Before the Coach had gone the way of the Lord’s spunk-rag, used up and tossed aside after the divine swine had had his way with his life, he did some time as a US Marine and discovered a powerful lust for metal-spitting machinery. They used to call him “Father Firearms” as an affectionate way of describing his voracious infatuation with accumulating armaments. He’d spent the past twenty-two years collecting weaponry in his basement, stockpiling kickass artillery, originally with the hopes of never having to put them to use. More recently, however, after losing his son nearly five years earlier, his contempt for the world around him and general bitterness toward life itself had spawned an eagerness inside that could only be described as a “need to unleash”. Needless to say, he’d already mapped out the militant accessorizing of his vehicle and was more than prepared to supply the elbow grease required to get the job done.
His first priority was to replace the windows with metal bars and reinforce the frame of the vehicle with extended steel bumpers and a vigilant roll-cage. Sparks flew when he bolted steel plates to the sides of his ride and along the inside of the bed to extend it upward, so someone who was standing in back, operating the machine guns, would be protected from any crossfire coming from either side. He didn’t know how well the plates would hold against things such as those he saw burring bodies in the Remembrance Cemetery, but at the very least it’d shield the shooter from the scattering of zombie body parts flying about as a result of low-yield explosions.
Not only was the Coach able to get his hands on two gas-operated, 1958 FN MAG machineguns and a standalone AGS-17 Soviet grenade launcher during his exploits of illegal, underground military auctions, but he also owned several man-portable antitank weapons, such as his 1942 M1A1 Bazooka and S18-1000 antitank rifle. Some of the classics may’ve been obsolete in real wartime, but for a civilian, they seemed a bit simpler to get his hands on and no doubt still packed a formidable wallop. He might not be able to go toe-to-toe with a Russian T-90, but taking the lid off a zombie-soldier from fifty yards out shouldn’t be much of an issue. Little did he know, he’d be allowed to test that assumption sooner than he may’ve hoped.
Two and a half hours into it and he’d already laid the foundation for his very own Hell-On-Wheels-Mobile, and it didn’t take much more than another thirty minutes to mount all three of his big guns in the bed of the truck. The two machineguns were situated to fire over the top of the steel plates attached to the sides or be aimed directly out the tail to plow bullets through enemies at his six. The antitank rifle was positioned closer to the cab and on a higher mount so it could aim 20mm rounds a full 360 degrees at any target within a few hundred yards. And the standalone grenade launcher he bolted down into the center of a flatbed trailer he could attach to the hitch of his truck, but had to take a few extra minutes to oil up the moving parts of the tripod and attach the optical sight that helped validate the weapons range of up to a mile. He had a full drum of 29, 30mm grenades and had been dreaming of blowing up random shit ever since the massive bastard came into his possession. This thing was his dearly beloved, and he looked forward to spending some quality time alongside it, but even he was a little shaky when it came to placing his bazooka in the back of the cab with a case full of 3 ½ lb. rockets he’d traded his mother’s antique, grand piano for.
Was it a sense of neurotic paranoia that drove him to acquire two Kevlar vests and a crate full of hand grenades, or meticulous provisioning and well thought out preparation? He wasn’t sure… But regardless of the uncertainties concerning his motives, and in spite of him being an ex-man-of-the-cloth, he felt fairly comfortable leaving this universe the very same way everything else had come into it: with a big bang. He only hoped he’d get the chance to save a few lives before he died and maybe drag a handful of demon scum-suckers back down to the pits of Abaddon alongside him.
After almost four hours into it, his once halfway presentable Silverado was covered in steel patchwork and metal bars and looked like something Frankenstein’s Monster would drive if he were in a Mad Max movie, chasing Mel Gibson across some apocalyptic, desert plane. He never once stopped for a break to fill his lungs with the stench of a cigar, or to even use the toilet. Anytime he found a spare second to think, he’d see the mangled bodies of his closest friends piled atop one another like prime ribs on a plate at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Their freshly limp corpses jiggled against the rough ride of the Zamboni in his mind and he couldn’t shake from his thoughts the look of terror he could still see so clearly, frozen at the moment of death in their eyes.
He began forcing ammo down the gullets of every magazine he could make room for and might’ve forgot to leave room for himself if he hadn’t been distracted by a familiar tune coming from the street outside.
“What’n fuck’s name…?”
He cocked his head to listen closely. The friendly jingle of the neighborhood ice-cream man perturbed his ear, tangling his brows in confusion. For a moment, he thought he might’ve been imagining it, but stayed fixed on the tune long enough to realize it was getting louder, clear enough now for him to be about eighty percent sure it was real. (There was still that twenty percent chance he was as crazy as a cat in heat on a leash and just imagining this whole “zombie apocalypse” thing.)
He set down the magazine he’d stuffed full of shells and picked up the shotgun to his right, but then thought better of leaving his garage with anything less than an automatic weapon and a belt full of hand grenades. He grabbed his RPK74 automatic assault-rifle, figuring 75 rounds per minute ought to be a good start, and popped in a 30-round magazine. That should give him a solid thirty seconds of rapid-fire to turn the ice-cream man’s head into pudding if he was selling anything other than push-pops and big-sticks. And if the obnoxious bastard didn’t shut that God forsaking, joyful music off, they’d just have to see how well his fudgesicles would hold up against exploding, hot shrapnel tearing through their frosty packaging.
He grabbed a grenade-belt that carried six, stuffed his favorite .357 Magnum in the two-gun holster draped over his vest, slipped a ten-inch hunting knife into a sheath on his hip, and headed out his garage through his kitchen for the front door, automatic rifle in hand. He had enough firepower on his person to blow up a country club full of rednecks, so unless this ice-cream man was packing some kind of serious heat, he figured he could handle him if the situation got hairy.
The classic tune was loud and piercing, but with a slower tempo than usual, turning a carefree melody into a deeper, ominous chime. His slow approach toward his front window through his living room was a nerve-racking crawl to the music reminding him of something like the opening scene of a b-movie action/horror flick. Not a good sign, he thought, considering the opening scene was never without its human sacrifice…
Queue deranged melody; display staring-cast credits; enter robust, aging hero who looks to be all-balls and ready for anything; pan over happy family pictures of hero and deceased teenage son enjoying a fishing trip or rural carnival ride; accidentally step on sleeping cat’s tail unleashing a shriek that nearly causes the old man to shat his shorts; cut to deranged, undead monster driving slow-approaching ice-cream truck just outside the door…
This next part is where everyone knows some horrific shit’s about to go down…
So, what does our geriatric hero do? Storm out of his house, guns blazing with murder burning in his eyes? Or keep quiet with his back to the door and hope who or what-ever is driving through the empty streets on a night like this, looking to draw attention to themselves, will pass him by, taking their evil, frozen mud-pies and double fudge-bars along with them?
He couldn’t see past the headlights of the truck through its windshield to know who was driving the damn thing, but…did he really have to? It was obviously not a friendly civilian working his part-time, looking to sell cold desserts to little kiddies. Whoever was in that truck was bad news and the Coach wasn’t dumb enough to think otherwise. And since
the above Option B didn’t exactly coincide with the b-movie horror trend, with its outcome being him making it out of the scene alive by dodging the proverbial bullet, Option A, ironically enough, seemed more like the reasonable course of action. He just wasn’t sure if this would be one of those movies where the aging hero stuck around until the end or if budget restrictions would force the director to kill him off just after his first dynamic blaze of glory.
He figured he’d just have to wait to see if his character in the story was important enough to keep around. He hoped he’d make it to the part in the flick where any of this shit started making sense so he’d at least know why his friends had to die. If there was some point to the plot of this atrocious storyline then maybe it would help him find peace when the time came his old ass finally keeled over and kicked the preverbal bedpan.
He waited a few more seconds to make his move until the ice-cream truck was only a house and a half away. Peeking through the window one last time, he moved the curtain aside with the tip of his gun and peered into the oncoming lights with his other hand on the doorknob. He wasn’t sure if what he was about to do was anything close to “a bright idea…” In fact, he was pretty damn sure it was more along the lines of one of the less intelligent moves he’s made in his life, but he had this other dreadful feeling suggesting it probably wasn’t a coincidence this truck was creeping down the street outside his home. He couldn’t fathom why these bastard-creatures of Hell would want him, but it stood to reason they either heard the racket he caused in his garage and headed his way, or just ran out of anyone else to terrorize, making him next on their list. Either way, his best option, the way he figured it, was to hit them first and see what kind of punishment they could take. If he didn’t make it out of this alive, at least he’d get to wage some righteous warfare.
He let the curtain fall, tightened his grip on the doorknob, and bowed his head for a quick prayer to the memory of his son. He saw young Garret in his thoughts, geared up in his hockey uniform, smiling behind the full-cage of his helmet. He remembered how he’d always tell him before a game; keep yer head up; watch the play, not the puck; always keep those skates movin’; and for Pete’s sake, put the puck on net!
“…You can’t score if you don’t shoot.” He recited his own advice softly to himself; a mantra that regularly put him at ease.
It was sound counsel…
He switched the safety off on his assault-rifle, took in a deep breath, held it until his lungs felt ready to explode, then—
“RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!”
He threw open the door and stomped onto his porch, unleashing his breath with a barbaric wail while squeezing the trigger of his rifle, aiming his rounds for the truck’s windshield, hoping to grease the driver before he’d ever get the chance to peddle his pops. His cheeks shook with the tremors of the rifle’s recoil, explosions at the end of the barrel carving holes through the surrounding red mist. He heard the shattering of the truck’s windshield shriek under his assault cry. Bullets punctured the hood and eventually busted both headlights, draping the street in front of him in dark. After about ten seconds he stopped firing to let his eyes adjust to the change while the truck continued its slow coast toward him, now less than a house away.
He expected some undead monstrosity to jump from the driver-side door, growling and snarling, rushing at him in a riled-up frenzy… But there was nothing other than smoke lifting from the holes in the hood and that demented, friendly ice-cream jingle taunting his ears.
He stepped down from his porch and approached the curb before he decided not to wait for trouble to come to him. He squeezed the trigger once again and marched toward the enemy, stepping out into the street around a parked car, dumping every bullet in his mag into the front cab…but the truck kept coming…
He unclipped the empty mag and popped in a fresh one, but instead of firing blind, decided on a more wide-angled approach. He grabbed a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, lobbed it through the broken front windshield and turned to take cover.
Finding sanctuary behind a parked sedan, he pressed hands over ears. The explosion shook against his back and sent a wave of heat to warm his ass like a steaming hot load in his shorts. When he lowered his palms, his ears rang too loud for the effort to be of any use, but still he waited alertly for any sign of victory or otherwise.
After about five ear-ringing seconds later, he realized his hearing wouldn’t do him a damn bit of good, so he mustered his composure and stood up strong to empty another clip into the side of the burning vehicle rolling in front of him.
He screamed with the kick of the rifle stuttering his howl and walked out from the cover of the parked car to follow alongside the flambé on wheels, decorating its internal refrigerators with fashionably cindering holes…
Then the technical specifics of an ice-cream truck suddenly occurred to him:
Liquefied petroleum gas…
As the truck continued to pass, and he continued filling it with sizzling puncture wounds, he wondered why the grenade he threw hadn’t already ignited the tanks that…were…probably…in the back…of the…
“Fuck…”
By the time he found the composure to release the trigger the damage had been done. He watched, just as the end of the truck passed in front of him, the last bullet he let escape plow through the tail of the truck… But all the pesky little details were erased with a boom and a flash of light.
The force of the explosion threw him like trash into his neighbor’s front yard. A plume of fire escaped the rear of the truck and blew the giant waffle-cone up from off its roof like a volcanic eruption. The back axle inevitably gave out and the box of fiery desserts came upon a comfortable spot to settle as a final place of resting.
The Coach took his place of collapse as a chance to momentarily let down his guard until the Flaming Ice-cream Cone from Hell crashed to the ground beside him, spitting chunks of fire over his battered body. He repeatedly rolled over the hot spots pinching at his flesh until he put some distance between him and the roaring slab of debris, and eventually came to a stop at the mercy of a deadweight at his back. He was pressed up against something…but didn’t care to know what as long as whatever it was wasn’t exploding or on fire. Then he remembered his b-movie, horror-flick etiquette and thought better of dismissing the two lumps he’d so “coincidently” stumbled upon.
Pain generously splintered through every joint in his body. He figured he very likely cracked a rib or two when landing and his wooziness proved he jarred his melon nice and hard. His ears felt like they were bleeding internally, or probably should be after such proximity to 62 separate, consecutive explosions…but his instincts warned him this rodeo wasn’t over. He knew he’d have to hang in there until the job was good and done, and he got the pressing feeling that this show was just getting started.
Crunching forward with an embellished groan, his hand crept toward his holstered weapon. He rolled forward until his face kissed the moist grass, his torso hiding the motion of his hand slipping his gun from its roost. He figured he may only get one shot, so he took a second to focus the commotion of his mind—
He pictured himself rolling forward until he faced back up, aiming his weapon for the sickening, dead face of whatever eyesore would lie in wait. Cheesy zombie-horror-flick criterion suggested one shot to the center of the forehead ought to do it. He just had to make sure he’d have his aim steady when the moment arrived. Now was not the time to choke-up and lose one’s nerve. Everyone knows; you can’t score if you don’t shoot…
Anxiously he squeezed at the Magnum’s handle clutched over his stomach, letting one last exaggerated groan go before making his move. Pain stabbed into his chest when he rolled but he wouldn’t let it slow him down. When he made it over the hump of his left shoulder, the rest was all downhill, and he fell back on his rear to lift his gun-arm straight and true.
He hadn’t realized
before, but his vision was blurred to the point he was seeing triple. There were three guns in three of his own hands stretched in front of him, aiming over the buzzing of his ears up at nothing but air. He scanned the area as best he could, dragging the gun with his gaze, but his arms were slow and weak and his weapon felt as heavy as if there actually were three of them.
He didn’t understand what was happening… If there was nothing there, then what the hell did he roll into just a few seconds before? He regained his breath while contemplating his predicament, with every exhale, his gun sinking lower in its aim. Eventually he let his head fall to the ground as he teetered onto his back, trying to calm his rapidly firing heartbeat down to a tempo reasonable for a man his age.
His hands broke their grip from the gun and he lowered them to either side, taking in steady mouthfuls of charred oxygen. What the hell just happened, he wondered. Did he get the slimy sonovabitch with his first hail of bullets and not realize it? Was he so worked up that he just wasted a whole 30-round magazine, a grenade, and almost get himself killed in the process for a lack of keeping his cool? If so, then, number one: his old ass needed to slow his Captain Kill-A-Bitch role and take these dead bastards in stride. And number two: they were a lot easier to contend with than he’d expected. It was in his pessimistic, bitter ol’ bastard nature to assume the worst rather than keep an open mind, but really, was it his fault these things couldn’t take the heat? He thought they’d at least be more of a challenge…
Blood Magik- A Cold Day In Hell Page 38