by Bryan James
“I don’t think you understand, secretary. I can do whatever I want. It’s what I was doing when I found you two, huddled in a car, trapped by ten of these shambling assholes. You would have been breakfast for those things if not for me doing whatever I want. I saved your ass. It’s why you’re with me now, ain’t it? Because I have the power to protect you? Because we are survivors? God damn right, that’s why,” he finished, not waiting for a reply.
“Rod, I’m not saying we’re not grateful, it’s just… Jesus Christ, man, you were selling insurance when this thing—”
The sound of bone meeting flesh interrupted Drake, and a clutter of furniture hitting the floor.
“The fuck that matter to you for? I told you never mention that shit, Drake. Now you’ve gone and done it. You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you? You couldn’t just shut the fuck up?”
The responding voice was muffled, and awkward, as if trying to respond through a shattered mouth. But Rod understood him well enough.
“Fuck me? Oh no, I think fuck you, my friend.”
I had heard enough.
It was time to say hello.
I ducked underneath the large window, and reached the door. I removed the Pathfinder from my arm, and leaned it carefully against the wall outside the door. I popped the lever on the compartment that held the spring-loaded sidearm in the reinforced cargo pocket on my right thigh, and placed the pistol on the other side of the doorway.
Then, I grabbed the handle of the door and pushed it open softly.
Eight people turned to look at me and six hands went to their belts in an uncoordinated response to my movement. My hands went up slowly, watching each man for the smallest response that would indicate a trigger pull.
“I’m unarmed,” I said loudly and calmly. “Just saw your bikes out front and thought I’d join you and get out of the rain.”
My eyes scanned the room quickly, and my heart began to race, fury pounding against the inside of my chest. A young woman was tied to a pool table in the back corner, spread-eagled on the green felt. Her clothing was piled on a wooden bar table, and her face was dirty, and streaked with tears.
An older man with large sideburns and a leather vest over wrinkled and sun damaged skin straightened from where he held a pistol to the head of a small, squirrely looking man in a filthy sweatshirt and jeans with a shattered mouth. That must be Drake.
A scared woman in her twenties hovered near the bar, where a small man held her by the long, dirty hair.
“You may have walked into the wrong bar,” he said, smiling slightly, confident in his position among friends despite the altercation I had interrupted.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I said innocuously, inching forward as if seeking to join a conversation; as if I didn’t appreciate who exactly these bastards were.
“Check him,” the man said, and two others lowered their half-raised pistols and moved toward me. Their hands were rough over my jacket and pants, pulling the machete from its sheath and my knife from my boot.
“Unarmed, huh?” he said, spitting once and effortlessly backhanding Drake as he rose to his feet, sending the man to the floor, unconscious. He passed the woman tied to the table, running his calloused hand demonstratively along her stomach, eyes narrowing in malice.
“You fixin’ to try something?”
I shook my head quickly, trying to act cowed and meek as I watched the others lower their pistols slowly.
They weren’t worried about me, now.
Good.
“Cal, he’s got some sort of fancy gear on. Heavy plates and shit—like it’s some high tech biker gear or something.” A small man in a black leather jacket covered in patches and a long handlebar mustache nervously chewed on a toothpick, his pistol back in his belt.
The other men not involved in the fight—two large white men, one bald and one with a shock of blond hair atop a brutally ugly face—lounged behind the bar, bottles of beer held negligently in their hands. A hispanic woman, her large bust held in check by a woefully inadequate halter top underneath a tight jacket, chuckled as she caressed the arm of the black man next to her. Of medium build, and looking slightly more intelligent than the rest, he was the only one left with a gun trained on me—a simple Glock held in his right hand. He wore a tee shirt that said simply “Your Mom.”
“That so? Probably stole it from a dead biker, didn’t you?” The ringleader was moving forward slowly, at a pace that was probably intended to be menacing.
“No, not at all. I took it from a sporting goods store in Spokane.” I edged backward a little, trying to amplify my fearful image, and make them less wary.
“I’m not sure you really want to be a member of this party,” the cruel-looking man said, weaving between the thick wooden flattop tables, and reaching the aisle in which I stood, facing the bar with the mirrored backdrop. I meaningfully flicked my eyes to the woman, whose traumatized eyes found my own.
Drake still lay prone on the ground, and his companion still cowered before the small man with the handlebar mustache.
“Could be, we could add you to the guest list,” he waved toward the woman on the table. “Would you like that, faggot? How ‘bout one of my men takes you to town in your fancy get-up? That make you think about walking into someone else’s party unannounced?”
This gang laughed, and one of the large men behind the counter grunted apishly, “I’d take a shot with this one.”
I desperately fought to hold my anger in check, as my cheeks flushed with fury. My hands began to tremble above my head, and I hoped they interpreted it as fear.
“See? Now my friends want to get acquainted. Maybe you can just sit down and have a drink.”
“Listen, I don’t want any trouble, so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just leave.” I turned to the door, and the leader spoke.
“What do you think boys? Should we let him leave? Or should we show him how to carve?” he said, gesturing to the bladed weapons on the bar. The rest of his gang laughed
“Oh, I think we’ll let you leave,” he said, as I reached my hand for the door. “But maybe not just yet.”
His voice went down an octave.
“Get your hand off the door.”
“Get out of here, mister!” Drake’s friend shouted bravely, then crumpled to the floor as the small man clubbed her brutally to the ground with the butt his pistol.
Good. Last obstacle removed. Clear sight lines.
Excellent.
“You know what?” I said, facing the exit and allowing my voice to betray the anger that was forcing the blood through my veins.
My hand was on the edge of the door that stood open, the rain and thunder outside lending the darkened space an extra air of ghoulish dystopia.
“What’s that?” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.
I pushed the door shut, and threw the deadbolt, locking it tight and bending the small metal latch so it wouldn’t open.
“Maybe,” I said as I turned, smiling once and lowering my hands. “Maybe I do want to stick around.”
His smile faltered as he saw the hate in my eyes, and the black man’s eyes narrowed slightly. His gun fired once, and I clenched my body, feeling the impact of the bullet in the armored torso as the jacket absorbed the shot.
He only got one shot. Then it was my turn.
My arm flashed to the side and flicked a heavy bar stool into the air, and it slammed into the shooter’s face, knocking him back from his chair. I pivoted to the side and between two tables, pressing the actuator buttons hidden in the cuffs of my jacket. The long, dirk-like blades sprung from within the garment’s sleeves, and I struck quickly as I passed the man still struggling on the floor, trying to stem the flow of blood from his shattered face. The metal slid into his eye and back out so quickly that he didn’t have time to flinch.
Someone screamed and I heard the click of a loaded weapon, and I instantly dove for the bar, as another shot was fired from the small man who had sear
ched me. A bottle shattered above me as I landed behind the bar, and rolled to the side.
The two large men that had been lounging idly were scrambling in a drink-induced haze to find their weapons at their belts, and the one who had spoken up about taking a go with me was the first to find out that I was far too much woman for him to handle.
I reached them in two long bounds, dodging behind the first and using him as a body shield as I shot my hand forward in three quick jabs, piercing the blond man in the chest, the stomach and the throat, and watching blood spout from the wounds. The bald man, who I held now by the back of the neck, squirmed and grabbed at a bottle from the counter.
I forced his head down, shattering the bottle he was grasping for with his forehead, and pressing his face down into the broken glass. I ducked behind him as the bullets flew from his friends, and forced the long blade into his back, watching as it emerged from his chest and then pulling back. A long gasp escaped from his chest as I picked up his massive body and stood, throwing it headlong into the ringleader, who was trying to find a clear shot.
The hispanic woman was screaming, and she fled to the back of the bar. Not wanting to spare the time to run her down, I grabbed a whisky bottle from the shelf.
“Stick around a while,” I said, launching the bottle as hard as I could, clocking her in the temple and dropping her near the door to the bathrooms.
The small man was crouched behind an overturned table, and was firing shots from the concealed position. Bullets slammed into the mirrored glass behind me, showering the floor with broken shards. I rolled out of the hidden position and heard the blast of thunder before I felt the sting.
Rod had found a shotgun and was cocking it once again as I crawled to a protected position in a far booth. My side felt wet and sticky, and it stung as if peppered with small cuts.
My blood boiled again, and I raged inside.
I wanted hurt. I wanted death.
I pushed against the floor and shot into the air, flying over the table and taking the ringleader by surprise as I hit the ground and rolled forward. His next shot went wide, and took the wood paneling from the wall behind me as I rocketed into his midsection, taking the air from his lungs.
I heard the movement behind me as the small man saw his chance, rising from the protection of the heavy tabletop. His feet crunched on glass as I moved to the side, watching his first bullet plow into the leader’s arm.
“God damn it!” he cried, and I spun, my hand spinning past the bar surface where my knife lay after being confiscated. I grabbed the hilt, and in one movement, threw the blade.
He staggered back two steps in shock, before looking at his chest slowly. A trickle of dark red blood ran from the corner of his mouth slowly as he looked back up at me. I picked up a chair from the table next to me with one hand.
“Sit down, asshole,” I spat, throwing the chair into his chest, driving the knife in to the hilt and forcing him back over the next table and onto the floor.
“Please,” the leader whimpered as I paced toward him, crumpled against the bar, holding his injured arm. “Please, don’t.”
I looked up meaningfully at the young woman, who still lay prone and naked, bound to the pool table, her dignity taken from her by these animals. My pulse pounded in my head, all rational thoughts left my body, and my voice was cold.
“Did she beg? Did she ask you to stop?”
He simply stared at me, his lip quivering.
“Did she find mercy at your hand?”
The coward began to cry.
I didn’t care.
I picked him up off the ground easily, ignoring his attempts to dislodge my hand from his vest, and then slapping him once hard in the face as he tried to punch at me as we walked.
Outside the front door, I could see the shadows of several bodies, and I knew them to be the undead.
But I wasn’t going outside.
Not yet.
Next to the door, several large, thick metal coat hooks were bolted into the wall with thick lag bolts. Very sturdy, those.
I walked slowly to the wall, listening to him trying to reason himself out of his fate.
“She was just… convenient. You know how it is. You have to take what you want. What you need. I did what I had to. There aren’t any laws or cops or anything. Please, please have mercy!”
His eyes were flashing on the shadows outside, and at the last minute, I turned away from the doors, and his face betrayed a glimmer of hope.
“You were wrong about one thing,” I said slowly and softly.
“What? What are you…”
“There aren’t any cops or laws,” I lifted him up higher, staring him in the watery, bloodshot eyes. “But there’s still me. And there’s still justice left in the world.”
I dropped him down hard, slamming him into the large hook on the wall and allowing the weight of his large body to pull him down. He screamed loudly, and the bodies outside stopped.
I didn’t linger.
Pulling the clothing from the table, I snapped the nylon ropes from the woman’s ankles and wrists. She didn’t speak, and she didn’t cry. She simply stared, her eyes vacant. I pulled the pants and shirt onto her bruised body, expecting at least a whimper of pain.
Next to the table, Drake was stirring. I collected the extra weapons and tossed them into a trashcan near the bar as I moved Drake’s friend into a small storeroom near the back. Then, I crouched over the small man as he began to sit up, his eyes glazed and his face confused amid the bloody mess of his mouth and chin.
“I just bought you a second chance, friend. Use it wisely, you understand? What you did—even with a gun to your head—I can’t abide. You had a choice, and you made the wrong one. But in the end, no matter how late, you grew a pair. So I’ll let you and your friend go. I’m not going to help you, but I’m going to give you a chance. There aren’t so many of us left that I can afford to waste lives so callously.”
He shook his head slightly, taking in the scene around the room and muttering something under his breath.
“Why?” I answered, picking up his bewildered question as I stood up.
“Because I wanted to.” No, that wasn’t the whole of it, I realized. “No, because I had to. You remember this the next time you have a decision to make. You remember what your last one came to. And how it ended. There aren’t rules anymore. But there’s us. Just us. Make that be enough.”
He stood and followed my hand to the storeroom, where he started to attend his friend.
Behind me, hands were slamming against the front door, and I remembered my guns outside as I focused on Rod, and my own exit. There were only a few of them, but it would be difficult with the young woman in my arms.
I slung her prone form over my shoulders in a fireman carry, and retrieved my knife from the small man’s body. The knife went back to the boot, but the machete went to my right hand. I picked up the pistol from the small man as well, shaking my head at the trace amounts of rust on the grip, and ducked behind the bar with her, placing her gently on the rubber mat.
I stood up, aiming carefully at the heavy lock on the door.
Rod was still crying, but his face turned to me, knowing what was going to happen to him.
I pulled the trigger, taking the latching mechanism off in three shots. The doors flew open, and three creatures stumbled in as I dropped below the bar.
He screamed for several long minutes, while I held the young woman close, watching in the shards of the mirror above our heads. Then, the screaming stopped, and I stood up. They saw me, but I didn’t care. The machete fell once, twice, three times.
I picked up the unfortunate young woman, and we walked out of the bar.
TWENTY-FOUR
“You threw a knife at him?”
Ky’s voice was awed, and I didn’t like the admiration in the tone.
“Yeah, well. Didn’t have much choice, I guess.” My voice reflected my disgust with the whole encounter, and I hadn’t told the kid
half of what happened. But I was hoping to give her enough that she’d stop asking.
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
I absently plucked at a string hanging from the top bunk, grunting slightly as the train hit a small bump on the tracks. The constant clicking was both calming and slightly baleful in its monotony.
“Movie I did about five years ago about an assassin. They wanted it to look realistic when I shot the knife scenes. So they brought in a guy. I think he was Special Forces.”
She looked impressed, but I shook my head.
“Truth is, I only nailed it one out of every five times or so. I got lucky this time.”
“And what about the last guy? The leader? Did you totally cave in his freaking face?”
She didn’t understand.
She didn’t know how it was.
I told her that there was a woman, and she was a captive. But not the rest.
She tried to play the part of an adult because she had to. She wanted to be older, and she wanted to understand. But I wasn’t ready for her to know that there was a special, horrible danger in being a woman in the end of days.
“Yeah, kid. I knocked him out with a pool cue, and we left.”
“But there were things out there, right? Maybe they got him.”
Kate came into the cabin carrying two water bottles, and I looked up.
“Probably. Hard to hide dinner from them,” I stood up from the bed and scratched Romeo’s ears absently.
“I’m gonna rack out, okay?”
She sighed and got up.
“You sleep too early,” she said. “Just ‘cause you’re some nocturnal owl-creature now, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to do the same. I’m going to go hang out in the dining car. We’re heading into the mountains. Good views until the sun sets.”
She disappeared into the hallway with Romeo in tow, and Kate shut the door softly.
“How is she?” I asked.
Kate shrugged, taking a drink from the bottle.
“About as you’d expect,” she said. “Her life will never be the same. Even in the midst of this… this new world… you don’t expect your dignity and your bare sense of self to leave you. When something like that happens, it takes you down to nothing. If she didn’t have her son, she’d probably try to kill herself immediately. Even with her son next to her, we’ll have to watch her. It takes a lot of strength and resilience to bounce back from something like this.”