by Dulaney, C.
“Do it, and I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off,” the man warned.
Mort mouthed the words, Will he?
Adams mouthed back, No.
Mort squeezed his eyes shut and relaxed as much as possible. “Alright, stranger. We’re done. What now?”
“Move.”
✽✽✽
Brad blinked as he rode, absently timing it with the clip-clop of his horse’s hooves. His radar glitched harder and harder, which told him he was getting closer to the zombies. He also watched a woman, standing at a second-floor window of a house straight ahead, mouth the word help over and over. He glanced from side to side and didn’t notice anything or anyone else around, only corpses littering the ground. For a second, he thought about going back and getting the other two before they circled around and flanked him, ready to take out anyone who jumped out of ambush, and getting the hell away from there as fast as they could. He usually ended up regretting not listening to Adams, and he felt that same feeling beginning to creep its way up from his gut.
But the woman begging for help pretty much kicked all of that out of his head.
Half a block away from the house, and he still didn’t see the zombies. He took a deep breath; no smell. A stiff breeze caused a rustle behind him. Brad twisted in the saddle and watched a newspaper dance across the street. As he slowly turned back, he let his eyes drag across the houses he’d passed. Still nothing.
He pulled up in front of the house. The deep quiet of the whole place ate at him. He glanced up; the woman was still there, arms at her sides, repeating the same word like a mantra. Her face was slack, eyes dull. Before dismounting, he checked the pistol at his side and considered bringing the rifle strapped to his saddle. After a moment, Brad shook his head and slid to the ground, pulling his sidearm as he did.
“Whoa,” he whispered to his horse and patted its neck. “Stay here, boy.” He rolled his eyes up and watched the woman as he approached the front door. He blinked quickly three times but his radar was fucked.
Where the hell are they? he thought and turned the doorknob.
A hand shot out, grabbed his wrist, and jerked him inside.
✽✽✽
Brad tried to hide it, but he’d stopped giving a shit about the whole of humanity a long time ago. He went along with their original mission orders from PhoenTek concerning Operation Phoenix, about taking care of the CCs and the gabs for the sake of all the remaining survivors, mostly because of Mort, even though he’d began to believe that his kind really would be better off alone. Better off without the rest of them, the “normies.” Better off without the ridicule and the fearful looks. Better off not being treated like a freak or a monster.
A small part of himself, the quiet voice that stayed mostly hidden in the back of his mind, reminded him that he’d gotten very good at rationalizing what he’d done, and what he was still willing to do. That his attitude was incredibly selfish and stupid, and that he still cared enough to take great measures in lying to himself about caring.
But as he lay on the floor getting kicked around the midsection by at least two pair of booted feet, Brad wondered why the hell he’d decided to ignore Adams instead of that stupid little do-gooder voice in his head.
Each time Brad blinked, his danger radar glitched and bugged out. One time he’d see dozens of dots that danced all over the screen, and the next time there’d be nothing but streaks and blurs.
He curled up into as tight a ball as he could, but that just left his back exposed. The two people, he couldn’t tell if they were men, or women, or if the woman from upstairs was one of them, kicked and stomped his back and kidney area. He opened his mouth to speak, but one of them, apparently the stronger of the pair, jerked him up onto his ass and nailed him in the nose. One of Brad’s hands went to his face and came away red. His eyes widened and the man, he could see it was a man now, hit him again. This time Brad went flying onto his back. He cursed and held his nose, and when he finally looked up, all he could see was the barrel of a gun. A big black hole in front of his eyes. His bloodied hands dropped away and he kept his mouth shut. Blood poured freely from his nose, and judging by the feel, the man had done a fine job in breaking it.
“Okay,” Brad managed to croak. “Okay, buddy.”
Somewhere behind his head, the front door blew open, slamming into whatever furniture had been behind it.
“Get off me!” Adams yelled. “Fucking asshole, I’m gonna beat your dick into the—” Air exploded from his lungs in a painful grunt and Brad heard him hit the floor.
Safe to assume Mort was with him, but the older man didn’t say anything. Brad only knew it was him by the way he was breathing. Two smaller thumps and Mort was on the floor as well.
Brad turned his eyes back to the gun in his face, then to the man behind it. He looked like hell and smelled like a wet towel after it’d lain on the bathroom floor for a week. The corner of the man’s mouth quirked up, exposing gaps where teeth should have been. The whites of his eyes had a yellow tint, and the longer Brad looked at him, the more he noticed the man’s skin was nearly the same sickly shade.
The other person, Brad still didn’t know whether it was a man or woman, moved to help his buddy restrain Mort and Adams.
The man in front of Brad cleared his throat. “We want your horses. Your guns.” He looked Brad up and down. “Everything you got.”
Mort spoke up from somewhere behind where Brad lay on the floor. “Whatever you want. Take it all.”
Thwack.
Another thump, and Mort was back on the floor.
Brad’s guts clenched until he thought they’d burst. There was no way out of this. If he went for his gun, the man would shoot him. If he went for the man’s legs, he’d shoot him. Not to mention what would happen to Mort and Adams. He assumed they had guns to their heads, too.
“Let’s just take their shit and get outta here,” a voice said behind Brad. Another giggled. And low-pitched, slow giggle. Brad’s guts tightened more.
Two more men, then. Where the hell is that woman? he thought.
“Shut up,” the man above Brad said. The corner of his lips twitched upward again. “You look like you been well-kept. Where you holed up? Must be someplace nice.”
Another giggle from behind. Adams whimpered.
“Yeah,” the man said. “Well-kept. Nice and clean.” He ran his eyes over Brad again and smiled. A bit of drool threatened to drip from his lower lip.
Oh, shit.
The man looked up. “Take them to the back room. Strip ‘em, take their shit outside. Bring their horses up. We’re getting outta here before that swarm gets here.”
Brad tensed. Swarm. He had to do something. Kick out at the toothless wonder, pull his gun, anything to stop what was about to happen. Stall long enough for the gabs to show up.
The man pulled back on the hammer of his pistol. “Ah, ah, ah. Settle down, sweetheart. I’ll get to you in a second.” He jerked his head to his buddies. “Go on, get to it.”
The Giggler dragged Adams to his feet, who kicked and threw himself trying to get away. It only made the man laugh more. The other lifted Mort and together the two men shoved Brad’s friends down a hallway and disappeared. A door slammed and seconds later, he heard Adams start yelling. Not so much words, but definitely sounds of bad shit happening. Then a few thumps, followed by meaty thuds, and Adams shut up altogether.
A sudden closeness snapped Brad’s attention back in front of him. The man straddled his waist and knelt so close Brad could smell the stink of whiskey on his breath. The barrel of the gun pressed hard under his chin, tilting his head back. The stairs creaked and the woman Brad had seen before appeared over the man’s shoulder. Her face was slack, as dead as the fucking zombies that messed up Brad’s danger radar. He could hear them now, growling softly from somewhere upstairs.
Over his shoulder, the man said, “I told you to stay in the bedroom with them.”
The woman shrugged. “I wanted to see.”
&
nbsp; “Well, you saw. Now get your ass back upstairs.”
She sighed, twirled once, and lightly climbed the steps.
Metal jingled and something unzipped. That’s all the motivation Brad’s frozen muscles needed. He brought up a knee and struck out with a fist. The man pinned his legs and caught Brad’s arm, flinging it back to the floor. He brought the gun down across Brad’s temple.
His vision blurred immediately. The commotion from the back room got louder. Mort begged someone to stop.
“Go ahead and fight,” the man hissed right next to Brad’s face. Brad blinked tears from his dazed eyes and tried to focus. He fought to stay conscious, then decided passing out might be better when something yanked at his pants.
✽✽✽
Through the fog in his head, Brad heard voices. They were muffled, and there were only two, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. It also didn’t sound as though they were very far away. He guessed these two people were close by, wherever that was. Brad kept his eyes closed in case the voices watched him and did a quick diagnostic. He had sensation in all his extremities − good sign. But he felt the cold bite of air all over − bad sign. There was a sore spot on the back of his head he knew would turn into a headache later. He didn’t remember getting hit back there. That fucking asshole must’ve smacked his head against the floor. That would explain the fog.
Wonder of wonders: his face didn’t hurt, so maybe his nose hadn’t been broken after all.
“You alright, boy?”
Mort sat next to a groggy Brad, bound and tied next to Adams. The three had been dumped in front of an old, fallen log outside the community, in the woods where Mort and Adams had left their horses before. Brad had been tied up while still unconscious, and as he woke up, he began to struggle against his bonds.
“Take it easy. Hey, you’re tied up. Just keep your ass calm,” Mort said. He leaned as close as he was able and spoke quietly. “How’s your head?”
Brad made a face. He was slouched and tilted to the side, his arms pulled too tight behind him, and one tug of his feet told him his ankles were fastened to his wrists.
He grunted. “Doesn’t hurt as bad as the rest of me.” As lucidity returned, Brad was sharply aware that yes, he was indeed naked.
“You might have a concussion, so take it easy.”
Brad sniffed and licked his lips. “That’s the least of my worries right now.”
Mort followed Brad’s eyes. The Giggler sat on a rock, about ten feet away, with a shotgun aimed straight at them. Their shotgun.
Mort’s breath rushed out of him. “Right.”
Brad wiggled and scooted around until he was sitting a little more upright, and closer to Mort’s ear. “How long was I out?”
“About an hour.”
Adams leaned forward to look around Mort. “When are you gonna learn to listen to me?” His body was covered in marks that were quickly turning into bruises. He had a black eye and dried, crusty blood around his nose.
Brad pressed his lips together, then shook his head and watched the Giggler through blurry vision. “Don’t worry, Eight Ball,” he whispered to Adams. “I got this under control.”
Adams snorted. “Right. This is all going according to plan.”
“Exactly,” Brad slurred.
“If the plan was me catching a fuckin’ beating, there were easier ways of doing it.”
“Boys,” Mort interjected. He gave their captor a polite smile and spoke to the others through the corners of his mouth. “Please shut up and don’t give the nice man with the scattergun a reason to execute us.”
“Why the hell are we naked?” Brad whispered.
Adams cussed him under his breath.
“Hey.” Brad turned his head slightly in Adams’ direction and kept his voice low. “Your ass isn’t sore, is it?”
Adams screwed up his face. “Dude, no. Gross.”
Brad smiled. “Will he shoot us?”
Adams hissed another swear word, then answered, “No.”
“Boys,” Mort groaned.
The Giggler pulled the hammer back.
“Of course,” Adams said, “I’ve been wrong a time or two.”
“No, you haven’t. Not once,” Brad said.
Mort cleared his throat, and his two friends shut up. Soon, the sound of crickets and cicadas filled the air.
And, so far off it could have been mistaken for a wild animal, a hunting screech floated on the breeze.
Brad froze and looked over at Mort. Adams leaned forward again and looked at Brad.
“Shit,” Mort whispered.
Adams stared at Brad so long, he worried the younger man was having a seizure.
Brad mouthed Gabs?
Adams nodded. He turned his eyes on the Giggler, then flinched and winced in pain. A small drop of fresh blood hung from his nose when he turned back to Brad.
Brad raised an eyebrow and tipped his head in the Giggler’s direction. Adams nodded again.
Mort whispered, “Don’t.”
Another hunting screech, this one louder than the last, but still a ways off. Brad knew they could wait this out, and let the gabs take care of these sickos. But he also knew they were naked and weaponless, and they needed these ropes off somehow. Preferably before this fucker in front of them was dragged off somewhere and devoured. Or before he and his buddies decided to haul ass out of there on their horses, with all their supplies and weapons.
The Giggler had turned toward the direction of the screech.
Brad sucked in a breath, shot a warning look at Adams, and said, “Hey, buddy. How about a go?”
The Giggler’s head snapped around, eyes wide, and he…well, he giggled.
“Yeah,” Brad said, grimacing. “Eight Ball’s never wrong.” He looked around and his eyes landed on a bush a dozen feet away. He jerked his chin in that direction. “How about over there?” He glanced back toward the community’s entrance. “Gotta be quick though. Don’t think your boss would like it much if he knew you were…well, you know.” Brad didn’t know how to fake a blush, but he lowered his face and pretended to anyway.
The Giggler, the idiot, laughed harder, jumped up from his rock, dropped the shotgun, and practically tripped over himself getting to Brad. He fell to his knees and bounced up and down a couple times, clearly excited.
“Yeah, right, okay.” Brad pulled on his restraints, exaggerating the motion. “Get these off real quick. Hurry!”
He heard Adams whisper, “Holy shit,” just as the Giggler yanked his knife from its sheath and start sawing through the ropes binding Brad’s wrists to his ankles.
The second the tension from the ropes released, Brad slammed his forehead into The Giggler’s. That man, in turn, dropped the knife, brought his hands to his face, and sucked in a breath to scream.
Brad headbutted him again.
The Giggler fell backward, and Brad jumped to his feet. He scooped the knife into his hand on his way up and fell on top of the Giggler. Brad slapped one hand over the man’s mouth and slid the blade through his ribs, into the Giggler’s heart.
The man jerked once and went still.
Brad braced himself and panted over the dead bastard. He glanced down, saw he was splattered with blood, and jumped away.
“Brad, c’mon,” Adams hissed. He twisted until the ropes around his ankles and wrists were exposed. “Get this fucking thing off me.”
“Right,” Brad breathed.
He hurried over and dropped to his knees, making quick work of the rope. Adams rolled away, painfully, like every joint hurt, and made room for Brad to cut Mort free. He helped the older man to his feet, held Mort’s questioning stare a moment, then gave him a solid nod.
“Alright, boy.” Mort smacked Brad’s upper arm. He stepped to the side and looked down at the body, then over to where he’d dropped the shotgun. “Adams,” he pointed at the gun, “if you’re able, you take that. Brad,” he motioned to the knife shaking in Brad’s hand, “you keep hold of that.” Mor
t turned toward the community’s entrance. “Now, time to get our shit back.”
More hunting screeches now, and louder. The gabs were getting closer.
“Sounds like a lot,” Brad muttered.
Mort spun on Adams, who was rifling through the Giggler’s pockets, looking for more ammo. “Are there a lot of gabs headed this way?”
Adams snorted and kept checking pockets without looking up. “No shit.”
Horse hooves beating pavement and a man yelling snapped their heads toward the community.
“No. No!” Brad yelled.
He ran halfway out into the street, nudity be damned, waving the knife like he’d actually be able to stop them with it. The two remaining men and that damned woman rode hard out the entrance and turned north, away from the approaching horde, not slowing or even throwing a glance Brad’s way. He noticed his rifle was still strapped to his saddle, then the three disappeared around a bend in the road.
“Brad!” Adams yelled. He stood next to Mort at the tree line, slouched over, one arm holding his middle, the shotgun cradled in the other. “Don’t move!”
Brad turned to look down the other way, the opposite direction the bandits had ridden, and the same direction as the hunting screeches.
“Damn. That is a lot,” he said, then tucked his arms close to his body and forced himself to freeze in place. He looked over at his friends; Mort grabbed Adams and tucked him in close to the log they’d been tied up against, and hunkered down with him.
The growling and screeching were deafening at that point. Before Brad closed his eyes, he saw an ocean of gabs running at him. He knew they wouldn’t attack him, but they could trample his ass just fine, so he turned sideways to make a smaller target.
✽✽✽
After the swarm passed, Brad was covered in more blood than before. At least, he hoped it was blood. He knew most of it wasn’t, though, and that thought made his stomach revolt. He folded in half and puked. It splashed onto his feet, he remembered he was naked again, and then he puked harder.