The Reckoning - 02 (14 page)

             
We reached the far side of the bridge and headed for the trees on the opposite side of the road.
We had just reached the tree line when I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching.
I glanced behind me and saw one of the Suburban’s coming my way at a decent rate of speed.
I estimated they were going about fifty miles per hour.

             
“Gunny, get some cover,” I said. “We’ve got company.”

             
For just a moment, my heart skipped a beat when I thought they were looking for us.
Then I realized that if they had known we survived the explosion, they’d have been after us a long time ago.
I decided a little payback was in order. Shouldering my rifle, I waited until they were close enough for me to see the driver.
I observed four men inside the vehicle, all armed.
They didn’t seem to be watching the sides of the road.
That meant that they were sure that they were safe. I could hear the twangy voice of a country singer blaring out something about a country boy surviving.

             
I hesitated for just a moment before shattering their safe feeling. I put two rounds into the driver’s side window.
The first one shattered the window, but I saw blood fly from the second one.
I knew it had been a headshot.
The big vehicle swerved, then went off into the ditch.
It slammed in without slowing down and flipped over; rolling several times before coming to rest on it’s top.

             
“Wait here,” I said.

I headed
towards the wreckage at a trot with
Odin hard on my heels.
I slowed down as I approached from the back.
Cautiously, I moved forward with my weapon at the ready.
Kneeling down, I could clearly see that the driver was dead.
Most of the top of his head was gone.
The man in the front passenger seat was thrown from the vehicle.
He landed face first in the rocks about fifty feet from the wreckage. I could clearly see that his neck was broken.

             
Of the two in the back, one was unconscious and the other was stuck in his seatbelt.
When he saw me, he frantically tried to grab his rifle, but it was too far away for him to reach.
I aimed at his head and he froze with his eyes wide in terror. I’m pretty sure he saw his death reflected in my eyes. The rage in my veins was so strong, I could barely contain it.

             
“You don’t need to kill me, mister,” he said.
“I didn’t do nothin’ to you.”

             
“Really?” I asked, venom dripping.

             
“You can have anything we got,” he pleaded.
“We ain’t your enemy.”

             
“Oh, yes you are,” I said, calmly.
“I was in the van you attacked back in Jamesville.”

             
His eyes grew wide and he started crying.

             
“M..m…mister,” he stammered.
“P..p..please….”

             
I shot him in the forehead, killing him instantly.
I didn’t wait for the other one to regain consciousness.
I shot him in the head, too.
I put one into the guy with the broken neck, just to be safe. Then I searched the vehicle.
They each had a rifle, pistol, and a knife.
There was a case of water, but no food.
One bag of ammo was all they had with them.
I was pretty sure I’d taken out a raiding party.

             
Of the four rifles, three were bolt-action deer rifles with scopes.
The fourth was a military grade M-4 with an ACOG
[3]
.
I figured that they had found it on a dead national guardsman.
The pistols were all 9mm’s.
Two Browning Hi-power pistols, one Glock 19 and one military issue M-9 Beretta.

             
I tossed all of the guns except the M-4 in my range bag along with the ammo.
It added to my weight, but I didn’t care at this point.
I refused to leave it for their group to find.
Even if I just dumped them all in the woods, I’d be damned if I’d leave them for those assholes.
I swapped out my AR-15 for the M-4.
They fired the same round, but the M-4 could go full auto.
I checked the M-4’s load and adjusted the collapsible stock to fit me.
The AR went into the bag.

             
I drank down two bottles of water and poured three bottles into a hubcap for Odin to drink.
He lapped it up with enthusiasm.
Then I loaded as much water as I felt I could carry into the bag.
Once I put my pack back on, I realized I’d added at least another thirty pounds to my back.
Grumbling, I moved off towards the trees.

             
I gave two bottles of water to Gunny. He downed the first in one long pull, and then sipped the second one. I gave him a few minutes to recover before I said anything.

             
“Gunny,” I said, softly. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here. If they come looking for their missing men, they’ll find us for sure.”

             
“I know,” he said. “I’m ok. Let’s get moving.”

             
He got to his feet, a little easier than the last time. His color looked better, but he still leaned heavily on the walking stick. I knew that he had to be in a lot of pain, but he took it like a Marine. Once on his feet, he headed off into the trees. We were going to walk parallel to the road until we found a place that we might bed down for the night.

             
My knees were killing me before we’d gone half a mile.
I was going to have to lighten my load, plain and simple.
We cut across a field and headed towards a barn.
We kept our pace steady but slow, and watched for zombies.
We stayed clear of the farmhouse, but kept an eye on it.
When we reached the barn, I found a feed bin and opened it.

             
I had to toss a few bags of feed out, but I made room for the guns I was leaving behind.
I unloaded all of the deer rifles and the ammo for them.
Then I unloaded the sawed off shotgun and put it inside, pocketing the two rounds.
The pistols weren’t of any significant weight, so I left them all in my pack.
I even unloaded and tossed the AR-15 in the bin.
I was keeping all of the shotgun and 5.56mm ammo.

             
I shut the bin and sat the bags of grain on top of it, to keep it closed.
I wasn’t planning on returning for them, but there was no sense leaving them on the ground to rot, either.
If another survivor happened across them, I only hoped that it wasn’t one of those assholes from town.

             
With my pack much lighter, we headed off towards the farmhouse.
The sun was getting low in the sky and it looked to be as good a place as any to take shelter for the night.
As long as it wasn’t crawling with zombies, that is.
We approached with caution.

             
As we reached the backyard, I saw movement to my left.
There was a storm cellar behind the house and two zombies were trying to beat down the door.
One was an older man in his sixties and the other was a younger man in his thirties.
Both were chewed up pretty badly.
I briefly considered using the hammer on them, but I was just too damned tired.
I flipped the M-4 from safe to semi-auto and shot them both in the head with two quick shots.
Then I listened.

             
I didn’t hear any zombies approaching, so I headed for the door to the storm shelter.
I discovered that this was no ordinary storm shelter.
It was a modern steel-reinforced concrete tornado bunker with a steel door.
I wasn’t getting into it without explosives, if it was locked.
If it wasn’t locked, I’d just found the perfect place to sleep safe for the night.

             
I moved up to the door and tried the handle.
As if to mock me, it was locked tight.
I briefly considered trying to break the lock with the hammer, but decided I’d have an easier time trying to dig a foxhole in concrete with a plastic spoon.
I was about to walk away when I saw movement in the little circular window.
It was only there for a second, but I was sure I saw it.

             
“Is there someone in there?” I asked.

             
“What do you want?” I heard a female voice ask.

             
“I’m not looking for trouble, ma’am,” I said.
“I’m just looking for a place to hold up for the night.”

             
“Try the barn,” she replied.

             
I had to chuckle at that.
I couldn’t blame her for not opening the door.
In fact, I commended her for it.
I knew damned good and well the type of people that were wandering around in this world gone mad.
You couldn’t afford to trust strangers, unless you had the upper hand. Well, maybe not even then.

             
“I understand,” I replied.
“I’ll move on.
If you’re interested, I left some guns and ammo in the feed bin in your barn.
I couldn’t carry them all and they might as well go to good use.”

             
“Is that your dog, mister,” she asked.

             
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “I have a friend with me, too. He’s been shot.”

             
“Who are you?”

             
“My name’s Wylie Grant,” I replied.
“I’m with the Nathanael County Sheriff’s Office.”

             
“You’re a cop?” she asked, surprised.

             
“Yes ma’am,” I said, not feeling like explaining the difference between Corrections and Patrol.

             
“Can I see your badge?” she asked.

             
I held up my badge to the window, and then took out my department ID from my wallet and held it up, too.

             
“How’s that?”

             
As an answer, I heard the door locks opening.
Seconds later, she pushed the door open.
Standing before me was a girl who looked to be about nineteen years old.
She was about 5’10” and slim, but had nice curves.
She didn’t look like she’d been going hungry.
Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a pony-tail and her eyes were bottle green.

             
“Come on inside,” she said, “and hurry.”

             
I motioned for Gunny to come on over. He shuffled down the stairs and stopped behind me. Odin slipped past her and into the shelter.
I helped Gunny inside and into a nearby chair. It was bigger than it looked from the outside.
It was probably twenty feet wide by fifty feet long.
There was a small open bathroom in one corner and three beds.
Numerous shelves held jars of preserved vegetables and fruit, plus lots of canned goods.
There was enough food in here to last for months.

             
Half a dozen dynamo powered lanterns were hanging at regular intervals, illuminating the room.
The sink near the toilet had a manual pump on it.
Now this was a zombie shelter, if I ever saw one.
Once the door was secure, she came over and introduced herself.

             
“I’m April Patton,” she said, extending her hand.

             
“Wylie Grant,” I replied, and shook her hand. “The walking wounded is Myron Graves.”

             
“Call me Gunny,” he said, softly. “I hate being called Myron.”

             
“Those two people you shot were my father and brother.”

             
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “I’m so sorry.”

             
“Don’t be.
They’d have killed me, if they could have.
It wasn’t them anymore.”

             
“If you’ll let me out, I’ll go get those other guns for you.
You can have them.”

             
“You’d better make it fast,” she said.
“It’ll be dark soon, and you don’t want to be out there when it gets dark.”

             
I dropped my pack, taking only the pistols on my belt and the M-4 with me.
She opened the door and I made a quick run to the barn and back with the guns.
The sun was dipping low in the sky when she shut and locked the door behind me.
I put the guns on a table, next to an old pump shotgun and a lever action deer rifle.
She only had one box of ammo for the deer rifle and a handful of shells for the shotgun.