Gat reached to either side of his waist and released his dual Glocks from their holsters at his hips. Each one held an extended magazine of thirty-three hollow point rounds. They would melt onto armor, but into exposed flesh, he was guaranteed extra damage to his victim. He canted his handguns at forty-five-degree angles for slightly easier aiming when dual wielding. He let his thumb ride up near the rear of the side of the handguns to full-auto. He limped out of the ditch, pointing the guns at the Humvee.
Gat aimed low, knowing that his rounds would ride up as their velocity drove the barrel upward. A camouflaged soldier knelt next to the Humvee, taking three-round burst shots at the fallen bikers.
“Hey, you fucking cucks. Over here,” Gat shouted.
The soldier looked his way, surprise lighting up on his face. Gat let his left handgun buzz in his hand. He wasn’t counting, but the force of so many rounds so fast took the soldier to the ground. Gat let his right handgun ride up the windshield of the Humvee into the soldier on the turret. He let his right Glock go empty on the soldier. He chucked his piece to the ground and it clattered on the pavement. He limped his way past the first soldier who was a bloody steaming mess.
The soldier laid on the ground, eyes as wide as he could make them. He sucked air in through his nose.
As Gat got closer to the Humvee, he stood next to the gasping soldier, stretching his neck to see inside. Without a glance, Gat’s left Glock buzzed and he sent a few rounds into the lying soldier’s head. The quick succession of bullets stopped the man from breathing, denting his face with entry wounds. Red blood, white bone, and pink brain splattered the pavement.
Gat walked by the passenger window. He let his Glock spray into the window, bursting it inward and finishing the driver who slumped over an empty windowpane. He clicked the magazine release on his weapon, letting it drop to the ground. He dug a long, full thirty-three round magazine from inside his jacket and inserted it into the magazine well. He pointed the weapon back inside the Humvee.
Dead eyes stared back at him from the turret gunner who had crumpled down onto his knees inside the Humvee, his arms still suspended on the turret above. He limped around to the other rear side of the Humvee. The stock of an M4 lashed out. Gat dodged to the right and brought his arm up at same time. The soldier swung his M4 wide like a baseball bat, clubbing Gat’s gun from his hand.
“You fucking twat,” Gat screamed. His hand seized in pain, trying to absorb the trauma. He backhanded the soldier in the face, sending him crashing into the back of the Humvee. The soldier dropped his empty weapon. Gat reached down to his boot and drew a long blade from his ankle. He took a swipe at the soldier, driving him away from his weapon. The soldier rolled off the back of the Humvee and made a quick run for the rear driver’s side door. Gat chased him. The soldier threw open a tan door and dug around in the back of the Humvee.
“Face me like a man,” Gat taunted him.
The soldier started to turn around, but Gat already had him. He grabbed the soldier’s chin and cupped it with the bony part of his wrist. The soldier’s skin was rough and unshaven beneath the skin of his arm. The soldier cried out and squirmed. Gat wrenched him by his neck and drove the tip of his blade into his right kidney. Once. Twice. Three. Four times his blade pierced the soldier’s ACUs penetrating his flesh in rapid succession. The soldier screamed in unimaginable pain and spasmed in Gat’s vice-like grip. Gat kept shanking the soldier until he stopped squirming and went limp in his grasp.
Gat shoved him facedown into the backseat of the Humvee. The body slid down onto the floor. Hot blood ran down his hand. Gat flicked his wrist. He looked back at the remainders of his motorcycle club. Pieces of his members lay discarded on the ground. Their motorcycles were scrap metal, almost unrecognizable as having once been highly functioning machines. The men were a mix of blood, leather, and flesh, scattered everywhere as if a bomb had exploded in the middle of them.
“Well fuuuuuck you guys,” he cursed. He looked back over his soldier lying on the floor of the Humvee. The soldier’s arm moved an inch off the floorboards. Gat cocked his head to the side. “Gotta little juice left in ya, huh?” He turned around and marched back.
He got within a few inches of the soldier’s face. “You stupid fucks,” he screamed, dry saliva flying from his mouth. He drove his knife into the soldier’s front torso over and over. “You think this is a fucking game?” His blade sunk into his belly. “Cause I ain’t playing.” He jabbed again, ramming the blade into his chest. He raged on the soldier long after he’d expired, his body transformed into an unrecognizable slab of chopped stew meat. Gat bent close to his face, hacking spit from the back of his throat. “You dirty.”
He heard its wheels crunch slowly over the metal of the bikes adding insult to their desecration. The shocks absorbed the weight as it drove over the bodies of his club. A Humvee rolled up from the other direction.
He took a step away from the dead soldier and faced them. The tan Humvee braked only ten yards away. Gat could clearly see the faces of the driver and passengers and the all too deadly .50 caliber machine gun sighted in on him. The barrel pointed down on an easy target to destroy.
A staff sergeant stepped out of the passenger side. He had a dark mustache that was turning into a full beard.
He shouted. “Where’s the rest of the convoy?”
Gat gave him a wicked sneer. “Come over here and I’ll show you.”
The staff sergeant waited a moment, looking down at his feet before he spoke. “Is Steele here?”
“Yeah. He’s back over there.”
The staff sergeant looked over his shoulder and back at the bodies. His eyes glanced at the woods and then back at Gat.
Gat started to walk toward them. His riding boots clicked off the ground and he spread his arms wide. “Why don’t you little fuck boys put down your guns and see if you can take me out the old fashion way?” He waved his knife at them. “Come on. What are ya? Chicken.”
“Stop where you are,” the staff sergeant yelled. His gun bounded up to his shoulder and his shoulders hunched as he made his form tighter and compact.
Gat took another step forward and licked his teeth. “What? ’Fraid I’ll bite?” Gat sneered. One more step and I’ll be close enough to charge the fuckers.
He felt the fire bite him before he heard the roar of the machine gun, but not enough for his brain to register there was a difference. The ground grew closer and he knew something was terribly wrong. He tried to gather his feet beneath him, but only bloody shredded stumps moved in the air.
“Oh fuck,” he screamed. He looked down. White bone and jagged destroyed flesh remained above his knees. He could see his leather boots nearby. After a second, he realized the rest of his legs were still inside them.
The staff sergeant walked his way and stopped, staring down at him. “Consider that our warning shot.”
“You fucking blew off my legs,” Gat snarled.
The staff sergeant’s lip curled. “Be thankful I didn’t have them aim a bit higher. Could have lost your third leg.”
The soldier squatted down on his heels. “Was Steele here?”
The pain morphed into an unbearable searing sensation. Nerve endings screamed to be reconnected inside his legs. Gat could feel his heartbeat pumping blood out of his body with every thump in his chest. He stared down at his stumps and laughed like a madman.
The staff sergeant snapped his fingers. “Hey. Hey. I’m up here. You don’t have much time before you bleed out, but I’ll get you some morphine so you won’t feel it when those infected get here.” His dark eyes looked distantly down the road.
Gat ground his shaved head into the pavement. Upside down, he peered farther down the road. A hazy form stood in the distance. He looked back at the soldier. “Fuck me and fuck you.”
The staff sergeant nodded and stood upright. He clicked his tongue. “If it were me, I’d hope to bleed out before they got here.” He glanced down the road again and back at Gat. “But I ain�
�t you.” He stared off into the distance. “Don’t worry about the whole Steele thing. We were only sent out to make sure no stragglers got away. Jackson didn’t bite on whatever this little mission was.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Gat spit. His mouth finally had moisture in the form of frothy metallic blood.
“Already did this morning.” The staff sergeant walked away.
Gat pushed his chin up to watch the man close the door. The Humvee rolled forward. He could hear the soldiers faintly talking to one another as they checked the dead behind him. Gat felt a certain detachment as if his body didn’t belong to him. His body grew cold as if winter had set in only on him.
He struggled to get his belt off then wrapped the looped belt over his thigh. He grunted as he cinched it as tight as it would go, but he knew it wouldn’t matter. He lay there breathing hard, trying not to die. He heard the Humvee engine rumble away then the faint moans of the infected who had come for their share.
STEELE
Burr Oak, MI
Bodies of the infected dead lay strewn over the small town’s sidewalks and the paved streets. They had been gunned down from the safety of windows and rooftops as they marched into the town. The infected had moaned in defiance as bullets exploded their skulls into thick pieces. Steele’s forces had performed with violent expediency that only apocalyptic experience could provide them.
Steele’s upstairs room was filled with smoke from the gunfire. Harvey and Tony shook hands in success near the windows.
Margie looked up from her handiwork below with a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “Good shooting, boys.” She stood up, slinging her hunting rifle over her shoulder. She was well into her fifties and did not look like a soldier, but she was one. “Let’s go meet up with Bessie at the truck. We’ll get those mags refilled and some more rounds.”
Steele nodded to the men.
“Captain,” they each said as the volunteers filed out of the room.
Steele stopped Margie. “Your team shot well. You are a natural leader.”
She looked a bit abashed, and her eyes drifted to the side. “I only did what you and Thunder taught us to do.”
“You do it well. Be careful out there. Could be stragglers.”
Her eyes met his again and she gave a small smile. “We’ll take care of them.” Faint gunshots still rang out from other parts of town.
Steele nodded to her. “Carry on, volunteer.”
She bowed her head and disappeared down the steps.
“How about a victory shot?” Kevin said. He held up the bottle of Madam Scarlet Grey’s. The remaining liquid sloshed inside the bottle. Steele shook his head no.
“I think I’ve had enough for one day.”
Kevin shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself.” He tipped the bottle back and poured the liquor into his glass. He gave Steele a drunken smile as he imbibed the alcohol.
“My leg needs a stretch.” I also need a new arm.
“I’ll be here,” Kevin said. Steele left his M4 on the couch.
“You want some company?” Tess asked. Her arms were spread wide on the cushion backs of the couch. She was as comfortable as she could be in somebody else’s house.
“No, I’m fine.” She watched him with dark eyes as he walked lamely away.
Steele limped through the room for the stairs. He hobbled down some steps, using the railing as a crutch to make his descent a little easier. When he reached the bottom, he padded through the general store. Bodies had been shoved away from the door by Margie and her team.
Vacant white eyes stared up at him. The poor tortured soulless leaked their dead insides into murky pools on the street. Red guts had been split and splashed onto the pavement. Pieces of bone, muscle, and flesh muddied the ground like a split bucket of slop. He gave them a wide berth.
The town only had a single main street with a few buildings. Every subsequent street had fewer buildings and more houses. A grain elevator rose up from behind the small town businesses. He walked unevenly down the street until a hand reaching from a pile of the dead stopped him.
The infected man’s cheeks were gaunt as if he had starved for months before turning. Its hair was stuck to its skull. Part of its scalp was ripped away exposing white skull bone. Bodies pinned it to the ground, its legs broken and disfigured beneath them.
It moaned at Steele in a low guttural call of the wild. Its struggle was fierce and sad. It had all the pieces of humanity within it except life and awareness. Dirty fingernails clawed the body in front of it. It raked the dead body repetitively, trying to extract itself from its flesh and bone prison.
Steele let his left hand fall onto his sidearm. The motion was foreign to this hand. Most of his training had consisted of transitioning to the off-hand only if his dominant hand was injured in a fight. It was a temporary survival measure to ensure victory, but now he was asking his off-hand to do all the work. He would have to teach himself how to reload with a single hand and charge the weapon as well as work on drawing the gun out of the holster. Thunder would have to switch the magazine release to the other side of the weapon so he wouldn’t have to use his index finger to release a mag.
He drew his sidearm. The weight felt off in his hand. His left hand was like a younger brother always mimicking the elder brother to his right, who did everything with confidence. His middle and ring fingers gripped the scratchy taped handle hard. He let his pinky finger wrap loosely around the handle. His index finger fell awkwardly on the trigger. The tip of his thumb arched off the gun but simultaneously squeezed the frame. His sight picture was flat across the front and rear of the weapon.
Steele and the infected stared at each other for a moment. The infected snarled at him, their eyes never leaving each other. The slide cycled backward and the gun recoiled up toward the sky much more than he would have liked. My grip will be more important without a supporting hand. He wouldn’t notice it too much from seven yards out, but the farther back he got from seven, the harder it was going to be for him to shoot accurately with only one hand. I guess I should be thankful most gunfights happen within five yards. He turned the gun on its side, looking at it. I’m going to have to work on this if I want to gain any sort of speed out of the holster. He put the gun back near his holster, finding the edge of its hard plastic with the barrel of his weapon. The metal rubbing as it settled into place. His weapon secured, he looked up.
A cluster of twenty men moved down the street at a slow pace. As Steele grew closer he recognized them as Chosen men with axes, bats, clubs, knives, and batons as they walked among the fallen infected bodies. They swung their weapons violently downward, executing any of the infected yet moving. Peter led them with a mini-sledgehammer in his hands. The sandy-haired man eyed Steele with mistrust.
“How was it?” Steele called out.
“No problem,” Peter shouted. Other men stopped to look at Steele, hatred in their eyes. Anger. Steele was the direct result of the deaths of so many of their friends and family. A few swung weapons back and forth. A man slammed his cudgel, a short stick with a knotted end, into the skull of an infected. It made a sickening thwack. He glanced up at Steele with a mean gaze on his mustached face.
They plowed their way through the bodies in his direction, crushing skulls as they navigated the carnage.
Steele stopped as they got closer. The men drifted in around Steele. At first it was three men, then a few more walked up casual and confident. Steele backed away touching the brick building behind him. It took another moment, but more gathered around him in a semicircle, Peter at their head.
The hairs on Steele’s neck stood up. A gang of men with weapons.
A few laughed under their breath. The man with the cudgel tapped it in his hand, blood dripping from its rounded edge. A Chosen man in plaid laid a wood axe across his shoulders. He looked like he wanted to spit on Steele then split him in half with the axe. The others pushed in a bit closer.
Peter stood the closest. He was brave when surrounded by hi
s men. He never would have been so brazen with Steele alone. His grip was white-knuckled on his sledge like he was trying to strangle it.
“You know, you really have to be careful out here,” Peter said. “With that limp and ugly scar on your face, you might be mistaken for one of the dead.”
If Steele was a patrol officer, he would already be calling 10-33, officer in need of assistance, retracing his steps in a swift backpedal for his cruiser. Can’t outrun them.
“Well, lucky for me, we are having a conversation.”
A long greasy black-haired Chosen smiled at Steele. His teeth were browning with scum.
“I only see one thing that needs to be purified here.” He licked his lips as if the thought made him salivate.
The man in plaid spit on the ground. “He looks like the devil himself.”
“He’s the asshole that caused this mess,” added the man with the cudgel.
“That’s debatable,” Steele said, giving the man an unafraid glance.
The energy from the group started to turn violent. Peter fed on the energy gaining confidence by the second. The group inched forward. Steele’s hand was on his gun, but how many shots could he get off before one of them took a club to his head? Three? They didn’t care. They only wanted revenge.
Take the initiative. “I’m gonna play you guys straight. If this goes down like you want it to, at least three of you are gonna die. Now, I’m using my left hand and I’m a bit out of practice, but I won’t miss. Not this close.”
“He lies,” the long-haired one hissed, his lips quivering.
“That’s right, Luke. Close your ears to the serpent’s tongue,” Peter commanded.
Steele kept his eyes moving from threat to threat. “I’m not lying, Luke.” Steele couldn’t step back any farther.
The Departing (The End Time Saga Book 4) Page 17