I found the body of the shop owner behind the counter. He was sitting up and still holding a pistol in his hand. There were bite marks on his left arm. Since there were no other bodies in the building, I could only guess as to what happened. I figured that he’d been bitten and sealed himself inside the store. When he realized that he was going to become a zombie, he shot himself in the head.
Hearing a growl behind me, I spun around to see a child zombie emerging from under one of the tables. It was a boy no older than my youngest son. As it stood up, I could see that it had been shot in the chest at least three times. It cocked its head as it looked at me, and then lunged forward with shocking speed. I didn’t have time to ponder shooting a kid. It was a goddamned Sprinter.
As it raced towards me, I hesitated long enough for it to come around the counter. I didn’t want to shoot the shotgun and risk alerting zombies outside of our presence, so I stepped forward and butt-stroked the thing to the face. I hit it with enough force to knock it flying back about twenty feet. I didn’t realize how little the kid weighed. I hit it hard enough to knock down a grown man, but this kid couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.
As it struggled to get back to its feet, I looked around quickly trying to find something else to use. My eyes fell on a glass display case with a sword inside it. It was a Roman Gladius with a leather sheath. The card that was mounted with it read, “To Tony, thanks for everything. Signed; Chris at Scorpion Swords and Knives.”
Shattering the glass with the stock of the Keltec, I reached in and grabbed the beautiful sword. The leather wrapped hilt felt good in my hand. The workmanship was amazing. It was a work of art. A lethal work of art. With a snap of my wrist, I brought the blade to bear just as the zombie-kid was getting to his feet. It snarled and raced towards me, oblivious to the weapon in my hand.
I felt a pang of remorse as I leveled the blade and lunged forward, piercing the right eye socket without effort. The momentum of the zombie impaled it on the blade and did the damage for me. As it fell to the ground, I gave the blade another shove and a twist just to be sure. Cleaning the blade on the shirt of the shopkeeper, I grabbed the sheath and slid the blade inside. Then I hooked it to my belt. It felt good having it there.
I swept the store again just to be sure, but I didn’t find any more surprises. I checked the peephole on the door and didn’t see any zombies in the area. A quick pat search of the two bodies yielded nothing from the kid, but the shopkeeper had a large set of keys and a lock-blade knife. I pocketed them and finished my search. Unfortunately, that was all I found.
Dragging the two bodies to the door, I unbolted it and opened it slowly. There were still no zombies in the area. Quickly, I dragged the two bodies out onto the front steps and slipped back inside. Then I secured the door and replaced the bolt. We were safe for now, but for how long. I knew the zombies wouldn’t find us so long as we stayed quiet.
My biggest concern was the Freemen. If they knew the guns were here, you can bet they’d be coming for them. If that happened, we were in a lot of trouble. Knowing we couldn’t afford to be here if they came snooping around, I had to find a way out of here and back to the Underground. Unfortunately, my options were quickly running out.
Chapter Sixteen
The Enemy of My Enemy
“The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut."
- J.R.R. Tolkien
-
I took a moment to reload all of my weapons and grab myself an assault rifle from the rack on the wall. I selected one I was familiar with and lifted it out of the rack. It was a vintage HK 91 in 7.62mm NATO. I did a quick check over to make sure it was in good working order. Then I grabbed a stack of magazines from the table and started loading them with ammo from the shelf. I loaded six magazines and then slid one into the weapon, then chambered a round.
I found a tactical sling in a package under the counter and hooked it to the weapon. Next, I scrounged an ACOG from a badly banged up AR-15 and connected it to the mounting bracket. It was an old style optic without the battery powered red-dot sight. That suited me just fine since finding batteries was going to get harder and harder. Without the need for the battery, the ACOG would be good indefinitely. I was going to have to adjust the sights, but I could do that later.
Slinging the weapon over my shoulder, I started to head for the stairs. Before I made it to the end of the counter, I heard a pounding on the door. I spun around and brought the weapon to my shoulder, aiming at the door. It wasn’t the rhythmic slap of the dead. This frantic pounding could only be from the living.
“For God’s sake,” pleaded the voice, “Help me!”
I headed over to the door and checked through the peephole. It was a young man in his early twenties. I didn’t recognize him, but he was dressed like one of the Freemen. He was armed with a shotgun and had a pistol on his belt. I could see several zombies coming close behind him. He didn’t have long before they’d be on top of him. I could see his face. It was covered in blood, but I couldn’t tell if he’d been bitten. The rain made it difficult to tell how badly he was hurt.
“Please!” he screamed. “I saw you go in there! You’ve gotta help me!”
I hesitated a moment, indecision wracking my mind.
“Have you been bitten?” I demanded.
“No, I swear!” he answered. “Please! They’re right behind me!”
I knew I couldn’t let him die like that. Even though they ambushed us, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try to save this man. Quickly, I unbolted the door and swung it open. He stumbled inside and fell to the floor. Slamming the door shut, I locked the bolt and dropped the metal crossbar across the door. Turning quickly, I brought up my weapon and aimed it at the Freeman on the floor. I was willing to help him, but not trust him. He was going to have to earn that.
Just then, the undead arrived at the door and began slapping their hands against it. It was a reinforced steel door, so I knew that they weren’t coming through it any time soon. With the way that the steps were constructed, no more than three or four would be able to throw themselves against the door at any given time and that just wasn’t enough force to break down that door. It did mean that they would attract the attention of others. The dead now knew we were inside.
“Drop your weapons and keep your hands where I can see them,” I said, my voice harsh.
“I’m out of ammo, man,” he said, his voice still shaking.
“I don’t care if you’re carrying squirt guns,” I snapped. “Drop them or you’re a dead man.”
He did as instructed, reluctantly. Once he had dropped his weapons and equipment belt, I took a closer look at him in the light of my flashlight. He had a nasty cut to his forehead and a bloody wound to his stomach. I also noticed that he was favoring his left leg. I was going to have to check him carefully for bites.
“Turn around and put your hands on the counter,” I said, gesturing with the barrel of the rifle.
“No problem, dude,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Stay still and you won’t have any,” I said. “If you so much as flinch, I’ll kill you.”
Once he had his hands on the counter, I lowered the weapon and knocked his feet apart with my left foot. It was just like I’d done thousands of times before. It forced his feet about shoulder width apart and set him in position for a pat search. I kept my left leg forward and slightly between his legs, with my hips turned so that he wouldn’t be able to strike me in the groin. As I prepared to search him, I found myself saying the words I’ve said so many times before. Force of habit, I suppose.
“Do you have anything on you that’s going to stick me, stab me, cut me or poke me?”
“What are you, some kind of cop?” he asked.
“Sheriff’s department, asshole,” I replied. “If your hands come off of that counter, I’ll put you down, hard.”
“I don’t recognize the authority of your so-ca
lled police state,” he said, as if reciting it from memory.
“I know,” I interrupted. “I’ve heard your Freemen bullshit before. There is no more civilian authority. We’re all on our own.”
“Then you have no authority to hold me,” he said, smiling. “You can’t arrest me. You have to let me go.”
“Just because there’s no civilian authority left, doesn’t mean I have to trust you,” I snapped. “You and your friends ambushed us and killed several of my people. Besides that, you’re not under arrest. The handcuffs are your only option besides a bullet in the head.”
He didn’t have an answer for that, so I began the pat search at the neck and started moving down his torso. If he was going to try something, he’d wait until I was bent over checking his legs. That’s when they usually tried it. I could tell by the way they tensed up, if they were about to move. It was an observation that had helped me out dozens of times.
As I patted his legs, I felt the old familiar tension in his stance. Just as he started to make his move, I drove my shoulder into the small of his back. I felt the air come out of him in a rush as I drove him against the counter. Before he could recover, I grabbed a handful the hair on the back of his head and slammed his face into the counter several times. He went limp and I didn’t waste any time. While he was stunned, I took out a pair of handcuffs from my belt and secured his wrists behind his back, ratcheting them down tight.
Once he was cuffed and on the floor, I checked his weapons. The shotgun was a Benelli 12 gauge and the pistol was a Rock Island .45. They were both empty. Shockingly, he wasn’t lying about that. Setting them on the counter, I turned back to the kid. He had managed to sit up with his hands still cuffed behind his back. He was watching me carefully.
“So, now what?” he asked.
“Now we find out if you’re telling the truth about not getting bit,” I said. “No bites, no problems. If you’re bit, I’ll throw you off the roof.”
I reached over and picked up the Benelli shotgun and checked it over. It was almost new and in great condition. It didn’t look like a weapon this kid could afford. There were a ton of shotguns out there that were way cheaper than a Benelli, and this one was a Performance M2 with the extended tube. This gun cost more than my pick-up did.
“Where’d you get this?” I asked, holding up the shotgun.
“Took it off a dead cop,” he said, smirking.
That wasn’t the answer he should have given me and he saw that in my eyes just before I drove the stock into his forehead. He went over backwards and struck his head on the floor. He now had a fresh cut on his scalp and he was out cold. I made sure the cuffs were tight and then secured his feet together with his own bootlace. As an afterthought, I checked his pulse. It was strong.
“Yippee,” I said with little enthusiasm. “He’s alive.”
The wounds on his head were superficial. He wasn’t going to bleed to death from those. Then I lifted his t-shirt to check the wound on his abdomen. It was a ragged puncture wound. I could see a piece of glass sticking out of the wound. Using my multi-tool, I grabbed hold of it and removed it. The shard was only about an inch long and not a lot of blood came out when I pulled it free. It wasn’t going to be fatal.
I pulled up his pants on his left leg to find out why he’d been limping. There was a large purple bruise on his calf. It looked recent. He’d taken a Hel of a shot to the lower leg. That looked to be all of his wounds. No bite marks in the bunch. That was good news, for him anyway. Now there was just the fact that he was an enemy. The Freemen made it clear that they were only interested in seeing us dead. Would this kid be any different?
I knew he’d be out for a while, so I headed up the stairs to check on Spec-4. She was still sitting on the couch where I’d left her. She’d already removed her body armor and helmet. The M-4 lay in her lap and she’d removed her boots. I grinned when I walked in.
“Comfortable?” I asked, leaning on the door-frame.
“Well, I didn’t hear all hell break loose down there, so I assumed it was clear,” she said.
“Mostly clear,” I said. “There was one zulu in the main room. I also rescued a Freeman.”
“What?” she asked, surprised. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“He’s just a kid,” I said. “He came to the door yelling for help. I couldn’t leave him out there to die.”
“They would have left us,” she replied. “Or worse.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, smiling. “He’s unconscious and in handcuffs. We’ll decide what to do with him later.”
“Fair enough,” she agreed. “Now what?”
“Now, I check your leg,” I answered. “You’ve got blood on your thigh.”
“Let me guess…,” she said, grinning.
“Yep,” I said. “Lose the pants.”
“Wylie,” she said, grinning, “are you trying to get me naked?”
“Is it working?”
“Absolutely,” she replied, removing her digital camo pants.
She winced in pain as she moved her wounded leg. I helped her slide them off and tossed them onto the desk. She lay back on the couch, wearing only the red tactical thong and her ACU top. I could see the bloody wound on her left thigh. It looked like a piece of shrapnel was stuck in the meat of her thigh. Removing it wasn’t going to be easy and it was going to hurt like hell.
Digging my first aid kit out of my pack, I sat down on the edge of the couch. She rolled up onto her right side, exposing the thong side to me. Forcing myself to concentrate on the task at hand, I took out the supplies and lay them in easy reach. Then I took out my hip-flask of Bushmills.
“You might want to drink some of this,” I said, passing it to her.
“Getting me naked and drunk,” she said, grinning. “You sure know how to treat a girl.”
“Drink as much of that as you can,” I said. “I don’t have any anesthetic. It’s going to hurt like a bitch when I remove that piece of shrapnel.”
Suddenly serious, she opened the flask and took a swig. She made a sour face, but swallowed the fiery liquid.
“I think I’m getting used to this stuff,” she said, coughing a bit.
I started cleaning the area around the wound, in preparation for the actual removal. She continued to swig from the flask as I placed a roll of gauze in easy reach and cleaned my multi-tool with the bottle of alcohol. It wasn’t ideal but under the circumstances, it was the best I could do. After about the fifth drink from the flask, I could see that the alcohol was starting to affect her.
“OK, kiddo,” I said. “This is going to hurt. Do you want something to bite down on?”
She just nodded and I handed her a strip of beef jerky from my pack. She placed it between her teeth and locked her eyes on mine, silently pleading with me.
“I’ll be as gentle as I can,” I promised. “Just hang on and try not to move.”
She nodded and reached up to take my hand. Her hand was slightly cold and trembling and I held it for a few moments before giving it a squeeze and releasing it. I nodded at her and picked up the gauze and the multi-tool. She watched me for just a moment longer, and then turned to face the back of the couch. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. She was ready. I wasn’t sure if I was.
I had no way of knowing just how long the piece of shrapnel was and how deep it went into her leg. If it hit an artery, she’d die. I didn’t have the skill to perform any kind of surgery. My first aid skills were limited to just the basics. If I couldn’t stop the bleeding, I’d lose her. But leaving the piece of shrapnel in wasn’t an option. It could do more damage to her when we moved. We couldn’t stay here, either. No one was coming for us. We had to move to survive.
I reached over and took the flask from her. I took a quick pull off of it, to steady my own nerves. Then I capped it and sat it beside her. My hands stopped shaking as the warmth hit my stomach. Picking up the multi-tool again, I readied myself. It was now, or never.
“All-father,
guide my hands,” I whispered. “Lady Freya, heal this warrior-maiden. She’s worthy of becoming a Valkyrie, but I don’t want to lose her. I need her.”
Gently, I pulled the skin around the shrapnel back as far as I could to expose the piece of metal. I heard Spec-4 gasp, but she held still. I felt her body go tense beneath my hands, but she didn’t move. Tough was not the word for this girl. Cautiously, I reached in with the point of the multi-tool and grasped the shard. Once I had a firm grasp, I began to pull as gently as I could.
Spec-4 moaned and I could see tears streaming down her face, but she held still. With agonizing slowness, the shard began to come loose. I could hear the wet tearing sound as it came free and slid out of the wound. Sweat ran in rivers down my face and into my eyes, but I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t risk shaking the multi-tool and causing more damage. As it slipped free of the wound, I could see that it was shaped like an arrowhead, about two inches long and jagged.
Blood began to flow from the wound as soon as the shard was clear, but it didn’t spray out. I clamped down with the gauze and applied pressure to the wound. Spec-4 relaxed her muscles and went limp. I thought she’d passed out until she turned her head and looked at me, relief on her face. She spat out the jerky and smiled at me. There were tears on her cheeks and in her eyes, but it seemed that the pain had subsided.
I held the pressure for a few minutes, and then gently removed the gauze. The blood flow had slowed considerably. The wound was going to need stitches, but it was going to stop bleeding. I breathed a sigh of relief and whispered my thanks to the Gods. She was going to be alright.
“I’ve got a sewing kit and some superglue,” I said. “You get to pick. I’ve got to close that wound.”
“Use the glue,” she said with a frown. “It’ll be faster.”
“Fair enough,” I said, opening my pack.
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