Still Alive (Book 7): Zombie Perdition

by Bonds, Javan

  Linda swiveled her head to look for her fellow gang member, intending to call for aid. In the next few seconds, she understood her comrade would soon be joining her in death. Losing arterial blood and suffocating, she could only fall to the fetal position. Whether it was the lack of oxygen or the precious crimson shooting from the tiny hole in her neck, Linda Garcia would soon be going down a lost highway.

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  Garcia’s brother in The Black Hand, Jarrod Kilgore, would meet the Grim Reaper after a much more excruciating dance with objects that were never intended to be used as deadly weapons. O’Mahini and Sue Crafter both surged around Goodall and Rawlings, who held both of Fielder’s wrists and fought with his kicking legs. No matter what happened to the others, the job was done. A weight lifted from Paul’s shoulders. Though most didn’t know it yet, he had already avenged himself, the family he would never get to see again, his associates on the stage, and every serf in The Nash.

  Without the time to do anything more than wonder why lowly slaves were charging at him with murder in their eyes, Jarrod received the punishment they wished for every member of The Hand. First, Crafter stabbed him just above the right hip with her spade. She turned her improvised knife, pulling it out the front of his gut. As she broke through the skin from the inside, she again turned her garden tool to be taller than it was wide.

  “Did you enjoy that, precious?” Sue could barely hide the revulsion on her face at what she had done. She had just done something unthinkably horrible to another person. At any other time, for any other reason, she wouldn’t have committed an act so despicable.

  Steaming, juicy entrails rolled out and made sickening plops on the stage. “What the fuck, lady? I–“Jarrod‘s disbelieving scream was cut short.

  In such shock, he didn’t even notice Sonia standing right in front of him. She jammed the can opener into his throat, twisted, and violently yanked. Wet, stringy innards came out the ragged opening along with the tiny hook. Something used, at any other time, to open a container of sardines, ripped out Kilgore’s voice box and vital connections between brain and body.

  Sonia choked down her own vomit and attempted to joke with her comrade. “Well if he didn’t, he certainly had bloody fun with that one!” It was shameful, in her mind, how quickly she accepted committing atrocities. They deserve it was all she could think.

  Pulling apart a pumpkin with a gutting knife would be the best comparison. His eyes grew wide in terrified understanding. The bloodied epicarp being torn from inside his body was all the proof he needed. There was no way Jarrod Kilgore was walking away. Seemingly unfairly, the score was final as he sank to his knees. Even so, he instinctively put his hands to his gaping neck, vainly trying to stop the torrential blood flow.

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  Trying to tug away from Paul’s grasp, Reaca was proving to be hard to handle. He already attempted head-butting the man in front of him; more than once. Add to that, battling the knee and foot with the same appendage being his only defense, Rawlings wouldn’t be able to contain The Dictator much longer. Soon, he would be free and they would all die. Paul was just attempting to keep the puppeteer tied up in his own strings so his mates could cause the most havoc possible.

  Goodall stepped over to the couple in a close embrace bending over to wrench the razor-sharp piece of hardened clay from her sock. Fielder froze when she placed the cutting shard against his neck, immediately drawing a few drops of blood. This was the closest to death he had ever come.

  “Stop bloody moving! This’ll all be over in a minute. Just be patient, and you’ll get out of here with nothing more than a cut on your hand.” All five of the slaves knew that tiny cut was what would be the end of The Nash.

  What Paul earlier told the entire group flashed across her mind, “Be certain Reaca survives... Even if we don’t. I’m gonna make sure he’s infected. He’ll think he’s the conquering victor and so will everyone else. At least for the next few hours. After that, we are guaranteed to win, though it’s doubtful we’ll see it; that doesn’t matter.”

  All of them were aware, the second they reached the stage they would have to be carried off in body bags. Any action that was taken until their last breath would be for others; self-sacrifice. They were willing martyrs, dying for a cause. When you kill the Queen, the ant bed won’t be far behind. That’s the sequence they were hoping to put into play here. The goal was to remove the head from the snake.

  Not willing to shoot with their leader near the line of fire, more grunts slowly walked out onto the platform with pistols drawn. A yelling match took place between the holdouts and their executioners. Though the five Brits didn’t actually want to kill Fielder, they were willing to let those coming at them with guns think they did. It was clear they were willing to hurt him to gain a few more minutes of life. This made their attackers hesitate.

  “What do you want?” One of the enforcers, Kristi Garrigus, shouted as she trained her handgun at them.

  Paul spoke solemnly, “To see my wife and kids again.”

  In the next instant, so many things happened; it would have to be played in slow motion to catch it all. Gareth lunged forward, jerking the waiting pistol from the now cooling Linda Garcia’s holster. The members of The Black Hand were only able to shout one thing.

  “Gun!”

  Before he dropped, Stevens put three rounds into the closest target.

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  Sizing up her nearest enemy, Garrigus got off one round before the first bullet crashed into her, between the two uppermost ribs on her right side. Before it could knock her sideways, the next shot buried itself into the sternum, just below the crook of her collarbone.

  With an exploded lung and a cracked chest bone, Kristi could have easily, though in extreme pain, survived if not for the next piece of lead. The force from both projectiles turned her to the right just enough that the third round ended her. It would’ve missed her completely, if not for the supernatural direction of The Screenwriter. As fate would have it, it caught the top of her skull at the back of the left side. Brain casing and leaking gray matter blew away from her in one large chunk. No scream or any type of final outcry came from Garrigus. She simply went rigid before collapsing in a twitching heap.

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  Almost every hoodlum in range launched at least one lead missile at Gareth. Now peppered from head to toe, he received more than one fatal impact in quite a few vital places. Most of the rounds embedded into his abdomen or middle torso, by chance, one small-caliber bullet grazed his wrist, causing dark red to begin pouring to the floor. His radial artery being nicked went unnoticed. Regardless, the next shot meant it didn’t really matter.

  The second his eyes moved to the next combatant, a 9-millimeter slug slammed into his forehead. Somehow, it didn’t cause the brain casing to simply explode, sending brains rocketing for several feet and blood geysering like a decorative fountain. Instead, Gareth remained completely conscious, standing, and able to experience the agony of having a piece of superheated metal inside his cranium.

  Scrambled gray matter was cooking from the inside out as crimson began to seep down his face. Gareth then raised his left hand to his forehead to feel the obviously mortal wound. As he did this, he noticed the dark blood pumping out of his wrist. Feet falling out from under him, he landed on his ass. That’s where Stevens would remain in a growing pool of his own blood, until losing all awareness and falling into dreamless eternal sleep.

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  With the attention of The Hand members on Stevens, Crafter turned to the downed Jerrod Kilgore, she was able to get one shot off before being riddled. Reaca being completely out of the danger zone for this one, they had no problem squeezing their triggers as many times as they felt necessary. Unfortunately for Sue, her round didn’t come to rest in anyone. Though she would never get to realize it, her bullet wasn’t completely useless.

  She received dozens of tiny holes over her entire body. There were more running pockmarks in her f
lesh then she had years in age. A .38 went along either side of her skull. Both ears popped off and flew away, seeming to disappear. The dozens of bullets that pushed into her torso didn’t impact at such a high velocity as to exit her body. She had a tackle box worth of lead inside her.

  Jaws automatically clenched anticipating the onslaught of coming projectiles. Her teeth were shattered by a .22 driving through and into her soft palate. Blood would’ve started flowing if not for the .357 that entered her mouth nanoseconds later. Everything above her lower jaw bone erupted like a piñata in Rob Zombie’s nightmares. After going rigid and emptying her bowels, the rest of Sue Crafter dropped into a bleeding mess. If she was able, she would attest this was a fairly creative death.

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  That one bullet Sue sent careening at her enemies made at least one of them jump. So frazzled, Billy Coley accidentally shot one of his fellow criminals before him. Kathy Kurkiewicz took a hit in her lower back, just to the left of the spine. That shot, in itself, was far from deadly. The cascade of events it started, though, would be the finales for both of them.

  Kathy spun on her heels, incredulous. The sheepish look on Billy’s face told her he was the source of the friendly fire. “What the hell, man?”

  “I didn’t mean to. Honest!” cried the young man.

  Always having a vengeful streak, her eyes flared. “Oh, yeah? Well... I did mean to.” She repeatedly squeezed her trigger.

  Kathy popped off a few 9 millimeters at a person, moments ago, she would’ve considered family. Three of the rounds slammed into his left shoulder just above the pectoral muscles. Though the arm would’ve been useless for the foreseeable future, with the skeletal framing also being fragmented and contracted tissue being damaged, survivability was guaranteed. That is, if not for round number four.

  It meant Billy Coley’s demise would, in only a few minutes, be an irreversible fact.

  Feeling the intense pressure from the initial trio, the next projectile seemed, to him, to have passed by with no consequences. As he put his hand up to simply hold his new wound, Billy noticed the hand began slipping from his shoulder, like he was being doused in hot oil. Looking down, he could see crimson gushing down his body. His head swiveled, meaning the dark blood now pumped out behind him. The jugular had been unnoticeably scathed.

  His hand shot up to his neck. “What the fuck was that for?”

  Kurkiewicz smirked. “It’s what you get for being a dumbass.”

  “I shot you by accident and said I was sorry! You could’ve survived it easily. I’m dead because of you.” he nearly sobbed.

  She shrugged. “Yeah, well... now you know.”

  Accepting his fate, he smiled maliciously. “Guess I do. But... So will you!”

  Twelve .22 LR rounds were rapidly fired in Kathy’s direction.

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  At the same time two of the gang members were arguing and shooting each other, O’Mahony took a knee in front of Sue to pick up the dropped pistol. Without standing, she squeezed off three small-caliber rounds. Though she wasn’t used to shooting a handgun, her hurried burst was actually what saved Paul’s life.

  Standing on the outside of the group closest to Rawlings, Jackie Raceles was about to do something that would’ve got her killed after this was all over, had she survived. She was just trying to end the conflict before her leader could become a casualty. She lined her pistol up on the four legs of Paul and Reaca. Shooting out the legs of her enemy would free up Fielder. Even if she did somehow hit The Dictator, it would doubtfully be a fatal shot.

  In the instant her bullet left the barrel, Sonia’s first round left hers. A .380 round collided with Jackie’s .38 cal, midair. The contact was only detectable by the briefest, minute spark, but went completely unseen by everyone on the stage. The Screenwriter deserved props for enacting such an impossible sequence of events.

  O’Mahony’s next two rounds would be the end of Raceles, sooner rather than later. They slammed into the back of her right hand and the base of her left palm, consecutively. Tiny hollow points literally exploded when impacting bone. Blood, skin, and calcified fragments shot in every direction. Jackie lost both her hands up to the joint of each wrist. Also, this meant the radial and ulnar arteries in both extremities were now loosed.

  Her life gushed from the ragged stumps on the end of her arms. All she could do was flail and scream in agonizing terror. Though she would be dead in minutes no matter what, her rapid movement only increased blood-flow; meaning a quicker death. Dark red literally pooled on the floor around her, making her paling skin appear a sickly yellow. Jackie Raceles soon became too tired to protest her fate. She decided taking a nap on the floor would make everything better. Curled up in a ball was where she would take her last breath.

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  Just as Sonia sent her volley careening at Raceles, she was struck by a handful of .22 rounds. If Coley had been paying attention, his shots wouldn’t have been near as perfect. Only minutes from death himself, he caused the ultimate fall of one of the Brits, unknowingly, in his final act. Though his shots were far from fatal in themselves, they put O’Mahony out of action and basically turned her into a sitting duck. Her death was short because of another one of his accidents.

  Two of the extremely small pieces of lead hit her squarely in either pupil. All of the next three impacted randomly across her body, not damaging anything vital. Completely blinded, the only thing she could do was sit down. In shock and disbelieving terror at losing her sight at one of the worst moments possible, she had to scream as she wept tears of blood. Her only hope was that maybe criminal lowlifes wouldn’t shoot the wounded. Clearly, The Screenwriter would affirm, only fools hope.

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  Standing behind Billy, Alicia Mahaffy launched a round from her Desert Eagle at Crafter. The single, projectile that came from Sue’s gun seemed to pass by all the gangsters. Seconds after it passed, she noticed what felt like warm rain droplets on her head. There was nothing when she looked up, but when she turned her cranium to look in front of her again, she felt it. Moving a hand up, she noticed the water coming from the wrong way. That .380 skimmed across her scalp, digging a shallow trench.

  As some sort of final revenge, the Brit sent some pain to her murderer. Far from a mortal injury, it was certainly disconcerting to be drenched in your own blood, but the wound would eventually clot. Heartbeats later, Alicia got what could be described as a fantastic death.

  That 9 millimeter round that nicked Coley’s artery stayed on the same primary projection. It slammed into the bridge of Mahaffy’s nose, directly between the eyes. Face momentarily sank in, with crossed eyes seeming to look at the entry wound. Just as quickly, the cranium sprouted like a wet, stringing blossom on fast-forward. Though she didn’t have time to understand what was happening, Alicia Mahaffy dropped in a pile of her body fluids, having lost her mind.

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  Seven of the twelve .22 rounds that launched from Billy Coley’s muzzle hit their intended target. Kurkiewicz took every shot below the left breast. Her ribs stopped most of them, but a fragment from one embedded itself into her right atrium. Nothing could have saved her as the pericardial sac started filling with blood. Though only a small trickle of dark red came from the entryway, she could feel her chest becoming full. It was getting hard to breathe, and she was aware the end was coming.

  The woman’s attention shot up to the general direction from where the sound was coming. “What, me?”

  As an answer, Kurkiewicz put a 9mm round into O’Mahony’s skull. A mushroom of awful burst from where her head was only seconds ago. The arterial spray squirting from her gaping neck covered the area around her rigid body. After a second, it started to loosen before collapsing on the old planks. What’s left of Sonia OMahini’s lifeblood would drain out in a place far from her homeland.

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  Kathy turned back, talking to Sonia. “Hey, blind chick?”

  After stumbling around, feeling more
and more heated pressure on her chest, Kurkiewicz aimed her trembling pistol at each of her fellow gang members dying on the floor. Billy, though paling and far from lucid, was still conscious. He didn’t even register that a gun was being pointed at him. It probably wouldn’t have mattered to him, considering the absolutes, even if he was able to realize it.

  As it was, though, Kathy didn’t feel like squeezing the trigger. In fact, the gun was getting too heavy to hold. I’ll just drop it. I’m still kind of wore out. The floor looks pretty comfortable... and I can use Jackie’s shoulder as a pillow!

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  49

  I Can Hear Heaven

  “Yeah, I know I’m fucking early. Again. Got tired of staring at the dam wall in that room where I sleep.” Sergeant Salzman brushed off the usual harassment about his showing up before scheduled.

  None of these fucking kids understand what being married to the job really means. They all have fucking sweethearts or families or friends. Fuck that shit! That’s all just a distraction. This pile of papers on my desk can be my fucking good buddy!

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  After what had to be at least an hour behind his desk, Sarge could feel something. The Station...the officers in the building put off a vibe. Through the walls and closed door of his office, he could feel the buzz... excitement... nervousness ...pressure.

  Everybody here’s a cop...sure. But most of them don’t fucking understand the sound they’re making, the noise I hear. Not really a noise...the feeling they put off as a whole. It’s something every police officer wants to feel. Serving....the desire to serve they get from their brothers in blue.

  The feeling’s fucking heaven. Knowing that others around you are doing their damnedest to do their best for the community. A paradise for any public servant. Ah, fuck it, that’s not the right word, since things aren’t perfect, just right outside the doorstep. Is that limbo? Maybe perdition?