The Reaper: No Mercy (10 page)

*****

Scott turned to Ralph and asked, "So what do you think?"

"About what, exactly?" Ralph responded, his gaze never wavering from the window he was monitoring.

"About what the Reaper said."

"Up to you, man. You're our leader."

"I want your damn opinion, Ralph!"

Ralph sighed as he shifted sideways to get a better look out the front window across from the empty room before them. The group was in the back of the office complex, hidden, and those rooms facing the streets were only occupied by guards.

"He has a point."

"We aren't enough, man."

"Maybe if we all stick together we'll make a difference."

"How can you say that? We have women and children to protect."

"All these women are tough or they wouldn't be alive. In the right circumstances I can see it working."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah!"

"Okay, we'll see what happens then.”

Janet walked up to them at that moment. It was obvious she had changed clothing and cleaned up. Scott hadn't wanted to mention it to her, but the bits of what looked like brain fragments stuck to her forehead and neck had been a bit disconcerting. She crouched behind them as they gazed through the doorway into the vacant room, and remained silent for several minutes before speaking.

"So what do you think?" she asked.

"About what?" both men responded. Neither looked at the other, as it was a logical question, but both turned and looked at Janet briefly before turning back to their guard duties.

"About what the Reaper said?" she ground out while looking at both of them.

This time Scott and Ralph did look at each other, grinning. Scott took a moment before responding.

"Ralph and I talked. What he says has possibilities, but only that. Wait and see, Janet."

"They’re raping and killing us!" she exclaimed passionately.

"Not our group," Scott responded.

"Fucking men," she muttered under her breath as she rose to her feet and walked away. Scott and Ralph glanced at each other again and shrugged before turning their attention back to the windows.

*****

Dodging between buildings, the Reaper crouched behind a dumpster as a truck loaded with gun-toting marauders drove past down the street he had been travelling. He was almost to the last location, and between the buildings, he could see a large industrial complex in the distance. Only a few hundred yards to go, but the marauders were out in force.

The Reaper rose as the engine sounds died in the distance, and headed south up the narrow corridor, away from the city. He was in another commercial district, and buildings loomed tall on both sides, along with assorted trash containers and debris of every sort scattered across the concrete. With a watchful eye, he kept a lookout for any of Hell's minions as he rounded a corner.

There they were, and too close to draw his machete. The Reaper backpedaled as he brought the fiberglass stock of his service weapon around in a butt stroke, taking the first zombie across the face. Then he stepped into the space provided, swiveled while crouching slightly to avoid the second undead, and whipped his rifle upward, connected with the chin and watching as it fell backward. The Reaper did not want to fire a shot this close to the last group, so as the second zombie fell, he fell with it, his knee coming down on its chest and the Remington 700 raised overhead, only to drive it downward in a powerful stroke of ultimate death as the skull splintered beneath it.

One down, one to go
. He was already diving over the truly dead thing as the first came at him again. Jason didn't hesitate as his leg swiped sideways to knock its feet out from under it. Then he rolled over again, cradling the rifle as he did so, before raising it and with another hard thrust ending the undead life under him. Quickly he rose to his feet, barely winded. Satan's spawn really were not that hard to kill if you knew what you were doing. With detachment, he gazed down at the bodies. Both appeared to be middle-aged, of similar builds, obviously man and woman, and the Reaper wondered if they had once been man and wife. Shrugging at the irrelevancy of the thought, he continued towards the warehouses.

As he neared, he slowed and kept to cover, then stopped beside a truck and peered across the vast expanse of asphalt at the buildings a hundred yards distant. Figures were moving around the buildings, and quickly lifting his binoculars he dialed in and observed the activity.

Interesting
, he thought, as he slowly panned the premises; he saw more soldiers, some civilians, and even a few children who ran out of a door before being herded back in by a female chaperone. The Reaper witnessed it all and grinned. This scene did indeed look familiar.

Pocketing his binoculars he started running, dodging around cars and container trucks until he neared the easternmost entrance. He slowed to a walk, propping his rifle once again against his shoulder and then stopped, for he could hear sounds coming from within. He shook his head and, seeing a stack of pallets off to one side of the entrance, slung his rifle and started stacking then in the center of the foremost bay. Soon he had a stack of six, high enough to sit comfortably, and propping his rifle against the side of the wooden stack he pulled his ruck around and quickly dug down to the bottom. There in a secret Velcro compartment were documents and he withdrew the top two packets. These he opened quickly, for the sounds from behind the bay door before him were becoming more urgent, and he heard the clatter of main guns charging.

The Reaper grinned as he relaxed with the papers in hand, and watched as the sheet metal door rolled upward. Two M-ATVs greeted him, guns pointed, along with four soldiers arrayed alongside them. They stared at him in surprise while wildly looking around.

"Do you men realize how loud you are when you're getting ready?" he spoke in a low, gravelly voice. "You should work on that."

*****

Rodriguez turned away from the window after watching the pillar of rising smoke for several minutes, his fingers drummed softly on the stair railing beside him as he thought about their current situation. They were in a no-win situation. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, yet here they were. A large gang that vastly outnumbered their own experienced fighters were right at the brink of attacking them. Rodriguez knew this, just as surely as he knew the sun rose in the east and settled in the west.

Shifting around to continue watching out the narrow window on the second floor of the industrial complex they were hiding in, he spoke out of the corner of his mouth to his second-in-command, Staff Sergeant Brian Schuster.

"Shue, if those jack wipes are burning down the city we'll need to relocate, and quickly. I want you to take two men out the back and scout for any large facilities to our south at least ten miles away. If you can make it back tonight, great; if not, hole up somewhere safe after radioing us. Take one of the Humvees. Those cabron will attack us sooner or later, probably sooner and this worries me, so be careful and don't take any chances."

"Got it, Sergeant. I'll take two men and leave now while we still have a few hours of daylight left," the man beside him responded. Both were wearing camouflage fatigues, just as both wore their hair short. Assault vests adorned their forms, and the M4A1 carbine in its three-point sling rested across their chests. This, along with the similar physiques of average husky males completed the picture of combat-ready soldiers.

"What's going on, Dennis?" The soft, inquiring female voice behind Rodriguez caused him to turn around quickly and smile.

"Hey hey, Nance. Nothing really. Just doing a recon in case we need to move."

"Why would we need to move? We have wounded and we've just finished gathering enough supplies for the winter," she said. Nance, or Nancy, was a nurse and a damn good one. Formerly an employee of the Surgical Center of Northcentral in Moberly, Missouri, she had been lead surgical nurse when the shit hit the fan. Almost twenty years of experience helping and assisting other surgeons had turned her into a great field doctor. Though somewhat out of her element, she had excelled when push came to shove and had saved a great many lives. Right now, she sounded worried and scared. Dennis smiled brighter as he reached out to pull her close and hug her with a hug that was returned. She may have been forty-five but she looked thirty-five with her brown hair, green eyes, and curvy figure. Since the day the world ended and they had barely escaped Moberly with their lives, he and Nance had grown close ... very close.

"Hey hey, baby. Don't worry. I'm just covering all the bases." Rodriguez smiled at her as he spoke, using his signature catchphrase of
hey, hey
which often put people at ease.

"Have you heard anything on your radio?"

Rodriguez grinned as his Nance referred to their state-of-the-art VRC-104 military radio developed by Harris Communications. Originally new equipment in M-ATVs, they had quickly become the choice communication between extended units without access to satellite. Using High Frequency, it could and did bounce signals off the ionosphere, allowing for secure communications between long-range outposts or positions. It was currently in all of the M-ATVs, and he was thankful to have them.

"No, chica. There has been nothing in over a week except for the daily help broadcasts out of Newaygo and a few lone stations here and there. Nobody is talking much, or it's all encrypted. Something is happening and I don't like it. I really wish I knew more."

"You will eventually. Don't worry, lover," Nance said as she leaned forward to kiss him softly. Rodriguez was in uniform, but regulations had been relaxed, for it was the apocalypse after all. "Hey, who is that?" she asked. Startled, Dennis's gaze followed her pointing finger and was just in time to observe a figure running across the parking lot, dodging between cars and disappearing near the front of their building. The figure was older, wearing a brown coat, and carrying a rifle that looked vaguely familiar, even from this distance.

"Fuck. It has to be them. They've come back. Nance, I need you to keep the others quiet while I prepare for an assault. Tell the leads to run through the buildings, taking the noncombatants to the back." She nodded and took off running in one direction, Rodriguez in the other.

"Saddle up!" Rodriguez shouted as he ran full-tilt into their squad room. Eight of his men were there, along with more than twenty male civilians. "I want all four M-ATVs readied. We have incoming." Everyone scrambled, for this was not a game, and life and death situations had a way of increasing response time and performance. Dramatically ...

The M-ATV was a small armored fighting vehicle—much better armored than a Humvee, but nowhere near that of a Stryker, yet contained many of the same mounted weapons. These had been assigned to them when the shit hit the fan and his unit was deployed.

"What's the situation, Sergeant?" Private First Class Smith asked as he ran up. PFC Smith was a remote gunner for the M-ATVs, and after recent history was very good at that job.

"No idea yet, Smith, an unknown and probable hostile force attempting infiltration. You know who it is," answered Rodriguez. Smith nodded and ran to his designated vehicle. They were too low on ammunition and barrels; however, the refugees they were protecting were more important than their own lives. Rodriguez cursed for having sent Schuster on a recon, wondering if he could radio him back as he could not have gotten far, and then shrugged. They would make do with what they had. He called out four names, all civilians: those they had been training to drive the M-ATVs for situations such as this.

"Jim, Saul, Bruce and Keyes. Get your asses in your M-ATV's now!" The four were already running to the armored vehicles as Rodriguez turned to those of his men still clustered around him. "You three, on me. We'll spot the intruders and see how bad the attack is. I'll take point and do all the talking if we can hope for that! The rest of you get in your vehicles and be ready to pour fire."

Rodriguez ran to the cargo opening and signaled Smith to get ready with the chain hoist while swiveling his M4 in its sling, bringing the stock to his shoulder and crouching, his two men arrayed, one to each side, and then nodded at Smith.

With a hard jerk the chain was pulled down and the door flew upward, while Rodriguez crouched lower as his finger tightened on the trigger, scanning for threats. Then he paused, perplexed. Before them, an older man with a military haircut but a full, neatly trimmed, iron-grey beard was sitting on a stack of wooden crates he had obviously dragged into position. A rifle was propped against the side of his impromptu seat, and he was chewing on what looked like jerky, an ironic smile on his face as he held a sheaf of papers in one hand.

"Do you men realize how loud you are when you're getting ready?" he spoke in a low, gravelly voice. "You should work on that."

Rodriguez's gaze scanned wildly in every possible direction, then, seeing no one, he approached the stranger. The rifle he recognized as a sniper’s tool of trade, an M40A1, yet slightly different.
Modified,
he guessed as he continued to appraise the situation.