Pandora 2: Death is not an Option (8 page)

Tommy looked around the table, reassured by the grim nods his speech was receiving. Continuing he said, “We’ll take three teams in. I’ll have the first team. We are entering from the water.” He looked up and pointed. “I’ll have Mario, Sean, Jack, and Carol. Sgt. Ortega, you’ll take Jamal, Luis, Travis, and Mike. You land beforehand and come in on land along the waterfront. Cpl. Foley, you will have Regina, Paul, Malik, Frank, and Del. You will land with Ortega and his group, but you’ll circle around and come in from the west.” He stopped and looked from person to person. “You know what these animals are capable of. Vince was too good a man to go out like that. Orders are kill on sight. No prisoners, no survivors. Let’s send these assholes back to hell!”

Everyone was getting ready for the assault. The remaining squad of army soldiers were already squared away and helping the civilians make sure that they were all “locked and loaded.” It was a solemn ritual. The cruel fate of their comrade in arms and the knowledge of their soon-to-be-unleashed unconditional retribution put them in an angry, vengeful mood. Darkness had just fallen minutes ago, and that and the relentless pouring rain gave the proceedings a somber pall.

Jake stood under the large, open, pool patio roof with the Jacobis and the Mills. They were watching the ad hoc assault group heading for the two boats that would quietly take them around the city and let them off on the eastern side to unleash their fury.

Shaking his head, Morris Jacobi, watching them load into the boats, said softly, “I can’t believe we’ve come to this. I can’t believe the human race has sunk to this level so soon. Where is our humanity?”

Robert Mills looked at him. “We are it, my friend.”

“And we have to slaughter everyone?” Emma Jacobi asked wide-eyed.

Jake looked at them and then back to the departing group, now just barely perceptible in the driving rain. “It’s not so surprising. Rwanda, Bosnia, tribal killings, revenge murders, honor killings…Civilization was always a stone’s throw from complete anarchy. It was always just the fear of reprisal that kept the bulk of the masses from joining the rest of the crazies. The zombies took away humanity. It’s every man for himself, and we all drank the Kool-Aid.”

“But surely it doesn’t have to be like this,” said Margaret Mills.

“No, it doesn’t,” said Robert. “Right now the human race is fighting the global war against the zombies. But it’s a two-front war. It’s us versus the zombies and us versus the immoral, opportunistic criminals who are part of us. The zombies are mindless, unthinking, unfeeling hulks that really just are programmed by this Pandora virus. They walk, they see, they kill, they eat. That’s it. No more, no less. But the parasites among us are even more dangerous. You see a zombie, and you know exactly what its response will be and just what to expect. These…people; they shake your hand and then cut it off. You don’t know who they are or what they’ll do. The zombies are the danger you know; these parasites are the danger you didn’t know was out there.”

After a moment of silence, Emma said, “I hope Antigua is going to be better.”

Jake looked at her and said, “One can only hope.”

Bouchard sat in his “liberated” house, swigging rum out of the bottle. With Corso not around keeping an eye on the man, his crew was more undisciplined than normal. And that was saying something. Nothing and no one was safe around them. Bouchard didn’t really
give a good shit. Boys will be boys. Most were already quite drunk tonight. However, that didn’t matter. The three important men tonight were already gone. They each had another bodyguard to make sure that they reached their intended goals. Tank had enough people on guard, so screw it. Let them party. Tomorrow they would be just a clean-up crew anyway. Once the three had done their work, all Bouchard’s crew would have to do was stroll in, take what they needed, and, above all, capture that beautiful yacht sitting out at the pier. He noticed the name when they dropped off their package earlier.
My Way
. He liked the sound of that. He started singing, gaining in volume as the rum bottle drained. “I ate it up and spit it out. I did it my way…”

Carlos Guzman was in his abattoir, straightening up his growing collection of torture instruments. He had a knack for finding the most evil, vile things to do with the most mundane of utensils. He didn’t want to go outside with the rest of the men. They went out of their way to avoid him, and that was perfectly fine with him. Crude, ignorant, and dirty, they were not his kind of people. He wanted as little to do with them as they did with him. Being here was just a means to an end. As far as he was concerned, they were here to provide for him the subjects of his…well, shall we say, experiments in pain. So, humming to himself, he continued tidying up.

Tank went up to two of the men guarding the four boats they used, which were tied at the dock. They stood up as he came up to them. One of them dropped his AK47 as he stood. Bending over to pick it up, the fat, bearded ex-biker almost fell on his face.

“Hey,” said Tank sharply. “Y’all supposed to be guardin’, not drinkin’.”

“Relax, Tank,” rasped the miscreant biker. “Who’s going to mess with us anyway?”

The two guards laughed at that, obviously stinking drunk.

“Well, you be payin’ attention now,” scolded Tank as he walked away.

As Tank disappeared into the dark, the two drunken men looked at each other and laughed. Tossing off a loose, sloppy salute, the biker said in a gravelly voice, “Yassir, boss-man!” The two of them roared with laughter. So much so that he dropped his weapon again.

Tommy put his fist up, and the rest of his raiders stopped behind him. The rain was coming down in torrents. They all were wearing either ball caps or boonie hats to help keep water from dripping into their eyes. Tommy, on one knee, looked around the compound the ersatz pirate crew was using as its home base. They were using homemade torches and Coleman lamps to provide light. Most of the torches had fizzled out due to the torrential downpour. The men there were spread out between three houses. Except for several drenched and unhappy guards huddled under whatever shelter they could find, no one was out. There were no zombies around either. They did a pretty good job clearing them out, although this was a little off the beaten path. He was sure whatever zombies were left would also be huddled under something. They also, for some reason he could not yet fathom, didn’t like getting wet. He looked at his watch and, turning to the rest, whispered, “Five more minutes.”

Cpl. Foley slowed when he saw the small group of houses at the waterside. They had circled around the VA Outpatient Clinic and had come in at a westerly angle. Halting the soaking-wet group, he crept ahead and looked through some heavy foliage. Glancing quickly at his watch, he saw he was right on time. His group had the longest route, but even with the heavy rain and darkness, they made it
to their checkpoint quickly. Looking out, he saw two guards sharing a bottle under a carport roof. He turned his head back toward his group and pointed to his eyes. He then held up his thumb and forefinger, indicating two tangos. Putting the silenced weapon to his shoulder, he took aim. As one man leaned back to drain the last of the bottle, Foley shot the other in the head. Bringing the bottle back down, he looked surprised when the second bullet shattered the glass and entered his chest. Foley motioned the group forward, and as he rose and ran ahead, he heard three explosions from behind him. They had come from the western part of the city a few miles away. Quickly putting it out of his mind, he silently made his way toward the houses.

Tommy had just taken down a Jamaican guard with long dreadlocks. Motioning his group forward, he too heard the three explosions coming from the center of Key West.

Bouchard heard them also. When they went off, he smiled and said, “Et maintenant, les zombies viennent.”

Tank had just come out of one of the houses. He had given up trying to enforce the rules and joined the party. They had two local girls inside and were all taking turns. There were ten of them there. Having to pee really badly, he went out, stood on the porch under the awning, and started to unzip. He thought he saw a figure creeping up from a group of large palms on the edge of the lot of the next house. Puzzled, he squinted his eyes and looked closer. When he then spotted five more figures moving in, Tank knew there was trouble. Still being relatively sober, he quickly swung the Uzi up from its sling over his shoulder and started firing at the shadowy forms.

Sgt. Ortega’s men had just come around the corner of the house when they heard the submachine gun go off.

Bouchard, hearing this also, knew he had unwanted visitors. He jumped up, grabbed an AR15 that was leaning against the wall, and stepped out of the doorway. Tommy’s group was the closest, just coming in from the water. Tommy saw him and quickly fired a burst that splintered the doorframe beside Bouchard’s head. The pirate leader ducked back inside.

Tank’s wild spray almost emptied the whole clip. Yelling as he was firing, Tank stepped off the porch and walked toward them, shooting in the rain. The initial rounds caught Del Nolan in the hip and then stitched their way up his body. As the last rounds to hit him took the top of his head off, he fell backward onto the muddy ground. The “good guys” had suffered their first casualty.

Three more of the pirate gang came bounding out of the door. Two were trying to get their weapons ready while the third was still pulling up his pants, his beer belly getting in the way. Just then, Sgt. Ortega came around the corner with Jamal and Travis. They caught the other three with their backs toward them, and, with practiced precision, each put two three-round bursts into the unsuspecting buccaneers.

Rich, Regina, Frank, Paul, and Malik, caught in the open, fired back at Tank. Rich Foley had just begun to mount the stairs to the middle house when Tank opened fire. As he turned to fire back, the door he was heading toward opened. Quickly spinning back, he saw two men standing there. One was young, with sleepy eyes, and the other stocky, with a moustache and long scar that ran all the way down the left side of his face. Seeing Cpl. Foley standing there, they both gave him hateful looks and brought their handguns up to fire. As Rich pulled the trigger of his AR16, they both fired.

Bouchard, meanwhile, had run back into the house and out the other door. While Tommy’s unit poured concentrated fire through
the doorway, he threw a grenade through the window. Seconds after the grenade blew, they poured through the doorway, firing at all corners.

Carlos was sorting his tools, getting ready to start on a man they found hiding in the VA Clinic. The man was totally harmless and pleading for his life, but Bouchard felt that Carlos needed something to occupy his time. He didn’t want him getting bored. When all the shooting started, he ran to the door and looked out. He was in a small building set off to the side of the others that was almost completely surrounded by foliage. Unlike most of the structures in south Florida that were bathed in bright pastel colors, this building was painted in a dark tone. The others called it the Death House in honor of its sole inhabitant, Dr. Death himself.

The foliage hid most of the action from Carlos, but he could see the flashes of light and chatter of automatic weapons that told him a firefight was in progress. Slamming the door and running back inside, he oscillated back and forth, completely at odds as to what to do.
Oh my God
, he thought,
where am I going to go?
Looking down at the small, frightened man tied to the chair, he panicked and said, “Oh, this isn’t good at all.”

Rich Foley sprayed the two men with a sweeping motion. Both shooters were blown back through the doorway. Rapidly grabbing a grenade from his webbing, he pulled the pin, threw it inside, and then twisted back out the open door. Dodging to the side of the doorframe, he flattened himself to the wall as the grenade exploded, blowing wreckage and body parts out the door.

Manny, Jamal, and Travis moved to cover as automatic weapons fire sprayed from the two front windows of the third house. Mike and Luis, meanwhile, went around the back and kicked in the door. They caught several men racing for the back door, either to escape or to
try to flank the raiding party. Either way, Mike and Luis cut down the surprised criminals in midstride from the kitchen they were now standing in. Luis threw a grenade into the living room, and they both ducked down behind the counter. The front door flew open, and two of the gang came running out. Manny shot them before they even got off the porch, and the windows and front door blew out as the grenade erupted.