Dawn of the Rage Apocalypse
Page 20
At least the zapping had stopped. His watch’s display indicated he would need to move again, and very soon.
Smitty went prone, and crept under the truck. He aimed the AK-74M and prayed the shadows obscured him. Another blast and the truck bounced from the bullet’s impact.
He inched forward until he could put the sights on the tank.
Smitty nearly pulled the trigger before remembering the selector switch. He thumbed it to burst fire and then unleashed three 7.62 rounds.
As he scooted back the shooter nearly zeroed in on him. Dirt from the next round blew into his face. He blinked rapidly but his left eye had something in it. Tears formed, but they weren’t enough to clear the debris. It make his eye feel like it was being rubbed with fucking sandpaper.
Worse still, the damn tank hadn’t exploded.
If it wasn’t a gas storage tank, then what in the hell was it?
Smitty rubbed his eyes as he backed up, and some of the dirt came out, but it still burned like hell.
The bruise on his side, where a pistol round had bounced off his body armor, throbbed. The stab wound in his hip made him woozy. His head ached from the run, and gun action of the last few hours, and now he was a sitting duck.
The energy drink made his head feel fuzzy and his body ached like he was coming down with a fever.
“Screw you.” He seethed with anger. “My body ain’t giving up the ghost just yet.”
Smitty leaned over, extended the barrel of the AKM out from under cover, and sent a furious stream of lead at the house. He couldn’t be sure where the shooter was firing from, but if he were up there, it would be from the broken window on the right side of the home. The left remained closed, and intact, so that was out. It was all guesswork now. The tank would have provided the perfect device to finish the game, but it simply refused to explode.
Another shot smacked into the tire, and the right side of the truck sank a few inches as air expelled. Smitty hustled back out from cover just before a second shot struck the fender. But this time the muzzle flash had given away the shooter’s position, and just as Smitty had suspected, it was indeed the broken window.
“Got ya,” Smitty muttered for those streaming his feed.
It would probably be about 50/50 out there. Half of the millions of game streamers would be glued to the sniper’s feed, while the other half would be watching Smitty’s.
The seconds ticked away as Smitty waited. He couldn’t make it back to the chapel if he wanted to try. He had sacrificed his backpack and all of his collected goods to make it this far. All that remained between him and the last contestant was almost certain death as soon as he stepped foot on open ground.
The truck bumped up and down as the other person unleashed hell. Probably an M4 or M16 from the sound, and it was on full auto. Thirty rounds kicked up dirt, punched through the truck, and made him pray as he put his back against the rear tire, and cursed. Something kicked him near his kidney and he let out a groan of pain. At least his body armor had deflected the bullet.
The firing stopped so Smitty sprang to his feet while the other player reloaded.
He emptied his own magazine into the side of the house. Multiple rounds punched through walls, the remaining glass shattered, and when he clicked on empty, Smitty ducked and slapped a fresh magazine into the gun.
Last one.
It was now or never.
Smitty switched to selective fire as a jolt of electricity woke him up.
No time to look at his watch or the tablet. This was it. The end game.
Smitty dashed around the truck and fired on the location. He ran, full out, as he exposed himself to direct fire. Shoot. Wait. Shoot!
Wait. Shift aim to the right a few degrees. Shoot! Wait. Now to the left.
He was down to three rounds when he must have scored a hit as a scream of pain answered his shots.
Smitty slammed into the side of the house and went right for the side entrance.
He kicked in the door and aimed down the iron sights, but the other player must have stayed upstairs, which left him in a terrible position. Battling upwards, instead of from cover, or at a target struggling to reach him. He could wait it out, let the shocks take them both, and see who was the strongest.
“The blue knuckle fuck I will,” Smitty swore, just as he became aware that he was completely delirious. “It’s now or never.”
Smitty dropped to a crouch, guessed at the shooter’s location, and fired his last three rounds at the ceiling.
He tossed the now empty AKM aside, pulled the M&P .45 from his holster, and hit the first step at a run.
The lower part of the house was nothing more than old carpet, mostly ripped up to expose hardwood slats underneath. No furniture to speak of, and the kitchen, thanks to the walls being blasted half to hell, had revealed a kitchen with a sad and abandoned old lead refrigerator. Talk about an open concept first floor gone wrong. There was no longer a sink, and the pipes, hanging out of the walls, had been busted and rusted long ago.
A gunshot blasted in the small room above, and a chunk of wall disappeared. Smitty leaned around the corner and emptied half of his magazine into the area he thought the shot had come from.
His heart felt like it was about to jump out of his chest as it pounded out a frightening rhythm. He went prone again at the sound of shells sliding into a tube. The action snapping into place.
His eyes widened at the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being brought into play, and fled the stairs as a hole the size of an old vinyl record appeared where his head had been.
Back on the first floor, Smitty backed into the room, took in the shooter’s location, aimed his .45 at the ceiling again, and finished off the magazine.
“Ah!” Another cry of pain.
He ejected the mag, slammed his last one home, pulled back slightly on the slide, and let it glide home. As he pounded back up the stairs he threw the empty magazine into the room ahead. The shotgun boomed again and another chunk of wall flew into his face. Then he was in there!
Fear and elation rode his emotions as he found the last player in a pool of blood. The man looked familiar; he’d seen him on the plane ride. Clean shaven, young, no more than twenty-five, and dressed in a full set of dark fatigues, military vest with body armor, and a helmet. But the armor hadn’t protected the guy’s lower appendages.
“Wait,” the man gasped as he tried to slide a pair of shells into the sawed-off. “Just wait.”
For a split second Smitty saw the man as not just another target, but as a human being begging for his life. Had Smitty been in the same position, he may have begged as well.
On the other hand, a half minute ago, the shooter had tried to kill Smitty. Smitty aimed, put the guy’s face in his sights, and fired a pair of rounds. Now that son of a bitch was dead.
“Fucking dead!” Smitty screamed in elation.
Then he got a look at what he had done to the man, and realized that what was left would need a miracle worker of a mortician. He had killed, and not for the first time today. Everyone in the game knew what they had signed up for. So why did he suddenly feel like keeling over and puking? Why did he suddenly feel like he had committed a crime?
Why did he feel guilty?
Smitty dropped to his knees, all too aware that his last kill had been broadcast in all its bloody glory from the camera attached to his chest.
The guy’s leg kicked, and before Smitty could think about it he finished the magazine off in the player.
The man’s body bounced up and down, and as smoke rose from the barrel of Smitty’s .45 the last sound the man gave was as his bowels released and he shit himself.
Smitty turned away, moved back a few feet, and let out an exhausted sigh of relief.
The pressure around his chest released as the harness deactivated.
He sat on the floor and tried to focus on his breathing. It was the easiest thing in the world. In and out. In and out. His hands shook as he stared at his blood and dirt cr
usted fingers.
He had just won $25 million dollars and all he’d had to do was kill nine other people. The rest had taken each other out in the course of three hours and forty-five minutes.
Smitty covered his body cam with his hand as he leaned forward and spewed a stream of energy drink, half digested crackers, and stomach acid in a pile at his feet. Then he uncovered the lens, pulled if of the harness, and lifted it so the lens focused on his bloodied, bruised, and battered face.
“This is Smitty coming to you live,” he said. “I guess I did it.”
* * *
Smitty turned off the video replay and kicked back in a dark brown plush Italian leather chair. That had been five years ago, and now his job had morphed into something completely different. In just a few more minutes they were going to come for him.
It was time to start his hosting duties on Chicken Dinner, and with the surprises in store, Smitty wondered if this wouldn’t be the biggest audience draw yet.
About the Author
Timothy W. Long has been writing tales and stories since he could hold a crayon and has read enough books to choke a landfill. Tim has a predilection for weird literature and a deep-seated need to jot words on paper and thrust them at people.
Tim spent time in the US Navy, worked for a major game corporation, an aeronautics company, and he was in the IT field for the last 20 years as an engineer before becoming a full time author. He is an active member of Horror Writers Association, SFWA, and International Thriller Writers.
Tim is the author of 22 novels and resides outside of Seattle where he spends time with his partner in crime, author and publisher Katie Cord. As well as 2 children, 4 dogs of various sizes and dispositions, a slightly psychotic Bengal cat named LucyFurr, and a near constant supply of overpriced, and overcooked coffee beans.
www.timothywlong.com
stupidzombies@gmail.com
Also by Timothy W. Long
Among the Living (Permuted Press)
Among the Dead (Permuted Press)
Beyond the Barriers (Permuted Press)
Beyond the Barriers: Ghouls
At the Behest of the Dead
The Zombie Wilson Diaries
The Apocalypse and Satan’s Glory Hole w/Jonathan Moon
Z-Risen 1: Outbreak
Z-Risen 2: Outcasts
Z-Risen 3: Poisoned Earth
Z-Risen 4: Reavers
Z-Risen 5: Barriers
The Front: Screaming Eagles w/David Moody and Craig DiLouie
Impact Earth 1: Symbiosis
Damaged w/Tim Marquitz
Drums of War
March to War