by Wimer, Kevin
Chris cupped his hands and filled them with water as he washed his faced. It felt odd not having a beard. It also felt odd having this small luxury—something that he had taken for granted six months ago. He looked at himself in the mirror. He no longer looked like a bum. He still smelled like one but at least he looked somewhat presentable. He hobbled out of the bathroom and towards the bedroom door. He started to step out and into the stockroom without his rifle. He allowed himself to become complacent and it was a mistake that could prove to be a fatal one. He knew not to go anywhere without a weapon of some sort. The weapon was to be used against both the living and the undead. Chris quickly turned and hobbled over to where he had placed his rifle. He slung it over his shoulder and headed out of the makeshift bedroom. He was in mid stride when the rumbling sound of a vehicle outside caught his attention. It was followed by the sound of voices. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he froze in place. He knew the voices that now echoed outside. He knew the very men the voices belonged to. The men were a part of Deacon’s group of survivors.
Chris hobbled forward a few steps and peeked through the small windows in the stockroom doors. He could see two men standing outside talking. It was Tiny and Pete. He was sure the two of them were not alone but had yet to see anyone else. Chris narrowed his eyes and listened to the two men as they spoke. He could barely make out what was being said. He stared at the two of them as rage filled him. He watched as Tiny said something to Pete and Pete began laughing. Tiny had been a truck driver in the old world. He was as big as horse and had the strength of ten men. Chris had witnessed Tiny strength firsthand. He had seen the man punch a walker—killing it with just one punch. The sound of the walker’s head cracking still echoed in Chris’s mind. It was a sick grotesque sound that reminded him of popping popcorn. Tiny had hit the walker with such force that the bone fragments of its face and skull pierced its brain—killing it instantly. It made Tiny a legend among the group of survivors—a legend that was to be feared and not revered. Tiny was not only a big man but a jackass of a man as well. He made jokes that were not funny and most of the time they were at the expense of someone else. He was a bully.
Pete was a former building contractor who had just taken a new job with the city of Harrisonburg as an inspector. His first day on the job was that of the outbreak. Pete was in his early to mid-forties. The years of doing manual labor had kept him physically fit. He had been a smoker before the outbreak and was now lucky if he found a butt of a cigarette to take a drag from. He was irritable at times because of his nicotine addiction. He would make off color jokes about killing a man for just a pack of smokes—those jokes were not always a joke. Pete had gone with a group of survivors in search of supplies. He had come back covered in blood and carrying a cartoon of cigarettes and smiling like the Devil himself. The rumblings around camp was that Pete had killed a man—gutted him—for a cartoon of smokes. Chris didn’t care for the man and hadn’t since the two had first met. Pete was a bit loud—boisterous. He was a cocky bastard that needed to be taken down a peg or two. He had the same mentality as that of Tiny. The two men were bullies. The one thing about Pete, unlike Tiny, he knew his place. He didn’t dare go against Deacon and his henchmen. Pete didn’t have the balls it took to do so. When it all boiled right down to it, Pete was a follower.
Chris ducked back into the stock room as the bell over the front door chimed. He looked around for a place to hide. He wanted to climb the ladder and get on the roof but knew he had very little time. His ankle would slow him down—that and the lack of not having his shoes on. He cursed himself as he ducked behind a row of boxes that were stacked along the back wall. Dumb ass! The voice inside his head shouted. Why in the hell would you leave your shoes off? Chris held his breath and listened to the two men who had just entered the store. His heart fluttered. The anger that had burned through him moments ago was now replaced with fear. Chris knew he could easily kill these two men by ambushing them, but it was the unknown that caused him fear. He was sure the two of them were not alone. He was sure there was at least one or two other men with them.
“Tiny, if you find a pack or two of cigarettes let me know,” Pete said with a chuckle, “I would kill you over a carton of smokes . . . and I wouldn’t think twice about it my friend.”
Chris could see the shadows of the two men as they began moving around the store. Tiny’s shadow was big enough to be that of three men. He stood over six feet tall and weighed over three hundred pounds. He wasn’t fat—not at all. He looked like a body builder—a gym rat. Chris knew the bigger the man was the harder they’d fall—at least that was what his grandfather had always told him.
“What do I get if I find a pack or two?” Tiny asked with a chuckle.
“You my friend will get a freshly plucked female from the next group of survivors we find on the road,” Pete said, “A fresh flower for you to devour.”
Chris felt his blood boiling hot as the two men laughed and joked about what they would do when they found the next group of survivors. The two men would rape, rob and kill those that were looking for a safe place to take refuge—a safe place to start over and call home. He could feel himself wanting to rush through the double doors with his rifle up and his finger on the trigger. He knew that killing these two men without remorse was something he could do. It would be ridding the world of evil—an infestation that deserved nothing but death.
“She better be far better looking than that toothless bitch you found last time,” Tiny grumbled, “I had to keep one eye closed and a hand over her face just to get my rocks off.”
Pete chuckled.
“She was a bit ugly . . . Wasn’t she?”
“Ugly?” Tiny scoffed and then grumbled a laugh, “Shit . . . that bitch was so ugly the walkers wouldn’t even eat her.”
Pete cackled a phlegm filled smoker’s laugh. Chris could feel the angry rage within him boiling hotter than the flames of Hell. He could feel himself going into motion as he stepped around the boxes and headed for the stockroom doors. He stopped just a few feet short of doors as the two men quickly changed the subject.
“We need to load the Jeep up with a few supplies,” Tiny said, grabbing a couple of bags of chips off one of the shelves, “I need to radio back to command and tell them about this place. I’m sure Deacon will send someone out here to get the rest of the stuff within a few hours.”
Chris peeked through the windows of the doors. He could see the two men and where each of them stood. Tiny was feeding his face full of chips.
“Better tell them to hurry up. It looks like someone has already found this place,” Pete said as he pointed to the walker lying on the floor, “That walker didn’t just shoot himself in the head.”
Chris watched as Tiny walked over to Pete and looked down at the dead walker. He kicked the body of the dead man and chuckled a laugh before walking down the hallway, stopping at the bathroom doors. The big man tapped both doors and waited. He heard nothing on the other side of the two doors and felt that it was safe to enter—nothing to worry about. Tiny took the barrel of his rifle and pushed the men’s bathroom door open. He reached in and flipped the light on—shrieking as he stumbled back out into the hallway. Tiny damn near jumped out of his boots at the sight of Paul Yassa’s lifeless body lying on the floor. Pete hearing his friend letting out a blood curling yell ran down the hall with his gun up and at the ready. He looked at the big man who was leaning against the wall and then peeked inside the bathroom. Pete had a sickly look to him as he wrinkled his face at the sight before him. He looked at the wall that was covered in blood and brain and shook his head as he stepped out of the bathroom and back into the hallway.
“You think that poor bastard in there,” pointing a thumb over his shoulder, “was bitten by this dead fuck?”
Tiny shrugged his shoulders as he stared at the body of the dead walker. He couldn’t tell if the walker had been dead for a day or for a few weeks. The man inside the bathroom looked like he had been
dead for quite some time now.
“Who the hell knows.”
Pete nodded.
“You think maybe he killed the walker and then blew his own brains out?”
Tiny was getting tired of Pete constantly asking questions. He had just had the shit scared of him. He didn’t need the bastard in front of him asking him a million and one questions.
“How the hell should I know? I just go here myself,” narrowing his eyes as he looked at his friend, “Maybe it was that unlucky bastard in there that shot the walker . . . and then again, maybe it was that asshole Chris who killed the walker . . . I have not a damn clue and to be honest about it, I don’t give two shits one way or the other.”
Pete looked at Tiny and knew he didn’t need to push the issue. The irritation in his voice told him not to let it go. The man was embarrassed that he had had the shit scared out of him. It was also pointless in asking questions on how the two dead men had ended up the way they had. No one would ever know. It was the way things were in this new world.
“Yeah . . . Yeah, you are right. Maybe it was Chris,” Pete said as he turned and walked down the hallway and around the counter and began rummaging around.
Tiny took one last look inside the bathroom and then followed his friend back into the convenience store area of the old station. Pete was knocking things off the shelves in search of cigarettes.
“I never did like him. It wasn’t just because he had been a cop either,” Tiny said while watching his friend as he continued to search the shelves underneath the counter, “There was just something about that asshole that I didn’t care for from the get-go.”
Pete stood up and placed his hands on the counter as he narrowed his eyes and wrinkled a brow. He took a breath and let it out as he spoke.
“Yeah, I’m with you on that one brother. Chris is an asshole. He’s a self-righteous prick that doesn’t deserve the air that he breathes. He acts like we are the bad guys,” Pete shook his head and pounded a fist into the countertop, “We took him in and gave him a safe place to stay. Hell, Deacon gave him everything a man could ask for and how does he repay us?” his voice taut with anger, “The bastard goes and runs off. He not only runs off, but he stole from us. He took a rifle and some other gear that didn’t belong to him. If you ask me, that is a dick move man. It’s a move that only an asshole would make.”
Tiny nodded his head and then chuckled a laugh. He slapped his hand to his leg and then began laughing so hard that Chris thought he would bust a gut. Pete looked at Tiny with his brow wrinkled—wondering why his friend was laughing so hard. It was like a joke had been told and Pete had been left out. Pete didn’t like being left out.
“What the hell is so funny?” Pete asked with a tone of irritation now in his voice.
“I was just picturing the look on Chris’s face,” Tiny began to smile an evil smile as he spoke, “when Hawkeye and his group of trackers catch up to him,” looking over his shoulder at Pete, “It won’t be long until they find him, and you know what?”
“What?”
“That self-righteous prick is going to die a slow death,” Tiny giggled, “Deacon gave Hawkeye and his men orders to bring Chris back to camp to stand judgment. You know everyone wants to see that asshole die . . . I bet you couldn’t find one person among us that likes that son of a bitch.”
Pete looked at Tiny and nodded his head in agreement.
“No. I guess not. I sure as hell didn’t.”
Tiny took a breath and let it out with a heavy sigh and then stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth and chewed them as he spoke.
“I just hope Deacon lets each one of us have a whack at him before letting the Butcher get ahold of his ass,” licking his fingers as he tossed the empty bag to the floor, “That bastard will carve him up like a pig.”
The two men were laughing as Chris stepped through the set of double doors with is rifle up and pointed at them. Tiny started to reach for his holstered gun but Chris stopped him.
“I wouldn’t do that big man. Not if you want to live.”
Chris looked at Tiny and then at Pete. He quickly glanced over his shoulder and looked through the windows. He could see no one else around. The two men were alone. The two men had formed their own scavenger party and without anyone else from their group. Chris could feel the excitement within. He had the two men dead to rights. He knew no one would know what happened to them. No one would know that it was him who had killed these worthless pieces of shit.
“Well if it isn’t the prick himself,” Tiny said.
“I might be a prick, but I’m the prick holding the gun.”
Tiny chuckled.
“I should have killed you a long time ago, but Deacon wouldn’t let me. He wouldn’t let any of us kill you . . . Deacon thought he could convert you. Make you see the ways of this new world . . . But you had to go and be an asshole about it.”
Pete cleared his throat as he looked at the two men. He stared at the barrel of Chris’s rifle and felt a cold chill rushing across his body. Chris had gotten the jump on them. Pete wondered if Chris had the balls to pull the trigger—to kill them both in cold blood. He was betting that Chris couldn’t do the deed. He didn’t have the kind of balls that it took to survive this new world.
“You know Chris, Tiny and I could kill you right now,” Pete said as he narrowed his eyes, “Deacon wouldn’t care one way or the other,” looking at Tiny and then back Chris, “Tiny and I could take your cold dead body back and get double the rations for the next month.”
Chris noticed the way Tiny smiled. It was unsettling.
“Fuck the rations. I would rather have a nice piece of ass,” Tiny said as he looked over at Pete and then back at Chris who still held him at gunpoint, “I bet if we took this worthless piece of shit back to camp dead . . . Deacon would let us raid that camp of survivors we found a few miles down the road,” the look in the man’s eyes were pure evil, “I bet a few of those tender young girls haven’t been with a man yet.”
Chris felt his blood boil. He could feel himself taking the slack from the trigger of his rifle. He wanted to put a bullet in Tiny’s head. The bastard was talking about raping young girls—children.
“You got that right brother,” Pete said, “I bet those young girls would put up one hell of fight too.”
Tiny chuckled a laugh.
“I love it when they fight back. I like getting a little rough with my women. I like hearing them scream and I sure as hell love tasting their tears.”
Chris could feel the tension in the air and the beads of sweat trickling down the side of his face. He knew the two men were not going to go quietly. He knew the two of them wouldn’t be taken alive—at least not Tiny. Pete was a different story. Chris knew Pete would be on his hands and knees pissing himself as he begged for his life. Chris wanted to kill them both but wouldn’t do so unless they gave him no other choice.
“There is two of us and one of you,” Pete said, “Isn’t good odds Chris.”
Pete made a point. The odds were stacked against him. He had gotten the jump on both men but knew anything could happen. Chris had been in a situation just like the one he now found himself in. He walked in on a robbery taking place one night while on patrol. He shot and killed the first man while the other one shot him and ran off. The second gunman had died later from gunshot wounds received in a standoff with other officers. Chris remembered lying on the floor. The feeling of blood leaking from his body. The feeling of becoming cold—deathly cold.
“No one has to die here today,” Chris said, “You can just toss your guns on the floor and walk right out of here.”
“You know that isn’t going to happen asshole,” Tiny said.
Chris felt the lump in his throat as he swallowed. He knew it was wishful thinking that these two evil bastards would do anything he asked them to do. He held them at gunpoint and they both were arrogant enough to think that they still held the upper hand.
“I want the two of you to do as I say
. Toss your guns on the floor and put your hands behind heads and get on your knees,” Chris said as he narrowed his eyes, “Then I want you both to put your face on the ground.”
Tiny looked at Chris and then over at Pete as he chuckled a laugh.
“This isn’t the old-world Chris. You are no longer a cop. Justice isn’t served by a man wearing a badge. Not anymore,” Tiny said as he stepped over the body of the dead walker. He had a murderous look in his eyes and Chris knew the big man wasn’t going to comply, “I’m not going to get on my knees. Not for you and not for anyone. If you want me to—”
Chris pulled the trigger of his rifle and shot Tiny in the chest. Tiny froze in place as the look of shock spread across his face. He slowly looked down at his chest and to where he had been shot. The hole was just starting to leak a crimson red substance. Tiny placed a hand to his chest as the blood leaked through his fingers. He looked at Chris and then fell face first to the floor with a loud heavy thud. Pete screamed for his friend as he began to pull his gun from its holster. Chris turned his rifle towards Pete and pulled the trigger. The shot went wide, and it allowed Pete to get his gun into the fight. Pete quickly squeezed the trigger and fired off a handful of shots. Chris flinched as he felt something hot burning the side of his face. He had been grazed by one of the bullets. The glass windows behind him shattered—blowing glass everywhere. Chris dove for cover as Pete fired a few more rounds.