Dead America The Third Week | Book 11 | Dead America, Carolina Front, Part 7

by Slaton, Derek

  With that out of the way, Miles popped up from the floor and aimed out the window. Four men ran across the front yard in a staggered two-by-two formation. The soldier quickly aimed and fired, catching a man in the back of the pack in the upper thigh. It dropped him to the ground, and he frantically applied pressure to the wound.

  Miles tried to get another shot off at the next closest man, but returning fire forced him back inside. He turned to scream to the hallway as bullets riddled the window.

  “Three incoming, front of the house!” he bellowed. He wasn’t sure if Coleman could hear him, but he yelled anyway. As he contemplated his next move, the floor began to splinter as the attackers began shooting up through the first floor ceiling.

  Miles scrambled, getting away from the front of the house while firing panic shots through the floor. He stumbled as he made his way out of the room, firing until the rifle clicked empty. He dropped it with a clatter and drew his handgun, aiming it down the hallway and moving slowly towards the stairs. The gunfire from below ceased, and he crept silently towards the stairwell.

  Meanwhile, Coleman was in the kitchen, watching the front door like a hawk as he listened to the gunfire coming from above and outside. After Miles’ shout, he waited, and saw the front door creak open, two gunmen entering carefully. They immediately raised their weapons and fired into the ceiling.

  Coleman took aim and squeezed off a three-round burst, hitting one of them in the chest, not killing him but at least knocking him to the ground.

  “Fucking vests,” he muttered.

  Before the other guy could turn and fire, Coleman heard the back door rattle as someone tried to come inside. Without hesitating, the soldier turned and unloaded two three-round bursts into the top of it, shattering the frosted glass and splattering blood on the shards that remained.

  He kept his attention on the back door, waiting to see if anyone else dared to come through it, but nothing appeared. As he turned back to the hallway, the injured man and one of his friends opened fire, forcing him back into the kitchen.

  With bullets ripping through the wood, he blindly shot a three-round burst down the hall before darting across to the other side. He dove out the back door, sprinting towards the side of the house.

  Meanwhile, Miles listened to the commotion downstairs as he approached the top floor landing. He stayed out of sight and peeked around the corner, seeing a wounded man on the ground, and two others concentrating their fire towards the kitchen.

  He double checked his handgun, making sure it was a full clip with one in the chamber before making his move. Then he stepped out onto the landing to get a clear shot at the gunman closest to the stairs.

  As he stepped onto the wooden landing, one of the boards creaked loudly, alerting the man below. Miles quickly fired several times, catching his opponent in the shoulder. A splinter from the return fire caught him in the wrist, causing him to drop his weapon down the stairs. He leapt backwards, falling on his back, and kicked against the banister to slide himself back away from the carnage. He quickly got to his feet as the firing stopped.

  He grimaced at the wound on his arm, a six inch splinter of wood sticking straight out of his wrist. He tore it out with a hiss and tossed it aside, heart rate tripling at the fact that he didn’t have a gun anymore. He reached for his knife, but then left it sheathed as his eyes fixated on the large wooden support beam going from the stairs to the roof.

  This is gonna hurt, he thought, and then bounced from foot to foot, psyching himself up for his plan. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and he listened hard. It sounded like only one set, and he fell into a crouch, ready to spring.

  When it sounded like the steps were most of the way to the landing, he jumped from his position, grabbing the support beam and swinging around it like an olympic gymnast. The gunman fired, and narrowly missed the soldier before taking two hard boots in the chest.

  The force of the impact sent the man flying back down the stairs, cracking the back of his head near the bottom before sliding to the floor in a bloody heap. The wounded man on the ground started yelling, aiming his gun wildly at Miles, who had landed on his side parallel with the stairs.

  “Don’t move!” the man screamed. “Don’t you fucking move!”

  Miles slowly raised his hands, grimacing in pain from his daredevil maneuver.

  “Jones, I got the asshole in my sights!” the injured man yelled. “But Ben’s down though!”

  “How’s he looking?” Jones called back from the kitchen.

  The gunman kept aiming strictly at Miles, but spared a glance at the brain matter oozing out of Ben’s skull on the stairs.

  “He’s a goner,” he called.

  “Damn,” came the only reply.

  “Did you find the other one?” Miles’ captor called.

  “Looks like he cut and ran,” Jones replied.

  The injured man scoffed and shook his head. “Do a sweep and see if you can find him,” he instructed loudly. “I got this under control.”

  “On it,” Jones called back, and the back door slammed behind him.

  Miles’ captor sneered up at him. “We’re gonna interrogate the fuck outta you and ain’t nobody gonna stop us!” he declared.

  All the soldier could do was chuckle at his predicament. His handgun was three steps down. It was a hell of a reach, but it would be his only play if Coleman was out of the picture.

  He grinned down at his captor. “Did you see that gymnastics shit I pulled?”

  “Not sure why you’re laughing,” the injured gunman snapped. “Because we’re gonna do some fucked-up shit to you, boy.”

  Miles continued to eyeball the gun, looking at it then back to the gunman on the floor. But his eyes lingered a little too long, and his captor noticed.

  “I see you looking at that gun there,” he said with a sneer. “You honestly think you can grab it before I put a bullet in your chest?”

  The soldier tilted his head back and forth, feigning nonchalance. “I figure my odds are about thirty, thirty-five percent I get to it before you put me down.”

  “And you’re willing to risk your life with those odds?” the injured gunman asked.

  Miles shrugged. “Figure I got a better chance doing it this way than letting you boys interrogate me.”

  “Well, you’re not wrong there,” his captor replied with a laugh. “So, guess this is where we are, then. Go ahead and make your move.”

  Miles nodded and prepared to make his life or death move. He stared down the barrel of the injured man’s gun, just sitting there waiting, like a duel in the old west.

  A few tense moments passed before gunfire erupted outside. His captor briefly broke concentration, the noise catching him off guard, and Miles took his opportunity, sliding down the stairs against the wall.

  The gunman panicked and fired, narrowly missing his target as Miles grabbed the gun. He immediately raised it and fired several times as he slid down the stairs, bumping his bones on the wood all the way. The first two shots caught the gunman in the vest, stunning him, and as he recovered, Miles leapt up from the fifth step directly onto his opponent.

  He landed hard on the injured man, pushing his weapon to the side and firing a bullet into his temple at point-blank range. As the body fell limp, Miles struggled to catch his breath and regain his composure. He stiffened as a figure came onto the porch, and raised his handgun as he gasped for breath.

  “It’s Coleman, it’s Coleman!” the sniper cried, putting up his hands.

  Miles dropped the gun and then flopped down onto the dead man beneath him, closing his eyes and breathing as deeply as he could. Coleman entered and his eyes widened at the carnage.

  “Jesus Christ dude, you okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Miles wheezed, “just wind knocked out of me.”

  The sniper approached him and held out a hand, helping him to his feet. “You really did a number on these guys, didn’t you?” he asked in awe.

  “Just sad there wasn’
t a video camera rolling for my swinging double kick of doom,” Miles replied, and toed the head of the man he’d kicked.

  Coleman shook his head and chuckled. “Well, if that’s the result,” he said, “then I hope I’m never on the receiving end.”

  “Let’s get their weapons and find Cap,” Miles suggested as he finally stopped wheezing. “I know he probably doesn’t need our help, but he might welcome it anyway.”

  Coleman cocked his head. “We got something we need to handle first,” he said.

  Miles furrowed his brow in confusion, and followed Coleman outside and around the house. He blinked at the last remaining gunman, chained to a tree stump in the yard.

  “Is he alive?” he asked.

  Coleman nodded. “Unless he had a cyanide capsule in a fake tooth, I think he’s just knocked out.”

  “Well, if you want to start waking him up, I’ll get the weapons,” Miles suggested.

  The sniper knelt down next to his prisoner. “Look for some keys, too,” he said. “Hopefully these boys drove.”

  “Good call,” Miles agreed, and then they exchanged a fist bump before he headed off.

  Coleman stared at the slumped man before him. “All right, fucker, let’s get you up.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Terrell shone his black light flashlight around, finding only one entrance to the main part of the haunted house attraction. “Let’s see if things have cooled off any,” he muttered, and cracked open the exterior door, looking back to the horde he’d broken through.

  Several of them shambled towards the haunted house, the rest heading back towards Terrell’s pursuers. It wasn’t long before more gunfire erupted in the distance, and he spotted zombies dropping amidst the throng.

  That oughta keep them busy for a while, he thought bitterly.

  More gunshots rang out closer to him, and he startled. He saw a few of the zombies heading towards him drop, and ducked back into the haunted house quickly, shutting the door enough so there was only a tiny sliver for him to look through.

  Two men approached the horde, shooting from only a few yards away from the front edge of the group of twenty ghouls or so. They put down a handful of them, and he counted down before springing into action.

  Terrell took his assault rifle, flung open the door, and opened fire on the duo. He hit one man in the back of the vest with two rapid fire shots, dropping him with the force of the bullets to the ground. His buddy turned and fired, forcing the Captain to duck back inside, bullets riddling the door and sending it flying open.

  Terrell got up to fire, just in time to see zombies overwhelm the downed man. Screams echoed through the air as the creatures converged on him, biting into his flesh. Terrell moved to resume the firefight, and the downed man’s head exploded before bullets tore through the front of the haunted house again.

  The Captain dove back inside, grabbing his flashlight as he went. He came around the first corner into a cemetery scene, about fifteen feet wide with fake tombstones and some ghosts.

  “Well, at least it’s not zombies,” he muttered, and looked around. There was a large foam tombstone that was about as tall as he was, and he placed the flashlight in the center of the room to shine directly on the entrance before taking cover behind the large grey piece.

  He waited, readying his knife, listening to the gunshots coming from outside. The lighting was too dim to risk firing in there, so he hoped this plan in a long string of ridiculous plans would work.

  He didn’t have to wait long, and a man came through the door. He held an assault rifle, with his own black light flashlight in the other, pressed up against the barrel of the gun.

  Terrell watched the dim beam move around the room, ducking down as it shone in his direction. Slowly the light panned around, and when he was facing away from him, the Captain rushed forward, taking the foam tombstone with him.

  The noise alerted the gunman who turned to fire, but Terrell used the large prop to block the gunman from properly aiming, hitting his arms as he turned. He ran straight through the man, tackling him. They tumbled to the ground, and the Captain was able to get on top and rain blows down on his face.

  The ground and pound maneuver was effective, even though the lighting from the two downed flashlights was minimal. While he couldn’t see the damage, he could feel the warm blood on his hands, hear the sick crunching of bones with each blow.

  As the man gurgled blood, Terrell delivered his kill shot, a knife jammed through the throat. He twisted the blade, making sure to finish the job, and then grabbed the flashlight from the floor beside him. He used it to illuminate the body enough and loot a full magazine and another knife.

  He grinned deviously in the darkness and then dragged the body over to one of the nearby tombstones. He propped the guy up against it, and then jammed his knife through one of his eyes to hold him there facing the entrance. As he worked, the gunfire from outside began to die down, signifying his time running out.

  “This oughta let ‘em know I mean business,” Terrell said brightly, and then stuck the flashlight in the man’s hand, shining it up at his face.

  He recovered the other flashlight and headed through the haunted house to the exit.

  “Four down,” he said, tone gleeful, “three to go!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Miles headed back over to Coleman, who stood over their captive.

  The sniper eyed him, noting his empty hands. “You not find any guns?” he asked, motioning to him.

  “Found several actually, and a decent amount of ammo,” Miles replied, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Also found their SUV parked behind the tree line up there, so I went ahead and got it loaded up.”

  Coleman grinned. “So we’re looking good, then?”

  “Oh yeah, those boys had some good stuff,” Miles replied. “We’ll be kicking ass for a while.”

  The sniper raised a victorious fist. “Nothing like looting the dead,” he declared.

  “So how’s this one doing?” Miles asked, motioning to the man beneath them, his head lolling back and forth.

  Coleman kicked his prisoner’s leg. “He’s still a bit out of it,” he said.

  Miles knelt down next to him, inspecting his face that was covered in crimson from a bleeding nose. “Nah, I think he’s faking it,” he declared, and got back to his feet.

  “What makes you say that?” Coleman asked.

  Miles shrugged. “Gut intuition.”

  “That’s sound medical reasoning, there,” the sniper replied, chuckling.

  Miles crossed his arms sheepishly. “Twenty bucks says he’s faking,” he suggested.

  “Twenty bucks, huh?” Coleman replied, raising an eyebrow. “Why not a million, since it holds about the same amount of worth these days?”

  Miles barked a laugh. “Good point,” he said. “Okay, how about this? Next batch of booze we find, winner gets the first two picks.”

  “Playing for something real, I dig it,” Coleman said, snapping his fingers. “You’re on.”

  His companion grinned. “All right, you wanna kick us off, then?”

  Coleman knelt beside the man, winding a fist in his hair to lift his head. His eyes stayed unfocused, looking off into the distance.

  “You with me there, bud?” the sniper asked. “We got some questions for you.”

  The man continued to stare into nothingness.

  “Hello, earth to douchebag?” Coleman asked, snapping his fingers a few times. “Anybody home?” Still nothing, so he shrugged and got back to his feet, letting his prisoner’s head fall back down. “Looks pretty out of it to me,” he said. “You want to concede, or do you have a plan in mind?”

  Miles smirked and motioned for his friend to back up. Once he did, he knelt down in front of the man himself, grabbing his hair as well, and lifting his head up just as the sniper had.

  “I promise you’re gonna want to stop pretending real soon,” he declared, and then when there was no response, he pulled his handgun and fir
ed a hair’s breadth away from the prisoner’s crotch, into the dirt. “The next shot is going right through your dick, motherfucker,” Miles informed him. “And after it’s off, I’m gonna fucking feed it to you!”

  The man’s blank stare immediately disappeared, his eyes widening with fear and clarity. “Okay, okay!” he cried. “I’ll talk!”

  Miles grinned and got to his feet, throwing his friend a wink.

  “You’re a sick motherfucker, you know that?” Coleman asked, though he looked impressed.

  His companion shrugged. “There’s a reason I fit in so well with you guys,” he said.

  Coleman chuckled and shook his head, and then turned to the chained man. “So, you’re ready to talk, huh?”

  “Whatever you want to know, man,” the prisoner gushed. “Just keep him away from me.”

  “Okay,” the sniper said, rubbing his palms together. “First things first, who are you guys?”

  The man swallowed hard. “We work for the Boss,” he said quickly. “Doing specialized jobs.”

  “Like what?” Coleman asked.

  The prisoner shook his head. “Yesterday we were leading a horde away from a town,” he said, “day before that we were securing material for a giant bomb. You know, stuff ordinary people might have a problem with.”

  “Ordinary people, huh?” Coleman cocked his head. “You military?”

  The man shook his head. “I was police, but some of the other guys were military or ex-military,” he explained. “Before all this we all weren’t the highest trained people, but today we’re better than most.”

  “Given how we took all you guys out, you may want to rethink that,” the sniper quipped.

  The prisoner winced. “You should see some of the saps we left behind.”

  “Fair enough,” Coleman replied. “But why come after us? We were gone and the Boss had what he wanted.”

  His captive shuddered. “You’d have to ask the Boss,” he said, shaking his head. “All I know is he said you three were a clear and present danger to the community and needed to be dealt with.”