by H. L. Murphy
Thankfully, Mr. Suppressed M9 disagreed.
“See? I told you, Billy reported seeing people entering the store,” a high, reedy voice declared. Fuck, I hadn't considered the chances of a look out. “Someone’s in here.”
“Then why don't you shut the fuck up so you don't give away the advantage of surprise,” an older, more confident voice whispered. Metal scraping against leather told me at least one was armed, and ready to shoot.
“Whatever,” the first man said. This man ran the pump action of a shotgun before he started into the store proper. I could see the second man, shorter and stockier than the first, shake his head in disgust before pulling out a flashlight. He clicked it on and ran it down the aisles closest to him in a quick, professional manner. Professional was bad news in my mind. People who did things in a professional manner were usually well trained and difficult to surprise, or kill if need be.
“Whoever the fuck you are, you should come out now,” the shotgun toting man yelled into the darkness. “If I have to come find you it won't go well for you.”
“Jesus titty fucking Christ, Lou,” the second man, who was about to start down my aisle, held a mixture of resignation and contempt in his voice. As he turned away to deal with his over enthusiastic partner I stole a glance at him. Approximately five feet nine inches and broad shouldered, the man moved the way I had seen many police officers move, with his Glock in his right hand while his left, holding the flashlight, supported both from beneath.
Fantastic. We were raiding some cops personal storehouse. What? You don't think police officers might go rogue during the opening days of the zombie apocalypse and use their experience and training to provide for themselves and their families rather than die needlessly in a futile effort to stem the flow of the undead? How fucking naïve are you? Cops are just as human as the rest of us, and just as likely to fall prey to the same fears and temptations as everyone else. That as many as did the job for as long as they did without coming apart at the fucking seams from all the psychological damage inflicted on them by humanity is nothing short of a fucking miracle.
“Don't you worry none,” Shotgun Lou began again. “You just come on out with your hands up, and we’ll go easy on you.”
Yeah, I'm calling bullshit on that. Nobody that goes through the trouble of a fixing the corpses of the dead to the outside of what they think of as their private domain understands the concept of ‘going easy’ on anyone. More than likely, a face full of double ought buckshot is what they have in mind.
Although, compared to Captain Rapey and the KnightStar assholes, a face full of buckshot might indeed be seen as going easy. Okay, Finnegan, focus on the here and now.
“Lou, shut the fuck up,” the older man repeated.
“Why, Dub? Ain't like whoever is here don't already know what's gonna happen to them for trespassing,” Lou sneered.
“Because I fucking said so,” Dub answered as he planted the barrel of his Glock against the back of Lou’s head. “The only reason you're still alive is because I allow it. Don't you ever fucking forget it. The boys wanted to lynch you, remember? I said no. I can just as easily change my mind and do the job myself.”
“Come on, Dub,” Lou stumbled over his words a little. “I-it was j-just a mistake, that's all. I w-was tired. All I did was close my eyes a minute.”
“And because you ‘just closed your eyes for a minute’ we lost half a dozen workers,” Dub pressed the barrel hard against Lou’s scalp. It seemed as though he was having a tough time justifying Lou’s continued existence to himself. “Including two of the hottest pieces of ass I've ever seen. I didn't even get time with either of them because you couldn't keep your fucking eyes open.”
“I-I-I-I'm sorry, Dub,” Lou sounded as though he were crying. Come on, die with some dignity. “I'll make it up to you. I promise.”
“You can start by shutting your fucking cock holster,” Dub snarled. “I don't want our position given away because you don't understand the need for silence.”
“Okay, Dub, okay,” Lou was visibly shaking now. “I'll be quiet.”
“Lou, you open your fucking mouth again and I swear I will shove that Mossberg down your fucking throat,” Dub ended the conversation on that note. Workers? Prisoners more likely, but what could these refugees from a police brutality video have them doing? They lost half a dozen, so how many more remained at large? Too many questions and not enough answers. Goddamn it, I wish Dub were a touch more talkative, and little less concerned about OpSec.
Yup, read too many Tom Clancy novels.
While I watched Dub direct Lou down the main toy and sporting goods aisle I considered my options. My people needed the food and supplies assembled here, but then again so did whatever group these miscreant Neanderthals represented. As far as I knew, these two were still active law enforcement acting under the aegis of martial law. That didn't seem likely, but it was possible. Did I want to take that on over things I could just as easily get somewhere else?
I would have left them to carry on except for the girls, the so-called hottest pieces of ass Dub had ever seen. It smacked all too much of the ranger station, Captain Rapey, and a brutalized Madalina. Perhaps the memory was still too fresh for me to just let it go. Possibly my fucked up moral compass wasn’t as fucked up as I thought. Or I was still imagining myself as Rainbow Six actual. Whatever. In the end, I couldn't let it pass.
I slipped through the toys department as stealthily as possible, dropping into step behind Lou long enough to slam the butt of my pistol into the base of his skull. Lou dropped like a stone, whether unconscious or dying from the blow I didn't know or care. Knocking people out with a gun doesn't work like it does in the movies. Enough force render a man unconscious is also enough force to kill him. It's exclusively luck of the draw. And luck was not with me as the Mossberg shotgun fell to the floor with a sound like a 747 crashing into the earth.
“I see you, mother fucker,” Dub yelled just before he opened fire.
Interlude Two
Danny Green, Big Green to his friends, had, in life, been a giant of a man dedicated to having the best go at life possible. He worked hard, played hard, and looked after his friends as best he could without patronizing them. As long as you were in his company, Big Green wouldn't let any harm come to you. Since he was the size and molecular density of a small mountain the number of individuals to ever get the best of Big Green could be counted on one finger. No matter how strong or indestructible he became, Mrs. Thelma Green, Danny’s five foot tall mother, could always set him to running. So it was while trying to protect one of his closest friends that Danny Green fell beneath a rising mob of the undead.
Fortunately for Danny, all he ever was, ever hoped to be died before he could see the undead rip into his friend. In mere minutes, the zombie that Big Green became lurched to his feet. Layer after layer of powerful muscle bunched as Zombie Green felt the Hunger. An all consuming need to feed upon the living, to taste hot blood, and to feed upon the still beating hearts of the flesh. With deceptive speed, Zombie Green chased down and devoured the first of many.
Had not a chance encounter with Angus Finnegan occurred it was likely Zombie Green would have been unstoppable. Yet such an encounter did take place, and Finnegan left Zombie Green in something of a predicament. The repeated blows from Finnegan’s hammer had incapacitated Zombie Green, but had not inflicted sufficient physical damage to trigger the assimilation protein with the virus. Instead, zombie Green was left to twitch and convulse as the freshly created horde felt His call to follow. Maddeningly, the Hunger drove Zombie Green to claw his way forward, despite the partial brain damage rendering most of his powerful form impotent.
For seven days and nights Zombie Green pulled himself forward, a foot at a time. With sustained action the process grew in speed, if not in dexterity. So by the end of the seventh day Zombie Green had come upon the spot where Eddie Hernandez bravely sacrificed himself to blow up Zombie Pee Wee, in a vain attempt to save the worl
d. This accomplishment meant nothing to Zombie Green, as his cognitive functions had degraded to one thought process. Must feed, played over and over in brilliant colors in what passes for a zombie consciousness. Neither did he concern himself with the overall state of his physical form, though it had suffered intensely from being drug across miles of asphalt, even if at a much reduced speed. The Hunger was all that mattered.
Until Zombie Green drug itself through a pulsing mound of corrupted, putrescent flesh.
Then the entire world as the lesser undead understood it turned topsy turvy.
Contained within the mound of pulsating flesh were the vestiges of the enhanced virus which created the Class One being known as Zombie Pee Wee to Finnegan, but merely as a mental construct equivalent to leader to the undead. This remaining sequence of proteins invaded Zombie Green with intent. The moment the proteins located an intact specimen of the virus the proteins immediately bonded and replicated and rewrote Zombie Green’s genetic structure. Though incomplete compared to the original Class One structure, the reconstituted virus was more than sufficient to repair the damage to the hosts physical form and to the hosts cranial vault. Moreover, for the first time since Danny Green’s personality was snuffed out a rudimentary consciousness became aware.
They. Were. Extant.
Six feet, three hundred pounds of undead ebony death rose from the ground with intent and drive. The Hunger was now a servant, and not the master. They roared Their defiance to the planetary body at large, and to Her in particular. They could feel Her awesome will calling across the psychic ether shared by all Class One beings, but They would not be Her slave. Despite Their relative youth, Their power was enough to fend off Her demands. In time, They would be strong enough to make Her kneel to Them.
“Kneel,” the word thundered in Their consciousness as She brought the full weight Her will against Them. Dark, viscous fluid ran from Their ears and eyes, but They stood tall and unbowed. Summoning all Their strength, They shoved against the crushing psychic assault. She recoiled, more surprised than harmed. This new thing had power, a power so similar to the Other that it could not be a coincidence. For now, She would allow this thing to run free so She might study it.
They bellowed in exultation, mistakenly believing They had overpowered Her.
“Muuuussssttt…feeeeeeddd,” They wheezed out, the previously ruined vocal chords just now ready to test. An extra sensory perception informed Them that living flesh concealed themselves within small, flimsy constructs within walking distance. If They could have understood the reasoning behind the action, They would have smiled.
Chapter Five
Forget all the macho shit you see in the movies about standing in place in the open and returning fire when the bad guy opens a medium can of whip ass that has your name stenciled on it. That shit will straight up get your ass killed. Do precisely what the professionals do, and seek cover. Preferably cover that will stop bullets. Which the cheap sheet metal and pegboard shelves used in Wally Worlds across the planet will not. Since I had no other choice than to stand there with a neon shoot me sign, I dived behind the aforementioned shelves.
Borderline crazy Dub may have been, but he was still professional enough to know pegboard wouldn't even slow his rounds so he dumped a fusillade of nine millimeter rounds into the pathetic cover I was hiding behind. The moment I heard the magazine hit the concrete I popped around the corner to fire a series of double taps at where I thought Dub was standing. Turns out, Dub had maintained more than just a little professionalism, because he had been moving and shooting. To be more specific, he had been advancing on me like the Germans on Paris. To say we were both surprised when I popped out around the corner is a massive understatement. Although neither of us were as shocked as when, a moment later, the crack of a high caliber rifle sounded and Dub dropped to the floor, cursing and clutching his knee.
I looked up to see James waving an all clear. After I kicked Dub’s wonder nine away I gave James a thumb’s up.
“Let's talk,” I suggested from behind my suppressed M9.
“Fuck you,” Dub shouted, spittle flying at me. As I was already covered in blood, pegboard debris, and the general detritus collected from the roof a little saliva shouldn't have bothered me. However, I despise the concept of being spit on. The absolute contempt behind the action was intolerable. Once, long before Outbreak Day, I came within a hair’s breadth of beating a man to death for spitting in my face. Do not tell my wife that. It's not something I'm proud of, but it set me off like nothing ever had.
Dub discovered my aversion to the act by the simple expedient of me kicking him in the shattered knee with my steel toed boots. That's isn't why I wear them, but it is a handy little extra. The howl of blood curdling, soul searing pain which escaped him filled the empty store from wall to wall. Next to us I sensed Lou stir so I went over to Dub’s bitch Friday and secured his hands using a set of black steel cuffs. Then I scooped up his Mossberg. The gorgeous pump action had received loving attention through the addition of a side saddle, which seemed to be loaded with double ought buck. I swung back to Dub in time to see him struggling to pull himself across the floor to his Glock. Professional, and determined. If this steaming pile of cat excrement wasn't such a complete shit sack I could possibly get to like him.
Instead of making friends, I butt stroked the back of his knee with the Mossberg.
If I thought his first scream had been loud, Dub proved capable of reaching higher to undreamt of octaves. Like, only dogs, bats, and I could hear him scream octaves.
“I said, let's talk,” I reminded Dub as I grabbed the collar of his shirt and drug him back over to lay next to Lou. Once I had them together, I covered them with the shotgun. The M9 would have been sufficient for one, but more than one called for something butt mud inducing and nothing beats a twelve gauge in your face. “You're Dub, and that mouth breather is Lou. I got that already. I also got that you are holding a group of people against their will, and forcing them to work. That is, when you aren't trying to tear off a piece. That about right?”
“You are so fucked,” Dub grated out. His clenched his jaw so tightly shut I thought it might never open again. “You don't even know fucked, that's how fucked you are.”
“If I'm that far gone, it don't mean nothing to end you both,” I said calmly, as though he were just debating the price of coffee. “So how about you explain the nature of the work going on?”
“Go fu…”was as far as Dub got before I stomped down on his good knee. I didn't break it, but I dislocated the patella. The most immediate problem with being a bad ass and resistant to pain is that it takes a long time for the threshold to be reached, which equates to numerous injuries of the type that would normally induce shock. If you aren't highly resistant to pain, you’ve undoubtedly encountered shock already. Shock liked to toss a blanket over everything and block out the nasty old world with its jagged edges and unpleasant happenings. That's something you don't always get to enjoy if you have an abnormally high pain threshold. You get to feel it, suffer through it, and watch as someone puts you back together because that's just how special you are.
“Don't make me repeat myself,” I instructed as I placed the muzzle of the shotgun against Dub’s ankle. “It gets worse from here.”
I lifted the NVGs from my face, and we locked eyes for the first time. It shown in his eyes the exact moment Dub understood that I would take him apart, piece by piece, until he told me everything.
“The hospital,” Dub finally spat out. “It's the only place we could fortify against those things.”
“What about the patients already there?” I demanded. First rule of occupying a place is usually to kick out the previous owners.
“All gone,” Dub sneered. “Those things swept through here about a week ago and attacked everybody in sight. Spent a long time in the hospital. Nobody made it out.”
“I bet. What about the girls?” I moved on, not believing Dub without confirmation.
&nbs
p; “I don't have to explain myself you, asshole, I'm the fucking law here,” Dub was working up a head of indignant steam. If I didn't burst his bubble he might get it into his head he wasn't required to answer my questions. “President declared martial law, which means you only have the rights I give you.”
I shifted the Mossberg minutely and blew off the toes of his left foot.
“Goddamn it, that's loud,” I said as I wiggled a finger in one ear. Dub didn't seem to care very much about my overtaxed hearing as he was screaming and shrieking and writhing on the ground. Sooner or later, I know I will pay a hefty price for what I'm doing, but that's then and this is now and karma can suck my throbbing cock and swallow big old juicy load. “I told you not to make me repeat myself. Now you know why.”
“I'm gonna pull your eyes out and skull fuck you to death,” Dub whimpered through the tears, bile, and vomit. In response I racked the Mossberg and indicated his other foot. He got the point. “They were just some chicks we picked up for breaking curfew. Nobody touched them.”
“What about Nelson? He had his way with the blonde,” Lou spoke up from behind us. I had almost forgotten about him. “Said she was good too. Liked to fight.”
The slur in his words was likely the result of me trying to cave his skull in, but Lou was painting a picture I could all too readily imagine. So at least one of the pair had suffered at the hands of Johnny Law.