The Reaper: No Mercy

by Sean Liebling

  We tried to make the back room work for the meeting. No go. It was too small and every room in the house had people sleeping in it. We went outside. God yes, it was cold.

  Michael had lit two lanterns and we sat around the backyard fire pit, which some thoughtful soul had lit. I stood with my back to it enjoying the warmth it was starting to provide. Sure, I was worried about the light, but we were four-hundred feet back from the road surrounded by a dense stand of thick hardwoods and we already knew the creatures were more attracted to movement than lights.

  "Alright folks, things just got busier but before I explain, Miguel, how many adults do we have?" His answer was almost sixty. Wow. Lots of refugees. I didn't bother asking how many children as I knew it would be twice that at least. I saw earnest faces gazing at me waiting for what I had to tell them. Why they trusted me, I do not know.

  "Any issues?" I inquired. He shrugged.

  "A few, Señor Jay. Mostly some of the men not wanting to help guard or do chores. A few of the women also but I showed them the driveway and told them to leave if they didn't and we are okay now." I nodded. I had expected it. Some of these folks had never worked a day in their lives and had no conception of doing anything different. Good that Miguel had taken care of it. I'm positive he had been much nicer than I would have been.

  "Okay, we have children out there hidden by their parents. Michael and I knew this would happen. We need to find them. This morning Jason and I rescued a two-year-old boy. You don't want to see the inside of the house, trust me. It's obvious his parents died hiding him. But where there's one there's more. We need more food, more Medicine, more everything. The zombies are much smarter than we thought and we think they have some means of communication. Jason, tell them what we saw tonight."

  Jason told the assembled men and women about our excursion. All of it. There were sharp intakes of breath when he related the zombies all walking in at the same time, and there were more than a few tears when he got to the rescue of the boy and the description of the hallway and backyard. They understood what we needed to do. Most important they understood the urgency. I relied on Miguel. I had quickly figured out he was much smarter than my main man Michael. I spelled it out for them. I needed as many teams as we could muster.

  We had to empty out the two pharmacies in town and get those drugs under lock and key at RAC. I had no doubt some of these survivors were or had been drug addicts. They had the look. While my men were at it, they needed to empty out Pine Medical of anything useful. We needed a second generator. Lakes Energy had a big one that was 120/240 three phase. Perfect for our needs. There was some bitching about that. RAC already had one but I wanted a spare. We would need the additional power later. We also needed to get the fans turned on in the grain storage at RAC. There were upwards of three million bushels of wheat, corn and soybeans stored there. If the ventilation fans quit for any length of time it would quickly rot, even in this cold.

  We had to empty out the grocery stores and restaurants in town like now and we had to start searching for survivors. Later after some sleep, I would lead a team to get fuel. We would need a lot of it to be viable. The fuel farm depot south of Grant would supply all our short-term fuel needs. The list went on and on. The supplies would be gathered and the empty rail cars at RAC would store any excess we couldn't fit inside the main buildings.

  Of special importance were the twelve feet concrete ‘T’ barriers I wanted assembled around RAC. I knew the Newaygo maintenance yard had a couple hundred of the damn things along with a flatbed truck to haul them and I wanted every single one a quarter mile away at RAC arrayed around the buildings. Years ago, I had seen a movie about a volcano erupting in downtown LA or somewhere. At four feet high and twelve feet wide, weighing two and a half tons each, the things stacked two high had kept the lava away, so I knew they could keep zombies at bay. I wanted a double row surrounding the complex. They could use the propane forklifts at RAC to move them. I also wanted every single forty-five foot electric pole from the LE electrical yards. They had hundreds and we would need them along with a line digger and pole truck. I was getting ready to fortify.

  Each crew would be accompanied by a snowplow. My reason was simple that if the damn things could shove aside a six foot drift of heavy wet snow in winter, they could for sure move any number of zombies out of the way, no matter how determined the creatures were. With their low prows and rubber skirts, we didn't have to worry about the dead-mother-fuckers getting underneath and jacking the trucks up. It was simple, really.

  My gut told me we would continue to see more and more zombies as they migrated from the major cities. If we were going to get stuff, now was the time. I also dreaded the outbreak of violence or gangs of marauders. Those I also knew were coming to any community that advertised its 'alive' presence, as we were doing. Everything had to be done yesterday. We had no time to relax or we were done for. With a sigh, I passed the meeting onto Michael and Miguel leaving instructions to wake me in four hours, or less, if an emergency cropped up they couldn't handle. I hoped to get that much sleep but I doubted it.

  I knew sleep would be elusive when I dragged my tired ass into the bedroom, for my mind was moving in a millions directions at once. When I did, in the lamplight, I saw both girls sitting upright in bed still naked with the covers bunched around their waists smiling at me. A man does what a man needs to do I thought as I smiled back. So much to do and the day had just begun.

  The Reaper: Avenging Wrath

  Copyright 2013: Sean Liebling

  The following chapters are an unedited portion of the next book in The Reaper series.

  Because you are reading what is an unedited text, any punctuation, spelling, or grammar issues that would normally be corrected during the editing process will still exist in the following chapter. As an early purchaser of this book, you are receiving the raw, unedited text, direct from the author’s pen to your page. Enjoy! And be on the lookout for The Reaper: Avenging Wrath, coming in 2014 from Permuted Press!

  Chapter 1

  The Reaper, also known as Jason, and even Captain Scott, paused to rest for a moment as he neared the fenced boundary of Highway 36. During the previous two hours since leaving the religious cult compound he'd carefully made his way south, through the heavily wooded strip of land between Macon and Long Branch Lakes. The density of Hell's offspring was higher here, in and near Macon, which stood to reason for it was a much larger city, yet the Reaper stayed in thick wooded area's for he wanted to identify all the players before announcing himself. In the four mile trek from the compound he had encountered and been forced to dispatch over a dozen of the undead spawn, using only his machete, for he did not wish to reveal his presence to any other surviving groups until he had a firmer grasp on the conditions here in Macon. He checked his watch briefly, noting that he still had over thirty minutes before the satellite would be within range then looked around his position. Forward and to the west, he saw a large group of Satan's spawn approaching the city along the highway in herd-like fashion. They were not moving especially fast, but they also never stopped. These minions of Hell were in search of prey, and he ignored him for now. They were too far away to spot him and he needed to get a message out first.

  *****

  While he watched and listened, the Reaper’s mind drifted back to his very first encounter with these spawns of Satan. A family man, and retired from the United States Marine Corp as a Force Recon sniper with the 1st Marine Division, he had taken a job as a machinist to supplement their family income. Upon arriving home after working third shift on the day the undead rose, he found his entire family slaughtered. Going berserk, he had killed every zombie in sight using any means at hand. They had truly died under his wrath, and he, the Reaper, had survived. It was then that he realized the Lord had a new mission for him.

  Jason had always been deeply religious, even as a child. He knew the Lord had a purpose for everything that happened in life, so the fact he had lived indicated God's plans for
him were unfinished. He had prayed to the Almighty, and realizing his mission through divine guidance, he once again donned his old tools of the trade—the tools of a Marine Corps sniper—and set out to eradicate the spawn of Hell from the surrounding Newaygo, Michigan area. After weeks of combat and slaughter, along with more than a few signs from God, he realized his mission had changed in a subtle manner. No longer was his mission to hunt only the undead, but also the evil men living amongst them, who in many ways were much worse. These incarnations of evil preyed on other survivors, and the Lord had spoken loud and clear. The unspeakable acts of murder, rape, and immorality he’d witnessed had shown the Reaper where he could best use his talents.

  *****

  Macon was a much bigger city than Paris, Missouri. The Reaper had just left the smaller town after uniting the survivors and brought in additional military personnel to eradicate a menacing group of marauders. The population here in Macon was six times larger and the size of the city illustrated this increase. In Paris, the Reaper had called in reinforcements from Newaygo, Michigan, who had been sent two full twelve-man ODA's (Operational Deployment-Alpha) of Special Forces to assist in the suppression of hostile survivor forces. Through the grit of the full combination of all local survivor groups, they had prevailed and wiped the menace from the face of the planet. In that final battle though, the Special Forces had lost two men, another critically wounded, along with another nine members from the local groups. Now, they were on the fast track to recovery and the Reaper wished them the best.

  It was almost two p.m. and several hours ago, he had been carefully scouting out the southern perimeter of what appeared to be the very large compound of a religious cult, located two miles northwest of the city at the tip of Macon Lake. Looking down within its interior from several vantage points along his path he'd estimated it at one mile square in size. Now he needed to get word back to Paris, Missouri about what he had seen, specifically the large upright cross, deep within its interior and decorated with the spiked bodies of a great many men, women and children. It was just two miles from the city limits and from the plumes of smoke, the Reaper already knew there were a multitude of survivors in or near this large town.

  Initially, when he'd peered into the compound, his first inclination had been to slip between the strands of barbed wire, which were strung between the twelve foot tall stakes, spaced six feet apart. The fence had stretched for almost a half mile in every direction with roughly fifty yards of cleared area on both sides of its wooden and steel construction. Within, the cleared area ended in a dense wooded front and Jason knew it would only take a few minutes to run the distance to cover. It was while he was mulling over the decision to penetrate, or not, while carefully scanning the forest front, when he spotted the guard posts.

  Placed just within the tree line were small enclosed platforms positioned every one hundred feet along its length and built on stilts, leaving them approximately twenty feet off the ground. Another careful examination of several of the platforms, revealed a large window in the front of each, and mounted within were what appeared to be machine gun emplacements. That those weapons were manned became obvious when he witnessed the barrels moving slowly back and forth. Interior penetration of this heavily armed fortress would need to be done at night and the recon a slow one.

  The Reaper glanced over too his right, noting a large warehouse like structure that appeared to be abandoned, and immediately headed towards it. He needed a stable surface to set up his radio gear to communicate. It would suit his purposes and the vantage point the two-story structure afforded would allow him to get a better picture of the county and city limits he was approaching.

  Fifteen minutes later, saw him approaching the metal structure while noting its rust-streaked sides and broken windows. He held his machete in his hand and had already loosened the Navy Colt .45 in its side holster in case it was needed. The Colt had belonged to his father and upon the elders death had gone to Jason. The Reaper preferred to believe that by carrying the old, yet serviceable weapon, his pa was accompanying him on the Lord's mission.

  This was an older facility, maybe 60's era and obviously abandoned for a great many years. He crouched in the snow-covered undergrowth as he came upon the cracked asphalt parking lot surrounding the building and slowly scanned for Satan's spawn. Yes, they were here! Over a dozen of the undead were standing motionless between the main structure, and what appeared to be a large maintenance shed.

  Carefully he backed until he was fully hidden from their view, while circling around to the south. He was looking for a ladder mounted to the side of this large building. Federal fire codes always demanded an easy egress to the roof surface of all commercial buildings, and it was for that ladder, he was searching. He found it within minutes, right where he expected it on the backside of the warehouse, with its vertical length surrounded by a metal cage-like framework. Thirty-five feet separated him from his destination and peering closely he saw that the safety barrier had already been removed, which would allow him to scale the roof without hindrance.

  A careful look in both directions showed no signs of the undead from this side and he sprinted to the ladder. Removing his pack, he unclipped the support strap, lengthened it and fastened it to his leather belt. He would ascend while supporting the heavy bundle under his body for there was not enough room with it strapped to his back. His Rifle he slung muzzle down across the front of his body and grasping the metal rungs through his leather gloves, he quickly rose to the rooftop. Another few seconds saw him creeping to the southeast corner of the warehouse and dropping his ruck he quickly pulled his binoculars and started scanning the city that lay before him.

  There were smoke plumes in evidence, a sure giveaway for survivor groups. He counted five in total and observed the movement of vehicles along some of the streets. Busy little town, he thought as he continued panning, noting what looked to be a school just ahead to his east and what looked like a decent sized motel just to his south, occupying approximately four square acres of space. As he slowly took in the details of what was a spread out, single story America's Best Value Inn; for he had read the sign in front, he noticed with interest that the zombies he had seen earlier were entering its crowded parking lot. No time for that now, he needed to get a message out.

  Strapped to the side of his rucksack was a plasticized canvas bag measuring almost twenty inches in length. Inside this protective covering was an RF-3080-AT001,

  A high gain UHF SATCOM Antenna assembly. State of the art military issue, paired with the AN-PRC-152 it was the most commonly carried device in the field for secure extended communications. The Falcon III® AN/PRC-152 single-channel multiband, multi-mission handheld radio had been in use for many years by all branches of the U.S. Department of Defense. It was capable of providing real-time information and communication for units in the field. Its range was effectively limitless as combined with the SATCOM antenna, bounced signals through satellites overhead for world-wide coverage. This particular model also had a built in GPS (Global Positioning System) identifier.

  During the Extraction at Paris, the Reaper had been pleased that Newaygo had provided several paired units of these communication devices and quickly secured one of them. He was the forward scout for Newaygo's advance towards the shadow government and needed the immediate ability to communicate resource and manpower needs with higher authority.

  It took him less than a minute to unzip the pouch, extract and assemble the rapid deploy, high gain, crossed Yagi antenna for SATCOM communications. Opening the top of his ruck to remove the lightweight radio transceiver itself, and connect it to the leads from the antenna array, only took a few more moments and he was powering it up while punching in the agreed upon frequency for Paris, Missouri. Checking his compass, Jason rotated the wire frame dish into optimal position while adjusting the angle of its primary antenna. He then then pressed the button to record his current GPS coordinates. He would need those shortly and while continuing to scan his s
urroundings, he raised the small hand held device to his mouth.

  "Reaper to Paris Six, over."

  "Paris to Reaper, stand by for Six." almost a minute had gone by before he heard a return response. The reception was amazingly clear, but he didn't recognize the voice that spoke.

  "Roger that, Paris." The Reaper continued to wait, and then heard Rodriguez's voice over the speaker. SFC, or Platoon Sergeant, Dennis Rodriguez had been the leader of the largest survivor group in Paris, Missouri and the only surviving military elements in that area. Though Rodriguez had been skeptical at first, he had joined forces with the Reaper while supporting the combination of all local groups to take on the much larger group of marauders that occupied the northern half of the city. Now, he was the interim leader of a growing and soon to be thriving community until elections could be held in the spring. Jason was proud to consider him a friend.

  "Reaper, Paris Six! What's the situation over there, and do you need our support?"

  "Paris Six, not at this time. Initial assessment is incomplete. Am transmitting GPS coordinates now," and the Reaper was thumbing the buttons that would burst the coordinates along the data link to the receiver in Paris, Missouri. "Copy that you received them, over."