The Reckoning - 02 (32 page)

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J.R.R. Tolkien

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I took a moment to reload all of my weapons and grab myself an assault rifle from the rack on the wall. I selected one I was familiar with and lifted it out of the rack. It was a vintage HK 91 in 7.62mm NATO. I did a quick check over to make sure it was in good working order. Then I grabbed a stack of magazines from the table and started loading them with ammo from the shelf. I loaded six magazines and then slid one into the weapon, then chambered a round.

             
I found a tactical sling in a package under the counter and hooked it to the weapon. Next, I scrounged an ACOG from a badly banged up AR-15 and connected it to the mounting bracket. It was an old style optic without the battery powered red-dot sight. That suited me just fine since finding batteries was going to get harder and harder. Without the need for the battery, the ACOG would be good indefinitely. I was going to have to adjust the sights, but I could do that later.

             
Slinging the weapon over my shoulder, I started to head for the stairs. Before I made it to the end of the counter, I heard a pounding on the door. I spun around and brought the weapon to my shoulder, aiming at the door. It wasn’t the rhythmic slap of the dead. This frantic pounding could only be from the living.

             
“For God’s sake,” pleaded the voice, “Help me!”

             
I headed over to the door and checked through the peephole. It was a young man in his early twenties. I didn’t recognize him, but he was dressed like one of the
Freemen
. He was armed with a shotgun and had a pistol on his belt. I could see several zombies coming close behind him. He didn’t have long before they’d be on top of him. I could see his face. It was covered in blood, but I couldn’t tell if he’d been bitten. The rain made it difficult to tell how badly he was hurt.

             
“Please!” he screamed. “I saw you go in there! You’ve gotta help me!”

             
I hesitated a moment, indecision wracking my mind.

             
“Have you been bitten?” I demanded.

             
“No, I swear!” he answered. “Please! They’re right behind me!”

             
I knew I couldn’t let him die like that. Even though they ambushed us, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try to save this man. Quickly, I unbolted the door and swung it open. He stumbled inside and fell to the floor. Slamming the door shut, I locked the bolt and dropped the metal crossbar across the door. Turning quickly, I brought up my weapon and aimed it at the
Freeman
on the floor. I was willing to help him, but not trust him. He was going to have to earn that.

             
Just then, the undead arrived at the door and began slapping their hands against it. It was a reinforced steel door, so I knew that they weren’t coming through it any time soon. With the way that the steps were constructed, no more than three or four would be able to throw themselves against the door at any given time and that just wasn’t enough force to break down that door. It did mean that they would attract the attention of others. The dead now knew we were inside.

             
“Drop your weapons and keep your hands where I can see them,” I said, my voice harsh.

             
“I’m out of ammo, man,” he said, his voice still shaking.

             
“I don’t care if you’re carrying squirt guns,” I snapped. “Drop them or you’re a dead man.”

             
He did as instructed, reluctantly. Once he had dropped his weapons and equipment belt, I took a closer look at him in the light of my flashlight. He had a nasty cut to his forehead and a bloody wound to his stomach. I also noticed that he was favoring his left leg. I was going to have to check him carefully for bites.

             
“Turn around and put your hands on the counter,” I said, gesturing with the barrel of the rifle.

             
“No problem, dude,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble.”

             
“Stay still and you won’t have any,” I said. “If you so much as flinch, I’ll kill you.”

             
Once he had his hands on the counter, I lowered the weapon and knocked his feet apart with my left foot. It was just like I’d done thousands of times before. It forced his feet about shoulder width apart and set him in position for a pat search. I kept my left leg forward and slightly between his legs, with my hips turned so that he wouldn’t be able to strike me in the groin. As I prepared to search him, I found myself saying the words I’ve said so many times before. Force of habit, I suppose.

             
“Do you have anything on you that’s going to stick me, stab me, cut me or poke me?”

             
“What are you, some kind of cop?” he asked.

             
“Sheriff’s department, asshole,” I replied. “If your hands come off of that counter, I’ll put you down, hard.”

             
“I don’t recognize the authority of your so-called police state,” he said, as if reciting it from memory.

             
“I know,” I interrupted. “I’ve heard your
Freemen
bullshit before. There is no more civilian authority. We’re all on our own.”

             
“Then you have no authority to hold me,” he said, smiling. “You can’t arrest me. You have to let me go.”

             
“Just because there’s no civilian authority left, doesn’t mean I have to trust you,” I snapped. “You and your friends ambushed us and killed several of my people. Besides that, you’re not under arrest. The handcuffs are your only option besides a bullet in the head.”

             
He didn’t have an answer for that, so I began the pat search at the neck and started moving down his torso. If he was going to try something, he’d wait until I was bent over checking his legs. That’s when they usually tried it. I could tell by the way they tensed up, if they were about to move. It was an observation that had helped me out dozens of times.

             
As I patted his legs, I felt the old familiar tension in his stance. Just as he started to make his move, I drove my shoulder into the small of his back. I felt the air come out of him in a rush as I drove him against the counter. Before he could recover, I grabbed a handful the hair on the back of his head and slammed his face into the counter several times. He went limp and I didn’t waste any time. While he was stunned, I took out a pair of handcuffs from my belt and secured his wrists behind his back, ratcheting them down tight.

             
Once he was cuffed and on the floor, I checked his weapons. The shotgun was a Benelli 12 gauge and the pistol was a Rock Island .45. They were both empty. Shockingly, he wasn’t lying about that. Setting them on the counter, I turned back to the kid. He had managed to sit up with his hands still cuffed behind his back. He was watching me carefully.

             
“So, now what?” he asked.

             
“Now we find out if you’re telling the truth about not getting bit,” I said. “No bites, no problems. If you’re bit, I’ll throw you off the roof.”

             
I reached over and picked up the Benelli shotgun and checked it over. It was almost new and in great condition. It didn’t look like a weapon this kid could afford. There were a ton of shotguns out there that were way cheaper than a Benelli, and this one was a Performance M2 with the extended tube. This gun cost more than my pick-up did.

             
“Where’d you get this?” I asked, holding up the shotgun.

             
“Took it off a dead cop,” he said, smirking.

             
That wasn’t the answer he should have given me and he saw that in my eyes just before I drove the stock into his forehead. He went over backwards and struck his head on the floor. He now had a fresh cut on his scalp and he was out cold. I made sure the cuffs were tight and then secured his feet together with his own bootlace. As an afterthought, I checked his pulse. It was strong.

             
“Yippee,” I said with little enthusiasm. “He’s alive.”

             
The wounds on his head were superficial. He wasn’t going to bleed to death from those. Then I lifted his t-shirt to check the wound on his abdomen. It was a ragged puncture wound. I could see a piece of glass sticking out of the wound. Using my multi-tool, I grabbed hold of it and removed it. The shard was only about an inch long and not a lot of blood came out when I pulled it free. It wasn’t going to be fatal.

             
I pulled up his pants on his left leg to find out why he’d been limping. There was a large purple bruise on his calf. It looked recent. He’d taken a Hel of a shot to the lower leg. That looked to be all of his wounds. No bite marks in the bunch. That was good news, for him anyway. Now there was just the fact that he was an enemy. The
Freemen
made it clear that they were only interested in seeing us dead. Would this kid be any different?

             
I knew he’d be out for a while, so I headed up the stairs to check on Spec-4. She was still sitting on the couch where I’d left her. She’d already removed her body armor and helmet. The M-4 lay in her lap and she’d removed her boots. I grinned when I walked in.

             
“Comfortable?” I asked, leaning on the door-frame.

             
“Well, I didn’t hear all hell break loose down there, so I assumed it was clear,” she said.

             
“Mostly clear,” I said. “There was one zulu in the main room. I also rescued a
Freeman
.”

             
“What?” she asked, surprised. “Why the hell would you do that?”

             
“He’s just a kid,” I said. “He came to the door yelling for help. I couldn’t leave him out there to die.”

             
“They would have left us,” she replied. “Or worse.”

             
“Don’t worry,” I said, smiling. “He’s unconscious and in handcuffs. We’ll decide what to do with him later.”

             
“Fair enough,” she agreed. “Now what?”

             
“Now, I check your leg,” I answered. “You’ve got blood on your thigh.”

             
“Let me guess…,” she said, grinning.

             
“Yep,” I said. “Lose the pants.”

             
“Wylie,” she said, grinning, “are you trying to get me naked?”

             
“Is it working?”

             
“Absolutely,” she replied, removing her digital camo pants.

             
She winced in pain as she moved her wounded leg. I helped her slide them off and tossed them onto the desk. She lay back on the couch, wearing only the red tactical thong and her ACU top. I could see the bloody wound on her left thigh. It looked like a piece of shrapnel was stuck in the meat of her thigh. Removing it wasn’t going to be easy and it was going to hurt like hell.

             
Digging my first aid kit out of my pack, I sat down on the edge of the couch. She rolled up onto her right side, exposing the thong side to me. Forcing myself to concentrate on the task at hand, I took out the supplies and lay them in easy reach. Then I took out my hip-flask of Bushmills.

             
“You might want to drink some of this,” I said, passing it to her.

             
“Getting me naked and drunk,” she said, grinning. “You sure know how to treat a girl.”

             
“Drink as much of that as you can,” I said. “I don’t have any anesthetic. It’s going to hurt like a bitch when I remove that piece of shrapnel.”

             
Suddenly serious, she opened the flask and took a swig. She made a sour face, but swallowed the fiery liquid.

             
“I think I’m getting used to this stuff,” she said, coughing a bit.

             
I started cleaning the area around the wound, in preparation for the actual removal. She continued to swig from the flask as I placed a roll of gauze in easy reach and cleaned my multi-tool with the bottle of alcohol. It wasn’t ideal but under the circumstances, it was the best I could do. After about the fifth drink from the flask, I could see that the alcohol was starting to affect her.

             
“OK, kiddo,” I said. “This is going to hurt. Do you want something to bite down on?”

             
She just nodded and I handed her a strip of beef jerky from my pack. She placed it between her teeth and locked her eyes on mine, silently pleading with me.