by Bonds, Javan
Before his boots touched the last step of the set, Paul heard a barking howl, close enough to feel in his chest. The animals were laying in wait. They were just biding their time. It’s a trap!
In the dim light, he glanced up at his mate from back home. Elliott’s thumb was pointing up along with his gaze.
As he realized they were coming down the stairs to catch them from behind, the door below them burst open. Caught between a rock and a hard place. Now, they were surrounded.
“Crafty buggers!” the shotgun wielder shouted before opening fire.
When the filthy reanimants poured in from the ground level, the Brit started sending buckshot at them. Enough discolored flesh carpeted the floor; the NFL could have blue footballs for eternity. The Red Cross would never need to hold another blood drive. All the Marines could retire, heaven now being packed with damned souls. God had a hard-on for Paul Rawlings!
Both Elliott and Mary started launching their own small caliber rounds at the enemies coming from the third story. Some, simply injured, toppled over the railing, begging for mercy from their azure supreme being. Even a fall from less than two stories could be more than fatal, concrete being the only cushion. Lacking proper nutrients, brittle bones of the infected shattered and splintered upon impacting the man-made stone. Their body fluids made a suitable addition to the pooling soup of chunky remains already collecting below.
Having the higher ground, Paul had no problem holding the revenants at bay. His comrades, with only semiautomatic handguns, continued losing inch by precious inch, regardless of the number they put down. Using a shotgun, he wasn’t able to assist. It pained him, knowing they were losing and not having the option to help. He saw their deaths as unnecessary. The losses would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Standing shoulder to shoulder, Roark and Saunders were using four procured pistols, dropping blue scourge after naked cannibal. The horrid stench of the caustic sewage seeping from the diseased rectums was almost overpowering. They had to fight the urge to gag, instead of killing more, which caused more of the rotten intestinal batter to be voided. Only a disturbed, supernatural comic would make it possible for the digestive systems of starving creatures with sunken gut’s to be tightly packed with the demonic equal of wet soured Oreo balls caked with warm, anchovy fudge.
Slobbering monsters were coming within feet, receiving bullets to the face. They were blown away at close range, snarling and reaching for the living humans. As their mouths gaped, exposed gummy and blackened teeth would receive a round between the cracked lips. Tongues and salivating glands would be instantaneously fried as the superheated lead passed over. It would explode through the back of the throat, destroying the cerebral cortex and connection between the brain and spine. Muscles went immediately slack, gray matter leaking from the back of the skull.
Elliott stood a few steps above Mary, feeling instinctively protective. When his pistols clicked empty, he dropped the magazines and brought both weapons down to take more of the waiting mags in his waistband. Before the fresh loads snapped into place, he was pushed from the side by a charging blunatic. It wasn’t understandable how a starving former human with barely the strength to run could force a husky laborer over with such might.
As if in slow motion, Paul swept his focus to his friend while still shooting the zombies below. Elliott screamed and wheeled both arms as he toppled over the railing. Fortunately, there was enough time to cease firing shotgun pellets into the enemy, so Paul didn’t mince his comrade. It wouldn’t have made a difference even if he hadn’t stopped the barrage.
Facing up, Saunders didn’t make contact with the floor. The long spike at the end of the railing impaled him. The golden finial protruded from the upper left of his chest. Though experiencing unbelievable fear until the very end, death was instantaneous.
Hungry beasts squealed, halting their upward approach for the moment and focusing on the fresh meal given to them from above. Raging at the loss of one of his countrymen, Rawlings peppered the evil dead as they pulled, tore, bit, and ripped on his deceased comrade.
Gushing extremities were torn from ragged stumps, stringing juicy remains of Elliott Saunders to the cold cement floor. Tender morsels of meaty flesh were almost sucked down the infected gullets of bloodthirsty ghouls yearning for just a taste. What was happening to those pathetic animals willing to risk their unlives for just a bite of fresh human could be considered nothing but a massacre. They were crawling over the bodies of their downed brethren to reach the pieces of the dead man, scattered among the gory remains of exploded revenants.
Purposely not paying attention to the fact that he was inflicting just as much damage on his deceased fellow as he was the wicked monsters, Paul continued sending double ought into the mass seeking sustenance. In the corner of his vision, he saw the final moments of Mary Roark, but could do nothing to save her.
“I’m sorry!” he whispered. As if apologizing would make her death any less painful.
☠☠☠
At the moment Elliott fell over the rail, more than one of the closest undead insanely dove to try and catch the untainted meat. Once realizing they would be meeting an excruciating end and not the prize they sought, they each let out otherworldly caterwauls as they plummeted. The cries were abruptly cut off amid the booms of the AA12, accompanied by the constant smacking of wet meat into pooling detritus. Roark now had a moment of uneasy peace before the next comers posed an immediate danger.
Four naked, starving, aroused, disgusting cannibals spread out in a line, closing on what would be a double treat. Roark aimed at the second, then the third in the line, but it wasn’t stopping their forward movement. Squeezing her trigger offered a heart stopping, dream crushing, world consuming, and poignant CLICK. It was the most dreadful sound in the world at that moment. Every one of them paused before understanding their victim was completely defenseless. Maniacal, sinister laughter seemed to come from the quartet of murderous apes.
Still gearing up their charge, she looked down and behind to her left. There was the tool which had saved her life, that dependable fire axe. Though only a miracle could save her life now, it would keep her from enduring indescribable suffering for as long as she could be kept alive. With a mirthless giggle of satisfaction, she leaned over to pick it up while walking backwards.
Not bothering to lift the tail of the blood soaked T-shirt she now wore; she slammed the blade between her thighs. Almost painlessly and undetectably, it barely scraped the inside of her leg. However, the hot gushing against her other leg was more than noticeable. Not just by her, the peevies nearly burst into orgasmic glee at the scent of fresh crimson. Mary Roark just killed herself to forgo lifetimes of torture.
All the bloodthirsty demons surged, even as she brought up the cutting steel. With only minutes to live, the woman would fight happily, knowing she would soon be free of care. As her femoral artery fountained, she swung her weapon at the enemy. Slashing, Roark was only able to injure three of the four.
Growing weak as the life drained from her paling body, Mary dropped her weapon with a smile on her face. They would take her, but they wouldn’t get to enjoy savoring her death. Her loss was something of a victory, at least in her eyes. The Protectors wouldn’t get a complete win.
☠☠☠
Lifelessly slinking down each step, there was no saving her. Dead or dying compatriot falling to the clear, Rawlings turned his muzzle up to destroy the infected lapping up the fresh blood. Pellets tore through the gaunt reanimated corpses like a hot throwing star being forced through butter. True death was about to greet them with opened razor-sharp arms of excruciating agony.
Tightly spread balls of fury blew a perfect circle through one blue abdomen. An impossible amount of guts plopped from the ragged gash, making sick slaps on the already filthy stairs. Crashing to its knees, the reanimant toppled end over end. The occasional innards squished in the fall. Obviously, it didn’t provide much cushion. Though blood loss would undoubtedly be this o
ne’s finale sooner rather than later, digestion would never be possible again.
The blues brothers were each receiving ultimate justice, being dropped with no fanfare. They weren’t really able to begin a retreat, being minced before they could fully turn around to run upstairs. After the zombies were blasted into infinity, the only sound was air sizzling around the smoking barrel of the Atchisson Assault 12 gauge. Their base now belong to Paul Rawlings!
☠☠☠
Paul’s ears were still ringing from the shotgun’s blast echoing in the small stairwell. Dropping the empty box mag and inserting a fresh one into the well, his eyes searched the second story above. Then trailed down to the gore covered ground.
Nothing.
The crystallized silence could have been shattered with the uproarious cacophony of a feather drifting to the floor. Could I’ve really got them all? Nah! That’s what I thought before.
Tentatively creeping down the last flight of stairs, he didn’t hear a sound. The quiet was more terrifying than if a zombie choir were chanting praise to the god of death.
He wasn’t assaulted when opening the door, walking out into the freshly spattered hallway, or even when entering the lobby. Keeping his scattergun pointed at the entrance to the conference rooms, he hugged the far wall. Leaving this cursed building was the only thing on his mind.
Did they infect me?? Maybe they’re all over the building. Are they just ignoring me because I’m a peevie?! You can bet your arse I ain’t going back in there to see if there’s any still alive to notice me. Maybe it really was all of ‘em!
I don’t feel sick. If I was infected, would I know it? Not exceptionally hot. Guess I’ll know for sure in a few hours when they stick me in the damn semi-trailer.
☠☠☠
Standing now on the sidewalk in front of the Loews Vanderbilt Hotel, he glanced up at the searing sun, judging it to be about mid-afternoon. Probably be a good idea to disarm before I go wake up the assholes in the van. A blood-soaked slave holding a shotgun, knocking on the door, might freak them out. I’m just a defenseless servant. One of these days, I’ll take down their boss right in front of them! When the head goes, the body of the snake won’t be far behind.
After placing his weapons on the ground and removing most of his clothes, he walked to the back doors of the white Ford and politely tapped. The music was cut off before the door opened, smoke rolling out. “Wassup, cuz?” a young man, Jason Mahaney, questioned.
“You just open the bloody door whenever someone knocks? I could’ve been a peevie!” Paul was incredulous.
With a shrug, the other chuckled. “No, you couldn’t‘ve. Peevies, don’t knock!” Mahaney burst into intoxicated laughter, followed by a coughing fit.
Rawlings slightly nodded, having to agree. “I guess not. But–“
Next, Jason lifted a finger as he pulled a pair of handcuffs up and out. “Actually, you might just be a peevie. We’ll find out after your eight hours of solitary.”
Sighing, the Brit stepped up into the vehicle and sat down by the door. Mahaney clamped one shackle to a ring on the framing of the van and tugged. Once satisfied, he reached for Paul’s offered wrist. Same shit, different day!
Bastards don’t care enough to even ask about the others. They’re just chaining me up and hitting the road. Wonder if Reaca will pretend like it mattered to him. He’s gonna wish I was one of the ones killed in the hotel!
Before the transport began moving, he thought he would give a synopsis of the Loews. “Oh, I left some kind of badass shotgun and a pistol on the sidewalk. Nothing but a nest on the first floor of the building. Crazy cultists lived on the other stories.” Not a single question was asked about his findings or the happenings in the hotel for the entire trip.
☠☠☠
22
Mo Journal Entry 1
The Tech and one of The Phantoms, I never remember which is which, returned to the ship along with their principal, after another successful excursion into a dam. Am I racist because I can't tell Asian Indians apart? It might have something to do with the fact that they're wearing fucking identical Clone Trooper armor! Suppose it's not entirely identical, there's a thin strip of color on each that gives them individuality, like it makes a damn difference. And I wouldn't be able to tell them apart even if they didn't have helmets. This one had those push dagger things, so I reckon this was Sanjay.
Coming up the gangplank, Aka was flanked by her two bodyguards. She walked over to the table and jumped into her husband's waiting lap. He planted a deep, passionate kiss on her lips. They were each having trouble breathing as they pulled away and repeatedly dove right back in.
"All right, you two need to stop!" I fidgeted beside my brother.
The bald headed bodybuilder turned away from his wife. "You just wish you were in on it."
With sincerity, I lowered my voice with each phrase. "Yeah, I do. And if you don't quit, I'm gonna have to go spend some alone time in the bathroom. Again."
"Weirdo!" The Protector snickered.
Cocking an eyebrow, I pointed at him condescendingly. "Keep laughing. Bastard! Sarah ain't even given me a friendly hug since we left the island. You'll get to find out what chastity is like, one of these days. Hell, I nearly have the seven year itch! How long have we been on this fucking river, anyway?"
Breaking the banter between me and my sibling, Gene interrupted. "You need to be part of the next away team, Mo. There are so few peevies on each outing, it's nothing but fun. Stang, I'll even go with you! The next stop isn't a dam; it's an above ground lock control center. In and out. Nothing to it."
Scoffing, I had to say it. "'Away team...' really, Gene? And you want me to wear a red shirt, right? How about both of you go with me? Then, I'll feel safe." Raising a hand, I pointed at the Brotherhood of Steel Paladin and the HIT with two fingers. Why didn’t I just demand Easy go defend his wife while carrying The Old Friend on his shoulders?
Turning to walk away, the red tinged Clone Trooper brushed me off. "I would... but I gotta go clean my Katar and rifle!" He moved faster with each step.
I was just shot the fuck down. That's never happened before. Only by almost every female I've ever met. Including my current girlfriend, who refuses every request for happy time I make before it's even made! It's nearly like sleeping in the bed with a Catholic nun. Except without all the body hair.
"Yeah, because that's gonna take so fucking long." I mumbled to his retreating back as he went down the stairs.
Facing The Tech, I relented. "You and me, huh? When are we getting there?"
Gene rolled his wrist, looking at the chrono he wasn't wearing. "Oh, about one standard hour from now." That means I had sixty minutes to make my peace with God... and try to talk Sarah into possibly giving me a dry humping.
Why the hell would I agree to go anywhere my life would be at stake with the only person on the Cora more spindly than me? You can't even call him weak, considering his unlimited Force manna! It would undoubtedly be just as fun as the three billion other fucking locks the two of us have been through together. With a defeated sigh, I started to mentally prepare myself to witness nudity that would be opposite of sexually arousing. Well... probably.
☠☠☠
The Cylon with a Klingon batleth and the Fallout super soldier with fucking adamantium claws flanked one of the hot chicks from X-Men carrying a Zulu asagi down the gangplank. It only could’ve been more badass if her hair was white. Don't try to tell me I was the only one thinking it. If this were a movie, the event of us walking from the Cora to the ground would have to appear epic. For one thing because you wouldn't be able to hear Gene wheezing. Our destination was an eight by ten lean to featuring a Plexiglas window.
"Why do we have to part–"
I was interrupted by the know-it-all nerd. "The ship was moored!"
Only cocking an eyebrow, I didn't miss a beat. "Why wasn't the ship moored just a little closer to where we'd be going?"
The Tech scoffed. "Kriff! It's on
ly a few hundred meters. Enjoy the outdoors."
Sighing, I dropped my shoulders. "Ah, heat stroke... skin cancer. So much fun."
He chuckled derisively. "You're worse than any Mon Calamari I've ever met!" I'm sure I am.
It just would've been nice of Crow... or whoever's driving..." Trailing, I stopped all movement. "Wait a fucking minute! Who the hell is driving the boat?"
Again, He seemed offended I wasn't a sailor. "A ship is steered!"
Looking back at the boat, I added injury to insult. "What the fuck ever, Captain Ahab. Who's behind the dam wheel?”
In answer, he merely shrugged. “Why does it matter? We haven’t crash landed yet, have we?”
Well, that was a more terrifying answer than I expected. I could only look down, dejectedly. “No. But–“
Just like the name of the ship, we are all Still Alive. As long as you stay that way, you shouldn’t question.” This geek was firmer in his belief of the Gospel of Smokes than I was. Would that make him devout? I’m just a backslider.
So stupefyingly mired in doubt was I, there was no way I could respond. Every night I was still human, I would fall asleep on thoughts of having absolutely no navigator. I mean, shit! I’d offer to steer the damn boat. I think I could avoid beaching the ship. Well, for at least a few hours.
For our entire walk, at least until we started doing something else and I had a chance to forget about it, I would be having a panic attack considering the fact that we were just rolling down the damn river like a pinball. Thankfully, we’ve been lucky enough to hit only bumpers thus far. Is the Tech the Wizard? Actually, it’s got to be Smokes. I know it’s not me. Shit, I get busted for tilting the machine when I’m not even touching it!
☠☠☠
Even when closing on the building, it appeared to be nothing more than a cramped little shed. Surprise! I was wrong. Maybe it was some kind of optical illusion, like one of those houses where people in the next room look like they’re standing at a forty-five degree angle... or like Bradley’s presidential suite on the Cora. You know, looks like a rickety broom closet until you open the door... and it becomes a fucking gymnasium. Walking inside was like stepping through a portal to The Land of the Giants.
