Dead America The First Week (Book 5): The El Paso Invasion Read online

  The detectives paused.

  “I’ll cover, you cuff him,” Rogers finally said.

  Stevenson set his weapon down and moved towards the enemy, deftly handcuffing his wrists together.

  “He’s secure,” he declared.

  Rogers didn’t reply, his brow furrowed at the sight of the patient in the bed behind him, a bullet hole right in their forehead. He glanced across the hall and saw yet another patient, the top of their head missing.

  “Rogers, you all right?” Stevenson asked.

  His partner began to shake when he saw the body of a young girl, a similar bullet wound having ended her life.

  He clenched his fists as he turned towards their prisoner. “Just tell me why. Why would you shoot a little girl in the head?”

  “Because unlike you Americans, I have balls.” The man raised his chin, sneering. “I do what needs to be done. We are doing what needs to be done.”

  “Really?” Rogers asked, tone cool and clipped. “You don’t think Americans are doing what needs to be done?”

  “The dead are rising up against us, and you still care for them like they have the flu,” the cartel member spat. “You see a little girl in that room, I see her for the monster that she is about to become.”

  “How did you know she had the virus?” Rogers demanded. “Did you check her chart first? I mean you don’t really strike me as the medical type, so not sure you’d be able to tell one way or the other.”

  Their captive laughed. “You Americans are so weak willed. The world is changing around you, and yet you refuse to evolve. It’s why you handcuffed me instead of killing me.”

  Rogers raised an eyebrow. “You are absolutely correct. We are in a whole new world now, and we need to adjust accordingly. So please, allow me to be the first American to evolve.” He smiled, whipped out his handgun, and pulled the trigger. The man only had a fraction of a second to recoil in horror before his brains coated the wall behind him.

  Stevenson clucked his tongue. “Well, that escalated quickly.”

  “Sorry, did I get brains on you?” Rogers asked.

  “Oh, nah, you’re good,” his partner replied with a noncommittal wave of his hand. “Might need to find a water fountain to rinse off my cuffs though.”

  There was a crashing sound, and the two detectives swiveled around quickly, raising their weapons. They stalked to a large supply closet and Stevenson flung the door open, Rogers darting in with his gun ready.

  A dozen doctors and nurses huddled together on the floor, shrieks for their lives erupting from the group. The duo quickly lowered their weapons.

  “Easy now,” Rogers cooed. “Y’all are safe.”

  One of the nurses leapt up and hugged Stevenson, bawling into the crook of his neck. He raised an eyebrow to Rogers, who rolled his eyes.

  They cleared the room and got to the elevator, packing it full and sending it down before waiting for the next car.

  “So, Doc, what happened?” Rogers asked one of the doctors that stayed behind.

  The slender young man shivered. “We heard the gunfire coming from the lower floors. I ordered the nurses to close off all the patient doors and take refuge in the supply closet where you found us. I, along with another doctor, stayed out to confront the men when they came up.”

  “Looks like they killed everyone else,” Stevenson commented. “How did you manage to survive?”

  “They only wanted the sick people,” the doctor replied, swallowing hard. “We tried to tell them that everyone who was showing symptoms of the—ahem, zombie virus—were on the second floor in quarantine. It fell on deaf ears. One man pushed us to the side and said they couldn’t take the chance. Said it would be like letting a sick cow back into the herd. One mistake and it would end us all.”

  The elevator gave its ding and opened. The trio got inside in silence, each wondering what kind of carnage these cartel members were doing to the rest of the city they were trying to cleanse.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The detective duo reloaded their guns as they crossed the hospital parking lot, heading towards the tree line where Rogers’ car hid.

  Stevenson paused, lifting the sleeve of his shirt. “You’re springing for the dry cleaning, right?”

  His partner wrinkled his nose as he inspected the tiny piece of brain on the fabric. “Oh, come on now, it’s not that bad.” He waved a hand noncommittally. “Tell you what, we’ll swing by the dollar store and I’ll pick you up some detergent and a scrub brush. Hell, I’ll even spring for a diet cola.”

  “Whoa now, don’t go breaking the bank, there,” Stevenson replied, eyes wide with sarcasm.

  Rogers shrugged. “We work the same job, you know how much I make.”

  “Point taken,” Stevenson admitted.

  “Detectives!” the round officer from before cried. “Detectives!”

  The duo stopped and turned, watching him waddle up to them, wheezing with the effort.

  “You all right there, officer?” Stevenson asked, eyebrow rising.

  He leaned his hands on his knees for a moment, and then nodded. “Yeah… I’m… I’m good.”

  “What can we do for you?” Rogers asked.

  The officer straightened up, chest still heaving. “Well, you kind of destroyed my car, so I was hoping you could give me a lift back to the station?”

  “Depends,” Rogers replied, cocking his head in thought. “You going to put that in the report?”

  The officer paused, and then spread his arms, palms up. “I’ll blame it on the cartel?”

  “All right, hop in then,” the detective replied with a grin.

  They headed back to his car and got situated before Rogers peeled out of the laneway where they’d been parked. As they drove through the city, there were signs of struggles and confrontations everywhere. Overturned cars, dumpsters riddled with bullet holes, windows smashed, doors hanging open. The scars of battle were evident.

  “This town is getting ripped a new one, ain’t it?” Rogers asked.

  The officer shook his head. “This is nothing compared to the other side of the border.”

  “Oh come on, officer,” Stevenson replied. “Don’t tell me you’re buying into the rumors.”

  “They aren’t rumors, detective!” The rotund man leaned forward from the back seat. “In fact, the stories I’ve heard from the officers here are understating things. A good buddy of mine is on the force over there. We chatted just before the cartel came crashing across the border. The only word he could come up with was genocide.”

  Stevenson’s mouth dropped open. “Jesus,” he breathed. “You sure that wasn’t just a translation error on your part?”

  “You tell me, detective,” the officer replied gravely, pulling up some picture on his phone and handing it over to the passenger’s seat.

  Stevenson flipped through the gallery, each photo more gruesome than the last. Bodies piled eight high in the street. Hundreds of corpses strewn across blocks and blocks of city.

  “He said the cartel has a zero tolerance policy,” the officer continued. “They went door to door, and if someone so much as sneezed in their presence they got a bullet to the head. If the family protested, they got a bullet too.”

  “And, what, your buddy was the cartel photographer?” Stevenson snapped, handing the phone back. “Why didn’t the police step up?”

  “My guess is that the cartel owns the police down there,” Rogers piped up. “Or own enough of them to make any sort of resistance futile.”

  “Quite right, detective,” the officer replied, nodding his head emphatically. “He kept his head down, which was all he could really do.”

  Stevenson took a deep breath. “He still alive?”

  “As far as I know,” the officer replied.

  There was a sudden burst of gunfire nearby, and Rogers slammed on the brakes, sending everyone lurching forward against their seat belts. The trio scanned the intersection, watching half a dozen zombies run towards a makeshift barrica
de in front of a store. One by one the creatures dropped, and as the firing wound down, the gunmen stepped into view. They were bald, heavily tattooed cartel members.

  The rotund officer struggled with his holster, and once he freed his handgun he fidgeted, waiting for the go-ahead to take on the gunmen.

  Rogers raised a hand to signal him to stand down.

  “What are you waiting for?” the officer cried. “Let’s go get them!”

  “Hang on,” Rogers said firmly. “They see us, but they haven’t opened fire.”

  One of the bald men made eye contact with the detective, and then gave a thumbs up and waved them through the intersection.

  “Well,” Stevenson balked, “that’s a new one.”

  “Yeah, I’m curious about that,” Rogers agreed. “Not curious enough to go talk to them, however.”

  His partner nodded. “We should probably get to the station. Maybe they know what’s going on.”

  “Agreed,” Rogers said, and punched the accelerator. The sulking officer in the backseat reluctantly holstered his handgun, leaning back against the headrest in defeat.

  As the car passed through the remaining few blocks to the police station, they passed several more makeshift barricades manned by cartel members. As they passed each one, several of the gunmen gave rather friendly nods in the car’s direction.

  Rogers chewed his bottom lip in thought. What was going on?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Thanks for the lift, guys,” the officer blurted as soon as they walked into the chaotic police station. “Good luck!”

  “Thanks officer, you too,” Stevenson said as their passenger ambled off into the throng of people rushing about. Bodies moved weapons and supplies around, stocking and restocking. One of the nearby desks housed a uniformed officer yelling into three different phones before breaking down into a massive coughing fit. His eyes were completely bloodshot and he was as sweaty as an obese man going back for sixths at a buffet.

  When he dropped the phones and collapsed onto his desk, two uniformed officers wandered over and helped him to his feet before escorting him to the back.

  “Is it just me, or are things getting worse by the minute?” Stevenson asked as they set him down in the quarantine area.

  Rogers opened his mouth to answer, but a female voice rose above the white noise.

  “Detectives!” she screeched, and the duo looked around before settling on a young woman waving frantically from across the room. “Detectives! Over here!”

  Rogers waved back at her, recognizing her as Captain Sanford’s assistant. “Looks like we’re about to find out,” he muttered as they made their way through the chaos. “What can we do for you, Becky?”

  She brushed her matted hair from her forehead, deep bags under her wide eyes insinuating that she hadn’t left her post in days. “The Captain needs to see you right now. He’s in his office.”

  “What did we do?” Stevenson crossed his arms.

  Becky rolled her eyes. “He told me to find someone competent, and it’s truly a dark time if you’re the best I could come up with.”

  “Even in the apocalypse, that one hurts,” Stevenson replied, putting a jovial hand over his heart.

  She smiled and shook her head. “Get in there, you two.”

  The duo entered the Captain’s large office. Sanford sat behind his desk, the two chairs in front of him full of gigantic Latino men, a trio of six foot plus muscular tanned men standing along the far wall. Each one of them were covered in tattoos and armed to the teeth.

  “Sorry Captain,” Rogers said, brow furrowing. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “It’s okay Rogers, come on in,” Sanford replied, waving them forward. “Turns out you have good timing. I have a few people for you to meet.”

  Rogers eyes widened as the two men at the desk turned around.

  The Captain leaned back. “Detectives, I’d like to introduce-”

  “Angel Rivas, heir to the throne of the Rivas Cartel,” Rogers cut in, raising his chin at the young man on the left. “Currently under investigation for several dozen murders on both sides of the border. A little overdressed for the end of the world in those fancy slacks, but you don’t look like the type to have ever worked a hard day in his life. I’m guessing that the whole apocalypse got you spooked about your place in the afterlife and you’re trying to make amends by turning yourself in?”

  Angel growled and leaned forward to lash out, but his older companion shoved him back into his seat.

  “That’s a good boy, sit down,” Rogers snarled.

  “Detective, you aren’t being helpful,” the older man replied as Angel slapped his hand away from him with a huff.

  “Oh, my apologies, mister cartel man,” Rogers replied, sarcasm dripping from his tongue.

  Sanford stood up. “Detective Rogers! Show our guests some respect.”

  “What the hell, Captain?!” the detective cried. “Is everything okay? Blink twice if there’s a bomb under your chair.”

  “Rogers!” Sanford bellowed.

  “Detective Rogers,” the older latino man said, voice calm and collected. “My name is Rodriguez. I’m the second in command of the Rivas Cartel. Your Captain is in no danger, and in fact, we are here to help with the current situation.”

  “Help?” The detective narrowed his eyes. “We just came from the hospital where your men helped by shooting patients in the goddamned face.”

  “Detective, I understand you are upset,” Rodriguez replied, putting up his hands, “but those aren’t our men.”

  “The men who stormed across the border are from the Meza gang,” Angel added.

  “I thought the Mezas were your distributor,” Stevenson cut in. “Wouldn’t that make them your men?”

  “Technically yes,” Rodriguez replied. “But when this… situation broke out this week, the gang leader, Juan Pablo, decided to make his move and take over the city. We don’t condone what he and his men have done, and have come up here to put a stop to it.”

  Rogers rolled his eyes. “Oh, good, you going to come over and negotiate a ceasefire or something?”

  Angel pulled out a butterfly knife and flipped it around. “The Rivas Cartel doesn’t negotiate,” he said, and slammed the blade into the Captain’s desk, “we dictate.”

  “That’s good and all, Goldilocks,” Rogers snapped, “but it’s going to take more than you and the three bears here to bring down their army.”

  “We brought in five thousand of our own men,” Rodriguez clarified. “In addition, we have already made contact with two of his top lieutenants and brought them and their men over to our side. At the moment, we outnumber them.”

  Rogers paced back and forth a bit, taking a deep breath. “So, what’s the play? Not sure an all-out war on the streets of El Paso is in anyone’s best interests.”

  “I agree with you, detective,” Rodriguez replied, “a full scale war would ultimately doom us all. Being isolated from the initial infection zone bought us a little time, but sooner rather than later we’re going to have a zombie epidemic on our hands.”

  “Not if they keep clearing out the city the way they are,” Stevenson muttered, and the rest of the room went completely silent, turning to look at him with a combination of confusion and disgust. “Settle down, y’all, I’m not advocating their position, just stating a fact. Jesus.”

  Rogers shook his head and turned to their new tentative companion. “Okay, Rodriguez, do you boys actually have a plan or is this an unofficial brainstorming session?” he asked. “Because if it’s the latter, then I’m going to need some coffee to get the gears turning.”

  Rodriguez snapped his fingers and pointed to the door. The large bald man nodded and exited the room.

  “What just happened?” Rogers looked from the doorway back to the cartel second-in-command.

  “Well detective, we do have a plan, but we’re going to need you fresh,” Rodriguez explained. “I sent him to get you what you requested.”
r />   The large guard reappeared in the room, holding a mug of piping hot coffee. He held it out to Rogers, who accepted it graciously.

  “Sorry…” the guard stammered in a thick accent. “No cream.”

  Rogers smiled and nodded. “Thank you, big fella.” He raised his mug in a toast and then took a happy sip. “All right, let’s hear it.”

  “Juan Pablo’s second-in-command is a squirmy little bastard named Miguel,” Angel began. “We get to him, he’ll give up his boss.”

  Stevenson crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, crossing his legs at the ankle. “What makes you so sure about that?”

  Angel sneered and snatched his knife from the desk, waggling it above his head. “I can demonstrate on you, if you wish.”

  “He’ll talk,” Rodriguez cut in, gently pushing his companion’s hand down. “Miguel is an ambitious one, so when we take out his boss, he’ll be smart enough to know where that leaves him.”

  “And once we take him out, then what?” Rogers asked. “Everybody goes home and we call it a day?”

  “On the contrary,” Rodriguez replied. “We have proposed a partnership with your Captain. The threat we face is very real and needs to be dealt with.”

  Stevenson sighed. “And now we’re back to shooting people in the face.”

  “No, detective.” Rodriguez put his hands up, palms out. “We know what causes the transformation. So once the hostilities end we will search out these people and quarantine them across the border. As we speak, shelters for the infected are being set up so these people can live out their last moments in piece.”

  A hysterical laugh bubbled up from Rogers’ throat, and he shook his head. “It truly is the apocalypse if we’re contemplating partnering up with the Rivas Cartel.”

  “Detective, it’s already done,” Sanford said firmly. “As we speak, their men are forming squad with our officers to go out into the city to find the sick and eliminate any threats they find. Be they human, or zombie.”