Monsters Heroes Cowboys & Zombies

by Manning, Brian

  She shouldered the door hard and almost tripped as it gave way easier than she expected it to. Slamming into a rail she heard the pistol hit the ground. She didn't even realize she dropped it, due to the pain of the impact. Another attacker tried to exit with her. Bracing her back against the bar she kicked the door shut with all her might. It didn't close, but the sickening snap of the thing's arm let her know that it had less reach now.

  Vaulting the rail and scooping the pistol up, she made a break for the wall behind the store, leading to another residential area. She was in the suburbs, so it wasn't safe to just leap into someone's backyard. It was either that or make her last stand in the back parking lot. The crowd spilled out of the store, but there were several more approaching from her left. She stopped at the wall and holstered the pistol. The wall was much higher than any she had ever climbed before. She tossed the spear over the wall, took several steps back, and and hit the wall with a running start. She planted jumped then planted one foot on the wall. Once her hands found a solid grip, she pulled her self up, while grinding with her feet as well. She was able to get one elbow up on the ledge, and used it to swing a leg over.

  She did her best to roll as she hit the moist ground beneath her, taking much of the shock away. Her hands were burning from scrapes and tears inflicted by the rough concrete wall. Her lungs burned, and her throat was dry. She unclipped the backpack, and sat up out of the straps. After draining the canteen her whole body sagged. She needed sleep, but this was not a safe place. She couldn't find the strength to get up, but misfortune once again forced her hand. A girl about her age approached. Or at least it was a girl about her age, before it was turned into one of those things. Still dressed for summer, it wore shorts and a the tattered mockery of a t-shirt with a cartoon pony on it.

  In a slow, pained movement, she grasped the rebar from the ground, bringing clumps of soil and grass with it, and rose to her feet. With several heavy steps, the distance between the two melted away. Teeth clenched, she let out a vicious grunt as the point of her spear drove upward just inside the right side of the creature's jawbone. The spear struck the top of the skull, but didn't penetrate. The force of the strike was enough to lift it off of its feet. It hung in the air for a split second as she shucked it aside, like whipping a tangle of hay from a pitchfork.

  She drove the point into the ground and slumped to her knees, leaning against the shaft of the weapon as much as she could. She felt as if she had lost all her focus and all her will. For this brief moment, she no longer cared if this was where she was to die. Torn apart by the teeth and claws of the undead hordes. Her hand rested on her leg, feeling the lump in her pocket. Chewing gum and breath mints. Part of her major haul that she had just risked everything for. She laughed at the absurdity. The thought that something so common and worthless not two years earlier would be something she would now consider risking her life for.

  At that moment, she refused to give up. More out of pride than any sense of self-preservation. If this was all she could find, then why did she ever bother volunteering to make a run. Noticing that the sliding glass backdoor was partially open, she half dragged her pack as she approached. She dumped the pack just inside the house, and pulled her pistol. It was stupid to rely on a firearm, but in her current condition, if anything attacked, that was the only weapon she could use effectively.

  Once assured the house was clear, she made her way upstairs. It was getting dark, and she was on the verge of collapse. She pulled the stairs to the attic and climbed, making sure to pull them back up, so nothing could follow her. She set her pack near the window, so she could use the last of the day's light to save her flashlight's power. Her sleeping bag was missing, and she sat staring at the straps on her pack that usually held it in place. It took her minutes to realize that it was left behind on the treehouse during her escape earlier that morning. She was able to scrounge an old musty blanket left by the previous occupants. Once she knocked most of the dust out, it was surprisingly much more comfortable than her sleeping bag. It was heavier, though, so she debated if it was worth carrying once she left.

  That evening she took stock of her supplies. She swapped the magazine in her pistol, with the fresh one in her belt. There were only three rounds fired, but it was better to have a full magazine loaded. The supplies she grabbed included the shampoo, pens, toy cars, two rolls of toilet paper, and a box of powdered flavoring for water. This just about made the crazy assault on that store worth it. She finished off her rations of jerky and cracked open one of the spare water bottles she carried with her. She poured the contents into her canteen, adding a packet of the flavoring in there. Normally she wasn't a fan of raspberry, but tonight it was heavenly.

  * * *

  She slept better than she ever had in weeks; better than she had in months, actually. Her eyes opened slowly, and she lay there looking at the rafters, watching the dust play in the beams of light that shone through the window. As she sat up, there was a slight thunking sound. She looked around seeing if she had dropped something in her lap. As she turned to her left, leaning on her elbow, she heard it again. Was something attached to her. Once more, thunk. It was soft. Barely noticeable.

  She froze in place as a soft dragging sound pulled her attention to the stairs. There was an audible creak as they were slowly being pulled down. She reached back toward her bag feeling around, unable to find her spear. She had left it in the yard before coming into the house. A figure slowly crept up the stairs. She stood, placing her back against the window. Her shadow draped over the intruder. Her hand dropped to her hip, but her gun belt was tossed aside carelessly out of reach, as she prepared for last night's slumber.

  The figure brought something up to its shoulder with smooth practiced ease. A weapon. It was a sub-machine gun, pointed in her direction. This wasn't one of those creatures. It was a man wearing a baseball cap pulled low. He wore dark sunglasses. The kind with the polarized rainbow like lenses making it impossible to see his eyes. The floor creaked with each slow step he took. A scarf was pulled over the lower half of his face, hiding his expression. She took a step forward, but her legs were trembling so much that she dropped to her hands and knees, still looking up unblinking.

  “Anything?” a low voice called from below.

  “Yeah,” The figure replied. “It...it's her.”

  The barrel of his weapon lowered slowly as he held his left hand out, palm forward, gesturing for her to remain calm. A second set of foot steps thumped loudly on the rickety stairs. A bearded burly man moved passed the first man, and rushed her.

  “Careful, sir. She might have been infected.” The first said.

  Before she could react to what was happening, she was snapped up in the larger man's arms. It was her uncle, but how did he know she was in this house? She surrendered to his comforting, yet nearly smothering embrace. His low gravelly voice filled the small attic, as if he only spoke at one volume level.

  “Where have you been? Why would you leave without telling anyone? We were all worried sick!”

  “I...I volunteered to go out. To grab supplies.”

  “Yes that's what we were told, but you weren't ready.” His voice quivered.

  “But I am ready. I –”

  “No. You should have talked to me about it. You think that's why I showed you how to use this?” He brought her spear out from where he had tucked it into his belt. “I showed you, so you could protect your mother. So you could protect the others if any of those beasts made it through the walls.”

  He held her at arms length, letting the words sink in. His eyes were red, and tears streaked his weathered cheeks.

  “Uncle, I found some toilet paper.” It was all she could think to say.

  He let out a loud husky laugh as he embraced her again. “That's good. Now let's go home.”

  “Home. Yes. Let's go home.”

  # # #

  ALL CLEAR

  The flag at the top of the tower waves, letting the people inside know it is
time to send the teams out. Alex and Caitlin move through the south gate, and approach their perch. An elevated platform about 6 feet off the ground. Not low enough, to allow anything to get up easily, and not high enough to create a blind spot below. It is the right height to give them an elevated position, and still allow them to hit optimal targets with their bows.

  Caitlin is the spotter for Alex this time. They work in pairs, to prevent the danger of focusing on a target and missing a potential threat. Alex uses a takedown recurve bow with limbs that give it a 50 pound draw weight. Just shy of the upper range that she can use, without serious fatigue after a few shots. Caitlin has a pair of old binoculars for spotting targets in the distance, but most of her work will be done well within her actual visual range. She also has her bow to provide backup, just in case Alex can't engage a second target. Her's is a compound bow with a pretty bare bones fixed pin sight set for 20, 30 and 40 yards. She had a peep sight added to the bowstring a while back to help her use the main sight easier, so her accuracy has improved lately.

  Alex kneels to assemble her bow, screwing the top and bottom limbs to the riser. A recurve may seem like old school traditional archery, but modern materials make her bow just as capable as Caitlin's compound. She has a side quiver with a dozen carbon shaft, feather fletched arrows. The arrows have hefty field points. No need for fancy broad heads with sharp blades for the targets they will be engaging.

  Caitlin holds the binoculars, but doesn't bring them up to her eyes, since there are plenty of targets well within her sightline. The group of stragglers from the previous wave come through the tree line and head past the 100 yard markers. Slow moving, awkward walkers, making their way toward the stronghold. Caitlin grew up in the zombie apocalypse, but working perimeter defense is still new to her. The sight of even a half dozen figures lurching across the field raises her heart rate. She begins calling out targets.

  “They've reached the gauntlet.” She says.

  “Got it.” Alex answers, as she finishes stringing her bow.

  The gauntlet is what they call the series of obstacles designed to funnel the zombies into a much cleaner kill zone. Instead of tracking multiple targets across a wide field of view, they are able to reduce the area to a 30 degree arc that each gate has to defend.

  “There's one breaking ahead,” Caitlin says. “A fast mover. He must be in a hurry.”

  Alex takes a sip of water from a plastic water bottle. The label has long since worn away, but the crinkling sound of the soft plastic is oddly comforting to her. She sets the bottle down, points her left shoulder toward the kill-zone, and picks up her bow. The nock of her first arrow clicks home, just below the brass nocking point. She places three fingers under the arrow, using a well worn leather finger tab to protect her finger tips.

  Standing with her back straight, Alex turns her head casually over her left shoulder. She brings the bow up and partially draws the string back. The grip of the bow rests in the pad of her hand just below the thumb. Her fingers barely grip the riser. Drawing the arrow back, she touches the corner of her mouth with the tip of her index finger. It's her anchor point, letting her know that her draw is consistent. The tension in her back, between the shoulder blades lets her know that she reaches full draw.

  The arrow flies off of the bow rest, with a twang and slight rattle as the string vibrates against the fiberglass limbs. It sinks right into the skull of the lead target, finding a path to the brain through the eye socket. A clean hit at nearly 30 yards. Even Alex is stunned at how perfect her shot is. The burn on her forearm lets her know that her form is still far from perfect. The string slap leaves a small red mark that may bruise slightly in the evening. With the outlier taken care of, she now has time to put her forearm guard on. No need to suffer any more bruises from sloppy form.

  Zombie after zombie drops inside the 20 to 30 yard perimeter that Alex has claimed as her killing ground. Or perhaps her re-killing ground. Caitlin picks out the targets of highest priority, but so far her bow isn't needed in the fight.

  One particularly tough target has taken two arrows and is still approaching. Putting the two rushed shots in the back of her mind, Alex pulls in a slow deep breath to relax her arms. She kneels and shoots with the bow slightly canted sending the shot between the safety rails on their platform. The arrow finds its way into the creature's mouth, bursting through the back of its throat. The point through the brainstem, and the zombie collapses, as if its puppet strings were severed.

  Half an hour into the shift, the job is done. Other gates have given the all clear. The last of the zombies were in Alex and Caitlin's zone. Alex's flexes her stiff fingers, surveying her work. Eight walkers put down. All before reaching the 15 yard markers. The best she's done yet. She slips off the platform and jogs to the closest carcass to retrieve her arrow, and perhaps a trophy from her hunt.

  “What are you doing? Its not safe!” Caitlin calls out after her.

  “I'll be right back. Watch the tree line.”

  Alex looks down at the closest of her kills. A thick, muscular zombie. Probably a jock and a bully in his flesh and blood days, she decides. Anything to justify her actions. Reaching down, she tugs at the arrow from mid shaft, expecting it to just slip right out. It is seated into the skull pretty tight, having entered through the bridge of the nose. She kneels next to the body, places a hand firmly on the brow ridge to brace the skull and starts twisting the arrow. It comes out in a sudden, almost popping release. She glances down and noticed that there was only about three inches of arrow penetration.

  She wonders to herself if that's far enough to get the job done, but clearly the evidence speaks for itself. As she straightens up, one of the creature's hands darts upward, grabbing a handful of her hair, dragging her back to her knees. Her head is twisted, making it difficult to see what is happening. She struggles to pry the fingers loose and break the grip, as a sharp pain surges through her left hand. Screaming in anger, she pulls her hand away, and drives her elbow into where she thinks the zombie's head is.

  A click and thunk sound registers in her ears, as the ghoul's grip slackens. Its hands are still tangled in her hair, so she shakes loose frantically and staggers away. Glancing up, she sees Caitlin holding her bow with a blank look in her eye. Her expression softens as Alex stands up, brushing herself off.

  Caitlin's eye catches the visible bite mark on Alex's hand, just below the pinky knuckle. Her eyes widen as eyebrows shoot up. She looks up at Alex trying hoping to hear that the wound is not what she thinks it is. Alex just looks at Caitlin and shakes her head.

  “It's nothing. I'm fine.” She says. She pulls the sleeve of her flannel over her hand, grasping it in her fist.

  Caitlin's eyes well up as she takes several steps backward. Alex was bitten, and letting her through will put everyone in danger. Alex retrieves her bow and turns to see Caitlin draw an arrow back, just passing the let-off point of her compound bow.

  The two teens stand their ground. Both are unwilling to make the next move. Alex breaks the stillness. She steps into her bow, wrapping the lower limb around one leg and bracing it with the other. She puts tension on the upper limb with one hand and unstrings her bow with the other. Maintaining eye contact with Caitlin, she walks back toward the platform. Wiping the tears away, Alex climbs the small ladder up to the platform and heads back into the compound.

  Caitlin releases the tension on her bow and sits on the ground, staring at the rich dark earth between the bright green blades of grass. A tear hits a patch of bare soil between the thick green patches. She wipes the streams on her cheeks away with her sleeve, as the walkie talkie crackles to life.

  “South gate, what's your status?” The voice asks.

  Caitlin pulls the radio off of her belt and holds it up to her mouth, taking several breaths before responding. The tense moments seem like an eternity as she decides how to break the news to everyone inside. She has to warn them all of Alex's injuries before the infection sets in, putting them all in danger. She
closes her eyes and calls back.

  “South gate...all clear.”

  # # #

  SURGE

  He watched the three men move through the dark office. They knew exactly where the target was located. The three heavily armed men stacked up just outside the office of the vice president of the company. Was this a hit? Were these men here to remove a piece from the board of some corporate war? Their uniforms and metal faceplates made it pretty clear that this wasn't a raid by the SEC, or some other law enforcement agency.

  Roger was just trying to put in a few extra hours each night to hit a quota, and now here he was, watching a group of mercenaries, clad in full body armor, armed with military weapons, getting ready to break down the door of the VP's office. Roger was hired just shy of 6 months ago, and the VP, Shannon, was one of the few executives he actually liked. She had a very matronly presence, and didn't seem to be so pushy with all of the cubicle drones, like Roger.

  Time slowed to a crawl. He watched the point man counting down with his fingers, getting ready for their entry into the room. Roger felt the seams of his shirt straining against his muscles, as his shoulders broadened and rolled forward. He barely noticed as his extremities started tingling.

  Three.

  His hands shook, forcing him to clench his fists and jaw tight to control the involuntary movement.

  Two.

  His heart raced. His vision shifted in and out of focus, in time with his pulse.

  One.

  The leader gave the signal to go, and the second merc kicked the door just inside of the handle. The frame gave way on the first kick, and the third man tossed something into the room.