The Apocalypse Virus Trilogy_Book 1_Big Smoke

by Blackstone, R. F.

The alley behind La Bodeguita was uninviting. But for Christine, anywhere was better than with that woman. She leaned against the wall staring at the night sky. She sighed and stared at the glowing foot of her cigar. It pulsed slightly as a breeze swept through the alley.

  A clang startled her ever so slightly and Christine spun to face it. Her arms up instantly ready for an attack.

  “¿Puedes ayudarme, señorita?” a gruff slightly slurred voice begged from the darkness. Christine had to squint slightly, trying to spot the owner of the voice.

  “No.”

  “¿Puedes ayudarme, señorita?” the voice said again as another clang sounded. Slowly from a pile of trash a tall, skeletal hobo emerged. He was wearing rags that left very little to the imagination. “Puedes ayudarme,” he bellowed.

  Christine shook her head, her eyes spotting the oozing pustules on the exposed skin. Sick, she thought as she slowly started to move away.

  The hobo began to shamble forward, arms outstretched reaching for her. His eyes were devoid of rationality. Drool hung from his lips.

  Her feet spread in a ready stance. Christine had the feeling that this man, if he was still one, was going to try something. The hand holding the cigar readied itself, to drive it into one of the sockets.

  “I understand if you don’t want to do this. Our history isn’t the…cleanest,” Adriana said as she exited the building. She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the almost naked man. “Having fun without me?”

  “Shut up.”

  The man turned his head at the sound of Adriana’s voice. “Puedes ayudarme.”

  Adriana laughed. “Not on your life, cariño.”

  A slight tilt of the head and the man tried to reason what was said. After a moment, he snarled and raised both arms. “Watch it,” Adriana warned. She needn’t have done so.

  The hobo lunged for Christine who spun and drove the cigar into the dead eye socket. The eyeball exploded from the heat and force. Clear liquid spurted at Christine, followed by blood. Christine ducked and spun around the man who growled and then followed her.

  Her leg caught on his leg and she tripped.

  Seconds later, the man as on top of her, snarling, drooling, and trying to sink his teeth into her soft supple flesh. Christine fought with all her might but for a man with very little muscle mass, he was surprisingly strong. “Help me!”

  Adriana shook her head as she leant against the wall. “You look fine.”

  Christine slammed her knee into the man’s stomach. There was a sickening crunch which was followed by a tearing sound; the skin broke and stomach, intestines, and slime unraveled all over her legs.

  Forcing herself not to vomit, Christine tried head-butting. Three times her forehead collided with the hobo’s nose. Each smack was followed by the tell-tale sound of bone splintering, then cracking and finally a mushy squelching sound as the bone found its way up and into the brain.

  There was a slight groan from the hobo then he went rigid and collapsed, rolling off of her. Christine slowly sat up and looked in disgust at the mess that covered her and was flowing out of the dead body. “What the fuck?”

  Adriana walked over to her and helped her up, making sure, naturally, not to get any of the entrails on her. “There, told you you had it covered.”

  “Covered!” Christine spun to glare at the Cuban. “You could have helped me, you selfish bitch! And for your information, our history is as far from clean as possible. Hitler has cleaner history than what happened!”

  “All Cubans should shoot,” Adriana said, “and shoot good.” The Cuban took two steps, grabbing Christine’s arms then spun her, their bodies intertwining, connecting.

  “No,” Christine exhaled with a swift kick to Adriana’s groin.

  Adriana dropped to the ground, gasping and holding her crotch. She looked up as Christine vanished into the night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Fuck me,” Christine exclaimed after locking the door behind her. Her breathing had started to slow, but her heartbeat was rapid. Picking up a linen napkin, she wiped the sweat from her brow. The run back to the Nacional had drained her. She then quickly changed her clothes; the blood and sweat and acid fluids had dried and began to reek.

  After getting a Cuba Libre ready, more Cuban rum than libre, and a cigar lit up, Christine went to the open balcony. The outside air was cool on her face, the sea breeze rejuvenating. A long sigh escaped her and Christine was at ease. A street band was playing and the soothing notes of the guitar washed over the room.

  Turning, Christine made her way over to the small bar area she had created. As she did, the Cuba Libre disappeared into her. It didn’t take long for the next one to follow its friend. Christine started making a third then decided to sip it. She couldn’t be hungover during the operation. That’s what she told herself anyway. As the coke filled the class and condensation formed on the outside, her eyes darted across the table. Rum, limes, coke, cigars, a satellite phone…

  Wait! A phone? That wasn’t there earlier. She placed the glass on the table, and then picking up a stirrer, she gently nudged the phone. It slid across the table slightly, but nothing more. Christine waited a moment then she flipped the device. It clattered to the floor. And there it lay.

  Christine knelt down and quickly grabbed the phone. Going through the contacts, there was only one. The name was S. She sighed as she pressed dial. This was not going to be pretty.

  “Report,” the curt old voice answered after the first ring.

  “It’s nice to hear your voice too, Station Master,” Christine said cheerfully as she sipped on the refreshing beverage. “How’s tricks? The famil—”

  “—Report!” the voice said, making her stop.

  “Well,” she began, “the flight was quite wonderful. Thank you for the private jet. Cuba has changed a whole lot. And oh, yeah, fucking Adriana is the damn contact!” her voice echoed in the room. The waves kept crashing against the sea wall and the music continued.

  It seemed like forever, the silence, then finally, “And?”

  Christine laughed; that was the last thing she expected. “And?” she repeated. “And that cunt snake is the person I’m supposed to be working with here? Don’t you remember what she did to us! To me!”

  “Enough,” Station Master said, sounding tired. “I’ve made a grave mistake sending you. Pack your bags. Get back to the Station House. Now.”

  “Station Master!” Christine began. “You sent me here because you know I can do the job. Havana was mine for five years. Adriana Prado was an unexpected surprise.”

  “I had not noticed,” Station Master’s sardonic voice echoed in Christine’s mind. “Do your job, Christine. Return a hero and all will be forgiven.”

  Christine paced the main area of the suite. “I will. I can. Just…why didn’t you give me all the intel?”

  A long pause from her boss. Then, “If I had. Would you still have gone?” Christine said nothing. She stared out the window, at the darkness. “I thought so.” Station Master continued, “Your level is need to know and this was a piece of information that you did not need to know.” Christine opened her mouth to speak, but his voice stopped her. “If you have such a problem, why not go straight to the head of Cuban Intelligence? What’s his name? That man with the limp and horrible taste in clothes.”

  “Juan de Dios,” Christine answered while suppressing a smile.

  “Yes. That’s the one. Never could stand him…” Station Master paused, lost in a thought. “Get him to replace the woman, if it’s too unbearable. Now,” he cleared his throat, “Report.”

  Christine straightened slightly, her training taking over. “The festival has been happening for one day now. Everyone I have spoken to so far has given me nothing. Apparently tomorrow, President Sanderson is paying a visit to Pinar del Rio. Intel says that there might be an attempt on him. Other than that, nothing else has come up.” She drained the Cuba Libre in her hand. Suddenly, she was exhausted.

  “Have you confir
med this?”

  Christine gulped, her throat all of a sudden dry. “Not as yet, sir.”

  “Then confirm it before acting. What about Jeremiah Banks?”

  “Only whispers in the dark that he is returning to free Cuba from the USA.”

  The silence from the other end of the phone was suffocating. The seconds ticked over and Christine was starting to get worried.

  “Anything else?” Station Master finally asked.

  Christine thought. She wasn’t sure if she should tell him about the dying and the attack. Maybe, she mused, it’s all connected. Better report everything.

  “Yes, Station Master. When I was on my way to the hotel, I noticed that there are many people her sick. And,” she continued before he could cut in, “before you say anything, I know there are sick. But I’m talking about people standing on the streets looking dead. I saw a boy, a child, get dragged to the ground by a dog. There was no sound! He didn’t scream or anything. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that he was already dead and his body hadn’t caught up.” She took a breath before continuing. “Then tonight, I met her and, well, a man tried to attack me.”

  “You must expect that in a place like Havana.”

  “Yes, sir. But the odd thing was that he didn’t try to rape me. He wanted to eat me. As if I was a slab of meat. He could barely speak and think… Almost like a zomb—”

  “Continue the mission,” Station Master said, stopping her in mid-sentence. “Keep an ear about Jeremiah Banks.”

  “Yes Station—” Christine started but he had already hung up. She looked at the phone then at her surroundings. “Nice talking to you too.”

  The lights flared up then everything blinked into darkness.

  #

  “Damn it,” Christine said as she stumbled around the room. Her arms were outstretched, waving blindly as each step taken was a nail-biter.

  Christine had forgotten about the rolling black-outs that happened across Havana. It made living here fun if you weren’t used to it. Her feet shuffled across the carpeted floor. Now I know how the blind feel, she thought to herself.

  Finally, she made it to the window; it was closed and the shades drawn tight. Christine made short work of the tie and the curtains fell open, letting moonlight spill into the room, bathing everything in its glow. The eeriness was beautiful. Christine smiled. Station Master was right. She needed to speak with Juan, that old caballero. But first thing’s first. A shower.

  The water was warm, but it kept sputtering and blasting her firstly with hot water then with cold. Christine laughed. She had indeed missed the Cuban lifestyle.

  As the water cleansed her, washing away the grime from so many years away, her mind started to clear too. And as it did, a thought formed. Why didn’t Juan contact her directly for a sit-down? After all, she thought, they had been through so much when she was first stationed here. He must have had his reasons. But what could they have been? Christine shook her head. More thoughts were creeping in, ones that she did not need at this moment. Maybe later.

  Logic. That’s what was needed right now. Christine started to make a list. A very special list.

  1) Speak to Juan and get all the intel needed.

  2) If everything is golden, then she would go to Pinar del Rio and work with Adriana.

  3) The first real sign of Jeremiah Banks, and Christine Moore would kill him.

  Christine smiled at that thought as the hotel light’s flickered back on. Lovely, she thought as she climbed out of the shower and started drying herself with a towel.

  She had wrapped it around her hair. Christine had never been one for modesty. Then she went back into the main room, took a swig from the open bottle of rum, and picked up the phone.

  “Hola,” she said when the other end was answered. “I was wondering if I could speak with Rafael? He must still be here.”

  “Uno momento,” the voice at the other end said curtly.

  “Hola, this is Rafael,” the voice was tired.

  “Why don’t you go home?” Christine said.

  “I am, dear señorita,” the manager said with a laugh. “What can I do for you?”

  “Juan de Dios. I need to see him.”

  “Señora… Christine… I just can’t ring and demand.”

  “Oh yes you can, Rafael,” she said. “You just tell him that it’s me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Call him. Then let me know where we are meeting.”

  She could hear Rafael breathing, calculating the risks of ringing the head of Cuban Intelligence at this time of night. If he said no, then she would have to take matters into her own hands. Yes? Then Christine Moore would have a fighting chance.

  “Si, señora. Allow me a moment.”

  Christine fist-pumped the air in victory. “I wait with baited breath.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Buena Vista Social Club was THE place to be in the 1940s. If you were a musician or just enjoyed the best son, boleros, or rumbas in all of the Caribbean then this was it. Some of the greatest Cuban musicians played there before it was closed in the late 1940s. On any night, one could go and see Compay Segundo, Ibrahim Ferrer, or even Rubén González hanging out, jamming with new and old songs, all the while drinking, smoking, and laughing. It was truly a special time.

  Then it all ended and these greats and many more disappeared into obscurity. That was until the 1990s when an American found them and created a new band named after the fabled place. It brought Cuban music to the limelight and created opportunities for all the old guard. The band continued to tour even with the members passing on. The Buena Vista Social Club Orchestra, as it was now known, would just replace them. Then in 2015, the band decided that was it. No more touring. And the world music scene cried.

  Now, in Havana there opened a new place, The Buena Vista Social Club. Almost as popular as La Bodeguita and La Floridita. The New Buena Vista is not exactly a speakeasy, nor is it a hole-in-the-wall. Mixing the history of Cuban Music with all the trappings of a modern establishment, all walks of life venture into the building, which was where Christine found herself, standing in front of the plain building. No signs advertising where she was or what was inside. Not even a bouncer.

  The instructions had been clear. Rafael had called her and said, “It’s done, Christine. The Buena Vista Social Club. Go to the door. Knock and wait.”

  “The Buena Vista? That doesn’t exist,” she replied.

  “A car is out front that will take you.”

  “Wait. Rafael, where is it? What is it?”

  He had hung up the phone.

  The driver had said nothing and had taken many twists and turns on the way. He opened the door for her eventually when they stopped. Then just as quickly drove away into the night, leaving her feeling bamboozled.

  One loud sharp bang on the door with her fist echoed down the street, most likely inside too. Instinctively, Christine cracked her knuckles, stretched her back and neck, loosening up for anything, unexpected.

  The door opened and the classic song “El Cuarto de Tula” washed over her. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the sounds of people laughing and not having a care in the world. Christine stepped across the threshold.

  #

  Inside was magical. Christine looked around at all the people. All were dressed for a wonderful evening out. Linen suits, panama hats, the occasional fedora, and the ladies a mixture of dresses, skirts, and pants. Not one of them was a hipster or turista. It made her smile at the sights, smells, and sounds. Her eyes went to the stage where a small five-piece band were belting out the song.

  It was one of the best classic Cuban songs to dance to. The lyrics were simple and easy. They talked about a woman whose house had caught fire and that each member of the band was mentioned as having helped. And though the lyrics were simple and free-form, the rhythm was irresistible. Try as she might, Christine could not help but shake her hips and move to the music. She laughed and smiled, enjoying herself pr
operly since arriving in Havana.

  She nodded at them and the singer winked at her cheekily. Christine continued glancing at people dancing, talking, and flirting, trying to find the old distinguished head of Cuban Intelligence. Nada. Amongst the crowd was not any man who resembled him. Christine cursed herself then headed for the bar.

  “Un mojito, por favor,” she ordered when the bartender spotted her.

  “Lo siento, Chica, pero no mojito. Solo Cuba Libre,” he said apologetically.

  Christine shook her head. “When in Rome.”

  The bartender nodded as he took a rocks glass. “Make it a highball.” Again, the young man nodded as he scooped some ice into the tall glass, followed by a healthy pour of Havana Club Especial. Add some lime juice. Then to top it off, Coca-Cola. A vigorous stirring and voila, a Cuba Libre. He slid it to Christine, followed by a precut Trinidad. She looked at it.

  “Compliments of the owner,” he said with a big smile.

  Christine took the drink, the cigar, and a small lighter. The barman pointed with his head. Christine followed and saw a small empty booth.

  Sitting down, Christine began to light the stogie. It was aged perfectly and the flavors were sublime. Whoever owns the place definitely knew how to keep cigars properly. She took a long slow draw on it and savored each of the tastes. Next, she took a sip of the cocktail. Christine had never liked the drink. But now, after so many years away from Cuba, it tasted like ambrosia. She closed her eyes and just drifted, carried away by the music, beverage, and smoke.

  “I do hope you’re enjoying yourself,” an older voice with just the slightest tinge of an accent said.

  Christine’s eyes snapped open and she grinned despite herself.

  Juan de Dios had aged, but he carried himself with a tranquility and grace seen in a much younger man. He, as Christine remembered, was still dressed immaculately. Perfectly pressed linen, a neatly trimmed goatee, white hair slicked back, and that tell-tale twinkle of the eyes that all spy masters have, that love for keeping secrets. In one hand, he held a cane, bamboo and tobacco leaf. The other held a panama hat.