Her plan unfolds in Zeke’s head. “You want the noise to draw them back.”
“Even if it’s for a few minutes, it gives us a chance to thin them.”
“Anything’s worth a try.” He drops into the tank. The turret pivots, and the barrel raises. Zeke pops his head out of the hatch. “Where?”
“Off the road. In the patch of trees.” Jada points. “As far as you can.”
The tank jerks, kicking up dust and gravel. The ground vibrates around the embankment. Jada grabs her ears as the earplugs do nothing to prevent the deafening ring. The round whistles until the explosion shatters the air.
PEERING THROUGH THE remaining lens of broken binoculars, a man covered in dirty garb inspects the chain-link fence.
“Go!”
At his command, two men race beside him across the open field between the tree line and the Acheron fence. Covered in fleshy ponchos of gutted undead skin, they reach the chain-link. They place filth-covered fingers on the metal in unison as if practiced in fence scaling. They flip their ponchos over the barbed wire woven around the top to protect them from the razor points as they somersault over.
The two men wait for a command. The binocular-wielding leader crouches low, scanning the compound. Not wishing to give up his advantage over those people defending the gate, he…
“Where do we go?”
“The farmhouse,” he snaps. Thousands of gun reports might drown out their words, but he has not lasted ten months taking risks. “Keep quiet! All those people are so involved with the undead at the gate. We should be able to get some supplies and be gone.”
“Why not stay here? We could live as ghosts and be protected.”
Escaping detection might give them the run of the compound. How long would they last as ghosts? The leader contemplates their options. A few days of avoiding the undead would be nice, but never again would they have the distraction to scale the fence.
“Let’s get food,” the third man says.
“How do you know there’s food?”
“All these guns—they must be stocked.”
“Maybe they left a gun at home.”
“They left a girl.” The third man bolts for Ethan’s house. Emily leaps from the porch and races against the man for the inner gate, built by Ethan to protect the farm when it was the first home to the original Acheron survivors. She beats the man to the gate.
Emily struggles with the metal. Her thin arms are unable to move the gate along the track. Ethan would have no issue closing it, and Dartagnan, as small as he is, has shut it before.
A boot soaked in undead flesh jams into the track as the wheel releases, preventing Emily from sliding it closed. All three men tug the gate from her thin fingers.
She screams.
But even she knows the futility of releasing all the air from her lungs. The thunder of exploding gunpowder sings like a bad bar tune before last call.
The man using his legs as a door stop punches Emily in the chest. With no air in her lungs, she gasps for fresh breath, but her body refuses. She lands on her bottom. The gravel pokes her skin through her jeans.
“Don’t mess up her face,” growls one of them.
“We don’t need her screams bringing help.”
“No one will hear her.” He points in the direction of the main gate. The constant firecracker pops of expending rounds mask all other noise.
One of the men scoops Emily into a bear hug. “In that case, let’s enjoy her inside.”
Emily finds her breath. Before he securely clamps his hand over her mouth, she bites a finger.
He drops her.
Emily stumbles, but keeps her footing. She races for the porch. Before she achieves a full stride, he has her shirt in his grip. It tears, but not free of her frame. The cloth snags and acts as a clamp. He returns her struggling body to his bear hug.
“You’re going to pay for the bite, missy.” He kisses her neck, nipping her flesh with his teeth.
The torn cloth hangs over the pistol on her hip. Struggling, she can’t get the .22 free. Emily flails her arms and legs, but his grip won’t break.
“Shut her up,” the biggest man orders. “Not the kind of screaming I want from her.”
“She’s a fighter. Been a long time since we had one that struggles.”
“She’s a little girl. I may be a bastard, but I ain’t no fucking bastard who rapes little girls.”
“I say if she got a cooch full of hair, we have at her.”
Emily never thought she’d be facing this situation again. Acheron was safety. After Ethan brought her here, she never had a nightmare about the assault. Once the bruises and scratches from the beating healed, she put it out of her mind. Ulyana spoke to her some in a therapy session, but it was the one part of her with unbendable strength. Ethan would protect her, and it would never happen again.
Where’s Ethan?
Touring Graceland.
And everyone else is at the main gate.
Everyone but Dar.
Emily’s thoughts break with her fall. The hard impact of her abdomen against the edge of the porch bursts all the air from her lungs. She doesn’t know if lungs bruise. Her escape plan leaves with the air.
“Parlan. Don’t even get your pencil dick hard. We have to secure the house first.”
“Inside is better. Been even longer since I fucked a girl on a bed.”
“They have electricity.” He points to the porch light.
“Maybe running water.”
“I’m hoping for a chilled beer with my warm snatch.”
Emily’s lungs won’t refill enough to allow her to recover. Two hard impacts in as many minutes renders her inert.
“She’s lost her fight.” A hand clamps on one of her breasts the second before she’s lifted ragdoll-limp into the air. “Too bad. Wish she had some tits.”
“Told you she was just a little girl.” The big man marches through the front door.
Emily’s captor struggles to fondle her as he carries her inside. She gives no resistance.
Her mind races back to the first time she was attacked. She never expected to be rescued then. She had no idea Ethan existed. She knows he’s four hundred miles away, and no chance he will save her now. She relents to her fate.
Resigned that her first sexual experience will be forced on her, during her last few moments of life, Emily recalls her desire for Ethan to have been her one love. I begged him to make me his before someone forced me.
I did tell him.
I have that.
I offered without question that day in his bedroom. He did desire me. He stiffened at the sight of my naked body.
He said no.
He left me to be my own person. Now I’ll die.
Ethan won’t save me.
Ethan’s not here to save me.
Everyone protects the gate, and no one will rescue me.
Emily pushes away the fear holding her down, the same fear preventing her from screaming when the man pinned her in the truck cab.
Ethan saved her that day.
Ethan will save me. He trained me to shoot.
The rancid odor of the man’s body sickens her as he lays her on the living room rug. She doubts if she puked he would care. The growth in Parlan’s pants presses against her crotch. Her mouth dries. Beads of sweat form along her hairline.
She pushes her fear and helplessness deep inside her as if locking them away in a room for punishment. She froze a month ago. She didn’t know those men had killed her two traveling friends. She knew this burly man was tearing off her clothes.
No! That memory—in the locked room.
I won’t freeze again.
Emily uses all her strength to pinch her legs closed. Parlan spreads them apart like tearing paper, giving no notice to her free hands as she slips one under the torn cloth to the pistol on her belt.
One of the other men grabs her hand and jerks Emily from the floor. “There are beds upstairs.”
Even knowing
her maidenhead would be taken by force, how she’d never be able to willingly give her virginity to a man of her choosing, the opening of her legs as if she were nothing churns her stomach. Bile creeps into her throat. All her authority over her body is stripped from her.
Nothing.
Emily fails to be a person.
She lacks power over her own body. This behemoth controls her, and she has no means to stop it.
The second man struggles to hold her and pinch her nipple through the lacy bra.
He reaches the stairs. The narrow corridor leading up doesn’t give him room to maneuver while he carries her.
One of his steps jostles her, slapping the cold gun metal against her flesh.
Emily picks her moment. She holds in cries of pain as he pinches her nipple raw. It throbs. She resists swatting, allowing him to remain distracted. Five steps up, she draws the pistol, prays she racked a bullet into the chamber. Her finger flips the safety.
The cold barrel pokes at the man’s side.
The bullet tears downward. Likely shattering his hip.
The confined thunder deafens her. He has no means to hold her and remain standing on a bleeding leg.
Emily finds herself falling. She tightens her grip. I won’t lose the gun. The impact jars her, finding the landing soft on top of the dirty man.
Before she recovers, her wrists slam against the wooden floor, pinned by Parlan. He doesn’t kick away the gun. Her index finger remains on the trigger. She fires.
Something breaks.
Open your eyes, dumb girl.
She obeys the voice over her ringing ears.
The biggest man has her right wrist in one hand, pointing it away from him while he attempts to pry open her fingers with the other.
Emily uses all her strength—which isn’t much—to clamp down on the handle. She’s not sure how she keeps her fingers laced around it, but adrenaline and fear must play a factor.
“Give it up, you little cunt muffin. Give it up! Or I’ll fuck you bloody.”
His insult and threat do little to deter her.
NO. He wants the gun, he must break my hand. He’ll have to break every part of me before he touches me.
Emily struggles against him. This time she refuses to stop squirming, even when the slap brings wavering stars to her eyes.
“Give it up, you little bitch!”
“Fuck you!” Emily drags as much flesh from his cheek as her fingernails hook.
He doesn’t release her, but the shock loosens his grip. The gun discharges. She twists at an unnatural angle to fire again. Even the tiny .22 kicks. Her finger snaps when it slams back on the floor.
Dar! Oh, my God! Dartagnan’s somewhere in the house. Her tantrum of kicking feet earns her a gut punch.
Emily’s stomach, or something close to it, bursts like a balloon. Warm wet soaks between her legs. She prays it was only her bladder.
“She fucking pissed!”
Parlan leans in next to her ear. The ringing keeps her from understanding his threatening whispers. He tears at her remaining clothes. She punches him. Most of her hits glance off. One—lucky—grazes his lip, busting it open.
He spits blood. It rolls down her neck. He kisses her cheek. His teeth sink into the flesh. The gnarled incisor cuts at her. Emily holds in her scream of defeat.
The ringing in her ears clears enough to notice mumbles of the third man, who’s unable to decide between joining the attack on her or deal with the cries of pain of the one she shot.
“Don’t ruin her before we all get a turn. She’s got a pretty face.”
He spits out a chunk of her cheek. It bounces off her nose. “Not anymore.”
Emily’s own blood dribbles down her face. Her cheek burns.
“She don’t need a face to fuck.”
SCOOP SHOVELS FLING empty brass casings into a pickup bed.
Every spent round must be recovered and those salvageable be reloaded. Simon knows his meals will be well-earned the next few weeks restoring the camp’s reserve of ammunition.
He snags a handful of spent brass. I won’t be restoring the reserve. We have no shells to spare now. It was all the guns with ammo that afforded Acheron security. Security to build fence and expand. Security to build a community. Security to build a future. Retired from his career as a Chief Petty Officer, Simon’s military experience gives him more insight than most generals. A few thousand rounds at his disposal and no chance of a resupply permanently hinders the operation and brings Acheron’s expansion and supply scavenging to a standstill. He will report the inventory to Wanikiya, but for the good of the camp, no one else must know they have no bullets.
Simon reloads rifle clips, his own fingers worn from shoving brass against the springs. He tosses an empty ammo box into a pile. The last wave of vectors might not be the last. Every person must fully reload. Two waves of undead stormed the gate.
Rotting corpses lean against the fence, reaching to the top of the concertina wire. The undead scaled the makeshift ramp, dropping into the dog run. This new collection of bodies was halted, but if a third wave should appear, they won’t have the ability to prevent the undead from reaching inside.
The earthquake stirred them. The ensuing frenzy was unlike any combat I’ve encountered. I doubt we’ve eliminated all vectors in the area. But like when dealing with lawyers—it’s a good start. Constantly assessing, Simon considers, The Acheron citizens defended the gate as bravely as any seasoned soldiers. They eliminated more undead than most of them have seen since the outbreak. Some fought their first battle today. They all survived an overwhelming enemy and impossible odds. Need to buy them all a beer.
They should be reloading. They should be hydrating. They should be doing anything but sitting. Simon reminds himself they aren’t soldiers. Wanikiya should prepare them for another wave. The quake will draw an undead army southward.
He glances past the approaching Wanikiya. Even Private Sanchez and Private Combeth should not be lounging by the fence. They seem jovial, but soldiers need to prepare. Simon tosses another empty box of shells onto the pile.
“Situation, Chief?” the only man at the camp taller than Ethan requests.
“Our reserves are shot,” Simon spits. He respects the Native American dolled up in his war paint.
Wanikiya places his tomahawk on the truck bed and grabs an empty magazine. “We’ll scavenge more.” He adds with a cold heart, “If we make it through this, we’ll cross the needing more ammo bridge later.”
“You are the commander. I don’t like expending all our ammo on an enemy that won’t surrender.” Old dog, new tricks, he muses.
“A good commander seeks the wisdom of his experienced advisors,” Wanikiya says.
“If you want my advice, you get everyone reloaded, then pull them off the fence in shifts for rest and water. Send patrols to ensure we don’t have any breaches. Even if the vectors like live bait, stragglers get hung in the wire and confused.”
“Sound judgment.” Wanikiya reloads his pistol. “I’ll circulate the orders personally. No rest for me. Not if I need the others to remain at their posts.”
Simon nods.
Wanikiya moves about his people—Ethan’s people—not white or black, yellow or red anymore, but human. He directs some to medical, many to rest after they reload, and dispatches two patrols for fence inspection. He climbs the ladder to the top of the cargo trailer operating as a castle battlement.
A few undead stagger around the corpse mounds covering the highway before Acheron’s main entrance. Wanikiya knows they expended over fifty thousand rounds. There must be as many undead corpses in piles before the gate.
Rotten meat replaces the moan-howls as the new danger.
“What are we going to do with all those dead bodies?” Barlock asks.
“Get the backhoe up here. They’re a plague waiting to happen.”
“It won’t fit through this gate. The last time we moved construction equipment inside, we parked it and moved the fenc
e,” Barlock says.
“There are some backhoes a few miles south. Send a team. Pick out a crew from those people after they have rested,” Wanikiya says. “This is a priority. The smell alone will sicken people once they lose the taste of gunpowder.”
Barlock tilts his head toward Simon and the pile of empty ammo boxes. “Not to raise a panic, but I’m betting we don’t have the ammo to spare.”
“Policing the brass and reloads will restore our reserves, but illness will end us. One sick person inside leading to death and we’ll have a dozen biters inside. We control infection entry from the outside only.”
“We recheck the perimeter, and we keep quiet. The biters will move south away from us, then we could make a run for the dozers,” Barlock suggests.
“South…toward Ethan,” Wanikiya says.
“Toward the Boot Heel. He will avoid the area now, which means it will take him longer to return. Take more than a few thousand biters to kill him,” Barlock says.
“The epicenter of the quake will draw millions.”
“He was heading to an active military base. Man’s liable to appear on a rocket ship.”
With each breath, Wanikiya draws in more rot. “No one goes outside. We police this brass. Pull off groups of the defenders for a rest shift. Have them strip. Hose off the blood and check for bites. Anyone with fresh scratches, we segregate until we’re sure. If they worsen, quarantine them. They need rest and recovery time. The aftershock will draw more biters. Tomorrow, we send a team for the backhoe. We level the trees—”
Brent slaps the top of the container. The echo gives him a second to catch his breath. “Wanikiya. Barlock.”
“What?”
“Radio transmission from the dam crew. They’re low on ammo, and the gate’s being overrun.”
Wanikiya grips his tomahawk handle.
“They get in, we lose the dam and we all buy it,” Barlock says.
Wanikiya’s dark eyes warn he didn’t want such a pronouncement. Victory was holding back panic.
He slides down the ring ladder. “Follow my orders. Get our people rested.” Wanikiya marches to Simon. “What ammo remains?”
“I have mostly .22 and some M16 ammo that all needs to be loaded into clips.”
No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks Page 2
