Even The Dead Will Bleed

by Steven Ramirez

  “So we wouldn’t tip off the grey-suits at Hellborn.”

  It was then that I realized, we probably should have eaten while we were in civilization. I drove on and eventually spotted a coffee shop that looked like something out of Tremors. A huge rusted pole rose out of the ground near the highway, crowned with a faded white sign that read simply Cafe in rust-colored letters.

  “Anyone hungry?” I said.

  “You’re not serious,” Maritza said.

  Vlad leaned forward, gazing at the sign. “I am fine with it.”

  I pulled into the small, dusty parking lot and, as we walked towards the entrance, I pointed to a sign in the window that read No Hipsters. Maritza gave me the stink-eye and slipped on her sunglasses, as if fearing that she might be recognized here in Green Acres. A rusted screen door was the only thing keeping the black flies out. And like a movie, it made a soulful squealing sound as I pulled it open.

  “After you,” I said to Maritza.

  The inside was ancient. We were the only customers. A mangy dog with what looked like a boil on its back snoozed in a corner, having positioned itself directly under a patch of sunlight. There wasn’t anyone behind the counter.

  “Hello?” I said.

  A door banged open somewhere. Then a grizzled old man with cropped white hair, a nose that looked like it had been in too many bar fights and Navy tattoos on his forearms appeared in a doorway that led to the kitchen.

  “Sorry ’bout the wait, folks,” he said in a faint German accent. “Take a seat anywhere.”

  I had eaten at my share of shitholes, but this place took the prize. I imagined coming down with food poisoning and regretted having walked into the place. Reluctantly the three of us took seats at a table that allowed us to face the front window, which had been recently washed. Though I kept expecting to see cockroaches crawling everywhere, the floor was swept and the tables wiped down.

  The man, who I assumed was the owner, brought over three plastic-covered menus. “I’ll get you some water. You’re in luck. We got carnitas today.”

  “He said ‘we’ as if this were a thriving enterprise that employed armies of cooks and servers.

  “Thanks,” Maritza said, warming to the environment.

  As I perused the menu I realized that this establishment featured a decent selection of American and Mexican food. You could get everything from a traditional cheeseburger and fries to shredded beef tacos, rice and beans—and ceviche.

  I flipped the menu over and scanned the back, which featured a forty-year-old black-and-white photo showing a much younger owner standing stoically in front of the café. Next to him stood a small, dark woman who looked more Indian than Mexican. His wife? Above them, a sign read Zwickie’s. And under the photo, a caption printed in white letters—John and Consuelo Zwick. Looking closer, I discovered a tiny sign in the window that read No Hippies and laughed.

  The owner reappeared with three glasses of water and set them down. “Ready to order?”

  “So, ‘Zwickie’s’?” I said.

  “My wife’s idea. Thought it was cute. What’ll you have?”

  Vlad and I looked at Maritza. “I’d like to try the beef tacos,” she said.

  “Black beans and rice?”

  “Sure. Do you have lemonade?”

  “Yeah. Fresh-squeezed.”

  Vlad and I decided to go with the carnitas plate and coffee. I didn’t know what to expect, but what the hell—I was starving.

  Instead of writing down the order, Zwick called it out to the kitchen in serviceable Spanish. That same woman from the photo, who was much older now, stood mixing something in a stainless steel bowl. Not looking up, she acknowledged the order.

  Soon Zwick returned with the drinks, as well as homemade chips and a delicious-looking, chunky homemade salsa. The food came shortly after, along with a plastic container of steaming handmade corn tortillas. We had found a Mexican food paradise.

  “How do you think a place like this can exist way out here?” I said, practically inhaling the food.

  “Most of the locals are probably Latino,” Maritza said.

  “Is this hot?” Vlad said, holding up a dark red pepper.

  I looked at him menacingly. “Why don’t you try it and find out?”

  Maritza laughed. “That’s mean. Don’t make him—”

  But Vlad had already taken a huge bite. Almost immediately his eyes began watering. He tried ignoring the problem, then grabbed his water glass and drained it, after which he gulped down ours.

  “That was the best,” he said, as though nothing had happened.

  “So tell me about Warnick,” Maritza said to me.

  “What? Where do I even begin? He was a good friend back in Tres Marias. Saved my life more than once.”

  I wasn’t prepared to go down memory lane. Once I began talking about Nathan Warnick, though, I couldn’t stop. I told them how we’d met while holed up in a fortress on a hill, built by an insane Indian national named Ram Chakravarthy. Warnick had arrived with a contingent from Black Dragon Security, the outfit brought in to restore order to Tres Marias after the outbreak.

  Things had gone sideways, though, and some of the Black Dragon soldiers had decided to align with the Red Militia. Then the supervisor Chavez went nuts. Warnick and a few others had remained faithful to the cause, though, and we decided to stick together. Soon we were hunting draggers—those first-generation victims of the plague—otherwise known as the undead.

  We survived long enough to see a new Black Dragon supervisor arrive and restore order once again. After we were rescued in a forest overrun by draggers, Holly and I signed up to be soldiers and once again fought alongside Warnick and other Black Dragon soldiers to exterminate the remaining draggers while trying to rebuild the town. But the corrupt Mayor, as well as Walt Freeman, had other ideas. Soon we had to battle them, which eventually led to Holly losing her life.

  During all of this, Warnick had been like a rock—a Weezer-loving, granite-faced superhero whose constant companion was the small black bible he carried in his back pocket.

  When I got to the end of my story I realized for the first time since leaving Tres Marias just how much I missed my friend. And I prayed that we would make it through the nightmare that was still to come.

  “I think you love Warnick,” Maritza said. “A regular bromance.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Seriously, I envy friendships like that.”

  “You must have tons of friends.”

  “Used to. Once I left the barrio, everything changed. The people I used to hang out with didn’t want to anymore. And, aside from Karen and Nate, I’ve never really gotten close to anyone at work. Life in LA, right?”

  Zwick reappeared and refilled our coffee cups.

  “This coffee is incredible,” I said, holding out my cup.

  “We get from Oaxaca. So, you folks don’t look like fertilizer salesmen. Passing through?”

  “Something like that,” I said. He gazed out the expansive window at the Tahoe, which was parked just outside. “Something wrong?”

  “No. I noticed your rear springs look compressed. Must be carrying something awfully heavy. Like guns.”

  Caught off guard I stared at Zwick. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Vlad moving uncomfortably in his chair. When I turned to Maritza, I saw the look of fear in her eyes.

  “We should talk,” the old man said.

  We had left our weapons in the vehicle and were, for the moment, defenseless. Lamely I watched as Zwick locked the front door, lowered the shades and took a seat at our table. Was he a cop? Or one of Trower’s men? Eventually I regained my composure and, though by no means confident, felt ready to confront whatever was coming. So far the old man hadn’t done anything remotely threatening.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “Me? Nothing. But I’m worried about you three.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re fixin’ to do something dangerous. And out here, d
angerous gets you killed fast.”

  On cue, Zwick’s wife came out from the kitchen, carrying a bottle of El Señorio Joven con Gusano and five shot glasses on a round tray. As she set everything down, Maritza began speaking to her in Spanish. I think she was complimenting her on the food.

  “I don’t drink,” I said as the old woman handed out the glasses.

  She poured the mezcal into four glasses only. As she did so, the little worm at the bottom of the bottle drifted back and forth lazily.

  “Here’s to Truth,” Zwick said, raising his glass. No one joined him, so he drained the contents and turned to Vlad. Said something in Russian, which made my friend laugh. Then he took a sip of his own drink.

  Zwick turned to me. “I spent a fair amount of time in Russia. Back in the day. You want to know what this is about. Sure, who wouldn’t? But first, we should get to know each other. I’m John Zwick. This is my wife Consuelo.”

  When we’d finished with the introductions, the old man said, “So, Dave, I hope you’re not going to tell me this is about that research facility.”

  This guy was too much. My stomach became a knot—I sensed a trap coming. “Never heard of it.”

  “Sure, you have. It’s why you’re here. But I must warn you. Whatever you have planned, they will kill you.”

  Maritza got up nervously. “David, we should go.”

  “No, hang on,” I said, gently taking her arm. Then to Zwick, “What makes you think you know why we’re here?”

  “I’m guessing you thought I was a rube.”

  “What is ‘rube’?” Vlad said.

  “Durak. When my wife and I moved here, there wasn’t much of anything, except farmland. Couple of military bases. Still that way pretty much. You three don’t look like the types who want to attack the US Government. So that leaves only one other possibility—Baseborn Identity Research.”

  Though I didn’t know what to make of the old man, I was curious. “I need to know what it is you want.”

  “I told you, nothing. I’m simply trying to warn you.”

  I looked into Zwick’s eyes, then at his mouth. His hands were rock-steady. We could have done what Maritza suggested and left to meet Warnick. But Zwick knew things. And I needed information.

  “They’ve taken a friend of ours—Vlad’s sister.”

  “Dave,” Vlad said.

  I ignored him. “We’re here to rescue her.”

  “I see,” Zwick said.

  He poured himself another drink. This time he warmed the glass in his hands and looked off somewhere. Consuelo touched his arm and whispered something in Spanish. When she looked at me again, her eyes were shiny. Maritza had heard what the old woman said and took her hand.

  Zwick shook his head sadly and eyed each one of us. “These people you’re after killed our son.”

  “When?” Maritza said.

  “Nearly three years ago.”

  “What did the police say?”

  “Around here you don’t go to the cops. I’m sure you know this. The people you’re looking for are powerful. And they have lots of friends on the police force. Our son wasn’t the only one. There have been others. Some were curious, like my son. Others were unlucky. Now, they’re all dead.”

  So far, Maritza’s drink had gone untouched. She took a sip, her eyes bright with anger. “What was your son’s name?”

  “Rudy,” Consuelo said, looking at her wrinkled hands, scarred from years of cooking. “He was a good boy. Married a local girl. He left behind two children.”

  Zwick ran his wrinkled hands through his hair. “We gave her money and sent her and the boys away. She thinks Rudy died in a traffic accident. I never told her the truth—I’m afraid for her.”

  “What really happened?” I said.

  “He was a reporter, working for the local newspaper. It was his dream to move to a big city like LA or San Francisco. He thought if he could write one great story and get noticed, he would be on his way. Since those devils moved here, people have gone missing—especially girls. When he told me he wanted to investigate, I warned him to leave it alone. Just like I’m warning you. He didn’t listen. He was stubborn that way.”

  Zwick explained that over several weeks, Rudy had pieced together a story, wrote it up and turned it in. When the editor over in Lancaster read it, he killed it and told Rudy to forget about Hellborn. But Rudy continued to investigate on his own. He even went to the facility and took pictures.

  One night he called his wife to tell her he was working late. That was the last time anyone ever heard from him. The next morning the cops found his mangled car flipped over on a desert road, his bloody body lying not far away in the sand. They said it was a hit-and-run and the case was closed.

  “How do you know it was Hellborn?” I said.

  “A friend of ours told us—a good friend. He likes to walk in the desert at night.”

  “Drunk?” I said.

  “No. It’s how he keeps himself from drinking. He saw it happen. Men in black Escalades. A tall man with short hair and a disfigured face.”

  “Trower,” I said.

  “They killed my son first, then destroyed his car to make it look like an accident.”

  Vlad had finished his drink a while back and reached for the bottle, which Zwick slid over. “My sister is alive.”

  Zwick leaned back and rubbed the white stubble on his face. “It’s going to take more than you three to save her.”

  I wasn’t ready to tell him the entire plan. Instead I said we were waiting for a friend. He seemed to understand my caution.

  “Where you meeting him?”

  “Not far from here. In fact, we need to go.”

  The three of us rose, thanked our hosts as we laid down some cash and prepared to walk out when Vlad stopped me. “What if he tells Trower?”

  He had said it loud enough for the old man and his wife to hear. I turned to face Zwick, embarrassed.

  Smiling sadly he got to his feet. “It’s good, you’re careful. I could have been lying. No need to worry ’bout me.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Because I’m coming with you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Reunion

  The cold air sliced through my bad leg like a dull knife. The sun was already setting, turning the landscape blood red. Dust devils whipped across the sand like genies from magic lamps. The approaching sounds of engines caught our attention.

  Squinting through the icy wind, I could make out two Humvees coming towards us. As they rumbled on at a fixed speed, I wondered whether the rest of the reinforcements were en route. I couldn’t imagine Warnick planning an attack with only one squad. Nervous, I kept watching. No other vehicles appeared.

  The vehicles slowed as they reached the place where we were parked. When the engines died, everything turned silent again, except for the sounds of the wind and the mournful cry of a coyote. Three people emerged from the first Humvee—Warnick, who’d been driving, and two other men, one of whom was blond and athletic-looking, and the other short, stocky and bald. An African-American man and a pretty, muscular, dark-skinned woman who might have been Latina climbed out of the second vehicle. Then everyone stretched their arms and walked towards us. Grinning like a moron, I ran to meet Warnick and took his hand. Then we hugged.

  “Hey,” I said. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “You shaved.”

  I glanced at Maritza. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  As always, Warnick’s face was a cipher. His hair was shorter, and he looked around fifteen pounds heavier. Now that he was a Black Dragon supervisor, I pictured a lot more paperwork and not too much exercise.

  I took a step back and gestured towards our party. “So this is Maritza. Maritza, Warnick.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Warnick said. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a reporter.”

  “That’ll come in handy,” the Latina soldier said, unafraid of being overheard.

  Ignoring the com
ment, I went on. “This is Vlad, Sasha’s brother.”

  Vlad and Warnick gripped each other’s hand firmly. “You are ex-military?” the Russian said.

  “Afghanistan mostly.”

  “I was in Russian army.”

  “Good fighters, the Russians.”

  “And this is John,” I said. “Those people killed his son.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Warnick said, extending his hand. He pointed at the blond soldier. “This is Ryan.”

  “Pleased ta meetcha,” he said in a thick Irish accent.

  “Hi,” the short, fat soldier said, waving once. “I’m Ziggy.”

  Warnick indicated the remaining two. “That’s Hen.” The African-American saluted playfully. “And Berta.”

  The Latina stepped forward and shook everyone’s hand. I noticed that when she got to Vlad, she averted her eyes, momentarily distracted. Moving on, she sized Maritza up the way women always do at a first meeting and tentatively shook her hand. “Sorry about that comment earlier. I tend to run off at the mouth sometimes.”

  “Always,” Hen said, laughing.

  “Shut up, Henrietta.”

  “Okay,” Warnick said to his squad, rubbing his hands together. “The temperature’s dropping, so we’re going to need a fire.”

  As Warnick returned to his vehicle, I noticed the worn bible sticking out of his back pocket. It was a comforting sight. The others split up and began gathering rocks and brush. In no time they had dug a shallow pit, circled it with rocks and filled it with brush and deadwood. Soon we had a blaze going and eagerly huddled around it to get warm.

  Maritza and I sat on the cold ground. The African-American soldier was sitting next to me. “So, what is Hen short for?” I said.

  He smiled, making sure he was out of earshot of Berta, who was sitting next to Vlad, looking flushed. “Hendrix. My parents were huge fans of his music.”

  “And what’s her story?” Maritza said, eyeing Berta.

  “Berta? Don’t mind her—she’s cool. She was the only girl in a family with five older boys. She had to get tough.”

  “I can relate. It’s not much different with sisters.”