The Age of Zombies: Sergeant Jones (4 page)

Grantha nodded his head in approval. “Yes, yes, this is a sensitive operation. We hope that you can provide the necessary cover for our needs. When is the ETA for Damascus?”        

Lenin glanced at his Rolex. “An hour and a half.”

“That’s perfect timing,” Grantha said. “You have an hour and a half to prepare. Listen closely. Changes are afoot. The world is not what it used to be. The rigid structures that have kept my kind underground for so long have softened. We are entering a brave new world. One that will be unfamiliar to you. One that my race has patiently waited ages for. It is time for my kind to rekindle the old ways. The ways of our oldest ancestors, the ones that were able to live free and in the open without fear of attack or retaliation. The niceties of silver platters and prepared meals no longer appeals to us. We are ready for war. We are ready to hunt the way that our kind knows best.” The zombie paused, and looked each human straight in the eyes. “This is a new age. This is the age of zombies.”

The Russians looked at each other in shock. They knew the general sketch of the history of these monsters, but the implications of their existence, their true nature, escaped them. Joru was forced to address his team. “Call off the feast in Ma'loula. Tonight, our forces will guide our clients through the suburbs of Damascus, and they will feast as they please.”

Fyodor flicked on his phone and dialed. When the other end picked up, Fyodor barked sharp and fast commands into the phone: meet the jet at the Damascus International Airport with a fleet of military Jeeps, a cache of AK-101s, and coolers packed with ice to store the excess spoils. The jet carrying the Russian suits and the three brutes landed at 5:25PM EET (Eastern European Time). They stepped off the jet and onto the tarmac, which was completely barren and inactive due to the war.

It was early March, and the Damascus sky quickened to a sunset. A bloody sun perched in the west, fully ready to sink into the horizon and call end to another day of bloodshed across the land. In the distance a
muezzin
could be heard reciting eloquent evening prayers. The anxiety of the civil war was palpable in the air. An electric tension coursed through the marrow and bones of the Russian suits. The three brutes slapped on their camo hats and shades. Their mouths salivated at the prospects that lay before them. The Russian suits bid goodbye to the brutish men in military fatigues. They shook hands and promised a fruitful business partnership.

The giants spotted the caravan of military jeeps and each hopped into a separate vehicle. The Russians travelled to their hotels by taxi, which was parked just behind the retinue of Jeeps. The taxi drove off to the west, and the Jeeps to the east. Two separate directions for two separate destinies.

Once in the taxi, the Russians all started to talk about how daring and surreal this whole situation was. They speculated on what the giants meant when they talked about a “brave new world,” and “going back to the old ways,” and “the age of zombies.” The Russians knew they were dealing with monsters. But what these monsters really were, however, was almost completely unknown to them. They knew that these giants were wealthy beyond imagination. They knew that they ate brains. They had their own hierarchy, command chain, culture, and myth.

But these Russians were only so high up on the totem pole. They didn’t know much else. Above every suit there's another one who knows more. And they knew enough to know that they knew almost nothing at all. Even Joru, the head of the corporation, knew little more than his crew.

Joru Logistics was more than happy to fulfill the needs of this client. War had been something of a specialty in the company’s past. Its founder, Joru Vadim Bebchuk, had worn many hats throughout his career. He built his network of contacts as a former KGB transportation officer during the Soviet Union’s conflict with the Mujahadeen in Afghanistan. He met Radoula and Boul up in those mountains. They were searching for a man with a keen sense of the terrain, who could transport dead bodies out of the conflict zones undetected.

Joru made his first million that month.

There wasn’t much that would turn Joru away from more power. Not even genocide.

The jeeps carted the giants through the labyrinthine streets of Damascus as the sun was completely blotted out from the sky. Darkness remained. They winded through the serpentine streets of the city and out to the suburbs where the city became more run down, more disheveled. The three giants had seen enough. They were ready to take matters into their own hands. Grantha retrieved a fold of US hundred dollar bills, and paid the drivers of the jeeps handsomely. “Meet us back here in three hours,” he said. “Sharp. No excuses.”

The drivers peeled off into the night.

The soldiers hatched a plan, brutally simple and atrocious: raid apartments at random and eat everything inside.

They chose their first apartment because of a beautiful statue of bronze lion that sat in front of the doorway. The door was easy enough to kick down. It was flimsy and poorly constructed. One strong kick from the flat end of Grantha’s jackboot sent the door to the ground. Inside the apartment, a family of seven sat on rugs around the central table. Hummus, olives, and flatbread were laid out for all to share. No father present. By the look in the mother's eyes, the giants knew that she would defend her brood at all costs.

The mother jumped up from the ground and withdrew a knife from the inside of the cloth that wrapped around her body. She charged at Bhutar. With ease he knocked her down. He got on top of her and pinned her face flat to the dirty floor. One of the older kids, a boy not more than twelve years old, stole off to the opposite side of the room. He scrambled through a drawer and withdrew a pistol. He shot at Bhutar, but missed.

The mother whimpered. “Fear not, my children,” she said in Arabic. “Allah is with us.”

The child fired another shot. The bullet careened into the wall, missing the mark again. The child stood with a dumb, scared look on his face. Tears welled up in his brown eyes. His face and hands were dirty and worn with labor, even at his young age. The other children cowered and sobbed as they watched their mother and oldest brother fail and falter.

The mother squirmed beneath the brute. But to no avail. Within moments, Bhutar took hold of her head and jerked it sharp to the right. The snap of her neck sent a jolt of pain through all her children. Bhutar grinned as he watched the children recoil into an oblivion of fear. Their mother was gone. Their father, dead in the war. The oldest brother was next. He fired two more rounds. One struck Zamul in the shoulder, but did not faze him. The oldest brother, brave and courageous, died when Grantha tackled him to the ground and drove a bowie knife through his skull.

Grantha was satisfied with the kill. He slipped the knife out from the skull. It glistened in the flicker of the oil lamp. Little tidbits of pinkish-beige brain remained on the knife. Grantha licked it off clean. The other children started to scream, and were silenced one by one. One by one. One by one.

After all life was extinguished in the apartment, the soldiers started their feast. With barbaric strength they cracked the skulls of their victims open and ravenously scooped the brains into their mouths. Their sharp, jagged, yellowed teeth tore through the gray matter like stones battering soft mud. After their fill, they raided the apartment's pantry. They found a bottle of date wine and passed it around, quenching the thirst of their kill, and sparking another round of their curious appetite.

The soldiers repeated this routine over and over throughout the next three hours. In total, seven apartments were raided. They racked up forty two casualties. Mostly women and children. One young man, who had no children, but whose wife was pregnant, fought valiantly to his death. He cried out to his wife with his last words, “In the heavens, we will meet again my love! In the heavens we will meet again! By Allah! We will meet again!” The soldiers let out a guttural, primal roar of laughter at these words and Bhutar snapped his neck. He dug out the valiant husband’s brains right in front of his expecting wife.

By midnight, the soldiers were done. They congratulated each other on their exploits. Now that they were well fed they could begin to expertly plot their mission and tie up the loose ends of their scheme. There was plenty of work that had to get done. For although the corporate suits reported directly to them, they also had a direct report. Radoula and Boul were expecting seven thousand heads. No more, no less. Grantha, Bhutar, and Zamul were ultimately in charge of the operation. And there was no room for error in executing this mission. They would have to perform flawlessly.

Grantha slipped out his phone and dialed Joru at his hotel. “The meal was grand,” the soldier said. “I wish you could've joined us. In any case, we will meet up in three days to discuss the progress of the operation. Both of our teams have work to do.”

“And the work will be done,” Joru said plainly. “That’s my word.”

The soldiers arrived at an impromptu bunker positioned underneath one of the oldest remaining hotels in Damascus. They laid their heads down and achieved some of the greatest rest any of the soldiers had had in some time. They worked for their meal.

They earned the right to head off and shake hands with the sandman.

Chapter Three

Betrayed

Jones was the happiest man alive on this night. He was going to surprise Vanessa by coming home a whole week early from deployment. He requested the early release and it was granted by special mandate from his direct report.

He was ready to leave the horrors of the Middle East behind. Afghanistan was the Graveyard of Empires, but he wasn’t going to let it become his own. He took great care to wash away the savagery of combat. A normal tour was hard enough, but this last one was much more than that. Jones was still processing the encounter with those giants monsters. Big Boy died and he was still grieving for his friend.

He couldn’t bring all that home to Emma Jo. It wasn’t fair to Vanessa if he brought it to her, either. And there was no way that the memory of the giants would hamper the exquisite pleasure that waited for him in seeing his family again. When he was home, Jones felt like a full man again. He felt like the world was right, and he knew his place in it.

The trip back to Eugene, Oregon from Afghanistan took thirty seven hours. Jones was sluggish, having only caught a couple hours of shuteye, but the prospect of wrapping his arms around the woman he loved, a woman that had given him one daughter and was carrying his son, kept Jones going stronger than any drug known to man. He was chipper as he stepped off the plane and into the terminal of the airport. He was the only man in uniform on the plane to Eugene. He got a few respectful glances, but most everybody left him alone.

There was no need to call a cab. One was waiting with its engine warm right outside the front entrance of the airport. A portly woman with buggy eyes sat in the driver’s seat. She was happy to see Jones.

“I love a man in uniform,” she said. “Half price to all servicemen.”

Jones smiled. He was happy to be back home. Eugene was the kind of city that welcomed anybody and everybody with open arms. Little things, like what the cabbie just said, restored the Sarge’s faith in humanity. He could finally take a break from the tough ass persona he cultivated for the service. “Awesome,” he said. “I live off Willamette and 19th. By the Safeway there.”

“Ay, ay captain,” the cabbie said. “19th and Willamette, coming right up.”

On the ride, they talked about hardship, love, loss, and their favorite brands of cigarettes. Jones shared stories about Vanessa and Emma Jo and how they were expecting a son. Carla said that she had three boys but they never called or visited. Something about how the father demonized her during the divorce, convincing the boys that she was a no good whore. They never forgave her.

Jones felt bad for the cabbie. Life was so damn cruel, especially to the good ones. Maybe life’s cruelty forged goodness in the human heart. Jones couldn’t tell, and he was too tired to dissect that thought.

Luckily the conversation turned back to more worldly topics. Jones really wanted a cigarette. He neglected to light up before hopping into the cab. Luckily, Carla loved cigarettes just as much as he did.

“I’m a Marlboro man,” Jones said. “I’ve been smoking Marlboro Reds since I was sixteen years old. Two packs a day. Picked up the habit from my father.”

The cabbie chuckled. “Virginia Slims for me,” she said. “Silver Pack, 120s. They hooked me with their whole female empowerment gimmick back in the seventies. I haven’t looked back since.”

Jones sported a mischievous smile. He wanted to have a little fun. “Say, I know this sign here says there’s no smoking in the cab. But how about we light one up? I mean, I just did come back from hell. That must be a reason to break some rules and celebrate.”

The cabbie looked into the rear view mirror. Her eyes lit up. “Nothing that a little Febreze can’t handle, I suppose.”

The two reached into their respective packs, pulled out a cigarette each, and lit them up. Their first drag was an act of solidarity. They both inhaled and exhaled together.

“You know,” Jones said. “There’s really nothing like it. Taking the time to have a smoke with a friendly face. It must be an old ritual. There’s something in our DNA that makes us do it.”

“It makes me feel human,” the cabbie said. “And I’m glad to call you friend. Driving day in, day out, sixty hour weeks, with nobody at home makes a woman kind of lose her head about things. Smoking is an escape. It’s a simple pleasure. It keeps me going, even though it’s horrible for my health.”