Zombie Killers (Book 8): Bad Company

by John F. Holmes

  “Yeah, we heard of ‘em. Came through here last year, offered up gold to anyone wantin’ to sign up with ‘em. Course, they don’t want no brothers. Not after that shit in Georgia a few years back.”

  “Well,” I answered, “we’ve been fighting them hard in the ruins of DC. Could use some more men ourselves, good men.”

  “Maybe,” answered Whitmore, “lot of us got families back at the Fort.”

  I was curious, but I wasn’t going to ask just yet.

  “Get me a radio, shortwave, and I’ll see what can be done. You believe me?”

  Both pondered for a second, and Jonas spoke first. “Can’t get any worse than it is. Company tearin’ itself apart.”

  “Course, if you’re full of shit,” said Whitmore, “I’ll hang you myself.”

  Chapter 275

  I was an idiot, something Brit would often agree with. She laughed at what she called my “naive patriotism”, and she was right. A lot of the stupid things we had gotten involved with over the last couple of years had been my own doing, driven by love of a country that I knew hadn’t even really existed anymore even before the plague. It had become something bought and sold to the highest bidder, and not really answerable to the people who lived there, but still…

  As we walked back eastward, I pumped the two NCOs for information, but they remained pretty guarded. I, on the other hand, ran my mouth about what had been happening the last eight years, telling stories of the first and second plague, filling them in on the government and the situation around the rest of the country.

  What I failed to notice was that Jonas was dropping further and further behind us. I just assumed that he was watching our rear, too many bad habits picked up from working with men and women I trusted. It was hot, and despite the food I had looted off the others, I was hungry again, so my attention might have wandered some.

  I was brought back to reality when the buttstock of Sergeant Jonas’ M-16 hit me in the base of my skull, just under my helmet, hard enough to knock me down. It wasn’t hard enough to break any of the delicate bones there, like my neck. Like I said, these guys were pros. I pitched forward, helped by Whitmore’s leg sweeping me and his knee hitting me in the back, pinning me to the ground.

  Stars swam in my vision and I threw up what little was in my stomach. Getting hit in the head HURTS. I felt my hands twisted behind my back, under my pack and duct tape quickly wrapped around my wrists

  “Sorry, Colonel, if that’s what you are, but if we walked into camp with you armed, the Captain would have our heads. Up!” he grunted, and lifted me by the shoulders. Jonas quickly relieved me of my rifle and pistol, then slid the shotgun out of the pack, handing it to Whitmore.

  “Better ditch that,” said the black NCO. “That was Corporal Onelas’ shotty. Bring that into camp and the aceres are going to kill him, straight off.”

  Whitmore nodded and tossed it into the woods, first emptying the shells from the tube. Waste not, want not. With Jonas prodding me, ‘nothing personal’, we set out east again, a bit unsteadily on my part. Along the way, I could hear Brit’s mocking voice over the pain in my head. “Nick, you idiot!”

  We entered a clearing, where in front of me stood a ditch and earthen berm, similar to what we put up on our reconnaissance. This one stretched for a hundred feet on a side, though, and looked mechanically dug. Sentries stood at a gate formed by a parked 5-ton LMTV.

  “Patrol coming in!” shouted Whitmore before we cleared the treeline, and responded with a “Three” when questioned with “five”, authenticating. A 240-B tracked us anyway as we came in. One of the guards addressed Whitmore in Spanish, and he pretended not to hear him until he spoke in English.

  “Where’s our two?” called the guard. I could see that he was one of the Cubans, standing there with a Miami Hurricanes ball cap on instead of a uniform cap. I waited tor Whitmore or Jonas to tell them I had killed them, and expected my life to be cut short pretty damn quickly.

  “They got swarmed by some undead. If you aceres would take some time shooting your guns instead of your mouths, maybe they could have fought their way out,” said Whitmore, pushing me forward. The guard glared at him, but let us pass.

  We entered a camp that looked like a mix between a squared away military encampment and a hobo village. There were three LMTVs, or army cargo trucks, one soft top HUMVEE, and a few civilian four by fours, probably diesel engines. Gas had gone bad or dried up long ago. On the left, centered around a GP medium tent, were Gortex camo, army issue tents, grouped by squad, and a field kitchen. My mouth started to water at the smells coming from it.

  “Gator, and it’s damn good!” said Jonas, and I shot him a dirty look. I was pissed at him hitting me. He smiled back, and the two of them hustled me towards what I assumed was the command tent. Two guards stood there, one I was rapidly starting to call “Regular Army” and one from the Cubans, even though they wore the same uniform. The differences were obvious at twenty feet.

  Whitmore stopped me before we got in earshot of the guards, and said quietly, “Drop that shit about the Government still being in existence. Shit is really tense around here now, and we don’t need YOU to push it over the edge. You’re a wanderer, got it?” I nodded my head, and we continued onward, passing through the two guards, who obviously knew the scouts, and into the tent.

  Standing around a table, looking at a map, were four men. The first was a sandy haired man in his late thirties, with Captain’s rank. Next to him stood an older man, maybe in his fifties, but hard looking. A good ole’ boy if I ever saw one, he looked hard as a rock, and wore First Sergeant stripes. He looked at me with a hard stare.

  Across from them stood two other men, who I assumed were the leaders of the Cuban contingent. One was wearing an impeccable uniform, almost looking brand new. He looked young, but cruel. He ignored me to stare at the map. The other was, I assume, the First Sergeant’s counterpart. A small, wiry man with Master Sergeant’s rank. All four were conversing in Spanish, and I wished I had picked up more than a smattering when I had pulled a tour at Gitmo.

  I liked Cuban people; the ones I had met made great soldiers, tough and loyal, and they were always very light hearted, for a people who had suffered so much. For some reason, though, they often fell under the spell of a nasty strong man, like so many cultures south of the border. This one looked like he was cut from the same mold. Arrogant prick, completely dismissing me.

  His sidekick, though, came over and started to question Whitmore in Spanish. Again, the NCO pretended he didn’t understand what he was saying. The small man unexpectedly hauled off and swung a punch at my face when I failed to answer a direct question along the lines of “Who the fuck are you?” I saw it coming and rolled my head forward, and his hand slammed into my helmet with an audible crack. He howled in pain, and whipped out a steak knife.

  “ENOUGH!” shouted Captain Washburn, and the knife stopped a hairsbreadth from gutting me. I exhaled a lungful of air I didn’t know I was holding, and the man sheathed the knife and walked back to the table. His jeffe, the Cuban wearing the Lieutenant’s black bar, ignored the whole thing.

  “Put him over there,” said the First Sergeant, and the sergeants sat me down on a field chair, my pack making things unwieldy.

  “Go get some food, and I’ll want a report out of you later. Dismissed,” said the Captain.

  The four of them continued their discussion as if I wasn’t there, but this time in English. Maybe for my benefit, I don’t know, but Captain Washburn switched over to English.

  “When we get to this town, I want no looting and NO killing. We’re there to get some supplies, which we’ll pay for, and kill undead. Got it?”

  The Cuban stroked his beard, and then said, looking at me for the first time, “My men are not so … disciplined as yours are, Captain. It’s hard for them to give up the ways that have kept them alive for the last seven years, since joining your Army.”

  “It’s YOUR army too, Ramirez. You’re as American as I
am. Regardless, there won’t be a repeat of what happened at Millerton. Looters will get hung. Do we understand each other? Comprende?”

  Ramirez stared at me, but said to the Captain, “Of course, Sir.” The way he said Sir, everyone in the tent knew that he meant it as an insult, not a term of respect. What, exactly, had I gotten myself into?

  The two men left, glancing at me one more time. The smaller one, the Master Sergeant, drew a line across his throat on the way out. Jesus, really? How old was that guy?

  Ramirez stopped, half in and half out of the tent, and asked me in English, “Please tell me, who are you?”

  “I’m nobody, just a man trying to get by.”

  “Maybe you are, and maybe you aren’t,” he said, and disappeared into the afternoon sunlight.

  “Jack,” said the Captain, “cut him loose.” The First Sergeant did so, and I thanked him as the circulation returned to my hands. He also watched with his hand on the butt of his pistol as I wriggled out of the pack.

  “I gave you my word as an officer. Now talk.”

  Chapter 276

  As the day turned to evening, a raucous mix of salsa music and heavy metal from a few different portable stereos started to worm its way into the tent. I just stared at Captain Washburn. Like all of us, he was no longer young. He might have been a junior captain when the Apocalypse started, but the last eight years had lined his face and turned some hair gray.

  I finally nodded towards the music outside and said, “You’re not very in charge here, are you Captain?”

  At that, his First Sergeant started to get up from the camp stool he was sitting on, but his boss waved for him to sit back down. He did, but kept staring at me as he ate some iguana on a stick. Captain Washburn himself kind of sighed and said, “Honestly, no, not really. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but…” and he waved his hand in a futile gesture.

  “Doesn’t really matter much, if you’re thinking about the undead. We’ve hunted most of them out around here,” he continued, lighting a cigarette and offering me one. I shook my head no.

  “Still a stupid idea,” I said. “Are you a military unit, or a gang? Which is it, Captain?” I put emphasis on the rank, digging it in a little.

  “And who are you that wants to know? Some wandering gunman? Because if that’s what you are, you can join the rest of the mercs outside.”

  I leaned forward in my seat, which was an upturned 5 gallon spackle bucket. “Who am I?” I repeated his question back to him. “Who are YOU!” I answered, and sat back.

  He didn’t answer me. Just stood and looked at the map, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Tell me, Captain, that village you’re going to raid? Do you know who they are? Civilians. American civilians.”

  He shook his head, not looking at me. “America is dead.”

  “Bullshit!” I shot back. “Did you fire a missile at a submarine a week ago?”

  He looked startled, and said, “How did you know about that? We fired on a cargo ship; sometimes some pass by, pirates mostly and if we can damage them, they will drift inshore, and we can loot.”

  “You fired on a United States Navy submarine, the U.S.S. Georgia. They were picking up my scout team after we secured a threat to the nukes on board that beached carrier.”

  “Your scout team?” His face was incredulous.

  “Irregular Scout Team One, Joint Special Operations Command, United States Army Scouts. I’m the team commander, and also the Scout program commander. Colonel Nicholas Agostine. Also, until someone higher ranking than me shows up, I’m your new commanding officer.”

  That got a reaction, but not what I was expecting, or hoping for. The First Sergeant broke into uproarious laughter, taking a long time to get himself together.

  Both Washburn and I ignored him, and he finally quieted. “Sir, you don’t actually believe him, do you?”

  I ignored him and looked Washburn in the eye. “Duty, Honor, Country. Do those mean anything to you, Captain?” I had seen his West Point ring on his hand. He didn’t say anything, just looked away. His senior NCO looked at him, then looked a lot more closely at me.

  We were interrupted by shouts and cheering from outside the tent. Washburn sighed and started to walk out. I stood up also, and Jackson made to stop me with a hand on my arm.

  “Let him come with us, Top. He might as well see what life is like down here.” The NCO dropped his hand, but gave me a hard shove as Washburn disappeared outside. Dickhead.

  Two of the squared away soldiers fell in behind us; Washburn’s bodyguard I assumed. As we made our way across the divide between the two groups, I looked a little more closely at the ‘Cubans’ position.

  There seemed to be quite a party going on, but I was surprised to see that it wasn’t all Hispanic. There were a lot of whites and blacks mixed in with them, and people were starting to crowd around in a circle.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, and it was Jackson who answered, with disgust in his voice.

  “It’s fight or fuck. When a new woman joins, she gets to pit herself against one of their ‘matadoras’ as they call them, and if she loses, or doesn’t put up a good enough fight, she becomes a slave.”

  I started to say, “You LET this hap…” but then I caught site of the woman in the middle of the circle, and froze in my tracks.

  Chapter 277

  She was tall, and blonde, and had her back to me. I stopped because, for a second, I thought it was one of my dead teammates, come back to life. Staff Sergeant Kelly Hart, who had taken a blast from a shotgun to the face, back in Kansas.

  It looked like her at first glance, but then I saw the differences. This woman was younger, but harder, and when she turned to face me, I saw an ugly scar across her face, a knife slash that cut right through her nose. Where Kelly had retained being a woman, with strength and curves, this was more like something out of a freak show. She stood at least a foot taller than me, and blood ran from a cut on her forearm. In both hands she held a fireman’s axe, and she grinned at me, showing two missing front teeth. She also had an extra hundred pounds on her giant frame, and was soaked with sweat, right through the tattered ACU uniform she was wearing.

  Behind her, on the ground, bloody bandage festering on her leg, sat Seaman King. Under her dark skin, she seemed ashen and her eyes were only half open. Standing over her, knife held forward in one hand and left arm hanging uselessly, obviously broken, was Shona Lowenstein. I looked around at the crowd for Ziv or Boz. Neither one was in evidence, and I wasn’t sure that was a good thing. Shona’s eyes widened when she saw me standing there, but she didn’t move, or say anything to me. Smart woman. Ten feet away, curled up in a ball and holding his stomach, a man groaned softly, and Shona’s knife was red to the hilt. Score one for the good guys.

  Around them was a crowd of about a hundred spectators, most wearing ratty American ACU uniforms. I didn’t see anybody from what I had taken in my mind to calling the Regulars. Instead, there was long hair, dirty faces, a mix of weapons, and all races. Mostly men, a few women, and what seemed to be some camp followers, or maybe slaves. They were cheering on as lustily as the rest of the crowd. At the other side of the circle, sitting in a folding chair, was Ramirez, a grin on his face.

  I started to turn to talk to Washburn, but a tremendous kick to my ass, probably from the First Sergeant’s boot, made me sprawl forward onto the dirt. Not expecting it, I landed face first, getting a mouthful of sandy Florida dirt. I pushed myself up, to a kneeling position, spit some dirt out, and muttered “fuckers!” and rolled hard to my left as I caught a shadow moving. The axe thumped into the ground where my head would have been, dull end first, to avoid getting buried too deeply. Either way, it would have smashed my head.

  Rocking back on my knees, and I stood and felt my prosthetic start to give way. There hadn’t been time to tighten the straps since earlier in the day, and I felt them start to slip. Not cool. Jumping up, favoring my good leg, I shot a look at Captain Washburn and his NCO.
They just stood there, impassive. So that was how it was going to be then.

  “I don’t want to fight a woman,” I said, and she smiled at me, showing crooked yellow, filed incisors.

  “I don’t either, little man!” she answered, and she swung again, a vicious cut that whistled over my head as I ducked and scrambled backwards.

  The thing about overweight people is that you expect them to be slow, but a lot of the time, for short periods, they weren’t. The thing in front of me proved that. Her axe swings came quick and steady, and we circled each other. I could see how she tensed before she threw her shoulders into an axe swing, like a baseball bat. If I caught even one, I was screwed, and I tried to remember everything Ziv had taught me about unarmed combat. Normally you want to get inside, clinch, and get your opponent on the ground, but if I miss-timed it, then I was screwed, and she gave me no opening. The crowd roared at each swing; I’m pretty sure they didn’t care who lived; they just wanted the entertainment.

  I waited, wanting the woman to tire out, but I had had a pretty damn long day myself so far, and I was on the wrong side of thirty. It was me, rather than her, who started to get winded, and my leg was coming loose at a fast rate.

  “Why,” I thought to myself, “do I always wind up in these shitty situations?” Another swing to the axe, this one down low, and I stumbled, prosthetic leg folding under me. The woman swung as hard as she could, in a low strike aimed at my legs, and it hit the carbon fiber with a hollow THUNK sound, ripping the straps off my stump. At the same time, I threw a handful of dirt in her eyes, dirt that I had been keeping there since I first landed on the ground, and dove forward, catching her around the waist and bringing her down.

  We locked together, both trying to get a good hold, and I grabbed one massive breast, squeezing it as hard as I could and twisting. In return she kneed me in the crotch, hard. I fell back, letting go, as indescribable pain raced through me, and I put both hands between my legs, and threw up. The woman stood over me, screaming like a banshee, and raised her axe high over her head. The setting sun shone red on the razor sharp edge, and I gave up, unable to move from the pain.