by Rockow, B.
“Cursed by the gods,” he said.
Wimpy laughed. He looked down the street and it seemed like everybody had turned out of their rooms, apartments, and houses to see what was going on. Little did anybody know that the two soldiers were dragging an actual zombie through the streets. A couple young kids rode their bicycles in circles around the soldiers and the giant.
“El gigante, el gigante,” they chanted.
“El gigante, blaaaaah!” Jones tried to scare the kids off. They just laughed and kept heckling.
Before the soldiers got up to the main gate of the apartment building, a deep voice hollered out for them. They looked up ahead. At the gate stood a midget. He had curly, greasy hair, a couple gold chains with crucifixes dangling, and half his teeth were gone.
“El Sagrado,” the guy said with a thick, deep Mexican accent. “At your service. Come along, soldiers.”
Jones looked back at Wimpy. “A fucking midget?”
Wimpy just shrugged. “Orders are orders.”
“Isn’t this short fuck gonna help us carry this body?” Jones complained.
El Sagrado disappeared behind the apartment’s steel gate. The soldiers followed with the body. Once inside the apartment building’s courtyard, which had a dry fountain at its center, they heard a whistle from up ahead. El Sagrado’s apartment was at the back of the courtyard. The two soldiers passed several stucco apartment buildings and entered El Sagrado’s pad.
The apartment was musty and smelled of bong water, tequila, and greasy tacos. Stacks of cash were haphazardly littered around the apartment. The TV blared a Mexican soap opera. Jones started keeping a mental tally of how many firearms he counted in El Sagrado’s living room. He stopped at fifteen.
Jones dropped his half of the zombie. Wimpy followed suit. The two soldiers breathed a sigh of relief and took a seat on the couch.
“Want tequila?” El Sagrado asked.
“That sounds great,” Wimpy said.
“It’s no time for tequila,” Jones said. “It’s time for business.”
The midget grabbed three pint glasses and filled them each half way with the clear tequila. “You gringos drink before business,” El Sagrado said. “And then we say a prayer.” The midget hobbled around the kitchen and into the living room. He set the glasses in front of the soldiers. “Go on,” he said. “Vamonos. Let’s drink.”
Wimpy had a shit eating grin on his face. “Orders are orders.”
“Fucking meal worms,” Jones said.
The three men guzzled down their tequila.
“Refresco,” the midget said. “Jesus bless this day.”
“We got your zombie,” Jones said. He never really enjoyed the taste of tequila. Something rotten about it. “So now it’s time to help us out.”
El Sagrado shook his head. He lifted one of the crucifixes from his chest and kissed it. “Only Jesus helps,” he said. “Ask Jesus.”
Jones was pissed. His neck twitched as he held down his anger. He had just put some damn good men on the line to get this zombie. He had killed a cop that was just doing her job. Jesus had nothing to do with this equation. Jones fought the urge to rip into the midget’s pudgy body and stuff his flesh down his throat. Jones stood up from the couch and towered above El Sagrado. “Get us to China you little fuck.”
El Sagrado backed away. “You brought the giant,” he said. “I can get you to China. But have you heard the news?”
Jones wasn’t in the mood to mess around. “Cut the shit Sagrado,” he said. “I don’t need to hear the news.”
“All the planes are cancelled,” Sagrado said. “Nobody can leave the state. Nobody can leave the country. They know you’ve got this monstruo. And now they’re not happy.”
Jones picked up the remote control from the couch and flipped to a news station. El Sagrado was right. The newscaster said that a biological terror was spreading across the United States. People in New York City and Bend, Oregon were turning into raging cannibals. The newscast played a clip of an attack. Jones recognized one of the attackers. It was Penny.
“Slap me twice and call me Sally,” Jones said.
The video clip didn’t identify the woman, but it was Penny. Thirty minutes ago she rampaged down Wall Street, ripping up investment banker flesh and stuffing it down her gullet. She killed seventeen before being brought down. The news didn’t indicate if she was dead or alive.
“This worm, it’s part of them.” El Sagrado kicked the zombie in the head. “I’ve got friends, they told me. With this worm, these gigantes will take over the world.”
Jones felt his heart thud against his ribs. His fear was confirmed. His stomach turned and growled. He wanted to puke. He had to get out of the country and to China before it was too late. He wouldn’t have much time. The infection was growing, both within himself, and out there.
The news said that reports of the cannibalistic phenomenon had surfaced in London, Rome, Buenos Aires, and Nairobi. Jones bit his lip and punched the air. There wasn’t much time at all.
“I brought you the giant,” Jones said with urgency. “Now you get me to China.” He withdrew his pistol and steadied the aim on El Sagrado. “I shoot to kill,” Jones said. “And I aim to shoot.”
“Go down to the docks,” Sagrado said. “Down to Long Beach. Look for Shanghai Ltd. They work with Los Zetas. They ship us ephedrine, along with some other loot. They’ll be headed off soon. Customs doesn’t search them. They’re beyond the law. I have friends there. They will get you to China.”
Wimpy sat on the couch sipping on his tequila. He paused from his drink to jot down what El Sagrado was saying.
Suddenly, a loud series of knocks sounded at the door.
El Sagrado had a knowing look on his face. “They’re here,” he said. He threw back the rest of his tequila and grimaced. “Dios mio, dios mio. They’re here.”
The three men hurriedly chose their weapons. Jones picked up an AK-47. El Sagrado kept his 12 gauge semi-automatic Benelli shotgun, and steadied it on the door. Wimpy held two pistols, an M9 and a .45 S&W. There was enough firepower trained on the door to take down a horse, camel, and an elephant.
The men waited for the break in. Sweat broke on their brows. El Sagrado’s grip on the shotgun was starting to falter. His shaky, short arms couldn’t support the weight of the 12 gauge for much longer. There was another loud bang at the door. The monsters began kicking it. The reinforced steel door had several deadbolts that El Sagrado secured after inviting the two soldiers in.
Another kick to the door. Jones breathed slow and deep. His reflexes were ready to pounce. Once that door was down, he’d level everything coming through it. The zombies didn’t stand a chance.
One more knock. This time much gentler. Wimpy thought that this might all be a distraction. “Is there another entrance?” he asked Sagrado.
“No other entrance,” Sagrado said. “There’s the window in the bathroom. They couldn’t fit through that.”
A fly landed on Wimpy’s cheek. He shook his head and shooed it off with a gust of exhalation.
Just then an explosion went off in the middle of the room. The giants were breaking through from above. The center of the ceiling came crashing down. Jones was knocked down, and he lost his hold on the assault rifle. The room filled with debris and dust. Jones scanned the scene and counted three zombies dressed in their characteristic black fatigues.
Wimpy was far enough away from the crash to be left standing. A primordial groan swelled in his gut as he unleashed the fury of his pistols on the giants. “Got one!” he shouted. “Monsters will die!”
Jones looked over to where El Sagrado had been standing. He was no longer there. One of the giants had scooped the midget up. Sagrado flailed around in its arms. His shotgun was nowhere to be seen. Jones knew that El Sagrado didn’t have much of a chance of surviving. Jones had to act quick to save him.
There was another zombie that Jones had to contend with first. The zombie hovered over the Sarge’s assault rifle,
which was knocked out of his hands during the break in. The zombie bent down and picked the gun up. He trained it right on Jones.
Jones shot up from the ground and dove behind the couch. The zombie unloaded half the AK’s magazine. Jones felt the rounds whiz by his head as he dove for cover. The rest of the lead sunk into the couch and tore up its upholstery.
“Hooah! Die, you mutant motherfucker!” Wimpy shouted.
Several rounds were fired off a split second after.
“Got ‘em, Sarge!”
Jones came out from hiding. He rushed over to the zombie and peeled the AK from the dying monster’s grip. In a flash he turned to the last remaining zombie and unloaded the rest of the magazine into his guts. The giant let out a ghoulish groan that echoed throughout the apartment. He fell to the ground, taking El Sagrado down with him.
Wimpy ran over and stood above the zombie. The monster was still groaning, and squeezed Sagrado tight to his chest. Wimpy held both pistols straight to the zombie’s head. Two trigger pulls later and the monster was no more.
El Sagrado was in bad shape. Half of his left arm was missing. It was still attached to the bone, but significant chunks of flesh had been tore out. He was also bleeding bad from his guts. Two bullet wounds appeared to be the culprit there. Worms from the zombie’s brain gravitated towards the midget’s open wounds.
“He’s losing steam Sarge,” Wimpy said.
Jones dropped his AK and rushed over to examine the midget. He slapped El Sagrado across the face. “You with me?” he said. “Say something, Sagrado. One, two, three. Repeat after me. One, two, three.”
Sagrado’s eyes were inky and red. His wife beater was soaked with his own blood. His left arm dangled at his side.
Jones slapped Sagrado again. The midget groaned in pain.
Jones shook his head and pulled out a cigarette. He lit up and blew the smoke right in Sagrado’s face. The midget didn’t even react. “We don’t have time,” Jones said to Wimpy. “Let’s get this over with now, before any more of these ghouls show up.”
Jones reached for Wimpy’s .45 S&W. The beautiful silver pistol traded hands. Jones always enjoyed the way a large caliber pistol felt in his grip. Holding this piece of work made him feel like he could take down anything. He felt like he could shoot through time and space itself, and ride off into eternity. That’s where El Sagrado was going, anyway. Off to the great beyond.
Jones steadied the pistol. He puffed his cigarette down to the butt, and left it dangling from his lips. “Rest in peace, Sagrado,” Jones said. “Give St. Peter my regards.”
The .45 sent a reverberating boom throughout the apartment courtyard. Nobody was there to hear it, however. The skirmish with the zombies had sent the entire apartment building packing. Even the curiosity of the boldest on the block wasn’t strong enough to keep them there.
Jones looked around the apartment. The stacks of cash, which he estimated to total at least a hundred grand, were useless and stained with blood and debris. Even the large cache of weapons would be useless in assisting Jones with the next stage of his mission. From here on out his strongest weapon would be his own cunning. A pistol or two wouldn’t hurt, though.
“We don’t have much time,” Jones said. He lit two cigarettes and handed one to Wimpy. “They’re shutting the city down now. Let’s hightail it down to the docks.”
Wimpy nodded and accepted the cigarette. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smoked, but that didn’t matter now. His nerves were shot and he felt like he had to hurl. The cigarette calmed Wimpy down enough to gather up some extra ammunition for his pistols.
The two soldiers walked out of El Sagrado’s apartment with their heads held high. The blood on their hands was the blood of victory. They were one step closer to Shanghai. Jones was that much closer to holding Emma Jo in his arms again.
The drive down to Long Beach was chaotic. Traffic laws were being flouted in panic. News of the outbreak of this cannibalistic plague was spreading fast. Nobody knew where they were going. They just wanted to get away. Wimpy lamented the fact that no matter how hard these people tried, they weren’t going to get anywhere. The whole country was on lockdown. They could fight, they could flee, but they were ultimately stuck. Wimpy figured that it wouldn’t be long before the full force of the authorities in charge of this operation came down hard on the people.
The question was: who was really behind all this?
Wimpy counted hundreds of United States military vehicles along the freeway. The orders were coming from a high place. How high could it go?
What was the goal?
Wimpy always figured there’d never be a third World War, simply because it would cripple economic production. There’s money to be made in wars, to be sure. But to send the world into a devilish tailspin in this day and age would spell certain doom for all parties involved. He speculated that there’d always be conflict. No matter how advanced and prosperous the world became, there’d be zones of rebellion and bloodshed.
The only logical conclusion in Wimpy’s mind was that these zombies, whatever they were, had usurped power from humankind. He had no idea what their numbers were. He had no clue about where they came from. But they were definitely the ones behind the chaos that was spreading across the land. They were the ones who had intruded on the lives of his friends. Slaughtering Big Boy, stealing Roddy, taking everything from Sergeant Jones.
What had these monsters done to him?
Wimpy gazed out onto the city of Los Angeles as it sped by. He realized that they hadn’t gotten to him yet. Not in the deeply personal, tragic, devastating ways they had destroyed his comrades. Wimpy knew that it was only a matter of time before they did. But what could they do? Wimpy’s family was gone, his only friend sat right next to him in the Jeep. And he wasn’t afraid of death.
Wimpy asked for another cigarette. He lit up and sucked the smoke deep down into his lungs. He figured picking up the habit wasn’t so bad an idea. With the entire world about to go up in flames, some smoke in the lungs soothed him.
Jones sped down the 710 freeway, dodging the crazy drivers that stood in his way. There were at least three dozen accidents between L.A. and Long Beach. The traffic was rough but Jones was able to weave his way off the exit that would take them down to the docks.
They finally arrived at the Port of Long Beach.
Jones scanned the port, which was like a city unto itself. He spotted a huge transport liner, painted red and scrawled with white Chinese characters along its side. Beneath the Chinese was the English he was looking for: Shanghai Ltd.
“Let’s get our asses on board,” Wimpy said. “It looks like they’re about to take off.”
The ship was loaded with large steel cargo shipping containers. A dozen men were at the dock preparing the liner for its journey back to China.
Jones sped the Jeep across the port to the ship’s dock. He slammed on the breaks and the two soldiers hopped out. They ran over to the men preparing the ship for departure. They were all Chinese nationals. Jones shouted at them to get their attention, and they stopped what they were doing. They looked like they had seen ghosts when they saw the two soldiers. The men started shouting in Chinese. They pulled out knives and moved towards the soldiers.
Jones realized why they were scared. “We’re healthy,” Jones said. “No worms, no worms.”
One of the Chinese dockworkers stabbed the air with his knife. “You zombie,” he said. “You zombie. Go! Go away!”
The other dockworkers spread out and formed a circle around the two soldiers.
Wimpy looked over at Jones. “They’re not gonna listen, Sarge.”
“How many Chinamen does it take to screw in a light bulb?” Jones said. His right hand hovered right above where his pistol was.
“Damn, Sarge,” Wimpy said. “A thousand? There are enough of them.”
“This ain’t no time for jokes, Wimpy,” Jones said. “But right now I wish that I had a punchline.” He withdrew his M9 pistol. H
e looked straight into the eyes of each dockworker, one at a time, turning around until he locked eyes with each one. “One of you knows El Sagrado.”
The dockworkers didn’t respond. They inched closer with their knives, flailing them in the air.
“Sagrado,” Jones said. “El Sagrado. Los Zetas. One of you Chinese fucks knows El Sagrado.”
Wimpy pulled out his .45 S&W. The dockworkers quickly backed down.
One of the older workers stepped forward. “I know Sagrado. You friends?”
“Amigos,” Wimpy said.
“Yes, we’re friends,” Jones said with a nod.
“You got the worm?” the old Chinaman said.
“Healthy,” the two soldiers said in unison. “No worm.”
“Come with us then,” the dockworker said. “This ship goes to Shanghai. You stay down. You stay at bottom of ship.”
Wimpy tucked his pistol back into his belt. “That’s the ticket, Sarge,” he said. “We’re headed to China.”
The old dock worker stopped the soldiers before allowing them to board. “But first you drop your guns.”
Wimpy looked at Jones with skepticism. The dockworker insisted that the soldiers disarm. Jones ordered Wimpy to toss their guns out into the water’s of the port.
“Very good,” the dockworker said. “Now come with me.”
The two soldiers followed the dockworkers down a ramp that led them into the ship. The freightliner was musty and cold inside. The head dock worker brought the two soldiers deep down into the belly of the ship. He finally stopped at a small room, dimly lit by a kerosene lamp. A water spigot and a dirty mop were the only defining features of the room, besides gray steel and plastic.
“In two weeks I come for you,” the worker said. “I bring water and bread.”
Jones gave the worker a pack of cigarettes. “Thanks for the help, buddy.”
The dockworker’s face lit up with delight. “Oh, smokes, smokes!”
With that the two soldiers were left alone.
The trip to China was long and arduous. The soldiers were fed gruel of varying degrees of consistency and quality. In one fateful bowl, Wimpy thought he had found a hunk of pork. Jones said that it was probably a ship rat that the cooks hacked up.
