Dead America The Third Week (Book 9): Dead America, Carolina Front, Part 5
Page 6
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Terrell approached the edge of the junkyard. It was a small lot near the edge of town, with cheap metal fencing blocking out the entirety of the lot. The building was decently sized, with an office and sales area and a garage attached to the side of it with the rolling metal door closed.
He surveyed the area, seeing a few dead zombies in the road leading up to it, no doubt the handiwork of Mario and his friends. The gate to the junkyard was closed off as well, with nothing moving inside of it.
Okay, so you know this is a trap, he thought bitterly. They know you know this is a trap. So how to play this? He stared up at the building, hoping to see any sort of clue to tip him off about what they had planned, but there were no hints. If they wanted me dead they would have just killed Walter and told me where they were. Since they took him hostage, they’re probably going to let me inside and not shoot me as I walk across the street.
He rolled his eyes at his flimsy logic, but he didn’t really have any other option. He had to do everything he could to save the kid.
Terrell stood up and secured the cleaver on his back belt, with the handle hanging up and the blade tucked into it. Not the most comfortable of hiding spots, but it was the best he could do at the moment.
As he approached the front door, it opened slowly, and a guy with a rifle stood there, aiming dead at Terrell.
“You the welcoming committee?” the Captain asked dryly.
The gunman stared at him. “Something like that.”
“Guess you want me to put my gun down,” Terrell said.
The man cocked his head. “I would appreciate it if you would.”
“Can I at least hand it over to you?” the Captain asked, matching his polite tone. “Would rather not have it scuffed up from being on the blacktop.”
“If I were you,” the gunman drawled with a smirk, “I’d be worried about what Mario is gonna do to you. Your gun’s paint job isn’t going to matter much to you in a minute.”
Terrell reached the door, getting a little closer. “This gun saw me through thick and thin overseas,” he explained. “Fighting for your right to be a murderous prick, just so you know.”
“Well thank you for your service,” the gunman mocked, rolling his eyes. “Not that it’s doing a whole lotta good now.”
Terrell came within a few feet of the man, holding out his rifle. “Doing more than you think,” he said, and then tossed the gun. As soon as the man broke eye contact with him, he drew his cleaver and darted to the side, out of the way of the gun barrel.
The gunman panicked, firing a shot and missing badly. Terrell jumped forward, bringing the blade down on the man’s forearm, slicing right through it and into the wooden handle of the rifle.
The gun, with the hand connected to it, dropped to the ground, and a spray of blood coated the asphalt as the man fell to his knees in shock. Terrell bent over to pick up his own gun, dusting it off as his opponent tried in vain to stop the bleeding out of his missing limb.
“This is what you get for not treating my weapon with respect,” Terrell said coldly, and then slammed the butt of the rifle into the man’s pallid face. He slumped to the ground, unconscious, crimson pooling underneath him.
The Captain sheathed his cleaver and raised his gun before heading through the door. The showroom was surprisingly nice, with checkerboard marble flooring and several shiny new car parts in a display in the center. Along the walls were more car parts and tires, as well as a giant board advertising the Pick and Pull pricing on junkyard parts.
He scanned the room, not seeing any signs of Walter or Mario. The sound of a wrench clattering on the ground in the garage put him on edge.
No way that was an accident, he thought, and moved slowly and quietly towards the garage, gun at the ready. He entered the open door, the scent of grease and oil filling his nostrils as he skirted a beat up car on a hydraulic lift.
Behind the other empty bay stood Mario. His arm curled around Walter’s neck, his other hand pressing the barrel of a handgun into the kid’s temple.
“I’d put that down if I were you,” Mario said with a sneer.
Terrell kept his gun aimed straight at his face. “And I’d think long and hard about doing anything to that boy.”
“Oh, this boy?” Mario asked innocently, grabbing the kid’s cheeks and squeezing them together.
Walter shook his head away, and his captor pressed the gun harder into his flesh, making him wince with pain.
“Settle down there,” Mario warned.
The kid tried to squirm away. “Let me go!” he demanded.
“Stay calm, buddy,” Terrell said gently. “I’ll get you out of this.”
Mario laughed. “I wouldn’t believe him if I were you,” he said into Walter’s ear.
“What do you want?” Terrell asked, narrowing his eyes.
Mario glared at him. “What do I want?” he asked, and then let out a humorless laugh. “I want you to suffer for what you did to me.”
“You saw that big book of torture,” the Captain replied easily. “I could have done a whole lot worse than just letting you go.”
His opponent shook his head. “I doubt it,” he replied. “The Boss wasn’t too pleased with me that I cut and ran.”
“Not my fault you’re a pussy,” Terrell quipped.
Mario snarled, pressing harder on the gun. “Let’s keep it polite, shall we?” he asked. “I’d hate to have you watch me blow his brains out.”
“All right, I’ll keep it polite,” the Captain replied, “just with the understanding that if you hurt him, you aren’t coming out of this room alive.”
His opponent nodded. “Noted,” he said. “Of course, if I come back without your head, The Boss is going to do a whole lot worse to me than you ever could.”
“If you think that’s the case, then you are sadly mistaken,” Terrell declared.
Mario licked his lips. “My wounds still haven’t healed from the last time I came back empty handed,” he said. “Not making that mistake again.”
“Then why don’t you be a man and see if you can actually take me down?” the Captain asked, cocking his head.
Mario sneered. “Because I’m enjoying watching you squirm,” he said, and played with the trigger a little moving it ever so slightly.
Terrell stiffened, his rifle moving forward just a little bit as he focused on the trigger.
Mario laughed. “How’s it feel to be helpless, you sack of shit?”
“How’s it feel to know my bullet is gonna take you out before you can pull that trigger?” Terrell squeezed the trigger, his sights squarely on Mario’s head.
Instead of the satisfying blast and spray of brain matter on the back of the garage, the only sound was a sickening click. The rifle was empty. He’d spent his last rounds at the restaurant and forgot to reload after the battle.
He stared at Walter with sorrow in his eyes. He knew he’d fucked up, and badly. Walter stared back at him, fear in his gaze, but also forgiveness, no judgement. At least, that’s what Terrell tried to see, otherwise his conscience would have shattered.
Mario grinned wildly, and then squeezed the trigger. The round tore through the kid’s head, sending him lurching to the ground, a limp body far too young to die so horrifically.
Terrell let out a primal scream, all the way from his gut. His rifle clattered to the floor and he tore the cleaver from his pants, whipping it through the air before launching himself at Mario.
His opponent’s eyes widened at the sight of the shiny weapon tumbling end over end towards him, and he ducked. He managed to squeeze off one round, but it missed in his panic.
Terrell reached Mario and crashed into him, forcing them both into the back of the garage wall. There was a satisfying smack as they hit the cinderblock wall, the impact jarring the handgun loose.
The Captain rained blows down on Mario’s head, screaming in rage. “I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker!” he cried. “Die, die, DIE!”
The force of the blow was painful enough to make the Captain wince and step back, allowing Mario a chance to regain his footing. He swung again, forcing Terrell to hop back to avoid it. After the next swing, he moved in, catching Mario’s arm at the wrist before jabbing upward into his elbow.
His opponent’s arm shattered, causing him to shriek in pain and drop the wrench. Terrell let go, allowing Mario to stagger backwards, holding his dangling broken arm.
The Captain picked up the wrench from the ground calmly, and strode with purpose towards the weeping man.
“No, please…” Mario begged, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m…”
Terrell cut him off with a wrench to the face, his bottom jaw giving a deep crunch as blood-covered teeth flew from his mouth. Blood poured everywhere as Mario collapsed, and Terrell tossed the wrench, kneeling down beside his foe.
“I am going to make you wish you had put that gun in your mouth,” he snarled, and then wrapped his fingers in his opponent’s hair, lifting his head before slamming it down into the concrete floor. He left Mario’s limp body to crawl over to Walter.
The kid laid on his side, limp as a rag doll.
Terrell rubbed his face, hoping it was a mirage, a bad dream. But it was neither. His fuckup had cost this boy his life. He stared down at the poor kid, grief and guilt punching him in the gut.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” he stammered, swallowing hard. “I fucked up. I fucked up so bad. I…” He clenched his fists, and then pressed them into his eyes. He took a deep, struggling breath, and then let it out, getting to his feet.
There were still things he needed to do. He glanced down at Mario, rage boiling over his sorrow, at least for the time being. There was still a whole town to protect.
“And assholes that need a reckoning.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Not sure how much longer we have until those doors give way,” Miles said, shaking his head as the banging on the doors began to slightly open them with each thump.
Rob, the guy who’d been fighting with Coleman, crossed his arms. “Guessing you boys don’t have the ammo to take them out?” he asked.
“Just enough to take y’all out,” Coleman quipped.
Rob chuckled. “Not exactly reassuring words given our truce.”
“Don’t worry,” the soldier replied with a wave of his hand, “whenever we get out of this, we can go our separate ways and try to kill each other again another day.”
Rob nodded. “Yeah, I can live with that,” he agreed. “But first things first…”
“How the fuck do we get outta here?” Miles finished.
One of the guys came back from having patched up the belly wound on the moaning man on the floor.
“How’s he doing?” Rob asked.
“He’ll live,” the guy replied. “Ain’t gonna be playing quarterback anytime soon, but he’ll live.”
The banging intensified again, freaking out the hefty man holding the bookcase. “Can I get some help over here?”
Rob nodded to his buddy, and motioned for him to go help. “This ain’t gonna hold out,” he said to Coleman. “We need a plan and we need it yesterday.”
“How many shots do you have?” Miles asked.
“Maybe fifteen between us,” Rob replied, and scratched the back of his head. “We’ve been firing quite a bit at y’all in case you haven’t noticed.”
Miles smirked. “And given we don’t have a scratch on us, it’s safe to assume they wouldn’t be too effective anyway.”
His tentative companion wrinkled his nose. “I’m gonna let that one go because we’ve got bigger fish to fry at the moment,” he said.
Even with two men pressed up against the door, it continued to open as the zombies hurled their weight against it. An arm managed to worm its way in, rotted flesh peeling off as it squeezed through the gap.
“We need a plan, now,” Coleman said, and Miles broke away from the group, heading over to the bookcases against the wall, finding that they weren’t attached.
Rob furrowed his brow. “You looking for something to read there, boy?”
“Yeah, hoping to find a copy of War and Peace so I can bludgeon one of those things to death with it,” Miles quipped as he began to pull the shelf away from the wall.
Rob snorted. “Smartass.”
The soldier dumped all of the books onto the ground, and began dragging the empty bookcase towards the door. “You guys helping, or what?” he grunted.
Coleman and Rob looked at each other and shrugged, heading over to help with whatever it was Miles was up to. They dragged the case over to where the wounded main laid on a table, putting it at an angle and resting it up against the heavy oak table.
“You wanna fill us in on your plan, here?” Coleman asked.
Miles motioned with his hands as he spoke. “We’re going to double up on these, form a V shape around his fella here to protect him,” he replied.
“Then what?” Rob asked.
Miles drew his knife. “Then we start stabbing while you boys shoot what you can.”
“That’s your fucking plan?” Rob threw up his hands. “You boys are military, my hard earned tax dollars went to train you and that’s the best you can come up with?”
Another arm squeezed through the door as it opened up a little more. The two men straining against it yelled with the effort.
“If you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears,” Miles replied. “But it better be real quick.”
Rob chewed his lip for a second, and then nodded. “Fuck it, good enough for me,” he replied.
The three men scrambled up to get another bookcase brought over, setting up the first layer of the V formation. They quickly grabbed another, dragging it over, and when they got it in place, there was a loud crack from the door. The hinges on the left side began to give way.
“Get out of there!” Rob bellowed, but the warning came too late as the left door came crashing down, landing on top of the portly guy.
It pinned him to the floor as zombies tumbled onto it. He screamed, pleading for help as his friend ran back to the bookcases, helpless to do anything. The ghouls who’d fallen crawled beneath the door, biting into his arms and face.
As the flesh ripped away, Rob pulled out his rifle, aiming and firing into the top of his friend’s head, ending his suffering and preventing a runner from getting loose.
They congregated behind the V, and the other doorman grabbed his rifle and raised it.
Miles put his hand on the barrel and aimed it down. “Wait until they’re closer,” he suggested. “You take care of the fringes, we’ll take care of the center. If one of those things gets around us, it’s not going to be a good day.”
The man nodded, swallowing hard.
Miles and Coleman pulled out their knives, readying them to strike as the zombies grew closer. They smacked the bookcase to attract them head on, so they wouldn’t wander around and flank them.
“This is such a shit idea, man,” Coleman said, shaking his head.
Miles rolled his eyes. “I think the words you’re looking for are you’re welcome,” he said.
Coleman cracked a smile and took a deep breath as the first creature reached their barricade. The soldier stabbed it in the eye socket, dropping it.
“One down,” he muttered, “forty to go.”
It wasn’t long before the zombies pressed up against the barricade. Arms flailed about, reaching and grabbing for the soldiers. Coleman and Miles struggled with each stab, having to fight through the throng of arms while avoiding getting grabbed and pulled in.
Meanwhile, Rob and his friend did their job, aiming at close range and taking off the heads of any creature that looked like it could bypass the line. One by one they dropped, keeping the queue packed in at the center.
Miles went on a frenzy, stabbing wi
ldly towards several zombie heads. He caught a few on the top, and then one nearby creature grabbed his wrist. He jerked back, but the zombie had a death grip, pulling him closer to its putrid maw.
As he tried to switch his knife to the other hand so he could strike, the attacking zombie’s head exploded with a point blank rifle shot. He glanced back at Rob, who had a giant smile on his face.
“How’s that for aiming there, boy?” the man drawled.
Miles cracked a smile and then turned back to his duty. The battle continued on for several minutes, the occasional shot ringing out, but mostly just moans and thuds as bodies hit the floor.
Finally, the room fell silent save for the heavy breathing from the living men. They remained stationary for a moment, shaken and catching their breaths, and then Coleman hopped the bookcase, looking around at the corpses to make sure there weren’t any still moving.
“Much to my surprise, that worked,” he said.
Miles came around as well, nodding. “You aren’t the only one that’s surprised.”
As Rob and his friend turned to the wounded man, the soldiers leaned towards each other.
“So what do you think?” Miles murmured.
Coleman grimaced. “I think Cap is gonna have some questions for them,” he whispered.
“That’s what I’m thinking too,” Miles replied, and they pulled their handguns before turning around.
Coleman took a deep breath. “Rob, I really hate to do this,” he said.
The others turned to him, and frowned when they realized they were being held at gunpoint.
“You boys really gonna do us like that?” Rob asked, sounding disappointed.
“I’m a man of my word,” Coleman declared, putting a hand to his chest. “When we’re done, you can go on about your business. It’s just that our Captain is gonna want to have a few words with you before you go.’
“This is just our way of making sure you stick around until he gets back,” Miles added.
Rob glanced at his friend who was white-knuckling his rifle. He shook his head. “I trust ‘em,” he said, and pushed down on the barrel. “Put it down, now.”