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Gonzo’s Gauntlet

CHRISTOPHER L. SMITH


“God, I’m bored.”

It was a statement that was half affirmation, half prayer.

For the last two months, Gonzo had been at the San Antonio Military Medical Center, under observation. What had started out as a case of the sniffles had turned into the worst case of flu he’d ever experienced in forty-five years. It had been bad enough to have him transferred from the Audie Murphy VA Hospital to the larger facility at Ft. Sam Houston. One of those months had been in an induced coma, according to his doctors. The last two weeks made him wish they had kept him under.

TV was not an option—the small flat screen only showed snow or a blank screen. Cell service was nonexistent, and the only reading material were magazines several years out of date.

He sighed, and picked up one of the magazines, wondering if the paper would make a good airplane.

A knock at the door gave him a slight start.

“Mr. Gonzales?” Lionel recognized one of the nurses, a petite young lady with light brown skin and curly black hair. “You have visitors, sir.”

Gonzo sat up in his chair and waved her in as he racked his brain for her name. Collin? Coley? Cohen. That was it.

Nurse Cohen entered, followed by a man and a woman Lionel hadn’t met before, both in standard BDUs.

“Mr. Gonzales,” the woman said, “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Noe.” She was fiftyish, short, with brown hair and an upper midwestern accent. “It’s nice to meet you.” It sounded like “meecha.”

Gonzo stood and extended his hand. “Hello, Colonel.”

Noe gave a slightly pained expression. “Mr. Gonzales, not to be rude, but shaking hands has become a health hazard. It would be best to break yourself of the habit, quickly.”

He pulled his hand back, and glanced at the other Air Force officer, reading his name from the front of his uniform. Major Ferguson was a small mountain of a man, early thirties and in top physical form. With his shaved scalp and massive chest, he did a good impression of Mr. Clean.

And Mr. Clean looked like he had found a turd in his toilet.

Jesus, he thought, guy looks like he could crush walnuts with those arms. To the officers, he said, “Well, Colonel, Major, what can I do for you today? Come to free me from my antiseptic prison?”

“Mr. Gonzales . . . ” Noe started.

“Call me Gonzo.”

“MISter Gonzales, I’d prefer to keep our relationship on a professional level.” At his shrug, she continued, “The U.S. government is practically nonexistent. The last month has been extremely difficult, to say the least. What do you know of the situation?”

“I heard a few rumors going around, but nothing I’d take seriously, to be completely honest. Biowarfare, breaking of the seventh seal, end of days kind of stuff. My favorite was zombie apocalypse, though.” He chuckled, waiting for the other two to join in. When they didn’t, he continued. “Basically, all I know is it that everyone thinks things are in the shitter.”

“You should sit down, Mr. Gonzalez,” she said, “Because it’s all of the above.”

* * *

Colonel Noe spent the better part of an hour getting him up to speed. At the thirty-minute mark, he’d noticed the sales pitch starting. At forty-five minutes, he’d wished he’d kept his mouth shut about being bored.

God has a wicked sense of humor.

As she wrapped up her briefing—he recognized one when he heard it—he held up a finger. Noe hesitated.

“Ma’am, I’m going to stop you right there. I know what comes next, and I have an answer.”

“And that answer is?”

“No. No way,” Gonzo said, shaking his head. “I did my time, got out. Not going back in. Period. Dot.”

“I was out too, Mr. Gonzalez. Do you see me here? Am I in uniform? The phrase ‘retired’ means nothing to me at this point.”

“And it means ‘no’ when I say it.”

“You, Mr. Gonzalez, have the unfortunate luxury of now being fully immune to the virus. That makes you an asset that I can’t afford to squander. However, I will make your life very difficult from here on out if you don’t cooperate.”

He snorted. “Like what? KP? Swab the decks?”

“No, what I will do is give you a sidearm and an escort. You will then be led to the gate, asked to leave, and we will terminate our relationship. No food. No ammo. No help, and no calculable chance for survival.” She let that sink in.

“So my choice is to suit up, and go try to get myself killed, or you’ll send me out to almost certainly get killed, is that it?”

“We need people, Mr. Gonzalez, and our resources are stretched thin, to say the least. This is where we stand—either you’re with us, wholeheartedly, or you’re on your own.” She gave a sad smile. “Welcome to the way of the new world, Mr. Gonzalez.”

* * *

Gonzo looked around warily as the gate closed behind him, searching for any sign of infected. He figured if he could stick to the highway, staying close to the cover of the abandoned cars, he’d be relatively safe until he got to the outskirts of town. The farms and ranches out near Selma would be more likely to have stockpiles, and less people.

Maybe one of these car—

Good luck, Mr. Gonzalez!” He whipped around, mouth dropping open, as Noe raised the bullhorn again. “I think you’ll be safer if you stay close to the highway! And remember, the infected are attracted to loud noises!”

Howls erupted from the distance.

“I’m standing right in front of you, Colonel. Is that necessary?” Gonzo said, trying to keep his voice as low as possible. “Jesus, lady, you’re going to get me swarmed!”

I told you we’d escort you to the gate safely, Mr. Gonzalez, I didn’t say we’d be quiet about it!”

The howls grew closer.

It was bad enough she was trying to get him killed to make a point, but the smirks and outright laughter of his former escort added insult to the situation.

A lone infected made his way across the highway, naked and covered in bites and welts. He spotted Gonzo and started running, his high-pitched cry sounding the dinner bell for any others in the immediate vicinity. Gonzo drew the .45 and took up an isosceles stance.

The cars dotting the interstate made the direct approach impossible, but the zombie bastard weaved his way in and out of the vehicles, closing fast, screaming as he came. Something moved at the far side of the asphalt.

“Colonel,” Gonzo said carefully, “A little help would be highly appreciated.”

I’m sorry, Mr. Gonzalez, but you made your decision. I’m afraid we don’t have the resources to assist a civilian outside the gate.” She paused, to make her point, as if she needed to hammer it home, before continuing. “If only we had more qualified and inoculated staff, we might be able to help those outside of the compound.”

More howlers came out of the scrub lining the highway, making their way towards the first. Gonzo lined the sights up and squeezed off a round, dropping the naked man as he climbed over a car. The other’s pace quickened, fresh blood giving them all the incentive they needed.

This wasn’t going in the right direction. In fact, it was going due south as fast as possible. More screams and howls joined the group in front of him, closing in from his flanks.

Shit. She’s got me right where she wants me.

“Colonel,” he said, “if it’s not too late—” Gonzo took another shot, aiming for the zombie in the center of the group. If he could just distract them long enough . . . 

“I’ve reconsidered my decision, and have determined I may have been hasty.”

Oh?

Really? Do we still need the damn bullhorn? Bitch.

“Yes, ma’am, I believe so.” Another shot, this time at the group approaching from his right. “After some careful consideration on my part”—he squeezed off another round—“I think your offer is very reasonable, given the circumstances.”

I’m listening . . . ” A group of at least ten climbed up the embankment to his left, elbowing each other in their race to the top.

“Oh for Christ’s sake! I’ll do it! Just let me in, dammit, before I’m lunch!”

The Ma Deuce on the Jeep roared to life, sending half-inch rounds of flesh-pulverizing fury towards the approaching zeds. Gonzo backed up carefully, checking his six to make sure he wasn’t crossing a line of fire. The chain link gate rattled slightly as his back made contact.

The three groups were down, but more howls came from far too close.

“Open the gate, Major Ferguson,” Noe said, smiling. “Petty Officer Gonzalez, it is good to have you aboard.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said as Mr. Clean let him pass. “I’ve got such a warm fuzzy about this relationship right now.”

The gate clanged behind him, followed by the rattle of chains. He approached Noe’s Jeep, using all of his willpower to stifle the urge to strangle the smirk from her face.

“Petty Officer First Class Lionel Gonzalez, it is my honor to reinstate you in the U.S. Navy, San Antonio Detachment. Please raise your right hand and repeat after me . . . ” He did as instructed, and Noe continued, “I solemnly swear to uphold . . . ”

Gonzo repeated the words, glaring at the colonel as he did. He finished the last sentence, adding, “No matter how truly fucked we are.”

If Noe heard him, she didn’t show it.

“So, Colonel, now that we’re besties, why don’t you tell me how you became such a manipulative cu—”

“I’d advise you not to finish that sentence, Petty Officer.”

“—stomer?”

“I had four brothers, the smallest one towered over me.” She shrugged. “I had to give as good as I got. I used my brain instead of brawn.”

“Those poor bastards, ma’am.”

Her smile, and the look in her eyes, spoke volumes.

* * *

Gonzo glared over his book at the chirp of the radio.

“Chief Petty Officer, I need to see you in my office,” Colonel Noe said.

He slammed the hardback closed and dropped it on the bed beside him, glaring at the black handset across the room.

Just getting to the good part, and OF COURSE she calls. I’d swear that woman has a camera in here.

He took a moment to compose himself, got up, and retrieved the radio.

“Ma’am, how urgent is this? It’s my first day off in weeks.”

“I realize that, Gonzalez, and I do apologize. But this is important.”

He counted to ten, took a deep breath, and stifled the multitude of snarky responses he wanted to say.

“On my way, Colonel.”

He sighed. It never seemed to end. He briefly considered changing clothes.

“Nah.” He started for the main hospital, where Colonel Noe maintained her center of operations.

The last couple of years had been rough, but it seemed to be getting better. They’d been able to clear portions of San Antonio—near the base at first, then a greater and greater radius from there—but it had been a slog.

Some new procedures had become available after they’d swept the National Guard Armory just north of the hospital, thanks to the pair of Cedar Eaters they’d found. While the combination woodchipper and bulldozer made dealing with the infected hordes easier and somewhat safer, it also made it much, much messier.

With some help from the weather, in the form of several floods, they’d made good progress finding pockets of uninfected survivors, and had slowly expanded the number of people on base. While it meant that he’d had to go out in the field less and less over the past year, it also meant more processing and procedural tasks. He wasn’t sure which one he despised more.

Going door to door in full bunker gear, in summer, had pushed the limits of his endurance. The constant grind of routine and boredom had pushed the limits of his sanity. Now, the colonel was pushing the limits of his civility.

By the time he reached her door on the fourth floor, Gonzo had a list of excuses ready to go. He paused, knocked, and waited.

“Come in.”

Colonel Noe didn’t rise from her desk at his entrance. She hadn’t changed much since the first day he’d met her—just darker circles under her eyes, some gray hair, and the full bird on her uniform. She rolled her eyes at his clothes before gesturing to the chair in front of her.

“You wanted to see me, ma’am?”

“Thank you for coming. However, next time, please change shirts.”

“Day off, ma’am. Not required to be in uniform, as per your rules.”

“Yes, but the ‘Have a Nice Day, Asshole’ tee is a bit much.”

“Feels appropriate, ma’am, considering the circumstances.”

Noe sighed, apparently deciding that it wasn’t worth the headache to argue. Gonzo fought to keep the smug grin from his face.

And failed miserably if the colonel’s scowl was any indication. He placed one foot on the other knee, allowing his chancla to dangle. Noe’s scowl deepened. Gonzo stayed silent.

After a few more seconds of silence, Noe laced her hands on the desk in front of her.

“Chief, we’ve got a bit of an issue.” After a second’s pause, she continued. “With the recent influx of survivors, our capability of creating vaccine is becoming dangerously stressed. Frankly, we can’t keep production up to match the demand.”

Gonzo sat up straight. Most of the survivors they’d found were military (or former military) that had the skills needed to continue clearance. Running short on vaccine meant their chances of progress diminished greatly.

San Antonio Military Medical Center had been the military’s largest facility of its kind, capable of treating just about anything that came its way pre-Fall. The fact that it now couldn’t maintain necessary production was both good and bad news. Good news because they’d found so many. Bad news, because now they couldn’t keep them safe.

“Okay, what do we need?” Gonzo’s day off would have to wait. This was important. “Raw materials?”

The best viable vaccine needed the spinal column of infected high-level primates to produce. As large apes like gorillas were in short supply, that meant people. Grisly work, and dangerous.

“Fortunately, not at this time,” Noe said. Her gaze lingered briefly on the framed picture of her husband, eyes watering slightly. She regained composure and continued. “No, what we need is equipment.”

Gonzo swore.

“Correct,” Noe said, with a slight smile. “I’ll need you to pay a visit to El Jefe.”

He nodded with reluctance. There was no reason to argue about it again—El Jefe wouldn’t deal with anyone but him. Any other personnel were turned away at the door, no explanations given.

“Time is of the essence, Chief.” Noe handed him a list, then continued. “This should fit in the two Humvees waiting for you and your team at the ER entrance.”

“Yes, Colonel.” Gonzo stood. “I’ll get the guys and head out within the hour.”

“Thank you, Chief.” She grinned. “Oh, and one favor: please keep that shirt on when you meet El Jefe. It’ll let him know I’m thinking about him.”

“Honestly, ma’am, I think he’ll get a kick out of that.”

* * *

His team was ready to roll as he approached the EMT bay, gear in rucks at their feet. As he approached, they came to attention. More or less.

“So much for your day off, huh, Chief?” Sergeant Adrian Cruz grinned as he spoke. Mid-thirties, stocky, Cruz had been with them for more than a year. He and his two kids had survived the initial infection period due to Cruz’s prepper nature.

“Easy come, easy go,” Gonzo said, turning to focus on the others.

The Martinez brothers, Jeremy and Matt, leaned against one of the Humvees, bickering about some minor plot point of a movie. As usual.

Jeremy, the younger of the two, was well over three hundred pounds, even after six months of limited rations. Despite his size, he was surprisingly light on his feet, and a formidable hand-to-hand combatant. Before the Fall, he’d been a bouncer in several of the areas’ more disreputable biker bars.

Matt, in contrast, was leaner, older, and considered himself the intellectual of the pair. He had a knack for thinking outside the box, coming up with several unorthodox plans that generally worked when things got hairy.

The last member of the team, Chacho, was a bit of a mystery. Another large man, he out-massed Jeremy by at least fifty pounds, and had the strength and body shape of an Olympic level powerlifter. Generally quiet, he mainly spoke Spanish, with a small amount of English here and there. What little Gonzo had found out about him hinted at a shady past, heavily slanted towards the local illicit drug trade. Whatever he’d been involved with previously, Chacho was a solid member of the team, and had bailed them out of a few bad spots with sheer force of will and brute strength.

“All right gents,” Gonzo started, “saddle up.”

“What’s the mission, Boss?” Jeremy asked, tossing his gear in the Humvee.

“Supply. Going to pay a visit to our friend, El Jefe.”

“Sweet,” Cruz said. “Milk run.”

Everyone groaned, except Chacho. He just shot Cruz the finger.

“Dammit, Sarge, don’t jinx it!” Matt flicked his cigar butt at the other man. “Remember the last time?”

“Hey now, how was I supposed to know there’d be that many Howlers in that apartment? It was barely five hundred square feet!”

“That’s the point,” Jeremy started in. “‘This’ll be easy,’ you said. ‘There’s no way there’s more than a couple,’ you said.”

“Well excuse me for being optimistic.”

“How you survived out there on your own baffles me.” Matt started for the driver’s side of the Humvee. “You ride with Chief.”

“Belay that,” Gonzo snapped. He wasn’t going to have both senior enlisted in the same vehicle. It was against regulations, or something. It surely wasn’t because he believed in the jinx. “Chacho, you and Jeremy with me, Cruz, you’re with Matt.”

“Fine,” Matt said, scowling. “But I’m driving.”

Jeremy chuckled and got behind the wheel of the second Humvee. Gonzo and Chacho climbed in the back.

Their clearance gear, or “Zoot Suits” as Matt called them, were bulky, and would hinder movement inside the Humvee, so standard practice was to wait until they were in the hot zones to fully kit up, prior to exiting the vehicle. With a little luck, they wouldn’t have to put it on at all.

“You figure out why El Jefe only deals with you, Chief?” Jeremy drove towards the gate casually, one hand on the wheel, the other digging into a bag of what had to be stale chips.

“Must be my winning personality,” Gonzo replied. “You, uh, think that those things are good for you?”

“These days, if junk food kills me, I win.”

“Fair enough.”

Over the last year or so, the SAMMC teams had managed to open up I-35, moving the abandoned and stalled cars around to make a corridor. This made travel by Humvee and transports somewhat easier, and access to the multitude of service stations with viable gasoline and diesel possible. That had been one of Colonel Noe’s first priorities—finding and stabilizing all fuel they could find. San Antonio was a fairly large area, and trying to clear sections on foot, hiking in and out, would have been a monumental task. Scavenging and transporting rations would have been nearly impossible.

The cars stacked two deep on each side of the highway kept most of the random infected at bay, though there was still the occasional roadkill. Their Humvee had sixteen stick figures painted on the driver’s door.

“Ol’ Jefe’s still at the Dome, right Chief?”

“Yeah, he’s settled in there, for now.”

“Roger that.” He keyed his radio and relayed the info to his brother.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to the barricades at the Alamodome back lot. The heavily tattooed guard behind the fencing didn’t raise his AK, but neither did he open the gate.

Gonzo sighed. It was going to be one of those days.

“Pull up a bit closer,” he said to Jeremy, while dropping his window. Keeping his voice just loud enough to carry over the engine, he addressed the guard. “Hey man, can you let us in?”

“State your business.”

“Here to see El Jefe.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“You mean he didn’t get the e-mail? Dammit, I’ll make sure my secretary’s written up when I get back to base.”

The guard grunted.

“Why don’t you tell him his old pal Gonzo’s here and needs to talk business.” He closed the window. “Kill the engine and keep an eye out for Howlers. Not sure how long this is going to take.”

While he waited, he looked around at the improvements to the Dome complex. All ground floor windows had been removed and replaced with plywood. From prior visits, Gonzo knew that roughly two in five had gun ports, manned in shifts by El Jefe’s “staff.”

Some of that staff, he knew, had been found by SAMMC crews, and had decided to reject Colonel Noe’s offer of joining the military. Others, like the guard, came from the city’s criminal class. Gonzo recognized gang tats when he saw them.

* * *

Tracks bordered the north side of the building, and as luck would have it, two-mile-long trains had been parked when everything went to hell. They made an excellent primary barrier in addition to the chain link fencing to keep the infected out.

So far, SAMMC’s dealings with El Jefe had been amicable, if not exactly friendly—something along the lines of “my enemy’s enemy is not necessarily an enemy, for now.” The unofficial arrangement between the two factions was tenuous at best, and dependent on the current situation.

“Check that out, Chief,” Jeremy said, pointing at a wooden structure in the middle of the lot. “What do you think he’s building?”

“Hard to tell with the scaffolding, but I’ll be sure to ask. If we get in, that is.”

“Looks like you’ll get the chance.” Jeremy started the Humvee as the gate opened. The guard waved the vehicles through, then motioned for them to stop after it had closed again. Gonzo dropped the window.

“Park next to the field inside.” The guard returned to his post.

Jeremy eased the Humvee down the ramp, and into the Dome’s loading and staging area at field level. There, they were met by another guard, rifle slung across his back.

“El Jefe will see you in his office.” He pointed at Gonzo. “Just you. The others will stay here.”

“Roger that. He still up in the VIP box?” Gonzo asked as he exited the Humvee. At the guard’s nod, he turned to his crew. “Unass and gear up, so you don’t get caught with your flies down. I’ll be back asap.”

What little power the building had, due to scavenged generators, was mainly for lighting. That meant taking the stairs to the fourth floor VIP suites. Ten minutes later, somewhat winded, he knocked on El Jefe’s door.

“Come in, my friend!”

El Jefe stood as he entered, walked over, and enveloped him in a bear hug.

“Gonzo, it’s good to see ya, ’migo!” His accent placed his origin in the Bronx, with his time in San Antonio giving it a slight Hispanic tinge.

El Jefe stood about an inch shorter than Gonzo’s five ten, but possessed a wiry strength that belied his size. The man had almost every exposed inch of skin covered in black-ink tattoos, with the exception of a bright red pair of lips on the right side of his neck.

“Good to see you,” Gonzo wheezed, “I can’t breathe.”

El Jefe laughed, gave one more hard squeeze, and backed off to arm’s length.

“What do I owe the pleasure, Gonzo? Love the shirt, by the way.”

“Unfortunately, business, not pleasure.”

“Ah. So, Boss Bitch has you running errands again.” El Jefe smiled, gold-capped eye teeth catching the light. He clapped Gonzo on the shoulder. “How is La Llorona?”

“As pleasant as ever.” He took a seat in front of the desk as El Jefe poured them a drink. One thing about the zombie apocalypse, there was no shortage of alcohol. For now, at least.

“You know, I could use you and your guys down here, Gonzo,” El Jefe said, handing him a glass. “That military mierda has to wear thin at times.”

“Yeah, it does, but an oath is an oath.”

“That’s what I like about you, ’migo, you’re loyal. To a fault, almost.” El Jefe clinked his glass against Gonzo’s then downed the shot. “Gonna get you killed one of these days.”

“Tell me about it.”

The other man took his seat behind the desk and leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head.

“So it seems we have to ramp up vaccine production, and need a few things.”

“You mean more”—El Jefe made air quotes—“‘raw materials’?”

“No, actually; thanks to you and our teams, we’re good there.” Gonzo pulled the list from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it over. “What we’re short of is the equipment.”

El Jefe scowled as he read, nodding slowly.

Gonzo continued, “Your guys hit DPT labs and the nearby hospitals, right?”

The other man dropped the list and picked up a stress ball, squeezing it while leaning back again.

“Yeah, we have that stuff, but it occurs to me that I’ve been scratching your back more often than your boss has been scratching mine.”

“Is that so?”

“It is, from my point of view.”

Gonzo stood, walked to the windows looking over the arena, and crossed his arms. After a few moments, he turned back.

“SAMMC has provided you with fair compensation for your help. Weapons . . . ”

“One fifty cal and a couple thousand rounds of ammo . . . ”

“ . . . people . . . ”

“ . . . that didn’t want to enlist under duress . . . ”

“ . . . vaccines . . . ”

“ . . . that we provide the ‘raw materials’ for in the first place.” El Jefe held up a finger. “Thing is, my friend, it’s been our asses on the line more often than yours. Yes, you helped us clear this place, but let’s be honest, it wasn’t difficult. Meanwhile, we’re collecting specimens for you regularly, at great risk to ourselves.”

The man had a point—the Dome had been closed once the trouble started, and less than fifty Howlers inside when they cleared it. The job had had no casualties on their side and was probably the easiest large structure clearance to date.

“Okay, so what are you looking for?”

El Jefe smiled.

“Nothing big, really, just a symbol of your appreciation. In fact, it’s nearby.”

Gonzo grimaced. “Nearby” meant downtown. And downtown meant the riverwalk.

What they’d observed about the Howlers, was that they congregated near water. Downtown was the one place in the Greater San Antonio Area that had water in abundance, and plenty of resources. Hotels, restaurants, convention centers . . . you name it, it was there.

“And if we decide to look elsewhere?”

“Why don’t you take another look at the field and tell me.”

Gonzo turned back to the window. A single spotlight snapped on.

At the fifty-yard line sat their Humvees, his team lined up against them. Ten yards away a Jeep had its mounted Ma Deuce trained on them.

“That’s how it is, is it?” Gonzo felt the hairs on his neck rise. He turned slowly, not surprised to find El Jefe’s gold-plated Desert Eagle leveled at him. The other hand continued to squeeze the stress ball.

“Unfortunately, yes.” El Jefe gave him a small grin. “I don’t feel there’s a mutual respect between our groups. You . . . you I like, but that can only go so far. A message needs to be sent to your boss.”

“What’s that line about shooting the messenger?”

El Jefe chuckled, but the barrel didn’t waver.

“In this case, mi amigo, that is the message.”

“Gotcha. So,” he said, spreading his hands, “what can SAMMC do for you?”

* * *

His team looked apprehensive as Gonzo approached. Due to El Jefe’s pistol in his back, he knew he looked apprehensive as well.

“Well, guys, there’s a slight of a change in plans. Seems El Jefe here has been feeling somewhat neglected, and politely”—he gestured towards the Jeep—“requested that we do him a small favor, in return for the gear we need.”

Matt and Jeremy both groaned, muttered “Jinx,” and swatted Cruz on the shoulders. Cruz shrugged.

“Our mission, and we have no choice but to accept it, is to find and retrieve . . . ” He turned to El Jefe. “What, again?”

“A framed pair of ‘Hattori Honzō’ katanas from Kill Bill, signed by David Carradine himself.”

Matt snorted. “So, what, these things are just hanging around in a closet somewhere?”

Gonzo glared at him.

“Yeah, how do we know these things exist?” Cruz asked.

“Saw them at the Fan Expo right before things went bad. In fact, it’s where I met my two friends, Akari and Sakura.” El Jefe raised his voice. “Ladies, come say hello to our guests.”

Two young Japanese girls, no more than twenty, came around the Jeep. Twins, both wore BDU pants, boots, and matching T-shirts. Gonzo couldn’t read the characters, but the crossed swords they framed gave him a hint. As did the sheathed katanas on their backs.

The girls bowed.

“Kon’nichiwa,” they said in unison.

“Nice to meet you both,” Gonzo said. “Where are the swords?”

“At the booth close to where we were demonstrating,” said one of the twins.

“It was near the entrance of the convention center,” said the other.

“Great.” Gonzo turned back to his men. “There you have it—we’ll get in, grab the swords, and get out. Any questions?”

Everyone but Matt shook their heads.

“Good, no questions.” Gonzo ignored Matt’s raised hand. “Load up and let’s go.”

“The trucks will stay here,” El Jefe said. “Call it insurance.”

“Fine. Gear up and let’s go”—Gonzo turned—“if there’s nothing else, that is.”

“The twins will be accompanying you.”

“No. I won’t be babysitting two civilians while trying to sneak in and out of Downtown Howlerville.”

“They know exactly where the items are, and I need to be sure you’ll hold up your end of the bargain.”

“That stings, Jefe.” Gonzo shook his head. “I can’t guarantee their safety.”

El Jefe nodded at the girls.

As one, they drew their swords, faced each other, and took two steps back. El Jefe held up his stress ball, paused, and tossed it gently between them.

“Kiai!” Both swords swung, liquid silver flashing between the two girls. The stress ball landed in four pieces on the turf.

El Jefe grinned as the twins sheathed their blades and bowed.

“They can take care of themselves, my friend.”

“Fine,” Gonzo grunted. “At least they aren’t wearing school uniforms.”

“Only when we’re at con . . . ” one said, smiling prettily.

“ . . . fan service,” the other finished.

* * *

The five-minute hike from the underpass barricade to the convention center was fortunately boring. The summer heat and recent drought meant any infected had retreated indoors or were at least staying by the river.

Gonzo stood in front of the broken glass doors, shading his eyes against the late afternoon sun.

“So far, so good, Chief.” Cruz’s voice came through his earpiece. He too was scanning the interior, further down the building. The others were spaced out, watching the streets.

“The booth was just to the right of those doors,” Akari said, pointing. Gonzo had the girls tie different-colored ribbons around their arms, so he could keep them straight.

“Right,” he said, trying the door. Locked, but the empty frame was just large enough for him to squeeze through in his clearance gear. From inside, he worked the latches, and opened both of the double doors. In case of a hasty retreat, he didn’t want to get caught on his hands and knees.

“Jeremy, Chacho, you two post up at the doors, watching our six. Matt, Cruz, you come with the twins and me to cover our ass in the hall. Ladies”—he motioned toward the lobby—“after you.”

It was quiet inside, neither a good nor bad sign. If there were Howlers present, they could be asleep, waiting out the heat until either dark, or a meal wandered through. Even though the full face shields they wore would muffle his voice, Gonzo used hand signs to direct the two men, then motioned for the twins to continue.

The main hall was huge, the floor covered in wrecked booths, overturned tables, and torn banners. Thousands of various memorabilia, toys, and other items were scattered everywhere, making it difficult to walk without stepping on something. What used to be neatly ordered aisles were now meandering paths through cast-off geek culture.

Sakura nudged him, pointing towards the center of the main aisle, where it had once been cleared into a fifteen-by-fifteen ring. A torn banner hung in two pieces, and he could make out the name “Ninja Sisters.”

Akari, on his other side, jerked her chin off to the right, indicating a booth about ten feet away. What little was left of it showed various signed movie posters, promotional items, and actor’s headshots, all signed and framed.

She started towards it, but Gonzo stopped her. Something had moved behind the still upright table, causing the framework display to shake.

He took the lead, making his way cautiously towards the booth.

Probably just a rat. Please let it be a rat.

As he got closer, he could hear a soft grunting. Another couple of steps and he could see inside.

It was a rat, in the process of being consumed by a male Howler, naked except for a filthy blue wig.

One of the twins gasped, the other placed a hand over her faceplate, retching.

The Howler stopped, saw them, grabbed something near it, and bolted.

The twins took off in pursuit.

“Shit,” Gonzo broke radio silence. “We’ve got a runner, blue hair, heading towards the south entrance. Girls, stop!”

“He has the swords,” Sakura shot back.

“Shit.” They were acting recklessly, but he couldn’t afford to lose Blue Hair. “Chacho, Jeremy, watch the exits. Matt, Cruz, cover the doors along the hallway.”

Three “Rogers” and a “Si” came back.

He followed the girls, praying that the noise they were making wouldn’t bring trouble. God apparently listened and no other infected appeared.

Bright sunlight blinded him as the Howler hit the door leading outside. Blinking, he could just see the naked man break right.

“He’s outside, heading toward the street.” The girls made the door, Gonzo three steps behind. They turned just in time to see Jeremy lunge for the Howler and miss. Cruz and Matt exited the building behind them as Chacho jogged up.

“Sorry, Chief, I almost had him.” Jeremy picked himself up.

“Time for sorry later. Which way?”

Chacho pointed at the Marriott Rivercenter across the street.

“Christ. Of course. Let’s go.”

Clearing the Rivercenter Marriott had been hell. With thirty-eight floors, over one thousand rooms, offices, and suites, it took several teams working around the clock two weeks to finish. At the end of it all, they’d only found a handful of survivors, all of them in the kitchens. Gonzo still had nightmares of what they’d found on the upper levels. It had been his recommendation to burn the place to the ground. That had been ignored by the colonel, mainly due to the risk of the fire spreading to the rest of downtown.

In Gonzo’s opinion, that was a feature, not a bug.

It had taken every ounce of self-control he’d possessed to not pull the pins on several Willie Petes and toss them over his shoulder as he walked out.

Now, here he was, running past the rotting chairs in the lobby, trying to figure out his quarry’s next move.

Ahead, he caught a flash of blue disappearing down a corridor.

“He’s heading towards the mall, Chief.” Cruz’s words were punctuated by panting.

As Gonzo made the turn, he swore. When they’d cleared the Marriott, the teams had boarded up the two mall access doors, as well as welding the stair doors closed. Since then, something had torn open a man-sized hole in the one in front of him.

“Chacho, you see that barricade?”

“Si.”

“I don’t want to anymore.”

“Si.”

The big man grabbed the edge of the hole, set his feet, and heaved. The splintering crack of the plywood was quieter than a rifle, but not by much. The team listened, only the sounds of their breathing coming over the radio.

“Sounds clear,” Gonzo said, softly. “Let’s move.”

“Which way, Chief?” Matt came up beside him.

“There!” Akari started running. Ahead of her, Gonzo saw the telltale blue-hair turn west.

The team followed, scanning the shops as they ran. Their luck held—no Howlers. Even better, the wing their guy ran down was one of the narrower sections of the mall, and a dead end. Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be seen.

“Now what?” Gonzo stopped, staring at the stores in front of them. Behind him, he heard one of the twins giggle. “Something funny?”

“I bet I know where he went,” Sakura said, still giggling. Gonzo followed her gaze. Three shops down, he saw the sign. “Anime Tokyo.”

He shook his head with a sigh. She was probably right.

As they approached the blacked-out store, he could make out various items inside. T-shirts, action figures, and other things lined the walls, none of which he recognized. Pausing at the door, he clicked on his Maglite.

The beam caught their guy, clutching the case to his chest. Surrounding him were dozens of large pillows, each roughly five feet long, and featuring a female cartoon character. Most of the pictures were scantily clad, with large eyes, hair of various colors, and what he assumed were seductive expressions. All were covered in unrecognizable stains.

“What the actual fuck.”

“Oh holy Christ,” Matt said, behind him. “That’s a lot of dakimakura.”

“A lot of what?”

“Waifu pillows, Chief. I wouldn’t touch them, if I were you.”

“Of course you’d know that,” Jeremy scoffed. “Fucking weeb.”

“You’re one to talk, Brony.”

“Save it.” Gonzo cut in before the brothers could really get going. “We need to get that case and get out of here.”

“Pretty sure he’s a beta, Chief,” Cruz said. “Showing the regular signs. Nonaggressive, light sensitive, etcetera.”

“Okay, so we kill it and bug out.” Jeremy took a step, pulling his machete.

“No.” Gonzo put a hand on the big man’s arm. “Alphas are one thing. Betas are harmless. He’s still an innocent. Let’s try to coax it from him.”

He looked around the store. The beta seemed to have some base-level instinct towards this stuff. He addressed the twins.

“Ladies, I need you to do something for me. Take off your helmets and face shields.” At their confused looks, he added, “Look, you might be exactly what this guy is into. See if you can convince him to give us that case.”

They looked disgusted, but complied, removing their helmets slowly, shaking out their long black hair as they did. With coy expressions, both girls strode towards the beta.

The beta cowered at first, but then showed at least one obvious sign of interest. He dropped the case and tentatively crawled towards Akari. He got within six feet when the man’s smell hit her.

“Eww, no!” She flinched, took a step back, and tripped on a discarded action figure, breaking it. The beta pulled his hands back, grabbed one of his pillows, and began to scream.

His scream ended a second later as Sakura’s blade pierced his throat.

Seconds later, howls erupted in the distance.

“Chief,” Cruz said, “I’ve seen this movie. It doesn’t end well.”

Gonzo ran forward and grabbed the case, while the twins put on their gear.

“Weapons hot,” he said, unslinging his rifle. Stealth was out the window. “Let’s GTFO.”

Cruz and Matt ran to the intersection, one on each side.

“Incoming,” Cruz said, “They must’ve been at the food court below. Can’t go back that way.”

“Clear on my side.” Matt waved them towards him, then joined Cruz.

“Take this.” Gonzo handed the case to Akari. “Chacho, Jeremy, take hind tit and cover us. Matt, Cruz, start leapfrogging towards the nearest exit. Girls, you follow them.”

The howling behind them grew louder, punctuated with gunshots as the two larger members of their group opened fire. Fortunately, the only way up was the defunct escalators, and a few corpses created a choke point.

Cruz and Matt took up position on a crossover, keeping the rest of the team out of their line of fire. Gonzo and the girls passed them, ducking around a corner.

“Fall back!” Gonzo took aim to cover the other men. The sound of breaking glass behind him told him the girls had taken care of their exit. He waited until his team caught up, dropped a few more Howlers, and followed them outside.

They’d exited the mall on Blum Street, a narrow walkway between two rows of shops, next to Alamo Plaza. This put the Dome and its relative safety to the north, behind them.

He swore. Alamo Plaza looked clear—for now—but that meant heading in the wrong direction. On the other hand, heading east—the more direct route—meant getting near the river, and by the sounds of it, swarms of infected.

They’d have to go the long way.

“Head west towards Crockett Street,” he said, swapping mags. “Maybe we can cut back to Commerce.”

“Contact, thirty yards and closing,” Cruz reported. He began firing.

Crockett street was filled with cars, all smashed together at different angles. Most likely panicked drivers when the initial infection started. Trying to navigate that way could potentially trap them in between two groups of howlers.

“Crockett’s no-go,” Gonzo said, “keep moving west. We’ll try Houston Street.”

They ran, turning to fire behind them in an attempt to slow the wave of infected streaming up from the river, and out of the surrounding buildings.

The plague had hit San Antonio in the height of tourist season, and downtown had been packed. Combine that with Fiesta in full swing, and it meant hundreds of thousands of potential Howlers.

And they all seemed to be coming for them.

“More coming in from the west, Chief,” Jeremy said.

“How far?”

“Couple hundred yards.”

“All right, we need cover, at least to catch our breath.” He started for the Alamo.

“Oh, hell no,” Matt groaned. “You can’t be serious.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“I’ve seen this movie too,” Cruz said. “It didn’t end well either.”

“Well, maybe the sequel will! Chacho, get the door open. Everyone else, cover him.”

The big man ran up to the heavy door, drew back a boot, then paused before trying the latch. The door swung open easily. Chacho shrugged. The team rushed inside.

“Secure that door, and fan out.”

As Chacho pulled the thick oak, several Howler arms reached in, keeping it from latching. He heaved, pinning them in place, the hands clawing at him and the other door.

They hit the floor, twitching, as Sakura wiped her blade on her sleeve, sheathing her katana. Chacho slammed the door, securing it with the thick iron bolt.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

Cruz and Jeremy checked the small church, signaling all clear.

“Now what?” Matt swapped mags.

“Take a breather, reload, and hydrate, while you figure out our next move.”

“You got us into this, and now I have to get us out?”

“It’s called delegation, an important aspect of leadership.”

Matt said something in Spanish as he moved to the barred window. Chacho snorted.

Gonzo studied the others. Cruz and Jeremy were checking mags, consolidating any partials and dividing them equally. The twins looked at him, their seeming composure betrayed by the slight tremor in their eyes. Chacho’s face was expressionless, as usual.

“Don’t worry, ladies,” Gonzo said, with what he hoped was a convincing grin. “We’ve been in worse scrapes.”

“I got it, Chief,” Matt said. “The way I see it, we have a better chance on the wider streets, like Houston and Bowie.”

“Agreed. So?”

“So, we take advantage of the walls and fencing between here and the giftshop, cut north through the lot at Bonham, and get back to Commerce.” He paused. “And pray to any and every deity you can think of.”

Gonzo thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

“All right, folks, let’s make this place a fond memory. Pack up and move out.”

Matt cracked the exit door, scanning the courtyard beyond.

“Clear.”

The team moved into the open area, angling towards the northern wall.

Howls erupted behind them.

“Incoming, Chief!”

Chacho and Jeremy turned and fired, backpedaling. As soon as the others cleared the break in the wall, they covered the other two.

The team fell back down the paths, leapfrogging from cover to cover, using the bordering walls and trees. Howlers kept coming, tripping over the maimed and dying bodies.

“I’m out,” Cruz said, slinging his AK, and drawing his pistol.

The city had started a renovation project prior to the Fall. The lot at the north edge of the Alamo Plaza was open ground, surrounded by low Jersey walls and wooden construction barricades. Most had remained standing in the years since the project had been abandoned.

The labored breathing of his team almost drowned out his own pulse, pounding in his ears.

“Not much farther,” he gasped, clearing the first barricade. The twins fell in behind him. “Status check.”

“Down to my last mag.” “Out.” “Still good.” “Bueno.”

“Keep moving.”

Chacho’s shout drew his attention. The big man hit the ground; ankle pinned in a small gap between two of the barricades.

“Cover!” Gonzo ran back, firing at the Howlers converging on his man, until the mag emptied. He switched to pistol and kept firing.

Chacho managed to free his foot but was quickly dogpiled before he could stand. Cruz, Jeremy and Matt had reached him, dividing their attention between the infected coming over the wall, and trying to help their teammate. For each one they dropped, two more took their place.

Scrums were bad news. Their gear would protect them as long as they could keep fighting. But it was only a matter of time before a person would tire out and succumb to the Howlers.

Gonzo’s slide locked back. He holstered the gun and drew his machete as Akari and Sakura appeared beside him, katanas drawn. Each placed a hand on his chest, stopping him before he could move forward. The twins split, one on each side of the pile, and attacked.

Blades and bodies wove intricate patterns, a lethal dance that kept the twins out of reach of the Howlers. Katanas flashed and infected limbs dropped to the blood-slick pavement.

With a roar, Chacho burst from the pile, holding a thrashing Howler by the neck in each of his huge hands. He slammed them together, dropped one, and used the other as a club before tossing it over the wall. The pile of bodies had finally created a choke point, giving the team a much-needed chance.

“Fall back!” Gonzo’s order wasn’t needed—the others immediately turned and ran, Chacho limping slightly. Akari retrieved the dropped case, barely breaking stride.

They angled across the parking lot, weaving in and out of the abandoned cars, slowly widening the gap between the pursuing infected. Commerce Street was just ahead, and beyond that the gates leading back to the Dome.

They ran, angling across Bowie Street, dropping the few Howlers that had taken a shortcut. The main mass was still in pursuit but had been slowed down by the obstacles and broken terrain of the construction site. In minutes, the team made it back to the chain link fence of the underpass.

El Jefe sat behind the wheel of his Jeep, casually smoking a cigar.

“We got it,” Gonzo said to him, “let us through.”

“Show me.”

Akari came forward and held the case against the fence.

“Happy?” Gonzo stared at the other man. “Now let us . . . ”

“What’s the magic word, amigo?” El Jefe grinned, took a puff, and blew rings.

The horde of Howlers had gained ground, joined by more from near the convention center. In moments, they’d be overwhelmed, out of ammo, and royally screwed.

“Now!”

El Jefe tsked.

“Remember our talk about respect, my friend.”

“Chief . . . ” Cruz was watching their back.

“Fine. Pretty please, with a fucking cherry on top.”

“En Espanol . . . ”

“Por favor,” Chacho said. “Por favor podemos entrar.”

“Now there’s a man with manners.” El Jefe nodded to his guards. The gate rattled open as the Ma Deuce opened fire. Howlers dropped only yards behind them as the team ran through the gate.

* * *

Gonzo, freshly showered and changed, knocked on Colonel Noe’s office door.

“Come in.”

He entered, crossed the room, and collapsed into the chair across from her.

“Please be seated, Chief,” she said, scowling. “How is our friend, El Jefe?”

“He sends his regards, ma’am.”

“Excellent. I expect your AAR by morning. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes ma’am.” He stood and started for the door.

“Chief, one last question—I take it the mission went smoothly?”

Gonzo stopped, hand on the doorknob, choosing his words carefully.

“Better than it did in 1836, ma’am.” He closed the door at her confused expression.


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Framed