Dead Island:Operation Zulu Page 6

  Brooks smiled and said, "On three."

  "On three."

  "One … two … three!"

  Both rockets smashed into the exposed hull of the yacht. The boat erupted into a fireball followed by a secondary explosion from whatever munitions were on board, completely destroying it.

  "Holy shit!" Wu stood, shaking his head in awe.

  "They must have had an ass load of vodka on board." Brooks stood up and tossed away the useless launcher. "Good shot, Sergeant."

  "You too, Captain." He dropped the launch tube and quickly grabbed up his binoculars and scanned the area where the yacht had been. "Bullseye." All he could see was flaming, floating debris and several bodies floating face down. "Scratch a boatload of Russian assholes." Wu handed Brooks back the binoculars. "Whoever owned that yacht, I hope they have insurance."

  Brooks nodded and smiled grimly.

  "What now, Captain?"

  "Well," Brooks wiped some grass off her BDU pants, "I'm sure the other bad guys heard our little send-off, so if I was them, I'd be sending someone to have a look-see."

  "Ambush?"

  "Yep. Ditch the bikes, and let's find us a good spot to wait."

  CHAPTER 24: DID YOU HEAR THAT?

  Arkady could vaguely hear the rifle shots that were coming from the lab. As he pushed his way through the dense jungle foliage, he could hear pop after pop from the Germans' rifles. Arkady knew the gunshots would draw more of the damned zombies into the area. That could be a good thing for his team as it would be a major distraction for the Germans and Americans. The Russian was beginning to wish he hadn't taken this Godforsaken job. Killing civilians for their land was an easier, if not as lucrative, gig. Arkady thought the next time a job like this came up, no matter the payday, he would just say no. Suddenly, from behind there was a muffled explosion followed by another. Not the IEDs.

  Dimitry stopped in his tracks. "Did you hear that?"

  "Fuck your mother!" Yuri cursed. "What was that?"

  Arkady shook his head. He already had a feeling what had been the cause of those explosions. He grabbed up his radio and clicked it on. "Renko! Renko, come in." Nothing but static. "Renko … Damn you, answer me!" More static. Arkady cursed and started to hurl his radio but thought better off it. Shaking his head, he turned to the others. "Fucking cowboys," the commander growled. "You two!" He pointed at Iosif and Alona. "Get to the shore and see what's happened to our fucking boat. Radio me as soon as possible."

  "Da!" Alona, a powerlifter from Kiev, nodded and grabbed the skin-and-bones Iosif by the back of his collar. "Let's go, Misha!"

  "Don't call me Misha, Alona."

  "Sorry, little flower." Alona let him go and unslung the large RP-46 machine gun she carried. "Commander, I shall radio you once we are there."

  "Good. Move your asses!"

  "What about us?" Yuri asked through bloodshot eyes.

  "What do you mean?" Arkady growled.

  "What if there's no boat?"

  "Then we take their plane, idiot!" The commander shook his head. "Where do I get these morons? Kata! Next time your cousin says something stupid, I'm going to shoot him."

  "That is fine, Commander," Kata shrugged. "He is only second cousin." Yuri shrunk back a little at that and kept his mouth shut.

  "Good?" Arkady raised both his hands palms up and shrugged. "Now we go so we can get fucking paid."

  CHAPTER 25: I LOVE GUNS

  Jackson grounded the aircraft then began hooking up the fuel hose. Sanchez stood by the truck watching the area around them. It was quiet. Too quiet. The soldier tracked his surroundings with his rifle then dropped it to his chest. He then tapped on his headset.

  "How's it lookin’, Gator?"

  "Still clear, Poncho. Ain't no deaders around."

  "Yeah, yeah." He turned back to watch Jackson’s approach. "Just keep an eye out."

  "For you, Poncho, I'll keep both out."

  "Okay," Jackson said, nervously rubbing his hands together. "Let me get the flow going, and we'll be done shortly."

  "That easy?"

  "Yup." Jackson flipped open a panel on the side of the truck. "Plane might be a little old, but Nate and I put a lot of cash into upgrades." He winked at Sanchez. "Never know when you gotta leave someplace right now!"

  "I got stuck on an airstrip in Syria once," Sanchez said, watching the hangars. "Plane almost got blown off the runway before we were even airborne. Talk about pucker factor."

  "Been there, Sanchez. Ain't no fun." Jackson started the tanker’s power unit. The power pack rumbled to life. The co-pilot glanced around nervously as the fuel started to pump. "You ever take out a deader?" he asked the soldier over the roar of the power unit.

  "No," Sanchez shouted. "I was a teenager when it all went to shit. Saw a bunch of nasty stuff, but we were pretty safe in our village. Too far out from any place with a decent population. You?"

  "Yeah." The older man nodded. "I was a lieutenant in the Coast Guard. Helicopter pilot." He checked the fuel gauge. "Crossley’s dad and I flew the same rescue chopper. Never a big fan of guns, but they saved our butts many times over."

  "I love guns!" Sanchez smiled as he patted his front-slung assault rifle.

  Jackson nodded. "Not against them. I'm just a shitty shot. Always have been. I can fly the hell outta anything, but I can't figure the mechanics of the smallest firearm."

  "That's weird, Mister Jackson."

  "It's Cal."

  "That's weird, Cal."

  "Right?" Jackson nodded as he turned his back to Sanchez and focused his attention on the fuel truck. Cal could see a little fuel dripping down from the nozzle coupling onto the tarmac. The pungent petrol filled his nostrils. "Hey, Sanchez, there should be a toolbox somewhere in the cab of the truck. Probably behind the front seat. Could you grab it? I need to tighten up the hose. It's leaking fuel all over the place."

  "Sure thing." Sanchez headed towards the cab.

  Knox popped some more chew into his mouth as he glassed the area below. He could hear the fuel pump working from where he lay hidden. The sniper had a pretty good view of everything below except the spot where the two men were working. The plane's fuselage and part of the wing cut off his line of sight.

  "Poncho, I can't see your dumb ass," he mumbled into his headset mic.

  "Just hold on," Sanchez said, annoyed, as he pulled back the front seat and grabbed for the red toolbox that was behind it. "I'm working here, Gator!"

  Jackson couldn’t wait for the others to return so they could get their butts off this forsaken rock. The pilot always felt so much safer in the air than on the ground. He had heard the explosions in the distance and had hoped that was the good guys' handiwork.

  Sanchez grabbed Jackson by the shoulder and squeezed him hard. Cal let out a painful groan and turned to give the soldier a "what the fuck" look, only it wasn't Sanchez. The hand grabbing his shoulder was cold and rotting. A dead, grinning face greeted him.

  "Shit!" Jackson stumbled backwards with the deader still gripping his shoulder. The pilot couldn’t believe he was face to face with a zombie. Cal struggled to fend off his undead attacker while trying to keep his balance. He tried to break the deader's unyielding grip with his right hand. Shattered, yellow teeth snapped at his face. Where the hell was Sanchez?

  Sanchez climbed out of the cab of the truck and suddenly stopped. He could see Jackson struggling with a deader under the plane's wing, He dropped the toolbox with a crash and unslung his mini-14. He started to pull a bead on the zombie when he realized there was too much leaked fuel and fumes in the area. He deftly slung his rifle and drew the tactical tomahawk he carried on his belt. As Jackson fought with the dead man, Sanchez charged from behind, raising the tomahawk to shoulder level. Sanchez was almost upon them when he tripped on the fuel hose and fell forward, striking his head on the tarmac.

  In his peripheral vision, Jackson could see Sanchez hit the ground and lay still. The tomahawk clattered uselessly to the ground. Jackson cursed in the deader'
s face and tried to push him away. The horrible odor of death replaced the fuel smell in his nostrils. Above the moans of the deader, he could hear the roaring of the fuel pump. Jackson tried to yell for help, but too many other sounds drowned him out.

  Crossley finished off his second beer and tossed it into the small garbage bag. He climbed out of the pilot’s seat and stretched then looked out the pilot's side window, wondering what was taking so long. He could hear and see the fuel truck. Everything seemed okay except for the prone form of Sanchez on the airfield.

  "Aw fuck!" Nate craned his neck further but couldn’t find any sign of Jackson. The pilot grabbed the .45 he kept in the cockpit and rushed out towards the aft ramp. "Cal!"

  Jackson tried to move away from the flesh eater, but he only ended up tripping over the damned fuel hose and crashing onto his back. The deader lost its grip on Jackson and followed him to the ground. Out of breath, Jackson tried to scramble away from it. The dead man grabbed Jackson’s right leg and started to pull itself up the co-pilot’s body, teeth snapping wildly. Jackson tried to kick and shake it off. The deader buried its face into his thigh and took a big, ripping bite. Jackson screamed as it tore at his upper leg with its mouth.

  "Sanchez! Sanchez!" Knox yelled into his headset. "Poncho! I don't have eyes on you guys! You okay?" Nothing but silence greeted the sniper. Cursing, he stood up and scoped the area below him. He still couldn’t see anyone. "Crap!" He slung the sniper rifle and grabbed up his rifle. "Always gotta save your dumb ass!" Knox ran to the tower's broken stairwell.

  Crossley jumped off the side of the aft ramp and ran towards the fuel truck. He saw Jackson lying on his back, striking the deader in the head with his fist. The undead man was chewing on his thigh. Yelling, Crossley raised the .45 to fire when he noticed the spilled fuel and fumes. Cursing, he shoved the pistol into a pants pocket and sprinted over to where Jackson lay struggling with the deader.

  "Cal!" Crossley shouted. The deader raised its head and snarled at him. Crossley reared back and kicked the thing square in the jaw. The deader flew off Jackson and slammed onto the ground on its back. Crossley leaped over Jackson and stomped the zombie's head into a bloody pulp.

  "Nate!" Jackson coughed. "Nate!" Crossley grunted as he continued to smash the head into a wet, slimy mess. Then he turned back to Jackson, who was getting to his feet.

  "Cal!" He hurried over to his friend. "That fucking thing bit you!"

  "Naw." He brushed off his torn pant leg. "Fucker ate my book!"

  "What?"

  "Yeah," he smiled. "Sucker bit into my pocket with my book in it! Eat, Pray, Love saved my freakin' life!"

  Crossley shook his head and looked down at his bloody boots. "Well, I'm glad you’re okay, buddy. Hell, I should have just waited and that book would have bored it to death."

  "Funny. I was almost finished with it too." He patted Crossley's shoulder. "Thanks, Nate."

  "Yeah, yeah." He nodded towards the prone Sanchez. "Let's check the commando over there and make sure he's okay."

  "Looks like he hit hard," Jackson said, rubbing his leg and thanking God at the same time. Crossley knelt down next to the unconscious Sanchez. The soldier was breathing soundly. Nate gently grabbed his shoulder and shook him. Sanchez slowly opened his eyes.

  "You’re okay, Sanchez." Jackson told him. "You just took a hard fall."

  "Uh, crap." Sanchez rubbed the back of his head. "What about the deader?"

  "Re-dead. Crossley crushed the shit out of it!" He offered him a hand and helped him up. "It's all good."

  "Here's your hatchet," Crossley said, handing him the tactical tomahawk.

  "Thanks." Sanchez shoved it back on his belt, a little humbled.

  "Fuck it all!" Knox growled as he rounded the aft ramp, coming face to face with the three. "What the hell happened?"

  "Deader snuck up on us, Gator," Sanchez said, rubbing the back of his head.

  "Where the hell did he come from?" He lowered his mini-14 and glanced around. "I didn't see him from my side."

  "We didn't see him either," Jackson said, rubbing his leg.

  "Shit. Shit. Okay. Okay." Knox stroked his long mustache. "I'll stay down here and help watch while you finish gassing up. After that, we button up the plane nice and tight." He looked around at the others. "Sound good?"

  "Sounds great," Crossley and the other two quickly agreed. Before he returned to the fuel truck, Crossley saw Jackson looking down at what remained of the deader’s head. "Nate, you okay?"

  "Yeah, just looking to see if any of those pages in his mouth are any good."

  "Damn, Cal! I'll go to the used book store and buy you one when we get home. Come on, let's get this done before more of those things show up. We don't have any more shitty books to save our asses."

  "Hey …" Jackson started to complain but then just shook his head. "Fuckin' deaders."

  CHAPTER 26: IS IT WORTH IT?

  "Are you finished yet, herr Doktor?" Wolf Zagers said, angrily slamming his fist down on Doctor Orlac's desk. The scientist looked up at him from the microscope he'd been using. Orlac wiped some sweat from his forehead then sat up in his seat.

  "Mister Zagers, how dare you interrupt me?"

  "Listen, Doktor!" The security chief motioned out towards the hallway with the barrel of his assault rifle. "Do you hear that?" He put a hand to his ear. In the background, they could both hear the moans of the undead and the banging of their dead hands on the doors and barricaded windows. The constant gunfire from the rooftop snipers followed.

  "Yes, yes." Orlac sighed deeply. "We are almost done, Zagers!"

  "You keep telling me that, Doktor, but time is running out."

  "We don't get this done, Mister Zagers, we all will be out of time! Just keep those damned zombies away from my team so we can finish!" He squinted back down into the microscope lens. "Do your job, Zagers, and I will do mine."

  Wolf cursed in German then shook his head. "I will do my job to the end, Doktor, but it better be worth it."

  "It will, Zagers. It will."

  CHAPTER 27: GOAT FUCK

  "Aw, shit, mate!" Clarke stared ahead at the too narrow and too steep to drive horse trail. He stopped the Pit Bull so suddenly that the soldiers in the back were almost thrown from their seats. The lieutenant found himself smashing an imaginary brake with his boot as the rear end of the idling Humvee almost found itself in the Pit Bulls' cab. Wickham shot the other driver a dirty look.

  "What the fuck, Clarke?"

  "Sorry, L-tee," Clarke said sheepishly.

  "Bloody 'ell, Clarke!" Newman shouted from the back of the vehicle. "You awake up there?"

  "Fuck you, Alby!" Clarke glanced over his shoulder. "The major’s stopped up ahead. Yell at ‘im!”

  “I’ll be right back,” Wickham said, opening his door. “Just hold up. I’ll see what’s going on.”

  “Looks like we’re walkin’,” Newman said as he nosed himself up front. “This fuckin’ rig is not goin’ make it up that trail, mates!”

  “Yeah,” Wickham grunted as he climbed out of the Pit Bull. “Have the fellas kit up. I think the sergeant’s right. We’ll be hikin’ the rest of the way.”

  “Shit,” Clarke grumbled.

  “No problem, mate,” Newman said, moving back. “That’s why they pay us the big bucks.”

  “Big bucks?” Clarke spat. “My stinkin’ ex-wife gets all my big bucks.”

  “Well,” Newman smiled as he turned to the others, “maybe you shouldn’t be such a prick all the time, Clarke.”

  “Fuck you, Alby.”

  “You already said that, mate. Find something else.” Newman looked around at the rest of the soldiers. “Ruck up, gents! Looks like we may be going on a walkabout.”

  “Crap,” Cord groaned. “It’s too damn hot, Alby!”

  “Don’t be a pussy, Cord.” Newman said. “Just don’t be a pussy.”

  ***

  "Looks like we are walkin', Major." Zoe West gave Hale a mischievous wink. "I can't get th
e Hummer any farther. The Pit Bull sure as heck won't make it up."

  "Damn!" Hale said curtly and pushed open the passenger door. "Grab all your gear!" he said to the others and climbed out, only to be met by Lieutenant Wickham.

  "On foot?" the junior officer asked.

  "Uh huh." The major nodded. "They didn't have the decency to mark this climb on the fucking map. Get the troops geared up. We're already behind the fucking eight ball!"

  "Yes sir." Wickham returned to the Pit Bull. Newman already had the rest of the team disembarking from the rear of the vehicle.

  "Grab plenty of water!" Hale shouted back to them as he wiped his sweaty brow and adjusted the black ball cap with the Strategic Securities logo on it. "I don't want anyone dropping out on us before we get there."

  "If we get there," Diamond said, sliding up next to Hale. He had a radio strapped to his back along with his pack and a mini-14. "That's one steep-ass trail."

  "You can stay behind if you want, Sergeant Diamond," Hale patted him on the shoulder. "Though I'll be firing your ass as soon as we get back."

  "That's okay, Major," Diamond smiled. Sweat rolled down his cheek. "A little hike is good for the soul."

  "I like your attitude, Sergeant." By then, the rest of the team had assembled around Hale. "Listen up, people. I know it's hotter than fuck out here, but the sooner we get up this damn hill, the sooner we're done. Amante, you take point. The presidents, you bring up the rear. Let's move out!"

  CHAPTER 28: TWO IN THE HAND, ONE IN THE AMBUSH

  "Listen," Brooks said quietly as she and Wu lay prone and covered with brush. The captain made a hand signal towards the direction she'd heard the noise. Wu nodded slowly and raised his sniper rifle. The sergeant glassed the surrounding area and saw nothing. Brooks motioned for him to wait. No sound. No movement. After a few minutes, both soldiers relaxed.