COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
QUICK KILLER AND THE ICEMAN Copyright © 2019 by James N. Cook. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Epub Edition © JULY 2019
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
QUICK KILLER AND THE ICEMAN
A Surviving the Dead Story
By:
James N. Cook
Also by James N. Cook:
Surviving the Dead series:
No Easy Hope
This Shattered Land
Warrior Within
The Passenger
Fire in Winter
The Darkest Place
Savages
The Killing Line
Storm of Ghosts
The Hellbreakers
ONE
Arguments are common in the barter business.
Which meant when I heard a raised voice from the front of the store, I didn’t think much of it at first. Great Hawk was working the counter, and if anyone on earth knows how to calm down a belligerent customer, it’s the big Apache.
Then came the sound of glass crashing to the floor.
Christ’s sake, I thought. Can’t just one damn day pass without bloodshed?
I was sitting at my desk in the storeroom reading over a quarterly balance sheet. And I was feeling good about it. All the rows of numbers added up exactly the way they were supposed to. Having been a financial analyst in my previous life, I knew more than the average bear about accounting. There was a sense of satisfaction when I deducted my expenses against revenues and saw a tidy profit. It was how I knew I was running a thriving business. It made me happy.
What did not make me happy, however, was the sound of heavy footsteps on wooden planks.
When you run a general store as long as I have, and you’ve spent countless hours in the warmth of its four walls, you build a sense of familiarity with your surroundings. The smells, the sounds, the way the walls creak, the varying tones each window makes when the wind blows against them. Even the skitter of leaves falling on the roof in late summer has a distinctive resonance.
Which meant as I sat and listened to heavy boots treading over pine boards, I could tell both their origin and direction of travel. By the sound of it, Lincoln Great Hawk was coming around from behind the counter.
I got out of my chair and made as much noise as I could walking into the shop, hoping the presence of another person would diffuse whatever fracas was about to occur. My hopes, sadly, were not to be realized.
“What, am I supposed to be scared now?” the customer said loudly.
He was big—bigger than the Hawk even, which is saying something. I recognized the man. His name was Alan White. He was a laborer, and built like one. Broad shoulders, thick forearms, hands full of scars and callouses, jaded eyes, and a weather-beaten face aged prematurely by the sun, wind, and bite of long winters spent working outside. Men like him are common in Hollow Rock, and not to be taken lightly. Alone, they are formidable, if not especially skilled. A good fighter could take them down one-on-one. Problem is, with guys like White, you never fight just one. In this town, the people at the bottom of the working class, regardless of whether or not they actually like each other, stick together. It’s an unspoken rule, but a strictly obeyed one.
Not that any of this worried Great Hawk.
“I do not indent to hurt you,” the Hawk said. “But I will not tolerate you damaging my property. It is time for you to leave.”
White didn’t leave. His jaw clenched, his muscles tensed, and his fists curled into tight bunches the size of large stones.
“And what if I don’t, Chief? You gonna throw me out?”
I let out a sigh. First of all, calling the Hawk ‘chief’ is a colossally bad idea. Kind of like calling a black man ‘boy’. Second, trying to intimidate him is like trying to intimidate a mountainous desert. It just stares back impassively and ponders all the ways it’s going to kill you.
“You will leave,” the Hawk said. “Now.”
The man took a step forward, putting himself in Great Hawk’s personal space. I imagine he was expecting a staring contest, maybe try to use his size to back the Hawk down. What he got instead was a hard, open-handed smack to the jaw that spun him around until he lost his footing and had to catch himself against the counter. I winced. The sound was like a baseball bat hitting a slab of meat.
“Alan,” I said, “settle down. Hawk, that’s enough. You two are not doing this here. If you want to fight, take it outside.”
A few seconds later, when he had regained enough of his equilibrium, White stood up straight and squared off with the Hawk. He may as well have squared off with an oak tree. The black eyes were impassive, the mahogany face unmoved, the relaxed stance exuding a coiled, focused lethality. When he spoke, the Hawk’s voice held all the warmth of an arctic winter.
“I will not say it again.”
White took a few steps back and rubbed at the bright red splotch on his jaw. By its color, I could tell it would be an angry shade of purple by tomorrow morning.
He looked at me beseechingly. “Come on, Riordan. Can’t you reason with this guy?”
I looked down at the mess on the floor. What had once been a shiny jar of pickled eggs was now a ruin of sharp glass and scattered pink oblongs. But it wasn’t the wasted protein that bothered me. Eggs were cheap. In fact, the ones in the jar had not even been for sale. They were goodwill gifts for old-timers, kids, and regular customers. Little tokens of appreciation meant for people like the Glover family, the workers at the farm co-ops, sheriff’s deputies, and the volunteers at the clinic. In fact, if Alan had been more agreeable, I probably would have offered him one, too. But that sure as hell was not going to happen now.
“Let me see if I understand you, Alan. You’re asking me to reason with him?” I pointed at the Hawk, and then at the floor. “Was he the one that made this mess?”
White looked away and didn’t reply.
I turned to the Hawk. “What the hell happened here?”
“He offered to sell a quiver of hand-made arrows,” Great Hawk said, his eyes fixed on White. “In return, he wanted salted beef. I told him the arrows were poorly made and would not fetch much of a price. I could not give him beef, but I was willing to offer a pound of goat jerky.”
“That’s horseshit,” White said petulantly.
I looked at him. “Which part?”
“There’s nothing wrong with those arrows. Look at ‘em.”
Great Hawk picked up a hand-made quiver from the counter and handed it to me. I took out a couple of the wooden missiles and examined them. The fletching was too loose, the shafts were slightly warped, and the heads were too heavy. They would shoot okay out to maybe ten yards, but any farther than that and they would fly erratically. I explained this to White. He came over as I pointed out the flaws.
“See what I’m saying?” I said when I was finished. “I imagine the guys in the ghoul towers might use these, but they won’t p
ay much. Not when they can make better ones on their own.”
“Fine,” White said. “I guess I’ll take the goat meat then.”
I gave him a flat stare. “No, you won’t.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because you broke my pickle jar and threatened my employee, you fucking idiot. You’re lucky I don’t have Great Hawk drag you out of here by your face.” I thrust the quiver into his chest. “Now get lost. And don’t come back until you can make a proper goddamn arrow.”
White took the quiver, glared at us both, and left without another word. The door swung shut behind him and silence filled the empty shop. Great Hawk walked over and stood by my shoulder.
“He will not let this go.”
I let out a long breath. “I know. And next time, he’ll bring friends.”
TWO
As it turned out, we did not have to wait long.
It was dark by the time Great Hawk and I closed the store and left for the evening. We decided to stop by our mutual favorite restaurant, Mijo Diego, for a bite to eat before heading home.
Normally I would have eaten dinner with my wife, but Allison was working the late shift at the clinic, and Jennifer, our nanny, would take care of my son until I returned from work.
As for what the Hawk typically did after work, I had no idea. I knew he had bought a house in the Annex, a newly walled off section of land outside the original fortified area of town, but his personal life was a mystery. There were rumors he was cutting a swath through the town’s small army of single women, but that was as much as I had heard. And my taciturn friend was not exactly forthcoming with additional information.
As we walked, I looked at the new construction around me—the shops, liveries, restaurants, taverns, and residences—and marveled at how much Hollow Rock had changed over the years. We shared the street with hundreds of other people, most of whom had moved here after the Outbreak.
So when Great Hawk nudged me and informed me we were being followed, I couldn’t blame myself too much for not noticing. It’s easy to hide in a crowd, after all.
“How many?” I asked.
The Hawk stared straight ahead. “Six.”
I glanced around, trying not to be too obvious. On my left, two men in threadbare clothes and homemade boots were angling through the crowd in our direction.
“I see two on my side,” I said. “Where are the others?”
“Two to my right,” Great Hawk said. “And two more following behind.”
“See any up ahead?”
“No. They waited for us at the intersection and let us pass.”
I ground my teeth and cursed myself for not being more alert. A few years ago, I would have spotted them instantly. City living was making me soft.
“There’s an alley up ahead between Grant’s Livery and the farm equipment warehouse,” I said.
“I see it. We will lead them there.”
“You armed?”
“Yes. Knife and axe. You?”
I took a deep, self-recriminating breath. “Just a pocket knife.”
He glanced at me. “Really?”
“I stopped carrying a few months ago. Didn’t figure I needed to anymore.”
“That was not a wise decision.”
I tried not to bristle too much. “Come on, man. This town is well protected. Crime is low. And I didn’t figure White would try anything with a thousand people walking around. It’s quitting time, for Christ’s sake. Everybody’s either on their way home, or going out for a drink.”
The Hawk said nothing.
“I guess I should’ve grabbed my Glock from the office, just in case. That would have been the careful thing to do.”
“Yes, it would have.”
“Well, chalk it up to a lesson learned.”
“If we survive.”
“You know, we could just stop and confront them here. I doubt they’ll try anything with all these witnesses.”
The Hawk nodded. We were getting close to the alley. “That is true. But it would only delay the inevitable.”
“In other words, if they don’t get us today, they’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“And right now, they’re running ad hoc, hastily organized, which gives us better odds. If we don’t take them down now, they’ll have more time to get their act together, and our chances will be worse when they come at us again.”
“Correct.”
“I also think it’s safe to assume they’re not out to kill us. Just lay down a beating. Teach us not to disrespect the working man, or whatever.”
“Possibly, but one can never be sure.”
I looked up at the big Apache. “Hawk, let’s try not to make this a bloodbath, okay?”
“I will try. But I will also do what is necessary. So should you.”
We reached the alley and I followed Great Hawk as he turned into it.
“Yeah. I guess I should.”
THREE
We stopped halfway down the alley.
The street we had left was the central artery through town, and foot traffic was heavy. But at this time of day, with the sun down and minimal lighting from the town’s meager electrical grid, no one was looking into the dark places between street lamps. Everyone had their eyes straight ahead, minds firmly focused on their destinations. The street on the other side of the alley was mostly empty, so whatever happened next, it was unlikely there would be witnesses.
The six of them converged and walked confidently in our direction. We stood and waited. After a few seconds, when their eyes had adjusted to the dim light, the men realized we weren’t running away and their pace slowed.
“Not what you were expecting, right?” I said.
They stopped.
“Did you really think we wouldn’t see you assholes coming a mile away?”
Five of the men shuffled and looked to the one in the middle. By the shape and bulk, I could tell it was Alan White. Probably still smarting from the clip on the jaw Great Hawk had given him.
“Let me guess. Alan is all butt-hurt because he got smacked in the mouth, so now he wants the five of you to do what he couldn’t do for himself. Seems like kind of a cowardly thing to do, don’t you think?”
My voice sounded confident when it came out, which was good. If I played this right, we might all walk away unscathed. My hope was to make Alan White’s gaggle of roughnecks realize how stupid it was to risk injury because their idiot friend stepped up to the wrong guy.
“That was a sucker punch,” Alan said angrily. “Your prairie-nigger caught me off guard.”
I felt my face go cold. A stillness started in my hands and chest and spread all the way down to my feet. People can insult me all they want. I have thick skin. I can take it. But throwing racist slurs at my friends is crossing the line.
“Tell you what, Alan. How about we go at it? Just you and me. You’re a tough guy, right? I shouldn’t be too much trouble.”
White turned to his buddies. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just scared. Come on, let’s teach these rich assholes a lesson.”
I laughed out loud. “Teach us a lesson? Christ, you sound like a twelve year old bully on a playground. Come on, tough guy. Show your friends here how much of a badass you are. You don’t need all five of them to take on little old me, do you?”
One of the five was getting the idea. “Go on, Alan,” he said. “Look at him. He’s half your size. Just go kick his ass and let’s get out of here.”
Great Hawk took a step forward and opened his mouth to speak, but I put a hand on his shoulder.
“No,” I said firmly. “Let me do this.”
The obsidian eyes gave a death stare. “I do not need you to fight my battles for me.”
“I’m not doing this for you,” I said. It was a lie, but I put a lot of vehemence behind it. After a long few seconds, the Hawk stepped back.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “But if the others move, I will break them in half.”
&nb
sp; “Fair enough.” I looked back at White. “So what’s it going to be, tough guy? You scared of a fair fight?”
White was stiff with rage, but the gambit had worked. The five amigos were smiling cruelly and giving him little shoves and telling him to go kick that little fucker’s ass. I started walking toward them, shrugging off my coat as I went.
“Come on, White. Let’s do this.”
He finally gave in to the pressure and stepped forward. I could tell by the way he moved he didn’t really know his business. A real fighter would have been relaxed, hands hanging loose, taking deep breaths to oxygenate his muscles. Kind of like what I was doing. Instead, White was tense, his head down like an angry bull. Still, he was a big man. If I didn’t end this quickly, there was a strong possibility of taking damage I did not want to take.
After a few steps, we were in range. I could have attacked right away—he was definitely not prepared for it—but the idea wasn’t just to put him down. I needed to do it in a way that discouraged his friends.
I held my hands out at my sides. “You’re move, asshole.”
For a few seconds, he just stood there, face pinched, eyes glaring, nostrils flared. Then he took off his coat and said, “Fine.”
The coat came flying at my face. It was an old street brawler’s trick, and not a bad one. But I was ready for it. I ducked to the side, and when White threw a kick at my groin, I twisted my hips out of the way, grabbed his leg, and lifted it while pushing forward at the same time. When the leg was as high as I could get it, I kicked White’s other leg out from under him and let him land on his ass.
At this point, a more merciful person might have backed off and given him a chance to stand up. Unfortunately for White, I am not a merciful person. At least not when someone asks five of his friends to beat me up and then tries to kick me in the balls.
As soon as he was down, I stepped forward and swung the toe of my boot into the side of his face. It made a meaty thwack and snapped White’s head backward. He went limp for a second, then started trying to stand up.
Surviving The Dead (Short Story): Quick Killer & The Iceman Page 1