He managed to catch the man by most of a surprise, jamming the knife into the side of his head. Unluckily, the man turned so the blade went into his cheek, piercing through his bottom jaw instead. He dropped his gun, gurgling and groaning.
His partner recovered from the softball blow and raised his assault rifle, aiming it at Terrell, who grabbed the bleeding man and used him as a shield. The gunner fired a three-round burst, all hitting the bulletproof vest. The high caliber rounds pierced it, however, lodging inside of the man who gurgled even more blood.
Terrell shoved the human shield forward, and his dead weight pinned his opponent to the platform. As he struggled to free himself, the Captain leapt on top, standing on the corpse’s back, holding him down. The gunman fired a few shots, but his flailing panic sent the bullets wild.
Terrell tried to draw his handgun, but was having a hard time due to the thrashing beneath his feet. He reached down and grabbed a handful of darts from the counter and slammed them into his opponent’s face.
The man screeched as the tips pierced his forehead and eye. Terrell honed in on the one in his eyeball, and slammed his palm down into it, sending it directly into his brain. The man convulsed himself to death, and Terrell hopped off of them, waiting for the movement to stop before grabbing his knife from the top corpse.
His breather didn’t last long as the five remaining gunmen headed his way. He could hear gunshots coming from the next aisle, and the zombie moans ceased, which meant they’d taken out his reinforcements.
Terrell took off running deeper into the carnival as two gunmen came around the bend behind him. They squeezed off a few shots in his direction, forcing him to dive through the opening of a concession stand. He landed hard on the ground as bullets ripped through the cheap plywood and hot dog condiments above him.
He scampered to the back door, remaining low as ketchup and mustard glopped everywhere. He burst out the back door into an alley between two rows of buildings, and darted out into the next aisle. He turned to run in the opposite direction of his attackers, and then skidded to a stop at the sight of a mini-horde of zombies.
There were forty or so walking corpses packed in fairly tight, with only a foot or two separating them.
“Fucking hell,” Terrell muttered under his breath, and thought frantically as he heard the footsteps of the gunmen approaching fast. He drew his handgun and turned towards them, the zombies about fifteen yards from his back.
As the first attacker came around the corner, Terrell opened fire, hitting the corner of the building and forcing them back around cover.
The Captain immediately turned and rushed towards the zombie horde, pumping his legs as hard as he possibly could. He found the biggest gap he could, about two feet wide, and rammed his way straight through.
Behind him, the gunmen came around the corner, firing wildly, but hitting only rotting flesh. Terrell stayed as low as he could, the moans intensifying at the moving meal, putrid arms reaching out to grab for him. He dodged their gaping maws, his momentum carrying him through most of the throng, knocking down as many as he could to keep his speed going.
He finally saw light at the end of the horde, with only a few more rows to get through, but a dead hand caught his right sleeve. He instinctively flew into a spin, sending the handsy creature tumbling to the ground and allowing him to leap over it. He stumbled a bit as he completed the 360, pushing his hand off of the grass for stability.
As he approached the last couple of creatures, he dove forward to avoid falling on his face, using his hand to spring himself forward. He landed on the ground in a heap, and then rolled as hard as he could away from the hungry zombies. After a few rotations, he was clear, and quickly got to his feet and sprinted away, the sounds of gunfire still popping off behind him.
The Captain ran about ten yards before he reached the entrance to a large haunted house structure. He ducked inside, shutting the door behind him. There was a row of flashlights on the table, and he grabbed one, flicking it on. The black light bulb illuminated the area just enough to make sure there were no zombies waiting to jump out at him.
Terrell took a knee, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. “Two down… five to go…”
CHAPTER FIVE
Miles kept a trained eye on the tree line, still seeing some of the branches move due to the men shuffling around behind it. He stayed back away from the window so they couldn’t get an angle on him, hiding in the shadows.
With his rifle down to a handful of rounds, he waited for the impending assault that he may or may not have enough bullets to survive. Footsteps rose on the stairs, slow and deliberate, and he stiffened. Had they gotten past Coleman? Was Coleman…
He aimed his gun at the door, unsure of who was about to come through it. A moment later, Chucky’s head appeared right on the floor as he crawled into the doorway.
“Holy fuck man,” Miles said, letting out a deep whoosh of breath. “You about gave me a heart attack.”
Chucky swallowed hard, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he babbled.
“What are you doing?” Miles asked, turning back to the window.
The portly man took a deep breath. “Coleman told me to come upstairs and hide in case things get bad down there,” he explained.
Miles nodded, and pursed his lips, wishing this overgrown man child would find his backbone and help them in this fight. But a part of him knew that not everybody was cut out for combat.
He inclined his head to the closet in the corner of the room. “Get in and keep your head down,” he instructed. “You’re probably going to hear-”
The window lit up with gunfire, and he hit the deck. Chucky stared wide-eyed at the display, face white as a sheet.
“Get in the closet, now!” Miles bellowed, and his terrified charge scurried across the ground to the closet and closed the door behind him.
With that out of the way, Miles popped up from the floor and aimed out the window. Four men ran across the front yard in a staggered two-by-two formation. The soldier quickly aimed and fired, catching a man in the back of the pack in the upper thigh. It dropped him to the ground, and he frantically applied pressure to the wound.
Miles tried to get another shot off at the next closest man, but returning fire forced him back inside. He turned to scream to the hallway as bullets riddled the window.
“Three incoming, front of the house!” he bellowed. He wasn’t sure if Coleman could hear him, but he yelled anyway. As he contemplated his next move, the floor began to splinter as the attackers began shooting up through the first floor ceiling.
Miles scrambled, getting away from the front of the house while firing panic shots through the floor. He stumbled as he made his way out of the room, firing until the rifle clicked empty. He dropped it with a clatter and drew his handgun, aiming it down the hallway and moving slowly towards the stairs. The gunfire from below ceased, and he crept silently towards the stairwell.
Meanwhile, Coleman was in the kitchen, watching the front door like a hawk as he listened to the gunfire coming from above and outside. After Miles’ shout, he waited, and saw the front door creak open, two gunmen entering carefully. They immediately raised their weapons and fired into the ceiling.
Coleman took aim and squeezed off a three-round burst, hitting one of them in the chest, not killing him but at least knocking him to the ground.
“Fucking vests,” he muttered.
Before the other guy could turn and fire, Coleman heard the back door rattle as someone tried to come inside. Without hesitating, the soldier turned and unloaded two three-round bursts into the top of it, shattering the frosted glass and splattering blood on the shards that remained.
He kept his attention on the back door, waiting to see if anyone else dared to come through it, but nothing appeared. As he turned back to the hallway, the injured man and one of his friends opened fire, forcing him back into the kitchen.
With bullets ripping through the wood, he blindly shot a three-ro
und burst down the hall before darting across to the other side. He dove out the back door, sprinting towards the side of the house.
Meanwhile, Miles listened to the commotion downstairs as he approached the top floor landing. He stayed out of sight and peeked around the corner, seeing a wounded man on the ground, and two others concentrating their fire towards the kitchen.
He double checked his handgun, making sure it was a full clip with one in the chamber before making his move. Then he stepped out onto the landing to get a clear shot at the gunman closest to the stairs.
As he stepped onto the wooden landing, one of the boards creaked loudly, alerting the man below. Miles quickly fired several times, catching his opponent in the shoulder. A splinter from the return fire caught him in the wrist, causing him to drop his weapon down the stairs. He leapt backwards, falling on his back, and kicked against the banister to slide himself back away from the carnage. He quickly got to his feet as the firing stopped.
He grimaced at the wound on his arm, a six inch splinter of wood sticking straight out of his wrist. He tore it out with a hiss and tossed it aside, heart rate tripling at the fact that he didn’t have a gun anymore. He reached for his knife, but then left it sheathed as his eyes fixated on the large wooden support beam going from the stairs to the roof.
This is gonna hurt, he thought, and then bounced from foot to foot, psyching himself up for his plan. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and he listened hard. It sounded like only one set, and he fell into a crouch, ready to spring.
When it sounded like the steps were most of the way to the landing, he jumped from his position, grabbing the support beam and swinging around it like an olympic gymnast. The gunman fired, and narrowly missed the soldier before taking two hard boots in the chest.
The force of the impact sent the man flying back down the stairs, cracking the back of his head near the bottom before sliding to the floor in a bloody heap. The wounded man on the ground started yelling, aiming his gun wildly at Miles, who had landed on his side parallel with the stairs.
“Don’t move!” the man screamed. “Don’t you fucking move!”
Miles slowly raised his hands, grimacing in pain from his daredevil maneuver.
“Jones, I got the asshole in my sights!” the injured man yelled. “But Ben’s down though!”
“How’s he looking?” Jones called back from the kitchen.
The gunman kept aiming strictly at Miles, but spared a glance at the brain matter oozing out of Ben’s skull on the stairs.
“He’s a goner,” he called.
“Damn,” came the only reply.
“Did you find the other one?” Miles’ captor called.
“Looks like he cut and ran,” Jones replied.
The injured man scoffed and shook his head. “Do a sweep and see if you can find him,” he instructed loudly. “I got this under control.”
“On it,” Jones called back, and the back door slammed behind him.
Miles’ captor sneered up at him. “We’re gonna interrogate the fuck outta you and ain’t nobody gonna stop us!” he declared.
All the soldier could do was chuckle at his predicament. His handgun was three steps down. It was a hell of a reach, but it would be his only play if Coleman was out of the picture.
He grinned down at his captor. “Did you see that gymnastics shit I pulled?”
“Not sure why you’re laughing,” the injured gunman snapped. “Because we’re gonna do some fucked-up shit to you, boy.”
Miles continued to eyeball the gun, looking at it then back to the gunman on the floor. But his eyes lingered a little too long, and his captor noticed.
“I see you looking at that gun there,” he said with a sneer. “You honestly think you can grab it before I put a bullet in your chest?”
The soldier tilted his head back and forth, feigning nonchalance. “I figure my odds are about thirty, thirty-five percent I get to it before you put me down.”
“And you’re willing to risk your life with those odds?” the injured gunman asked.
Miles shrugged. “Figure I got a better chance doing it this way than letting you boys interrogate me.”
“Well, you’re not wrong there,” his captor replied with a laugh. “So, guess this is where we are, then. Go ahead and make your move.”
Miles nodded and prepared to make his life or death move. He stared down the barrel of the injured man’s gun, just sitting there waiting, like a duel in the old west.
A few tense moments passed before gunfire erupted outside. His captor briefly broke concentration, the noise catching him off guard, and Miles took his opportunity, sliding down the stairs against the wall.
The gunman panicked and fired, narrowly missing his target as Miles grabbed the gun. He immediately raised it and fired several times as he slid down the stairs, bumping his bones on the wood all the way. The first two shots caught the gunman in the vest, stunning him, and as he recovered, Miles leapt up from the fifth step directly onto his opponent.
He landed hard on the injured man, pushing his weapon to the side and firing a bullet into his temple at point-blank range. As the body fell limp, Miles struggled to catch his breath and regain his composure. He stiffened as a figure came onto the porch, and raised his handgun as he gasped for breath.
“It’s Coleman, it’s Coleman!” the sniper cried, putting up his hands.
Miles dropped the gun and then flopped down onto the dead man beneath him, closing his eyes and breathing as deeply as he could. Coleman entered and his eyes widened at the carnage.
“Jesus Christ dude, you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Miles wheezed, “just wind knocked out of me.”
The sniper approached him and held out a hand, helping him to his feet. “You really did a number on these guys, didn’t you?” he asked in awe.
“Just sad there wasn’t a video camera rolling for my swinging double kick of doom,” Miles replied, and toed the head of the man he’d kicked.
Coleman shook his head and chuckled. “Well, if that’s the result,” he said, “then I hope I’m never on the receiving end.”
“Let’s get their weapons and find Cap,” Miles suggested as he finally stopped wheezing. “I know he probably doesn’t need our help, but he might welcome it anyway.”
Coleman cocked his head. “We got something we need to handle first,” he said.
Miles furrowed his brow in confusion, and followed Coleman outside and around the house. He blinked at the last remaining gunman, chained to a tree stump in the yard.
“Is he alive?” he asked.
Coleman nodded. “Unless he had a cyanide capsule in a fake tooth, I think he’s just knocked out.”
“Well, if you want to start waking him up, I’ll get the weapons,” Miles suggested.
The sniper knelt down next to his prisoner. “Look for some keys, too,” he said. “Hopefully these boys drove.”
“Good call,” Miles agreed, and then they exchanged a fist bump before he headed off.
Coleman stared at the slumped man before him. “All right, fucker, let’s get you up.”
CHAPTER SIX
Terrell shone his black light flashlight around, finding only one entrance to the main part of the haunted house attraction. “Let’s see if things have cooled off any,” he muttered, and cracked open the exterior door, looking back to the horde he’d broken through.
Several of them shambled towards the haunted house, the rest heading back towards Terrell’s pursuers. It wasn’t long before more gunfire erupted in the distance, and he spotted zombies dropping amidst the throng.
That oughta keep them busy for a while, he thought bitterly.
More gunshots rang out closer to him, and he startled. He saw a few of the zombies heading towards him drop, and ducked back into the haunted house quickly, shutting the door enough so there was only a tiny sliver for him to look through.
Two men approached the horde, shooting from only a few yards away from the front edge
of the group of twenty ghouls or so. They put down a handful of them, and he counted down before springing into action.
Terrell took his assault rifle, flung open the door, and opened fire on the duo. He hit one man in the back of the vest with two rapid fire shots, dropping him with the force of the bullets to the ground. His buddy turned and fired, forcing the Captain to duck back inside, bullets riddling the door and sending it flying open.
Terrell got up to fire, just in time to see zombies overwhelm the downed man. Screams echoed through the air as the creatures converged on him, biting into his flesh. Terrell moved to resume the firefight, and the downed man’s head exploded before bullets tore through the front of the haunted house again.
The Captain dove back inside, grabbing his flashlight as he went. He came around the first corner into a cemetery scene, about fifteen feet wide with fake tombstones and some ghosts.
“Well, at least it’s not zombies,” he muttered, and looked around. There was a large foam tombstone that was about as tall as he was, and he placed the flashlight in the center of the room to shine directly on the entrance before taking cover behind the large grey piece.
He waited, readying his knife, listening to the gunshots coming from outside. The lighting was too dim to risk firing in there, so he hoped this plan in a long string of ridiculous plans would work.
He didn’t have to wait long, and a man came through the door. He held an assault rifle, with his own black light flashlight in the other, pressed up against the barrel of the gun.
Terrell watched the dim beam move around the room, ducking down as it shone in his direction. Slowly the light panned around, and when he was facing away from him, the Captain rushed forward, taking the foam tombstone with him.
The noise alerted the gunman who turned to fire, but Terrell used the large prop to block the gunman from properly aiming, hitting his arms as he turned. He ran straight through the man, tackling him. They tumbled to the ground, and the Captain was able to get on top and rain blows down on his face.
The ground and pound maneuver was effective, even though the lighting from the two downed flashlights was minimal. While he couldn’t see the damage, he could feel the warm blood on his hands, hear the sick crunching of bones with each blow.
Dead America The Third Week Box Set | Books 7-12 Page 31