Zombie Rules (Book 5): Mount Weather

by David Achord

  He searched the man and felt something sticking out of his back pocket. Feeling it in the dark, he realized it was a blackjack. Fred now knew who was attacking them.

  He knew they were making a move now and wondered where the rest of them were. He did not have to wait long. He heard a gunshot ring out from the back of the house.

  “Take that, you cocksuckers!” someone yelled and fired again.

  Fred moved now. He worked his way out of the garage and around to the side of the house. The fog was limiting the ambient, but it also worked to Fred’s advantage. He hugged the side of the house and peeked toward the back.

  The man fired again. The flash of the burning gunpowder momentarily lit up his face as he shouted another obscenity. It was all Fred needed. He aimed the shotgun, and fired once before ducking back. He heard the satisfying sounds of a person falling and racked another round.

  After a moment, several gunshots rang out, chewing up the brickwork on the corner of the house where his face was a second ago. Fred was sure his shot was true, so there must have been someone else with him. He backed away and moved toward the big elm tree in the front yard. He hoped if any of the marauders saw his outline, they’d assume it was one of their comrades and not shoot. He only hoped nobody inside the house would take a potshot at him.

  While he waited for his next move, he heard more shouting of obscenities from the back of the house. But, the yelling stopped immediately after a small caliber gunshot rang out from the house. It had to be Anne and that twenty-two rifle of hers. She was probably posted at a window and patiently waited for the opportunity to kill one of them.

  Including the man lying dead on the front porch, they’d killed four of them now. He remembered Melvin stating there were twelve at one time, but Snake was dead and Zach had killed three more. If Anne’s shot was a good one, which he did not doubt, that’d make a total of eight of them dead and maybe four left.

  If they hadn’t increased their ranks. Yeah, that was a big if.

  No matter, Fred had an appointment with a sniper and he had no intention of missing it. He’d already determined the general location of where said sniper was and started low crawling.

  The night was cool. Even so, Fred was sweating profusely and he was parched. He hadn’t thought to take a canteen with him. He ignored his discomfort and kept crawling through the high grass. After an hour, he made it to the wood line.

  He reached a couple of trees growing close together and took a moment to rest. His hands, elbows, and knees were scraped up and his healing gunshot wound was aching terribly. It did not deter him though. Fred had no illusions. He knew the odds were against him, but before he died, he was going to kill the man who murdered Sarah.

  He stood and started walking slowly toward the spot where he believed the sniper was posted up. If he was gone, he’d wait until sunup and attempt a track. He’d taken no more than a few steps when someone less than twenty feet away fired a rifle.

  “Damn it, Hot-Shot, tell me before you shoot again, my ears are ringing.”

  “Sorry, dude,” another voice said a little louder than normal. He must have been wearing hearing protection.

  A moment later, one of them turned on a flashlight. It had a red lens on it, but it put out enough light so Fred could see his two adversaries.

  Fred didn’t know it, but Hot-Shot was the self-proclaimed sniper for the Blackjacks, and coincidentally, Lonnie’s little brother.

  None of it mattered to Fred. Only one thing mattered. He worked his way closer.

  “Alright, it’s been thirty minutes, time for another one.”

  “Roger that,” Hot-Shot said and fixed his earmuffs. He levered the action and laid back down in a prone position.

  He didn’t like wasting ammunition, but Lonnie’s orders were clear. Shoot into the house sporadically throughout the night so whoever was inside wouldn’t get any sleep. They were going to make entry through the back door before sunup, and Lonnie told him to keep them off balance. The house was dark, but he could see the glint of windows. He took aim at one he’d not yet shot out and fired.

  Immediately after firing, he felt his buddy stumble across his legs. He moved one of the earmuffs aside and looked behind him; he could make out the shape of his friend sitting there.

  “Mako, what the hell are you doing?” he asked.

  Mako fell forward, his face hitting the dirt inches from him. It was at that moment Hot-Shot saw the man standing immediately behind Mako’s body.

  “What the fuck?” he said as he tried to bring the rifle around.

  Fred jumped on top of him, bringing a knee into his gut. Hot-Shot expelled air out of his lungs in a painful gasp, but before he could react, Fred slit his throat.

  As the man began having spasms, Fred found the flashlight and turned it on.

  “That was for Sarah, you piece of shit,” Fred growled as he watched the sniper bleed out.

  Once Hot-Shot stopped twitching, he inspected the two men closely. One of them had a water bottle. It only had a few swallows left, but Fred wiped the top off and gulped it down. He then inspected the rifle. It was a Marlin 444, lever action. A nice, western-style rifle meant for large game. More than enough to obliterate a human. The heavy weight of the bullet the large caliber bullet limited its range to around two hundred yards, but they were only a hundred yards from the house.

  He looked out toward the house, imagining Sarah’s lifeless body lying on the ground and looked at the rifle again. He gently set the rifle down and then slowly, deliberately, jammed his knife through the eye socket of each man to ensure there would be no zombie resurrection, and then did something else with his knife.

  Chapter 45 – The Death Nod

  “That’s the last of the coffee,” Topsy said as he handed Lonnie a cup. Lonnie eyed him cynically.

  Topsy shrugged apologetically. He’d been on the receiving end of a beating from Lonnie before, and he wasn’t in the mood for another one. Standing only five and a half feet tall and barely a hundred and thirty pounds, he needed the safety of Lonnie and the Blackjacks.

  “Maybe those people will have some,” he said, hoping to calm Lonnie.

  Lonnie was a cruel-natured man with a hair-trigger temper, but these past couple of days he’d been even worse than normal. First, Snake went missing. He sent Pig, Scooter, and Crash to that Mount Weather place and they haven’t heard from them since. Lonnie thought they’d been killed, which was probably true.

  Yesterday, Hot-Shot had found the house the Blackjacks currently had under siege. When told about it, it was the first time Topsy had seen Lonnie smile in a week.

  “They have a couple of young split-tails,” Lonnie said, referring to Jim’s daughters as he watched them through the binoculars. “This is good, boys. Real good.”

  Topsy’s job was to set up camp out of sight of the house and guard the whores while the rest of them took care of business. He didn’t like the woods at night, so he kept the truck and camper parked in the middle of the road. Who the hell was going to make them move, the police?

  He heard a lot of gunshots while he set up a fire and began to cook some dinner.

  “Sucks to be them,” he mumbled.

  They came back an hour later and nobody was smiling.

  “What happened?” Topsy asked Freak.

  “One of those bastards shot Tank,” he said.

  Topsy gasped as Lonnie walked over and looked at the food.

  “What’s this shit?” he asked.

  “It’s the rest of the chicken soup,” he said. He was about to tell Lonnie they were almost out of food, but the look on his face made Topsy decide the best thing to do was keep his mouth shut, or else he might get backhanded.

  Lonnie ladled most of it into a bowl. “Alright, listen up. Mako and Hot-Shot are going to throw some rounds into the back of the house off and on all night. I want you fuckers to occasionally sneak down the road and put some rounds in the front of the house. In the morning, they’ll either surrender o
r we’re going to charge the house.”

  “What about Tank?” Freak asked.

  Lonnie paused and looked back. Freak lived up to his nickname. He had multiple tattoos, including three on his face, and two piercings in each eyebrow.

  “Feel free to go get him if you want. I doubt you’d live through it.” He then looked at Topsy. “Wake me before sunup.”

  With that, he walked into the trailer. “Hello, girls,” he said before slamming the door shut.

  The rest of them split what was left of the soup.

  “Man, we need to get in that house,” Freak said in a low voice. “I need fresh food and fresh pussy, and not necessarily in that order.”

  He chortled at his own joke. Topsy laughed along with him.

  “They got guns,” Crank said quietly. “They already killed Tank.”

  Crank was a meth head. In fact, anyone with street smarts would’ve taken one look at him and knew immediately he was a meth head. Even so, he was often the voice of reason among the group.

  “We’re a hell of a lot meaner than them,” Freak retorted. “They don’t stand a chance.”

  “Yeah,” Crank replied, keeping the uncertainty out of his tone.

  When the sky started turning gray, Topsy dutifully knocked on the camper door and woke Lonnie. He walked out wearing only a pair of blue jeans and some sneakers. Topsy dutifully handed Lonnie back his handgun while staring at his muscled chest.

  “Alright,” he said as he jammed the handgun into his waistband. He worked a kink out of his neck. “Damn, the girls were insatiable last night. I hardly got any sleep.”

  Topsy cast a quick forlorn glance at him. It seemed like to him Lonnie could’ve been a team player and let them take turns with the girls. At least for an hour or so. But he didn’t and they were relegated to taking turns keeping guard and sleeping on the hard asphalt.

  Lonnie glanced over and he quickly looked away.

  “Say, it’s quiet. When’s the last time you heard a gunshot?” Lonnie asked.

  “A couple of hours now,” Topsy said and looked over at Crank.

  “Yeah, a couple of hours now,” he said in agreement and spit between the gap where two of his front teeth used to be.

  Lonnie looked at Freak, who nodded apathetically.

  “Fuck ‘em, they’re probably sleeping. Are we gonna do this or what?” he asked.

  Lonnie was about to reply with a derogatory retort, but he was interrupted by a man’s voice.

  “Hello, boys.”

  The four men looked up suddenly at the direction of the voice. They saw a visage of a man standing down the road about thirty feet away in the swirling fog. Lonnie stood slowly and looked the man over. He was tall, lanky, and dirty as hell. The knees on his jeans were torn and green from grass stains. And, it looked like some kid had been coloring on his face. In spite of it, Lonnie could see a hardness underneath.

  “Where did he come from?” Topsy asked under his breath.

  “Who the hell are you?” Lonnie asked.

  “The name’s Fred. Fred McCoy.”

  Lonnie spat. “Never heard of you.”

  “Oh, I’m not surprised, I’m a nobody. May I ask your names?”

  Lonnie smirked. “Certainly.” He pointed. “That’s Topsy, Crank, Freak, and I’m Lonnie. We’re the Blackjacks. Now, I’m betting you’ve heard of us.”

  “I have,” Fred said.

  Lonnie nodded at the perceived compliment.

  “Well now, you certainly have some balls, sneaking up on us.”

  “I apologize if I’ve upset you.”

  Lonnie chuckled. “So, what the hell do you want, Fred McCoy?”

  “Those are my friends in that house up the road a ways,” Fred said.

  Freak had stood and began moving off to the side.

  “Don’t do that,” Fred said.

  “Why not?” Freak replied with a taunting smile.

  “Because then you may not be able to hear the story I’m about to tell.”

  Lonnie chuckled again. “And why would we want to hear your story, old man?”

  “It’s a good one. It’s a story about how a race of Indians was wiped out because they pissed off the wrong people.”

  Lonnie chuckled again. “Well hell, old man. I’m game. Tell me your story and then I’ll decide if I’m going to kill you or not.”

  “I appreciate it, sir. Well, it goes like this. Back in 1634 or so, the Puritans were running the Massachusetts Bay Colony. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. They teach it in grade school.”

  “Yeah, I remember that,” Topsy said. Lonnie glared at him. Topsy shut up.

  “Anyway, they had a truce with the local tribes and everything seemed to be fine and dandy, but one tribe, they called themselves the Pequots, they got into a disagreement with the crew of a Puritan ship and a couple of people were killed.”

  “I like killing,” Freak said and grinned, showing Fred his two missing front teeth.

  “Good. You’ll really like what happens next. The Puritans became angry and wanted revenge. So, they declared war on the Pequots and put a bounty on their heads. Now, there were other tribes of Indians living around the area and they didn’t like the Pequots too much, so they started killing them. For the bounties, you understand.”

  Fred paused a minute and looked them over. All of their rifles were leaned up against their truck, which had a camper hooked up to the back of it. But, all of them had a handgun of various makes and models. Two of them had holsters, and the other two had them jammed into their waistbands.

  “Is that it?” Lonnie asked.

  “Oh, no,” Fred answered. “Here comes the best part of all. The local Indians started killing the Pequots, cut their heads off, and turned them in for the rewards. But, the heads were cumbersome and got to stinking after a few hours, so they came up with the nifty idea of scalping their kills instead of taking the whole head. This is how Indians started the tradition of scalping their conquered enemies.”

  “That’s a real nice story, Fred, but I’m wondering why the hell you’re telling it to us,” Lonnie said. He was growing bored and was ready to kill the old man and move on to the house.

  “Well, sir, I brought you boys a present, and I thought the story would help explain the present,” Fred said.

  They watched as Fred slowly reached behind him with his left hand. He came out with what looked like a clump of fur and tossed it. It landed at Topsy’s feet. Topsy squatted down and looked at it before gasping and jumping back.

  “Those are scalps!” he shouted at Lonnie. Lonnie looked down at them and then looked back at Fred with a look of incredulity.

  “Those are two of your friends,” Fred said. “Mako and Hot-Shot. I didn’t catch the names of the others, but they’re dead too.”

  They didn’t know the proper terminology, but they watched as Fred gave them the death nod.

  “I see you boys are armed. That’s good. You might have a chance.”

  Fred spread his feet slightly. His right hand dangled beside his pistol.

  Freak went for his gun first, but if he’d ever seen Fred shoot, he would’ve known he would have been better off dropping to his knees and begging for mercy.

  Fred shot all four men in under a second. Even though he had two additional rounds in the chamber, he reloaded quickly as he scanned the area.

  After reloading, he walked up to Lonnie, who was still alive. He’d managed to get his handgun out of his holster, but he couldn’t seem to hold onto it. Fred kicked it away.

  “Looks like I missed your heart by an inch or so. My aim isn’t as good as it once was. No matter, you’ll be dead in a few minutes.”

  Lonnie looked up at him. “Who are you?” he choked out.

  “I told you, my name is Fred McCoy. When you show up in hell, be sure to tell everyone you met me.”

  Fred stared at him for a moment longer and then went around to the rest of them, ensuring they were dead and retrieving their handguns.

 
There was a small fire someone had made in the middle of the road and circled with rocks. A coffee pot sat on one of those rocks with a cup beside it. He helped himself. He only took a swallow and dumped the rest. It was awful.

  Looking at the camper, he realized there might be someone hiding out in it, waiting for the opportunity to take a pot shot at him. He approached it warily and then stood to the side as he flung the door open. He did a quick peek and saw movement. He backed away, holding his pistol at the ready.

  “Come out of there,” he demanded.

  It took a long minute, but then three women slowly exited. They saw the dead bodies and looked at Fred with sheer fright etched into their expressions.

  Fred eyed them suspiciously. They were pitiful looking. Dirty, emaciated, wearing nothing but tattered underclothes.

  “Anybody else in there? Don’t lie,” he warned.

  “No, sir,” one of them stammered. The other two shook their heads.

  Their clothing left little to the imagination. Fred was worried about weapons, but it was obvious they weren’t armed.

  He peered in, ignoring the rank smell and, finding nobody left inside, focused back on the women. He holstered his pistol.

  “It’s going to be okay, ladies.”

  Chapter 46 – Journal Entry

  This journal entry is being recorded on September 25th, three years into this living apocalypse, fifty days since we first arrived at Mount Weather, Virginia.

  As I am writing this, it is coming up on two in the morning. I couldn’t sleep, so I volunteered to relieve the guards at the main post. They thanked me tiredly and hurried inside before I changed my mind.

  Yesterday, we were attacked yet again by a horde of approximately a hundred of the infected. The Marines kicked ass, as usual, but some of the civilians here are really starting to shine when it comes to fire discipline and killing zombies. Most importantly, we had a (mostly) coordinated firefight and nobody was injured or killed.