Z-Risen (Book 5): Barriers

by Long, Timothy W.

  Then panic got the better of Bradley and he ran.

  The only safe place he knew of in the building was his cubicle. His mind reeled as he took the stairs two at a time. Get his bag. His stuff. Get the hell out of this hell hole. He would have gone straight to his Bronco but his keys were in his bag. He needed to run. Just run until he couldn’t run anymore. Bradley would never characterize himself as a coward, but the war in Afghanistan had changed him in ways he didn’t understand. Monica had urged him to see someone, a specialist who dealt with PTSD, but he never made an appointment even though he assured her over and over again that he would follow through. There were men who suffered much worse than him, and why should he his needs outweigh theirs?

  But the overwhelming feeling of dread and horror clouded his mind. The narrow focus of his vision kept intruding. He was lightheaded and understood on some level it was because he was taking short and sharp breaths. His heart still raced in his chest and made him feel queasy.

  Bradley flung the door to the second floor open, took a left, and headed straight for the IT department. That’s when a pop sounded. Someone screamed, and a man yelled for mercy.

  Bradley came up short and gasped.

  Ed Reels stood there. He wore body armor, which molded itself to his portly frame, and what appeared to be a black Molle combat vest filled with magazines. Another gun rode high on his right hip in a molded holster. He wore a combat helmet with straps that hung along his ears. Ed held one gun in his right hand, which he worked. An empty magazine hit the ground and fast as a whip, Ed slapped a fresh magazine home and triggered the slide release in a well-practiced move.

  Bradley nearly giggled when he thought of Ed sitting alone at home practicing that move in front of a mirror over and over until he had it just right.

  Bradley got a look at the guns and was pretty sure they were Glocks. Then he got an even better look as Ed turned and met Bradley’s eyes.

  Paul lay on the ground with both hands pressed against his midsection while blood seeped between his fingers.

  “Help,” Paul groaned, voice ragged, and worn.

  “Looky what the cat dragged in, and just the fucker I was looking for. Such a smart guy, right? Such a smart guy,” Ed said. “Gonna be a not so smart dead guy soon.”

  His face was livid, eyes wide, cheeks covered in a spray of blood that had even splattered his lips and teeth.

  The gun. That was all Bradley saw. It rose, a looming hole that carried his death. Some part of Bradley’s mind realized the barrel was large and he guessed it fired .45 rounds. That would explain the wounds. If they were indeed hollow points, he was surprised Paul was still alive.

  “Ed, no! Think about what you’re doing!” Bradley yelled as he lifted his hands, so they were level with his head.

  Ed moved toward Bradley until mere feet separated them. “What I’m doing? What I’m doing? You assholes don’t deserve to live in this fucked up world. Bunch of kiss asses for a president who hates you. Do you know how bad it is out there now? You don’t because it’s all being suppressed from the mainstream media. Doesn’t matter anyway. Won’t matter to you anymore.”

  This wasn’t simply a workplace shooting brought on by sudden rage. With the gunshot wounds Bradley had witnessed, as well as Ed’s military-inspired garb, he had to have had this in the works for a long time. All of these thoughts swirled in his head. His heart already labored, kicked into overdrive. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. His vision widened as he considered the fact that he was about to die.

  “You’re right, Ed. You’re right,” Bradley tried.

  “I know I’m right. No, you’re right, like in Rightsville. You guys all love that. Doesn’t matter now. Bye, Bradley.”

  Instincts kicked in.

  Bradley swept his hand perpendicular to his face and slapped Ed’s wrist. Then he locked his fingers and pulled as he moved in. His left hand shot up and grabbed the slide of the gun as it went off. The sound was deafening in the space. The rear sight ripped along his palm, sending searing pain up his arm.

  But Ed was a big guy and barreled into Bradley until they both struggled for the gun. Bradley used his right knee and drove it into Ed’s hip. He’d been going for a ball shot, but he was working in a panicked state. Ed pushed as he struggled to get his gun back, but there was no way Bradley was going to let go.

  Bradley whipped his leg around until his right foot was behind Ed, then he pushed with his hands holding onto Ed’s wrist. The move should have taken Ed off his feet, but they both ended up going down.

  Ed went crazy. He thrashed his legs, striking Bradley over and over as they rolled. Ed’s breath was a rancid mix of old coffee and bad breath.

  With Ed having weight on Bradley, it was a struggle just to maintain his grip on the gun. It fired again, and the bullet whizzed past his head and struck the wall. The sound was an ear-splitting blast that made his head ring.

  Bradley wretched the gun sharply until Ed screamed. He pushed again, and something snapped, probably Ed’s finger that was locked against the trigger guard.

  Ed smacked Bradley in the face so hard he saw stars. He nearly lost his grip on the gun. He pulled again, and this time the weapon came free.

  He rolled off Ed, and then came up in an unsteady crouch, gun at his side.

  “Screw you!” Ed screamed. “Screw all of you!”

  Bradley lifted the gun and put two left of center mass, then he shifted and put one in Ed’s right eye. Then he fired one more time as Ed’s face took on a blank look. This time the round punched into Ed’s chin and blew him off his feet.

  Ed flopped to the ground and his legs kicked. His bowels let loose with a rip and the smell of shit suffused the room.

  Bradley fell on his butt, gun extended. He pointed it at Ed and mentally dared the man to move again. He didn’t even realize his finger squeezed until the gun bucked and the bullet struck Ed in the chest. Maybe he had been wearing body armor, perhaps it was just part of his Molle combat vest. Didn’t matter because Ed was dead, man. Dead and gone from this world, and Bradley had killed him.

  Bradley pushed with his feet until he scooted to the wall. He pressed his back there and pointed the gun at Ed just in case the man zombied-up and came at him again.

  His face ached from where Ed had gotten in a punch. He panicked and ran his hands over his body. The gun had fired several times, maybe he was shot and didn’t even know it. The right side of his head ached from the concussion, and his hearing was gone in that ear, having been replaced with the pealing of bells.

  But his hands didn’t find any wounds. When he pulled them away from his body he gasped because he saw blood. Then he remembered that it was Jessica’s, not his.

  He sucked in a breath and fought the overwhelming panic that threatened to engulf him.

  But he was alive, and the Ed was dead. The man would never be a threat to anyone again. Christ, how was he going to explain this to the police? He held Ed’s gun. He had fired it. Bradley had killed with it. Wait. Paul would back him up. How was his manager doing?

  Bradley couldn’t move.

  As he did his best to focus on his breathing and bring himself down, his vision once again narrowed to a pinpoint tunnel, so he turned his attention to the gun in his hand. It was a Glock, as he had suspected. A Glock 37 to be exact.

  Time passed at a snail’s pace.

  He turned the gun in his hands and studied the weapon that had killed at least eight people. Was it that many? He hadn’t checked that many bodies, not that he had to. They had all been murdered execution-style with shots to the chest and head. Except for Jessica, who had managed to escape immediate death only to die in his arms.

  Paul groaned and turned his face so he could meet Bradley’s eyes. The two stared at each other.

  “Am I going to live?” Paul asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know a fucking thing,” Bradley said.

  The sound of whining sirens reached him at some point. He finally lowered the Glock
and ejected the magazine. Then he worked the slide and ejected the unfired round. He placed the gun on the carpeted floor next to his leg and waited for the police to arrive.

  He didn’t have to wait long.