Twinkie he held in one hand.
It could only be Brock.
Oh, that little motherfucker.…
Brock frowned as he stared at one of the screens … which was conspicuously blank. He hit a button and the screen went from blank to a close-up of Joe and the butt end of his knife. It re-rewound farther to show an unpleasantly familiar location—the tree and estuary where Joe and I had nearly been snacks for Crocozombie. The entire fight for our lives played out in high-speed reverse as we watched. Then, with a push of a button, the speed slowed to real time and we watched the whole thing from beginning to end.
“Totally awesome,” the kid said, giggling.
Can you say psychopath?
He frowned as the tape went blank again.
“That should be up again by now. Stupid assholes. Dad was right. Can’t trust these stupid natives to do anything right. Oh well.” Brock shrugged and went back to viewing the screens, stuffing another Twinkie in his mouth.
“Come on, I know you’re out there, Ledger,” he muttered, pushing buttons on the console in front of him, the video feeds changing with each push. “And where’s that tasty ass of yours, Ash?”
Tasty ass?
Oh, this little fucker was so going down.
“I’ll handle this,” I told Joe.
“Be my guest.”
I marched over to the console behind Brock and spun the chair around so he faced me. I yanked the headphones off his ears, leaned in close, and growled, “I’m right here, you little shit.”
I grabbed him by his shirtfront and yanked him to his feet. “And you’re not supposed to try and kill the people sent to rescue you.”
He smacked my hands away and glared at me. “I didn’t ask to be rescued. I like it here. Besides, Dad only wants me back because I’m a stupid wild card.”
I grabbed him by his shirtfront again and shook him. “Did you kill Nathan and Bunny?”
“No,” he said with a note of petulance only an entitled teenager could summon. “They’re locked up until it’s their turn to play.”
“Play? You’ve killed people!”
The little creep had the nerve to shrug as if his little half-assed Hunger Games were no big deal. “You guys are supposed to be good. You’re supposed to be the best. That’s why my father sent you, right? Because you’re the best. The last ones he sent weren’t that good. So they died.”
My eyes narrowed. “You’re gonna show us where Nathan and Bunny are. Then we’re gonna get a plane here to take you back to California. Although I’d rather leave you here with the crocs.”
“How about you stay here with me?” Brock looked me up and down in a way that made me long for a steaming hot shower. “You. Me. That tasty ass of yours. We could—”
I coldcocked the kid with a right cross that knocked him out and back into his captain’s chair. He’d be out for a while.
Joe gave me a thumbs-up and grinned. “What do you know, Ash. You really are good with people.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dana Fredsti is an ex-B-movie actress with a background in theatrical combat (a skill she utilized in Army of Darkness as a sword-fighting Deadite and fight captain). She is the author of the Ashley Parker series, touted as Buffy meets The Walking Dead, as well as what might be the first example of zombie noir, A Man’s Gotta Eat What a Man’s Gotta Eat, first published in Mondo Zombie and edited by John Skipp, and more recently published as an e-book by Titan Books. She also wrote the cozy noir mystery Murder for Hire: The Peruvian Pigeon, is coauthor of What Women Really Want in Bed, and has written several spicy genre romances under the pen name Inara LaVey. Additionally, Dana has a new urban fantasy series, Spawn of Lilith, with Titan Books, the first coming out in 2017. She also has a story in V-Wars 4: Shockwaves.