The Age of Zombies: Sergeant Jones Read Online Free PDF Page A

fine Greek and Persian wines will be at your disposal. The brains will be prepared by some of the finest chefs from the Kremlin. They have each been hand picked and blackmailed appropriately. Their wives would hate to find out what they really do down here in Syria.”
    The Russian suits all laughed. The giants stayed silent. The third one, who was only known as Zamul, finally broke his silence. “No, no, no,” he said. “This is all wrong.”
    Lenin stepped up to counter Zamul’s objection. He was under the impression that this arrangement would exceed the expectations of his clients. “But we have a great understanding of your tastes and proclivities,” he said. “Tell us where we went wrong, and we will fix it.”
    Grantha crossed his jackboot over his knee. “We'd prefer to visit a fresh conflict,” he said slowly. “One that hasn't been prepared.”
    “But that's dangerous,” Lenin contended. “That could lead to exposure. We don't want any visibility. This operation is far too sensitive.”
    Grantha nodded his head in approval. “Yes, yes, this is a sensitive operation. We hope that you can provide the necessary cover for our needs. When is the ETA for Damascus?”        
    Lenin glanced at his Rolex. “An hour and a half.”
    “That’s perfect timing,” Grantha said. “You have an hour and a half to prepare. Listen closely. Changes are afoot. The world is not what it used to be. The rigid structures that have kept my kind underground for so long have softened. We are entering a brave new world. One that will be unfamiliar to you. One that my race has patiently waited ages for. It is time for my kind to rekindle the old ways. The ways of our oldest ancestors, the ones that were able to live free and in the open without fear of attack or retaliation. The niceties of silver platters and prepared meals no longer appeals to us. We are ready for war. We are ready to hunt the way that our kind knows best.” The zombie paused, and looked each human straight in the eyes. “This is a new age. This is the age of zombies.”
    The Russians looked at each other in shock. They knew the general sketch of the history of these monsters, but the implications of their existence, their true nature, escaped them. Joru was forced to address his team. “Call off the feast in Ma'loula. Tonight, our forces will guide our clients through the suburbs of Damascus, and they will feast as they please.”
    Fyodor flicked on his phone and dialed. When the other end picked up, Fyodor barked sharp and fast commands into the phone: meet the jet at the Damascus International Airport with a fleet of military Jeeps, a cache of AK-101s, and coolers packed with ice to store the excess spoils. The jet carrying the Russian suits and the three brutes landed at 5:25PM EET (Eastern European Time). They stepped off the jet and onto the tarmac, which was completely barren and inactive due to the war.
    It was early March, and the Damascus sky quickened to a sunset. A bloody sun perched in the west, fully ready to sink into the horizon and call end to another day of bloodshed across the land. In the distance a muezzin could be heard reciting eloquent evening prayers. The anxiety of the civil war was palpable in the air. An electric tension coursed through the marrow and bones of the Russian suits. The three brutes slapped on their camo hats and shades. Their mouths salivated at the prospects that lay before them. The Russian suits bid goodbye to the brutish men in military fatigues. They shook hands and promised a fruitful business partnership.
    The giants spotted the caravan of military jeeps and each hopped into a separate vehicle. The Russians travelled to their hotels by taxi, which was parked just behind the retinue of Jeeps. The taxi drove off to the west, and the Jeeps to the east. Two separate directions for two separate destinies.
    Once in the taxi, the Russians all started to talk about how daring and surreal this whole situation