Gunship - The Series

by John Davis

  The flank of the three man group was Dalton, who carried his revolver in hand; three more handguns tucked into the leather belt around his waist. The pockets of his pants were shoved full with ammunition clips and spare bullets. He was responsible for protecting himself, as well the pack mule.

  And so the three assigned to loot Geatown eased themselves over the side of the roof, one at a time, each praying the shirts held as well as they had hoped.

  Skulls had spotted some Drifters roaming several blocks away, as well as a group directly in front of the Trading Post. And the sniper's hand motions let the group know where the Zombies were located, directing them almost like some sort of gothic GPS system.

  “We gonna need a lot of food, tents, blankets and weapons if we can find em.” Dalton whispered, just loud enough for the two men in front of him to hear.

  Johnny acknowledged his words with a nod, holding their position at a standstill while peeking from the corner of a nearby building.

  And though they had to remain hidden for nearly thirty minutes, eventually the three man scavenging group made their way, cautiously slow, out of the sight of Skulls and deeper into Geartown.

  Cambria felt a chill come across her at the very moment they disappeared from sight. It wasn't the temperature of the low-passing winds, but rather one that made her, for whatever reason, truly believe that she would never see Dalton again.

  And even though they were no longer visible in the bright rays of sun that fell down onto the Drifts, Cambria continued her stare for several minutes. Praying, if nothing else, that her gut feeling was wrong.

  “Keep on your scope,” she said, a bit of panic in her voice of deep concern. “Please.”

  “Don't worry, I believe they will be fine.” Skulls replied.

  Those who remained back on the Trading Post rooftop seemed to finally grasp the devastation. The previous night had been filled with screams, terror and non-stop fighting for their lives. They had been given no time to sincerely think about the events which had unfolded.

  Bodies laying out in the streets surrounding their building. Most, if not all, mutilated and dead by horrific measures. There was no doubt that the very building beneath them was filled with more of the same.

  Drifters walked among them. And they knew but one purpose. Killing. And as the survivors looked from their rooftop of safety, they saw the bodies, smoking buildings and walking dead throughout the streets.

  “It will be alright.” the barkeep said, trying his best to comfort Selina as she began to sob heavily.

  “How could this happen?” she asked, her words falling between two outburst of tears.

  “Let's just hope it's contained to the Drifts,” Christopher said. “So we can find a skiff and get the fuck out of here.”

  Cambria didn't respond. As she turned to Christopher, she wanted to. So badly, she wanted to respond to the man she knew was less than half the man Dalton James was.

  She didn't know the complete history of Glimmeria, but she did know of both wars there. She knew that Dalton had fought for the very side she would have, if it would have been her. The side that just wanted to be allowed to live. The side that fought, only as a last resort, to protect their families.

  And as she watched Christopher, his every move giving clue to the character of the man, she knew he was a coward. He had more than likely killed several Colonial soldiers during the war. Soldiers, just like Dalton, who were forced into protecting everything they lived for. But he had done it from a distance, maybe with the odds heavily in his favor. At least that was Cambria's opinion, as she saw a man who only wished he could measure up to a Dalton James.

  Whiskey had been quiet since the group of scavengers departed, choosing instead to take his place near the elderly man and child who sat far from the trapdoor. The faithful pooch watched over the pair as though he were a ill-bathed guardian angel. And, while his eyes skimmed the group, his head remained flat to the ground.

  “What's your name old man?” Christopher asked.

  “Carlos.” the elderly man replied softly, doing his best to keep the babe in his arms calm.

  “A little old for a baby aren't you?” Christopher asked.

  “Are you watching the trapdoor or writing for a newspaper?” Cambria asked sharply.

  “Just trying to get to know everyone,” he said without even turning into her direction. “That's all.”

  “He's not mine,” Carlos said. “I found him in the street about two blocks down. Didn't seem right to just leave a infant boy laying.”

  “What about you, what's your story?” Christopher asked of the other surviving man.

  “Name's Kieth,” the man replied. “I sell prospecting licenses,” he added. “Or at least I used to.”

  “Wow, a licensing official. How exciting.” Christopher said with sarcasm.

  “True. Not all of us can be cold-blooded killers fighting under the Legion flag,” Kieth replied. “If I was the killing kind, I would have killed your kind with a brown coat on my back.”

  “What the hell did you just say?” Christopher asked angrily.

  “That's enough,” Cambria added, stepping between the two men. “Been enough fighting down below, we don't need it up here too.”

  “Fair enough, but don't get too comfortable being in charge.” Christopher said with a grin.

  Tank held the large sack open as Johnny filled it with haste, pushing his arm onto the shelf and then raking the groceries inside.

  “Seems like you are picking all of the heavy shit.” Tank said.

  “Getting all of the protein I can find. It will keep us a bit fuller for a bit longer.” Johnny replied.

  “Shh.” Dalton added, using one of his arms to calm them to silence as sever Drifters walked by the front door of the small general store.

  “We need to speed this trip up, they seem to be getting thicker outside.” Dalton said in a whisper.

  “Alright,” Johnny replied, his voice just as low pitched. “Tank, you grab as many more groceries as you can carry. I'll look around for anything we can use for an extended stay. Survival gear.”

  Tank simply nodded, still steaming a bit over being assigned the group's pack mule. He froze in place, however, as the ringing of a small bell attached to the front door rang out.

  A single Drifter had entered the building, leaving the front door open in the process.

  Johnny quickly made his way back, a single bag filled with loot and three brand new tents, still folded and sealed, draped across his shoulder.

  Once the Drifter had gotten far enough inside, Dalton sprang from behind to grab the monster around its throat. It tried to bite, tried to fight back, but a quick plunge into the forehead, a knife blade held by Tank, changed the struggle as the Drifter fell limply to the floor.

  “We got to move!” Dalton said, this time loudly as several Drifters passing by had spotted the killing of one of their own.

  “Might as well use the front door, and don't stop running until we make it back!” Johnny yelled as the three men began sprinting. Tank, who had never been accused of lacking in the muscle department, hoisted four large sacks filled with groceries with ease.

  His muscles flexed hard, proven by the sudden outline around the bulging in his arms. Yet he was able to keep up with a pistol-wielding Dalton and Johnny as the three men stayed only a dozen or so feet in front of a large crowd of animated flesh.

  Dalton opened fire, staying to the rear of the group as he executed nearly a half-dozen Zombies at close range.

  “I found an old radio back there,” Johnny said loudly as the group continued its brisk run. “It's an older, crank-type model, but it was brand new. Ran across a flare gun too.”

  “We need every bit of it, good thinking.” Dalton replied.

  “Should have enough food for weeks if we ration it right.” Tank added, as the group slowed down, quickly finding every street blocked by a few Drifters.

  “Johnny,” Dalton said as the three men began t
o back up into one another. “What you got in your bag is damn important. You get it back there, ya' hear?”

  “What are you rambling about?” Johnny asked.

  “The street to our left runs right back into the Trading Post. I remember the street light,” Dalton said. “You and I thin out the bastards blocking that direction, then you run for it. Tank and I will hold up the remaining.”

  “I 'aint going back without 'ya.” Johnny said.

  “Yea you are. You have them get a damn rope of some sort ready and waiting for us.” Dalton replied.

  “Don't have to worry about that, I found a rope back there as well. Two to be exact.” Johnny replied.

  “Well you get your ass up to that roof and have ropes waiting. We'll be a few steps behind, and coming with a whole lot of bastards on our heels.” Dalton said.

  “Make it back.” Johnny said, patting Dalton on the shoulder for a moment before joining the brown coat wearing smuggler in clearing a path. As the last Drifter fell, Johny Edmonds sprinted away, bag of vital equipment over his shoulder.

  “Alright brother, let's dust these 'sumbitches,” Dalton said, pulling a second pistol out from his belt. “Just stay behind me.” he added, shots ringing out a mere moment later.

  Dropping eight Drifters with his first eight shots, Dalton dropped the empty piece and pulled another from his belt, letting more shots loose in the process.

  And so continued the killing, the cleansing of life after death by one Dalton James, until his last revolver, a shiny Magnum, clicked empty.

  One remained. A single Drifter remained, coming to the men, slowing only to make its way across the heaping pile of bodies which lay truly dead at the hands of Dalton James.

  “Where are the others?” Cambria said frantically as the men helped Johnny over the ledge and onto the rooftop. “Johnny.” she yelled.

  “They're coming,” he replied, heavily winded at best. “They stayed back a ways to cover my flank,” he added. “Two ropes in my bag. Get 'em and tie them to the steel pipes up here. Be ready to throw them down in a hurry.”

  Cambria stood to her feet, in shock and praying, as the group quickly sifted through Johnny's bag to find the rope. Placing them around the piping system, and re-enforcing the knots to hold, they all patiently waited for sight of Tank and Dalton, as well as whatever horrors may be behind them.

  “Only one of them,” Dalton said as the Drifter approached, its teeth snarling gruesomely for fresh flesh. “”I'll draw him to me, and when I do, you stab that 'sumbitch right in the back of his skull.”

  As his words closed out the sentence, Tank fired a gunshot that flew by, striking the Drifter in its forehead and killing it stone cold dead.

  As Dalton James turned to find out where the shot came from, he saw the barrel of a solid black pistol bearing down on him.

  “Now let me tell you my version of the smuggler's creed,” Tank said with a bit of a grin. “You really think I would come out here without a fucking gun on me? I'm a smuggler!” he yelled.

  “Yea, I know you are man. Just calm down.” Dalton replied.

  “Don't tell me to calm down man,” Tank said. “You don't know the half of it. I am calm,” he added. “The minute I found out you and Christopher fought on different sides of the Glimmerian War, me and him sat down. Had ourselves a real long talk.”

  “What the fuck are you rambling on about?” Dalton asked, the sound of Drifters closing in on them becoming louder.

  “You won't get away with this!” Cambria yelled as Christopher held her at gunpoint. Her own gun, the same one he had, only moments before, used to shoot Whiskey, now reflecting back to her.

  “Shut up you bitch!” Christopher yelled, a second gun pointed into Johnny's direction. “I know you're fast with a pistol, but I already got the bead on you. And the sniper over there, just keep your damn eye to the scope. You turn around, just the slightest bit, and I'll end both of them.” Christopher added.

  “See Dalton,” Tank said somberly. “This group of survivors needs to be led by the strong. And while Christopher is up there handling business, it's my job to dust your ass and leave you laying for the Drifters.”

  “You 'aint got it in you.” Dalton replied, walking very slowly toward the gunman.

  “Sure I do,” Tank replied, pulling the slide lock back on his pistol. “And right about now, Christopher is killing that sack of fleas you travel with. And when I get back, plan on having my way with Cambria.”

  “I'll fucking kill you!” Dalton James yelled, Drifters closing in on them quickly.

  “Only one problem with that statement. You'll be dead.” Tank replied.

  And with a single shot, the life of a smuggler officially ended.

  Gunship V: Roman

  And They were on him. Tu'nak knew well that the Hunters were closing in quickly. He knew not the number, nor the weapons in which they carried; he only knew of their intentions.

  The Hunters were drinkers of mens' souls. Vampires by every definition. They wore Gothic black, carried the most elegant of weaponry, and, above all, thirsted for the salty sting of Human blood.

  Tu'nak was Human enough, though his structure nearly spoke a different tale. A shade above seven feet in height, the warrior had packed muscle onto his gigantic frame throughout a lifetime. Such meaty flesh was considered a top catch by the Hunters, and that was all the more reason for them to track him down. Slay him and feast on the seasoned frame of the warrior.

  Yet, they needed no more reasoning aside from the one they carried. Their queen had ordered it. She had demanded Tu'nak, and the remaining warriors who rose against the Vampiric race be hunted down and slaughtered. A group of warriors who answered but to one.

  Roman Raines.

  Roman had been one of the mightiest warriors ever recorded into history by Human hand, spending an entire lifetime slaying the very Vampires who hunted him.

  When he met demise, the flicker of a hero's journey coming to a close, the Hunters turned him. He would be a great addition to their cause, becoming one of their mightiest slayers.

  However, the Hunters underestimated Roman Raines; or rather his hatred for their kind. Indeed, his body had transformed from a dying Human into a warrior of the afterlife. But his objectives remained true. Kill every last Vampire, cleansing Humanity of the bastards forever.

  And so Tu'nak ran, swiftly and with the guarantee of safety if he were able to make it back. Because the fact was, it didn't matter how many Hunters were on him. Nor did it matter the weapons they carried with them. None would be near the strength in battle as Roman Raines was.

  As the warrior's feet crunched the freshly-fallen snow with haste, his legs continuing a stride of panic; his lungs working hard against the air of frigidness as he finally made it back to their base of operations.

  Nothing more than a large cabin surrounded by the foliage of trees, blankets of snow covering the round hills which also held the personal shuttle of Roman Raines.

  “Were you followed?” Roman asked as Tu'nak quickly approached the steps which led to the cabin's entrance, lungs throbbing from such bone-stabbing cold.

  Roman wore a coat of fur, one that reached the length of his body and was white with a peppering of black. A single blade hung by his side, one of rugged craftsmanship, but elegant nonetheless.

  “Yes,” Tu'nak replied, his chest throbbing with the pain of cold air forced in. “A scouting group.”

  “Get inside and inform the others. I will join you shortly.” Roman replied, his voice ringing with a touch of demonic tongue as gray smoke floated up to the clouds, a single campfire to blame. His long hair of white and black nearly blended with the icy surroundings, as did his chalk-white skin.

  And there he stood, sword in hand as he walked a small circle, slowly facing the thickly-wooded area near camp.

  “You can show yourselves. I smell you. Take arms and fight with honor, our code requires it.” Roman said loudly, the chill of his voice overpowering that of the air.
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  Without warning, a Hunter jumped into sight from the wooded area, the demon holding sword in hand, fully extended and determined to end the life of Roman Raines.

  Instead, however, the soldier of immortality quickly became otherwise, the trunk of his body severed in half by a chopping swipe of Roman's blade.

  The two bulks of flesh, both of them completely lifeless, fell to the snow before much of the gushing blood which followed, soaking the ground at the mighty slayers' feet.

  “Go. Run back home with fear and tell your queen of the legend known as Roman Raines!” he yelled.

  “We will speak to our queen of no such warrior,” a Hunter replied loudly, a total of two making their way into the clearing. “My mouth is capable of no such lie.”

  “Then your lifeless body will speak of it for you.” Roman said as the two demons began to circle him.

  Swordplay was indeed important to the Hunters, looked upon as honorable warfare. But no training they could have completed, no mentor among them, could have prepared the two Vampires for the skill with blade which ran through Roman's veins every moment of every day.

  With just the slightest of feigns, only enough to force one of the beasts into a parry, Roman quickly turned to plunge the bulk of his blade into the chest of the other, unsuspecting demon. Then, knowing well that his enemy was on the door of death, Roman jerked loose his sword, crushing it down onto his other opponent.

  The Vampire, who was recovering from a parry proven unnecessary, only found time to raise his blade to deflect the downswing of such a warrior. And, in most cases, it was a fine move. However, he was fighting Roman Raines on this day.

  The punishing power of the Vampiric slayer of Vampires continued his swing, forcing it through the defending steel and shattering the victim's sword; finding a home in the upper skull of his outmatched foe.

  As Roman forced his blade back out single-handed, bringing with it large fragments of bone, he slowly sheathed it once more while watching the doomed Vampire's lifeless body fall to the ground.