Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home

by Nathan Brown

  Joseph came back and slung the last duffel bag into the truck. Mike closed the glass and prepared to go back inside. Joseph stood stock-still.

  “Mike, I know it looks like a couple of kids but please do something; my weapons are inside,” Joseph whispered without moving.

  Mike inched around Joseph’s shoulder and saw the kids from across the street staring at them. He forced himself not to think about it as he aimed and shot both in the head, one then the other.

  “Joe, since we’re out here, clear the bodies away from the truck.”

  Joseph grabbed the shirt of the one by the back tires and, careful to step over the beheaded corpse of the dead woman, dragged it past the front door, just under the kitchen window. He went back and got the other one from the front of the truck. Not eager for a repeat of the esophagus incident, he grabbed her ankles and dragged her out of the way. Joseph finished his grizzly task with the man that he had clubbed against the window.

  Mike turned away when he recognized what was left of the father of the children he’d just shot.

  They went back inside, chained the door, and threw the deadbolt.

  Mike tucked the Desert Eagle away while Joseph continued his morbid job of clearing the bodies from areas they would need. He was shocked by the sudden realization that he hadn’t even heard Joseph so much as gag. In fact, the young civilian now seemed about as cool as a cucumber.

  Mike pushed the refrigerator and kitchen table barricade into the center of the living room so they wouldn’t have to go the long way around to get to the kitchen later.

  Dead Come Home

  Chapter 7

  The Monsters Out There

  Joseph sat in the middle of the master bedroom on one of the kitchen chairs, with his feet propped up on a second chair, watching the news. Mike walked into the room, dropped a Beretta 9mm handgun in his lap, and took a few steps towards the small bathroom on the far side.

  “What’s this, you trust me with a gun again?” Joseph asked sitting up. Mike turned to face him, removing the Desert Eagle from his waistband before dropping out the magazine and inspecting it.

  “If you’re coming with me, I better get a warm-and-fuzzy that you know what you’re doing with a weapon,” Mike said, slamming the clip back home and chambering a round. “Well?”

  Joseph stood up with the gun in his right hand, his index finger already on the trigger.

  “Stop,” Mike shook his head. “What’re you doing? Getting ready to shoot me? You’ve never held a gun before in your fuckin’ life, have you? And you didn’t think this was an important bit of information to pass on to me?”

  Joseph bit his tongue as he felt his face go flush with embarrassment and his hands tremble with frustration.

  “Okay, time to go to Mike’s school of guns and ammo. That piece in your hand is empty …”

  “You still don’t trust me.” Joseph said.

  “Not true. Trust has nothing to do with it. I’m not gonna hand a loaded gun to you again until I know that you know what you’re doing,” Mike said. “I’m not angry. You saved my ass earlier, and it’s not your fault that no one ever showed you the ins-and-outs of these things. You did me a favor, so now I’m gonna teach you something that might save your life and, perhaps more importantly, mine.”

  Joseph stood up, walked over, and handed the gun to Mike … barrel first.

  “Uh-uh,” Mike grunted. He cleared his throat to stop himself from yelling. He pressed the barrel down and away from him with the palm of his hand. “First of all, take your finger off the damn trigger. Second, always hand a gun over butt first. People tend to get kinda nervous when facing the business end of a boom-stick.”

  Joseph reached up and closed his left hand around the barrel, turning it around. Mike put the Desert Eagle back in his waistband and took the Beretta from Joseph, keeping his finger clear of the trigger.

  “Rule number one—never point a weapon at anything you do not intend to shoot.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Rule number two—always keep your finger straight and off the trigger until you intend to fire.”

  Mike used his left hand to pull the slide halfway back. He held up the partially revealed bullet chamber for Joseph to see.

  “Pull the slide back like this; if you see brass, you’ve got a round in the chamber, which means it’s almost ready to fire.”

  He eased the slide forward. He turned the gun sideways and pointed to the safety catch.

  “Rule number three—keep the weapon on safe until you are ready to fire. When you look at this button and see black, no amount of trigger pulling is going to make it fire. If you see red, it means the safety is off, and when you pull the trigger this thing’s gonna spit fire.”

  He thumbed the magazine release. The ammo clip slid out easily into his left palm. He pointed the button out to Joseph.

  “This is the magazine release. Always hang onto your clips. None of that ridiculous let-the-clip-drop-to-the-floor-John-Woo bullshit. They’re reusable and you can never have too many, especially in the situation we’re in.”

  He pulled a second clip out of his back pocket. Joseph could clearly see the glint of brass at the top. Mike pushed the clip into place. He pulled the slide back and let it slam home, chambering a round.

  “If it jams, pull the slide back and lock it in place by pushing up on this lever with your thumb,” Mike said, pointing to the slide lock. “Turn it over and give it a shake. Make sure the jammed cartridge and the one in the pipe are cleared before you release the lock, or you’ll just get a double-feed and make matters worse.”

  “Which means?”

  “Two rounds getting jammed into the chamber pipe at the same time,” Mike explained. “If that happens and you pull the trigger … well, there’s a good chance you’ll be saying goodbye to one or both of your hands. If you have time, save any good rounds by stickin’ ‘em in your pocket. If not, just forget ‘em and chamber a new round.”

  Mike squatted down and manually ejected all of the rounds from the clip so that Joseph could observe the process. He retrieved the empty clip from his back pocket and began to load it. He let Joseph load the last two rounds, returned the clip to his back pocket, depressed the safety catch, and handed the gun to Joseph barrel first.

  Joseph reached to take the gun from Mike and stopped his hand short.

  “Butt first,” Joseph said, smiling and quite satisfied with himself.

  “Good … so you were paying attention, after all,” Mike said, turning the gun around so Joseph could take it. “Now all we have to do is teach you how to shoot the damn thing.”

  Mike got to his feet and motioned for Joseph to stand. He assumed the straight-arm shooting stance.

  “Well? Come on.”

  Joseph did his best to mimic Mike’s stance.

  “Not quite,” Mike said. He turned and started adjusting Joseph into a more solid shooting stance as though he were a store window mannequin.

  “Get used to this position. It’s the best form for shooting when you have targets coming from more than one direction. On second thought, this is the best form I’m going to teach you because it’s versatile.

  “Now, look through and past the rear sight. Don’t focus on it. You should just be able to see the tip of the front sight. Don’t focus on it either. Eyes on your target. Let the two sights line up, then allow them to blur as you focus on the target. Finger all the way over the trigger … and squeeze.”

  Mike watched Joseph aim and pull the trigger. The hammer clicked down. Joseph looked at Mike, expecting some comment or criticism. Mike didn’t answer, but watched Joseph in his firing stance. Joseph sighted again and pulled the trigger.

  “Tell me what you are aiming at,” Mike said, focusing on Joseph’s hands.

  “The six on that clock.”

  Mike nodded. Joseph repeated the procedure.

  “You would have missed. You might have hit the center of the clock if you were lucky,” he said holding his ha
nd out for the gun.

  Joseph handed it to him butt first.

  “Hold up your index finger,” Mike instructed, demonstrating. “Now bend it. The middle part, that space between your two far knuckles, is what should be on the trigger. If you fire this way, you’ll squeeze the trigger in a smoother motion that won’t throw off your aim.”

  Mike handed the nine-mil back to Joseph … again, barrel first. Joseph didn’t even move to take the gun. Mike chuckled and spun the gun around on his index finger until the butt faced Joseph. The fledgling marksman took the gun, keeping his finger clear of the trigger.

  “Good, grasshoppah. You’re a quick study. Now, I wanna see you do some more dry-fires.”

  Joseph dry-fired the gun about fifteen times before Mike was satisfied.

  “Well … this isn’t quite military training, but at least it’s better than nothing. Take out that empty clip,” Mike said, handing him the loaded magazine.

  Joseph hit the magazine release, placed the empty clip in his back pocket as he’d seen Mike do, and took the loaded one. He pulled the slide all the way back, making sure the lock was firmly in place. He pushed the loaded clip into place and thumbed the slide release. He engaged the safety and set the gun in his chair.

  “One more thing,” Mike said with that killer look in his eyes, “If you try any of that shoot-em-up-movie bullshit where you try to shoot past or around me … you’ll get a kick in the nuts. If you try it and I get shot … I’ll cut ‘em off. Am I clear?”

  Joseph nodded in agreement.

  Mike went into the walk-in closet and returned with a hip holster and a shoulder holster harness.

  “Where do you wanna wear it, under your arm or on your belt?”

  “Let me try the shoulder holster.”

  Mike tossed it to him. Joseph shrugged into the tanned leather straps of the harness, realized he had it on upside down, corrected it, and buckled the chest strap securely into place. He picked up his nine-mil and slid it into the molded leather holster, which hung parallel to the ground. He smoothly pulled out the gun and put it back. He drew again, faster this time. He did it once more, this time with his left arm across his chest so that it partially blocked his draw. Satisfied, he returned the weapon to its new home.

  “I’ll stick to this one,” Joseph said.

  “Okay … here,” Mike said, tossing a box of rounds to the floor next to Joseph. “Load up. That extra clip isn’t gonna do you any good without any rounds in it.”

  Mike held the holster in one hand, pulled out the bulky leather belt and tossed the black strap haphazardly into the closet. He set the holster on the floor and stepped quietly into to the kitchen. He removed a large serrated kitchen knife from the wooden knife rack on the counter and returned. He began sawing off the bottom enclosure of the leather holster. A few hard slashes and the job was done.

  The holster was designed for a Colt .45, not a Desert Eagle, which has a considerably longer and wider barrel. Since Hanse had failed to provide him with a proper holster, this was the next best thing. It would have to do until he could find one.

  He went back into the closet and returned with two thin belts.

  He sat down on the floor next to the TV and pulled the holster down to his lap. He took out his pocketknife and stabbed two vertical slits through the bottom half of the holster’s backside. He fed one of the belts through the holster’s original belt loop and the other belt he slipped through the two slots he’d cut himself. He extended his right leg and strapped the holster to the outside of his thigh, so that the butt of the pistol would rest just at hand level. He measured the length and marked spots for new buckle holes.

  Mike put the holster to the side and went back into the kitchen. He went to the large drawer on the near side of the sink. It slid open with a squeak. Mike froze, worried that the sound would attract the attention of any of those things that might be wandering nearby. He found the ice-pick at the back of the drawer. He reached across to the front of the sink to grab the old wooden cutting board.

  A high-pitched wail from somewhere outside pierced the air, making Mike flinch. Careful not to expose himself, he drew back the blanket and curtains just enough to look outside. He could clearly see the silhouette of a woman standing in the driveway across the street. She must have moved because the motion-activated porch light suddenly flooded the area with light. Her face was lifted towards the night sky and, as the light faintly hit her features, Mike recognized what had once been Macy Hinkle, wife of Gary Hinkle (whom Mike had put a bullet through the head of just a few hours before, along with their infected children).

  I wonder if Gary or one of the kids bit her? Poor woman … I’d put her out of her misery right now if I didn’t think it’d bring a mess of ‘em down on us.

  Mike wasn’t too concerned. She was still out there and he doubted she could get in. Individually, these things weren’t too dangerous. One, however, suddenly turned into three as he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He heard a louder and deeper moan, which caused him to shift his eyes left. He risked pushing his face a little further into the opening so he could see more of the area in front of his house. He saw two more of them staggering in the middle of the road, moving towards the house on the opposite corner.

  The woman wailed once more, as if answering the other two, and began limping off quickly in the same direction.

  He slowly let the curtain and towel back down and returned to the master bedroom. He tried to force himself to ignore the itch in the back of his mind, telling him he was turning a blind eye. However, he didn’t want to know if there was anyone still in the house on the corner. To acknowledge the thought would be to acknowledge the fact that there was nothing he could do to help them … at least, nothing that wouldn’t end up putting Joseph and him into a no-win situation.

  Not my fight … not my problem … not anymore.

  Mike settled cross-legged on the floor next to his customized holster. He set the cutting board in front of him and pulled the first belt over the block. He set the ice pick on his mark and used the butt of the Desert Eagle as a hammer to punch a new hole in the belt. He pulled the second belt over and did it again.

  He stood the cutting board against the TV stand and walked the ice-pick over to Joseph.

  “Since you don’t have a knife, this might come in handy if one gets too close. Aim for the temple or the eye.”

  “How am I supposed to carry it?” Joseph asked, eyeing his new tool as Mike began strapping on the jerry-rigged holster.

  “Here,” Mike said, reaching into his shirt. He pulled out his dog tags and opened the beaded chain. He broke off a small section and tossed it over to Joseph before putting the remnants into his pocket. “Put the chain through the hole in the bottom of the handle then snap it closed around your belt.”

  “How will I get it off?”

  “That beaded dog tag chain is designed to break in case an enemy grabs hold and tries to strangle you with it. Just yank up hard when you grab the handle, and it’ll break loose. It’ll only work once, but it’ll work.”

  Mike pulled the Desert Eagle out of his waistband and shoved it into the customized holster. He jumped a few times and moved around, testing the fit. He took a few steps and delivered a kick or two to see if it slid down his leg. He then walked circles around the room until he was satisfied that his work was reliable.

  “It’s not the best fit for this thing, but it’ll have to do for now,” Mike said.

  Mike sat down on the chair next to Joseph’s. He wasn’t crazy about having his back to the barricade, but he was confident that he would have enough time to react if one of them tried to get through.

  They didn’t want to make any unnecessary noise, but decided it was worth the risk to watch the 10 o’clock news. What else were they going to do? And they still needed information, however worthless or redundant it may have been.

  The news anchor was a young white woman with bright brown eyes. Her tailored blouse and jacket
were crisp and clean. Her hair was styled and perfect, as was her makeup. She was calm, composed, and almost smiling as she started reading the headlines. Mike felt that her well-kept appearance and mild demeanor meant the news wasn’t reporting the entirety of what was really going on. He wondered how long the government would be able to avoid hard questions from the media. How long would they keep up this ridiculous riot façade?

  Local police, county sheriff, fire department, and the highway patrol have recalled all off-duty personnel following a rash of fatal traffic accidents. More than twenty multi-vehicle accidents have brought the normally mild traffic of the area to a near standstill. Police officials have declined to comment on a possible cause for the surge of accidents. The extra officers are being deployed to help clear the accidents and get traffic moving again.

  Mike flipped to one of the other local news channels. An older gent with terribly outdated hair and a tacky suit sat alone behind the anchor desk with the words “Trubble in Texas” at the bottom of the screen. Mike tried not to wince when he saw the painfully misspelled letters.

  Dallas, Fort Worth, and surrounding communities have activated all available law enforcement personnel to shut down traffic coming into and out of the Metroplex. Officials said this will offer Tactical units and SWAT teams maneuverability to bring the riots under control.