No Flesh Shall Be Spared (6 page)

"Well," grumbled Ray Dog from the back of the pack, "I guess that makes you a dis-oriental."

The men all chuckled under their breath.

Suddenly, three of the reanimated dead staggered around the side of the shack. Two of them were men; white guys dressed like they’d worked as farmhands on this or a neighboring spread. The other was a woman who looked as if she’d almost been pretty once, in a plain sort of corn-fed way. But now something had gotten to her and gnawed off the lower half of her face, leaving her ravaged.

The two males circled the structure, trying and re-trying the door in a vain attempt to gain entry into the shed. The rusted lock that hung from the latch held firm despite their fevered efforts. Futilely, they both hammered their fists on the door’s frame.

The woman stood by, momentarily distracted by the flies that circled over and around their heads. She seemed to be patiently waiting for her companion’s labors to bear some blood-sodden fruit.

The team fanned out and cautiously approached as Ray Dog and Slider moved ahead. The soldier’s approach was silent and skillful. The Dead never noticed a thing until they were almost right on top of them.

"Yo, Nigga," Ray Dog rumbled as he stood up and flipped the safety on his weapon to the fire position, "’Sup?"

Ray Dog pulled the trigger and cut the two men down with the M-60. The massive 7.62mm shells tore through the first guy’s upper body, severing his right arm at the shoulder. The stream of bullets then back-tracked as the massive gun was swung back, effectively decapitating both of them.

The woman, who had been standing and swaying slowly and unsteadily on her feet, visibly jumped at the reports of the ’60. She’d only begun to realize that her companions were down for good when Slider came up behind her and pushed the Mossberg’s barrels up against the back of her head. He pulled the trigger and her expression of disbelief was blown apart by the back of her skull.

Masterson sidled up next to Bruce and whispered something in his ear. Without a word, the Asian took off at a run toward the farm’s main house with his MP5 tucked under his arm. He stayed slightly crouched so as not to be seen, but his pace was just this side of "sprint."

The rest of the team secured the area and searched the shed, which they found empty.

"What d’ya think they were looking for?" Slider asked.

The Dog walked up behind him, pointing the barrel of his M-60 toward the ground.

"Your mom."

In a few minutes, Bruce returned and fought to catch his breath as he spoke directly into Masterson’s ear.

"Ok, bitches, show time! Bruce here tells me that we have five—count ’em, five—more dumbfucks up around the house," Masterson explained. "I want The Dog and Slider to approach from the front. If any of these fuckers even thinks about trying to attack from there, you’ll stop that train of thought before it ever gets on the track. A-Rab, you and Lance take the left flank. Bruce, you and me are on the right."

The team split up accordingly and each drew and checked his weapon, racking rounds and flipping off safeties. The change in their collective demeanor was abrupt but clear. What was before a group of guys jolly-timing it suddenly became a sharpened team of professional killers. This was not their first rodeo and, despite all the bullshitting and dickin’ around, these were hardened soldiers. Some, like Masterson, spent a lifetime honing their skills while others had been dragged up a very steep learning curve. It was a field of study that to fail to learn meant death… or worse.

The farmhouse before them was an impressive two story structure with a large, wooden porch around its perimeter. On the right, a large willow tree snuggled up against the side of the house and blanketed it protectively in shadow. On the left, a storm cellar door led into the basement. The place seemed deserted, but they’d all seen that sort of scenario go sour a time or two before. It was how they’d lost Roehler and Fredrickson at the Home Depot and Dupont, Jackson and Miller at the gravel pit.

Having their instructions, A-Rab and Lance sprinted off, making their way around the left side of the house. Lance aimed his AR-10, sweeping the area for any unfriendlies and A-Rab came up behind with the SAW. Once they were set, the two men knelt down and waited for Masterson to give the "in position" signal.

On the right, Masterson and Bruce moved ahead and took up a spot next to the willow’s trunk. The Asian moved slightly further to the right to cover the squad leader’s flank.

Ray Dog and Slider stood calmly beneath the warm sun, feeling the weight of the artillery in their hands. It was turning out to be a nice day, weather-wise, and they were both grateful for the chance to drink some of it in.

"Hey, Dog," Slider said, "If we had us some Margaritas and some honeys, we’d be set, eh?"

"You know it, man."

The two men burst out laughing, but quickly cut their amusement short. They both knew the dangers of giving themselves away too early to these things. They’d been there to mop up when a squad of National Guard guys had their asses handed to them when they went wandering into a Starbucks making too much racket. Time and time again, being lackadaisical bred stupidity and stupidity bred carelessness and carelessness brought on a world of hurt.

Lance and A-Rab heard their friend’s laughter and glanced over to see what was so funny.

The Dog saw the two men staring and flipped them off.

 "Lance," Slider hissed, "on your nine."

Lance shot a glance over and saw a zombie coming around the back of the house. The guy looked like another farmhand, which made sense given the locale. It stumbled over something on the ground, but continued to gaze up toward the farmhouse’s windows. It looked like it was searching for something, a way in maybe.

Who knew?

Who cared?

Lance raised the AR-10 and pressed it into his shoulder. As he zeroed in, A-Rab shot off a chirping whistle so that the rest of the team would know they’d found movement. Lance pulled the weapon tighter into his shoulder and prepared to fire.

From the same place behind the house, another one of the undead shuffled out behind the first. This one wore a business suit and his chest was caved in. The wound looked semi-circular in shape like it had been made by a car’s steering wheel.

A-Rab saw the second zombie and bumped his elbow into Lance’s side.

"Do it, Lance," he whispered. "I got ten bucks says you can’t do that shit a second time."

 "Ten bucks, eh?" Lance considered the proposition from behind the sights of his weapon. "You’re on."

Lance pulled the rifle slightly tighter and did his best to keep it still. He took in a deep breath and held it, waiting. He slid his fingertips over the knurling on the thin, curling bit of metal and gently caressed the trigger.

His patience was soon rewarded as the second zombie stepped up just behind the first. Lance let out his breath in a soft sigh and gently squeezed.

The first of the .300 Remington Short Ultra Magnum rounds screamed out from the barrel of the AR-10. It was immediately followed by three more in a staccato burst. The bullets tore through the atmosphere, cutting a swath through humid air and shimmering sunlight. For a microsecond, all sound ceased: the wind halted, the trees went motionless, even the birds stopped their song. As the reports from the gun echoed off into the distance, a heavy and completed silence took its place.

It was in that quiet moment that Lance’s initial bullet hit the first zombie just to the left of its nose. As the bone and muscle were torn away, the second and third bullets slapped into the hamburger that had, seconds earlier, been the thing’s face and blew it out the back. Now, with a workable pathway made through the zombie’s head, the fourth bullet flew through the carnage and struck the second zombie square in the forehead.

Both of the reanimated dead teetered and then fell like trees; one to the left, one to the right.

"Sonuvabitch!" A-Rab sighed.

"That’ll be ten bucks, Caliph," Lance said with a wink.

At the sound of the gunshots, Masterson and Bruce stood up and headed ’round the back of the house at a quick clip. They figured that the sound would lure any remaining dead who were behind the house toward the left. It was their plan to come about from the right and flank them.

Ray Dog and Slider took the shots as a sign that it was Go Time and walked toward the front door with a deadly purpose. Slider took up a position to the side of the door and Ray Dog stopped once he got to the door mat.

"Should we knock?" The Dog said with an easy, wide grin.

Slider shook his head and laughed.

Ray Dog raised one of his size fifteen boots and kicked the door off of its hinges.

"Knock, knock!"

Just inside, coming out of the family room and into the foyer, was a reanimated woman. She looked roughly forty or so, hair tied tight at the back of her head in a haphazard bun. The front of her dress was torn and bloody. A large gash extended from her throat and angled down into her dress. From beneath the hem of her dress, an oily loop of intestine dragged forgotten behind her, leaving a deep crimson snail trail in its wake.

Suddenly, from behind the house, another series of gunshots were heard. By the sound of it, it was Masterson’s Bushmaster. The short staccato sound of pops was heard and then the echo trailed off across the valley. The dead woman turned, distracted by the sound.

The Dog gave a sharp whistle, dragging back the attention of the thing before him. For a second, they stood staring at one another and then the woman opened her mouth and bared her teeth. He fired a quick burst with the M-60 and obliterated both the dead woman and most of the hallway. Splinters of wood, stucco, and body parts were thrown violently into the air. When the smoke cleared, the place looked as if The Wild Bunch had been there.

"Clear!" Ray Dog shouted.

"Ya think?!?" Slider said still laughing.

From behind the house came the other’s responses.

"Clear!" shouted Masterson.

"Clear!" yelled A-Rab.

Slider entered the front door and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Ray Dog watched as he disappeared at the top of the staircase. Soon enough, a shotgun blast echoed through the building.

"Clear!" came Slider’s shout from upstairs.

Minutes later, the squad regrouped on the porch outside the shattered front door.

"Ok," Masterson said, running his hand over his sweaty scalp. "no one get comfortable. We have one more structure to check."

They all looked further up the small hill, which angled up twenty or so yards to the right and back of the house. It was there that the barn stood waiting.

"We do this just like we always do, Gentlemen" he said. "Secure the perimeter, and then we compromise the front door. Anything Dead moves, if it even so much as wiggles, cap it."

The men nodded and shouldered their weapons. As a group, they headed up toward the barn at a trot. The road was more dirt driveway than real road with deep furrows from a tractor’s tires cut into the hard ground. Years of repeated travel back and forth from the barn to the field had left some deep scars on the earth.

Several hundred yards away from the barn, Bruce detected more movement.

"I got a coupla more meatheads over here," he said. "One by the double doors at the front. One on the left."

Masterson raised a scarred pair of binoculars and aimed them toward the barn. In the lenses, he could see that the building was fairly large and painted in a stereotypical red with a set of double doors in the front. Above them was another set of doors with a winch suspended over it by a post. No doubt it was where they loaded hay and feed once upon a time. The building looked exactly like what it was: a barn. Even from this distance, the smell of straw was sweet and overpowering.

Standing in front of the doors were two more zombies: a man and a young girl. The guy was in his mid-fifties with gray hair and a severe beer belly. He was missing his left hand and forearm and there were huge, raking tears down his back. The girl was barely out of high school with short brown hair cut in a bob. She had no visible causes of death. Under the hot sun their skin appeared to be discolored with large blackened patches of flesh that looked bruised and rotting.

There was a slight family resemblance between the two. So much so that Lance thought maybe they’d once been Father and Daughter. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. Now, they were hungry, disease-ridden predators and they were about to have their heads aggressively ventilated.

That’s just the way things were.

The team headed up the roadway with eyes continuing to scour the landscape and their guns held up and at the ready. It wouldn’t do anybody any good if they became too focused on what lay in front of them and forgot all about what might be hidden in the brush to their left or right.

Once they’d gotten to within a dozen or so yards from the barn, the two zombies caught the squad’s scent on the wind. The man whirled around and snarled. He headed toward them at a speed that was faster than any of them thought possible. He had his weight and the fact that he was heading downhill on his side. No matter… one thing was clear.

The fat boy could run.

The girl stumbled along behind him like a retarded puppy. Her arms swayed back and forth like pendulums as she ran. From the look of things, she’d already followed him to the Gates of Hell and beyond. Following along behind him to go after a bit of food now was a given.

Bruce stepped forward and, without prompting, cut them down with the MP5. They both did a sort of herky-jerky dance as the spray of bullets tore through them and splintered the barn behind. Finally, several slugs slapped into the meat of their faces, blowing the tops and sides of their heads into the air like divots.

"Area clear, Sir!" Bruce said with a smirk as he dutifully stepped back in line.

"Good work, Son," Masterson said, patting the young man on the back. "We’ll need to recon the interior and get our asses on to the next homestead down the road."

The group walked over to the double barn doors together, stepping over the now still bodies of the fat guy and the girl, and noticed the padlock that had been put in place on the door just as it had been on the shed. Slider picked up the lock and jerked on it.