Before he knew it, his father had parked the car in a parking space, and opened the door by lifting another latch. “Let’s go, son. Don’t walk or run out into the street without having looked both ways—remember the rules.”
“Yes, Dad,” the boy said, just before he lifted up the duplicate latch on his side of the car.
After getting out of the car, he followed suit just like his father by firmly shutting the door, walking to the back end of the car, looking both ways, and after seeing no cars nearby, crossing the street.
A few seconds later, Tank used another of his keys to unlock the side door to his auto-shop, before gesturing for his son to enter first—he did.
As soon as Tank was inside, he shut the door, flipped around the “open/closed sign” that hung on it, and flipped on a light switch that revealed a dozen fluorescent lights that fully lit up a mechanic’s shop. This shop was filled with a dozen-or-so toolboxes and about a half-dozen cars, as well a very long counter with a bunch of stuff sitting on it, especially auto parts. Tank was already on verge of walking behind this counter.
Once there, he turned on yet another strange-looking machine that also sat on the counter. Right away, three luminescent zeroes started to flash on this machine, while whirring sounds began to emanate. Baltor, all the while, silently watched everything his father did.
“All right son,” Tank said at last, perhaps a half-minute later. “I don’t know how business will be today, but we at least got to change all the tires and do an alignment check on one car. Oh, and we have to replace the steering wheel in another car with a replacement part that should be delivered here sometime today. So, ready to work?”
“Yes, Dad,” Baltor heard his boyish voice reply, although his mind had not a clue what was going on. While he did whatever his father requested, which was mainly holding onto parts or tools, his father nonstop worked on repairing the first car.
By this time, Baltor’s mind no longer questioned that he was a boy of twelve and that his parents were alive and well, and that his actual entire real life was nothing more than a dream and quite often, a nightmare—this was his new reality with a twist.
Thirty minutes after they had begun to work on the car, the front door to the shop opened, causing a beeping sound to go off for five seconds—in walked a man wearing a brown uniform and cap, and carrying a brown box that was one-foot wide by two inches thick.
The man set the box down next to the door, and greeted, “Morning, Tank…just got one package for you today.”
“Thanks, Bill. I’ll be right there to sign for it in a few seconds…”
“No rush.”
Not even three seconds later, Tank was already there, signing for the package on another strange-looking device that was obviously electronic—once signed for, Bill said with a smile and a pat on Tank’s shoulder, “Well, have a great weekend.”
“You too, buddy.” Tank replied, just before he picked up the box, and began to make his way for a sporty-looking white car. Once there, only ten seconds later, he set the box down next to the car, and said, “Get over here, boy, and hand me a screwdriver….”
Thirty minutes later, the front door to the shop opened, which again caused the beeping sound, and a bald-headed man wearing a three-piece-business-suit-without-a-tie walked in.
Though Baltor and his father both heard the beep, both were still in the process of bolting down the brand-new steering wheel. Still working, his father called out, “Hold one minute, mister…I’ll be right with you.”
“Not a problem…say, that’s a very nice car you have there in the corner. Is that a ‘67 Mustang?”
Without looking over, Tank answered, “Yeah, it is…it was my father’s favorite car before he died eight years ago—it was the most sentimental item he possessed, despite his millions of dollars, of which the car was my only inheritance.”
The man cooed, “Wow, that car sure is a beauty…I really love the giant horse’s head painted onto the hood!”
Now that the steering wheel was properly mounted, Tank rose to his feet and looked over before answering, “Thanks. He did that himself, as well remodeled the entire car. That’s how I got interested in fixing cars for a living, as I helped him with the project when I was a teenager.”
The man suggested, “You should think about selling it where someone will use it…instead of just letting it rot away in a garage. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, but I can’t think of selling it now…it’s the only thing he gave me in his inheritance of value, because of our fight that never got resolved before his death—all the rest of his vast fortunes he gave to my two greedy sisters, who won’t share a stinking dime.”
“Will my car be ready soon?”
Tank answered, “Umm, about five more minutes of work to test the maneuverability of the steering wheel in correlation to the turning of the front wheels, and it’ll be done, sir.”
“Thanks.”
In the next second, Tank sank to one knee next to the car, grabbed the steering wheel, and turned it to the right—the front wheels of the car turned the same direction at the same time. Upon moving the wheel left, the wheels evenly matched the movements.
Though Baltor continued to remain silent and ready to help his father, only now did he look over at the customer so he could get “a good look.”
Upon seeing this man’s face, though the rest of his head was shaved, Baltor still recognized him in the next moment—Briggs! Suddenly, far-far-far distant memories began to pop up in the back of the boy’s mind—of a long-ago nightmare he had about this very man murdering both of his parents, and somehow, he miraculously escaping with his life!
Even more images began to pop up, as he saw an older version of himself exacting justice by murdering Briggs in a dog pit!
Anger and rage burned deep inside the boy as he observed “the present” Briggs gazing ever-so-enviously at his grandfather’s car, which brought on even more distant memories. Unexpectedly, Baltor found himself walking toward Briggs.
Tank snapped aloud, “What the hey, Baltor? Get back here.”
Baltor did not listen but cocked his little hands into tiny fists, as he continued to walk closer and closer to Briggs, who was staring at the hood’s cover.
Only a second or so before either fist could strike, something incredibly hard slammed into the back of his head—hard enough to render Baltor unconscious!
Perhaps an hour later, he awoke to a pounding headache in the same spot. Upon trying to move, he found his hands tied with hemp rope over his head, which rope attached to a metal rail. Additionally, he felt a gag over his mouth, so he could not speak.
After opening his eyes, a second later, he noted that he wasn’t the only one tied up. So were his father and mother. They were both gagged, struggling in their bonds, and crying!
Briggs and “one other sinister-looking man” were standing around too—both men held a strange, metallic device in their right hands, which devices looked like a couple of the toys he had seen in his toy-chest.
Briggs, upon seeing Baltor now fully awake, said, “That was a little underhanded move you tried to pull on me, boy. I’m glad I had some backup.”
Using sinister tones, other man could not help but laugh a few times at hearing that information.
Still smiling just as sinisterly, Briggs added a few seconds later, “So, first we’re going to kill your father with this here gun—then when we’re both done with your mother, I will put a bullet into her brain. By the way, the lunch she made for you and your dad—ham sandwiches, chips and juice-boxes—was quite delicious…wasn’t it, Harry?” He laughed a few times.
“Yes sir!” Harry answered.
“Anyway,” Briggs added, once again sounding serious and evil. “After your parents are dead, I will shoot you with the remaining eleven bullets into each of your joints—kneecaps, shoulders, etc.—until the entire clip is empty and ending with your head—and just so you know, there are thirteen rounds in total. Whether you
live or die is entirely up to you….hopefully you die. ”
Although Baltor continued to cry and sob—ever since he heard the news that these men were going to kill his parents—it was only then that he started to try to fight his way out of the ropes. Watching, Briggs began to laugh menacingly, as he pointed the gun at his father’s face and pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
Not even a second later, his mother had commenced to scream and cry through the wraps covering over her mouth—in the next moment, Briggs walked over to Grasha’s position.
BOOM!
Sobbing tears really began to flow down the boy’s face as he watched Briggs walk slowly toward him. Once this man stood only three feet away, Baltor closed his eyes and readied himself for death.
BOOM! BOOM!
Easily, the first bullet shot (punctured and burned) through the skin and muscle of the boy’s left shoulder, but it (still burning) had become lodged in the front part of his shoulder bone—showing him “a whole new level of horrific pain!” He could not help but scream, nor could he keep his eyes shut any longer!
The second bullet, however, had shot much higher due to the gun’s strong pull. The bullet severed the ropes holding his hands—in the next moment, his hands were free.
Right away, he began to run—at top speed of twenty-five mph—for the front door, though his mind was not aware of the speed because his parents had just been murdered, he had been shot once already, and he continued to hear more bullets from both guns!
Thankfully, he heard but did not feel twelve more rounds as they flew nearby, sometimes only inches away—four of those rounds had come from Brigg’s partner’s pistol!
Before there was a chance for the fourteenth round, Baltor was already gone, running down the city streets, while sobbing out of control the entire time. Nearly three times did he become “road kill” by passing cars. Reality became nothing but “a blur,” and before he knew it, he ran into an alleyway, climbed into a dumpster, and zonked out.
When he awoke some time later, he discovered he was no longer lying in that dumpster, but in a five-foot square cardboard box sitting on concrete, amongst two hundred other cardboard boxes, which were all stacked side-by-side under a massive bridge in the middle of the city and in the middle of the night.
Though most of the bums around here were already sleeping inside his or her box, there were still several small groups of them wearing raggedy clothes all huddled around fire-pits in the very middle of this encampment. Many of those people held a bottle of alcohol, and a vast majority had very bloodshot eyes.
After the boy had risen to his feet, he looked at his own shoulder, only to discover with surprise that the bullet hole still existed in his blood-soaked shirt, but there was startlingly no wound, scar, or scratch—whatsoever!
From the right corner of his eye, he saw another recognizable face from his childhood history walking on by—“Lady Lydia!” She appeared to be making her way toward the fire-pit.
“Lady Lydia—Lady Lydia—it’s Baltor! Come here,” he heard his boyish voice say.
Lydia looked over, and a confused expression crossed her face just before she asked, “How—how do you know my name?”
“It’s me…Baltor.”
“Who? I don’t know you.”
He answered, “Please, I need to talk to you for a minute—please.”
She nodded once, though “a suspicious look” remained in her eyes.
With that, the two began to walk closer to each other.
Upon arriving within a few feet of each other, nearly ten seconds later, she gave him the up-down look, while stating in icy tones, “I don’t know you.”
“Maybe not, but I know exactly who you are.”
Without hesitation, she had already pulled out her own gun from her leather jacket pocket—finger already on the trigger. The barrel of a gun pointed straight at Baltor’s face!
He threw his hands up into the air in surrender, while his boyish voice pleaded, “Please don’t shoot me!”
Most surprising to him, she did shoot—this time, the thirty-eight-millimeter-sized bullet blasted a hole through the front of his face and into his brain. His body was dead before his back hit the ground!
Instead of remaining dead, however, he discovered that he was once again alive in the very next moment, still lying on his back and looking up at the bottom of the bridge with only one eye. Furthermore, most of the other sleeping bums awoke, and everyone standing around had been looking at the two with strange expressions on their faces—especially at the bullet hole that blew off half of Baltor’s face.
“How on earth are you not dead? The hole in your head—I’ve never seen anyone heal so fast! How is this possible?” Lydia declared in total shock.
After sitting up and looking at her with both eyes, Baltor heard himself say, “I—I don’t know how—why did you shoot me?”
“You seemed like a spy…and maybe you still are.”
Now completely healed, Baltor clucked his tongue before answering, “No I’m not a spy. I’m just very-very confused as to what’s going on right—”
He was about to conclude with “now,” but his answer became interrupted upon observing that all of the bums around had just turned into zombie creatures—wailing, moaning, salivating, and worst of all, walking toward them with outstretched hands, a limp, darkened eyes, greenish-bluish skin, etc!
Only he and Lydia remained human. After rising to his feet, he said with a great amount of fear, “Let’s run…these zombies will kill us by eating our brains!”
Grabbing a hold of his hand, she answered, “You’re right—let’s go. I have just the place.”
With that, the two hightailed at top speed of four mph around the very large group of zombies—about a hundred of them.
It took them about five minutes, which included quite a few close encounters, before they finally ran past the last zombie in the group, but they still had to keep running, as there were many more of them roaming about here and there in the city streets.
Luck came their way, as a ruby-red ’95 Camaro that sat in the bay of a nearby fuel station. No living or undead people were near.
Lydia suggested, “We’re stealing that car—hop in the passenger seat.”
The moment after she had hopped into the car on the driver’s side and closed the door, she peripherally observed a zombie—about forty feet away—who was fast approaching the two, and so she screamed, “Get in!”
Quickly, Baltor opened the passenger door, hopped in, closed the door and put on his seatbelt. While he did this, she had turned on the air conditioner in order to cool them both off, as they were both sweating profusely
As soon as she heard the click of his seatbelt, she forthwith put the pedal to the metal, and the car took off down the road, leaving that zombie behind to eat dust, literally.
Twenty minutes or so later, after having evaded around thousands more zombies on the city streets until finding a highway to take them out of the city and the suburbs, they entered into the desert. Perhaps twenty minutes later and without having seen any zombies out this way, they arrived at a security wall that was fifty feet tall, four square miles, and constructed of brownstone.
In the middle, there stood a metallic security gate, which had a communication box to the left of the asphalt street. Hovering at the top of the wall, there sat a security camera that pointed down at the two sitting in the car.
Inside the gate, there stood two guards on a cobblestone road, dressed in business suits and wearing sunglasses. Behind them, the road gently wound its way through a dense forest of lush trees.
After pushing the intercom button several times, Lydia chimed, “Hi—I’m Lady Lydia…let us in as soon as possible! I’ll explain why to the head of security in a minute as to why I’m not driving my normal car right now, once I park in front of the mansion. Thank you…”
A masculine voice said from the other end, “Thank you, and welcome to Shangri-La, Lady Lydia.”
At the end of that mile dwelt a six-story mansion, also made of brownstone. Spread throughout the large parking lot was a wide assortment of very expensive rides. Why, even the very-same car Baltor had seen on TV this morning was parked inside the lot, but this one had been painted a mirror-like black color and had silver chrome wheels.
Twenty seconds later, Lydia parked the car directly behind the Porsche. At the same time, the head of security had just exited out the side entrance of the mansion, just before nonchalantly making his way toward she and Baltor, of who continued to remain in the car.
Shortly before this man’s arrival, he waved his right hand and stated, “Greetings, Lady Lydia, what is the problem?”
After Lydia had gestured for Baltor to remain in the car, and she had gotten out herself and closed the door, she said, “The problem is, Reeves—and I swear on everything that this is true—that everyone we’ve seen—this boy and I—in the entire city has turned into zombies. I was a little afraid the people here might have been infected as well, but that is not the case, yet!”
“Hmm,” Reeves said, “That is indeed strange!”
Just then, the walkie-talkie hanging on his belt chirped twice, just before this frantic report came in from one of the male guards at the front gate, “Sir? You’re never going to believe this, unless you either see it live or at least on your phone’s video screen, but there are now a few zombies walking now outside the gates! Hundreds more are heading this way.”
Reeves—of whom already held his walkie-talkie in his right hand—only then clicked the button, took a deep breath and released just as deep of a sigh, before stating, “Ten-four…I believe you. The gates are solid and will hold them back…it would take a tank to plow through them, so we’ll be safe for quite a while unless they try to climb over each other to get over the wall. In the meantime, I order the both of you to return to base, get yourselves a facemask and an assault rifle, and return to your posts—we don’t want you two to contract what they’ve caught.”
The War of All Wars Page 23
