During an active shooter scenario, it was possible that people would ignore police commands in an effort to escape. He searched for fear or malice in their eyes, something that indicated a clue as to what was happening and why.
“I said halt!” Westman shouted.
“Stop, police!” Bill added, pointing his gun.
Gunshots exploded in the bullpen followed by ear-piercing screams that made Bill’s heart thump faster. People came down the hall, not as if they fled some unknown shooter, but as if their intent was the detectives and nothing else. The thunderous gunfire drew some of them away, and they peeled off into the bullpen.
Rapid pops clapped from the bullpen followed by the crashing of computers toppling over. Bill moved past Westman, stepping closer to the bullpen and ignoring the people coming in from the outside. He did a quick head maneuver to sneak a view of the threats inside before exposing his body. He knew it wasn’t what they taught in today’s tactics, but old habits die hard.
All the years investigating violent crime and homicide did not prepare him for the chaos unfolding before him in the center of the police department. It took his breath away.
The bodies of at least two incapacitated officers lay strewn on the floor. The closest one was Detective Van Horn. His face was turned toward Bill, but his head looked funny, like the angle was off. His eyes were glass marbles and blood dribbled from the corner of his normally dour mouth.
Bill’s eyes followed his neck to his body, realizing only a lone tendon kept his head attached to his shoulders. He swallowed bile, forcing it down his throat.
Two officers were backed up to the wall, Glocks held out in front of them, shooting stances wide. They fired rounds into the people before them. Fire burst from the tips of their barrels as they liberally applied deadly force like they had all the bullets in the world to spare. Bill turned back to the hall.
Westman opened up on the people coming through the door. Bang-bang-bang-bang. His shots were well-placed. Center mass. On the department’s pistol course, he’d been given a full five-point value for every hit. Rounds blasted into the man’s body. It shredded through his shirt and the layers of skin, muscles, and organs underneath. The man only staggered and kept driving forward.
Bill aimed around the wall into the bullpen. He capped .45 caliber bullets toward the assailants’ backs. He knew they were impacting. He wouldn’t have missed, but momentarily, he thought he might not have fired at all despite the report of the weapon.
The assailants didn’t respond like they had just been shot. They hardly flinched under the impact of the powerful rounds boring through their bodies as blood spurted from new bullet holes. Many things could explain the resilience—adrenaline, drugs, body armor, general toughness—but unless it was ballistic armor, enough bullets would bring a man down. Even with body armor, there would be an immense amount of pain from the impact of his slow, fat and powerful .45 caliber rounds and eventually armor failed.
If it was drugs or adrenaline, it might take a minute before the one hit knew he was dead, but if you punched enough holes, especially in the right places, they would die.
He spun back toward Westman. He zeroed his aim in on the man his partner riddled with round after round. Standard training was to shoot for center mass, the easiest location to hit and successfully stop someone. The heart, lungs, and major arteries were all housed in there.
If you looked over your sights or pressed the trigger without proper sight alignment, the chances increased that you would throw rounds farther down, hitting the liver or stomach. Not a five ring, but still lethal much of the time or deadly given time. An alternative was for officers to hit the pelvic girdle as a counter to an assailant wearing body armor, but that went against many years of standard center mass training. You always fought like you trained.
Westman took a step back when the man got close. They grappled for his gun and the man sunk his teeth into Westman’s arm. “Fuck!” He ripped his arm free, dragging the man with it.
The man scrambled onto Westman, his mouth tearing into the soft flesh of Westman’s neck. He jerked his head and a chunk of Westman went with him followed by a spray of crimson liquid.
Bill took a step closer and put his weapon near the man’s head. Not waiting, he pulled the trigger on the savage. Brains peppered the wall. Westman shoved the body toward the ground.
Westman’s hand leapt to his neck, covering the wound. “You see that?” He gritted his teeth as blood snuck out from beneath his hand. He spoke through a clenched mouth. “He fucking bit me.”
“You good?” Bill took a quick glance at his partner leaning against the wall.
“Yah.” Westman stabilized himself, sighting his Glock with a single hand.
Bill yelled over the gunfire. “They must have body armor!” But his words didn’t ring true. “Aim for the head.”
They took careful aim, pulling the trigger on more people. Their gunfire pacing dipped as they sighted in on heads instead of torsos, but it had the desired effect of putting the people down.
Bill’s 1911 only had seven-round magazines. He went dry in what seemed like only a handful of seconds. “Reloading!” He slipped the empty magazine from his weapon and into his pocket. He thrust his hand under his jacket for a fresh magazine in his harness. He shoved it into the Colt 1911 and racked the slide.
A cluster of bodies and limbs rounded the corner from the bullpen, an officer in blue with them. “Pete?” Bill screamed.
Westman slumped over into the wall.
Is he bleeding out? “Westman!” Bill bounded over and wrapped an arm around his partner.
“I’m . . .” Westman started. His face was paling white. He gulped, trying to manage words and spit bloody phlegm on the floor.
“Come on.” Bill blindly discharged his weapon into the people to slow them down. Everything happened in a long-drawn-out blur. He heaved Westman upright.
They struggled down the hall to Interview Room 2 like a couple of drunken sailors. Gunfire and moans stalked them. Bill pushed open the door with a heavy hand. “Hurry,” he blurted out, breathing hard.
Tess jumped out of her seat. Her dark eyes widened with a glance at Westman. “What happened?”
Westman slumped in Bill’s arms, his body almost totally limp. He stared at him, judging his condition. He slapped at his face. “Stay with me, buddy.” He glanced at Tess. “Help me with him.”
She ran to them, hastily placing her arm around Westman. They stumbled down the hall toward the rear of the office.
“Where are we going?”
Bill’s chest was tight with exertion. “Back stairwell.”
The hallway widened to more offices. He leaned into the crossbar door with a neon-red exit sign on top. He glanced over their shoulders. Bloodstained people followed them in a staggering gore-stained mess. He squinted. Blue police uniforms stood among them. No, they are with them.
“Come on, Westman, stay with us.”
His partner rolled his head, eyes wincing in pain. “I feel fire.”
Bill tightened his grip on Westman’s belt and heaved, dragging Westman down a flight of stairs, his shoes thumping on each step. They reached the bottom and Bill set him down against the wall. Westman slid onto his side.
Bill sucked wind. He wasn’t in any kind of shape for this strenuous effort. The pounding of hands on the door above echoed down the stairwell.
Tess stared up the steps toward the banging and gulped. “What the hell is happening? This is a police station for Christ’s sake. We’re supposed to be safe here.”
He glanced at her, shaking his head and inhaling air through his mouth. His heart was going about a mile a minute, and he was having trouble concentrating. “We got massacred up there.” He wiped his face, trying to focus his thoughts. Get to safety. Get Westman help. “Get him back up. We’re leaving.” He squatted next to Westman, his pants threatening to split down the seams. Tess joined him and they hoisted Westman back to standing. He was little more tha
n dead weight now.
“Come on, kid. Not today.” The thought crossed Bill’s mind that he might lose his first partner. By the looks of the bullpen, more than one brother would be lost today. Fuck. He caught his breath and forced the door open with a bang.
Midday heat engulfed them as they were expelled from the coolness of the concrete stairwell. Bill shaded his eyes with his arm. Westman went rigid, life surging through his muscles, his entire body tensing as if he’d been stricken with fifty-thousand volts from a police taser.
“Westman?” he whispered. Westman’s face turned his way as if he only just realized Bill was nearby. His mouth opened, revealing scarlet-tinted teeth. He let out a deep growl, wrenching Bill closer. His arms enveloped him in a fierce embrace. He squeezed with all the intensity of his personality, and in the fashion that he’d just been hit with an adrenaline shot to the heart.
His face tilted at Bill’s, his jaws chomping with enough force to shatter teeth. Survival instinct pulled Bill’s face away from Westman’s.
“What’s wrong with you?” he grunted. They grappled as he resisted his partner’s violent onslaught. Tess squirmed free of both the men.
Westman’s eyes had changed colors to the shade of milk that meant you shouldn’t drink it, white with a yellowish hue to it. His mouth clamped shut with the force of a man turned tiger shark. He put more weight on Bill and crashed his jaws together again, blood seeping from his lips in long strands of saliva.
“Let go of me!” Bill spit out as they struggled. He wedged a forearm across Westman’s neck. Any normal person not under the influence of drugs would react by attempting to relieve the painful pressure to their throat and step away.
Instead, Westman drove into his arm and clamped on Bill’s wrist with enough force that Bill knew he’d broken it. Westman latched on like a dog, refusing to let go and fighting to keep Bill’s arm.
Bill shoved with his other hand holding his gun. Westman tore at Bill’s flesh, his teeth sinking deeper until Bill felt the grind of enamel on bone. He thrust his pistol into Westman’s face, muzzle stamping him. The strike flung Westman’s head backward and his teeth scraped along bone as he was forced away. Meat, muscle, and tendon went with Westman and he fell onto the concrete.
“Holy shit!” The pain was extreme, but his adrenaline kept him from passing out. Bill clenched his arm, using his body to keep his blood inside. “Goddamn!” He pointed his weapon at his partner.
“Stay down, Westman. We’re gonna get you help.”
Westman pushed himself off the ground. Stringy pink tissue hung from his mouth. He chewed in massive bites, his open mouth revealing the part of Bill’s arm that was missing. Blood leaked from the corners of his lips. Every time he mashed his jaw shut, he ground Bill’s flesh and bone to a pinkish pulp. The impression of Bill’s 1911 left a circular dent on his face swelling purple with blood.
“Bill, he ain’t right!” Tess said beside him.
“Get behind me.”
Westman’s head lowered. He took a wavering step toward them, as if he was unsure for the first time in his life. His athletic form was unsteady in its movements.
“Stay back!” Bill commanded. He raised his weapon level to his eye, lining his front sights in equilibrium with his rear sights forming an almost perfect line. “Don’t make me do it.”
“There’s more coming!” Tess said.
Bill gave a quick look over his shoulder. Another man stumbled toward them.
Westman let out a low moan as if he were trying to say, “I’m over here.” Bill narrowed an eye, silhouetting his partner just like the paper targets, a nice blue faceless silhouette with rings in the center. They always taught center mass as if headshots were an afterthought in the training curriculum.
His partner ignored his pleas and lunged when he was close. Bill dropped his gun low and shot Westman in the leg. Part of his thigh blew out the other side as the round penetrated muscle, sending mass and fat flying. Westman stumbled on his knee.
The shot to injure went against all the training he’d ever had. They were trained to shoot to stop. Stop was code for kill. The lexicon was always changing to make it more palatable to the public, but the reasons remained the same. If you were shooting somebody, either they had done something grievously wrong or you were about to make a life- and career-ending mistake. On the flip side, if his friend and partner was savable, he would break all the policies. Damn it, if we don’t have each other, what do we have?
Westman’s curdled white eyes registered no recognition of pain or trauma or the fact Bill pointed a deadly weapon in his direction. Using his uninjured leg, he brought himself back to standing. He let out an inhuman growl, his mouth widening. “Arghhh!” His hands curled into claws.
“Stop!” Bill shook his head in disgust. “Goddamn, man, please stop.”
Bill’s injured arm throbbed with enough pain he thought he might pass out. He focused, steadying himself. His finger depressed rearward. The 1911 barked like an old war hound. His round hit Westman a little to the left of his nasal bridge next to his eye. Bill’s pistol had given Westman a dark red tattoo.
Westman’s head kicked back like a mule had hoof punched him in the eye. His head with its flipped hair snapped in whiplash and bounced back forward. He sank to his knees, let out a gurgling moan, and crashed headfirst into the pavement.
THE DETECTIVE
Grand Rapids, MI
They ran to the unmarked silver Charger. A spiderweb of blistering fire surged through Bill’s veins from his bite wound, tunneling through his shoulder into his neck and body. His chest heaved with the effort, his heart pounding. He actively ignored the recent memory of shooting his partner in the head.
A man stumbled through the lot. Crimson-stained lips rounded into an “O” and a low moan wailed forth. Dark blood seeped from dime-sized bullet holes dotting his chest, more than enough to kill a man. The bullets had burrowed through his vital organs and tissues, yet he kept going. Enough holes in the right places to where Bill’s brain screamed this guy should be down. He should be dead. Wrong. This is wrong. This isn’t how it works. This defies the nature of the beast.
Bill tried to bring both hands up on his weapon. His left hand seized in pain, his fingertips threatening to explode right off the tops of his fingers.
“Goddamn!” He curled his bleeding arm to his chest. The pressure made it a somewhat better, and he aimed with the other. His vision was fuzzy and the gun felt heavier than it should’ve.
“Bill!” Tess called at him.
“Hold your horses,” he grumbled. He narrowed his left eye, letting his dominant right eye zero in on the infected man’s head. He’s not wearing body armor. It’s clear body shots should kill him. He shouted down his brain. No, only headshots. The gun wavered. His vision clouded, foggy mist creeping in on him from the side like his vision was saturated with moisture. Bang.
Bill’s 1911 recoiled hard in his single hand, drawing his arm toward the sky. The man flinched. The round fragmented his collarbone. The flinch wasn’t from pain though. It was from the impact of a .45 caliber round striking the upper torso of his body. The man’s shoulder slumped as white bone, pink tissue, and cream tendons responsible for holding it in place punched through the exit wound on his back.
Bill let his weapon level out, the sights linking together flat. The man was close, no more than five yards away, easy work. No way he’d miss. Headshots were difficult, especially on moving targets, but it could be done if you were steady and focused.
One arm bleeding out, some sort of infection boiling in his veins, not in the best shape, and the stress of shooting multiple people in the last twenty minutes had upped his heart rate and blood pressure significantly, not a dazzling prospect for an old-timer. He exhaled forcefully and squeezed the trigger. The trigger on his gun didn’t hang down like on most guns but would recess backward into the weapon’s grip. It was a built-in feature to prevent the trigger from catching undergrowth in the field. Bill suppos
ed it would have meant more if he was using the weapon in a wartime jungle.
The Colt 1911 kicked in his hand. It looked like Bill had reached out and punched a hole right beneath the man’s right nostril adding a huge red mole to man’s upper lip. His lip split as the bullet slid through soft spongy mouth tissue, shattering his teeth. The round emerged victorious, penetrating the back of his mouth. It shot into the brain stem, leaving only fleshy pieces behind. A gaping hole ripped open the back of his neck, turning it into an exploding mushroom.
Bone fragments, muscle tissue, hair, and maroon-colored blood went with it in a Jackson Pollack-style painting of the most violent kind. All of this happened in a fraction of a second before the man’s head kicked back, reeling from the .45 caliber bullet placed securely inside his fatal T-zone. That stopped the freak. Just like it had stopped Westman.
The man’s body smacked the parking lot pavement and sounded like Bill had thrown a trash bag filled with rotting meat off a one-story building.
His breath came hard and fast in his chest, and he flexed his afflicted arm.
Her voice was filled with more urgency than he could muster. “Hurry up! More are coming!”
He fumbled with the door handle. His own blood made it slick. It was surreal to see so much of his own blood traveling down his arm, like a crimson luge racing off the tips of his pinky and ring fingers.
He took his good arm and used his fingertips to open the door. His legs grew weaker by the second and he fell into the seat with the grace of a dump truck. He slammed the door closed and shut his eyes for a moment, fighting the pain snaking through his body with unstoppable ease. Every movement felt like it could be his last.
“Keys, Clint?”
He opened his eyes and patted the inside pocket of his sport coat. It was annoyingly flat. He set his gun between his legs and reached a trembling hand underneath. Part of him felt like ice, the other like he’d stepped into a fire. His fingers grasped a thin piece of paper, and he twisted it angrily in his hand.
The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 119
