Dead Island: Operation Zulu (7 page)
CHAPTER 21: ZOMBIES AT THE DOOR
About two hundred or more zombies surrounded the main laboratory building and were trying to push, claw, and beat their way inside. Meissner and Hoffman, two of Wolf Zagers' security men, were prone on the building’s rooftop, watching the ever-growing horde of flesh-eaters below. Both security men were armed with PSG-60 sniper rifles. Meissner used the scope on his weapon to get a closer view of the hungry mob surrounding them.
“We have enough ammo to clear it out down there,” Hoffman said, racking a round. “We can take them all out then get the hell outta here.”
“Maybe,” Meissner said as he watched a zombie with a big chunk taken out of its shoulder pounding furiously on the front door. A female stood next to it, entrails dragging the ground from a torn stomach, mindlessly clawing at the metal door frame. Her fingernails and fingers snapped off in the process. A chill went down the German’s spine. “Wolf says we wait until the doktors are ready.”
“What? Ready to be eaten? We need to go now!” Hoffman put his rifle to his shoulder. “More of those damn things show up, and we’ll be lunch.”
“Wolf says they are working on some kind of vaccine for the infection.” Meissner yawned. “Once they are done, then we can leave. Hopefully, the American team will be here by then.”
“That’s rich.”
“What is?” Meissner looked over at the other sniper.
“Germans waiting for Americans to rescue them.” Hoffman chuckled.
“Ja.” Meissner slapped him on the back. “How about this? Americans rescuing Germans on a French-owned island.”
“First time for everything I guess.”
“Ja, I’m getting bored up here.” Meissner set his crosshairs on a huge black man gnawing on what appeared to be a severed leg. “Wouldn’t mind taking out a few of them damned creatures. Makes me sick just watching them.”
***
Wolf Zagers scratched his beard as he watched Doctor Orlac and his staff scurrying about, trying to finish up the vaccine. The pounding, scratching, and horrible moans from outside the building were starting to get to him. The security chief could sense the huge metal doors start to weaken behind the pressure of the mass of bodies trying to get inside. The few windows they had boarded up were slowly starting to give way to the grabbing and pulling dead hands.
Zagers walked over to Orlac, who was peering through a microscope, and leaned over his shoulder. He had no idea what the doctor was doing, but it had to be important. This whole operation was important. Wolf had been in Berlin when the undead outbreak reached his country. He was a captain in an armored division. Wolf's Leopard M2A5 tank had saved his life from a horde of thousands of the undead. He never wanted to be in that position again.
"How goes it, herr Doktor?"
"Getting there, Wolf, getting there," Orlac said without looking up.
"Good. This building won't hold up forever."
"Twenty minutes," the doctor said, pulling a slide from under the scope. "Give me twenty more minutes."
"I'll see what I can do to buy us more time." Zagers unclipped the radio from his belt and clicked it on. "Meissner, go ahead and thin the herd."
"You sure, Wolf?" Meissner’s voice crackled through the small speaker. "Our shots will draw more of these fucking things."
"Chance we have to take, Meissner."
"Got it, Wolf." No sooner had Wolf replaced the radio on his belt than the report of two sniper rifles could be heard outside. Wolf smiled to himself. Meissner and Hoffman would buy them some more time. Both ex-paratroopers were decent enough marksmen that they would not waste too much ammo.
"Wolf?" Danzig stepped into the room in a hurry. Zagers noticed the smaller security officer had his big Glock drawn.
"It's okay, Danzig. Meissner’s just clearing us a path. Keep your eye on the windows. Hopefully we will be leaving soon." Relieved, Danzig nodded and backed out of the room. Wolf hoped and prayed the rescue team would get there soon. If they didn't, he knew they would all be devoured by the undead horde that was amassing outside.
CHAPTER 22: CHECK THE OIL, TOO …
Crossley stood in the cargo bay and watched the aft ramp slowly descend to the tarmac. With the ramp control in his left hand and a .45 in the other, the pilot looked over at Jackson and Poncho and nodded. Poncho motioned for the co-pilot to wait and cautiously moved down the ramp, mini-14 point shouldered, scanning the surrounding areas. Poncho spoke into his headset as he moved out.
"How's it look, Gator?"
"Clear, lil' buddy." Knox swept the area from his perch in the damaged tower with his rifle’s scope. "No deaders."
"Ten-four, Gator. Watch our asses."
"Asses watched, Poncho." Knox spit out some chew. "Don't forget to check the oil while you're at it."
Sanchez stepped off the ramp and onto the airfield and gave Knox a quick wave. Knox acknowledged him by waving his middle finger. Sanchez chuckled and thought it was a good thing the redneck hadn’t waved his cock at him ‘cause he wouldn’t have been able to see it. The ex-ranger swept the area around the plane again then looked back up the ramp at the two pilots.
"Clear, Mister Jackson!"
"Great." Jackson swallowed and smiled weakly at Crossley. "Time to go!"
"Go get 'em, tiger." Crossley winked. "It'll be easy, Cal. You have the two commandos watching you."
"Yeah." Jackson slowly walked down the ramp. "Thanks, Nate."
"Hey," Crossley smirked, "I'll keep the back door open for ya."
Jackson moved down the ramp and stopped on the tarmac next to the hyper-vigilant Sanchez. The soldier turned to the co-pilot and nodded. "What do you need me to do, Mister Jackson?"
Cal took a deep breath and let it out. "See that refueling truck over by the hangar?"
"Yes." Sanchez eyed the fuel truck that was about a quarter-mile away.
"We need it."
"Figures." Sanchez looked over at Knox and pointed at the fuel truck. "You have keys for it, Mister Jackson?"
"No, we should be able to start it without a key. Should be a push start."
"Great." Sanchez slung his mini-14.
"You can always hot wire it, esse," Knox chuckled across his headset mic.
"Yeah, goober," Sanchez said into his. "We’re lucky it's not the General Lee, or you'd be trying to load it up on the plane so you could show it off to your sister-wife and impress all your friends in Chipmunk Dick, Arkansas."
"That's Orlando, asshole."
"Same-same." Sanchez nodded at Jackson. "I'll make a run for it and bring the truck here. What side of the plane is the fuel access on?"
"Left. Left side, forward of the wing. I'll direct you to it."
"Sweet. Here goes nothin'." The soldier let out a breath, shook his head and took off in a sprint towards the truck. Jackson watched as Sanchez quickly closed the distance between the plane and truck. Jackson figured if it was him, he'd be running like his life depended on it too. Sanchez made it to the truck, pulled open the driver’s door, and a body tumbled out, smashing to the ground. He let out a high-pitched scream then jumped back. He kicked the body to make sure it was dead then leaped over the unmoving form and climbed into the truck, shutting the door behind him. After a few tense seconds, Jackson heard the truck roar to life. The co-pilot smiled, relieved, as the fuel truck rumbled towards the aircraft.
Captain Brooks crawled up next to Sergeant Wu, who was prone on the ground watching the Russian yacht through his binoculars. Brooks tapped him on the shoulder, and he handed them over to her. Peering through the binoculars, she noticed all the crew had left the deck and gone below. It was probably vodka time.
"We sink it now, we’ll probably get them before they can send off a warning," she said quietly.
"Sounds good, Captain." Wu grabbed the LAW-80 rocket launcher that was lying next to him and deftly removed the end caps and extended the launch tube. He then handed the weapon over to Brooks. The sergeant retrieved a second launcher and repeated the process except he opened the sight and clicked the arming lever on. Once he was done, Wu nodded at the officer.
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."
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."