by Matt Hart
Somehow this human had kept a bio-research facility hidden from the advance drones.
Grodge activated a secondary monitor and zoomed in on the location. Just a non-descript building where multiple humans lived. No wonder—it wasn’t a regular medical building.
Grodge leaned back and considered the situation. Red-flagged issues could lead to purple flags, and purple flags could lead to a Grodge promotion. He knew of one junior assistant technical monitor who’d failed to catch and report the destruction of ten drones within the prescribed ten kilometer radius on the now broken and lifeless planet of Land.
These stupid primitives and their planet names … they were only good for entertainment.
Well, maybe he could hide this guy in his oddly-placed bunker and let him conduct his research. It’s not like it would go anywhere. If he played it right, the blame would be fixed on his supervisor, and he'd move right up.
He added an annihilation-exclusion zone, then tasked some systems to try to find a way to make the animals in that zone particularly violent—an experiment usually performed by junior assistants, but nothing unusual.
Finally, and this was the tricky part, he scripted a login using a very old admin account that he'd seen Pactain use once, and set it to mark any reds coming out of that entire zone as investigated. He attached the script to auto-execute every time Pactain signed off on his normal account, then deleted the activity logs and history, and finally the old account.
He had a couple of others from random workers, and all of the logins of anyone who had ever used this terminal, so he could make other plays if they came up.
He leaned back and smiled, reaching down to pet his doglard. It fawned on him, desperate for praise. He laughed out loud, thinking of how stupid the thing was.
He looked back at the guy in the bunker, who was now just sitting around and puffing on some sort of stim-stick.
Grodge laughed again. "Humans are stupider than a doglard," he quipped, and then laughed at his own joke.
He clicked his thumbs and reached over for a Stim-Stick, ready to become the best senior assistant producer in Pactain's group.
He switched the feed off of bunker guy and put it in a queue relegated to boring stuff, nothing happening. It meant no one else was likely to ever see it. Then he worked steadily to make his channels the best they could be.
Chapter 10
—————
Erin
Against my instincts, I found myself liking and trusting this huge black Army guy. Or whatever service he was in. Didn't look like he was in the Coast Guard anyway, and I doubted he could fit inside a submarine.
Camo Joe.
I followed him back to his toy room. He was still carrying his rifle swinging from a cord of some kind. I stood in the doorway, then thought of something.
"I'll be right back," I told him. I turned and went back to the front door, closed it and locked it. When I turned around, he was peeking at me from around the corner. I nodded. He nodded. I guess that was the way they communicated in Army land. Nodding.
Seemed efficient.
We went back to the room and I stood in the doorway again. Camo Joe opened a big metal safe and fiddled around inside for a minute. He put a pistol of some kind on the counter, as well as a scary looking gun of some kind. He picked up the pistol.
"This is a Smith and Wesson M&P 9mm," he said, as though I understood what he meant.
"Nine millimeters of what?" I asked.
He smiled and said, "That’s the size of the bullet. You're small but strong, and a nine is about the smallest gun with a decent amount of stopping power. It'll punch through clothing and do plenty of damage—at least with the right bullets." Then he reached back into the safe and pulled out a couple of boxes.
"These are ballistic rounds. They have a tip on them that keeps the bullet from spreading on contact with clothing, so it penetrates better than plain hollow points."
"I've heard the term 'hollow points' before," I said.
"Yeah, they're the typical round, and I have a case or two in there, but the ballistics are really the best. I also have some…" He reached into the safe again. "Some range rounds, 125’s. They'll punch through a wall and still damage the target on the other side. Not safe for home defense or crowded places, but we'll take a box anyway."
I thought about using them on crazies. Multiple crazies. Maybe kill two with one shot. "Three boxes of range rounds, two ballistics," I told Camo Joe.
He looked like he was about to protest my decision to change his recommendation, but instead he shrugged and reached back into the safe, rummaging a bit before bringing out the boxes.
"There ya go, Erin, one hundred fifty rounds of range, one hundred ballistic. Will that be cash or credit?" he said with twinkle in his eye.
I smiled. "Definitely credit," I answered.
He laughed and then rummaged around in the safe again, pulling out three somethings that looked like the inside of a gun or something.
Turns out, that's exactly what they were. "These are magazines for the M&P 9," he said. "I'll show you how to load them in a second." He put them on the table next to the gun, then picked up the scary looking one. "Now the pistol is really just for a last-ditch defense. This puppy is your real protection."
The gun was about an arm long and looked like it had three barrels or something. There wasn't much else other than a trigger, a grip, and the thing you rest against your shoulder. I didn't like it, it looked too big and heavy.
But I'd let him finish his happy spiel and let him down easy.
"This bad looking boy is a Kel-Tec 12-gauge. It holds fifteen rounds and has the shortest legal barrel you can get. It only weighs about six pounds with the shells, and it'll take a guy’s head off, or blow a hole the size of a bucket in him. Just pump and shoot. Easy."
He handed me the gun, and I must admit it felt better holding it than looking at it.
"It holds more rounds than anything else I have by a long shot—eight rounds is the next closest."
I hefted it, then put it up to my shoulder.
"Shooting this with it braced against your body works okay, as long as your wearing enough clothing or a pack of some kind. It packs a wallop, but fortunately the business end really takes out the bad guys."
"Alright," I said, "looks like you have another sale, Camo Joe." He smiled and took the gun back and laid it on the counter. He reached into the safe and pulled out more boxes. Ammo for the gun, I assumed. He also laid a strap with loops on the table. I looked a question at him.
"A bandolier, it's for holding shells."
"Shells, rounds, twelves and nines," I said. "I hardly understand any of this stuff."
"It's okay, Erin, I'll show you everything, including the SCAR," said Camo Joe, tapping the rifle still dangling in front of him. He detached it, then with a couple of quick motions dropped a piece of it out into his hand and launched a bullet sideways out of it, catching it and putting everything on the table.
I smiled at his obvious display of showmanship, but he just looked thoughtful as he examined the weapons on the table. So not showing off, just a thing he did without thought.
Like my martial arts.
He picked up his own rifle and looked at me, all serious-like. I echoed his expression.
I knew when I was about to get lectured, but this was a lecture I wanted to attend.
"There are like thirty-five rules when it comes to gun safety, but really it boils down to just three. Always assume the gun is loaded. Always keep the business end pointed in a safe direction. Always keep your finger off the trigger.
"Until, of course, it's time to shoot the bad guys. People get hurt, or hurt other people, when they do stupid stuff like test if the safety works or swing it around at you like a dumbass vice president.
"When you pick up, keep your finger like this." He held up the gun, and his finger was straight on the side of the trigger rather than inside of it. "You see anyone pick up a gun and stick their
finger in there, stay well away from them, because they are a dumbass who doesn't have a clue about proper gun safety."
I reached out to the table and picked up the pistol, holding it with my finger like his, straight and to the side, pointing it away from him at the wall. I looked up at him. He looked a bit startled, like he didn't expect me to grab a gun so fast, but then he swallowed and nodded.
"Right," he said. He put down his rifle and stepped over to me, keeping out of the line of the pistol barrel. "You need to use both hands, although it's a good idea to practice with just one hand, and both of them at that."
I put my left hand up to my other one. "Like this?" I asked.
"No," he said. He started to reach around me to show me how to hold it.
"Stop. Remember my rule."
He spread his arms and backed away. "Damn, I'm sorry, Erin. Really, I forgot."
I looked him in the eye. He seemed sincere. I nodded toward the gun safe. "You gotta another one in there?"
"Yep, several," he said, walking over to it. Camo Joe reached in and pulled out another pistol. "This one's a revolver, but you hold it the same." He held the gun with both hands. "This is how you're holding it." I nodded. "Now watch my left thumb." He moved his left thumb from behind his right thumb like I had mine, and put it beside the right thumb instead. I moved mine the same way.
"Like this?" I asked.
"Yep," he said. "Ironically, you can hold this gun that other way, but not that one you're using, so it's best to develop the right habits no matter what gun. Then you won't take a big chunk out of your thumb when you fire. The top part, called the slide, slides backwards really fast and with a lot of force. That action loads the next round and you can just keep pulling the trigger to keep shooting. If you did that with your left thumb back there, it would slam into it and cut it up."
"Okay," I said, "thanks for the tip, Camo Joe. Bloody thumbs avoidance, got it." I put the gun down. "Show me the rest."
Camo Joe proceeded to tell me all about guns and ammunition, and I hoped I'd remember it all. Here's how to drop a magazine out of the gun. I dropped it. Here's how to load it back. I loaded it. Here's how to chamber a round.
That one took me a few tries—it's tricky to pull back that slide.
Here's how to release the slide when it locks back. Here's the safety. Here's where to look at a gun to see what ammo it can take. Always use the right ammo. Here's where you can look on the ammo for what type it is. Here's how to load the shotgun—now tell me what kind of round it takes. The wrong round in a shotgun can cause it to explode,
That's bad.
“Here's my rifle. This is a selector switch. I'm military, so it has multiple positions: for off, for the safety, single round, or burst, which fires three bullets at a time.”
We spent a half hour cleaning them, first with something called a "bore snake.” Some fluid goes on it and you pull the snake through the barrel. Camo Joe showed me how to take the guns apart for a more thorough cleaning, but we didn't actually do it right then.
He told me stories of his Army buddies, cracking jokes at the expense of the jarheads at the next table over and getting into bar fights. He told me about learning to swim and the first time he had to jump out of an airplane.
After an hour and a half in his house, I felt all decked out and dangerous. I ended up with the pistol he first showed me, a smaller shotgun that held seven rounds plus one, but I liked it better, and an AR-15 that looked a lot like his gun. He ended up swapping his "SCAR" for something that looked almost the same, but he said it used the same ammunition as my gun, and it was better to have a common ammunition.
Sounds like he assumed we'd be traveling together.
"Listen…" I said, intending to tell him I appreciated all the help but I'd rather be on my own. I didn't get the chance to finish as there was a crash from the front room. I looked at Camo Joe, and he looked at me. I picked up the shotgun and chambered a round, grabbed another one and added it to the magazine, then swung the bandolier over my head.
Practically in unison, he pulled his rifle and slammed in a magazine, chambered a round, then dropped out the magazine and put in a fresh, full one. He pocketed the magazine that had one less bullet and then held up a finger to his lips.
Chapter 11
—————
Joe
Erin and I heard the crash at the same time, and I immediately picked up my M4 and slammed in a magazine and charged it. I did a tactical reload as I watched Erin pick up the Super 90 and get it loaded and ready.
She was better than many of the guys I trained with, grasping the danger and getting ready. Amazing girl, I thought for the zillionth time.
I held a finger to my lips and motioned her to stay back. I went to the door and looked around toward the living room, leading with my gun. I didn't see anything at first, but then a person came into view, their back turned to me. I sensed something at my feet and glanced down.
Erin was crouched behind me, her gun pointed at the wall across the hall, looking out the door. I was amazed again as she showed proper muzzle discipline. I was also amazed that it hadn't occurred to me to think about that when a something-teen girl who knew nothing about weapons loaded up a tactical military issue M4 Super 90 right in front of me.
She tapped my foot and motioned me back into the room, then leaned over and whispered, "Zombie." I almost laughed out loud, but Erin wasn't smiling. She was wearing the same face she'd had after kicking the skinny creep in the face and telling me to never touch her. She whispered again, "Trust me. It. Is. A. Zombie."
I had no reason not to trust this girl, except for the crazy idea that there was a zombie in my living room. Did she mean … a real, brain-eating undead person?
I heard a moan from the living room. I almost jumped out of my skin, but Erin just stood back from the door, aiming at it. I was still trying to come back from la la land when the BOOM of a gun went off. I jerked my rifle at the door and saw the man falling backward. His shoes were sticking up and still moving.
"Erin, what the hell?" I yelled over the ringing in my ears. She didn't say anything, so I risked a glance at her. She gestured with the gun.
"Zombie," she said simply.
I stepped in front of her, keeping her in my sight to see if she was going to keep her—my— shotgun pointed at the man on the floor, but she raised it to the left as I stepped in front of her.
Either a very smart girl or a very stupid girl AND a stupid Airborne Ranger.
I gasped when I looked at the man she'd shot. He had a pretty big hole in his chest where the 12-gauge round went through him, not to mention a mess on the wall. But that's not why I gasped.
He had only one arm. Well, one arm and part of another. He was wearing short sleeves, and I could see where part of his arm had been sawed off, or broken off … or something. Clearly not a medical amputation. And his neck had a hole in it. An honest to goodness HOLE right through it! I could see the carpet on the other side!
So... I thought. Zombie.
"So," I said out loud, looking back to Erin. "Zombie."
She nodded, then pointed out the door. "Look … it's about to stand up."
"That's imposs—" I turned back to the man on the floor. Sure enough, it was trying to get its good arm and half arm working together to sit up. It locked eyes with me and it hissed. I raised the M4 and put a burst through its brain. The sound of the shots crashed into my ears as the creature dropped back down. It had been a long time since I'd shot without ear protection. It would be nice to have some suppressors for these weapons.
"Erin," I said, "I ... I don't—"
"Wait," she said, motioning me back into the room. She lowered her shotgun, looked into the hallway, then stepped back. "More of them."
I took a deep breath and nodded, stepping up to the door, then into the hallway. I could see at least three of them. I checked the selector by habit, making sure it was on burst, then raised the rifle to my shoulder. I stood there and waited
until one of the things saw me and started shambling my way. I shot it in the head and it fell forward. The next one was right behind it, and I shot at it but missed. It had tripped over the first one just as I pulled the trigger. The third one stepped on the first two, stumbling a bit but still coming. I shot at it but missed again.
This was getting silly. I glanced at Erin; she had her shotgun pointed toward the living room, but was blocked by the wall. I backed up down the hall as the first one crawled toward me and into the doorway. I didn't want to shoot it while Erin was that close. A ricochet could hit her, or maybe bits of blood or bone.
