The Age of Zombies: Sergeant Jones

by Rockow, B.

  “Oh shit, Sarge,” Roddy said. “What’s the punchline?”

  Jones was pissed. “There’s not a punchline, Roddy. It’s a damn order.”

  “You’ve been prepping me for too long,” Roddy said. “I’m not some green grunt anymore. If there’s a specific threat against me and my family, you need to tell me what it is, in detail. Otherwise I’m gonna assume that you’re full of shit.”

  “Damnit Roddy, you’re being an asshat.” Jones was heating up. The pain he felt from losing his family bubbled up into anger. Roddy wasn’t a deserving target, but that was the whole point of this call. Jones had to warn him. “The giants, they’re back. They’re hunting us down. They got my family. I’m pretty sure they got Big Boy’s family. They’re gonna get your family, if you don’t shut up, buck up, and get on out of there.”

  “The giants?” Roddy said. “Sarge, you said that we’d bury them in our fucking dreams. And that’s what we did. You need to slow down and explain what’s going on here.”

  Jones just shook his head. “Listen Roddy, I know I’m not being clear with you. But if I explained everything down to the nitty gritty, you’d think I was just connecting dots like a baboon with a Crayola.”

  “Okay, okay Sarge,” Roddy said. He followed the Sarge’s advice that he had given him back in combat. Take a deep breath. The joke about the baboon and a crayon lightened his nerves. “I’m hearing what you’re saying. I’m gonna get my family packed. I don’t know what it is about you, but you know how to motivate a man into action. This all sounds loco, but I’m with you, Sarge.”

  Jones lit a cigarette and drew the smoke long and hard into his lungs. “This is a damn conspiracy,” Jones said. “Real life, right now. Get your ass moving, grunt. Call me when you guys are at least a hundred miles out of dodge.”

  Roddy just nodded silently on the other end of the phone.

  “I lost my Emma Jo,” Jones said. He wasn’t going to sob, but the pain shot deep down into his heart. “And I’m gonna get her back. I’m gonna find my son.” Another deep draw from the cigarette. “I can’t see you go through this, Roddy. I just can’t.”

  Roddy breathed deeply into the phone. The line crackled. “Are you gonna be alright, Sarge?”

  Jones drew in another lungful of smoke. He exhaled and gathered his thoughts. He shut his eyes and held back the tears.

  Another lungful of smoke. Jones imagined the smoke filling the room and Emma Jo stepping out of the nicotine laced haze. But that was a fantasy. And there wasn’t much time for imagination now.

  “Sarge, man, say something. You’re starting to make me feel...”

  “Damnit Roddy, they’ve got Emma Jo.”

  “I know it, Sarge. And we’re gonna find her.” A Spanish flair, normally absent from Roddy’s speech, now dominated his tone and inflections. “I’ll hunt down the pinche burro who’s behind all this. I swear to Jesus Christ, we’ll find her.”

  “Get moving, grunt,” Jones said. He lit another cigarette. He took a couple drags, snuffed it out, and lit another.

  “I’m gonna pack the minivan now,” Roddy said. “And first chance I get, I’m calling.”

  Suddenly Roddy heard a shriek outside his bedroom door. It was his wife. Another piercing cry, this time from his nine year old son. Something was horribly wrong. Within seconds Roddy let out his own battle cry. The phone thudded on the floor. A cacophony of struggle filled the air: grunts, jabs, knees to the kidney.

  Roddy wasn’t much of a match for the invasion. Three giants overpowered the family with the ease of a child blowing out some birthday candles. Jones stood there listening to it all go down. There was nothing he could do. He tried to warn Roddy. If only he would have listened sooner.

  Through his phone Jones could hear the sirens getting closer to Roddy’s address. Within a minute, the military police on base had stormed the house, and discovered nothing.

  “Damn these beasts,” Jones said. He clicked the end call button on his phone. There was no point in talking to the police. “Damn them to hell.”

  The jig was up.

  These monsters meant business.

  And now that they had struck again, so did Jones. He wasn’t going to let another tragedy happen. Not after what just happened to Roddy and his family. They were good people. Roddy was a good man.

  His thinking quickened. What just happened with Roddy had to be left to the side for now. There was nothing he could do to alleviate the situation. But there was still a chance with his own family.

  Jones needed more information, and there was one place in the city of Eugene where he knew he could get it. He cleaned himself up, put on a new shirt and fresh pair of jeans, along with a leather jacket. He slipped a pistol into his belt, and grabbed his smokes. Jones hopped into his Jeep, drove a couple miles up the road, and pulled into a dumpy parking lot.

  The Billiards Bar was a raunchy sty. Even your typical scumbag would avoid the place. But the bar had its regulars. Old bikers who stood on either side of the law, tweakers looking to score, and an occasional group of Mexican day laborers who appreciated the buck fifty Coronas and generous shots of tequila. Not to mention the skanks that hovered around like flies on shit.

  Jones stepped into the Billiards Bar looking for a lead. The bikers didn’t have their hands in every scheme around town, but they always had their eyes peeled. In the Sarge’s experience bikers were some of the most well networked, knowledgeable folks around. Especially when it came to matters of the street. He imagined their overgrown nappy beards as a conduit of the streets and its stories. Jones laughed to himself thinking about that as he sat down at the bar.

  The man standing behind the counter was short, red faced, and stupid looking. His forehead was sloped and his eyes kind of popped out of their sockets. He looked Jones up and down. “What you drinking?”

  “Shot of bourbon, straight,” Jones said. He made sure to give the bartender a good nod and look straight in the eye. Jones didn’t take his gaze away from the bartender. He waited for the bartender to look away.

  The bartender got the point. He started whistling and fiddling around with a shot glass. He slammed it on the counter in front of Jones and poured the shot. “You’re military,” he said. “The first one’s on us.”

  Jones threw back the shot without a nod or a thank you. “I’m looking for somebody,” he said. “Thought he’d be around here.”

  The bartender looked around the place. A couple of scruffy fat bikers peered up from their beers. “Somebodys just don’t come around to the Side Pocket,” the bartender said. “Besides, if somebody did, a cop would be quick to follow.”

  Jones caught the drift. It was the exact reaction he was going for. “Right, well, I’ll take a PBR. I’ll go sit over there and wait around for him.”

  Jones took his PBR over to a table between the dart boards and pool tables. There were a half dozen bikers languidly playing bar games. They didn’t pay much attention, but still performed flawlessly. Jones watched on as they pocketed every shot and hit their numbers effortlessly on the dart board. The bikers were aware of the Sarge’s presence, but made it a point to ignore him.

  A couple tweakers strolled in. They needed their fix. One of the bikers paused his game of billiards and invited the tweakers out to the back for a cigarette. The biker came back without a smirk or a smile. But he was a couple hundred bucks fatter. The tweakers left the bar feeling like they were riding on a rainbow.

  Jones finished his beer and signalled for another. The bartender brought it out to him. “I start tabs for cops,” the bartender said condescendingly. “It’s just our way to say thanks.”

  Jones smiled and nodded. He found it funny how much places like this really, truly detested cops. He couldn’t blame them. Cops hated the scum that gathered here just as much.

  One of the bikers cracked an unrelated joke, and the group of them laughed hard. At the tail end of their laughter they collectively gave Jones a good hard gaze that lasted hardly a second. But it
was palpable, and from it Jones knew that he wasn’t welcome here.

  Jones figured he should break the ice. He stood up and walked over to a dart board. “The name is Jones,” he said. “Care if I play some cricket?”

  The bikers all mumbled to themselves, and cleared away from the board. One remained. He stood tall and large and wore a cut off black leather vest. His arms were covered in sleeves of prison tattoos that wrapped all the way up to his neck. His beard was wild and gray.

  Jones ordered another beer. The two men finished their beers together in silence. Once the biker was done, he started to the bar to grab another. Jones slammed his fist on the table.

  “I’m buying your next one,” Jones said.

  The biker squinted. “Don’t take gifts from cops.”

  “Bartender, two PBRs,” Jones hollered. He turned to the biker and locked eyes. “Listen, I’m looking for somebody,” Jones said in a hushed tone. “You wouldn’t have stayed at the board if you didn’t know who I was looking for.”

  The biker looked side to side. “Let’s play a game of cricket, drink our beers, and then we’ll talk.” The biker spoke with a full, rich voice. He made sure the whole bar could hear him. “I’ve got what you want.”

  The beers arrived and the two started their game. Jones was up first. In his left hand he held his can of PBR and two darts, and he steadied his aim with his right hand. He tossed the dart and hit the double 19 ring. He tossed the next dart, and hit a single 20. His last dart was wide, landing square on the inner circle of 12.

  “Not a bad shot,” the biker said. He stood up to the no bull line, and readied his darts. The biker possessed a set of his own hand crafted steel tip darts. They were beautifully carved with his nickname, biker crew, and year of manufacture: Cockroach, The Free Souls, 1975. The butts of the darts were feathered. Each of his darts were good: double 20, triple 18, and a bullseye.

  “Not as good as you apparently,” Jones said.

  The biker plucked his darts from the cork board. “The name’s Cockroach,” the biker said. “From what I gather, they call you Jones.”

  “That’s right,” Jones said. “Cockroach is quite the name.”

  “Well, Jones, my crew calls them as they see them. Once I started hanging around, the name came naturally. I’m Cockroach. I stay in the dark and go unseen.” His large body lumbered straight towards Jones. Cockroach cocked his hand as if it was a pistol, and stuck it to the Sarge’s temple. “I’m invisible until that moment right before you’re about to bite into your ham and mayo sandwich. I’m the last motherfucker you want to see then.”

  Jones laughed, and backed away. He wasn’t going to be intimidated. “Last thing I want to see before biting into my sandwich is a cockroach,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t squash the little shit into the ground.”

  The biker scratched his beard. He liked Jones already. “Even if you get rid of one cockroach, there are thousands more behind him.”

  “Let’s go out back,” Jones said. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Jones followed the biker out back. The Billiards Bar’s alley was filthier than Jones could imagine. “I’m surprised they don’t shut this place down.”

  “The county inspector doesn’t have time for that,” Cockroach said. “Besides, his pockets are lined. And he just loves the white stuff.”

  “So you know why I brought you out here,” Jones said. “Tell me what you know.”

  The biker folded his arms across his chest. He spit on the ground. “Listen dude, the fuckers you’re looking for? They’re making a name for themselves all up and down the I-5.”

  “I’ll pay you five grand to tell me who they are,” Jones said. “Cold hard cash.”

  “This shit isn’t about money.” The biker paused. His eyes darted back and forth. “The fact is, I want revenge.”

  “Revenge, huh?” Jones said. “So what do you know?”

  The biker pulled out a cigarette. He handed one to a grateful Jones. He hadn’t had a cigarette the whole time he was drinking. “These guys, well, monsters really, set up a base down in the mountains north of L.A.,” the biker said. “From what I hear they’re working pretty tight with the cartels.”

  “Who are they,” Jones said.

  “Nobody knows. They’re big boys though. They never show their faces. One was spotted wearing a bull mask.” Cockroach took a drag from his cigarette, and puffed out a couple smoke rings. “And I just got word that Los Zetas is done working with them. Something of a war has sparked between the crews, the cartel and the giants.”

  Jones let the smoke fill his lungs and calm his nerves before saying another word. “They got my family.”

  The biker shook his head and stuffed the innards of his mouth with chew. “They hit mine, too,” he said. “Well, my brother’s family. He lives down in South Gate. They stormed his house when he was gone. Took his wife and three kids. Casper killed a couple of these giants, and they got their revenge.”

  Jones felt the pain of this man and his brother. There weren’t many words to express his sympathy. His hunch to check out the Billiards Bar was spot on. But Jones just didn’t expect to find another victim.

  The biker continued. “I heard about the home invasion that went down the other night,” he said. “Some tweakers came into the bar and were going on and on about how they saw some giants peel away with a lively body bag. This was down at The Small Tavern.”

  These monsters weren’t just roaming around unseen. Somebody was bound to have seen something. “What else,” Jones said.

  The biker spit. “That’s about it. Listen dude, when you came in tonight looking for somebody, I had a hunch. I had a feeling that I was meant to talk to you. My brother got mixed up in all this like it was karmic retribution. He’s a hired gun for the cartel down in L.A. I want you to go down there and talk to him. Maybe you two can sort this all out.”

  “I just need his number,” Jones said. There was no need for gratitude.

  The biker pulled an iPhone from the breast pocket of his leather vest. It looked a little ridiculous in the hands of this gritty, road worn brute. “What’s your number? I’ll text it to you.”

  Jones waved his hand. “No need,” he said. “I’ll remember it if you tell me.”

  The biker was skeptical, but went ahead and rattled off his brother’s phone number. Jones seared it into his memory. There wasn’t much else he needed from the biker. And the biker didn’t need much else from Jones. The two men departed without ceremony. Jones went back to his house to prepare for his trip to Los Angeles. The biker went back to throwing darts.

  Once Jones got home, his head throbbed with pain. His vision blurred. That worm was wreaking havoc inside his brain. But it couldn’t stop Jones from preparing for the trip. After he was done packing, he went to the kitchen for a shot of bourbon. He poured his whiskey, and threw it back. The booze slightly assuaged the pain. Jones noticed that those damn roses were still on the counter. He grabbed the vase, and smashed it onto the kitchen floor.

  Jones felt one step closer to finding Emma Jo. He hoped that Vanessa was still alive, even though the very thought of his wife disgusted him. Jones wanted her alive just for his daughter’s sake. He knew that Emma Jo would be okay if Vanessa was around. She might have been unfaithful, but she was a great mother.

  And his son. It was three weeks until his due date.

  Jones wasn’t going to rest until he found his Junior.

  Chapter Eight

  Lenin’s Humanity

  The kids were obedient to the Orobu. Not a single one of them tried to escape when they were taken from the bus by helicopter. Even though they had just witnessed the massacre of their camp leaders, they did not cry while in the clutches of the Orobu soldiers. Deep inside their hearts, the kids were terrified. But the fear was obscured by something much worse. Just like Savannah, each kid was given a worm. Once the worms burrowed into their brains, the kids became apathetic.

  Within seconds,
the kids went from a state of hypershock to utter docility. In fact, they obeyed every command that was issued by the Orobu. Not a single kid defied orders. Not even Little Richard.

  The helicopters landed on a private airport just outside of Wichita, Kansas, where the kids were herded onto an old Soviet commercial passenger plane, the Tupolev Tu-154M. The plane was the property of Joru Logistics. It was painted off white and had no identifying marks.

  The kids marched single file from the helicopters onto the plane. They hardly said a word to each other. Normally the church camp kids were rambunctious, and they would cut in line, horse around, make jokes, hop around, and sing songs. They somberly shuffled their feet across the thin asphalt landing strip, beneath the baking Kansas sun.

  The Orobu soldiers stood post on either side of the single file line. Their Kalashnikovs and black fatigues looked foolish beside the innocent kids. But orders were orders. The soldiers were told that within twenty four hours, the kids must report to an outpost just south of Ordos City in Inner Mongolia, which was one of the world’s largest ghost cities. Further instruction would be given upon arrival.

  The kids took their seats in the coach section. The soldiers sat in first class. A few of the Orobu leaders sat in a special cabin of the plane that resembled a lounge. They joined the suited representatives from Joru Logistics who had brought the plane from Russia. This operation was going to net the company another half billion dollars. It was a delicate mission on American soil, and thus the premium. The suits greeted the soldiers with cool deference. Among the Joru Logistics employees were a couple men who occupied positions in the higher rungs of the organization.