The Age of Zombies: Sergeant Jones (23 page)

Wimpy shook his head and groaned. “He’s stable,” Wimpy said. “But his pain levels are high. He needs painkillers ASAP.”

“GPS a hospital,” Jones said. “We’re gonna drop Casper off, and head straight to this El Sagrado character.”

“But we don’t even know where he lives.”

“I’ve got a note with directions here that Casper scribbled down before we left.” Jones took out another cigarette and lit up. “Just GPS a hospital.”

Wimpy climbed over the giant’s body, which was packed tight in the Jeep’s back seat. Wimpy found his civilian jacket, pulled out his phone, and searched for the nearest hospital.

Casper had been gurgling for the last five minutes. Wimpy had to keep wrapping his arms around Casper’s chest and squeezing tight to get his breathing back to a regular pattern. Casper tried to speak, but couldn’t formulate a coherent sentence. Wimpy leaned in and turned Casper’s head to the side so that he could clear his throat.

“El Sagrado’s a big man,” Casper said. “He’ll pay you guys back big time.” More gurgling, and some bile surfaced. He coughed it out. “He loved me like his son.”

Wimpy nodded and held Casper’s head in his hands. He had lost too many comrades in combat. Ten years over there in those damn hellish lands, and what did he have to show for it? Nothing, besides the ability to cope with holding death right in his own hands. Luckily Casper wasn’t going anywhere.

“You got those directions?” Jones said impatiently. “Homeboy doesn’t look too good.”

Wimpy fiddled with his iPhone. “Yeah, I got ‘em,” he said. “Keep going down this road for another half mile. It turns right into the 210. Take that east and we’ll hit Pasadena.”

Casper kept coughing. There wasn’t anything they could do to stop that.

The zombie was sufficiently zonked out with the ketamine, and wasn’t going anywhere.

Jones put the pedal to the metal. He wasn’t going to let Casper suffer in this Jeep. He didn’t have some great attachment to Casper, but he respected the man. He was sure that if they had met in different circumstances, Jones would have appreciated the gangster’s company. Casper was a man of principle, even if that principle bristled against the confines of the law, and the outer limits of morality.

The traffic wasn’t bad once they hit the 210. Jones cruised along at ninety m.p.h. The hospital was just a couple minutes down the road.

Jones caught a glimpse of something dreadful in his rearview mirror. It was the police. They hit their lights and were on his tail. Jones knew that Casper’s old Jeep couldn’t outrun the sirens. There was only one thing that he could do.

“I’m gonna pull over,” Jones said. “So listen carefully.”

“We’re French toast,” Wimpy said. “We can’t pull over.” He looked at the two bodies, the suffering human and the sedated giant, and shook his head. “You’re not pulling over, Sarge. It ain’t gonna happen.”

Jones was already pulling his foot off the gas. He switched lanes and worked his way to the right shoulder. He was pulling over. “Listen up, grunt,” Jones said. “I didn’t train you to think for yourself. Shit, we’d both be long dead by now if that was the case.”

Wimpy laughed. “Damn, Sarge,” he said. “I was wondering where you were hiding.”

“When I pull over, you act cool as a cucumber. Just stay back there. Don’t make any sudden movements. Don’t look at the cop. Don’t do nothing. Don’t even let that pathetic little ball of gray matter between your ears shit out a deformed thought.” Jones snuffed out his cigarette, and followed that by lighting another. He patted his belt to make sure he had his pistol strapped to him. “I want the cop to come to you. I want him to open that door, lean in, and take in everything that’s going on there in the backseat. For a split second he’s not gonna know what to do. That’s when I step in.”

“Hooah, Sarge,” Wimpy said. “I’m turning all dials to dumb and dumber. I won’t do a damn thing back here.”

Jones flicked his blinker and pulled over onto the shoulder. He puffed his cigarette and took a glance in the rearview mirror. The CHP officer pulled up right behind him on cue. The officer, a stocky woman with a blonde ponytail pulled tightly back, stepped out of her vehicle. She wasn’t much taller than Wimpy.

“She’s kinda cute,” Jones said. “Too bad she had to pull us over.”

She slowly sauntered to the driver’s side window and tapped on the glass. Jones rolled down his window obediently.

“Can I help you officer?” he said. He put on the most ridiculous charming smile that he could muster. “What seems to be the problem?”

The CHP officer wasn’t buying it. She squinted at Jones and took one look at the passenger seat. Seeing Casper in his condition was all she needed. “Put your hands where I can see them,” she said with authority. She withdrew her weapon. “Don’t make any sudden movements with your hands.”

Jones nodded slowly. He put up his hands and kept his eyes trained on the officer. The plan was on track. Jones always kept a trick up his sleeve. “You’re gonna find a giant and a smoked gangbanger in there,” Jones said with a chuckle. He kept his hands up and steady. His cigarette dangled from his lips.

The officer steadied her pistol on Jones. “No sudden movements,” she said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” She reached her hand and jiggled the door handle. The driver’s side door swung open. She slowly backed away from the vehicle. “Step out of the Jeep. Now,” she barked. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

 Jones swung his legs out of the Jeep. He kept his hands up and his body faced the officer. “You ever see a giant, officer? I know you’ve seen a gangbanger or two. If you wanna take a peak, the giant’s right back there.”

The officer slid her walkie from her belt. “Dispatch, this is Officer Shields. I’m on seventeenth mile of I-210 East. Requesting--.”

Jones didn’t give her the chance to request anything. In a rapid motion that he learned in hand to hand combat training with the Army, he threw himself with all his weight straight in the air, legs first, towards to officer. His feet slammed straight into her gut. She fired two shots and missed. Jones fired one shot and that’s all she wrote for Officer Shields. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and her tongue lolled out.

Jones wasn’t proud of this moment. But it was incredibly satisfying. Watching the blood pool out from her fractured skull stopped Jones right in his tracks. He slowed down long enough to kneel down, stick the tip of his finger in the carnage, and lift it up to his mouth for a taste.

It was beautiful. The flavors danced on his tongue, and the salty, metallic finish fueled his appetite. He knelt down a little closer to the officer’s busted skull. He peered into the gaping hole, and caught a glimpse of her grey matter. The sudden urge to thrust his hand inside, take a scoop, and stuff it into his mouth was overpowering.

If it wasn’t for Wimpy, Jones would have done just that.

“Come on, Sarge!” Wimpy hollered. “We’re fugitives now. It’s official. Let’s
vamonos
!”

Jones didn’t waste much more time with the dead officer. He hopped back into the Jeep and sped away from the scene. The thrill of the kill, and the exhilaration of tasting her blood, was utterly intoxicating. And simultaneously revolting. His conscious mind struggled to accept the fact that this transformation was turning him into what he was fighting against.

For a split second, just as the urge to cannibalize faded away, Jones could feel a little tickle on the inside of his skull. It was a worm, he thought. They had gotten inside him.

Jones got off at the next exit and took side streets the rest of the way to the hospital.

Wimpy was getting paranoid. “Damnit, Sarge,” he said. “You didn’t have to kill her.”

Jones wasn’t thinking about all that. Now that he had recovered his senses, Jones was overwhelmed with his own anxiety. On one hand, he was frightened by the prospect of turning into one of them. With every passing hour he felt more and more like a zombie. And on the other hand, he was still absolutely devoted to finding Emma Jo. There would be casualties along the way. He accepted that fact long ago. Hopefully he could minimize this new appetite that was growing inside him as he rescued his family.

Jones looked up in the rearview mirror and stared Wimpy down. His entire look meant business. His brow scrunched up and he lit up a cigarette.

“We’re gonna have to kill again,” Jones said. “One way or another. Kill or be killed.”

“This kind of shit has consequences,” Wimpy said.

“So did the war, damn it,” Jones said. “How many did we have to kill over there?”

Wimpy was somber now. “That was different, Sarge,” he said. “Those were orders.”

They finally arrived at the hospital. Jones peeled around the back and came to a screeching halt. “Your orders are to toss Casper out of the Jeep. And whatever the hell else I tell you to do.”

Wimpy kicked his door open and hopped out. He grabbed Casper by the ends of his legs, one of which was in severe shape, and dragged his body out. He was still alive, but wasn’t responding to conversation. “Take care brother,” Wimpy said. “You’re a true soldier.”

Wimpy hopped back in the Jeep, and Jones sped away. In his rearview mirror he saw a nurse stumble upon the limp body on the sidewalk. “He’ll be taken care of.”

Maybe they’d meet up with Casper again. But now that fallen soldier’s fate was in the hands of the nurse.

There were bigger fish to fry. First they’d have to meet up with El Sagrado. Then they’d have to figure out a way to China.

Jones lit up a cigarette, and imagined what monsters he’d have to face there.

Chapter Thirteen

The Cabinet Room

The President of the United States of America, John Angus, reclined in his leather chair. He lifted his bourbon Old Fashioned up to the light radiating from the chandelier. The glass sparkled, and his booze looked like ectoplasm. He swirled the glass. The cocktail cherry rose to the top. He plucked the sweet red fruit from the glass and plopped it in his mouth.

President Angus dreaded what was to come. He was alone for now, finding refuge in the empty chamber of his Cabinet Room, where his advisors would soon gather. His teeth grinded the cherry down to a pulp. Its sweet meat dissolved on his tongue, and disappeared down his throat.

Thoughts of his family, of his legacy, of the future of America swirled in his mind as he emptied his cocktail into his gut. The meeting that he called for this evening was the most important meeting that any President, and most likely any leader, in history ever had to face. The fate of the human race was on the line. And destiny was in the President’s hands.

The President looked up at the paintings of the men that had come before him. Abraham Lincoln looked stately and calm. George Washington was triumphant and cavalier. The American patriarchs seemed to come alive in the paintings. As if their spirits were summoned to the meeting. President Angus wondered what his painting would look like up on these walls. He also wondered if these walls would still be standing after everything was said and done.

“Here goes nothing,” President Angus said. He stood up, and walked to the large oak door leading into the Cabinet Room. He cracked it open, poked his head out, and found Amy Pearl, the Secretary of State, standing vigilant outside. “Bring them in.”

Amy smiled. She saw this meeting as the culmination of all her training, everything that she has ever aspired to in her role as a diplomat. “This is what we’ve been waiting for, Mr. President.”

“That’s right, Amy,” the President said. “Now is our moment of truth. As cliche as that sounds, this is it. I just wonder what they really look like. And I pray for our country.”  

Secretary Pearl swayed the large oak door open. Soon after, a stampede of advisors and cabinet members entered the room.

Only Secretary Pearl and President Angus knew what the meeting was going to be about. Every advisor and cabinet member invited was aware of its importance, however. They were told that this was a critical meeting that would turn the tide of every policy in the administration.

Once inside the Cabinet Room, each attendee was handed a dossier. The documents detailed the capabilities, attributes, and contingency plans of the zombies. As the advisors scanned the documents, they gasped at what was before them. They scribbled in the margins and underlined details that popped out from the page.

“The zombies, who call themselves Orobu, have lived on this earth as long as the human race,” the document said plainly. “They have two primary leaders, called Radoula and Boul, who will be meeting with us today. The Orobu’s current population totals roughly three million, sixty thousand of which live above ground. The rest are in a state of deep hibernation. Their modus operandi is to subsist off the weakness in human civilization. They profit from our endeavors, and have done so for centuries. Their primary objective is to subject the human race, so that they may feed off our bodies with relative ease.”

The advisors and cabinet members started to discuss the threat among themselves. They started to develop plans on how to address the Orobu. One person didn’t engage with the others. Secretary Pearl noticed that Secretary of Defense Crumzchek read his dossier alone and withdrawn.

President Angus stood forlorn in the corner, with a cocktail in his hand, his necktie loose, and his hair disheveled. His salt and pepper gray hair was illuminated by a stream of light beaming through the curtains. His face, which was long and noble normally, had a sad brush across it.