“Wanna bet?” I replied, shoving the barrel of the XVR into his stomach and squeezing the trigger.
The muted boom took him by surprise and threw him away from me, to land in a heap at the base of the stairs. I could see the ragged hole that had been punched through his abdomen. It was about the size of the top of a beer can and was oozing a lot of blood. On anyone else I knew it would have been a fatal wound, but the Hrimthurssar healed faster than I did. Although it would take time, he would get back up.
In a ravaged, gurgling voice, he began to laugh and sputter bluish blood onto his lips. I knew that the wound had to hurt like Hel, but that didn’t seem to deter him. He knew that his undead minions would soon finish the job that he had started. I suddenly wanted to disappoint him more than ever.
“When I heal,” he rasped, “I’m going to enjoy tearing your head off.”
“Well,” I said, holstering the XVR. “There’s just one problem with that.”
“This wound will not kill me,” he said, glaring at me.
“If I were you,” I said, pulling out the Keltec shotgun and flicking off the safety, “that gut-shot would be the least of my concerns.”
His eyes grew wide and he opened his mouth to say something else. I’ll never know what it was that he intended to say because the boom of the shotgun drowned out any sound. The twelve-gauge combination of buckshot and slug that was delivered by the Winchester Supreme Elite round removed his head from his neck. His skull erupted in a volcano of bone, blood and gore.
“Heal that, motherfucker,” I hissed as I worked the pump on the shotgun.
Activating the tactical light, I spun around and engaged the dead that were coming through the door. I counted four Stalkers and at least six that I couldn’t tell what they were. They could have been any of them, but I really hoped that they weren’t Shriekers. I was about to make enough noise with the shotgun without adding them to the fray.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as I unloaded round after round into the oncoming dead. I heard the weapon click onto an empty chamber as I watched the last of them fall. Methodically, I began shoving more ammunition into the tubes, reloading the shotgun on autopilot as I surveyed the carnage in the sputtering light of my flare.
Quickly, I began gathering fallen gear and shoving it into my bag. I took everything that the fallen Hrimthurssar had on him, including his sword. I knew that more of the dead would be coming, so I had to move fast. In less than a minute, I was heading up the stairs and back into the main part of the museum.
Near the top, I had to duck behind an exhibit of an old horse-drawn wagon to hide from a group of the dead that were making their way down the stairs. They were undoubtedly attracted to all the gunfire and the smell of the Hrimthurssar’s blood. Whatever intelligence or coordination that they had possessed while being directed by the Hrimthurssar was now gone. They were normal Shamblers, again. I waited until they were well past me before moving on. Despite hearing a lot of movement in the darkened museum, I was able to sneak up the stairs and out into growing morning light.
The cool air felt refreshing and it was only then that I realized how oppressive the air down there had been. It was not until I no longer smelled the decay of the dead that I realized it was there. I had smelled it for so long that I no longer noticed it. I needed to get away from it for a while, before not noticing it got me killed. I needed every advantage that I could find to survive out here on my own.
I crept up to the edge of the Arch and peeked around towards the other side. In the dim morning light, I could see that dozens of the dead were making their way down the other entrance. It was the same side that I had gone through when I first went down into the museum. That meant that at least one Tracker had followed me through the park near the lake and was leading a small army of the dead after me. I needed to break my trail to lose them and I needed to do it soon.
Turning away from the Arch, I headed across the park and into what was left of downtown St. Louis. A good number of buildings were relatively intact and might just provide me with the right obstacle to throw off any Trackers that were following me. If I was really lucky, it might just throw off any of the Hrimthurssar, as well. I wasn’t going to count on it, though. So far, they had always found a way to track me down. They were as relentless as a shark following a blood trail.
I headed towards the Old Cathedral Museum that sat at the edge of the park surrounding the Arch. I could see the shape of the structure, but had no idea how badly damaged it would be once I got there. My choices were severely limited, though. It was the closest cover I could reach without heading out into the open where the dead would see me. If I could make it there without being seen, then I might have a shot at getting away.
Keeping to the trees, I avoided the trails and parking lots as much as possible. By the time I reached the Old Cathedral, I was starting to think I might actually make it without a prolonged battle. Just as I reached the parking lot for the cathedral, I heard a sound that sent chills down my spine. Behind me the hideous cry of a Shrieker shattered the stillness of the morning. First one, then several others took up the cry. I glanced behind me to see dozens of the dead cresting the small hill, with more appearing every second.
“Fuck!” I snapped.
I didn’t have the strength or the ammunition to fight that many of the dead. I had no choice but to run. Quickly I brought the M-4 to my shoulder and headed for the buildings across the street from the cathedral. I needed to get to cover as quickly as possible. I knew that there was no way I could reach the stadium before they would overtake me. I would tire and begin to slow down long before I made it that far.
Glancing back, I snapped a few quick shots with the M-4 to thin the crowd as much as I could without stopping. I managed to drop at least one Shrieker but felt the elation fade instantly as the front ranks of the dead launched at me with incredible speed. A quick scan told me that there were at least twenty Sprinters coming right at me. My chances for outrunning the dead just went from slim to none. They would catch me in less than two minutes.
Any attempts to conceal my movements were now moot. Without hesitation, I ran as hard as I could for the buildings on the far side of the road. My only shot was going to be if I could find a place to take cover and hold them off long enough to find an escape route. I quickly checked my pouches on my belt and found I had two grenades left.
I pulled the first one out and yanked the pin. Without looking, I tossed it high into the air and over my shoulder. I hoped that it would land right in front of the oncoming crowd of Sprinters. It might slow them down enough to buy me a few more seconds. As I reached the first of the buildings, I yanked the pin on the second one and threw it behind me as I rounded the corner of the first building.
I heard the distant muted thump of the detonation of the first one just as the second one was leaving my hand. Seconds later, the crump of the second explosion shook the building and caused debris to rain down around me. I glanced up as I ran and saw that the entire façade of this building was crumbling and only seemed to be holding on by some cables and jagged pieces of steel rebar. Suddenly, I had a crazy idea.
Dropping my M-4 to dangle from my tactical sling, I reached into my pack and found a familiar handle. My idea required something far less subtle than the suppressed M-4. I needed something with much more punch than the 5.56mm round, if this was going to work. I needed Beowulf.
Running across the street and taking cover behind an overturned red taxi, I flicked off the safety and brought Beowulf to my shoulder. I felt the coolness of the trigger against my finger as I took careful aim. I waited until the dead began to surge around the corner and into the street. Their numbers had grown, despite the grenades that I had dropped in their path. There were dozens of them, now. With less than ten yards now between us, I opened fire on the already weakened structure of the building.
Targeting the rebar clusters and cable anchor points, I unleashed the fury of Beowulf on the precariously hanging fa�
�ade. The massive report of the .50 caliber weapon roared through the ruined city in all directions. With a groan of steel and the snapping of cables, the front of the building began to collapse. The first wave of the dead disappeared in a cloud of concrete and dust. With a sound not unlike how I imagined a dragon must sound, the building roared and began to come apart. The sudden shifting of the weight had destabilized the rest of the building. It was all coming down now.
I turned and ran, putting some distance between myself and the collapsing building. After I’d run about fifty yards, I dove behind an abandoned St. Louis Police cruiser and looked back in awe as the entire building was slowly crashing down like a massive wave. None of the dead had made it through. I had little doubt that there were still a large number of them on the far side of the building, but the lead Sprinters had all been crushed. Not even the Trackers could follow me through all of that.
With a sigh of relief, I stood and turned to make my way towards the stadium. I instantly froze when I realized I was looking down the barrels of half-a-dozen weapons. Six men dressed in an assortment of armor ranging from police riot gear to motorcycle leathers were covering me with a mixture of civilian and military rifles, as well as a couple of shotguns. I couldn’t see any of their faces since they were all wearing motorcycle helmets. I slowly raised my left hand with my palm out to show them that I meant them no harm.
“Hands on top of your head,” snapped the nearest one.
I gently lowered the Beowulf to the ground and did as I was instructed. I knew that if I didn’t do so, they were going to shoot me. There was no place that I could dive that would give me any cover before they would open fire and cut me to pieces. Beowulf was down to three rounds in the magazine and I wouldn’t have time to switch weapons.
I had no other options if I wanted to survive this encounter. Besides that, if they were the same guys I had seen on the motorcycles last night, then they were the people I was trying to reach anyway. I’d just go along for now and see how things played out. If they were friendly, then I might have some new allies. If they weren’t, well, then I was in big trouble. It’s not like that would be anything new to me.
One of the gunmen broke away from the others and approached me. Reaching into the cargo pocket on his pants, he pulled out a zip-style riot cuff. I could tell by the way that he handled it, that he wasn’t all that familiar with them. I could use that to my advantage.
“Drop the pack and put your hands behind your back,” he said.
I could tell it was a male and that he was young, despite the voice being muffled by the full-face helmet that he wore. Reluctantly, I did as instructed. When I placed my hands behind my back, I tightened my hands into fists and flexed the muscles in my wrists. I felt him pull them tight against me, but not painfully so. I knew that when I relaxed the muscles in my wrists, I would have just enough room to move. Maybe even enough to slip them off. Now was not the time to try, though. I would have to be patient.
One of the other men picked up my pack and weapons and they began to guide me down the street to a delivery van that was parked at the end. When we reached it, they shoved me inside and piled in behind me. Then they pulled a cloth bag over my head to keep me from seeing where we were going.
Instantly, the engine fired up and began to rumble. I knew that had to mean that the driver was already behind the wheel waiting for us to arrive. Seconds later, we were accelerating away and maneuvering around obstacles in the road. Despite the fact that I couldn’t see where we were going my internal compass was not confused. We were heading right for the baseball stadium.
After a few minutes of driving, I could feel the vehicle turn and begin to decelerate. Then the sound of the engine changed pitch and it got darker inside the van. We were inside a building. I could hear the massive doors of a garage-type structure begin to roll shut as the van came to a stop. I could hear the audible sighs of relief from the men in the helmets when they knew they felt they were safe. That could only mean we were inside the stadium. I suddenly felt completely vulnerable. I was now completely at their mercy.
Yanking the bag off my head, they shoved me roughly towards the back of the van. The back door slid open and more armed men were standing behind it. None of them were wearing armor, but they didn’t look happy to see me. Roughly, they pulled me out of the vehicle and began to remove my gear. They took everything except the knife I kept hidden in the back of my waistband. It was in easy reach, with my hands bound behind my back. No one did a pat search and they left my armor in place.
“The boss wants to see him right now,” snapped one of the men.
I noticed no one made any attempt to speak to me or ask me any questions. I was beginning to question my decision to try to come here. I was getting the impression that they weren’t friendly. I was grabbed by each arm and escorted out of the garage area and down a long corridor. I could tell by the sounds of the footfalls that there were men behind me, as well as holding my arms. They weren’t taking any chances with me.
At the end of the corridor we headed up several flights of stairs. This was a part of the stadium that I had never been in. When we emerged from the stairs, I knew why. This was skybox territory. I couldn’t afford tickets on this level. The best I was ever able to afford was just off of the first-base line, near the home team dugout. The skyboxes were way above my means. Whoever the “boss” was, he had set himself up in the luxury suites. This wasn’t a good sign.
When we walked inside the owner’s box, I was shocked at the opulence of it. Even after the world had ended, this place was still luxurious. Leather furniture, thick carpeting and a view of the stadium that was almost breath-taking. In a large overstuffed leather chair facing the ballpark, I could see the arms and the back of the head of a man. He was smoking a cigar and drinking a bottle of beer.
They brought me over in front of him and he didn’t immediately look at me. He continued to smoke his cigar and stare at something down below in the stadium. My first impression of him was that he seemed arrogant and vain. His hair and thin beard were meticulously trimmed and clean. It was the kind of beard and moustache that were not much thicker than a pencil’s line.
His hair was short on the top and shaved on the sides. He had numerous tattoos, but no piercings. I could tell he was muscular but it looked like it was for show, not from work. It even looked like he had been working on his tan recently. He wore jeans and impeccably polished tactical boots. He also wore a very tight black t-shirt with a familiar whiskey logo on it. The expensive wraparound sunglasses that he had pushed up on top of his head completed the image. Instantly, the thought that came to mind was “douche-bag.”
After a long moment of ignoring me, which I recognized as a textbook ploy to make me feel beneath him and show me who was in charge, he finally looked at me with a measured look of contempt and boredom. It only heightened my previous impression of him. I was liking this prick less and less by the second.
Finally, he sat down his beer and stood up. I wanted to laugh at him, but restrained myself. I’m sure he saw the amused twinkle in my eye, though. Despite his vain attempts to appear superior, he stood a good six inches shorter than me and had to lean his head back to look me in the eye.
When he folded his arms across his chest, I almost lost it. In the biggest display of douche-baggery so far, he had his own name tattooed in calligraphic lettering on his forearms. His first and last name emblazoned for all to see, in dark black ink. It read Kevin Westbrook. He even had adapted the habit of folding his arms so his first name appeared on top.
“Something amuses you, old man?” he sneered.
“I take it you’re Kevin Westbrook,” I replied, not taking his bait.
He puffed up his chest and I could see that it inflated his ego to hear his own name.
“You’ve heard of me, then?” he said, smiling a reptilian smile.
“No dumbass,” I replied, nodding at him. “It’s written on your fucking arms.”
This see
med to take the smile off of his face and made his goons chuckle. He silenced them instantly with a dirty look. Turning back to me with fire in his eyes, he sneered and unfolded his arms, flexing his biceps as he did. If it was meant to intimidate me, it didn’t work. I could already tell that before the world ended, he was one of those guys who went to the gym all the time and stared at himself in the mirror.
“Why did you have your men bring me here?” I asked, cocking my head to the side and letting my eye dart around the room, taking in the placement of the other goons.
“We heard your weapons,” he replied. “No one shoots up my city without my permission.”
“Your city?” I said, frowning. “I think the dead out there would disagree with you.”
“This is my city,” he snapped. “I rule this place and everyone in it!”
I could see the crazy look in his eyes. He was either insane, or the worst kind of narcissistic opportunist I could have run into. Well, I guess he could be both. From the way he was breathing hard and his complexion was flushed I knew that he was close to losing his temper. I was starting to get the idea that I’d better watch my tone before he had me killed. I doubted that he would want to get his own hands dirty.
“Ok, fine,” I said calmly. “It’s your city. How did you get to be in charge?”
I definitely struck a chord there. I could see that he loved to talk about himself. From the looks on the faces of the others in the room, I could see that I was about to hear a story that they had all heard many times before. He smiled broadly and clapped me on the shoulder like we were old friends. His sudden mood swing made me wonder if he was off his meds or something. It just wasn’t natural for someone to go from wanting to kill me to being my friend in the span of a few heartbeats.
“Bring our guest a chair,” he said over his shoulder.
The others didn’t look at all surprised by his sudden shift in mood and brought me a somewhat less comfortable looking chair as he settled back into his comfy looking lounger. I was unceremoniously shoved back into the chair that was shoved behind my knees. Kevin didn’t seem to notice or care, so long as I was sitting and listening to his every word. Yeah, this was going to be trouble.
Ragnarok Rising Page 25
