by Mark Tufo
BT looked around the cage and finally to the fence above him.
“You could try to hold yourself up there...might even make it a few minutes. Personally, I’d rather see you fight. You should feel lucky.”
“Lucky? Why, are you joining me?”
“No, sorry. I have a world to run. We didn’t use to give people the bat, but it was so boring; most just ran around in circles or held onto the roof. It was usually over too quickly; I didn’t feel as if they had adequately paid for their transgressions, and it was disappointing to the crowd.”
“Are you people listening to him? He’s fucking insane. This is the United States of America. We haven’t lost yet—we can still get our world back...but not with people like him!”
“Haven’t lost yet? That’s rich. Everyone here, including yourself, I would wager, has lost a great deal. We are here together because we are going to rebuild from these ashes something much purer.”
“By feeding people to zombies? You’re as bad as the Romans throwing Christians to lions. And that’s it, isn’t it? You keep them in line with diversion, distraction, and fear. You’re sheep, all of you! Give me my damn bat. I’ve got some zombies to kill.”
The Pit Master looked over to Knox before feeding the bat through a hole specifically designed for that reason.
“Open the door!” Knox yelled. The Pit Master opened the gate to the cage and tied it into place, completing the fencing on his side. Another guard on the far end opened the store room door and tied it off in a similar fashion. For long moments nothing happened. Then a ghostly face peered out and pulled back in.
“What the hell?” BT asked. The zombie once again stepped forward, this time a little farther. She looked down the long corridor to BT, then she peered around, her eyes finally resting on Knox. Then she snarled. “She even hates you in death. Smart woman,” BT said once he realized the zombie was Knox’s ex. Knox said nothing, but he looked a couple of shades paler than his normal hue. BT stepped closer to the gate and off to the side. “Always liked to hit the high ball,” he said as he brought the bat up. The zombie woman once again stepped back, then it was as Knox had said; zombies flew through that opening, rushing to get a meal. BT hit the first one so hard all that could be heard in the store was the twang of the bat’s vibration and the shattering of the zombie’s skull. He sent it sprawling backward, which slowed the advance of those behind. Loud squelching and bone cracking dominated as BT sent tufts of hair, scalp, brain, tissue, blood, and splintered bone into those with ringside seats.
“I think he broke the record!” someone shouted.
“Not going to be able to tell until he dies,” another said.
Knox’s predictions were nearly right as BT’s hands slipped more than a couple of times and a zombie chomped down no more than an inch from where his fingers had been. After twenty kills, the cage entrance was sufficiently clogged up with zombie bodies that the rest were having a difficult time making it in. BT had a chance to try and catch his breath. His chest was heaving from the exertion, his body was coated in blood, the fluid sluiced off him in thick rivulets. The pile was shifting as some zombies tried to push forward while others were trying to pull bodies out of the way.
“I’ve never seen them do that,” one of the men nearby said.
As BT lifted his upper half, he noticed the lock that was holding the chain. It was a cheap import. He’d seen more bikes ripped off on his beat from people that didn’t want to spend the extra couple of bucks for American steel. He raised the bat over his head and swung down onto the lock.
“Big dummy missed! Plus them ones are already dead.”
BT swung again; the lock exploded into parts. The haft ripped through the observant man’s cheek in the front row. He screamed, mistakenly thinking he’d been blinded. BT took two hard steps and lowered his shoulder into the fence. He yelled out as he strained to move the structure along with the dead bodies piled up by his feet.
“He’s letting the zombies out!” someone screamed.
“Shoot him!” Knox yelled as he got into position to follow his own order.
BT made a three-foot separation in the fencing; the zombies, seeing the opening and the potential for more food, ran right through. Screams and gunfire erupted at about the same time.
Chapter 8
MIKE JOURNAL ENTRY 6
With a break in the weather, MJ had actually witnessed live our bus chase and BT’s capture. I was doing better. My guts still felt like I’d maybe eaten something from my sister, but odds were I’d live. Ron had shown up with Travis. He’d brought with him five high-resolution pictures of the store we needed to break into to get BT back. When I talked to MJ earlier he’d told me that the store was a Best Buy and then he’d proceeded to give me a list of all the electronic equipment he wanted me to round up. I’d told him that sure, once I’d rescued BT from fanatical murderers and we were running for our lives, I would most certainly get the items he was looking for. He’d thanked me.
I’m not sure I could have responded with any more sarcasm if I tried. How could he not hear it? The words were practically dripping in it as if I’d dipped them in a huge, wet, sticky vat of it.
“Four towers.” Ron pointed to structures at each of the store’s corners.
“That’s going to be a bitch to sneak up on,” I said.
“We’ll just wait until night,” Tiffany said.
“You’re right, but odds are they have night vision. We’ll need to light a couple of fires, night blind them so we’re on even ground. I just hope BT has that much time.”
“If they wanted him dead, wouldn’t they have just shot him when they shot you, dad?” Travis asked.
“He’s got a big mouth. He’s bound to use it to get himself into trouble.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” Deneaux said.
“Don’t talk about Ron that way. He gets sensitive,” I said, looking over. We weren’t quite on stable terrain yet but we were working on it. Besides, this mission had nothing to do with me.
“Did you bring what I asked?” Deneaux was looking over to him.
Ron pulled out a suppressed twenty-two and was about to hand it to her.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, man. You don’t just hand a snake an extra fang or a cat an extra claw. Why are you handing her a rifle?”
“She asked.”
“Since when is it that easy?” I asked.
“I only have the one,” he said, ignoring me and handing it to her.
“Ruger...nice,” she said around a cloud of smoke as she checked the weapon out. “What about the rounds?”
“Didn’t think I had them, but I found a box buried underneath the rest of the ammo. Must be fifteen years old.”
“What are you planning on doing with that?” I asked.
“Ever heard a suppressed, subsonic, twenty-two round?”
“Yeah...meaning no, not much sound except for the action of the rifle.”
“Exactly,” she said as she loaded the magazine.
“Great. So you kill one guard before they realize what’s going on. So what?”
“I thought about that when he said he might only have one. We shoot all four with this.”
“How are we going to pull that off before they realize something is going on?” I asked.
“It will have to be done quickly.”
“I’ve seen you shoot; it’s amazing, like sniper amazing, but I don’t think even you can run those distances and get off well-aimed shots while you’re trying to catch your breath.”
“I’m not running anywhere.”
“I’ve tried that shit, Deneaux, I can’t do it either. Gun barrel moves all over the place when your heartbeat is accelerated and you’re breathing hard.”
“No. You, me, and two others will already be in place. We don’t move.”
“Oh,” I said when I finally got it. “The gun is coming to us. We’re going to have a gun runner.”
“Mike, Travis is a better shot than I am, but
I can’t make those runs with any sort of speed,” Ron said.
“Okay, I’ll take the first shot, hand off the rifle, and shuffle to the fourth location. I should have caught my wind by the time the gun gets back to me. Still going to have to light a big-ass fire to distract them. One of you is going to have to shoot while the other lights the fire,” I said.
“I’ll take care of the fire,” Ron said.
Tiffany looked like a deer in the headlights scared. Not scared to shoot an enemy, but rather that her lack of proper aim and technique could cause a catastrophic failure that could cost BT his life.
“I…I can do it,” Tiffany said weakly.
“I’m hoping for something a little more optimistic, kiddo,” I told her.
“Dad, what if Tiffany runs the gun? I can make that shot.”
He was right—he was a decent shot. I didn’t like the fact that he would have to shoot a man, but desperate times called for desperate measures and I definitely quantified getting my best friend back alive as desperate.
“You alright with that, Tiffany?”
“More than.” She breathed a sigh of relief.
“Alright, let’s go find a good place for Ron to burn and then we’ll get close to the store. Only have an hour or so before dark.”
There was a gas station right around the corner from the Best Buy; there was enough gas fumes left in the tanks it was bound to make a hell of a blaze. We did all that watch synchronizing shit like we actually knew what we were doing. As soon as Ron lit the gas station I would drill that first unlucky bastard and off Tiffany would go to tower two.
We were all looking at a long, gas soaked rag sticking out from the holding tank. “You realize that once you set that rag on fire you need to get the hell out of here as fast as you can, right?” I asked him.
“You realize, Mike, that I’ve done far fewer hallucinogens than you. Not everyone is fascinated by bright, shiny things.”
“They should be,” I replied, slightly hurt. “Alright. Give us a half hour to get into position, then light this sucker up.”
“I was there when we planned this out. I think I can handle my end,” he snipped.
“That was more for me than for you, Ron. I’m nervous as hell and that’s BT in there.”
“I’m sorry...I’m sorry. I get it. I guess I’m pretty worried as well.”
“Don’t forget to swing by and pick us up, too.”
“Yeah—I think I can remember that part as well. Get going.”
Chapter 9
RON
Ron had been carefully pacing the gas station parking lot, making sure to stay out of the line of sight of the Best Buy and not garner the attention of passers-by, should there be any. He’d gone over to the side of the station to take a leak, he dared not open the bathroom door. Those mostly looked like the dead had inhabited them even when the station was operational. He was finishing up just as he heard the crackle of his radio. He rushed over; very rarely were communications these days not extremely important.
“Dad. Come in, dad!” His heart thudded in his chest when he realized it was his daughter Meredith. She sounded distressed; he could only hope she was safe and that zombies hadn’t attacked while he was away. He would not be able to forgive himself if something else happened to his family and he could do nothing to protect them.
“What is it Mer?” he asked, dreading the reply.
“It’s more horrible than watching your dad pee,” Meredith said.
Ron had forgotten that Mad Jack had trained the satellite on them and apparently this fifteen-minute window had been perfectly timed. “Is that the only reason you called?” Ron asked, embarrassed.
“You’ve got to get out of there. There’s a zombie horde heading straight for you.”
“How far?”
“Ten minutes—maybe less. They just caught the scent of something and have started to run. We’ll only be able to watch them another couple of minutes...you need to get out of there!”
“Must be the gas vapors,” Ron said as he looked over to the open tank. “How many?”
“A horde dad. How many does it take to matter?”
“Approximately three hundred,” MJ said in the background. “More than he would be able to handle on his own,” he said dryly.
“Dad, please leave.”
“Just fifteen more minutes. They have to get into position.”
“You don’t have it.”
“Losing satellite in four..three…” MJ was counting off in the back, “...gone. Tell him I estimated seven minutes—they were sprinting.”
Ron looked around. When the wind picked up he began to smell the stench of the dead approaching. He had to hope that eight minutes was not going to make a difference. He’d hold on for as long as he could, but what good would it do to trade one life out for another? Or more importantly, make his three surviving kids orphans? He watched the time on his watch tick off super slowly yet frantically fast. His heart was racing and his mind was calmly running through possible scenarios. The smell was getting exceptionally pungent; Ron got out of the truck and stood on the side rail then climbed onto the hood and then the roof. The leaders of the horde were about a block away.
“Seven minutes my ass,” he said as he hurried off. He started the engine then got out to hold the edge of the rag. He planned to light the rag the exact second he could spot a zombie from this angle. He’d looked down at the ground and back up—it couldn’t have taken more than two seconds—and in that time three zombies had rounded the corner of the gas station not more than twenty yards from where he stood.
He flicked the lighter and was rewarded with a small shower of sparks, but no flame. He spun the wheel again with the same disappointing results.
“You’re kidding me with this shit, right?” He would have been giving God a hard time if he believed. In this instance, all he could really do was give shit to the makers of the lighter, who were most likely dead already. There was another lighter in the truck somewhere but he didn’t have enough time to find it and light the rag. He spun the wheel again. This time, he did not even get the sparks. The truck rocked as the fastest of the trio slammed into the rear bumper. He dove into the cab and shut the door. He quickly locked it, remembering that these smarter zombies probably knew how to open an unlocked one. Almost simultaneously, zombies came up on either side of him; he looked to the middle console where the extra pistol was and noticed the blue Bic right away.
He picked it up and spun the wheel, knowing without a shadow of a doubt it was going to light on the first attempt. As if to double the mocking, the flame was nearly twice the height of an ordinary one.
“Go fuck yourself,” he told it.
More zombies were arriving as Ron tried to figure out what he was going to do. If he didn’t drive away soon, he would never be able to. If he didn’t light the station up, he was exposing Mike and the others to more danger than they were already in, and they would be waiting for his signal. Without a distraction, the guards were most likely going to notice one of their own shot, and with their superior position, they’d give them hell on the ground. Ron was horrified when he saw the zombies stepping on the rag wick, one even stumbling over it; soon enough one would get tangled up in it and either pull it away from the truck or out of the gas holding tank. Ron peeled off his shirt, he was going to use it to start the flame.
“Alright...what do I do with it once it starts to burn? I don’t want to pull a Mike and have no plan whatsoever. I could see him holding this blazing thing and just waving it about the cab of the truck. Probably catch the whole truck on fire. But with his luck he’d escape through the broken out windshield and the flames would magically spill over to light the rag just at the ten-minute mark...that’s just the kind of luck he has. Can’t fault him for relying on that. Why buck a system that keeps working out in your favor?” He thought for a moment. “Should I give it a go?” He thought for a few more seconds. “Yeah, probably not.” He started the corner of the slee
ve, not happy with just how quickly the flames were spreading on the material.
“Great, I wear incendiary devices” He lowered his window about a quarter of the way. Two zombies tried to shove their entire heads in—one had gripped the edge and was attempting to pull the glass out. Ron blew the two closest away with the pistol. He’d not been prepared for the amount of gore that had blown back at him. He wasn’t certain, and he was never going to think on it again as he spit it out, but he was pretty sure he had zombie brain in his mouth. “There’s a turn I wasn’t expecting,” he said as he shoved his white, phosphorous shirt through the opening. The nearest zombies instinctively stepped back from the fire. Ron closed the window back up and watched the shirt, which had been threatening to become a huge conflagration, begin to flutter and whither as if he’d thrown it into a tub of water.
“Hell. That’s not even right.” The flame began to flicker in shades of blue. “Come on, come on.” He urged. “I don’t believe. We’ve both known that for years. But if you’re there...err...God, just give me a little something,” Ron beseeched.
The flame had become so translucent Ron thought it had gone out. “Wasted breath,” he said, sourly thinking on his words to a deity he’d lost faith in some thirty years before. Until a slight stirring of the air billowed the bottom of the shirt and gave it the oxygen it needed to burn—and burn brightly. Now the next hurdle was that the wick had been moved at least a good foot away from the shirt. He pushed the door open and leaned down and grabbed the edge of the garment, doing his best to ignore the heat burning his fingertips and traveling up the length of his arm, sizzling and singeing the hair. He’d moved it enough that if it burned all the way down, it would be directly on top of the rag. He was pulling his arm back in when the door was slammed against his hand, pinning it between the door and the frame. He cried out in pain, the bones in his hand twisting, bending, and finally breaking under the assault.