The Age of Zombies: Sergeant Jones (15 page)

One of the bikers cracked an unrelated joke, and the group of them laughed hard. At the tail end of their laughter they collectively gave Jones a good hard gaze that lasted hardly a second. But it was palpable, and from it Jones knew that he wasn’t welcome here.

Jones figured he should break the ice. He stood up and walked over to a dart board. “The name is Jones,” he said. “Care if I play some cricket?”

The bikers all mumbled to themselves, and cleared away from the board. One remained. He stood tall and large and wore a cut off black leather vest. His arms were covered in sleeves of prison tattoos that wrapped all the way up to his neck. His beard was wild and gray.  

Jones ordered another beer. The two men finished their beers together in silence. Once the biker was done, he started to the bar to grab another. Jones slammed his fist on the table.

“I’m buying your next one,” Jones said.

The biker squinted. “Don’t take gifts from cops.”

“Bartender, two PBRs,” Jones hollered. He turned to the biker and locked eyes. “Listen, I’m looking for somebody,” Jones said in a hushed tone. “You wouldn’t have stayed at the board if you didn’t know who I was looking for.”

The biker looked side to side. “Let’s play a game of cricket, drink our beers, and then we’ll talk.” The biker spoke with a full, rich voice. He made sure the whole bar could hear him. “I’ve got what you want.”

The beers arrived and the two started their game. Jones was up first. In his left hand he held his can of PBR and two darts, and he steadied his aim with his right hand. He tossed the dart and hit the double 19 ring. He tossed the next dart, and hit a single 20. His last dart was wide, landing square on the inner circle of 12.

“Not a bad shot,” the biker said. He stood up to the
no bull
 line, and readied his darts. The biker possessed a set of his own hand crafted steel tip darts. They were beautifully carved with his nickname, biker crew, and year of manufacture: Cockroach, The Free Souls, 1975. The butts of the darts were feathered. Each of his darts were good: double 20, triple 18, and a bullseye.

“Not as good as you apparently,” Jones said.

The biker plucked his darts from the cork board. “The name’s Cockroach,” the biker said. “From what I gather, they call you Jones.”

“That’s right,” Jones said. “Cockroach is quite the name.”

“Well, Jones, my crew calls them as they see them. Once I started hanging around, the name came naturally. I’m Cockroach. I stay in the dark and go unseen.” His large body lumbered straight towards Jones. Cockroach cocked his hand as if it was a pistol, and stuck it to the Sarge’s temple. “I’m invisible until that moment right before you’re about to bite into your ham and mayo sandwich. I’m the last motherfucker you want to see then.”

Jones laughed, and backed away. He wasn’t going to be intimidated. “Last thing I want to see before biting into my sandwich is a cockroach,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t squash the little shit into the ground.”

The biker scratched his beard. He liked Jones already. “Even if you get rid of one cockroach, there are thousands more behind him.”

“Let’s go out back,” Jones said. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Jones followed the biker out back. The Billiards Bar’s alley was filthier than Jones could imagine. “I’m surprised they don’t shut this place down.”

“The county inspector doesn’t have time for that,” Cockroach said. “Besides, his pockets are lined. And he just loves the white stuff.”  

“So you know why I brought you out here,” Jones said. “Tell me what you know.”

The biker folded his arms across his chest. He spit on the ground. “Listen dude, the fuckers you’re looking for? They’re making a name for themselves all up and down the I-5.”

“I’ll pay you five grand to tell me who they are,” Jones said. “Cold hard cash.”

“This shit isn’t about money.” The biker paused. His eyes darted back and forth. “The fact is, I want revenge.”

“Revenge, huh?” Jones said. “So what do you know?”

The biker pulled out a cigarette. He handed one to a grateful Jones. He hadn’t had a cigarette the whole time he was drinking. “These guys, well, monsters really, set up a base down in the mountains north of L.A.,” the biker said. “From what I hear they’re working pretty tight with the cartels.”

“Who are they,” Jones said.

“Nobody knows. They’re big boys though. They never show their faces. One was spotted wearing a bull mask.” Cockroach took a drag from his cigarette, and puffed out a couple smoke rings. “And I just got word that Los Zetas is done working with them. Something of a war has sparked between the crews, the cartel and the giants.”

Jones let the smoke fill his lungs and calm his nerves before saying another word. “They got my family.”

The biker shook his head and stuffed the innards of his mouth with chew. “They hit mine, too,” he said. “Well, my brother’s family. He lives down in South Gate. They stormed his house when he was gone. Took his wife and three kids. Casper killed a couple of these giants, and they got their revenge.”

Jones felt the pain of this man and his brother. There weren’t many words to express his sympathy. His hunch to check out the Billiards Bar was spot on. But Jones just didn’t expect to find another victim.

The biker continued. “I heard about the home invasion that went down the other night,” he said. “Some tweakers came into the bar and were going on and on about how they saw some giants peel away with a lively body bag. This was down at The Small Tavern.”

These monsters weren’t just roaming around unseen. Somebody was bound to have seen something. “What else,” Jones said.

The biker spit. “That’s about it. Listen dude, when you came in tonight looking for somebody, I had a hunch. I had a feeling that I was meant to talk to you. My brother got mixed up in all this like it was karmic retribution. He’s a hired gun for the cartel down in L.A. I want you to go down there and talk to him. Maybe you two can sort this all out.”

“I just need his number,” Jones said. There was no need for gratitude.

The biker pulled an iPhone from the breast pocket of his leather vest. It looked a little ridiculous in the hands of this gritty, road worn brute. “What’s your number? I’ll text it to you.”

Jones waved his hand. “No need,” he said. “I’ll remember it if you tell me.”

The biker was skeptical, but went ahead and
 rattled off his brother’s phone number.
Jones seared it into his memory. There wasn’t much else he needed from the biker. And the biker didn’t need much else from Jones. The two men departed without ceremony. Jones went back to his house to prepare for his trip to Los Angeles. The biker went back to throwing darts.

Once Jones got home, his head throbbed with pain. His vision blurred. That worm was wreaking havoc inside his brain. But it couldn’t stop Jones from preparing for the trip. After he was done packing, he went to the kitchen for a shot of bourbon. He poured his whiskey, and threw it back. The booze slightly assuaged the pain. Jones noticed that those damn roses were still on the counter. He grabbed the vase, and smashed it onto the kitchen floor.

Jones felt one step closer to finding Emma Jo. He hoped that Vanessa was still alive, even though the very thought of his wife disgusted him. Jones wanted her alive just for his daughter’s sake. He knew that Emma Jo would be okay if Vanessa was around. She might have been unfaithful, but she was a great mother.

And his son. It was three weeks until his due date.

Jones wasn’t going to rest until he found his Junior.

Chapter Eight

Lenin’s Humanity

The kids were obedient to the Orobu. Not a single one of them tried to escape when they were taken from the bus by helicopter. Even though they had just witnessed the massacre of their camp leaders, they did not cry while in the clutches of the Orobu soldiers. Deep inside their hearts, the kids were terrified. But the fear was obscured by something much worse. Just like Savannah, each kid was given a worm. Once the worms burrowed into their brains, the kids became apathetic.  

Within seconds, the kids went from a state of hypershock to utter docility. In fact, they obeyed every command that was issued by the Orobu. Not a single kid defied orders. Not even Little Richard.

The helicopters landed on a private airport just outside of Wichita, Kansas, where the kids were herded onto an old Soviet commercial passenger plane, the Tupolev Tu-154M. The plane was the property of Joru Logistics. It was painted off white and had no identifying marks.

The kids marched single file from the helicopters onto the plane. They hardly said a word to each other. Normally the church camp kids were rambunctious, and they would cut in line, horse around, make jokes, hop around, and sing songs. They somberly shuffled their feet across the thin asphalt landing strip, beneath the baking Kansas sun.

The Orobu soldiers stood post on either side of the single file line. Their Kalashnikovs and black fatigues looked foolish beside the innocent kids. But orders were orders. The soldiers were told that within twenty four hours, the kids must report to an outpost just south of Ordos City in Inner Mongolia, which was one of the world’s largest ghost cities. Further instruction would be given upon arrival.

The kids took their seats in the coach section. The soldiers sat in first class. A few of the Orobu leaders sat in a special cabin of the plane that resembled a lounge. They joined the suited representatives from Joru Logistics who had brought the plane from Russia. This operation was going to net the company another half billion dollars. It was a delicate mission on American soil, and thus the premium. The suits greeted the soldiers with cool deference. Among the Joru Logistics employees were a couple men who occupied positions in the higher rungs of the organization.

“It’s great to see that the mission was accomplished,” Lenin said. His blue eyes lit up with excitement. All he saw in the kids were dollar signs. He patted his slick black hair, and sipped on his gin and tonic. “I know that you soldiers have been busy lately.”

Grantha spit on the floor and grunted. He took off his bull mask, and set it on the ground. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He loved the bloodsport that transpired beneath the Kansas sun. “It’s good to see you again, Lenin,” he said. “But our mission isn’t over. After we drop this load off in China, we’re scheduled to return to the States.”

Lenin lifted an eyebrow. The two were alone in the cabin at the moment, and Lenin knew that he could speak freely with Grantha. “Management of civil unrest, perhaps? This last move was pretty bold.”

Grantha shrugged. He popped open a bottle of barrel aged bourbon and took a swig. “Like I told you last time, things are changing,” he said. “That’s all we know.”

Lenin was very interested in these changes. He knew that whatever the Orobu were up to would require human cooperation. His goal was to get Joru Logistics on the forefront of the change, so that they’d be the greatest profiteers. But money wasn’t his only motivation. It was more of a means to an end for the slick businessman.

“I’m a man who appreciates change,” Lenin said. “There are few in this world that do. Most are content with lives built on routine, the familiar. But it takes bold men to embrace change. To really walk out onto the fringe of human experience, of what is possible, and drink deep from the wells.”

Grantha shook his head and laughed. “For a Russian, your English is eloquent. I don’t remember you speaking like this the last time we were on a plane together.”

Lenin spread his arms, and relaxed his chest. “I had to get two teeth pulled,” Lenin said. “Your backhand was something else. But yes, I mean, when I’m around my colleagues I am a different man. I am sure you understand.”

Grantha spit again. “The Orobu don’t have the same psychological hangups as humans,” he said. “What you see is what you get.”

Lenin took Grantha’s words to heart. Lenin was at the highest point in his career, and was loving every minute of being involved in this business. He loved being behind the scenes as an instrumental player in the global transformation that was taking place. He was a true insider. His hand was leaving its mark on human history. For better or for worse.

But he had given up a part of himself along the way. A part of himself that he hid when he was around his colleagues.

Lenin recalled a simpler time when he was still a student at Cambridge, poring over Chaucer, Shakespeare, Blake, Tennyson. His mind drifted back to the countless hours he spent within that medieval institution’s halls, soaking up everything he could from the prestigious English environment. It was so much different than his village in Siberia, where most were illiterate, and books were looked at with disdain. Books weren’t honest, the villagers thought. Not when firewood had to be chopped, water carried, and meat hunted.

Lenin studied Grantha’s features. The soldier had removed his balaclava and was now kicked back on a leather couch. A tuft of deep red hair flared from the top of the soldier’s skull. His eyes were black and heavy, set deep in their sockets. His jaw was slack and his tongue hung idiotically from his mouth. The soldier had no learning in him. He was a grunt. A stupid killing machine.

But Lenin was torn about what he saw in Grantha’s brutish features.  

After many years dedicating his life to the study of mostly forgotten literature, Lenin’s path changed suddenly one night. He was out walking in the gardens of the university when he heard a woman crying for help. She shouted that a monster was attacking her. Lenin rushed to confront the attacker, who was veiled in the shadows. When Lenin reached the scene, he realized that the woman’s cries were truer than he imagined.