The crowd was loving it. They came to their feet and roared for blood. I had every intention of giving it to them.
My opponent kept circling and trying to put his lead foot outside mine so he could have the superior angle. It was a common mistake people made against me. I let him have the angle, and, when he moved in, switched stances, sidestepped, and went at him with a flurry of punches and elbows. Now I had the better angle and he had no choice but to eat a few blows as he backed off and circled again.
Now I had his timing down. It was no longer a question of if, but when. I kept up the barrage, going back and forth between punch combinations and low kicks. The kicks seemed to be doing the most damage. He had welts and bruises on both legs and was beginning limp slightly. Leg kicks may not look like much to the untrained observer, but fighters know better. They take a toll.
He began to wilt under the pressure. His mouth hung open, lungs struggling to take in enough oxygen. He’d given up all pretense of aggression and had gone into survival mode, counter-punching when he could and covering up when he couldn’t. I began focusing my attacks to the right, causing him to duck left when I threw hooks and overhands at him.
“Now, Alex!” Vincent shouted. “Go now!”
On command, I threw another overhand right. When my opponent ducked, I switched my hips and sent up a left high kick with everything I had. My left shin impacted his head with a sound like a baseball bat hitting a tree. The force of it made him stand up straight for just a moment before toppling backwards. He bounced a little when he hit the ground, limbs loose and uncontrolled. I took a step toward him, but the referee did his job. In an instant, he was kneeling over the downed man, arms waving in the air.
“Stop, Alex, that’s it! Fight’s over!”
The crowd went ballistic. Vinny and my corner men started jumping up and down and screaming. I held up my arms, grinned around my mouthpiece, and felt more alive than I ever had before.
And now, as I stopped the bicycle and raised my visor, I looked at the city of Phoenix and thought about the cyclical nature of things. The first time I came here, I was ready for a fight. That much, at least, had not changed.
The axe was across my back. I took it in hand and put the Ruger in a jacket pocket. Last, I grabbed the empty duffel bag and stuffed the crowbar and bolt cutters into it. I thought about bringing the rifle, but decided against it. I was not going very far into town, and I can run pretty fast when I want to. Besides, I had the Ruger and the axe. If they weren’t enough, then I would have to rely on mobility and endurance. Before setting out, I checked my kit one more time to make sure I had everything I needed.
Then I began walking.
FOUR
When raiding ghoul-infested areas, speed is key.
Get in, get out. That was my method. Because no matter how careful you are, no matter now quiet you try to be, sooner or later a ghoul is going to hear you. And when they do, they’ll let out that damn howl of theirs, and soon there will be walking corpses coming from all directions.
One or two or even a handful of undead is not that tough to handle. But their strength is not in individual effort; their strength is in numbers. Too many of them surround you, and you’re dead. Simple as that. Fight them to the end, but save the last bullet for yourself.
In the interest of expediency, I had kept track over the years of which houses I had raided and which areas were still untouched. So when I entered town on the Sun City West side of West Bell Road, I knew exactly where to go.
I passed a small peninsula of houses I had already raided, thinking it must have been a nice place to live back in the day. The city beyond your front door, the vastness of the Valley of the Sun out back. Or maybe the people who had lived there had only seen dirt and scrub bushes out their back door. Not that it mattered now.
I ran past a bingo hall and up a shallow embankment into a neighborhood I had only barely begun to harvest. Cutting through the spaces between houses, I emerged onto the corner of two streets, North Javelina and West Legend. There were six houses on my left I had already raided. I proceeded to number seven.
Looking at it I stopped and thought longingly of how nice it would be to rip out the solar panels on the roof and their associated control system. With that much juice, I could probably have a refrigerator and a fan. Maybe even an electric stove. But the undead would never stay away long enough to give me the chance. I was probably on borrowed time as it was.
Get to work.
I took the crowbar out of the duffel bag and approached the front door. Tested the door handle. Locked. Of course it was locked. Why should any of this be easy?
The flat end of the crowbar dug into the doorjamb. I worked it back and forth until it was in tightly, then wrenched the bar toward me. The door popped open with a crack of wood.
Now you’ve done it.
Stowing the crowbar, I unslung my axe with one hand and drew the Ruger with the other. Through the front door, I was confronted with a dust-covered living room. There were three bodies lying on the floor, a man, woman, and a young girl. They had been lying there long enough to gather nearly the same thickness of dusty accumulation as the room around them. And, just my luck, they began stirring as I entered.
My first target was the girl. I don’t know why, but undead kids move faster than adults. I wanted to put her down before she had a chance to be a threat. My feet carried me over as I stowed the Ruger in a pocket, took the axe in both hands, and swung it into the back of her head. There was a crunching thunk, and she collapsed with a shudder.
Next was mom. She was still face down, head turned away from me, arms just coming back to push herself upright. She never got the chance. My axe came down on the back of her neck and nearly beheaded her. Knowing the head was still alive and feeling merciful, I swung again, this time crushing her skull.
Now I turned and looked to the man of the house. He had made it to his feet and was coming toward me, arms outstretched, mouth wide around blackened teeth. The unearthly moan he croaked out stabbed me in the brain like an icepick. I ground my teeth against a sense of unreasoning panic and leveled the Ruger. At this range, I would have to try damn hard to miss.
Two twitches of my index finger put two rounds into his head. The suppressor did its job, turning the shots into muted clacks, the action of the gun louder than the cartridges going off. Neither shot exited, meaning the bullets ricocheted inside the man’s skull, turning brain matter into reeking paste. The man’s dead eyes went blank and he went down in a limp heap.
I took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The undead smell like rotten meat stewing in hot diarrhea.
Not wanting to lose any more time, I sprinted through an entryway into the kitchen. To my right was a door that looked like a closet. Opening it, I discovered it was a pantry.
Bingo was his name-o.
First was the pasta. It was still in the box and untouched. The thought of boiling it in crushed tomatoes made my mouth water. Next were cans of vegetables, beans, and a bag of rice. There were also four large cans of a familiar brand of beef ravioli. I grabbed them all. I also found baking supplies but decided not to take them. I’d had no clue how to bake before the Outbreak, and six years of living in isolation had not changed that.
Near the back I found a large, sealed glass jar filled with flour and another full of sugar. Next to the sugar, wonder of wonders, was a vacuum sealed, unopened brick of coffee. Real coffee, not the instant kind.
Hot damn.
I stashed everything in the bag and did another search of the pantry. There were a couple of cans of corn and a few slide-zipper bags I had missed, but that was all. With this haul, if I could bring down a pig or a deer sometime soon, there was enough here to last me two weeks.
I needed something to wrap the glass jars in, so I set down my gear and sprinted up the stairs. Most upstairs portions of houses have bedrooms and bathrooms, which means sheets and towels. Opening the first door I came to, I discovered the master bedro
om. I stepped inside and looked around and saw a bathroom to my left. Inside, I found what I was looking for: a white bath towel. I took an extra few seconds to nab a couple of bars of soap and an opened pack of toilet paper with eight rolls still in it, and then headed back to the bedroom.
On my way out, I stopped by the nightstand on what I guessed to be the man’s side of the bed and opened the drawers. In the top drawer I discovered a blocky-looking black pistol.
Hello there.
The writing on the slide identified it as a Glock 22 chambered in .40 caliber. I dropped the magazine to see if it was loaded. It was, but upon inspection, the bullets were 9mm, which is a little smaller than forty caliber. A memory bell rang, and for a moment I was in a gun shop in New Mexico.
I had gone there not long after someone broke into my apartment. I had been home at the time, resting from a hard day of training. I was flipping channels and dozing on the couch when someone wearing a black ski mask kicked the door in and barged inside.
He started to raise a gun at me, giving me barely a second to react. So I did the last thing he was expecting.
I charged him.
With my right hand, I grabbed the gun’s barrel and turned it inward so he was pointing it at his own chest—something I picked up in my jiu jitsu training. While that happened, my left hand curled into a tight fist and blasted him in the jaw. It was a good one, a hook that started from the ground and landed with all my weight behind it. The would-be home invader went down and didn’t move. I kept the gun on him and called the cops. He came around just as they showed up. A pair of very nice officers took the gun away as evidence, but not before asking for autographs and taking a picture with me.
Afterward, I decided it might not be a bad idea to have my own firearm in case anyone else got the same idea. Fame comes with a price, and there are people in the world who would slit their mother’s throat to make a buck.
At the gun shop I explained my situation to the salesman and asked for a recommendation.
“Well, as you can see, I’m partial to Glocks,” he said.
Looking at his belt, I saw a boxy little pistol holstered inside his waist band. I thought it must have been uncomfortable, being that it was digging deeply into his ample fat rolls.
“I’ve heard of those. Cops use them a lot.”
“Yep. Law enforcement agencies all over the world trust Glocks, and not because they suck. So you’re basically looking for a home defense gun, right?”
“Right.”
He removed a pistol from the case, locked back the slide, removed the magazine, and held it out to me.
“You’re gonna love this thing. With a few simple modifications, it’s three guns in one.”
I took the pistol. I was familiar with the weapon in question, but decided the salesman did not need to know that. Better to feign ignorance and see if he tried to bullshit me.
“How does it work?”
“That’s a Glock 22.” He reached beneath the counter and produced a stainless steel cylinder with a little box on the end.
“This is a nine millimeter conversion barrel. All you gotta do is take the slide off, pop out the old barrel, and pop this one in. You can also get conversion barrels in three-fifty-seven Sig, which is kind of like nine millimeter on steroids.”
“Will the magazines in the other calibers work okay in this gun?”
“Yep. They’re all pretty much the same size. Only difference is the spacing on the feed lips. Forty-cal and Sig are a little wider to accommodate the bigger cartridge. Ammo capacity is a little less as well, but what you lose in capacity you make up for in power.”
“Huh.” I handed the gun back to him. “Let me think about it.”
He gave a smile. “We’re not going anywhere. Come back any time.”
The next day my manager got a call from the Big Show. They wanted me on their next live TV card against a top-ten ranked fighter. His original opponent had dropped out due to a training injury, and my manager was the first guy they called looking for a replacement. And since it was a main event, the fight would determine the next middleweight title contender. There was nothing to think about. I took the fight with a smile and a thank you and promptly forgot about the gun.
Digging around in the drawer, I found two more barrels. One was the original forty caliber that had come with the firearm. The other was a .357 Sig conversion barrel. I stuffed the gun and both barrels into a pocket and opened the bottom drawer. Inside, I found a hundred rounds of all three calibers and several spare magazines. Examining the magazines, there were three for nine millimeter and three in forty caliber. The magazines and ammo went into another pocket and I headed back downstairs.
When I reached the ground floor, I heard a thump and an ear-splitting howl. The front door was open, the frame broken where I had popped the door with my crowbar. A ghoul lay face down on the stairs, quickly getting back to its feet.
Must have tripped.
I put down the towel-wrapped jars and the toilet paper, drew the Ruger, took careful aim, and put two rounds into the cracked and bloody forehead. The ghoul went still. Looking at it, I realized it had once been a teenage girl. Something in my chest tightened up and I felt my eyes stinging.
Push it down. More are coming. Get out of here.
I stowed the rest of my haul, slung the now full duffel bag across my chest, and went outside. A quick examination of the street revealed more than a dozen ghouls straggling toward me from all directions. I pocketed the Ruger and pulled my axe from its harness.
Should have brought the rifle.
There was nothing for it now. The AR-15 was back at the head of the neighborhood in the bike trailer where it wasn’t doing me a damn bit of good. I reached into the pocket with the Glock and checked the magazine. According to the little metal holes on the back, it was loaded with seventeen rounds. Hollow points at that. Reaching in the other pocket, I dug out the three spare nine millimeter mags and discovered they were all fully loaded as well.
Save them. Stealth is out the window now, but don’t use up ammo unless you have to.
I rearranged the items in my pockets so the Glock and the spare 9mm mags were accessible by my right hand and headed toward the edge of the neighborhood, axe at the ready.
Now comes the hard part.
FIVE
The first ghoul I reached was one of the strangest I had ever seen.
I couldn’t tell if it had been a man or a woman. Its genitals were gone, as well as its clothes and most of its skin. Where the flesh had sloughed away, some kind of gray membrane covered exposed muscle tissue. There were no lips, only a sickening grin of blackened teeth. It’s milky, red-rimmed eyes were grotesquely wide in skeletal sockets. For a moment, I wondered if I was asleep and having a nightmare. The creature looked like the product of a lunatic’s hallucinations. But the sun above me was hot, my breath was humid inside the motorcycle helmet, and I could feel sweat pouring out of me underneath the firefighting suit.
Gripping the axe, I lowered my head and took a fighting stance. The ghoul continued its steady advance toward me, screaming for blood the whole way. I let my arms hang loose and rolled my shoulders a few times. The heat and exertion of the day had limbered muscles and loosened snug tendons, giving me the same light feeling in my stomach I had always felt shortly before the bell rang and the leather started flying. The ghouls drew within striking distance and I made ready to swing.
Several years of battling the undead have taught me a few things about swinging an axe. Namely, the fact I don’t have to put my full strength into every swing. It’s best to raise the axe high, swing at the side of the ghoul’s head at about a forty-five degree angle, and let gravity do the work. With sound technique, it only takes a half-strength whack to demolish an undead skull. The idea is to shatter the cranial bones while cutting deeply into the reddish-black mush that passes for a ghoul’s brain. This method kills the ghoul and allows the axe to slide free without getting stuck.
But
when I tried it on the gray monstrosity in front of me, the axe bounced away, only cutting a shallow furrow in the tissue around the thing’s skull. I stumbled back and stared.
What the hell?
Tightening my grip on the axe, I swung again, twisting my hips and putting my weight into it this time. The axe penetrated a couple of inches and cracked the bones like an egg. I pulled the axe free and waited. The ghoul stumbled back a step, twitched spasmodically, righted itself, and came at me again, still shaking.
I backed off a few steps. In a flash of insight, I realized the ghoul must be going through some kind of metamorphosis. Whatever was happening to it had hardened its skull, and God only knew what other changes it might be going through. Behind me, the harsh moans of the undead were growing steadily closer.
There was no time to consider the portent of the thing I faced. I could do that later if I survived. For now, escape was my only priority.
All right, motherfucker. Let’s see you shake this off.
I drew the Glock, took aim at point-blank range, and pulled the trigger. The hollow point cut a perfect nine-millimeter hole in its forehead, expanded inside the cranial cavity, and blew a cloud of bone and rotten brain matter out onto the pavement. This time, the ghoul went down.
Well, at least bullets still work.
Surviving the Dead (Novel): The Hellbreakers Page 2