Zombie Team Alpha: Lost City Of Z

by Steve R. Yeager

  Ajay had been translating on the fly. The shorter of the two natives stomped a small circle and pointed at Morgan and back at his chest with his thumb. Cutter’s own hand moved closer to his gun. He was still sluggish from the lingering effects of his hangover but was not suffering so much that he couldn’t bring his weapon up before anything untoward could happen.

  The itching, crawling feeling on his neck suddenly increased, warning him of danger.

  He wanted to draw his gun but held fast. Ajay finished a quick burst of clipped speech, which seemed to calm the two men, who both glanced from Moray to Ajay to Rogers, eyes bulging wide with anger. Whether it was real of fake anger, Cutter had no way of telling. Moray’s guard Rogers also had a hand on his sidearm, saying nothing, but was ready to draw and fire.

  Then one of the natives stepped forward and grabbed Morgan by the elbow and tried to pull her toward him. Ajay circled the little man and forced him to retreat to where he had been standing before with another clipped burst of speech.

  Cutter crept between Morgan and Reyna and moved past them so that the two natives would have to go through him before they could get to them again. He gave the two men warning glances, hoping the translation was clear: hands off.

  Moray returned to the pack and unzipped it. He reached inside. One of the two natives cupped his fingers under his lips and whistled.

  A split second later, Cutter realized things had just gone from bad to worse. He sprang to action, drawing his 9mm and pointing it at the two men. Rogers and Gauge did the same, squaring off against the two natives.

  A bird squawked in the background.

  Then it felt as if the entire forest had gone silent.

  “Back off!” Moray warned. “I’ve got this under control.”

  Cutter heard a noise that sounded like a sudden rush of escaping air. The sound reached him a split second too late. By the time he recognized the sound, an arrow shaft was already whistling right past his ear. He ducked sideways in the aftermath, arms going up to pull Reyna and Morgan along with him. Gauge brought up his gun and lowered his center of gravity, readying himself to fire at their attacker.

  Before Gauge could squeeze the trigger, or Cutter, or Rogers—Moray shouted, “No! Stop! Stop this!”

  But Cutter was no longer in a trusting mood.

  Knowing Gauge could take care of himself, Cutter grabbed Reyna with his left hand and bumped Morgan with his shoulder, driving them both into the closest cover he could find, which turned out to be a hut about twenty feet away. Once they were inside the empty hut, he spun around and rushed back out, covering his left and right flank with brief glances, moving with deadly purpose.

  He could see no visible threats, but he could sense them all around him. The two native men had vanished into thin air. The other villagers were missing as well. The entire place might as well have been a ghost town, and right now, Cutter didn’t want to find himself one of the ghosts inhabiting it.

  His senses were on full alert. All issues with his previous hangover were gone. The only troubles he could see requiring his immediate attention was coming from the large man, Rogers. The guy was on the ground, and there was an arrow sticking from the side of his neck. Dark blood pumped from the wound and was pooling in the dirt around him.

  Crouching low, gun raised, Cutter joined Moray and Ajay, ever watchful for more arrows as if he could duck them. He motioned for Gauge to cover him. Gauge did so with his hand-cannon, Betty—drawn, leveled, and seeking targets worthy of the large, .50 caliber bullets.

  No more arrows came at them. Again, Cutter glanced down at Rogers and then got down on one knee beside him. The man’s eyes were bulging, and one of his hands had gone to his throat. He was still alive. Barely. His heart was pumping blood, but it was apparent how hopeless it was for the guy because all that the pumping was doing was driving the blood out of his body.

  “Hang on,” Cutter said. He reached down and tried to pinch off the blood flow, but he quickly realized that there was no way of stopping it. Still, he kept trying—and failing.

  It didn’t take much more than a few seconds before all tension left the large man’s body and he went limp. With a glance up at Moray and Ajay, Cutter shook his head from side to side.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Moray said hollowly. “Not supposed to…happen. I don’t know what to say.”

  - 22 -

  KA-BOOM

  Cutter signaled to Gauge with three raised fingers and a quick wave of his hand. The big man understood the meaning straight away and headed back to the parked vehicles. A few brief moments later, he returned carrying most of their gear—packs, vests, and a pair of fully loaded MP-5Ks, one slung over each shoulder.

  After receiving his weapon, Cutter jerked back the bolt to check the chamber and saw the gleaming comfort of new brass. He looked sideways at Gauge for a moment, wondering why Gauge hadn’t chosen something bigger than the 9mm machine guns, but there was no time for that. There was only time enough to get into position and prepare for the worst.

  But the forest around Cutter only resumed its ambient din, punctuated by the occasional howl of a monkey or cry of a bird.

  Hunched over and prepared to return fire at any targets presenting themselves, Cutter broke free from temporary cover and pulled Moray and Ajay along with him, shepherding them toward the hut where he had already stashed Morgan and Reyna. Karo, their native guide, at first followed, then sprinted ahead and ducked inside the hut first.

  Cutter saw Gauge from the corner of his eye right before a new blurry shape flittered across his field of vision. He ducked left. An arrow whistled past just in front of him and slammed into the side of a wooden pole and stuck there, quivering. Cutter, now fully alert, calculated the approximate location where the arrow had come from and fired a three-round burst of covering fire back into the forest. The rounds snapped through the heavy leaves and sounded as if they had all smashed into the trunk of a tree—but not flesh.

  Gauge laid down his own rapid burst before he came running across the open space. He met up with Cutter by the side of the hut, ducking low, gaze roaming the forest for targets. Another arrow whizzed past Cutter’s head and stuck into the same post right beside him.

  “Two misses,” he whispered. “Third one won’t. Move! Get inside.”

  Human figures rapidly materialized from the dense forest.

  Painted warriors. Running silently.

  Behind them, more warriors appeared to Cutter’s right. Then a third group appeared and started attempting to flank the hut. More still came across the open space in front of Cutter and spread out as they approached.

  Cutter ducked behind the temporary shelter of a series of poles leaning against the hut. He swiveled back and forth, gun raised to his eye, putting the red dot on each of the splintering groups. The approaching warriors were being cautious, running in zig-zagging patterns, approaching from all three directions at once. He fired a burst of rounds at the feet of the nearest of the three groups, throwing up dust wherever the rounds impacted. That group jumped as if they’d stepped on hot coals, stopping short.

  But the others kept coming.

  Gauge kept his gun up, ready to unload. Surprisingly, he hadn’t yet pulled the trigger. Cutter was thankful for that. He wasn’t ready to kill them yet. Just scare them off.

  “Hold fire,” Cutter breathed. “Not yet.”

  Another arrow shot past and skittered in the dirt near Cutter’s feet like a snake. He temporarily exposed himself from cover to stamp a foot down on the arrow to stop it before it went into the hut. Making a rapid mental calculation, he guessed where it had come from—somewhere off in the forest. But when he scanned for the attacker, he saw nothing.

  The approaching warriors used his momentary distraction as an opportunity to advance and cross the distance before he could fire another burst into the dirt.

  He made a split-second decision—them or him.

  He raised his gun again and fired, hitting the first ma
n in the leg, causing him to stumble to the ground, clutching the meat of his thigh. The others didn’t take even that as a warning. They continued to advance.

  “I’d still rather not kill them,” Cutter breathed from the side of his mouth. “Ideas?”

  “Fresh out,” Gauge said as he raised his gun and fired. For some odd reason, the report seemed far louder and far deeper than Cutter’s own gun. That burst hit its intended target square in the chest and the guy clutched at the new hole, stumbled forward, and fell twisting to the dirt. The others paused their advances, skidding in the dirt and dropping low into wide-legged stances. Suddenly, they all shifted and went sprinting to the right as another arrow came streaking from Cutter’s left. He barely had time for it to register before it hit right where he was about to move. If he hadn’t hesitated, it would have struck him.

  He knew then that they were anticipating where he was moving. The next arrow would surely hit him.

  “No choice,” Gauge said, picking a new target but holding fire.

  “Yeah,” Cutter groused back, knowing they were in deep shit if they didn’t fight back now and fight back hard.

  From behind, he felt a tug at his pack and cranked his neck to see where it had come from. He instinctively shifted, ready to fend off a potential attack. Reyna was crouched low behind him. She had two flash-bang grenades she’d taken from his pack. After a quick grin of thanks back at her, she pulled the pins on the grenades with opposite fingers and lobbed one to the right and one to the left.

  Retreating, turning away, Cutter and Gauge backed inside the hut like they were folding a protection detail around Reyna to keep her tucked in the pocket between them and safe from the blast.

  Cutter let his rifle drop to its strap, plugged his ears, and clamped his eyes closed.

  A thunderous boom hit him hard. Dust blew past him, rustling the dries grasses of the hut’s threshold. The second boom rocked half a second later.

  Opening his eyes to slits against the dust cloud, Cutter reached for his weapon, brought it up, and exited the hut, barrel first.

  About half the warriors who’d been attacking were now on their backsides. The others were shaking their heads and slapping their hands over their ears. One was digging furrows in the dirt as he tried to make an escape. He made it up to his feet, turned, and ran for the cover of the forest. The others, seeing the first man running, joined him and quickly vanished into the dense cover of the forest.

  All went quiet again.

  Cutter sucked a deep breath and let it out slowly. They would be back soon. He glanced to the sky and then checked his watch, trying to judge how much daylight they had remaining.

  Almost as if nature were answering him for what had just happened, everything around him dimmed when a cloud occluded the sun. When it came back out, the light came up, growing in brightness until it was nearly blinding.

  The village all around him was as vacant as a ghost town. One dead native lay sprawled face down in the dirt about twenty feet from Moray’s man, Rogers. Tit for tat. An equal exchange of death.

  But it was more than that, really. Cutter figured that none of this should have happened. He was certain of it and was growing more pissed off about it by the second.

  “We have to get out of here,” Moray said as he joined Cutter outside the hut.

  The answer to Cutter’s own internal questioning of his sanity had now become painfully obvious. They never should have been there in the first place.

  “Yes, we do,” he growled back at the man. “And we have two dead. They’re on you, Moray. They’re on you…”

  The man didn’t say anything. He turned away.

  The twin G-63s were about fifty yards from where Cutter stood. That was fifty yards of wide-open terrain. The entire length of that run would keep him less than twenty yards from the forest cover to the right. Anything could happen in those fifty yards.

  “We’ll move as a group,” he said. “Stick close to me and Gauge. Don’t waver. Not a bit.” He swung off his pack and grabbed another grenade and handed it to Reyna. “Just in case.” Then he raised his weapon, ducked, and led them all toward the waiting G-63s, shielding them from the dangers of the forest with his body.

  As he crossed the space, Gauge right on his six, he recognized it was going to be a pointless effort by the time he got halfway to the vehicles. There were arrows and large wooden stakes sticking from the deflated tires on both vehicles. They might be able to limp out of there on flat tires, but it wasn’t looking good.

  They reached the first vehicle without having to fire a shot. Cutter swung open the rear door, and Reyna and Morgan ducked inside. Cutter was about to open the driver’s side door when Moray grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.

  “We need to get across the river,” Moray said. “Or this trip is over and you’ve failed to complete the mission I paid you for.”

  “No, it’s your mission now,” Cutter stated. “I’d rather keep me and my team breathing.” He turned away from Moray and ripped opened the door. He hopped up and in the cab, slammed the door shut, and hit the starter switch.

  Nothing happened.

  He tried it again.

  Nothing.

  Kill switch.

  He swung the door open all the way again. “Fix it! Fix it now! Turn it back on,” he said to Moray.

  “You won’t be able to get out in those anyway,” Moray stated. He held up a small black box and pressed a tiny red switch. A red light on the box started to flash. “Now you have sixty seconds to unload our gear, Mr. Cutter. I suggest you hurry.”

  Cutter scrutinized the man for a moment and, in that brief sliver of time, he knew without a doubt what was going on. Warren Bell had been right to warn him about Moray. Even the duck-lipped FBI agent’s warning had been right. He couldn’t trust Moray. Not at all.

  But for the moment, they were temporary allies. There was no other way.

  “Out,” Cutter barked as he jumped from the vehicle and got to work. “Get out. Grab everything of ours you can. Everything you need. Hurry.”

  Moray ran around the back the G-63 in which he’d arrived. He and Ajay hurriedly unloaded their packs. Cutter raced Morgan to the back, and they grabbed whatever they could from the bed of the G-63, adding bag after bag Morgan had brought along, but the pile they had made proved too heavy when Cutter tried to lift it.

  “We have to take that one, Jack,” Morgan said. “It contains—”

  The clock in Cutter’s head was already counting down, fast. He knew they could all go back, follow the trail to the last village. For what, though? Days? With the natives they had just roiled up hot on their heels? No. They’d have to choose a different path. For the moment, it appeared Moray had been planning for this contingency. Cutter had a bad feeling in his gut that there was more and they were being led right down the chute to slaughter. But the only thing he figured he could do about it now was follow along until an opportunity presented itself. Moray needed him. And for the next few hours, few days, or whatever, he needed him.

  “Run,” he said, as he pushed a confused Morgan and a still-pissed-off looking Reyna in the direction of the village.

  The counter in Cutter’s head told him he was down to twenty seconds or less already. His internal clock had been wrong before, so he was giving himself a few extra seconds of padding.

  Morgan peeled off and returned toward Cutter. Gauge gave a quick look back at her, then grabbed Reyna and they sprinted toward the village.

  “Go!” Cutter yelled.

  “You’ve got to bring that one, Jack,” she pleaded as she rushed to him and tried to pick up the bag herself. She grabbed it and attempted to hoist it.

  The bag was too heavy.

  Ten seconds.

  Cutter grabbed her by the shirt and yanked hard to get her to drop the duffle bag. He shoved her stumbling forward. “Jesus Christ, Morgan. Run!”

  “But I need to—”

  Jamming her forward again, he forced her to drop the
heavy bag. He then pushed her away from the vehicle and they ran side by side in a shambling sprint.

  Five seconds.

  Lunging the last few steps, he shoved her to the ground and shielded her with his body.

  Behind him, the G-63 exploded in a fireball of searing heat. He felt his shirt tails and thin T-shirt underneath lift almost above his head. The heat from the blast singed his bare skin, and the concussion wave flattened him on top of her.

  When the violence settled, he rolled off of her and lay there on the ground, staring at the sky. His head was filled with a piercing tone, making him dizzy.

  The ringing in his head subsided. A moan of pain replaced the ringing. He wasn’t the one moaning. It had come from beside him.

  - 23 -

  RIVER STYX

  Cutter rolled over onto his back, sputtering bits of chalky clay from his lips. Everything was hurting, ringing, or throbbing. The heavy fix of adrenaline he’d received when the blast had initially gone off allowed him to move, but not too much or too quickly. He rose onto all fours, breathed in and out to steady himself, then crawled closer to the prostrated Morgan.

  She was still lying face down in the dirt, head turned to one side, eyes shut and moaning incoherently. He recalled landing on top of her in his attempt to protect her from the blast. Maybe he hadn’t been entirely successful. That sent a fresh wave of shock through his body. He ran his fingers up and down her torso, attempting to probe for any injuries, searching for broken bones, or entrance wounds indicating she’d been hit by shrapnel. He found none, so he untucked her shirt from her cargo pants and lifted the cotton shirt she wore to check her closer. He saw the pale whiteness of her flesh and the tattoos on her lower back and sides, which surprised him—just a bit. He didn’t think she was the type to have so many. But they only served to remind him that as close as they were, they had never been that close.

  “Hey,” she moaned thinly, reaching back with one hand to pull down her shirt.