by J. D. Demers
The store itself had a six foot cinder block wall that rounded the back side. We didn’t see any sign of DJ’s group in the front parking lot, nor did we see who was attacking his people. That pretty much confirmed what Chad had said.
We stopped short of being able to see down the north side of the building. Fish turned and looked at me, his stone cold green eyes testing my resolve.
“This is about to get real, kid,” he said in a calm, even tone. “Are you sure you have the stomach for this?”
No, I did not have the stomach for it. I didn’t have it when they sent me to war overseas, and I sure as hell didn’t have it that day. Sure, I had started to get used to having to slay zombies, but these were real life people. They had guns, and they were going to shoot at us for sure. I wasn’t sure if he was testing me, if he was worried I would panic, or if he really didn’t want me to go in there if I wasn’t ready to. In the end, it really didn’t matter.
It’s okay to be afraid, but never let that fear make the decisions for you.
My father’s words echoed in my head. Fish’s eyes read my every thought.
“Let’s do this,” I told him.
Let’s do this? This wasn’t a movie. That was not what I wanted to say, but it came out anyway.
Fish eyed me a little deeper. It was as if he knew I wanted to say, ‘No, drop me off at home, please.’ But I didn’t say that. He waited for a moment to see if I was going to change my mind, but my lips were tightly pressed together, not allowing me to say another word.
“Alright,” he finally said, “You’re going to drop me off at the front, then drive around the south side. When you see their truck, give that douche bag the signal and head straight for the dumpsters. Try to keep the trash bins between you and their riflemen.” His voice changed to a more stern tone. “Do NOT try to be a hero.”
He didn’t have to worry about that. I had no intentions of being a hero. But I questioned the idea of dropping him off near the front of the store.
“There’s about a hundred zombies heading toward that store, and you want me to drop you off there?” I asked him in protest.
“I don’t tell you how to organize your socks. Don’t tell me how to handle an op. Now get in the driver’s seat,” he commanded as he squeezed into the back seat of the truck and took hold of his 308 rifle. Then he said something that sent a shiver down my spine, “Come on Boomer, time for you to earn your keep.”
“You’re taking Boomer?” I asked, shocked.
“Don’t worry about him, kid. I need his help,” he snorted as he got close to the door, dragging Boomer with him. “Get moving!”
As much as I wanted to argue, I had to believe that Fish knew what he was doing. I hit the gas just as a couple of zombies started banging on the side of the truck. I never drove anything this big before and had to get use to the power of the large diesel engine. I drove through the parking lot, doing my best to avoid the zombies in my way.
“Slow down!” Fish said. We were still about a hundred feet from the store, and I turned back to argue, but he just repeated himself. “Slow down!”
I turned back around and complied. Suddenly, the back door opened and I heard Boomer yelp. I turned back around and saw Fish staring ahead.
“Keep going! Follow the plan!” he yelled. Boomer was nowhere to be seen.
What plan? I thought to myself. Throwing Boomer out of the truck was never part of the plan.
I kept driving, but my blood was starting to boil. When we got near the entrance of the store, I came to a quick stop. Before I could scream at him for throwing my dog at the zombies, he jumped out and started running north along the front of the store.
I didn’t move for a second, until he turned partially around and whirled his rifle angrily in the air.
“Dammit!” I exclaimed. I hit the gas and turned the truck south, driving parallel with the building. I saw Boomer. He was running from about fifty zombies, dipping and diving to avoid them if they got too close. They sluggishly shambled after him creating a mass, but were well out of reach from actually catching him.
I slammed on the gas and grabbed the radio. As much as I wanted to pull over and get him in the truck, I knew now why Fish threw him out. Most of the zombies that had been heading toward the building were now preoccupied with a living, breathing meal. They no longer cared about the gunshots from the back of the store. Boomer didn’t attract all of the dead-heads, but Fish seemed to be in the clear.
As soon as I rounded the southern side of the building, I keyed the radio and yelled, “Now Chad!” into the transmitter.
I was driving fast, over thirty miles an hour down the small side street that led around the southern part of the store. My heart was racing. As scared as I was, there was a certain level of excitement to all of it.
I rounded the corner and immediately saw Jenna’s truck. It was parked near the back entrance and backed up so that they could load stuff into the bed from the door. But I couldn’t see Chad.
My attention was brought to a truck on the far north end of the building. It was a big blue pickup that was raised at least an additional five feet. It was one of those trucks people loved to take mudding. There were already two or three zombies around it but they were barely tall enough to reach the door handle.
In the back there were two men. It was hard to make out what they looked like from this distance, but I was sure they were both wielding AR-15’s similar to mine. They were shooting to my front left where a long U-shaped cement wall protected three large dumpsters. I couldn’t see anyone in the trash area, but I was sure from what Chad told me that DJ and Jared were there.
I keyed the mike again, yelling at Chad. “Come on man, get out and shoot!”
Just as I passed Jenna’s truck, I saw the driver side door pop open, and the skinny convict snaked his way out. He was raising his gun in the air when he went out of my peripheral.
Bang!
Something hit my truck. I looked up and saw one of the shooters had turned toward me. Another shot, but it missed my vehicle as I swerved to get behind the wall protecting the trash bins.
I could hear screaming, but I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. More gunshots rang out. Some were fired from behind me. I figured Chad had finally got the nerve up to shoot his gun.
The high-pitched wail of the 5.56 round kept going off, but it was intermittent, like they were waiting for something. I was finally able to make out the yelling. It was DJ’s gruff voice coming from behind the trash bin. He was yelling at Jared. I wasn’t sure what it was about but I could hear the desperation in his voice.
I opened up the driver’s door and jumped to the ground. Behind me, I could see Jenna’s truck. The barrel of Chad’s 9mm made an appearance and fired off two rounds randomly. A couple of bullet holes went through his truck’s door, causing him to retract his pistol.
My heart beat in my throat, but I had to get to DJ. I could hear him cursing and the sound of his suppressed AK-47 was lightly echoing off the walls inside the trash collection area.
Taking the safety off my AR-15, I moved to the back of my truck, which was just within the cover of the wall. I peeked around and saw the shooter’s truck still sitting in the same spot. No one was in the driver’s seat and the two in the bed were taking shots at both the trash area and Chad. They hadn’t caught a glimpse of me since I got out of the truck, but they had to know I was somewhere around the area.
Behind them, I could see about twenty or so zombies shambling toward the aggressor’s vehicle, but a reservoir blocked their path. I wasn’t sure yet if zombies swam, floated, or sank to the bottom of large bodies of water. These zombies seemed to be knee deep, though, trying to find a way to move forward without falling over.
Then something else caught my eye. A figure moved from an abandoned car a few hundred feet away to behind a large trash compactor that was closer to the trash bins. He was wearing a motorcycle jacket and armed with what seemed to be a compact submachine gun. I wasn’t
a gun expert or anything, but it did resemble what someone on the SWAT team would carry. Whoever he was, he took aim at the dumpsters.
BOOM!
A single, loud gunshot echoed off the walls and building. It was a good distance away, but still dwarfed the AR-15 discharges from the attacker’s truck. I looked over and only saw one of the aggressors standing, and he seemed somewhat confused.
Suddenly, half of the second man’s head disintegrated just as another loud boom resonated around the back parking lot. His AR-15 dropped to the ground as his body loosely fell over the back of the truck.
The man holding the submachine gun by the trash compactor didn’t notice, or at least didn’t have the line of sight to see what was happening in the truck behind him. He rose up and took aim.
Before I knew it, I saw the optics of my rifle fill my field of vision. The orange triangle marked the motorcycle jacket man, who now seemed only moments away from shooting into the trash bin enclosure that held DJ and Jared. My head was telling me I had to shoot, but it seemed like an eternity before I pulled the trigger.
POW!
Chapter 17
The Compound
April 19th Afternoon
The kick of the AR15 is pretty small compared to higher caliber rifles, and I only lost a little of my sight picture after I pulled the trigger. The motorcycle jacket man lurched to the side and grabbed his waist as he fell down. I realized I had aimed too low. Up to that point, I had only been in close quarters with zombies while armed with my AR-15, which forced me to aim low for the bullet to find its mark. I never adjusted for distance when I shot at this guy.
I came out from around the corner. I heard DJ off to the side, but wasn’t able to make out his words because my heart was beating in my ears. My rifle was still pointing at the man, and I was screaming, “Freeze!” like a police officer in a bad TV show.
I kept moving forward, never taking my aim off the man’s chest. His submachine gun was on the ground. He was screaming in pain, oblivious to me or anything else.
I had a strange feeling. I wished I had killed him. Not because he was trying to hurt my friends, but because I didn’t want to hear him scream. I shook the thought out of my head. It was the monster in me. Don’t become that guy I told myself.
“Christian!” I heard someone scream to my left, but I ignored them. I just kept moving forward. I was locked onto the wounded man, and my mission was to get that gun away from him. Everything else around me didn’t matter. Something told me this man would still be a threat as long as he had access to a gun. Truthfully though, he was in no shape to grab his weapon and start shooting, but adrenaline didn’t allow me to think clearly.
I made it to the motorcycle jacket man and clumsily kicked the gun away from him.
“Don’t move!” I repeated a couple of times, but he wasn’t listening. I saw blood pooling on the pavement as he writhed around on the ground. He was holding his hip, wrenching in agony. The bullet must have cracked or shattered his hip bone, I concluded. He must have been in excruciating pain.
“You motherfucker!” I heard Chad say from behind me. “I’m going to blow your fucking brains out!” I finally felt somewhat safe, and turned my head to see the skinny convict racing up behind me. He was waving his gun, tilting it to the side like a gangster.
I felt the need to stop him, but never got the chance. DJ came out of nowhere. Who knew a big man like him could move so fast?
“This is your fault, asshole!” he shouted, smacking Chad in the face with the butt of his AK-47. The skinny man’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the pavement. DJ stood over him and kicked him in the side and face repeatedly.
“His blood is on your hands!” he roared as Chad cried out for mercy.
“DJ! Stop!” I heard a woman’s voice in front of me scream. It was Jenna, who ran from the direction of the attacker’s truck. Behind her was Fish, who jumped out of the back of the big beast, and another man I didn’t recognize jogging in our direction. Three zombie bodies were laid out around the vehicle.
Jenna ran past me and grabbed DJ. Chad lay on the ground, writhing in pain. His face had stripes of blood racing across it, and his nose was definitely broken. It was then that I noticed DJ’s face was red and wet with tears and his shirt was spotted with blood.
I turned back to the motorcycle jacket man on the ground that was sobbing and moaning. Fish was fast approaching with the man I later found out was Preacher from the Stallion compound. He was an older African American, probably in his late forties, but seemed to be in decent enough shape. His grey and black beard was tattered and tangled. His tired brown eyes widened as he looked at Chad squirming on the pavement.
“I’ll get him,” Preacher said as he knelt down next to Chad.
Fish shouldered his rifle as he jogged up to the scene. When he was a few feet away, he saw who I was pointing my AR-15 at. He quickly drew his .45.
“Who’s this?” Fish asked hastily.
“Must be one of them,” Preacher said as he cradled Chad.
I couldn’t say anything, probably because I was still in shock from shooting the guy.
DJ wiped his face with his sleeve. His hands were covered in blood. The big man always seemed like a nice guy, even though he carried the classic hardcore Marine gaze underneath his grizzly beard. There was nothing nice about his face now.
I finally felt more comfortable, and let my rifle dangle in front of me. I searched around and made sure everyone was there. Jenna spoke up.
“Where’s Jared?” she asked. It was a realization that hit her and me at the same time.
“He’s… dead,” DJ said, glaring back down at Chad, who had finally wiggled away from Preacher and dragged himself up against the wall of the store. Preacher tried to hand him a cloth to wipe up some of his blood, but Chad refused, smacking the reverend’s hand away.
DJ took a step closer to the beaten and bloody man. “You hear me, asshole? He’s dead!”
Fish seemed to not care about the fight or the conversation. He walked over to the motorcycle jacket guy and pulled him up.
“Ack, fucker!” the man croaked painfully as Fish checked him over. He pulled a small revolver from the back of his pants.
“Shut up!” Fish sternly told him, then looked at me and continued in the same voice. “Kid, never lower your weapon until the hostile is secure!”
DJ stormed up, AK-47 at the ready. “Why the fuck did you guys shoot at us?”
Jenna tried to stop him, but was pushed aside by the big man.
“Fuck you, man!” the motorcycle jacket guy said through clenched teeth. “It was you fucks that tried to kill us, remember?”
DJ stopped short, the silencer on his rifle just inches from the man’s skull. His eyes shifted back and forth in thought. Everyone was quiet, waiting to see if DJ was going to exact revenge on the wounded assailant. I could see the struggle on his face, trying to make a decision.
The decision was made, just not by DJ.
CHUNK!
The side of the man’s head erupted with pink mist and flesh as Fish’s .45 ejected a shell. The man slumped over, still holding his hip.
Everyone stayed silent. No one wanted to talk. Everyone, except Fish, was either staring at the old sniper or the dead motorcycle jacket guy.
“It had to be done,” Fish said evenly as he strapped his .45 back to his hip. “I suggest we get out of here.”
The sound of paws and panting broke the mood as Boomer raced around the south corner in our direction. It was the distraction I needed from the insanity that just took place. Ignoring whatever stares people had, I let the canine run into my arms. He licked my face and trembled. My anger at Fish for throwing him out of the truck started to return.
Fish was right, though. Following just a few seconds behind Boomer was the first of many zombies. Only a couple rounded the corner, but more could be heard by their moans echoing off the cement wall. They were still sluggish, but I think the sight of more food gave them a litt
le incentive, and they started to move more briskly.
The others started to scramble and grab their gear. DJ yelled for Preacher to get into his F350 and back it up to the dumpsters. Chad scrambled to his feet with the help of Jenna and they moved to her truck.
“Get up, kid,” Fish said, tugging my vest and grabbing the submachine gun at the dead man’s feet. He then shoved the weapon into my chest. “You earned it. Let’s get out of here.” Without really thinking about it, I reached down and ripped off four magazines the man had duct taped to his jacket.
As we ran to our vehicle, I saw Preacher and DJ pick up Jared’s body and place it in the back of his truck. Judging by the various blood stains on his shirt, I guessed he took multiple rounds to the chest.
They were taking him back for a proper burial, I guessed. I couldn’t help but turn to the man in the motorcycle jacket and think that no one would be around to bury him or his friends.
We just killed living people. My stomach started to swim and I thought I was going to puke.
As I jumped into the passenger seat, I reminded myself that only Fish did the killing. I wounded the guy, sure, but it was Fish who mercilessly executed him and his friends. Why? I thought to myself. We might have been able to save him. Why?
“Why?” I accidently said aloud.
We were backing up and following DJ and Jenna.
“Why what?” Fish asked.
I glared at him. Did I even want to ask? Would there even be a logical reason for what he just did? I guess I had to know.
“Why did you kill that man?” I asked. My tone must have been stern, because he scowled.
“It had to be done,” he said after a moment.
“No it didn’t!” I roared back. “We could have treated him! We could have gotten Daniel…”
“Do you know what happens when a 5.56 round hits bone, kid?” he asked. “Nine times out of ten, that pea shot ricochets. I turned him over. There was no exit wound. The bullet probably deflected up and shredded his guts. Any other direction and it would have come out of him. He was dead and he didn’t even know it.”