"Slow down, West. You're gonna get us killed before we even get there!" Hale yelled as he bounced around in the front seat of the Hummer. The Australian sergeant smiled at the major and gunned it.
"Don't worry, Major. This road is shit, but I'll get us there in one piece."
"Alive?" Hale shouted as he gripped the door frame with white knuckles. Suddenly, two half-dressed figures stumbled out into the roadway in front of them. Before West could stomp on the brakes or swerve, the Humvee rode right over them. Blood and flesh splashed the windshield and fenders of the big vehicle. A leg flew up onto the roof and rolled off behind them.
"Holy fuck! Did you see that?" Mac said from the backseat. Tim Diamond, who was sitting next to him, just shook his head in disbelief.
"Aw, fuck me," West sighed, slowing the Hummer down. Hale saw she was white as a ghost and trembling. The major wondered if he looked just like her. Heart racing, he looked behind them to see one of the victims trying to get to its feet. The man’s head was turned at an odd 90-degree angle, and he only had one leg. As the deader fumbled to get up, the team’s truck ran him over. Hale winced and looked back at West.
"Don't sweat it, Sergeant. They were deaders. Please slow the fuck down. I nearly shit myself."
"No problem, Major." West smiled weakly and eased up on the accelerator.
In the Pit Bull, basically a souped-up armored SUV, Sergeant Clarke was using the vehicle’s windshield wipers to clean the zombie’s blood off the bulletproof glass. All the wipers succeeded in doing was giving the glass an odd, blackish tint.
"That's a lil' better," Lieutenant Wickham, who rode shotgun, said to Sergeant Clarke.
"Fookin' things stink to high 'eaven!" Clarke said, watching the Hummer’s rear end. "Zoe is one 'ell of a driver for a Sheila. I kin' barely keep up with 'er."
"That Sheila is ex-SAS, mate. Tough as fuckin' nails."
"Yeah? Well, whatever, mate. I bet the major's up there shittin' bricks."
"I would be, 'specially after that." Wickham looked over at Clarke. "You ever kill one of 'em before?"
"What?" Clarke gave Wickham a quick glance then looked back at the road. "You mean a deader?" The young lieutenant nodded. "Sure, mate, I was part of the battalion that 'elped clean out Melbourne." The sergeant took a hand off the wheel and scratched his mop of brown hair. "I was eighteen at the time. Didn't know my arse from a 'ole inna ground. L-tee, you look a lil' young to 'ave an up close with 'em."
"Yeah, Sergeant. I never fought one. All I got is my father’s stories about the great Undead War." He smiled. "Spent a lot of time in defense shelters. Never seen a one."
"Then you'se lucky there, L-tee. Jus' 'member: 'ed shots put 'em down for good." He chuckled to himself. "Also, they smell like shite!"
"Thanks, Sergeant."
"Don't worry, Loo. There shouldn’t be too many of 'em."
In the rear of the Pit Bull, the rest of Hale's team sat waiting for the bumpy, wild ride to end. On the right side of the truck sat Newman, Winger, Gibson, Jayne, Lucas, and the rest of the Australians. On the other side sat the rest of the American contractors—Cord, Amante, Gonzo, and the two nicknamed "The Presidents"—Jefferson and Washington. Cord, a former Ranger, sat at the rear of the air-conditioned vehicle and watched the remains of the two deaders trying to crawl out of the road from the back window.
"Jeez, that's nasty!" Cord said, gripping the mini-14 rifle in his hands. "We should finish them off."
"Why?" Gonzo, the ex-Army medic, shrugged. "They're dead."
"Can't we shoot them? Put them outta their misery."
"That's sweet, mate, but it'll let the bad guys know were comin'." Newman smiled.
"We the good guys?" Amante, an ex-Navy Seal, asked.
"Always," Jefferson said, chewing on a big wad of gum.
"The other guys are always the bad guys," Washington agreed.
"Good guys." Jayne, ex-Australian Navy, bobbed his head up and down.
"Good guys." Winger smirked.
"White-hatted cowboys, mates." Gibson spat some chew into a cup.
"Yeah, we’re the good guys. At least that’s what me mum tells me." Lucas, a former SBS officer, smiled.
"See," Sergeant Newman opened his arms wide, "we're the good guys, mate. We shall slay the dragons and save the princess!"
"I like saving princesses." Washington grinned. "Best part of the job."
"Well," Newman shoved some chew into his mouth. "Ain't no princesses here but a whole lotta civilians that need to be rescued from them deaders."
"Seems like a lot of money just to get their employees out of danger," Gonzo said. "Hell, most corporations would just nuke the whole island and call it good."
"They want us to make sure the senior egg 'ead gets out," Newman said, mouth full of chew. "Probably got a 'ead full of top secret shit or some such. The others are just a bonus I reckon'."
"Well, sounds like good guy stuff to me." Winger sat back against the interior of the Pit Bull. The truck was moving slower now, less bumps or deaders. "Lord knows I need some good guy stuff."
"Amen, brother," Newman said. "Right now, I need somethin' good to give ole' Saint Pete when my time’s up."
"Plan on seeing 'em soon, Alby?" Winger put out his hand, and Newman tossed him a tin of chew.
"No, mate. Not today." Newman looked around at the others. "None of y'all either. 'Member, 'eadshots. 'Eadshots. Watch each other’s backs, an' we'll make it 'ome to spend that big wad 'o cash Matol is payin' us."
"Also," Gonzo leaned forward and opened a small case at his feet, "I have an auto-injector for each of you." He grabbed several out of the case and passed them around.
"What's this?" Cord asked, rolling the small injector around in his palm.
"Z-66. You get bit, just jam it into your thigh like an epi-pen. It'll keep you from infection."
"Kinda' takes all the fun outta it," Winger said, shoving it into a pocket on his tactical vest.
"Uh huh." Washington nodded.
"Only one each," Gonzo said, handing out the rest of them. "Be careful with it."
"I never understood why they just don't inoculate everyone with it." Jefferson secured his in a pants pocket.
"Money." Gonzo shut the case. "One infection, one shot. The minds in charge haven't figured out a permanent vaccine yet."
"Too bad." Newman had lost his entire family to the undead virus. A few of those auto-injectors would have made a big difference. "Okay mates, ruck up. We should be gettin' close to the target area."
"Sure, Sarge." Cord started to pull off his body armor. "Gonna be hot, and this isn't gonna help none."
"Keep that thing on, mate, 'cause you end up gettin' yer bell rung, the company won't pay yer family a thin dime," Newman said, grabbing Cord's vest with his free hand.
"Shit, Sarge," Cord grumbled and pulled the vest back on. "It's gonna be hotter than hell out there!"
"No whining!" Jefferson said, popping another stick of gum in his mouth.
"Suit yerself, kid." Newman shrugged and leaned back against the cool interior of the truck.
"Aw fuck!" Cord said, shaking his head as he fastened his vest back up. "Fuck!"
Sergeant Wu couldn't keep up with Captain Brooks' cycle. The little officer wasn't kidding about her racing motorcycles. She tackled the terrain like a mad woman. The NCO kind of wished Clarke had come along instead. He figured the Australian would be more slow-moving than Brooks. He spit out some of the mud that flew into his face. This was nothing like the weekend off-roading he was used to. Brooks signaled for Wu to slow down then came to a stop.
Lis Brooks had grown up riding dirt bikes. Her father had been a professional dirt bike racer, and being the youngest of three daughters, he doted on her the most. Lis adored her father and had followed in his footsteps. After the undead outbreak, her father had been killed trying to protect them. Several pararescuemen had been able to save Lis and the rest of her family. Lis joined the Air Force the next year. She never forgot the feeling of being rescued by those brave soldiers. Her career ended ten years later, after being shot four times by an African warlord's troops.
"Wu." Brooks climbed off her bike and rested it against a tree trunk then pulled her rifle out of the saddle holster. She had a rocket launcher strapped across her back, same as the sergeant. Wu pulled up next to her and leaned his bike against another tree. He unslung the sniper rifle and hurried over to the officer.
"You okay?" Brooks asked, pulling her goggles up onto the top of her shock of red hair.
"Yeah, Captain." He dropped his mud-splattered goggles down around his neck. "You weren't shitting about racing bikes."
"Nope, my folks had a spare room devoted to all my trophies." She smiled and wiped some dirt off her cheeks. "Come on, Sarge." The two pushed their way through the thin jungle foliage. After a going a short distance, Brooks stopped near the edge of a small cliff that overlooked the ocean and the yacht. Both soldiers quickly knelt down in the high saw grass. Wu pulled out a pair of binoculars from a waist pouch and handed them to the captain.
"Thanks, Wu." Brooks scanned the boat with them then handed the binoculars back to the sergeant. "Those are the bad guys we are looking for. There's an asshole in grey cammies with an AK cruising the bow. Not your average yachtsman’s garb."
"No, it is not." Wu looked through the binoculars. "I got another asshole near the stern. Same-same."
"Okay, Sergeant." She unslung her launcher. "Let's set up here."
"Sounds good to me, Captain. My ass needs a break from all that riding."
"Wasn't that far, Sergeant."
"Tell my ass that, Captain."
Gator Knox lay up in the remains of the airfield control tower watching the surroundings of the team’s airplane through the scope of his sniper rifle. He’d figured it would be a big yawn until Hale and the others returned. The major had given him another shitty job. Just because Hale was sweet on the captain, he’d stuck Knox’s ass up here. Gator could outshoot Brooks and Wu with his eyes closed. The only thing that gave him any solace was the big fat payday the company was paying out.
***
"Want a beer, Nate?" Jackson asked his co-pilot as he brought the Styrofoam ice chest up into the cockpit. "Got some roast beef sandwiches too."
"Sure," Crossley stood up and stretched. "I'm pretty fuckin' hungry. I guess a good nap will do that to you." He yawned and glanced out the front windshield. "Still looks dead out there."
"Yeah." Jackson handed him a cold bottle of beer and a paper-wrapped sandwich. "Been like that since Hale left. Hopefully stays that way."
"Uh huh." Crossley quickly unwrapped his sandwich and took a big bite out of it. "Good, this is really good, Cal."
"Thanks. Got it off that food truck near the highway."
Nodding, Crossley took another bite. "After lunch, we have to get out and gas up the plane." He took a swig of beer and wiped his lips. "That hits the spot. Looks like this will be pretty easy, so I'll have the commando in back help me fuel up the bird. You can stay on board, Cal."
"I can fuel the plane." Jackson unwrapped his sandwich. "You stay on board. You’re the captain. Hell, I'm still not sure which controls do what."
"Fuck you, Cal," Nate said with a mouthful of food. "You’re more experienced than me. I'll handle the refuel. I know how you feel about deaders."
Jackson laughed. "I thought you'd appreciate the break, Nate."
"Thanks." Crossley wiped his mouth on his shirt. "I got it, Cal. Finish your book and tell me how it ends."
"Good, I hope." He patted the book in his pants pocket. "I guess I was getting a little antsy up here. You know zombies make me jittery." He took a swallow of beer. "But I'm quicker than you filling up the bird, so I got this."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, Nate. I'm good. I'll just show the commando what to do."
"Okay." Crossley took another bite of the sandwich. "Eat up. We'll hit it after lunch. Grab me another beer, will ya?" The pilot was a little relieved he wasn't going out but also concerned for Jackson. "Take the .38 with ya just in case."
"Last time I handled a gun, I almost blew my nuts off." Jackson handed him another beer. The co-pilot was more afraid of the handgun than the undead. When he was a teenager, he'd accidentally blown off his older brother’s foot during a hunting trip. After that experience, he didn't care to use guns.
"My father would kick your ass if he was here." Crossley looked at the older co-pilot more like an uncle than a friend. Both pilots' fathers had served together in the Coast Guard during the undead outbreak. Both men had grabbed their families and hid out in the mountains until it was over.
"Yeah." Jackson smiled. "Craig would. Your father was a good man."
"Yes, he was." He raised his beer bottle. "To two of the best old guys ever." He took a swig. "Take the fuckin' gun, Cal."
"I will, Nate. I will." He bit into his sandwich and thought to himself,
I won't, I won't
.