ZNIPER: A Sniper’s Journey Through The Apocalypse.

by Ward III, C.

  “What time is it?” she asked again for the third time.

  “Almost seven. I’m sure it’ll be soon. You should sit down before you wear a hole in the floor.”

  Stephan ignored the comment and peered out the grime- and poster-covered window, looking for anything that signified the end of their long and painful journey. “Hey! I see people out there!” she shouted.

  Right then, a huge explosion shook the entire building, causing hanging lights throughout the store to sway and ceiling tiles to fall, blanketing them in a cloud of dust. Knocked off her feet, Stephan stumbled forward, inadvertently ripping a poster off the window, smearing a clean streak in the grime. Catching her balance and righting herself, she stared out the window into the eyes of four lunatic members of the Houghton Lake biker gang.

  Her eyes went wide. Before she could react, the leader raised his rifle and fired, shattering the window around her. She dove over a merchandise counter as the window fell into a million pieces, bullets raking across the shelving around and behind her. She hit the floor with a thud and went dizzy from a vicious pain resonating in her thigh. She tried to roll over and come up to her hands and knees to crawl away, but her leg gave out. Instinctively she reached down to hold the pain and felt a warm stickiness.

  “Shit!” Victor said as his rifle flicked off safe and the trigger was pressed. The third member of the black-clad group had shouldered his rifle and maneuvered behind the lead member, who was shooting wildly into the electronics store. His head was quartered in Victor’s reticle until it was split open the same time the rifle recoiled into his shoulder pocket. He absorbed the rifle’s energy and slid the bolt back, ejecting a hot piece of brass into the chilled morning air; then he slid the bolt forward again, chambering a new round. He regained his sight picture to see the top of a head canoe’d just above the ponytail, spraying brain matter and pink mist all over the lead shooter.

  About to engage his next target, a burst of full-auto gunfire erupted from inside the store. A vicious stream of tracers cut left and right into the bikers, who were diving for cover. Whoever was on the gun inside the store didn’t let off the trigger at all, spraying a full two-hundred-round drum at the cyclic rate into the surrounding cars, pavement, and adjacent stores.

  Raymond tracked the rear black-clad assailant, who took a protective position behind the tailgate of an abandoned truck that had been rusted out long before the Dark Day. Raymond paused for a split second, debating whether or not to shoot this asshole in the face through the tailgate. A 175-grain bullet could easily punch a hole right through the thin, rusted sheet metal, which would make for an epic headshot worthy of his memoirs. Instead, he aimed for the exposed knee on the pavement under the rear bumper. He preferred to watch his target’s face as his soul escaped the physical body into the ether. Unfortunately, with a blown-out kneecap, the man was rolling on the street in pain, not giving Raymond the satisfaction. For the inconvenience, he put the next bullet through his intestines, sentencing this guy to a prolonged, miserable death.

  Kevin slammed the Squad Automatic Weapon on top of the display case and squeezed the trigger. At this range, he didn’t bother looking though the sights. He kept his head up with both eyes on the street before him as he traversed the stream of destruction back and forth. He wasn’t certain if he’d hit any of the attackers as they dove for cover, but his goal was to give Stephan some cover to retreat to the rear of the store.

  The machine gun bounced violently back and forth with a deafening barrage. With his peripheral vision, he watched the belt of ammo quickly getting shorter as hot brass and black links rained down on the filthy industrial carpet. To his right, he could see Stephan lying in a pool of blood. Kevin’s mind instantly went from rage to fear. The gun stopped bouncing, and with ringing ears and through a cloud of gun smoke, he tossed the M249 across the floor. It tumbled and rolled to a stop next to the front door, at the same time Kevin reached down to grab Stephan by the arm and dragged her to safety while aiming his pistol out the shattered storefront window.

  After a brief lull in the chaos, another firefight flared up in the street.

  “Gaylen, grab the med bag!” Kevin shouted, struggling to hear his own voice, temporarily deaf from the machine gunfire in such a confined space. “Stephan, stay with me, girl!” he said, looking into her eyes filled with terror and pain. He went straight to the obvious injury first, cutting away her bloody pant leg as high as he could with trauma sheers.

  Gaylen stood over Kevin with the medical bag and a look of complete horror. Kevin had his knee on Stephan’s upper thigh, stopping circulation, and one hand pushing down on the wound as he poured a bottle of water over her leg, smearing the blood away. “Gaylen!” Kevin yelled at her. “Help me or get in the fight! I need a tourniquet and the Kerlix gauze out of the bag,” he said as he held both hands down on the wound.

  She dropped the bag down and unzipped it. “Here!” she said, tossing him a black Velcro strap. “What does the Kerlix look like?”

  “It’s white, like fine cheesecloth. Either in a roll or folded into squares. Open the package; my hands are wet,” he instructed her. “OK, good. If there’s any extra in the bag, open a couple more packages of them. Try not to lay them on the dirty floor. After that, try to find a blanket or dry clothes to wrap her in. She’s losing blood, and we need to keep her warm.”

  Gaylen did as instructed, ignoring the gun battle happening just outside the store. Kevin leaned in close to Stephan. “This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

  “It already does. Just do it!” Stephan said with a shaking whisper.

  Gaylen helped him wrap the tourniquet high on Stephan’s thigh, then twisted the windlass rod, tightening the strap around her leg until she cried out in pain. He lifted hand pressure off the wound just enough to start packing the thin gauze material into the wound channel. His index finger was too fat, dragging it out of the bullet hole and making a suction sound. Switching to his pinky finger, he stuffed an entire row of gauze, one little pinch at a time, into the hole while Stephan cursed through gritted teeth.

  He didn’t let up. He packed another entire roll into the bullet hole until he couldn’t pack anymore, then rolled her onto her side and did the same procedure to the exit wound on the back of her thigh. “I’ve got it packed. Going to wrap it with a pressure dressing to keep it in place. Bleeding’s stopped, so I’m pretty sure it missed the artery, and I didn’t feel any bone fragments in there. Good news: you’ll survive to kick my butt later,” he said with a smile and a wink, feeling a lot better about the situation.

  He wrapped her leg with a dressing, then loosened the tourniquet windlass rod by one twist. “You’ve lost some blood. You’ll probably be weak and lightheaded for a few days. I’m sure you’re good to go for now, but we’re treating for shock anyway.” Kevin lifted her legs to prop them up on the shelving to reduce the blood flow to her leg and reroute more blood to her organs. Using a coat found in the manager’s office, Gaylen wrapped her up, tucking it around her tightly.

  While admiring his casualty-care handiwork and about to begin his secondary-patient assessment, he realized he’d failed the first step, which was to ensure the scene was safe. He was so focused on helping Stephan that he forgot about the danger around them. One casualty could have led to two or three—in all actuality, they all would have bled out, ending their journey right there and then.

  This realization brought him back to the moment; situational awareness alerted him to the end of the firefight outside, leaving only the ringing in his ears. He grabbed his pistol and stood up at the same time shadowy figures started moving across the street, toward the store.

  “Huh. That wasn’t in your mission brief,” Raymond said matter of factly.

  “Cover us! Darcy, on me!” Victor jumped to his feet, bounding down the small hill, twisting his scope magnification to the lowest power and dialing elevation down to zero. Four men had walked in; he’d killed one, Raymond downed another, and the mach
ine gunner from inside the store stitched one too. Only one more Tango to be dealt with. From the hill, Raymond had a clear line of site to the east. The west was clear for now. The only place for the last Tango to hide was the vehicle cluster between him and the electronics store.

  Victor was peeking around the front corner of a purple minivan when the door mirror exploded, showering him with shards of mirror and fiberglass. He gritted his teeth, stepping back to the safety of the engine block as more shots whizzed passed. Victor reached up to his face, pulling a chunk of bloody mirror out of his cheek as Darcy stepped around him.

  Darcy knelt low, extending his inward leg toward Victor like a kickstand for stabilization. He leaned out just enough for his rifle to clear the fender of the minivan and began sending rounds at the shooter.

  Victor decided to go prone to shoot under the minivan. He spotted movement about five vehicles deep. A shiny steel-toed boot. He centered his reticle on the boot ankle and was about to squeeze the trigger when a volley of incoming bullets impacted the van’s tires, dropping the frame by six inches and ruining Victor’s shot. He didn’t have enough clearance for bipods. He had to roll to his right side, lying on his shoulder on the pavement instead of his chest. Making a fist with his left hand planted on the rough asphalt, he rested his rifle sideways on top of his fist, giving him just enough clearance to make a shot.

  Shooting sideways with a scoped rifle canted ninety degrees isn’t as easy as lining up the sights and pulling the trigger. When you shoot normally, your reticle’s vertical stadia line is aligned with the barrel. When sighted in for one hundred yards, the horizontal stadia line is adjusted for three hundred feet of gravitational bullet drop, plus mechanical offset of the scope height. So when you tilt your rifle sideways to make a tight clearance shot, the shooter must take into account that the crosshair stadia lines are now reversed. The windage turret is now for elevation, and the elevation turret is for windage. To make matters worse, the elevation adjustment needed to sight in your one-hundred-yard shot is no longer accounted for. Ultimately, without making any further adjustments, Victor knew that his shot was going to impact 4.5 inches left and 2.25 inches low.

  Victor compensated by aiming high and to the right of the black-laced boot and squeezed the trigger. Not having the rifle properly seated in his shoulder and lack of stable front support allowed the rifle to jump, gouging the scope’s ocular lens into his eyebrow and falling to the pavement. He didn’t need to look through the scope to see the last Tango rolling around in agony under the line of cars.

  Rolling to his back, he looked up at Darcy. “He’s hit but very much still alive. Go finish him off, carefully.” A moment later, a rapid five-round burst echoed through the automobile graveyard.

  “All elements, this is SRT. Half time. I say again, half time. QRF, we need a ride off the field ASAP,” Victor said into the yellow walkie-talkie.

  “Roger that; QRF en route,” Curtis replied.

  “ERT, do you copy half time? ERT? Michael, Zavier, do you copy?”

  Raymond and Darcy gathered by Victor outside the store. “Want me to go get ’em?” Raymond asked while reloading his rifle.

  “No. Stick to the plan. Let’s get the PAX loaded first,” Victor said, pointing toward the store.

  “Detroit, are you in there? Lake City friendlies coming in,” Victor shouted.

  “Yes, we’re in the back. Come quick, we have wounded!”

  With his rifle slung over his shoulder and pistol drawn, Victor entered the electronic store prepared to counter an ambush. He spotted a tall blonde-haired woman and a short, stocky man with blood-covered hands near the back. “Sitrep?” he ordered.

  He walked quickly toward them, surveying the store layout along the way. The shorter man introduced himself and gave him a situation report. “Stephan took a round to the leg. She lost about two and a half pints. Wound is packed and stable. She’s conscious but needs a doctor, ASAP.”

  Victor rounded the aisle corner to see her lying on blood-covered carpet with feet elevated and an impressive wound dressing. “You did this?” he asked. Kevin nodded. “Great patient care. Did you loosen the tourniquet yet?”

  “Yes, only once. No further bleeding.”

  “Should we change her bandage?” Gaylen asked.

  “No!” Kevin, Victor, and Raymond said in unison. “First clot is the best clot. You don’t want to risk breaking the clot until it’s time to sew it up by a doctor. If it starts to bleed again, retighten the CAT and apply another pressure dressing on top of the first.”

  Victor stunned the group by handing Kevin his rifle and then kneeling down next to Stephan, placing a soft hand on her forehead. She reached up softly, then pulled another shard of broken mirror out of his cheek, causing a new stream of blood to drip down from his scruffy chin.

  She looked up at him with wet eyes. A thick tear dripped down her dirty cheek, splashing onto the blood-soaked carpet. “What did you do to your handsome face?” she asked.

  “Was trying to get cleaned up for our big date. I just cut myself shaving, is all.”

  She giggled a little, almost passing out from blood loss and exhaustion. “I really missed you,” she said softly. She’d been waiting to say those words for months.

  “I worried for you nonstop, wishing every day to see you come through the gates.” Victor leaned down and kissed her heavily, forgetting to breathe. He lifted away with a dizzy head rush, returning the emotional smile. “I missed you too. Let’s get you home, shall we?”

  “What the hell?” Raymond spat. “We did all this for your girlfriend? Shit, I knew this mission was too extravagant for a simple pickup.”

  “I didn’t know for sure who was out here, but I suspected. And girlfriend or not, she’s the most knowledgeable virologist in the world. Kind of designates her as a high-value asset, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I can vouch for that. She knows everything about the hybrid pathogen plaguing the world,” Kevin added.

  “Whatever. Let’s wrap this up. I’m hungry.” Raymond sneered, turning for the door.

  They fashioned a makeshift litter to carry her on, then slid it into the back of Curtis’s red pickup truck. Their supplies, the boxes of electronics Kevin had prepared, and their loot of biker-gang weapons were also loaded into the trucks.

  Once they had congregated around the trucks, Victor announced, “Change of plans. Curtis, you drive Erica back to the high school; the med-clinic team should already be on standby. Drive fast but safely. Gaylen and Darcy, you go with them. Raymond, you have security in the back of the truck. Do you know how to stick an IV?”

  “Yup, used to give them to myself in the field all the time. IV bags hydrate better than water.” Raymond grinned, happy to get to practice jabbing veins on live tissue.

  “Good. Give Erica one on the way.”

  “Wait, wait, wait a minute. Who’s this Erica person? That’s Stephan,” Kevin said, confused and looking around at everyone.

  “One in the same, Leprechaun. I went by my middle name at the Detroit lab. Stupid alias protocols, remember?” she said with a light smile. “Vic, why are you not coming with us?” she asked as her smile faded into a frown.

  “I’m sorry, my love, I hate to kiss and run. But Deputy Dembele, Kevin, and I need to go find the ERT team. Michael and Zavier. They’re not answering radios. Something’s wrong, but don’t worry yourself; we’ll be home soon.”

  “Contact!” Curtis yelled, then began to shoot rapidly over the hood of the truck to the north into a wave of Grays flooding through the streets like an infectious tsunami.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Victor said, slapping the side of Curtis’s old red pickup truck with one hand and unslinging his rifle with the other. He began shooting into the wall of Grays while Curtis slammed on the gas, heading west toward Lake City. When the horde was only two blocks away, they jumped in the second truck and hauled ass south, hoping to draw the Grays away from Michael and Zavier’s area of operation.

  GAME O
VER

  Would rather be playing video games

  Zavier had been out hunting Grays at night with his family several times before, but he’d never seen so many clustered in one area like this. He and Michael had joked around, waging a brotherly bet on who would kill the most, but honestly seeing so many of the decrepit creatures gathered in the street below him was unnerving.

  Zavier hoped that in a couple of minutes, Curtis’s improvised explosive would kill them all, and he wouldn’t have to fire a single shot. He was not going to get laughed at by his brother by saying that out loud, though. If his dad hadn’t seemed so adamant about needing him, he would have asked to stay home this time. Killing Grays next to his dad was one thing; this was completely different. He trusted Michael, who was a pretty good shot—almost as good as he was—and they did have the two security guys to watch their backs, but having his dad next to him would make him feel much better.

  Michael motioned to Grumpy and Deuce that they were about to kick off the mission. Zavier rearranged his equipment and his shooting position one last time. His rifle sat on bipods, resting near the edge of the flat graveled roof they were perched on. His other rifle—which his dad had called an AR pistol due to its very short barrel—sat next to his pack. Before the world had gone dark, he used to shoot similar guns, but they were smaller, lighter rimfires. Since the dawn of the superbeast with armored skin, his dad upgraded him to 5.56 for both guns. These were a little bit heavier, but the bigger, faster bullets did the trick on the Grays, and having suppressors was pretty cool too.

  He watched the road flare sprout a bright-red flame three hundred yards down the street, giving off a long wisp of slowly drifting smoke. To his right, Michael aimed at the propane tanks and fired. Zavier had been ready to start shooting every remaining Gray still standing, starting close and then working his way out. His extra rifle mags were laid out neatly in a row for quick reloads. Pulling his favorite MTC hat down low shaded his scope, giving him a nice crisp sight picture.