Dead Island: Operation Zulu
DEAD ISLAND:
OPERATION ZULU
BY ALLEN GAMBOA
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the publisher or author of this book except where permitted by law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously (or, in some instances names/places are used and/or depicted consensually). Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. This book does not purport to provide accurate descriptions of any actual locations, things, or entities. This is an original work of fiction and all intellectual property rights are reserved by Allen Gamboa, Author.
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Edited by Monique Happy Editorial Services
Cover art by
Angry Chair Designs
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Copyright © 2014 by Allen Gamboa
DEDICATION
I would like to dedicate this book to my beautiful wife Tina for her unwavering
Support in pushing me to get this story off the ground. Thank you for your sacrifice and
Your service to the military and law enforcement in which you gave so much.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my mother and father for taking a young kid to see Dawn of
The Dead in 1978. Look what you've done to me. My children for their support. WJ Lundy
For taking a fan under his wing and helping getting his butt writing. Thanks for the title.
HJ Harry for letting me annoy him. Monique Happy and Amanda Shore for making my
Scribbles look so darned good. Hope you all enjoy this little roller coaster ride.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 2: MACHINE GUN DIPLOMACY
CHAPTER 3: I NEED YOU TO FOCUS
CHAPTER 4: AIRBORNE- ELLER ISLAND OR BUST
CHAPTER 6: DOESN'T LOOK SO BAD
CHAPTER 11: DO YOU REALLY WANT TO HURT ME?
CHAPTER 12: I REALLY HOPE THE CAVALRY GETS HERE SOON
CHAPTER 20: PREMATURE DETONATION
CHAPTER 21: ZOMBIES AT THE DOOR
CHAPTER 22: CHECK THE OIL, TOO …
CHAPTER 24: DID YOU HEAR THAT?
CHAPTER 28: TWO IN THE HAND, ONE IN THE AMBUSH
CHAPTER 30: BAD GUYS ALWAYS FINISH FIRST
CHAPTER 32: GOOD NEWS/BAD NEWS
CHAPTER 33: WELCOME TO THE PARTY
CHAPTER 34: DON'T BE A FUCKING SNAIL
CHAPTER 35: WHAT'CHA THINKING?
CHAPTER 39: BACK DOOR SURPRISE
CHAPTER 41: LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD
CHAPTER 45: WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL THE SLOW ONES?
CHAPTER 46: NOBODY STEALS OUR BABY
CHAPTER 48: QUIT FUCKING AROUND, SERGEANT
CHAPTER 49: BALLS ARE NOT GOING TO GET US HOME
CHAPTER 50: MISTER PIETRO'S WILD RIDE
CHAPTER 51: SMELLS LIKE A KIEV WHOREHOUSE
CHAPTER 55: NOTHING'S GONNA BREAK MY STRIDE
CHAPTER 57: WHY AREN’T YOU SHOOTING HEEM?
CHAPTER 60: YOU’RE ONE NASTY FUCKER!
CHAPTER 62: I GOT A BAD FEELING, NATE
CHAPTER 64: HORSESHOES AND HANDGRENADES
CHAPTER 65: FUNNY YOU SHOULD ASK THAT
CHAPTER 66: TELL PUTIN HELLO FOR ME
CHAPTER 68: SQUEAMISH, DOCTOR?
CHAPTER 70: QUIT FUCKIN' AROUND, CAPTAIN
CHAPTER 71: TIME HAS COME TODAY
CHAPTER 73: NOT EVEN IN COLLEGE
CHAPTER 75: IT PAYS TO BE PARANOID
"Zombies?" Crossley shook his head, almost flinging his aviators across the cockpit. "Fucking zombies. You've got to be kidding me!"
Jackson looked the other pilot straight in the face and said, "No."
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Crossley slammed his fist down on the control panel of the old cargo plane. "I knew this job was too good to be true. Relief workers my ass." He slowly shook his head and stared out the cockpit window towards the runway. "When did you find out this bit of good news?"
Jackson ran a trembling hand through his sweaty grey hair. "Last night. That Aussie Clarke told me while we were playing cards."
"Great." Crossley stared angrily at the other pilot. "Did ya at least ask for more money then?"
The older pilot hung his head and mumbled, "No, Nate, I was too shitfaced at the time." He glanced up at Crossley and wiped some sweat from the caterpillar he called his eyebrows. "I think I passed out at some point too."
"Ya think?" Crossley sneered at him. "We're already giving them a deal on this flight, and now you tell me this crap?"
"Sorry, Nate."
"Not sorry enough, Cal. Not sorry enough."
"Look," Jackson looked down at his beat up, old Timex. "We're already running late. We can talk to Hale about this later."
"By 'we,' you mean me." Crossley frowned and let out a breath. "Fuck it!" He unbuckled his seat harness and stood up. "Don't touch a fucking thing 'till I get back." He pushed open the cabin door and shot an angry glance back at his disheveled partner. "I'm not getting munched on by some fucking stiffs for nothing!"
Crossley made his way out the cockpit door and climbed down the metal ladder into the massive cargo bay of the old C-5 aircraft. Strapped down to the floor were a civilian H1 Humvee, two camo dirt bikes, and a black Pit Bull VX Swat vehicle. Several big, metal lockers were also strapped to the floor. Along both sides of the plane's fuselage were several rows of seats filled with passengers.
The pilot quickly glanced around the seated passengers, looking for one in particular. The more Crossley looked, the more he noticed the twenty people seated in the cargo bay. They appeared to look more like mercenaries than aid workers. He shook his head and grumbled to himself.
"Shit!" Crossley cursed. "Hale!" he shouted towards the group. "Mister Hale!"
A thick, fit-looking man with a buzz cut, who had been talking to the attractive redheaded woman seated next to him, looked up when he heard the pilot yelling for him.
"Excuse me, Lis," the buzz cut said to the redhead. He unfastened his seat harness and quickly walked over to where the pilot stood. "Mister Crossley, is there a reason we are running late?" Rollie Hale asked, glancing down at the huge dive watch strapped to his thick forearm.
Great,
Nate shook his head.
Military!
The pilot cleared his throat and then looked the soldier in his scarred face. Hale wore green BDU pants and a black polo shirt with the words Strategic Securities stenciled across it in red. "Yes, you didn't tell me this flight had anything to do with zombies."
Hale stepped forward and started to make up a story, but then he saw the determination in the pilot's eyes. He crossed his massive arms and slumped a bit, looking at the plane's floor.
"Shit!" He looked back up at Crossley. "Fucking Clarke!" He turned to the seated passengers and fixed his glare at a large, bearded man fast asleep in his chair. "Okay," Hale sighed heavily. "What do you want?"
"More money."
"Of course," Hale nodded. "More money." He quickly mulled it over. "Five thousand."
"Five thousand plus a full tank of gas for the bird when we get back, and," Nate smiled widely, "Jackson and I don't step foot off the plane."
Hale turned and looked back at the redheaded officer, who rolled her eyes then nodded curtly. "Alright, Crossley," he exhaled, his massive chest moving under his shirt. "You have yourself a deal."
"Okay." The pilot bobbed his head up and down happily. "So what's the mission?"
"No," Hale said sternly and headed back towards his seat.
"Well, General," Crossley smirked, "I thought there weren’t any more deaders left?"
"Actually, it's Major," Hale sat down, "and so did we."
"Freaking government." Nate started back up the ladder. "Always messing things up!"
"Mister Crossley!" Hale shouted back to him. "We're your government, and we’re here to save you!"
The redhead laughed as the pilot shook his head and cursed, resuming his climb back to the cockpit. "Buckle up!" He shouted back down. "I don't want anyone to bump their heads once we're airborne." After he entered the cockpit, Crossley slammed the door shut and sat heavily in his jumpseat. Jackson, less sweaty than before, handed him his aviators with a shrug.
"Well?"
"Five grand and a full tank when we get back home." He started to fasten up his harness. "Fire up the bird, and let's get the fuck outta here."
"Love it when you talk sex and money!" Jackson looked down at his instrument panel. "Off to Deader Island it is!"
"Can it, Cal," Crossley grumbled.
Jackson flipped Crossley the bird with a hairy finger and returned his attention to his controls. "One day, Nate, I think God's gonna give you that sense of humor you've been missing."
"Cal, I've been fine for years without it. Why start now?" He flipped a toggle switch on his console. "Just get this bird off the deck before Captain America down there decides to ram his mighty shield up our asses."
"See," Jackson shouted over the plane's engines as they roared to life. "I think you're coming around."
"Fuck you." Crossley slipped on his headset and spoke into the mic. "Miami Control, this is Flight 4607 requesting …"
Jackson stared at the instrument panel in front of him. He'd flown many, many aid missions during the undead outbreak ten years before. Those flights had been real scary, but something about this one … Nothing on the scale of what he had been used to before scared the hell out of him. Twenty-five hundred extra bucks hardly seemed worth it.
"Alright," Crossley yelled above the engines. "We are clear to go. Put on your headset, and let's get this baby moving."
"Finally." Jackson pulled on his headset. The older pilot ached for a drink and to be somewhere else. "No more of these jobs, Nate."
"Right," Crossley said absently. "Last one."
"Last one." Jackson pulled back on the plane's yoke. "Heard that before."