Z-Series | Book 6 | Z-Endgame

by Hatchett

  “Why we gotta have rules?”

  “’Cos ya fuckin’ cheat, otherwise.”

  “Nah, not me.”

  “No rules, no shootin’ game.”

  “OK, OK. Ya really are a miserable bastard sometimes, Ahmed. Right, ten points fer a head shot, 5 points fer any other part of the body. Bonus 10 points if it’s a bird.”

  “I thought ya’d wanna keep the birds alive.”

  “Nah, it’s OK. They’ll still be warm by the time we get ta ‘em.”

  “Oh man, yer gross.”

  “We ready?” Mamba said, passing Ahmed one of the rifles.

  “What if they run out the other side of the buildin’ tryin’ ta escape.”

  “Good point.”

  Mamba picked up the walkie talkie and told his men to shoot anyone leaving the building, and that they’d get 5 points for a kill.

  “What ‘bout the head shot ‘n woman bonus?” Ahmed asked.

  “They don’t need ta know that.”

  “See? Yer a fuckin’ cheat.”

  Mamba smiled.

  “My game, my rules. Ya ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s go!”

  Mamba quickly lay down with his rifle and binoculars. He’d already had a good look at the farmhouse while Ahmed was on his errand and had spotted where the intermittent shotgun blasts were coming from, so he knew where to aim for first. He lined up his sights at one specific window and waited. It was only a matter of time.

  Ahmed was similarly prone on the ground, swinging his rifle from window to window, looking for the slightest movement.

  A few seconds later, a man appeared in Mamba’s sights as expected, and the resultant shot took off the top of the man’s head in a spray of blood.

  “Ten points,” Mamba said.

  Ahmed ignored him and a second later pulled his own trigger, to find that nothing happened.

  “What the fuck…?” Ahmed said, pulling his head away from the weapon to look at it.

  “Ya ain’t gonna shoot shit if it ain’t loaded,” Mamba remarked, chuckling.

  “Bastard!” Ahmed huffed, as he quickly released the magazine and saw that it was empty. He quickly grabbed a nearby box of bullets and started loading.

  By the time Ahmed was loaded and ready to go, Mamba had fired again and claimed another 10 points. Ahmed hadn’t seen it, but he was suspicious.

  “Ya ain’t that good a shot,” he muttered, scouting the windows once again.

  Ahmed spotted movement and swung the barrel and fired. The bullet hit the window frame and splintered wood flew in all directions.

  “Fuck!” he shouted.

  “Ya might want ta check the sights,” Mamba said helpfully.

  “Bastard!”

  Mamba laughed as Ahmed corrected his sights.

  “Yer a fuckin’ cheat,” Ahmed accused again.

  “A bad workman blames…”

  “Fuck off!”

  Mamba shot again.

  “Ten points.”

  “Man, yer fuckin’ dreamin’. Ain’t no way ya got three ten pointers in a row,” Ahmed groused.

  There was some return fire, completely pointless, then a quick succession of shots coming from the other side of the building.

  “They tryin’ ta run,” Mamba surmised, and started chuckling.

  “Boss, got fifteen points,” Emre’s excited voice came through the walkie talkie. “Two men and a woman.”

  Mamba picked up his own walkie talkie.

  “Good lad, that should make ‘em think again.”

  He put down the walkie talkie and raised his rifle once again.

  “Ain’t ya gonna tell him he’s got a bonus 10 points fer the bird, mebbe more if they were head shots? He’s on at least 25 points, almost more’n ya!” Ahmed said laughing.

  “He’s on 15,” Mamba replied, letting another shot go, but not claiming any points this time.

  “Cheat.”

  “Am not. He was jus’ lucky they walked straight towards him, so that’s minus points. Too easy. They gotta be window shots.”

  “Changin’ the rules again I see,” Ahmed remarked, letting off a shot. “5 points.”

  “Nah, jus’ clarifyin’ ‘em. What the fuck…”

  “What?”

  “Some dickhead is wavin’ a t-shirt on a stick. Does he think we gonna fall fer that shit? I ain’t no mug.”

  Ahmed scanned the building and saw what Mamba was talking about. Someone waving a white t-shirt on some sort of pole from the second-floor window on the right-hand side of the building from where they were looking.

  “They tryin’ ta surrender,” Ahmed explained.

  “What?” Mamba asked confused. “How d’ya know that?”

  “It’s well known. Ya wave a white flag ta surrender.”

  “Well, it ain’t a flag, it’s a fuckin’ t-shirt or summat,” Mamba replied, putting a bullet through the garment.

  “Man, ain’t ya gonna let ‘em give up?” Ahmed asked.

  “No fuckin’ way. They started it, I’m finishin’ it. Pass me that rocket launcher.”

  “Man, are ya sure? It’s like…breakin’ the rules.”

  “What rules? Fuck the rules. The only rules are my rules. Come on, give us the fuckin’ thing.”

  Ahmed reluctantly passed the rocker launcher over to Mamba, who sat up and primed the weapon.

  “Yer gonna kill all the birds as well,” Ahmed pointed out, hoping that Mamba might see sense. Too late.

  The rocket shot off towards the farmhouse trailing smoke as it headed towards the spot where the t-shirt had been. It flew through the window and a second later half the building erupted in a ball of flame, the roof flying straight up into the air as if in slow motion, reaching its peak before slamming back down to earth.

  “Wahey!” Mamba shouted. “Man, that’s gotta be a few hundred points, so that makes me the winner!”

  He dropped the spent rocket launcher, picked up his MP5 and walkie talkie and started walking towards the farmhouse.

  “Bro, where ya goin’?” Ahmed asked.

  “Ta finish it off.”

  “But there might be some people wiv weapons still alive.”

  “Not fer long.”

  Ahmed jumped up and quickly caught up to Mamba as he ordered his men to move in over the walkie talkie.

  “Man, this is outrageous even fer ya,” Ahmed said.

  “Ya mean awesome, bro, fuckin’ awwwwesome!”

  52

  Day 28 – 16:00

  M4

  They carefully walked around the side of the farmhouse, trying to locate an entrance. They spotted a door was a few metres away and moved towards it, standing either side and looking at one another.

  “Now what?” Ahmed asked.

  “After ya,” Mamba said, indicating the door.

  “Fuck off,” Ahmed replied. “I ain’t goin’ first.”

  “Pussy,” Mamba replied, looking around and spotting three of his men heading in his direction.

  “Oi!” Mamba shouted, then beckoned them over. “Asil, kick this door in,” he ordered one of the Turks.

  Asil put himself in front of the door, took a step back and gave it an almighty kick. The door flew back just as Asil was blown backwards a few metres by the double blast of a shotgun. Mamba looked over and saw that his chest had been obliterated, blood and guts spewing out and onto the ground.

  “He’s fucked,” Mamba remarked, putting a round into the man’s head as his other two men stood there gaping in stunned silence. “Mebbe not a good idea ta kick the door in.”

  Ahmed had darted through the door frame and loosed off a few shots before the door rebounded and he had to kick it open again. His first two shots had hit the man holding a shotgun in the chest and the third had passed over the man’s head and into the stone wall as he fell to the ground.

  Ahmed dashed into what was a typical farmhouse kitchen with sturdy wooden cabinets and a large butler sink, quickly followed by Mamba, who dar
ted in the opposite direction.

  Mamba fired a couple of times towards a doorway on the far side of the room and this was quickly followed by someone shouting, ‘we give up’ and throwing a shotgun through the gap. The weapon clattered to the tiled floor and skidded a few metres before hitting the far wall and coming to a stop.

  “Come out wiv yer hands up,” Mamba ordered, his MP5 trained on the doorway.

  A man appeared with his hands in the air. He was five and a half feet tall with a beer gut, long straggly greyish hair, long straggly greyish beard, earrings, and dark piercing eyes. He was wearing sturdy black boots, blue jeans held up by a studded black leather belt with a large designer buckle, black t-shirt sporting the legend of some heavy metal band and a black leather jacket with the sleeves torn off and some elaborate studs, badges and other markings all across the front.

  “We’re coming out,” the man said, his eyes never leaving Mamba. “Don’t shoot.”

  There were muffled shots from another part of the farmhouse and Mamba just shrugged.

  “Ceasefire,” the man screamed, turning his head back the way he had come, then he looked back at Mamba.

  Dev, Emre and Basir appeared in the doorway behind Mamba, and taking in the situation, ventured into the room.

  “On yer knees,” Mamba ordered, as another man entered the kitchen with his hands up. Then a woman, a girl, and another two men, all of whom knelt, still with their hands up.

  “Check ‘em over,” Mamba ordered, and Dev stepped forward, throwing his MP5 over his shoulder. “What’s yer name?” Mamba asked the first man.

  “Butler,” he replied, still staring at Mamba.

  “Ya the boss?”

  “I guess so.”

  “How many people?”

  “I don’t know after that explosion.”

  “Guess.”

  “Ten, fifteen?”

  Mamba turned to Basir.

  “Go ‘n check if there’s more.”

  Basir exited the farmhouse and ran off towards the rear of the building.

  “Nothing, boss,” Dev confirmed as he straightened up.

  “Good, ya ‘n Emre take ‘em ‘round the back ‘n tie ‘em up.

  “What are you going to do to us?” Butler asked.

  “Ain’t decided,” Mamba replied, as he watched them being escorted outside, his gaze lingering on the woman and the girl.

  Once the kitchen was cleared, Mamba and Ahmed walked through the doorway into the next room, seeing weapons discarded on the floor, an assortment of guns and knives. It was a dining room with a large wooden table covered in crap and sturdy matching wooden chairs and another doorway opposite, which led into a large lounge area.

  The lounge was a right mess, large sofas and chairs with the stuffing falling out of them, the floor littered with empty beer cans and other debris, overflowing ashtrays on a coffee table and it stank. Seeing the ashtrays reminded Mamba that he hadn’t had a smoke for a while, so he pulled his pack and zippo from a pocket and lit up, passing them to Ahmed, who did the same.

  On the back wall was a set of stairs leading up to the second storey. Mamba eyed the gap at the top of the stairs as he took a pull on his cigarette and exhaled slowly through his nose.

  “Bingo,” Ahmed muttered, as he held up a small plastic bag containing white powder which had been sitting on a side table.

  Mamba grinned.

  “Oh,” Ahmed said as he pointed to an empty syringe and some foil.

  “Ya don’t wanna touch that shit,” Mamba said, looking around the room.

  Some more of his men appeared and Mamba ordered them to search everywhere, including the upstairs. The men spread out and went off to search.

  Mamba turned and led Ahmed out of the farmhouse and towards the rear, which happened to be the front, with a large courtyard and some sort of circular fountain in the centre. They’d clearly just attacked from the rear. There were a variety of bikes neatly lined up, two knackered-looking SUVs parked haphazardly and three smaller cars which had been burnt out long ago. There were also some smaller outbuildings on the opposite side of the courtyard and a larger barn sitting behind them.

  Mamba wandered over to where Butler lay on his front with his hands and legs hog-tied behind him. Mamba thought it was appropriate given the circumstances. Mamba sat on the floor and gazed at the bodies lined up, counting thirteen, all of which were men except for the woman and the girl he had seen earlier.

  “Nice little business ya got goin’ back there,” Mamba said. “Ya havin’ much luck?”

  “Some,” Butler replied, “but not so much recently.”

  “I wonder why,” Mamba mused. “I see ya cleared the zombies pretty good.”

  “Wasn’t hard. They don’t move very fast.”

  “How many people were in the farmhouse?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  Mamba looked up at Ahmed.

  “See! I tol’ ya I’d won. Twenty down ‘n most of ‘em were me.”

  “Ya cheated wiv the rocket launcher,” Ahmed replied.

  “Was this yer farm?” Mamba asked, turning his attention back to Butler.

  “Nah, we borrowed it.”

  “No, they didn’t,” the woman piped up. “They stole it and killed my husband.”

  The woman looked to be in her late forties, carrying a little weight, with dirty streaked long blond hair, red eyes, and black smudges over her face. It was difficult to tell if she was tired, been on the drugs or been used as a punchbag. Possibly all three.

  Mamba scooted along the ground until he was next to the woman’s head. He took out his knife and sliced the rope holding her and allowed her to kneel. He stared at her, his gaze lingering on her ample breasts, before glancing at the girl still tied up next to her, then back at her face.

  “Who’s she?”

  “My daughter.”

  “They bin treatin’ ya well?”

  “What do you think?” the woman spat. “We’ve had more pricks than a pin cushion.”

  Mamba laughed, appreciating the woman’s candid appraisal of the situation.

  “Bet ya ain’t had one as big as mine tho’,” Mamba leered and grabbed his crotch.

  “I’m sure I’m going to find out,” the woman replied. “You’re all the fucking same. Bastards.”

  “Would ya like some payback?” Mamba asked casually, watching the woman for her reaction. “I’m a great believer in payback.”

  “Do I get to kill you after as well then?”

  “Sadly, I ain’t that much of a believer.”

  “That figures,” the woman said in resignation.

  “Well? Do ya or don’t ya?”

  The woman glanced at Butler’s prone body, then along the line of people.

  “Fuck, yes,” she replied.

  “Oh, goody, this should be fun,” Mamba said, as he stood up and removed her remaining ties.

  The woman flexed her hands and rubbed her wrists to get the circulation going again.

  “Gun or knife?” Mamba asked.

  The woman considered her options.

  “Gun.”

  “Thought ya might,” Mamba said with a smile. “But don’t ya be getting’ any ideas,” he added waggling his finger from side to side. He turned and looked around.

  “Where are Faruk and Ismet?”

  “Chopping up the bodies of the three I shot earlier,” Emre answered from the ring of men.

  “Ah, man!” Ahmed muttered.

  Mamba shrugged and turned back to the woman, who had blanched.

  “Is he joking?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  Mamba cut the rope keeping the girl on the floor and hefted her to her feet. He held her in front of him, his left arm across her body and his left hand latched onto her right breast.

  “Ya do anythin’ stupid, yer dead ‘n this one gets ta meet Faruk ‘n Ismet. They prefer workin’ wiv summat alive.”

  The woman almost threw up at the thought but nodded quickly.

&nbs
p; “Ahmed, keep her covered,” Mamba ordered, and Ahmed raised his MP5 and trained it on the woman.

  “Wait,” Butler shouted. “You can’t believe her. She’s a bitch and a liar.”

  “Tell me summat I dunno,” Mamba replied. “They all are.”

  “You can have all our stuff,” Butler tried again.

  “We already have all yer stuff.”

  “We can show you where to get food and more weapons.”

  “Don’t need it.”

  “Well, what do you need. Whatever you want, we’ll get it for you.”

  “I wanna fly like Superman.”

  “Come on man, be reasonable. You’ve already killed most of us. We didn’t mean any harm.”

  “Ya tried ta rob me.”

  “I admit it. It was a mistake. We shouldn’t have done it. We’ll do anything to make it right,” Butler started babbling.

  Mamba took out his pistol, switched off the safety with his thumb then turned it around and offered it to the woman.

  “Wass yer name?”

  “Kate.”

  “Well, Kate, make the most of it.”

  “I will,” she said with determination, as she took the gun.

  Hefting it up and down to gauge the weight, she walked across to Butler and placed the barrel against his head.

  “Please!” he whimpered, his bladder letting go and allowing a steady stream of urine to wet his jeans and drip onto the ground below him.

  Seeing this gave Kate a better idea. She pushed Butler until he toppled onto his side, then placed the gun at his groin and pulled the trigger.

  Butler screamed as Mamba and Ahmed looked at each other in surprise and winced. The others on the ground had seen what happened and tried to wriggle away, much to the delight of Mamba’s men.

  “Here little worm,” Emre shouted out.

  “I bet the worms are little now,” someone else shot back and they all laughed.

  The men kept trying to wriggle away and Kate followed them as if in a trance, shooting them one by one without any emotion showing on her face. After the fifth shot, the pistol clicked on an empty chamber, so she silently returned to Mamba and passed him the empty weapon.

  Mamba released the girl and changed magazines, grabbing the girl again before handing the pistol back to Kate.

  “Melissa, do you want a go?” Kate asked, staring at her daughter, who shook her head in response.