The McClane Apocalypse Book 4 (39 page)

“Psst,” comes from behind
him.

He swings on the
man
but finds him
hiding around the corner where Cory dust departed. He’s been
flanked, but he’s down behind the equipment. He inches to his
right, taking further cover from both opponents, the new man, and
the creeps in the front.

“We’re on the same team, bro,” the man
whispers to him.

Cory doesn’t trust him for a second
and doesn’t lower his rifle.

“Been tracking these fuckers for a
week. Don’t shoot, man,” he whispers.

“Stay back,” Cory warns quietly. “I’ll
shoot you dead.”

“I’m alone, guy,” he says
nervously.

“Then I’ll only have to shoot one of
you.”

“No, bro, Semper Fi,” the other man
whispers.

Cory knows the man is trying to
ascertain whether or not he was a Marine.

“Not a Marine, dude, so back the fuck
off,” Cory warns. He really doesn’t want to shoot this guy. The
other man could’ve shot him in the back, possibly, and chose not
to.

“Think these fuckers took
my sister,” the Marine says. “She’s been gone for almost a week.
They took her right out of our car while I was getting water from a
creek. Been tracking them. Let me come up beside
you,
and we’ll
flank them.”

Hearing this man’s horror story, Cory
changes his mind about the other man. He’s not sure if it’s the
part of his story about his sister or that a woman is in danger.
Cory nods in the near dark to the Marine. The single lantern in the
front right corner of the building illuminates that area but mostly
casts ghostly shadows around the two story building with the low
ceiling. Stairs to the front and left of him would indicate another
floor above them. He’s not sure if anyone is up there. Could be a
hot spot.

The Marine joins him near
the equipment, and Cory immediately takes
in
his appearance. There’s no doubt
in his mind that this guy was a former Marine. He’s carrying a
carbine, has a 9 mill semi-automatic pistol and
night vision
gear similar to
his. He is of a solid, stocky build like Derek. His hair is still
buzz cut like he’s awaiting his orders to re-up.

“Think there’s eight of ‘em,” the
Marine tells him.

That’s a number higher than Cory had
anticipated.

“Five now,” he shares and gets a
surprised nod in return.

“Cool,” Marine says.

Up front, the group of five has
settled down and are formulating some sort of plan. Cory can hear
them whispering conspiratorially. There is a clattering of metal or
equipment, causing a ruckus of epic decibels.

“Who else is with them?” Cory
asks.

“Hopefully my fucking sister,” he
swears. “Assholes. I don’t know about anyone else.”

“I’ll cross to my right, come along
the wall of mirrors toward them,” Cory states. He’s not asking this
stranger for permission on military tactical moves.

“I’ll go left and flush ‘em out from
there,” he offers.

As the Marine has been speaking, Cory
removed his penlight from his cargo pocket.

“Hey,” Semper Fi says softly. “Don’t
shoot me, ok?”

“Got it,” Cory acknowledges and turns
to move out of his hunkered down position.

He
low
sprints toward the wall of
mirrors, placed there for vanity viewing. Squatting behind an
incline bicycling machine, which also makes a good gun rest, he
gets ready to make his move. Hiding his hand and the penlight from
view by using the back of the padded seat will work to conceal it
from its origin. He flicks on the tiny flashlight, also hoping at
the same time that it still works. He hasn’t had any recharging
capabilities for some time. A very faint spray of light hits those
mirrors thirty feet down the way from him. Instantly a peppering of
gunfire blasts into the mirrors shattering them but also giving
away his targets by their muzzle flashes. Squeezing once, twice,
three times, two
targets
are taken down. It reminds him of that arcade game
at the once
popular
, annoying pizza chain Chucky
Cheese called, “Whack-A-Mole.” He’s hitting people as they pop up
into his line of vision.

Position
forsaken
, he moves
closer to the wall, avoiding incoming fire from a higher caliber
round than the other two were using. A single shot from the
familiar blast of a carbine, followed by a scream, lets him know
that Semper Fi has taken someone down.
Hopefully,
it’s the asshole who’d
just
shot
at Cory and missed.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! Please,
mister,” calls a woman from near the front wall.

A man’s voice barks, “Shut up,
bitch!”

Another bark of the carbine
tells Cory that Semper Fi has disabled another person. Perhaps it
was the woman. He jogs quickly, taking up
position
behind a counter, probably
meant for checking in gym goers.

“All clear,” the Marine calls
out.

He waits another thirty seconds or so
before coming out from behind the desk to join the group of three.
Apparently Semper hadn’t shot the woman. And now there are two
women. One of them is hugging onto the Marine tightly. One sister
found: check. Assholes who’d shot his horse taken care of: check.
The other chic, however, is still standing there with her hands
raised to shoulder height in surrender. She’s crying. Apparently
the Marine has killed three of them unless Cory counted
wrong.

Cory dashes upstairs,
careful not to take a bullet, and does a speedy and
thorough
sweep of
the second floor. Mostly he finds articles that would imply that
the group had stayed here for a short time. Backpacks litter the
floor as well as their supplies and boxes of ammo and food. In one
particular wooden
crate,
he finds boxes of ammo that he can use. Stashing
two boxes of it into his cargo pockets, he moves to the food supply
next. There are three people downstairs, so he only takes a few
items, placing those in the interior pocket of his coat.

He jogs back to the group
which has moved toward the center of the first floor away from the
windows. They’ve brought the lantern and another over closer and
set them on the workout equipment. The Marine is examining his
sister thoroughly while the other woman stands close by. She’s
weeping softly, shaking violently. She probably thinks they will
rape or kill her. As long as she’s not pointing a gun or knife at
them, Cory won’t shoot her. And
rape
? Not a chance. He’s not into that
kind of thing. Too much crying. That and the fact that he prides
himself on killing those
kinds
of men.

It’s been a while since
he’s had sex with a woman, since a few weeks before he’d deserted
the farm. He and the Johnson’s widowed daughter, Evie, would
sometimes meet out in the woods or in his cabin if he could get rid
of Simon for the night. Neither of them expected anything out of
the relationship, which was good because he has nothing to offer
anyone. She was lonely since her husband had died of sickness at
the beginning of the end, and Cory was young and virile. She was
older than him by almost seven years, but he hadn’t minded. Evie
had also taught him more about sex than he’d ever learned from high
school girls back in Arkansas. Their relationship was not one of
public discussion amongst their families. Her dad was just as
religious as Doc, so they’d
kept
it a secret. They didn’t want or
need a commitment or the entanglement of the families’ opinions
interwoven into their affair. She was a kind and good-hearted woman
who was simply needing companionship, just like him. Simon knew
about them, but he’d never tell a soul. Besides being his lover,
she’d become a good friend to him, as well, and he trusted her
older, wiser opinion on many issues that had troubled him. Also,
she wasn’t in the McClane clan, so he felt like he could discuss
subjects with her that he couldn’t with the family. He’d like to
think that their relationship, or whatever it really was, had
helped her to heal from the loss of her husband, whom she’d loved
deeply. She’d
cried
many nights in his arms while he held her close
and tried his best to comfort her.

“We should get out of here,” the
Marine’s sister says in a panic, peering over her
shoulder.

She looks road weary and
tired. Her clothing is dirty and unkempt. She’s also
clearly
frightened. Cory tries not to notice the
deep
bruise on her right
cheekbone or the split lower lip.

“Ok, we will, sis,” her brother says
to her.

He wears the remnants of
his old uniform mixed in with civilian clothing. He and Cory have
both removed their night vision gear. Cory’s hangs from his neck on
a cord, but he’s not sure where the Marine’s has disappeared to.
His
gear
was smaller and more compact, so perhaps he’d
folded
it away
somewhere.

“There’s plenty to loot upstairs,”
Cory explains. “Food, ammo…”

“Cool,” he returns, his eyes widening
with anticipation.

“We’ll divvy it up,” Cory
states.

“Seems fair to me, dude,”
the other man says
with
a nod. “You helped me… hell, you damn near did it
for me before I got here. You Special Forces or
something?”

“Nope. Just a grunt,” Cory
says humbly. He’s sure as
shit
not Kelly, nor will he ever be. But
he can certainly aspire to be a better soldier every
day.

“Well, grunt, you can be my wingman
any day,” he says with admiration and shakes Cory’s hand. “We’ve
been traveling a long while.”

“Yeah?” Cory inquires as he jams a few
rounds into his magazine to replace the ones he’d used. “Where you
been?”

“We came down from upper Michigan. We
were gonna head South but heard that ain’t any better. Now we’re
going West.”

“What’s out West?” Cory asks as he
slaps the magazine back into his rifle and slings it behind his
back.

“We heard there’s power out
there,” the Marine says. “Going up
into
Washington State.”

“Hm,” Cory mumbles. There isn’t power
in Washington just like there isn’t power anywhere else that people
aren’t manufacturing it with supplemental sources like
solar.

“Wanna’ stick with us? We
could
…
”

“Nah, no thanks,” Cory says. “I’m
headed North. I travel alone.”

The Marine nods with a frown. “Too
bad.”

This always happens. They have heard
so many this place or that place “has power” or “it’s safe in
Colorado” or “upstate New York is getting back on its feet” stories
over the years that they’ve become fairy tales. The promise of
restoration is no more real to him than Hansel and Gretel and that
witch’s cottage.

“What are you going to do to me?” the
forgotten woman asks, still quivering like a fragile leaf hanging
by its gentle petiole.

The Marine looks at
Cory,
who
shrugs.

“What were you doing with these
creeps?” Semper Fi asks.

She shakes her head, her short,
cropped black hair swishing around.

“I didn’t have anybody else,” she
says. “They picked me up a few months ago in Virginia.”

“How the
hell’d
they travel
from Virginia to here in a few months?” Cory asks.

“They just stole cars and
gas. Sometimes they
stole
gas out of people’s generators. That made me feel
terrible. They didn’t care, though,” she relates. “I didn’t really
want to go with them, but they didn’t give me much
choice.”

Her voice is
child-like
as if
she’s not much more than a teenager. She looks to be about
twenty-five or so, maybe less. It’s hard to see her clearly. Her
lumpy coat is at least two sizes too big and engulfing her. The
apocalypse has aged some people much faster than others. Not
everyone has had it as good as Cory has at the farm. Some people
have literally been living on the streets and on the move for
years, always in search of what could be better. Keep searching,
he’d like to tell them. It doesn’t get any better. It all looks the
same. That elusive promise of hope on the horizon in the form of a
restored power grid is a fantasy. The reality is harsh. The reality
is death, rape, pillaging, disease and eventually losing the only
people you care about.

The sister speaks up, “She’s cool,
Terry. Let her go with us.”

Apparently Semper Fi’s real
name is Terry. Cory won’t commit it to memory, though. He doesn’t
care to join up with them or anyone else’s group. He’s alone
now,
and that
works just fine for him. Groups imply bonding which leads to
friendship which will inevitably lead to watching one of these
three die. He’s done with that part of his life.