by Bonds, Javan
Occasionally, some of the antagonists accompanying their hunting dogs were too distant to hold the creatures at bay once the survivors were cornered. The monsters would infect the locals before workers could be harvested. In these cases, one of the hunters was also ‘the hunted’. It did increase the number of searcher dogs, but those with the ability to work the fields were in higher demand.
☠☠☠
We had no idea these people were attacking until there was a fucking small army lined up on the other side of the damn fence. If it weren’t for the razor wire, the house would be swarming with peevies. Thank God for military surplus stores! I guess that’s where they would’ve got the stuff.
Clearly, the animals figured out sharp things hurt. After the first couple sliced their arms up trying to get over the concertina wire, they all stopped bounding up. There was no complex communication or language. Zombies simply barked angrily to let the others know what was going on and to stay on the ground.
It’s even more shocking they can climb chain-link like fucking Mary. This is beyond evolution. If not for the razors, they would vault over the fence as easily as if they were just walking on flat ground. There’s no way in hell I could pull that shit off.
I can’t even walk barefoot in the grass. My feet are the most sensitive part of my body. And yes, even that part. I couldn’t imagine shoving my toes through those chain links and standing up. You could bet I’d be crying like a baby before I raised my foot up for the second foothold! These damn zombies could probably do it with just one foot. It’s like they’re developing into some type of Simian master race. They just need to work on bowel control...if they’re planning to achieve that whole master thing.
Holy shit! Am I the first person that thought of Nightcrawler from X-Men? Now I’m disturbed. Get it? Because he’s blue and kind of like a monkey. The only thing, he wears clothes and doesn’t have a spastic colon. Peevies need to grow tails.
☠☠☠
“Accept your defeat at the hands of the New Southern Order!” Colonel Sanders bellowed from atop his tank.
Yes, he really had a fucking M1 Abrams. If there was still a legal system, would I have to worry about getting sued by Robert Kirkman for being involved in this battle? Oh well, at least there’s no prison. That was in a previous journal. And my name’s not Rick... But it does have one syllable. Shit!
Am I just lucky enough to show up on the night this place is under attack? For the love of God, you’d think by now I would’ve figured out to stop fucking going places and meeting people! Now I’m gonna be blown to pieces by a tank because I accepted the hospitality of a man who tried to get me to eat human flesh. Perhaps it’s all post to be. At least, I can say that when my life isn’t in jeopardy.
The Colonel waited in silence a moment, receiving no reply. Turning, he readied to call down into the idle machine...probably for a shell to be launched at the house. Before the heavy tank could send a fiery death our way, Junior and several of his family members appeared from hidden tunnels just inside the wire. It was kind of news to me as well they had trenches.
All screamed before throwing something over the fence. A shot couldn’t be fired, no words were audible, and the enemy wasn’t able to react in any way. Just as quickly, they sank back into the tunnels. That was unexpected.
I didn’t find out what they threw until later. Grizzly Wintergreen cans packed with explosives. Of course, there were also shards of glass, nails, BBs and all kinds of tiny things that would hurt if they hit you at high-speed. This Grizzly wouldn’t just give you cancer; it would rip a fucking hole through you!
Remember the embarrassment that was the dynamite explosions on the island in another journal? With the small amount of explosive powder that could fit in a dip can, I was expecting something less spectacular than that. That first dynamite we used must have been wet or something. The destruction of the river bridge was earth shattering. Yeah, this beat that shit by a mile.
One of the tiny, improvised grenades landed in the midst of a group of chained zombies. Seconds after it touched the ground, a massive fireball appeared. The peevies in the immediate vicinity were completely engulfed. What looked like hamburger meat and ragged body parts flew from the explosion. A torrential downpour of entrails, eyeballs, bones, organs, bluish skin, and gallons of blood rained down onto the earth.
The truck closest to the explosion received a peppering of shrapnel into the passenger door. In awe, we watched the man riding shotgun impaled by hot pieces of pain. Though his screams couldn’t be heard, we knew he was surely going to die. Also, that 4 by 4 wouldn’t be going anywhere after little chips of metal punctured the engine block and radiator.
All of the IEDs went kaboom at nearly the same instant. Undead, humans, and vehicles met their fiery demise as tiny projectiles passed through their vital parts. The Grim Reaper saw all of that as equal.
A grenade landed, exploding on the hood of an extended cab dually. The followers of The Dictator inside the cab stood no chance to survive. Their time was made. Shrapnel jumped through the windshield like it wasn’t there. Their faces and upper bodies turned into mush, meeting shattered glass and superheated air.
Just like most others, the truck definitely wasn’t leaving its final resting place. Motor clearly damaged beyond repair. It didn’t even smoke. Should there have been some kind of final outcry from an inanimate object? I don’t know why I expected the horn to blow or lights to flash, but there was nothing. It just fucking died.
This grenade also took out a few of those stupid zombies wandering around on the end of their chains. Not paying attention to the tiny plastic thing flying over their heads, they were looking the other way when it exploded. Shrapnel flew into their naked asses. Every single one of them was pulverized from behind. Imagine being gang raped by a million miniature fire demons.
BBs passed straight through their skulls. Explosion pushed internal organs through the front of their gaunt bodies. It was actually fun to watch peevies destroyed in such a grotesque manner. Especially when I just got to sit back and enjoy!
Scenes of horrific carnage like this played out at nearly every vehicle down the line. Well, almost every vehicle. The Colonel was perfectly safe in his armored tank. I mean, shit, one of the grenades landed on the body of the Abrams and it didn’t even leave a pock mark!
Seriously, it barely even left a fucking black spot. The volley of grenades cleared out the enemy... except the one bad guy that really needed to be taken out. Surprised? Don’t guess that would be entertaining enough!
A few walking wounded clambered out of their trucks and made their way to the M1. The Dictator shot up from inside the tank, speaking encouragingly to his men. He gestured in the direction of the house. “Those of you still able to fight, follow me and we can end these troublemakers once and for all!”
Troublemakers? Kind of seems the other way around, if you ask me. Junior’s clan had just been minding their own business and eating former people. The New Southern Order was the interloper causing chaos here.
Before following their leader in the Abrams, the retards cheered and waved pistols or rifles. Rather than launching an explosive projectile through the house, the tank just plowed over the fence. Until the barrier was broken, I was wishing some of the peevies survived. At least they could take down some of the idiots stumbling around. But without the protection of the chain link, they’d be coming after us next. Not sure how they can smell us like fucking bloodhounds!
Stopping at the front steps, the massive cannon was nearly able to knock on the door. The Dictator waited for his men to gather around before shouting through the loudspeaker intercom thing. I guess he was just sounding tough before the final push in order to give his men something to fight for. Must give a morale boost. Why didn’t he stick his head out of the tank again? No doubt I studied it in psychology in high school. Just slept through it.
A lazy southern drawl came from the tank. “You have one more chance. Send your womenfolk out and
they won’t be harmed. If you do not surrender immediately, I will make sure each and every one of you begs for a bullet before I finally let you die.” I’m pretty sure in a court of law, what they plan to do to the “womenfolk” would be considered harmful.
The unarmored bozos stood around the tank. Stupidly, they were facing the house... as if there was a damn point in that. If you have a fucking tank staring at the front door, wouldn’t it be a good idea to watch your flanks? These fools deserved what they were about to get.
Junior and his fellow flesh eaters reappeared from their tunnel to the aggressors’ backs. Most drew careful aim on the unknowing morons standing around the M1. A few others lit and tossed some Grizzly grenades at the assembled incompetents. The grenades must have been on short fuses. I don’t believe I got to the count of three before the antagonists became black figures in front of bright white.
At the instant the bombs exploded, the good guy cannibals dropped most of the rest of the clueless men. Lead was forced through the back of their skulls and shot out their eyes, cheeks, or mouths. Bodies collapsed into pools of blood and various fluids. These hapless souls were dead before they knew what hit them.
None of the attackers were able to react with the grenades exploding the same second the bullets fired. I didn’t see one impact the ground before it exploded. Flame and shrapnel were sent against all interlopers.
Those not immediately vaporized by the fireballs were disemboweled as tiny pieces of molten metal shredded through them. Dismembered body parts added to the projectiles, forcing bones and cartilage through some of the remaining fighters. None of the dying even had a chance to try to get to the hatch of the tank, all being destroyed in one horrific flash.
The Colonel had to be extremely pissed inside his damage proof box. As his soldiers were being cut down around him, he was safe but outnumbered. Even if he had a crew inside with him, he understood there was no backing down now.
Unexpectedly, the machine gun beside the canon began tearing through the house. Why was he only firing bullets and not simply leveling the house with artillery shells? Maybe his left mouse key was broken and only the right was functional! Probably a damn cordless.
With no more allies to watch his back... those dumbasses weren’t really doing that anyway... he was completely unaware Junior and his fellows were walking up casually behind the tank. Rednecks were all over the M1, trying to figure out how to get in or disable it. Finally, Junior climbed up to the hatch and knocked politely. Automatic gunfire halted hesitantly, confused. I could only imagine the discussion inside the turret.
Chuckling, Junior pulled a dip can out of his left rear pocket. Clearly a special grenade, this one was Grizzly Mint. He gently laid the can on the hatch, pulled out his trusty BIC, set the fuse alight, and took a step back. Must‘ve had the same idea as Gene! Thermite, phosphorus, or something comparable. Molten lava began eating through the armored hatch as if it were fire eating through paper.
Again, the voice from the tank sounded. “What are you doing? Stop that. You will all suffer!”
Radically spinning and jerking, the turret was forcing the protagonists to either jump on top of it or race back to their trenches. Machine gun fired frantically as The Dictator continued berating the survivors over the loudspeaker. It was pretty comical; except for the deadly rounds flying around sporadically and all that.
When the hatch was completely melted away, I hoped Junior might toss another Wintergreen into the hole, bringing this battle to a close. Just like you would expect in a movie, that was his last one... fresh out. Golly gee. Gosh darn. All of that other shit!
Elmer Fudd couldn’t look down into the rabbit hole because Bugs was sure to be waiting with a gun... And Bugs wouldn’t come out because Elmer was certainly waiting with a gun. Time seemed to stand still. Suddenly, something bounced out of the rabbit hole. A frag grenade rolled just off the front of the turret before exploding.
Some of the cannibal party were simply eviscerated, ripped into shreds. Junior and a few lucky others were knocked off the tank, shaken but uninjured. The front half of the tank was red with blood and sloppy with gutted bodies.
At the same time, thick, white smoke began pouring from the hatch. The enemies inside had simultaneously let loose a smoke grenade. Before Junior and his men could recover, bullets began spraying from the smoke into the rednecks on the ground. The Colonel still had a few cards left to play.
Though still dazed, the rednecks not being repeatedly slammed by automatic gunfire raced for the refuge of their trench. Are you surprised Junior led the retreating charge and made it to safety? Minor heroes are just as important as I am. See? I think about others!
The firing stopped and a man jumped off the tank with dual Uzis at the ready. The British Trooper wearing the 12 inside a spade on his shoulder tab kept his back to the tank, constantly searching the lip of the trench. Occasionally, he fired. I was never sure if he actually saw one of the survivors or was simply keeping their heads down.
One of Junior’s cousins circled the trench to the other side of the house. Creeping up on the other side of the tank he clambered up onto it and drew a sheathed hunting knife from his hip.
Throwing himself from the top of the turret, he fell screaming onto where the British Army trooper had been an instant before. As the redneck impacted dirt, the soldier rolled and let a volley of rounds fly. Bullets tore through the knife wielding man. Blood pouring from bullet wounds proved his ambush had failed.
This follower of The Dictator was distracted with shooting the man at his side long enough for one of the protagonists in the trench to send some high-powered rifle rounds his way. The first tore into his right forearm, making him drop one of his automatic pistols, sending blood and bone fragments across his abdomen. Throwing his head back, he screamed when another shot sank into his bicep. The round obviously passed into his body, surely destroying organs as it traveled through. Finally, the last of the trio of shells caught him in the lower jaw, ending his cry and the ability to make intelligible sound for the rest of his life.
Falling over away from the tank, he could only gurgle in agony. One of the survivors put a round into the top of his head. When the small caliber bullet entered the top of the skull, it bounced around, turning the brain into mush. The impact and shredding of the gray matter caused both eyeballs to pop out of their sockets. Foamy brains and blood oozed out like an overfilled mug of pink beer.
I wasn’t sure if it was a mercy shot or a final blow to ensure the enemy wasn’t getting back up... As if that was really fucking needed. Looking over the corpses after the battle, I discovered the name tag for this antagonist. Vann, Rob.
☠☠☠
Surprisingly, a white flag shot up from within the tank. Pausing, Junior raised up. Have they realized this is it? There’s nowhere to go anyway. Fighting a losing battle is kind of pointless.
The remaining hillbillies slowly walked closer to the M1 before Junior shouted at the occupants. “How many of ya is there?”
“Two. Tami Thomason and The Colonel,” a female voice came from within the M1.
Thinking about it, Junior finally responded. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, Tami. Come out with yer hands touchin’ the sky. After that, The Colonel gets his ass out here.”
Trembling hands peaked slowly out of the tank. After that, we could see a crying, gaunt woman emerging. Stepping onto the body of the M1, she looked down with sorrow. The New Southern Order had been defeated by cannibals!
Junior lowered his rifle. “I guess we can call for The C –”
Sobbing, Thomason interrupted. “I’m sorry; The Colonel told me I had to.” With that, she jumped into the group of country folk and pulled a kamikaze. I don’t know if it was grenades or C4, but Tami became a fiery explosion.
Junior was only saved from instant death because one of his large relatives absorbed the blast. The fireball shredded an obese impersonator from Duck Dynasty. Chunks of meat and bone flew onto the cracker as if he w
ere a magnet attracting other magnets.
These other magnets just happened to be dripping body parts. He was drenched in what looked like ketchup with the consistency of jelly. Being exposed to the superheated blast, the other man’s juices must have instantly cooked. Steaming gelatin clung to Junior’s back and right side
Unceremoniously, he was blown over by the force of the detonation. I feared he was finished when he lay unmoving. Finally, he stirred, rising slowly, obviously shaken. It all happened so fast, it was hard to keep track.
Hearing eventually clearing, he picked up scattered moans and whimpers from some of his relatives. Smiling, he understood not all his family had been destroyed. Though alive for now, he was sure some of them had to be maimed, considering the massive amount of detached limbs he could see. I don’t know how many of them there were to begin with, but I could see more pieces than people.
Staying on his knees for a moment, Junior waited for something else to happen. The Colonel was still in the tank. It wasn’t over. One of them would not be walking away from here. He started feeling for a weapon on him, knowing there would be a final confrontation.
☠☠☠
58
World’s Full of Killing
Good thing this replica of Dameron is a .45 cal. I can just carry my extra fucking Glock 21 mags for rounds. You know who else carried a .45 cal? Roy Rogers. I was always kind of partial to him, actually. Really liked those sequined shirts.
Setting the armored helmet of Robocop on his crown, Salzman topped off the uniform of the enhanced Alex Murphy. Throwing his holstered bladed revolver over his shoulder, he turned to the Phantoms. “You guys ready to go make some noise?”
