“Let’s go then,” he nodded.
I drew my .45 just in case. He hefted his heavy cross over his shoulder and we took off running.
We ran out of the post office, crossed the street, and went through an alley. At the exit of the alley, I glanced left and saw the source of the commotion: ten or twelve zombies were stumbling up the road to where two figures stood perhaps a hundred yards away from me.
One of the figures who was standing in the street opposing the zombies was Sha’Quizz. This was apparent to me because he was the only enormous black man who toted a LMG around town. He had already cut down several zombies (this was evident from the bodies that were heaped around him). He fired his machine gun in another quick burst with lethal accuracy. Another zombie collapsed as several bullets went through its head.
The figure who stood near Sha’quizz looked like Marcus, but from this distance I couldn’t be certain because he was facing away from me and wearing a tan cap with a neck-flap. Perhaps he was Larry. Whoever he was, he was roughly the same height as Marcus. He also stood ready with a shiny sword and waited for the zombies to get closer.
The sniper fired again. A zombie near the sword-wielder dropped. As it went down, the sword-wielder then went to work. He slashed right and left as he moved in a mechanical fashion and decapitated the zombies around him. He hardly looked as if he was trying. I concluded that he definitely wasn’t Marcus: the way he moved seemed much to calm and calculated for Marcus.
The zombie distraction was certainly proving useful to me: it would have blown to accidentally run into that trio with only my .45. They would have made short work of me. For the moment, it was best that they fight it out with the zombies, who I was also glad I wasn’t engaged with. I thought of taking a few cheap shots at Sha’Quizz or the sword-guy while their backs were turned, but decided it was best to keep the element of surprise. Thus, I ignored their clash and continued toward the police station with The Preacher to keep me company.
When we arrived there just a few minutes later, I noticed that a single guard stood outside. He wore a flak vest over a gray t-shirt. There was a revolver holstered at one of his hips. I didn’t recognize him, so he must have been another new guy.
As he saw me and The Preacher approaching, he shouted, “hey,” and held up a hand. His other hand went to his holster. “Identify yourselves or I’ll shoot!” he warned.
I shot him in the neck.
He gurgled and squirmed on the front steps. Blood sprayed out of him like a fountain.
“You should have just shot us,” I told him as I stepped over the dying man.
“May God have mercy on your soul!” The Preacher said as he stopped to hover over the man I had shot: he then immediately brought the end of his cross down on the man’s head and ended his suffering.
A shotgun blast went off. I felt buckshot whizz by as it pounded into the side of the door near me. The Preacher cried out and fell forward. He dropped his cross as he did. I quickly turned my head and my gun in the direction of the unseen shooter.
Wendy was kneeling across the street with her sawed-off shotgun propped atop a trashcan and her hair in innocent-looking pigtails. I fired two, quick rounds at her as I ducked into the police station. Neither one hit, but the thumb-sized .45 bullets were scary enough to make her duck behind the trashcan (which prevented her from firing another shot).
The Preacher scrambled toward me on his hands and knees. I hastily reached out, grabbed the crowbar that stuck out between his backpack straps, and pulled him into the safety of the room. He was just out of the doorway when two more shotgun blasts went through it (which made me realize there were two shooters outside and that we had gotten very lucky).
The first blast struck the ceiling and exploded two, old fluorescent light-bulbs. The other shot buried itself in the far wall and tore up a most-wanted poster of criminals that had to be long since zombified.
I looked at The Preacher. He was bleeding from a series of wounds. “How badly are you hit?” I asked.
“Mostly in my right shoulder and arm,” he said. I think most of the shot went wide. I should be okay to keep fighting.”
“That little bitch!” I cursed.
From the other end of the police station, I heard a familiar voice, “Nick?” I hesitated. Could it be true?
“Becky?”
“Yes, I’m over here Nick! Marcus locked me in a cell! Thank God you came for me! I knew you would!”
I darted across the police station to where I heard Becky’s call. As I saw her, she started to cry tears of joy. I reached my hand through the cell bars and clasped hers tightly.
“I’m getting you out of here,” I told her. She leaned over and kissed my hand. I noticed her face was swollen and purple.
“That fucker has been beating on you, hasn’t he?” I demanded.
“Yes,” she told me meekly as she stared down at the floor with a look of shame and fright.
“Did he rape you?” I inquired.
She shook her head. “Not yet, but he’s getting bolder. I think he’s working up to it.”
I growled with rage. “I’m going to kill him, don’t worry,” I vowed.
“I’m okay for now,” she let me know as she rubbed the top of my hand, “now please get me out of here so I can help. They keep the keys in the top desk drawer over there,” she pointed across the room.
As I ran over to the desk to get the keys, Becky continued, “Marcus doesn’t bother to keep their location a secret. He figures that no one else will dare let me out, and leaving the keys nearby makes it easier for him to send other people to bring me to him if he’s too lazy to come himself.”
By the time she finished explaining about Marcus’ lack of judgment, I was back at her cell door and in the process of unlocking it. When if finally swung open, and I gave Becky her first taste of freedom in a long time, she threw her arms around me and kissed me.
Our joyous reunion was short-lived.
“Nick!” The Preacher yelled. “We’ve got company coming in. His yell was followed by another shotgun blast.
“Go back in your cell,” I told Becky, “and pretend the door is still locked.”
She hesitated and I could tell she was terrified of being trapped there again.
“Trust me,” I told her and gently grabbed her shoulders. “If they think you’re still locked in there, they won’t think twice about you. We may need that advantage.”
She did as asked. While she closed the door herself (but left it unlocked) I ran to the front of the police station to assist The Preacher.
Right as I arrived, Clod was running up the front steps with Wendy close behind. I fired a quick shot in their direction. It struck the wooden header of the doorframe but caused them each to leap to one side of the front door, out of view. They must have figured we weren’t trying to shoot it out across the street because we had run out of ammo; they’d hesitate barging recklessly through the door now, if only for a few seconds.
Having bought myself some precious time, I picked The Preacher up off the floor and together we ran to the other side of the police station, where the cells were. When I passed Becky’s cell, I tossed her the crowbar that The Preacher had slipped between his backpack straps and his body. Next, I basically flung The Preacher down the hall and returned to the heavy desk where the keys had been located.
Using all my strength, I maneuvered it into the middle of the hallway and hopped behind it just as Clod’s shotgun went off. Luckily for me, the desk was old, oak, and very well built, and his shotgun didn’t penetrate it.
The Preacher and I ducked low as we hid behind the heavy desk. I only had three bullets left. It looked like I’d have to use them here. The Preacher set his girly backpack on his lap and reached into it: the first object he retrieved was his last, glass bottle full of ball-bearings. He set that beside him. After that, he drew a filet knife out of the pack. He drew a labored breath. Then, he set the hot-pink backpack next to him and took one item in each
hand.
“I’m ready when you are, Nick,” he whispered to me.
While I tried to think up the best course of action, Clod taunted us, “yous’ all best come on out now, ya hear? We gots yous’ covered.”
“I still have six shots,” I lied.
“I have a grenade,” Wendy stated. “Unless you want me to make hamburger of your fucking asses, I suggest you toss your gun and your gear out here and surrender.”
I didn’t know if she was bluffing or not and wasn’t about to pop my head up to find out.
“Forgive me if I don’t trust your word on that,” I replied. “I could say that I have a laser, but that doesn’t make it true.” A second later, I added, “why don’t you humor me? Show that grenade to Becky so she can verify for us that you’re telling the truth.”
“I can do that,” Wendy stated. “If you pop your head up or try to shoot me or Clod while I do it, he’s going to make quick work of you, though.”
I heard her walking down the hallway. A second later, Becky called out, “she’s telling the truth, Nick. She certainly has a real grenade. Please just surrender.”
I prayed my trick would work and gently placed my .45 on the desk. “There’s my only weapon,” I stated.
“Put your gear up there too.” Wendy demanded.
I put my backpack atop the desk. The Preacher did the same.
“Oooh, I’m keeping that,” Wendy said as she noticed the hot-pink backpack.
“You can thank us later,” I sardonically remarked. “Now, we’re both unarmed. We’re going to get up. I want your promise that you won’t shoot.”
“I keep my word, always,” Wendy stated.
“I promise not to shoot either of yous’ folk too,” Clod said. “We can all walk out of this here pre-dick-a-mint.”
I stood up slowly and helped the Preacher up with me. Clod and Wendy stepped forward. As they got in front of Becky’s cell, I nodded at her and winked.
Becky barreled forward and slammed the door of her cell into Wendy. As Wendy fell over and the grenade rolled away (thankfully, she hadn’t pulled the pin or things could have gotten very nasty) Becky brought her heavy crowbar down hard on Clod’s pump-action shotgun, which wrenched it from his hands.
Clod turned on Becky, but before he could do anything, the Preacher heaved the bottle of ball-bearings at the dumbfounded hick. Clod took it square in the jaw. I swear I saw a tooth pop out as the bottle exploded. Clod fell into the wall. He hollered with agony and his hands went to his shattered jaw.
Simultaneously, ball-bearings filled the hallway. They rolled every which way. Subduing Wendy and Clod would now have been an easy victory for us, were it not for the ball-bearings. Becky slipped on them as she tried to close in on Wendy. She fell over backwards with a cry and ended up on her back in the doorway of her cell.
At nearly the same time, as I too tried to capitalize on the opportunity that Becky had created, I hopped the desk and also slipped on the ball-bearings. I came down on my jaw. The pain was excruciating. I raised my hand to my face, much like Clod. My palm came away smeared in blood.
While I moaned in pain and worried about my split chin, The Preacher leapt over the desk, brandishing his filet knife. Fortunately, he didn’t slip. Instead, he rammed the knife into Clod’s windpipe so hard that the blade pierced through the back of Clod’s neck. The knife’s bloodied point even scraped against the wall that Clod was propped up against.
The hick gasped and wheezed. His checkered, blue and green flannel shirt turned crimson as it soaked up his flowing blood. His face turned white. His lips curled into a distressed grimace. He’d be dead within minutes.
I barely got to my knees when Wendy’s sawed-off shotgun went off. It drowned out the sounds of Clod’s gurgling and nearly deafened me. The Preacher was hit square in the chest. He flew over the desk backwards. My ears were ringing so badly that I didn’t even hear him crash to the floor.
Becky came out of her cell an instant later. She moved like lightning and tackled Wendy to the ground.
The shotgun went off a second time as they struggled. This time, the blast went harmlessly into the floor at their feet. My head and jaw were throbbing.
The fifteen year old redhead was tough, and a good shot, but as Becky knocked her shotgun away, it was clear that Wendy was no match for a full-grown woman who was more than a foot and a half taller than her with a thirty plus pound advantage.
Becky grabbed one of Wendy’s pigtails and started to whale the vicious, little girl in the face. Wendy scratched Becky’s cheek in response. A second later, Becky put Wendy in a headlock and started to punch her face some more. Both women cried and shrieked as they fought. I was watching a full blown catfight! It would have been very exciting were our lives not on the line, and were Wendy not underage.
I clutched my injured jaw and unsteadily rose to my feet. As I recovered, Wendy bit into Becky’s forearm as if it were a juicy sausage.
Becky screeched loud enough that I could hear, even in my half-deafened state. She released the redhead and clutched her injured arm.
The instant that Wendy was freed, she darted for the grenade that she’d dropped. Becky pursued her. As soon as Wendy bent down to pick the grenade up, Becky kicked it down the front steps of the police station and connected with some of Wendy’s fingers in the process. The grenade bounced down the steps and landed next to The Preacher’s wooden cross.
Wendy ignored the pain in her fingers and tried to chase it down. As she did, she slipped on a ball bearing. With a cry, she flew forward. Her face went right into the barbed wire of The Preacher’s wooden cross.
With her face being lacerated from many sharp, jagged barbs, Wendy screamed and thrashed. She grabbed the barbed wire with both hands and tried to extricate herself from the tangled mess. Blood poured in between her fingers as she ripped the wire from her face and tore her hands open in the process.
When she turned to face us, it was apparent through all the blood that she had lost her other eye. Her face was badly cut up. Her screams were intolerable.
Becky silenced her with a crowbar to the head: her horizontal, baseball bat swing clunked sickeningly against the top of Wendy’s skull. The impact was so ferocious that it deformed her skull and caused a large section of her brain to bulge through the opening.
Wendy twitched as she came down atop The Preacher’s cross for a second time. Her tongue lolled out of her head. She burbled something intangible with her final breath.
Becky stooped down and retrieved the grenade from where it had come to rest. Without giving Wendy so much as a second glance, she turned, flashed the grenade to me, and said, “we’ve got a new toy.”
Chapter Sixteen
I ran back to check on The Preacher now that Wendy was dealt with. He lay in a pool of blood, dying. Through punctured lungs, he rasped, “finish me off and then get Marcus for me.”
I nodded solemnly. We both knew what had to be done. I retrieved my own tire-iron from my backpack.
“May the Lord have mercy on your soul,” I recited sadly. Seconds later, the tire-iron put an end to my friend. I choked back a tear as Becky came over and put an arm around me.
“I’m so sorry, Nick,” she said.
I dropped the blood-stained tire-iron to the ground with a clang. “I know.”
“If you want to wait outside, I’ll make sure to finish off Clod,” she offered.
I took her up on it after I put my backpack on and grabbed my .45 and Clod’s shotgun. As I sat on the steps of the police station, I heard the dull thwack of Clod’s head being turned to pulp. He was bad enough as a person; he would’ve been a worse zombie.
When Becky came out a second later, I looked up at her and said, “it’s past time we burn down the town hall.”
She ran a hand through my hair. “Sounds fun.”
Once she had gathered and reloaded Wendy’s shotgun, she grabbed a few extra shells out of Wendy’s pockets. We then left the police station behind. It now loo
ked more like a mortuary. The sun was almost set. The faint blue of twilight was beginning to give way to total darkness. A growl from nearby caught my attention. Zombies were now coming down the alley that I had emerged from with The Preacher just minutes before.
“We gotta move!” I yelled to Becky.
A crash from across the street caught my attention. Another zombie knocked over the trashcan that Wendy was had been previously hid behind. As that zombie tumbled out into the street, I noticed a row of additional zombies behind it. The sniper rifle fired again from the clock-tower. I heard a chilling scream from the next street over. It was followed by pistol shots. The situation had grown decidedly more desperate since we had entered the police station. All the gunfire had likely drawn even more curious undead into town.
I ran away from the zombies, down the main road. Becky kept pace with me. As we passed a number of alleys, more zombies poured out of them. The main street was soon choked off and we could go no further.
The living dead blocked our advance. I looked behind me. They now choked off the way we had just come from. “This way, I shouted, as I pulled Becky toward a red-shingled, two-story house. She blew the head off a zombie that got close to her and we ran up to the house. The door was ajar, so I smashed it open with the butt of my pump-action shotgun. As Becky ran inside, I took aim at two zombies which were no more that fifteen feet away. They were closing quickly. I blew them both away.
As both their heads exploded, more creatures took their places. I fled into the house and slammed the door shut. I was now forced to hold it as I felt the growing press of undead as they banged against the other side.
A second later, Becky pushed a heavy, flower-patterned ottoman in front of the door. It wouldn’t hold for long.
“Upstairs!” Becky yelled. She took the steps two at a time and was halfway up before I could even move.
I hastily pursued her. There was a side room at the top of the landing. It had once been some sort of guest bedroom. The white wallpaper was now cracked and faded to yellow.
Shamblers: the zombie apocalypse Page 11