Dead Island: Operation Zulu (22 page)
"Let him go." Brooks turned to the other three, who were using the small Cessna for cover with her. Jefferson had been getting ready to put a round through the Russian's head when the captain spoke up. He relaxed and leaned back against the plane's broken tail. The airstrip was now crowded with at least a hundred deaders, all looking for someone to eat. Sweating, Jefferson checked his rifle again then looked over at Washington, who was near the front of the Cessna with Cord. The infected man was starting to look really bad.
It's only a matter of time before he changes
, Jefferson thought.
Brooks was using the tail of the plane for cover. The captain was about a foot away from Jefferson. "These dead fucks haven’t picked up on us yet," Brooks whispered to him.
"We won’t go unnoticed for long, Captain," Jefferson said in a hushed tone. "There must be at least a hundred of them."
"More will be coming." She motioned with her head toward the thickening smoke cloud behind them. The burning jungle was drawing closer to the airport, which meant more deaders would be forced into their area. She looked down at her dive watch and frowned. They were cutting it real close.
"Cap, that crowd near the plane is gettin' real thick," Washington said a little too loudly. A couple of deaders heard his outburst and started to stumble toward the small plane.
"Shit, Wash!" Jefferson cursed just under his breath.
Washington shrugged and mouthed, "Sorry."
"Now you’re quiet?" Jefferson said, barely above a whisper.
Cord could hardly stand anymore, and he leaned heavily against the broken fuselage of the Cessna. The infection was rapidly spreading, and he was burning up. Sweat was sliding down him in sheets. He could feel his throat starting to constrict. This was no reaction to the anti-virus. He bent over and coughed up a big wad of black blood and something else. Shaking his sweat-drenched head, he stood up and wiped the black blood from his lips. Cord glanced at the back of his gloved hand and saw the spatter of dark plasma. He was infected. He was fucking infected.
"Captain!" Cord belched loudly and spat up some more blood. "Captain!"
A large crowd of deaders was now turning their attention to the small, wrecked plane, all of them drawn in by Cord's coughing and shouting. Brooks looked over at the sick man and tried to shush him. Cord shook his head, flinging sweat all about.
"Keep it down, Cord," Brooks said in a low tone, trying to watch both him and the slowly approaching dead cannibals.
"No, no. I’m infected," he slurred. "I’m going to turn into a fucking deader," he said with a genuine sadness in his voice.
"We have the anti-virus …"
"It’s no good Captain …" Cord coughed and stumbled a little. "Give me a … gr-grenade."
"Cord …"
"I’m done …" He spat up more blood. "G-give m-me a grenade an’ I’ll distract these fuckers."
"Captain!" Washington shouted, worry heavy in his voice as more deaders drew closer to their position.
"Okay, okay." Brooks reached into her blood-splattered vest and retrieved her last fragmentation grenade. She firmly placed it in Cord’s open palm and held it there for a few seconds with her gloved hands. "We can still …"
"No." Cord pulled his hand away and give her a big smile. "Too late. At least I can do something." He coughed and wiped his face with his free hand. "What’s your first name, Captain?"
"Liselle. Lis," she said quickly.
"Lis, I’m Danny." He gave her the smartest salute he’d ever done in his short career then spun around and dashed across the tarmac, yelling and hooting all the way. The other three soldiers instantly squatted down out of sight as the aroused crowd of flesh eaters turned their attention to the young soldier crashing through their ranks.
"Man," Jefferson said quietly.
"Go, Danny go," Brooks whispered as she wiped tears from her eyes. Jefferson patted her reassuringly on the shoulder then carefully peeked out onto the tarmac. The distraction had worked. The area around them was almost completely clear.
"Good to go, Captain," Jefferson said.
"Okay." She sighed. "We make a break for the plane. They’re going to blow the crap out of this island." She looked behind them, hoping Wu and Zoe had made it to the Pit Bull.
"What about the other Russians?" Jefferson asked as he glanced around.
"Fuck 'em. They’ll burn with this damn island!"
CHAPTER 68: SQUEAMISH, DOCTOR?
"Come on, Doctor!” Arkady yelled as he pulled Orlac by the sleeve across the airstrip. A large group of the zombies had headed for the other side of the runway, chasing something. Probably one of the Americans or even one of his men. Arkady didn’t even care anymore. His brilliant plan had failed, and now it was just him and Orlac. A round from one of the American rifles had struck him in the stomach. He was still moving but probably not for much longer. Up ahead was the empty fuel truck. Arkady needed to rest for a moment, so he pushed the scientist along until they reached the truck's cab. The Russian commander flung the door open and motioned for Orlac to get in. The doctor eagerly climbed in, carrying the case with him. Breathing heavily, Arkady crawled in behind him, closing the door and locking it. The mercenary slumped down in his seat and waved Orlac to do the same.
"Truck sits high enough the zombies can’t see." He shoved his rifle between the bench seat and door. Wheezing, Arkady reached into his now filthy vest and pulled out a battle dressing. Orlac's eyes grew wide.
"Squeamish, Doctor?" Arkady grinned. "It’s just a little blood."
"What are we doing?" Orlac asked impatiently.
"Getting aboard the plane." He grunted as he dumped some antibiotic on his wound. "You must be patient, Doctor." He chuckled then coughed. "Don’t you have several million euros to spend?"
"You get us aboard that plane and keep your mouth shut, and I’ll pay you five hundred thousand euros," Orlac said. This time, the doctor’s voice had a definite edge to it. Gone was all the pleading and fear.
"Why, Doctor?" Arkady groaned slightly as he tightened the battle dressing. "Why would I say anything?" He peeked out the passenger window then looked over at Orlac. "Trade me places, but keep your head down." Orlac nodded, and both men awkwardly crawled over each other so they wouldn’t be seen by the zombies or the Americans. Arkady carried his rifle with him and accidentally whacked the doctor in the face with the synthetic stock. Once they had changed places, Orlac wiped his sweaty face on his dirty lab coat and coughed.
"Can you open a window? It’s an oven in here, and it stinks like shit."
"Sure, Doctor, I open a window, and our friends will climb right in. Besides, the smell kind of make me homesick." He shook his head.
"Homesick? Where is home?" Orlac asked, annoyed.
"Cherepovets. Smells just like this." Arkady smiled. "Cherepovets means City of Skulls.” He laughed. "Most polluted place on Mother Earth." He finished up his dressing. "Probably got that way because of bastards like you and me."
Orlac rolled his eyes and quickly changed the subject. "Do you at least have a key for this truck?"
"Not need key, Doctor." Arkady examined the control console. "Is Czech vehicle. Very fine vehicle." He tapped the steering wheel. "Push start. Simple."
"Then what are we waiting for?"
"Opportunity, Doctor.” He pulled the empty magazine from his rifle and inserted his last one. "Opportunity."
There was a high-pitched scream from somewhere outside. Orlac almost jumped at the sound and had to restrain himself from grabbing the mercenary and pulling him close for security. Reading the doctor's body language and recognizing the screamer outside, Arkady's smile grew wider.
"Seems like dear Nico has just run out of opportunities."
***
Nico was half crawling and crouching, trying to make it over to the fuel truck where Arkady was hiding. Trailing blood, Nico dragged his damaged leg behind him. To anyone alive, he would have appeared like one of the deaders on the tarmac. The only thing that would have given him away was all the crying he was doing. Nico sounded like a two-year-old bawling for his mother. Snot and tears running down his face, the drug-addled mercenary lay down on the hot runway, unable to pull himself another fifty feet to the fuel truck. Cursing the world, he curled up into a ball and started wailing. He reached into his blood-soaked vest and pulled out his bottle of OxyContin. Nico popped the lid, and with shaky hands, he dumped the pills into his grimy palm. At least he would go out in a mindless haze instead of the painful hell he was facing. Staring at the handful of OxyContin, he grinned, happy to at least be the master of his own death. Suddenly, a large, gore-crusted boot stomped down hard on his open palm, crushing his pills and all the bones in his right hand. A loud, high-pitched wail came from deep inside Nico. It was a sound he’d heard from many of those that had been unlucky enough to encounter the evil mercenary over the years. Most of those desperate screams had come from women. Many women. Eyes bulging, drool and snot dripping from his mouth and nose, Nico looked up to see whom the bloody boot belonged to. Nico screamed again, this time louder and much, much higher.
"Alona!"
The female mercenary towered over Nico, crushing his hand into pulp. The huge ex-weightlifter looked down at the druggie with hungry, undead eyes. Black liquid dripped from her torn and broken mouth. Her once thick, strong legs were almost chewed to the bone. She looked like some weird half-human, half-machine hybrid. One of her arms had several large bites out of it, while the other was still intact. Smoke drifted from where her skin had been charred in the jungle fire.
"Alllooonnnaaa!" Nico screamed in sheer terror. He pulled his destroyed hand from under the zombie’s heavy boot and used his free hand to help bring it up to his face. Among the torn flesh, exposed bones, and blood were the powdered remains of his OxyContin. Without a thought, he greedily began snorting the drug’s remnants, taking his own flesh, blood, and bone slivers up his nose. When he was finished, he wiped his bloody face with his other hand and glanced up at the zombie.
"Alona! It’s me, Nico! Remember me?" He stared at up his fellow mercenary. His glassy eyes stopped abruptly at her chest. Alona’s vest and shirt had been ripped to shreds, leaving most of her chewed-up breasts exposed. Drugs flowing through his system, Nico felt good and was starting to find himself turned on by the zombie. Maybe, just maybe. Nico unsheathed his tactical knife with his uninjured hand. Maybe Alona did remember Nico. The powerful zombie reached down and with a violent tug ripped Nico’s pants clean off. The mercenary winced in pain, but he found himself even more turned on. He giggled at finding himself hard at this strange turn of events.
"Alona?" he whispered hopefully.
The big zombie moaned mournfully then reached down between the drugged-out mercenary's skinny legs and grabbed him by his nasty crotch. Smiling, high on OxyContin, Nico knew he was in for a good time. He’d always wanted to screw the big Russian, but she’d despised him. He couldn’t even take it from her because she would have killed him. Mind swirling, he smiled.
"Alona, baby, I knew you wanted it."
The ripping sound was horrible, but Nico’s screams were even worse. The thing that had been the Russian mercenary Iosif slithered across the tarmac behind Alona’s booted feet. The Iosif zombie, or what was left of him, was still bound up in zip ties, and his remaining skin was burned black from the fires. Iosif couldn’t crawl, but he could maneuver whatever was left of his body like a snake. The Iosif zombie slowly slithered over to where Alona had dropped the part she’d ripped from Nico and quickly gobbled up the small, bloody piece before it grew cold.
Newman was changing out his Beretta’s magazine as he cautiously approached the half-open aft ramp. He glanced down at the bloody pile of dead bodies below the hatchway and kicked a few of them, making sure they weren’t going to jump up. The big Aussie looked around the underside of the plane, checking for any deaders milling about. None, at least none that were close enough to cause any problems. Satisfied he had a little bit time, Newman yelled up at the open ramp.
"Poncho! Poncho!" He cupped his hands and shouted again, "Aye, mate. It’s Alby!" No response. Sighing heavily, Newman holstered his pistol and rubbed his hands together. "Gettin' too damn old for this, mate." He made a lame leap for the open hatch and barely grabbed the lip with one hand. Hanging by his right hand, he grunted heavily and was then able to grip it with the other hand. He slowly pulled himself up onto the ramp and rolled onto the alloy decking. Groaning, joints aching, the sergeant rolled to his knees and drew his Beretta. Sanchez was sprawled atop the blankets and netting, unconscious. Alby noticed an AK-74 lying at Sanchez’s feet. The Aussie felt the soldier's neck for a pulse and found a strong one. He gently slapped Sanchez a few times on the cheek. After a few seconds, Sanchez came to.
"Alby?" he asked groggily, eyes slowly opening.
"Yeah, it’s me, Poncho. What 'appened?"
"Aw, fuck, Alby." Poncho sat up and rubbed his wounded shoulder. "Fucking Russian shot me then tried to capture the plane. Got him good, Alby."
"I see that." Newman smiled and stood up. "Not much of 'im left on the deck. Gator?"
"No." Sanchez shook his head. "They blew him up."
"A lot of that going around," Newman said grimly. "We need to get the plane running. The captain and a bunch of school kids are on their way." The sergeant headed toward the cockpit.
"School kids?"
"You’ll see. Lower that ramp, and make sure nothing gets in.” He started up the ladder. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Shot.” He checked the AK-74 and smiled when he saw he had a full magazine. “Don’t worry, Alby, I’m ready to go home.”
***
There was a loud pounding on the cockpit door. Crossley jumped in his seat at the sudden, unexpected noise from the cargo hold. Jackson turned in his jumpseat and aimed the Beretta at the secured door and, with shaking hands, pulled the trigger.
Click
. Nothing happened. He’d forgotten the safety. Crossley stood up and grabbed the gun away from the co-pilot. The pounding continued.
"Back the fuck away from the door or we’ll blow your head off," Crossley said, trying to sound intimidating and failing.
"Don’t shoot, ya twats," came a familiar voice. "It’s me, Sergeant Newman. Ya shoot me an’ I’m gonna be pissed."
"Newman!" Crossley smiled, relieved, and shoved the pistol in his pocket. The pilot quickly unlocked the cabin door and pulled it open. The big Aussie pushed his way into the cockpit.
"That would be a right fuckin' good day ta be shot by a couple a twat flyboys. Just a cherry on the fuckin’ top of this shit ass day."
"Sorry, Newman," Jackson said, happy the Australian was still alive but a little worried he was now going to rip their heads off. "Thought you were a Russian."
"Naw, I 'appen to shower regularly." He smiled. "I need you to fire up the plane. The cap'n and the others are on their way back."
"Fucking A," Crossley said, slipping back into his jumpseat. "We’re going home!"
"Yes!" Jackson started to flip switches. "No more of these, Nate."
"No more," Crossley said starting, the plane's engines. "I don’t care how much they offer us!"
