Primrose straddled the woman. She was older than he thought — maybe in her early forties. She was pretty for her age, though. She reminded him of his own mother somewhat. His mother had been pretty and she knew it. However, his father had taught him what to do with women who thought too highly of themselves. Bored with removing one button at a time when his victim wasn’t even awake to be terrified by the action, he ripped her shirt open sending the remaining buttons ricocheting about him like shrapnel. It made Zeek chuckle.
Her brazier was yellow lace and the two men looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Zeek rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth in anticipation of what was to come. Primrose slid the knife under the delicate cloth between her breasts and pulled the blade up. The material parted against the razor edge in a snap of fabric sending both cups of the brazier in opposite directions leaving the unconscious woman bare-chested. Hungry eyes drank in the woman’s smooth naked skin.
Bang! Bang! Bang! The gunshots came across the parking lot in a series of concussive explosions that were dampened by noise of the chopper blades. Yet, both men knew gunfire when they heard it. Zeek turned expecting to see Samuels having killed any number of the survivors in the store. Instead, he found the lieutenant lying on the pavement extending a hand in supplication toward the big American. The American was holding a pistol extended in such a way as to leave no doubt about his intention.
“Get out there! Both of you!” The Colonel screamed from the cockpit as he slid into the pilot’s seat. “If you hadn’t been so wrapped up playing house, you might have seen this coming!”
Primrose didn’t even have time to take his eyes from the woman’s breasts before his head literally disappeared, splattering the interior of the chopper in a spray of lumpy red goo. The soldier’s corpse managed to maintain its balance a second longer before falling across the woman.
The left side of the Russian’s uniform was soaked to the skin in Primrose’s blood. He scowled at Simpson who held his weapon over his head in surrender. He knew the boy was weak. The Russian knelt next to the chopper to make himself a smaller target as he tried to figure out where the shot came from. Bang! The big American put another bullet in the lieutenant. The lieutenant didn’t move this time.
Zeek shouldered his M-16 and sighted on the American. He didn’t care much for Samuels anyway — too bossy. Besides, Zeek could only hope to meet his blessed Maker in such a manner.
Just before pulling the trigger, he caught sight of a dark form on the roof highlighted by the morning sky. It was hunkered over a long rifle. From where he knelt next to the chopper, the attacker looked like a woman. Her hair hung slightly across her right eye, which was sighting down on him. Of all the ways he would have chosen to die, this wasn’t on his list. He deserved a soldier’s death and not, as would soon be the case, to be murdered by a woman. He raised his middle finger in a long straight salute and spit. It was his last act of defiance. The bullet took his hand off at the wrist then parted his chest bone leaving nothing more than shivering mound of meat that scarcely resembled anything human. Chunks were splattered into the tail rotor and were battered dozens of feet away.
Colonel Berkley didn’t have to look around to know what happened. The interior of the cockpit was smothered in bloody pieces of Primrose’s brain. Outside, just under the thumping of the helicopter’s blades, he’d recognized the sound of both Simpson’s weapon as it clamored to the pavement in surrender and whatever was left of the Russian’s tattered body when it fell wetly behind the chopper. Someone was firing a .50 caliber weapon, which meant that there was no way he was going to be able to escape in the chopper.
The windows were covered in so much gore that he was concealed from the sniper — for the moment. He climbed back over the co-pilot’s seat and opened the door. His only hope was that the sniper wouldn’t start firing blindly into the chopper. Outside, he wiped some of Primrose off the back of his head and looked around. Hundreds of the dead were converging on the parking lot. They had been attracted to the sound of the helicopter.
He needed a plan.
Looking to his right and then his left in his search for anything that might get him out of the situation, he caught sight of a small building with a sign over it that said, Photo-Mat. It was about a hundred yards further down the parking lot. The small blue and yellow building stood alone in the middle of the lot not far from the cinema. It had a drive-thru window for dropping off and picking up film.
Two problems presented themselves immediately. One, there was a wall of probably two hundred zombies moving this way and they were between him and the Photo-Mat. Second, he couldn’t outrun a .50 caliber bullet. The second problem may not be a problem, however, if he knew something about the shooter. Would he feel the need to kill Berkley himself, or would he leave Berkley to be killed by the zombies? The way Berkley had it figured, the only way to survive this encounter was to run toward the lurching hordes of undead in the hope the shooter would leave him to be devoured by the dead. It was a gamble.
Berkley pulled his shirt off and wiped the sweat off his face. Tossing it to the ground, he loosened his knife in the sheath and pulled a baton from out between the two seats of the cockpit. Taking up his headset, he keyed the mike and said, “Eagle to Caterpillar One. Come in Caterpillar One.”
After a moment, “Eagle this is Caterpillar, come back.”
“We have a change of plans. I need you to pick me up after dark in front of the Military Surplus store. There is a small blue and yellow building located out front. I will be inside. Remember — after dark. Do you copy?”
“Uh, yeah. Roger. We copy.” There were mountains of uncertainty in Torres’ voice.
The door closed with a click. The baton was a shiny black cudgel made of carbon fiber. Between the knife and the baton, he might be able to fight his way through the horde of man-eaters. Once he made it to the Photo-Mat, he would have to come up with a new plan — if he made it to the Photo-Mat.
The Colonel worked his neck around to the left and to the right and then rolled his shoulders. He pranced from one foot to the other warming his muscles for the sprint. When he closed his eyes, he visualized the havoc he would soon unleash on the unsuspecting dead. If they had any humanity left in those husks, they should be very afraid, he thought to himself. They might be dead, but death would soon be in their midst swinging club and blade. The thought made him smile while anticipation fluttered in his belly. Then, without ceremony, he launched himself into a full sprint toward the shambling wall of the dead that stood between him and salvation. He ran without concern for the sniper. If the shooter wanted the kill, then there was nothing he could do about it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
S he shivered and tears strafed lines down her cheeks leaving her vision blurry as she relished the power and control that was now hers. The helplessness and inability to prevent the pain and torture she had endured defined her since her escape. She suffered in her mind and body from the hurt they had inflicted. Now she would unleash her frustration upon the men below. They were going to do to Carol what Billy had done to her. She blinked the tears away as she sighted once again through the scope with her one good eye. The first soldier she had killed had been molesting Carol. Denise took grim satisfaction when his head exploded in a shower of bloody pudding. His lifeless corpse toppled over, shrouding Carol’s nudity in gushes of crimson. The other soldier was more of a veteran. His response to her attack was nearly programmed. His posture and response time spoke of formal training. Yet, he was too late to do more than give her the finger before he ceased to be. The power to grant life or death was hers to give.
She sighted down at the third soldier. He was very young and the look on his face bespoke terror. His bottom lip quivered as he gazed up at her. He didn’t want to die, but who did. Oh, how she wanted to make him pay for the crimes that had been committed against her. She wanted him to be as evil as the rest. Yet, there was something in the young man’s eyes that gave her pause. She cente
red the crosshairs on his face looking for a hint of the darkness that seemed to bubble from every pore in some men.
If she let him live, would he just kill someone else, someone who was not holding a .50 caliber death machine? Were the tears that flowed down his face real? She had friends who could turn on the water works at the drop of a hat. Denise, the victim of rape and torture, applied pressure to the trigger exhaling through her nostrils as she had been taught. Could she afford to take the chance? How many times had others regretted their acts of mercy? Would she wake in the middle of the night and see his face over her as he tried to have his way with her? No. She would not permit that — never again!
“Denise?”
Denise’s eye snapped open at the sound of Sheri’s little voice. Pulling her face away from the scope, she couldn’t stifle the sob that was burning in her chest, aching to be released. The hurt was more than physical. Pressing her upper teeth into her swollen bottom lip, she stifled the emotional torrent with pain. The dam held.
Blinking through the tears, she realized that the carnage below was hideous. She had only killed two men and yet the scene below her looked like a half a dozen men had been massacred. The helicopter and surrounding pavement was smeared with a bloody graffiti. This was not the work of spray cans. Yet, a message communicated nonetheless.
Movement at the front of the chopper told her that there was a fourth soldier. He had decided to make a run for it. In Denise’s mind, she knew the man fled because he was guilty. He was trying to flee justice. She put her eye back to the scope and took a bead on the man. He was over six feet and yet moved with such feline grace that she suspected that this man was probably the most dangerous of the helicopter’s crew.
She lifted her eye from the scope and followed his trajectory. She needed to anticipate his destination. Her brows raised in surprise when she realized that he was running directly into a hundred or more of the living dead. He was armed with some sort of stick and his Ka-Bar. Even so, it would be suicide to try such a foolish stunt, unless . . .
It took her about ten seconds to add it up in her mind. It was a strategy! There was no way for him to survive the death she would deal from her perch. He couldn’t outrun or outfight her .50 caliber rifle. His only hope was to make what would appear to be a suicide run and hope that she would leave him to the biters. He had a better chance to live until tomorrow facing the zombie horde than he did waiting for her to pick him off below.
Denise smiled and then winced as her lip split open afresh. He would not get his way. Rolling her neck, she rested her cheek once more on the stock of the weapon and began her mental exercises that would end with gradual pressure being applied to the trigger. She aimed for center mass on the soldier’s back compensating for his speed and wind direction. His broad well-muscled shoulders made for the perfect target. Slowly, she squeezed the trigger.
“Denise!” Sheri said in frustration and poked Denise in the side.
Startled, Denise squeezed the trigger reflexively. The gun thundered and her shot hit the pavement several feet behind the running soldier, peppering him with chips of blacktop. He lowered his head and picked up his pace until he hammered into the front line of the zombies like a linebacker carrying the ball.
“Damn!” Denise swore as she watched her prey disappear amidst the multitude of undead. In her frustration, she snapped the action to reload the weapon. The hot shell casing ejected bouncing across the rooftop like the previous two. Turning, she looked into the worried eyes of young Sheri Mason and her annoyance slipped away. Denise could tell the little go-getter was on the verge of losing her composure. Her chin creased and tears swelled on her lower lashes. A single blink would have them tracing lines down her cheeks.
“Is my mom dead?” Sheri asked. Her voice was strong and Denise realized the little girl would make a great leader someday.
“I—.” Denise turned to look down at the helicopter where Carol still lay. “I don’t know, hon.” Yet, she couldn’t keep her eyes of the crowd of zombies into which that soldier had run. Where was he going? Reaching out to touch Sheri’s hand, Denise said, “Give me just a minute, hon, and I’ll go get your mom, Okay?”
Receiving a nod that shook the eight-year-old’s blonde curls, Denise pointed the scope of her weapon once more at the horde of undead. There was a swirl of activity at the rear of the crowd and she suddenly realized that the soldier would soon escape the death trap. If the soldier maintained the same path, it would lead him to a small booth that stuck out like a flare of blues and yellows. The sign hanging from a pole over the small building said, “Photo-Mat.”
“Ah,” Denise said just as the soldier burst from the crowd freshly covered in gore. Quickly, she readjusted her position, turning the barrel of the rifle toward the small building. It was well over a hundred yards away. A paper cup skipping across the ground near the building gave her wind direction. Again, she held her breath and sighted on the man as he ran the last few feet to the building. She would take him when he stopped to open the door.
Five . . . Four . . . Three . . . Two . . .
Instead of running for the door, she watched the soldier dash straight for the wall of the building, only to turn at the last second and dive through the open drive-thru window. He’d escaped her. Damn!
* * *
When Berkley hit the first line of zombies, he smiled. For now, his only concern was not being bitten. His baton and knife moved through the surging horde making quick work of those creatures in his immediate vicinity. The sheer numbers meant nothing to him. Only so many could crowd around him at one time. As far as he was concerned, he faced a mere handful of untrained, undisciplined, albeit hungry and violent, opponents. He didn’t try to be fancy as he returned the dead to their natural state. His only objective was to make it through to the other side.
In less than a minute, he’d worked himself toward the back of the mob. He was aware that if the shooter wanted him, he would be waiting for him to come out into the open. If the roles were reversed, when would I shoot?
The building was just twenty yards away when he came surging out from the crowd. He lowered his chin and pumped his legs as hard as he’d ever done. He could feel the sniper’s cross hairs on his back. Any second now, he knew he could be dead. The door to the building was a handful of yards away when he realized that if he were the sniper, he would wait for his victim to pause to open the door. His eyes went to the Drive-thru window. In that instant, he saw his salvation. The Drive-thru window was open!
He turned, at the very last second, and leapt through the open window. His boots scraped across the sill catching briefly and causing him to tip awkwardly. He came down wrong. His chin cracked on the hard floor making his head ring. Stars danced in his vision. His slime-covered shoulders slipped on the tiled floor as he tried to roll over onto his back.
“Looks like we’ve got a customer,” a man said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Colonel Berkley shook his head to clear it and then raised himself up on one shoulder.
“Take it easy there, dude. Don’t make me shoot you.”
The wild look in the man’s eyes told Berkley more about him than if he’d spoken to his mother. The man was weak. He was dressed in a dirty wife-beater and cut-off shorts that were so frayed that they could have doubled for a hula skirt. His bald, stubble-covered head spoke of neglect and the tattoo of Marge Simpson on his neck spoke about his character. He held the pistol sideways, probably thinking it would make him look more like a thug. All it managed to do was let the Colonel know that the man didn’t know anything about the gun he was holding nor the most effective means to use it. Berkley wondered if the guy knew that the safety was still on.
“What’s your name, boy,” Berkley asked, offering the man a slow, lazy smile.
“I’ve got your ‘boy’ right here.” The man’s left hand grabbed his crotch and he smiled at his own cleverness. “My name is Billy. What’s yours?”
“Well, Billy,” the Colon
el said. “There’s enough room for the both of us, right? You got anything to eat?” He cut his eyes at the Drive-thru window thinking of the danger it posed. Billy stood about a foot on the other side of it. “I’ve got food in my car out there.” He nodded toward the window. “We just need to get to it.”
Billy looked to the window, but didn’t move. He tossed a glance over his shoulder to the floor behind the counter, and then turned quickly back to the Colonel. Doubt and uncertainty colored his face. “I don’t want your food.” Then something must have occurred to Billy because his face changed. His eyes went hard. “Get out.” He pointed to the door with his pistol. “I’m going to kill you if you do not leave right now.”
Berkley was surprised at the threat in the boy’s voice. The boy meant it. The safety on the pistol was switched off. When he looked over his shoulder at whatever was behind the counter for the third time, Berkley realized that the coward’s spine was being reinforced by something or someone he couldn’t see. He had one more try before he was going to be forced out of the building.
“You are going to chase me out, but what about the other guy coming this way?” Berkley said nodding once again to the window. He had to hide the smile when the look on Billy’s unshaven face let him know that he was indeed looking for someone. It was probably a close friend or family member.
Unable to resist the temptation, Billy stepped cautiously up to the window and looked out.
* * *
“Come on,” Denise whispered as she continued to sight down to the little building in the parking lot below. The cross hairs of her scope moved across the building’s windows and doors looking for any sign of movement. She knew that the weapon would punch quick holes through the cinderblock walls if she wanted to do so, but she still needed some idea of where to shoot.
There was finally movement in the drive-thru window. Yet, the face that appeared in her scope shocked her as if she’d just been doused in ice water. She had hoped never to see that face again. The hair stood up on the back of her neck. His taste and smell was imprinted in her memory like a nightmare that would never leave — no matter how many times she tried to pinch herself. His words and the names he called her floated in the mist of her mind like poison waiting to be breathed again. Somewhere near her, she heard a high-pitched whine that cut the air and left goose flesh prickling her skin. At first, she thought it might have been the little girl standing next her. It wasn’t until the rifle in her hands spewed fire sending its fourth round on a deadly trajectory that Denise realized that her own mouth was the source of the wailing. She was the wounded child.
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