Someone, or perhaps more than one person is still shooting at him. He hears several bullets whine past him and then he is sprinting up a driveway. I need to find cover! Where’s Keller?
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Something hits him hard, square in the back. He feels his legs give way, and in slow motion he topples forward, arms outstretched and plows into the driveway, aware of a brief flare of terrible pain.
MOST OF HIS WEIGHT IS HELD UP BY HIS ARMS. The muscles begin to burn, as they both breathe heavier and the slapping sound of flesh on flesh increases. Her nails rake his forearms as she arches her back. It ends with a few frenzied thrusts and a few guttural grunts with Suzy’s ankles on his shoulders. “I’m dead,” he announces, and falls forward over her, allowing her legs to fall to either side.
“Oh God, you’re all sweaty. Get off! Get off of me!” The dreaded words. Another woman who loathes sweat. Reluctantly, he pulls away and stands up. Someone coughs and he looks up.
“How badly do you want to live, James?” asks Mitch, his face expressionless, arms on the counter watching as Dodd struggles with his trousers.
“That question has an obvious answer, Mitch,” he replies, bluffing, and forcing himself to finish dressing and pretend he isn’t afraid. Suzy hasn’t made much effort to dress yet, other than to retrieve her nearly transparent pink panties and slip them back on. Part of him would like nothing better than another round with her. He’d discovered she liked it rougher than he did.
“Well then, Mister Policeman, how do you feel about getting us into to the station to get some real firepower?”
“There aren’t really enough of us to get very far if anyone is still there.”
“What if I told you there were ten more of us?”
“Then I’d say: Things are shaping up!”
“How about a beer, James? Why don’t you go get all of us one, Suzy?”
“Sounds wonderful, Mitch,” answers Dodd.
Suzy stands up, stretches with an unusual degree of limberness. A lot of tan, beautiful smooth skin is on display. She then pulls on her top, shorts and shoes. “I’ll be right back, Mitchell.”
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“There’s a guy I know who might be able to help us, and he’s on the way.”
“The more the merrier, James. We have to band together or the bad guys will win.”
Dodd snorts, then cuts loose with slightly hysterical laughter. Suzy returns with three frosted bottles of beer. Coronas. She passes them around. Dodd twists his cap off and tilts the bottle toward the others. “To bad things happening to good people.”
Mitch grins.
Dodd takes a long pull, slaps Suzy on the ass and grins right back.
FOR A MOMENT, Keller is too stunned to react, but then a bullet hits the passenger window next to Lionel’s head. The bullet resistant glass is no match for it, and the bullet passes right through and shatters the rear passenger window behind Keller. The kids and Lionel’s wife are screaming. Barney is shrieking: “Get out of here!”
Keller pushes all the distractions away, even as another bullet ricochets off the hood. The engine starts smoothly, and he edges around the mayor’s car, noticing Hadley struggling to slide over into the driver’s seat, but focusing on Talaski. The man seems to be leading a charmed life as he separates from a stumbling Detective Pitts and just reaches a driveway. Then, one bullet out of the thirty or forty that churned up the asphalt all around him catches his still sprinting friend in the back and tosses him to the ground like a discarded doll. “Damn!” Keller shouts as he brings the cruiser to a sliding tire screeching halt between Talaski and the people trying to shoot him. Several bullets immediately pepper the car, but he doesn’t care. He throws the shifter into park, leaves the engine running and exits the vehicle at a run toward his fallen friend.
“Nick, I’m coming!” he shouts. Talaski gets his hands and knees beneath him and tries to rise to his feet. A bullet whizzes close by and smacks into a tree trunk, scattering splinters. Talaski grabs his pistol from the ground, holsters it and finds his feet. Keller grabs him, starts to steer back toward the cruiser when he hears a door slam. Both of them look up to see Barney behind the wheel. He throws the car into
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gear and with a half-hearted single finger raised, gives them the bird. He then peels out and follows the Humvee toward the bridge. “Back Nick! Let’s get into one of those houses—”
The M-60 roars and there are two quick explosions, and the sound
of men screaming as they die. Talaski throws an arm over Keller’s shoulders and allows him to half carry him up the drive and around the side of a house, out of the line of fire. Both of them are breathing heavily as they slump down into a luxuriant stretch of grass and against the stucco wall of a Spanish style mansion. An oak towers over them, with decades old limbs snaking in all directions.
The machine gun falls silent. A moment or two later, a pistol fires once, twice. Silence overtakes them.
“Thirsty?” Keller asks.
“Yeah, and God that hurt. Good thing I’ve got my vest on.”
Keller stoops over a spigot and a carelessly piled hose. He turns it on, lets it run a moment, then hands the end to Talaski. “Ah, that’s good. I was worried it might be reclaimed or sulphur water.”
“That’s why I let you drink first,” says Keller with a smirk. He proceeds to drink, then turns off the spigot.
“Bastard! I should have known.” It’s never over with Talaski. Revenge is coming.
“Guess we’re fucked until we find another car.” Keller looks around the corner. “The chief’s car is still there. Maybe they’re waiting for Ramos to give the all-clear. I can see that bastard walking around the bridge. Looks like he just put a couple of survivors out of their misery.”
“Who, Ramos?”
“Yeah. He’s shooting everyone in the head with his pistol.”
“All we got is our pistols, eh?” asks Talaski.
“Yeah. I didn’t have time… but hey, I do have an extra one I took off Lionel. I almost forgot. It even has a silencer.”
“Let me see it, will you?”
Keller nods, reaches inside his jacket and hands the pistol over. “I had to unscrew the silencer. Let me give you that also.”
“You never know, this might help us. And as long as we’re together there’s still hope.” Talaski looks the weapon over, screws the silencer back on. He drops the magazine and ejects the round in the chamber, then places it back in the magazine.
“Do we hang out here and follow them or head back toward the Pier?” Keller asks.
Talaski looks thoughtful.
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THE SKY IS A SLATE GRAY and it feels like rain. From his perch on a lawn chair, Jacobs looks out over Tampa Bay. The water is choppy and full of tiny whitecaps. The air is noticeably cooler than it was ten minutes ago. A big speed boat with an enclosed cabin has just tied up at the small marina. A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a desert pattern camouflage uniform emerges from a door facing the boat’s stern and jumps to the dock. The man wearing mirrored sunglasses and a crisp, creased uniform with the gold eagle insignia on his cap strides toward them with a self-important air. One hand is resting on a holstered pistol at his waist as he walks along, while the other holds a cigar.
Someone mutters, “Oh shit.”
The man frowns, and slows to a stop. Apparently he isn’t happy that no one has jumped to attention. He looks over each man, finally settling on Jacobs.
How does he know I’m in charge?
“What happened back there, soldier?” the colonel asks. He blows a smoke ring. The name on the right side of his chest says ‘Dutton.’
Jacobs leans back in a chair and takes a long pull from his icy cold can of Michelob beer. Most of his equipment lies at his feet: helmet, rifle, and backpack. He tries to concentrate on the beer, but the echo of shots, screams, and the roar of Shell’s flamethrower are in his head. His ears still ring.
“Not sure sir. Guess it was to
o much for him.”
“Too much for who? You mean this psychopath, Shell?”
“We’re all potential psychos Colonel. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.”
“Well, Sergeant Jacobs, you’d better get a grip on your men before they realize their potential to fuck up. Shell got off easy. If I thought for even a minute that any of you knew what he was going to do, I’d have all of you shot on the spot.”
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Jacobs can feel the blood rush to his face.
“Understand me Sergeant?” the man barks.
“Yes sir,” he replies. We won’t kill any more Congressmen. The colonel nods, turns and takes a step or two back toward the
boat. “I knew I could count on you, but we must set examples for the men. Reinforcements and a relief team are on the way. Just hang tough a few more hours and things will ease up.”
Jacobs watches the man almost run down the dock. Probably worried we’ll shoot him.
After all the killing he and his men have done, the loss of Shell still hurts. Seems like a small price to pay against the areas they have cleared, but his men are dead tired. Tired and burnt out. No question that they have lost their edge. How else to explain Shell’s death? The answer is at his fingertips, and literally echoes up out of his past, a relentless voice in his head, despite being dead and gone more than six years ago. Even worse, every word replaying through his mind is true.
“You got to watch them Jacobs. The signs are always there. The trick is to notice them. Personal hygiene is usually the first indicator of a loss of morale. Guy quits brushing his teeth? He’s probably thinking about his Momma, or worrying about his wife sleeping around.”
Two out of his four surviving men have officially started to lose it. The first, a guy named Bern Lepski, has quit using deodorant. The second, Charlie Watson, has quit brushing his teeth. Both of them saw more than they should have on the last mission, but things are drawing to a close, and it is rare when everything goes to plan. Only Booth and Hicks appear to be behaving normally.
“Anybody hungry?” asks Hicks while holding up a ten year old MRE.
“Fuck off Hicks,” Lepski snarls. “I still got blood all over me.”
Hicks holds up his other hand in a warding gesture. His chin is thrust forward and although he is smiling, his eyes are cold. “I was just trying to be friendly. You got a problem with that, I’ll fix it for you.”
Jacobs raises his voice, “Can’t you guys enjoy a beer or two and just be? Shell isn’t even cold yet, and you guys are ready to kill each other already.”
“That’s different Sarge and you know it,” Hicks says. “Shell wanted to die. He told me last night that he couldn’t take much more. Being able to take that dumbass politician with him tempted him too much.”
Lepski pulls his facemask back far enough on his head to expose his face. The mask stays in place, but looks like it might fall off. Lepski’s face is flushed and sweaty. “Hicks has a point Sarge. Shell died bad,
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whether he wanted to or not. Crazy bastard. Might’ve been the lucky one though. This ain’t over. I can still him screaming.” He screamed, all right. Face first, all the way . Jacobs grimaces without realizing it, the memory still too strong in his mind to put aside. He relives it all, unable to escape.
Shell was walking point, down the corridor of a middle school. The tall, spindly figure of Congressman Morris ‘Moe’ Brock was beside him, distracting him from the job at hand.
Speaking sharply into his headset, Jacobs said, “Booth close up a bit, and pay attention goddamn it!” All of them were drifting mentally, too tired to concentrate properly. One or more of them would be asleep immediately if he called for a stop.
Jacobs looked back. He was the second in the staggered formation they were using. For the moment, all was well. Each man was roughly ten feet apart, facing left or right watching, and anticipating.
“What do you think Private?” the congressman asked, “How close can you get us to the school auditorium that got overrun by the undead, eh?”
“Better get this asshole away from me Sarge,” said Shell, now standing beside the closed door to the auditorium.
“Mr. Brock! Come away from—”
Brock didn’t listen. He reached for the door handle and yanked. Bodies spilled out into the corridor, mostly young, but not all. None of them alive, but all of them moving. Oh sweet Jesus!
Pandemonium erupted. Gunfire. Someone was screaming—the Congressman of course. The burly figure of a PE coach, wearing red shorts and a bloodstained once-white shirt, grabbed Brock’s arm. Four or five children scurried out and went for his legs. And more were coming.
Jacobs was frozen, carbine still held loosely in his hands as he watched the nightmare play out.
A trio of kids wearing black and white checked skirts, black socks and white shirts swirl briefly around Shell, just as Jacobs heard him pull the two triggers. Too much! Flame engulfs the three shapes, then hoses across the congressman and his attackers.
“Run, for god’s sake, run!” shouts Shell, and then he screamed. He too was aflame, quickly becoming a torch.
Jacobs and the rest of his men ran.
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HE LEANS AGAINST THE WALL A MOMENT, can feel a sheen of cold sweat on his face. Why am I sweating so much? He tries and fails to take a deep breath. Settles for several shallow ones instead. Nausea hits him hard as he exits the restaurant. “Pretty thirsty too,” he says to himself.
A family of four turns toward him at the sound of his voice, but ignores him when he offers nothing more. They are passing around a gallon size jug of water, but don’t offer him any. Graham walks past them without a further glance, too proud to ask for a drink. I hope I don’t faint in front of these people.
A large group of people are sitting on the seawall a little further down. All look exhausted and have a filthy, worn-out look to them. Few look his way as he walks by, and even they aren’t curious. A radio is on nearby. A weary voice is just loud enough to hear:
“Lance Mathers here on the capitol steps. The president has granted us permission to inbed with his escort. I’ve been informed that I won’t be able to give out our location once we arrive at the Presidential bunker, but I will have exclusive access to breaking news…”
This little news clip only stirs mild interest. Graham doesn’t break stride to listen to more. Maybe I’ll find Shaunna… Passes a guy with a five gallon paint bucket and a fishing pole that might be about to break. The guy pulls and reels frantically. Two sizeable fish already occupy space in the bucket. A bit further he spots a little old guy with a big acoustic guitar. Spanish flamenco music floats out over the boat basin.
Most people are sitting or lying down, but a goodly number are milling around. Probably aimlessly like me. People are getting food and drink from somewhere. Not far ahead of him, people scream and a few fall to the ground. A large man bursts into view and stiff-arms two people off their feet. He has the long scraggly hair and beard of a prophet, but the physique of a young man. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket, blue jeans, a white t-shirt and white sneakers. Two other men are right behind him.
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An elderly couple is shuffling along right in his way. Both are oblivious. They are both wearing floppy sun hats and have their arms linked. Oh Jesus.
Graham feels in his pocket. It has to be—And is! The fingers of his right hand clutch and wiggle a set of brass knuckles into place. Had no time to remember these earlier. Nothing he can do for the old people though, just give them retribution. The young man’s savagery is sickening. The two old people go down like birds trying to dodge a car far too late. Graham steps forward just as the guy clears the bodies and puts everything he has into a haymaker right that the guy never sees coming. His fist meets minimal resistance, almost as if he’d punched a tether ball instead of a human skull.
The guy collapses backwards onto the bodies of the motionless old people. Graham follows and loops a good ri
ght cross against the jaw of one of the followers, another bearded guy, but this one with plaits. This guy drops too. The third guy, long-haired, but no beard, has a tattoo of flames circling his neck appearing from beneath his collar and reaching as high as his adam’s apple. He blinks and stands frozen; a perfect target. Graham steps toward him, fists raised and feels pain radiate across his chest, shoulders and arms. What the hell? The last guy backs away from him and runs away, leaving Graham swaying above the bodies of victims and assailants alike. Suddenly standing on his feet doesn’t seem important or possible to maintain. Going down—he falls into the black.
THE TRUCK IS STOPPED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET. Three soldiers are standing around it, pointing their rifles toward the truck. Bronte and Janicea are still standing by the truck’s bed. The soldier in charge is questioning Bronte about the supplies they’ve brought.
“Keep moving boys,” says the soldier walking with Daric and Tracks. Daric is old enough to realize that no adult male likes to be called boy, except maybe by his mom. The soldier is tall and lean and he has at least three guns. He isn’t nice either. “Head for the restaurant on your left.”
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Something is moving off to the left behind the restaurant. Daric sees two men with a bundle of some sort. A number of bundles are already piled on a barge tied up to the seawall. The two men swing their arms, and the shape of the bundle in their hands becomes clear. He has seen dead people get zipped up in plastic bags similar or maybe even the same as these. The body arcs up just enough to land atop of those already aboard.
Daric wants to ask Tracks what’s going on, but somehow he senses he should keep this to himself. He still can’t speak anyhow. The horror of what he’s witnessed is still too much, too overwhelming. Got to find a way to show Tracks.
As if sensing his distress, Tracks lays a big hand on his shoulder and squeezes. The sound of his labored breathing has become comforting. Nothing can happen to me as long as Tracks is here. Long rattling exhale, followed by a deep breath.
“Everything’s okay, little man,” rumbles Tracks in his ear as the soldier gestures to them to enter the building.
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