by H. L. Murphy
With a mighty scream, the bucket head pulled my knife from his crotch and lunged towards me. In a smooth flash I drew and fired my forty-five into his chest. Pop, pop. Only it did not make that gentle a sound in so enclosed a space. Actually, I couldn’t really say what the gunshots sounded like since the moment I pulled the trigger my ears were filled with an all encompassing ringing which blocked out all other auditory input. Lady Luck chose to balance the scales by showering me in the blood of my attacker.
Lady Luck, you clapped out whore.
Quickly, I holstered my pistol and reclaimed my blade before hauling my ass down the hallway at an accelerated speed. Adrenaline and fear spiked my reaction time sufficiently that as a leather and steel belted radial clad woman emerged from a room on my left, I was able to shoulder and fire my Kalashnikov pattern rifle. If I thought my ears were bleeding before, it was remarkably worse as I fired my rifle. A little ringing in my ears beat the living shit out of having a pair of hyper-cavitated wound tracks through my heart.
Somewhere, long past the point where my hearing had simply given up and gone home, was a muffled cry of rage, fury, or total confusion. Any of the above covered the moment since I couldn’t make out much beyond the rush of blood through my ears. So much for a fucking stealth mission. This is what comes of too much goddamn introspection when I should have been paying attention to the building full of crazy assholes.
Case in point, the machete wielding maniac charging at me from a side passage I almost didn't notice because I was too goddamn busy inside my own head. A blood encrusted, notched blade swung down almost faster than I could see. Terror inspired adrenaline fueled something close to panic, and I drove my rifle up to catch the descending strike. The machete cut deep into my rifle’s magazine, and the force of the impact drove me into the wall. Blood, viscera, and the unidentifiable quasi-organic mess that always seems to accompany the decomposition of flesh smeared also my back, the sensation of which all but turned my stomach.
My attacker, a short, wiry man covered in bright tattoos and who seemed to have filed his teeth to points. How did I know? Simple, the little fucker tried to bite my fucking face off, and I had to take hold of his throat to keep those filed chompers out of my flesh. The twitchy little bastard snapped his jaws open and closed, trying his utmost to get a taste of Finnegan. With my back against the wall, and the little cannibal shit pressing me back, I took a long shot and launched a steel toed boot into the crotch of my attacker. The boot missed its target, but my shin landed squarely. Down he went, pulling me with him. On the upside, as I was taller, heavier than my attacker, I had the advantage. An advantage I pressed immediately. My left hand pinned the man’s head in place while my right machine gunned punches. During my assault the little shit found the wherewithal to drive a hard fist into my throat, instantly bringing the party to a halt. Couldn't believe he was still conscious, let alone with it enough to throat punch me. Open palms slapped at my ears, a fight ending attack if he could rupture my eardrums. Our size difference played to my advantage again, and his slaps hit my cheeks in a stinging, and somewhat embarrassing, chorus of sound. My left hand, which hadn't withdrawn, now clenched his Adam's apple as though I meant to pull it from his throat. Small hands with cable like tendons tore at my clenched hand, focusing the miniature fiends entire attention at his own throat. He never spotted the karambit, never knew its existence until I drove it into his temple. Then, perhaps, for a half second he understood, but I don't much care.
I shrugged off my diminutive attacker, slid home my blade, and stared at the damage to my rifle. The machete had cleaved through the third generation polymer magazine and cut into the receiver. Thankfully the cut wasn't too deep, just deep enough to make the hair on my arms stand on end. Fresh magazine in place I moved on. I glanced back in time to observe the body of my attacker drug back into a side passage. Just for good measure I pumped a couple rounds in the general direction of the passage way, yet no one peaked out, returned fire, or even swore at me.
I think. My hearing was still a touch off.
Following what little I could remember from reading the Art of War, I climbed the closest set of stairs. The high ground was usually the best place to be, all but handing victory to a competent fighter. I came out of the stairwell in the midst of row after row of fold down seating. Two steps, that's as far as I got before my eyes found Carroll. An industrious someone had hefted his gargantuan carcass into the rafters and lashed him in place why would have been anybodies guess. He did not look good, even for Carroll. Twenty years is a long time to know someone, in that time I'd seen my friend hurt, bloodied, and bruised. I'd never seen Carroll beaten like a drum and left to die.
Distressing didn’t even begin to cover it.
Beneath my friend, contained within a makeshift cage, were the undead. Judging by their frenzied behavior, they were anticipating dinner with a high fat content. Now I could hear, and mostly what I heard was the undead gnashing their teeth as droplets of crimson fell from heaven, or as close as they were likely to get. I needed to figure out how these demented fucks hoisted Jabba the grossly obese bastard to the rafters, then work out how to get him down without getting shot, stabbed, disemboweled, or otherwise physically violated.
Tall order.
Movement drew my attention, and the noise of a mob looking for someone to hang from a tree told me my hearing was returning. A dozen or so patrons of the Circus Minimus had roused themselves from whatever psychopaths do to pass the time in order to catch little old me. It wouldn't worry me if only the cocksuckers weren't packing firearms. Pitchforks and torches. Now that would have tickled me pink. Instead, Mossbergs and, what a fucking surprise, Glocks seemed to be the order of the day. As if to allay my disappointment, the Glock toting assholes carried honest to god torches. Glancing about, it dawned on me how dark it actually was. As in as pitch. With the electricity out, the overhead lights weren't working, and the dim glow from the occasional candle wasn't enough to show the way, especially so far from the light source. My NVGs were history, probably lying on the ground next to the Conan wannabe, but I was still operating as if it were late afternoon with the first shadows of night creeping out to play.
I could see in the black of night.
Those torch carrying redneck assholes had no idea where I was, or that I maintained another advantage. Smiling to myself, I worked further back into the darkness, I slung my rifle quietly as I went. For this I would need silence, for this I would need my karambit. It would be messy, but quiet.
The mob, mostly steroid abusing gym rats in skin tight leather, moved quickly through the halls and up onto my level. While the mob appeared to move with a certain amount of tactical finesse as I watched it became clear what little awareness they possessed came from watching SWAT one too many times. Oh, they looked the part, but no one noticed me as I clamped a hand over the mouth of the rearmost dirtbag. My karambit slid into the base of her skull where the spine enters to connect to the brain, instantly disrupting all communication between brain and body. The woman’s body went limp in my arms and I guided her body into a folding chair. Her wonder nine went into my vest while I wasted thirty seconds on a surprise for my new playmates.
Forty-five seconds later, give or take, the mob noticed the blonde was missing. I'm not sure if they gave a good goddamn about losing one of their own, or the loss of a potential sexual partner. Either way, the mob back tracked. Fire light crawled over the body, revealing a blonde with buzz cut hair seated primly with hands in her lap and seeming to stare into the fight pit. The words, “I see you,” were painted across her forehead in blood.
Everyone was so focused on the body their guard dropped enough for me to jam my blade up between the legs of the most imposing of the steroid clan. Even the sound of my blade slicing through leather, skin, and sinew didn't quite break the spell. No, that happened a second later as a now castrated thug shrieked in a vocal range reserved for men who suffered irreparable harm to their genitals. In a heartbeat th
e giant was on the floor, flailing about uncontrollably. Rhythmic pulses of crimson expanded the growing pool of blood as Gigantor bled out.
The remaining woman clearly felt the best course of action lay in hosing the area because she performed a magazine dump in a one hundred eighty degree arc. As soon as her pistol ran dry, she began a magazine change, which is when the new leader of the mob stepped up to slap the taste out of her mouth. It was less about the wild firing, I think, and more about the crease his upper bicep was now sporting. Whatever, however, Johnny Come Lately established control over the increasingly uneasy mob. Since I needed that about as much as a new home in my head, I hurled a throwing knife into the back of Johnny’s head.
It had the desired effect.
The mob opened fire without even thinking. Half fell under friendly fire, which never is, and the rest scattered like roaches when the light comes on. I watched from higher up, picking my targets carefully. The knife to the back of Johnny’s skull was a total luck shot. I had been aiming for his spine. Still, take it where you can get it.
Apparently, I wasn't the only person to read Sun Tzu because one of the steroid cowboys hauled his ass to a battery operated lift, previously obscured by intervening scenery. This thug, I called him Long, Tall Sally, climbed onto the lift and began to gain altitude. Long, Tall Sally clearly hoped to gain the high ground. Must have thought it would save him. Too bad his buddies were now so spooked one put a twelve gauge slug into his face. Sally’s head literally exploded into chunks and red mist. Yes, it was every bit as disturbing as it sounded.
“I got him,” it was the other woman, Butch sounded right for her. Butch whooped and hollered, shook her Mossberg over her head like some fucking Tusken Raider. I picked out at least three points where supportive noises sounded. Took some doing, but I managed to make my way over to her. Up close, Butch definitely needed a bath, possibly a delousing, and a set of clothes not made from black duct tape, second hand leather belts, and ripped capris. Fucking capris? Really? Who fucking wears those things?
She froze as the tip of my karambit pricked her throat. Her breath caught in her chest, and I swear her body clenched to keep from evacuating her bladder.
“No, you didn't.”
My blade slid into her throat.
Small, strong hands grasped at the wound, in vain.
Sorry, Butch, but you get what you give.
Chapter Thirteen
Winning friends and influencing people
I don't like Glocks, but I'm not so dogmatic about it I don't recognize the resource when I see it. The nine millimeter rounds were worth ten times their weight in gold, locked within a nightmare with an unknown number of assailants. Holding the polymer wonder weapon I couldn't help but wish the collected psychopaths had enjoyed the possession of a genuine set of balls between them. If they had, then I'd be holding a prime example of the m1911a1, but, no, these fruitcups had all been a little too in touch with their manginas.
Yes, I am seriously judging these mother fuckers based on their choice of handgun.
Amazing how one little detail can give you the mental fortitude to cast off gut wrenching terror. Fucking polymer wonder nines. At this point in time it shouldn't surprise me how many Tactical Timmies swarm all over themselves for the latest, greatest whizbang polymer piece of ballistic shit. Christ, drop a hint or two concerning the latest iteration of Glock and the Tactical Timmies drop trouser and start masturbating with gun oil.
Correct mindset achieved I set out to continue my campaign to transfer more of the patrons of the Circus from this plane of existence straight to hell. I'm talking red eye flight, no lay overs, no purgatory, just directly to the Ninth Ring of Hell where the Prince of the Fallen converts the souls of the damned into anal beads. Probably a special order for that Galilean Twat.
Men sprinted out of side passages to check the makeshift cage full of raucous undead. Bad move. It had been one thing for the undead to taste blood from hot flesh completely out of their reach, but to present sustenance within arms reach of the ravenous infected was more than the rudimentary intelligence of the undead could bear. Tortured ululations filled the stifling atmosphere a second before the undead surged against a cage wall, a wall which promptly gave way before the starving creatures need to feast upon living flesh. Four men fell beneath the cage wall, swiftly overwhelmed by frenzied dead. Trapped, and ultimately doomed, the patrons fought with the strength of the desperate, but in short order cracked, jagged teeth found purchase. Screams of pain and horror replaced the cacophony of men battling for their lives.
Dick move, but I laughed. I laughed to see the tormentors being tormented in their final moments. I laughed to watch as Lady Luck shoved her oversized clodhoppers up somebody else's ass for a change.
I should have known better than to trust that fickle bitch.
A white hot line of pain erupted along my left shoulder done to my left elbow, and hot blood poured over my skin. Understanding momentarily evaded me as my triumphant mind shifted from assured victory to the reality that I had just been ambushed. Too slowly I turned toward where I believed my attacker stood, only to flinch away as a white hot line was traced across my face from left ear over my cheek, nose, and just below my right eye.
That registered immediately as agonizingly painful, and entirely too close to blinding me. The stench of chemicals and the rustling of leather assailed me as I finally caught sight of my attacker.
Milo Fitzroy, the mother fucking Surgeon, had just snuck up on me and cut my dumb ass twice without consequence. His usual scalpels were absent, instead he carried a pair of long, narrow blades I thought were called a Liston knife. Razor sharp and specifically designed to slice through bone like butter. Just when I thought the creepy son of a bitch couldn't possibly get any more terrifying.
My rifle snapped up, my finger squeezed off two rounds, and I missed both shot as I watched Milo dance away with a fluidity of movement I envied. Not even if I practiced martial arts for decades, could I move that gracefully. He slid over the floor, closing the distance impossibly fast. Out flashed the Liston knives in a practiced one-two attack, I parried one cut but felt the blade bite deep into my right hand. Some years before Outbreak Day a surgeon, a real surgeon, had plated and pinned the number three and four metacarpals of my right hand. I mention it because those metal plates were the only reason I didn't lose most of the fingers of my right hand. The cut was that quick and that powerful.
The grinning little fuck was so pleased with himself he failed to noticed the short, hard kick I drove into his shin. It wasn't enough to take Milo off his feet, but it did cause him to dance away. Space and breathing room achieved, I snapped my rifle around in a vain attempt to end this fight quickly. The Liston knife had cleanly sliced through enough muscle and tendon to make squeezing a trigger impossible. My difficulty must have been obvious because Milo began his attack anew. This time I didn't bother with my rifle, dropping it to hang from its sling, instead using my already useless right hand to block and parry while my left yanked my karambit free.
Just like that, I was knee deep in worst kind of fight ever devised by man. Knife fights absolutely fucking suck. No matter how good you think you are, you will get cut, badly. A universal truth I introduced to Milo on his next attack run.
Milo danced in from the left, flowing like water, cutting low, then high. His first strike met the sole of my boot, digging in deep and lodging in the industrial, steel reinforced rubber. I stomped down hard, pulling the blade from Milo’s hand before I slipped beneath the follow up slice from the second hand. As Milo reversed his direction I was already moving, the point of my blade digging into Milo’s right hip and running up under his arm. At least half the length of the cut was absorbed by his goddamn human flesh coat, but enough of the blade penetrated to ruin his day. Pain collapsed the blade freak in on himself, halting his counterattack.
We fell apart, Milo fighting to master his pain while I worked to dislodge his goddamn knife from my boot sole. A t
witching in the fingers of my right hand let me know my accelerated immune system was still on the job. The damage wasn't completely healed, but certainly enough to squeeze a trigger. My hand dipped to the butt of my forty-five, but before I could draw the pistol my hand sprouted a gleaming silver scalpel. The little prick had brought his favorite tools after all. He was on me before I could pull the blade free.
His attacks were swift and always intended to elicit a specific response or cause a specific injury, but always with a blade. Fast as I could, I snapped out a knife hand to the side of Milo’s face. Not an especially powerful strike, just enough force behind it to get his attention. Strangely, Milo seemed almost shocked I hit him. Not that I was fast enough to get through his flashing defense, but that I would actually use my hands to beat on him. I could make out all manner of emotional shit storm break loose behind his eyes. Not willing to give whatever was building in Milo’s twisted melon time to culminate I snapped out a couple quick jabs with the karambit and followed them up with another kick. This time I aimed for Milo’s knee. Down dropped his guard, and I landed an open handed slap across his flushed face. It wasn't the kind of blow one might have expected during a fight, but more along the line of the kind of slap your mother might have handed out after she heard you swear for the first time. Or, in my case, the kind a teacher might give you after you explain in no uncertain terms the crushingly pitiful amount of power and influence she has outside of a roomful of ten-year-olds who clearly recognize how totally out of her depth she really is, and that she would probably have a more rewarding career in the kind of movies that are never released to the general public.
