by Kirk Allmond
"Jerome, it doesn't have to be like this. You can still let us go. We'll walk, and you'll never see us again. I don't want to fight you. There aren't enough humans left for us to be killing each other over silly ego," Marshall said.
"You challenged me. Let’s go," he said flatly. "I'm looking forward to adding your scalp to my collection."
"All right, no other choice," said Marshall, who stepped towards Jerome. "Any rules I need to know about?"
"Nope," said Jerome, launching himself at Marshall. He jumped seven feet in the air, driving his foot towards Marshall's face.
Marshall was ready for Jerome to try something like this. He let Jerome get within a foot of him before sidestepping the kick. When Jerome flew past him, Marshall clasped his two hands together and smashed the back of his opponent's head. The impact twisted Jerome in the air, causing him to land on his side. He jumped to his feet, landing in a left-foot forward stance.
Marshall brought his hands up in front of his face like a boxer and waited. Jerome was a skilled martial artist. Marshall was a brawler, but he was a quick study. He shifted his right foot forward and bent his knees slightly, lowering his center of gravity, and waited for Jerome's next attack. Marshall watched for the slightest tell. Jerome's left hand clenched as he swung a huge left hook that connected, rocking Marshall’s head back and crushing the cartilage at the bridge of his nose. Marshall countered with a kick to the thigh, knocking Jerome back a step. He wiped blood from his upper lip with his forearm and struggled to breathe through his crushed nose.
"Get him, Jerome!" yelled one man from the crowd.
"Rip his fucking head off!" yelled another.
The leader of Legion stepped towards Marshall and wrapped his head in his arms. Marshall wrapped his arms around Jerome's chest and squeezed. Marshall groaned under the assault and squeezed his opponent, keeping him from breathing. Marshall tightened his bear hug and then heaved upward, throwing Jerome up into the air. The two of them landed in a pile on the concrete floor, Marshall on top. Jerome still had Marshall by the head. Marshall lifted repeatedly, slamming Jerome's head down on the concrete. On the fourth slam, a crack appeared in the concrete floor, and Jerome twisted his upper body, throwing Marshall over him.
"You're strong," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "but you lack training. Your style is desperate."
"I'm fighting for my life," said Marshall, twisting his head to loosen his neck. "You're fighting for glory. Which of us do you think has more reason to fight?"
The two of them stood toe-to-toe and traded blows back and forth. A right hook followed by a quick jab. Marshall rained blows on Jerome but had very little effect. Jerome took every punch he had and was barely breathing. Likewise, Marshall absorbed Jerome’s blows, except that Jerome was landing three to every one of Marshall’s, and Marshall was starting to breathe heavier through his crushed nose.
Marshall knew he couldn't take the man at a distance; Jerome clearly knew some sort of martial art. He also knew he wasn't going to get out of this without absorbing some more damage from Jerome. He'd either gotten pretty lucky so far or the man was just toying with him, sizing him up. As he summoned up his courage, an old quote occurred to him. “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.” He couldn't remember who said it, but he thought that if ever that statement was true, it was now.
"We're going to be at this all day," said Marshall. "Let's speed things up. You got a couple of sledge hammers laying around?"
"Arash! Go get sledgehammers," Jerome ordered. "Good idea. It’s a shame that I'm going to kill you. I could use a man like you."
Two huge sledgehammers came flying over the crowd and smashed into the concrete, sliding to a stop at Marshall's feet. He bent to pick one up and kicked the other to Jerome. The weight was good, but the handle was longer than Marshall was used to. He knew just how to fix that. He launched a huge overhand swing at Jerome's head, the hammer whistling in an arc over Marshall's head. The other man caught the sledge with one hand in the middle of the shaft and brought his own hammer horizontally. Jerome's hammer hit Marshall in the ribs as Marshall switched his grip and broke the handle of his hammer in the middle over Jerome's head. A three-inch splinter of wood lodged itself in Jerome's head, and Marshall had his short-handled hammer. He held on to the two-foot segment of the handle in the other. Blood ran down Jerome's face. The crowd let out a collective gasp.
"He's bleedin'," a man in the front row said. "How the fuck is he bleeding?"
"He can't be bleeding," said another man who was behind Jerome.
Marshall was now much more comfortable; this was his favorite weapon. He twirled the hammer in one hand, taunting Jerome to close the distance. He had extra reach with his longer handle, but Marshall had done a lot of fighting with long-handled hammers. They were too slow. Jerome wound up for a big two-handed side swing. Marshall took advantage and stepped inside the hammer’s arc and brought the pointed end of the broken handle up, driving it into Jerome's cheek. He followed by bringing his sledge around to the other side of Jerome's face, driving his head onto the wooden spike, which erupted out the other side of his mouth. In the same instant, the handle of Jerome's hammer caught him in the undefended left side of his rib cage. The impact was much less powerful than the previous blow, as the hammerhead missed, but the handle still took his breath away. Marshall brought his left arm down, pinning Jerome's hammer to his side, and twisted his body away from Jerome, wrenching the hammer out of his hands.
"You got this, Jerome!"
Jerome pulled the bloody spike out of his face and drove it into Marshall's leg. Now's my chance, thought Marshall. Probably my last one. Victor watched Marshall go down on one knee, toss the long hammer away, and pull the spike out of his leg. Jerome used that moment to pounce on Marshall. The leg wound was painful but not nearly as bad as he'd made it out to be. The wooden spike had hit his femur and stopped. If Jerome had stuck it an inch to the left, it would have torn a much bigger hunk of thigh muscle. When Jerome landed on him, Marshall reversed the spike and launched himself upward with his legs. Marshall drove the huge wooden spike upwards into Jerome's chin just at the base of the neck.
The spike, with all the power in Marshall's legs behind it, erupted out the top of Jerome's skull. He fell limply on top of Marshall, his corpse twitching. Marshall rolled the huge man off him and got painfully to his feet. He was sure his nose and at least two ribs were broken, and he had a huge deep gash in his leg.
He stood straight and tall and said, "I claim leadership of Legion. Jerome is dead. Change has arrived."
Chapter 32
Legion Part 3
Marshall stood in the middle of the combat circle next to Jerome's corpse with blood running down his leg. His nose was bleeding, and every time he inhaled, his ribs felt like daggers in his lungs. "My name is Marshall Tookes. I am in command of Legion," said Marshall. "Does anyone else want to challenge me?" He spoke loud enough for the men around him to hear but didn’t yell. He waited, standing stock still, for a full minute, waiting on someone to step forward. No one did. "Good. There's going to be some changes around here."
Every one of the men stood up a little straighter and stared at Marshall. "First," he continued “no more killing the living unless it’s in self defense. This is not negotiable. There aren't very many of us left. If you kill off any more of the gene pool, our species will end without any further help from the zombies."
The big man paused there to let that message sink in. "Do you understand? No more killing, unless your life is threatened."
Billy Joe spoke first. "He's right. How many women have we seen? Any of you fucks gotten laid since this shit went down? What is the point of living through this whole mess? It’s not like we're living like kings around here."
Marshall continued to wait. He waited for someone to speak up, and he waited while his leg wound healed. He could feel his thigh getting stronger and steadier as the
muscles knitted back together.
Finally, a man in the back spoke up. He had long blond hair and a long strawberry-blond lumberjack-style beard. "What are you gonna do about it? Say George over there cheats at poker. We all know he does. Say I kill 'em over a hand. Then what?"
"Fuck you, Darrin. I don't fuckin' cheat," said George. George was a very tall, very skinny man in his early twenties with a dark complexion and short-cropped black hair. He had a jet-black mustache and goatee.
"Darrin, if you kill George over a hand of poker, you aren't welcome here and will be turned out," Marshall said, walking towards the man. His limp was almost gone. He wiped the blood from his upper lip with the back of his hand. His nose had stopped bleeding. "Roland and Billy Joe will drive you one hundred miles from here in a random direction and drop you off. Legion cannot spare any supplies for murderers. Your clothes, guns, and personal effects will be distributed among the remaining men, and you will be turned out naked to fend for yourself. After that, if you return to Legion, you will be shot on sight."
"You can't just turn a man out with nothing!" Darrin protested.
Marshall closed the last couple of steps, bringing him directly in front of the challenger. He bent over so he could look directly into his eyes. “You're wrong, Darrin. I can," Marshall said quietly. "You can't just kill a man over nothing. Human life has value, and that value must be respected. There's no room in Legion for a man without respect."
"Yes, sir," was Darrin's only reply.
"Second," said Marshall walking back towards the middle, “any man, woman, or child may come and go from here as they please. If they're willing to help with the work, they have a place in Legion. You are to build your ranks. This is a haven for anyone who needs safe harbor, whether it is for a night as they pass through or if they want to stay."
There was an almost unanimous uproar from the crowd. Murmurs mostly, as the men shifted their feet. It was apparent that the second directive had hit a nerve. "We don't have any food. C-unit deserted two days ago and took all of our food. Jerome said he knew where we could find a storehouse but didn't tell anyone where, and now he's dead."
"What's your name?" asked Marshall.
"Jerry," he replied.
"All right, Jerry. Find a phone book. Think outside the box. Look for restaurant supply houses. Look for obscure places. Ikea stores have a food court. Many office supply stores have peanuts and snacks. Search office buildings and raid the vending machines. You're going to have to set up a garden though, and send parties out to the edges of town hunting. You can't rely on canned food forever. If you want to continue to live in the middle of the city, you're going to have to secure a couple of farmhouses. While I’m gone, find three farmhouses and secure them. I'll be back through here in two weeks. If you haven't found a store of food by then, I'll help you find one." Marshall felt like he'd been talking forever. "The last thing, Billy Joe is in charge until I return. I will be back, and I expect that these rules will be followed to the letter."
The men looked very confused. Not many of them would have been deemed "upstanding citizens" before society melted, and they hadn't made any strides towards civility since. Just issuing orders and leaving wasn't going to help, but Marshall knew he had to go before Victor got to Fort McPherson.
"Oh. One last thing," said Marshall with a grin. "I require a big truck. Who's got keys to something to replace my truck?"
A man in the front row pointed towards Jerome's corpse. "He kept keys to a Hummer. They're probably in his pocket. He always kept it full of fuel."
Marshall knelt down next to Jerome and flipped the corpse over and, after a minute of searching, pulled a key ring out of the dead man's pocket. When he stood up, he said, "Someone take care of Jerome's body. Find a place to bury him or cremate him. Say a few words, and let’s hope he finds some peace."
Marshall turned to his father. "Let’s go, Pop," he said and walked towards the front door of the former big-box home store. Victor and Harley followed without saying a word. When Marshall passed the shelves by the front door, he grabbed his Desert Eagle, the holster, and his father's duffle bag. There were a number of military-issue weapons on the shelves, but Marshall saw no boxes of ammunition. Things were bad here at Legion; no wonder Jerome was using his father as a scapegoat. If only he'd had the men out gathering supplies instead of searching for a boogeyman.
"There is no Gray Wolf," Marshall said, standing at the weapons shelves. "Stop looking for trouble, and start looking for what you need."
A large group of men had followed him towards the doors. The man who'd brought them there spoke first. "What do you want us to do?"
"I want you to live. Living is work these days; no one gets a free ride. Go right now and find enough food to feed everyone here. There's a Wal-mart in the shopping center across the street. Go get a bunch of food, ammunition, and cleaning supplies."
"Ain't no food left in there. We cleaned it out last week," he said.
"Did you check the stock room? Did you open all the boxes in the back? How about the trucks in the parking lot? Did you search the cars for anyone who may have bought groceries but didn't get out? Did you raid the restaurant inside the store? What about the three other restaurants in the shopping center? If they're all cleaned out, spray paint ‘No Food’ on the doors and move to the next spot. Keep going until you find something to eat." Marshall was beginning to wonder how these men had lived as long as they had. "You six are the primary food team. You're going to go out scavenging food every single day, seven days a week for at least eight hours a day. That's your job now. Grab anything you find that could be useful, but first and foremost, you're after food, water, and first aid supplies."
Marshall pressed the unlock button on the key fob as he stepped through the door. The answering chirp was from a civilian model Hummer, but at least it was an H1 model.
"Oh, one last thing," Marshall said. “You all smell horrible. I want to see working showers when I get back. No one goes more than two days without bathing. Living in filth like this is not only disgusting, it’s unhealthy. Find some soap, wash yourselves, and wash your clothes."
Victor tossed his duffle bag in the back seat next to Harley and climbed into the front passenger seat. Marshall climbed up behind the wheel and cranked the huge truck.
Marshall and Victor were out of the parking lot before Victor spoke. "Marshall, what the hell was that? How did you throw that guy around? You stabbed him through the top of the skull. You killed him with your bare hands."
"I told you I was strong. I tried to talk my way out. I tried everything I could to not have to kill him. I hate killing humans. He was clearly a bad man, and yet I'm going to see Jerome’s face every time I close my eyes for a long time, Dad. This world has gone to shit. Vic and I are just trying to flush the toilet."
"You've changed a lot, son."
"We adapted to survive. I don't like using force, but this is a new world. In this world, the only language some men speak is violence," Marshall said. "There's a reason we need you. Vic needs you; I think he's somewhat lost. You know how he is. He's always been go big or go home. Well, he's going big. We're talking about cleaning the planet of these zombies. The thing is, if anyone can do that, it’s Vic. I believe that. I believe him."
"Is he stronger than you?"
"In a lot of ways, yes. Physically no, but he could beat any of us in a fight. He can tell what people are going to do before they do them. He knows when people are lying. There is a group of us, Vic, Renee, and me, plus John, Leo, and Kris. Each of us has some ability. In the case of Leo and Renee, they're definitely super powers. And there are more of us out there. Vic and I think it’s about one percent of the previous population, and it appears to be genetic. "
"So zombies have invaded the planet, and my sons became superheroes? God has a plan for all of us, son. I haven't heard any mention of Candi. She didn't make it?"
Marshall shook his head. "She was killed on the first day when were headed down t
o Virginia. A zombie set up a road block and shot up Vic's truck."
Marshall turned south on Peachtree Hills Drive. "Think I should take 85? Or stick to side streets?"
"I'd take 85, no way of knowing what traffic is like, but the outbreak hit Atlanta in the middle of the night, so it might be passable," said Victor.
Marshall steered the truck onto the interstate. It was largely clear all the way through town. They swerved around a couple of wrecks here and there and had to take the median and climb a pretty steep muddy hill to get up onto I-20, but within an hour they were parked outside Fort McPherson's gates. They'd been torn from their posts. The mangled remains of the gates were half in the street, one hinge still attached to the post.
"Jesus Christ," said Marshall, looking inside the gates. There were rotting bodies everywhere, and piles of spent brass lay everywhere in the grass. They could see a machine gun turret inside of a sandbag ring. The gun was facing inward.
Chapter 33
Grandpa Tookes
Victor and Marshall got out of the truck and walked onto the base. As they looked over the yard, Victor shook his head, sadness plain on his face. "These men died recently," he said. "Their corpses aren't very old. Maybe just a couple of days."
Marshall took a look himself. Some of them had clearly been zombies. Bits of flesh hung loosely out of their mouths. Almost every single corpse on the field was wearing military fatigues. The few that were not military were wearing business suits. Almost all of the corpses, both human and zombie, had been chewed on. If Marshall had to guess, it was probably by whatever had blown the gates outward. The gun placements were surrounded by brass. There were ammo boxes strewn out behind each of the guns. "Man, they burned a lot of bullets here. How many corpses do you think there are? Those are thousand-round boxes, and I count fifteen behind this gun alone. What the hell did they shoot fifteen thousand rounds at from each of these guns?"
