NO ROOM IN HELL:
THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UNDEAD
Copyright © 2016 William Schlichter
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by
ZD Publishing
Library of Congress Control Number:
2016902934
ISBN-13: 978-0692647202
ISBN-10: 0692647201
KAME BOWLIN HURLS the tiny brunette from his truck cab. She bounces twice across the grass. Before she recovers, he laces his fingers into her hair, dragging her to her feet. In the sunlight Kame notes how young she is, but after cupping her left breast, her age loses its distraction. He yanks her by her hair, pulling clumps of it free as he leads her inside the farmhouse.
The barrel of a Barrett M82 sniper rifle inches through the splintered board of a barn loft wall. It focuses in on the second burly unwashed savage as he throws a second girl to the ground. Amid her protests, he rips her garments from her teen body.
The rifle scope magnifies the brutality inflicted on the flailing girl in the grass.
She screams.
He cuts her leg muscle in the lower calf, ending any shot she had at a track career. He slashes at her remaining tattered clothes with no care if he cuts her as he tears the rags for access. Her screams turn to whimpers as he enters her. Submission becomes her only plea to him not to kill her once he’s satisfied.
The crosshairs in the scope match up to the center of his bobbing head. The crackle of a shot doesn’t stop the violent moments of the remaining man in the truck, even though it is thunderously louder than any weapon the three men carry. In the truck cab, the third girl has her jeans yanked down to her knees and she beats her attacker’s shoulder with her fists. Her futile resistance only seems to arouse him further as he climbs on top of her. He seems to be having issues with removing his own pants in the confined space.
The crosshairs focus on him.
The girl’s scrawny fingers claw at her attacker’s face.
He punches her then continues struggling with his belt. It won’t unclasp. Angered by this, he takes it out on the girl with a second punch.
The trigger finger eases back.
The attacker slides from the truck.
The sniper in the barn halts the trigger pull before wasting a round and revealing his location. Surely a second shot would attract the man in the farmhouse.
The attacker drops his pants. He reaches into the truck and jerks off the girl’s boots, and yanks her jeans off completely.
She no longer kicks at him. The two punches must have been more than she could take. As small as she is, a third hit might kill her if the second one hasn’t done her in.
Her attacker crawls back into the cab. As he mounts the motionless girl, a bullet tears open the side of his head, spraying the back windshield glass with chunks of brain the instant before it shatters from the traveling bullet. The attacker’s useless skull isn’t even a hiccup for the projectile at such close range.
Seconds later a set of sturdy black combat boots peek from the opening leading into the hayloft of the barn. A heavy duster overcoat obscures the sniper’s bulky frame as he swings down. He hangs for a second, allowing his body to stretch as close to the dirt as possible before dropping. On the ground, it takes him a moment to move. Once he’s sure nothing’s physically wrong, he hobbles forward, limping the first few steps until his left leg seems to correct itself into a normal stride. His slightly uneven gait leaves him as the stiffness from lying in the barn works itself out of his leg muscles. He slings the rifle over his shoulder before flipping his coat behind the weapons on his hips. Choices of pistols line his gun belt. He reaches behind the shiny .357 revolver on his right hip to pull a Beretta obscured behind it. He marches straight from the barn. No need for concealment. Constant screams from inside the farmhouse mean the third attacker remains too preoccupied with his victim to have noticed the two thunderous shots.
The man kicks over the first vagrant. The 50 caliber round did its job too well. The man has no face and neither does the girl. The second attacker’s body pins the second girl in the truck cab. The only movement is her chest heaving with breath. He must be too heavy for her to push off or too wide to shove off her in the cramped cab.
The tortured screams from inside the farmhouse claw at the sniper’s stomach. Staring at the girl in the truck cab, he decides he’ll come back to check on her. He cowboys up and marches boldly to the farmhouse, shifting his stride at the porch to a stealthy shanty. He crouches down to peek through the diamond-shaped window in the door, and grips his Beretta with two hands. No Dirty Harry, one-hand, badass, gunslinger moment right now. He crouches lower and slides inside, professional in his tactics.
Two shots ring from the farmhouse. A minute passes and the sniper steps out, taking each step to the grass with slow reflection. Regrettably, what he saw inside disturbed even his calm demeanor. He pushes the bile creeping up his throat back into his stomach.
His somber trek to the truck takes an eternity. The trauma imposed by the third man on the girl surpasses even his experiences in carnage. He yanks the dead man from the cab and lets him fall to the ground in a disheveled heap. The teen’s chest heaves in shallow breaths as she gulps for air through a swelling face, thankful the pressure’s off her. Blood from scratches decorate her inner thighs. He looks down at the dead attacker. His lack of underpants reveals even death won’t stop male priapism. He just couldn’t get it out fast enough to abuse her.
She raises her head, and witnesses her would-be savior rummaging through the dead men’s pockets, confiscating anything of value.
He returns to the truck cab.
As he marches in her direction, she cries without sound and stares wide-eyed at the man in the sable duster coat. She tugs and yanks at her shirt tails in a feeble attempt to cover or protect herself. Even without penetration she has been traumatized from the assault.
He grabs her pants, pulling the legs so they are no longer inside out.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says, handing her the jeans.
It takes her a few long minutes to consider reaching out for them; like a wild dog snapping at a bone. She snatches them, bunching them up against her chest like a squirrel protecting its stash of nuts. Using her feet, she shoves herself against the far door, away from his reach.
He sets her shoes on the seat. “I meant it. I’ve no desire to harm you.”
“My f-f-f-friends,” she stammers.
“Sorry.” He knows nothing else to say.
Tears flow down her face and soak the top of her shirt.
“I’ve done what I can for them.” He fishes in his combat vest pocket.
“Are you military?” She dries some of her tears on her pants.
“No. Hardly any soldiers left. The government turned them loose too late to do any good.” He tosses several small sealed packets at her. “Alcohol pads. Clean out those scrapes. Stupid animal mauled you with his dirty fingers. You can’t afford an infection.”
She snatches up the pads before opening her legs—presenting herself. “Take me with you. You do…whatever to me...just, please don’t leave me here.
”
The thought of enjoying her unshaven and juicy young body sends a deep tingle through him. But it lasts only a second. A natural reaction to an attractive sexual offer, but one he has no intention of accepting. He knows the poor girl’s beyond confused. No one assaulted as she was would offer themselves for pleasure minutes later. Water collects on her purpling forehead, but not the glistening of nervous pleasure sweat to attract a mate. Her wetness stinks of fear. She must offer, hoping willingness on her part might be less painful if he were to take her.
He sets his sniper rifle on the hood of the truck.
“Come here.” He waves his hands in an inviting, fluttering motion.
She skitters toward him.
He closes her legs before tearing open an alcohol pad. He proceeds to clean the scratches like a father would his two-year-old daughter’s cut.
“I don’t force myself onto young girls.”
“I’m 22.”
“I don’t rape women, or little girls who lie about their age.” He presses the alcohol pad hard against her thigh, scraping out any foreign debris. The scratches look as clean as possible. “You keep sanitary as you are able. Let’s see if we can find you a sandwich.” He picks her up like she weighs nothing.
She lets free a tiny glint of smile. With her arms tight around his neck, he slides her into her pants. She buttons them herself as he walks around to the back of the truck, drawing the .357 before opening the hatch.
“Do you have a name?”
Squeakily, she responds, “Emily.”
He tugs at a box in the truck bed. It slides out too easily to have anything in it.
“How did you end up here, Em?” He pulls out a second empty box. This one has a faded FEMA label.
She ties her shoes. “There was a refugee camp. It was controlled by military and the government sent supplies, then the soldiers thinned out. Civilian contractors, for lack of a better name, have been taking over search and rescue patrols, or so they said. These packs of guys would patrol the tents claiming to locate people—missing family members—and had orders to reunite to them. The biggest group was led by the Bowlin brothers. Kame Bowlin took Sophie into the farmhouse.” Emily shifts toward the house.
“Did you know the other girls?”
“Only from around the camp.” She approaches the back of the truck. She halts when she sees the .357 instinctively rise toward her.
He holsters the gun and pulls a duffle bag from the back of the truck.
Emily knows his gun movement is more instinctual than a direct threat against her. She’s seen a few people get shot in the camp because they’re all too jumpy. She takes a step back.
She spots the second attacker and her companion both missing their faces. Months in the camp have yet to harden her to death, only teaching her how to cry without noise. Tears roll down her cheeks.
He yanks a backpack from the truck bed and pulls out canned soup and MREs. “When did you last eat?”
“We were stopping to eat, or so they said.” Emily’s eyes won’t leave the girl’s faceless body. “Did it hurt?”
“The bullet leaves the body before the brain processes the hit.” He keeps his explanation sterile.
“Couldn’t you have saved her?” she pleads.
The man marches over and yanks the dead attacker off the girl. A knife flops into the grass. “He cut her throat. After he started fucking her. It causes the muscles to constrict as she bleeds out. What I did was quick, stopped her from drowning in her own blood as he enjoyed her becoming a vice.”
Emily begins to gag. She coughs up bile. Her stomach, as much as it heaves, has nothing to puke up.
He takes a water bottle scrounged from the backpack and hands it to her. “Don’t go in the farmhouse.”
Emily takes a sip, but immediately coughs up the water. “The other one do the same to her?”
“I don’t know if he was going to rape her. He derived his pleasure from other things.”
“Oh god.” Emily coughs.
“I doubt he cares.”
He grabs Emily and throws her behind the truck and lands nearly on top of her.
She tries to squirm out from under him. Fear grips her preventing her from punching at him. Her throbbing face a reminder of what happens if she struggles. Maybe this man wants to do more than rape her.
He pins her down and clamps his hand over her mouth.
Her eyes scream betrayal. Why let her get dressed and care for her if he wanted to assault her?
He slides his coat off and unzips his combat vest.
She hears it.
The squeak of worn brakes. Another vehicle has arrived.
She remembers to breathe, knowing he has kept his word about not hurting her.
Three doors open and slam shut followed by the crackle of bullets loading into gun chambers.
Emily squeezes her thighs together to hold in the sudden urge to pee.
He pushes himself off her. He leaps to his feet, favoring his left leg. He raises his hands in the air and steps out from behind the truck.
Emily only sees her savior. For a man with a bad leg, his upper body has no issues.
Male voices scream for him to keep his hands up and to slowly remove his gun belt. The gleaming .357 on his right hip sparkles at her through the many grooves cut into the leather holster. The powerful eight-inch barrel hangs from the bottom of the holster. Her eyes are drawn to its display. His right hand moves to grip, not the magnum, but the automatic Beretta sheathed just behind it. This new gun slides free of its holster with the click of the safety going off. Nine shots ring out, five before her fingers reach her ears.
Bodies smack against the vehicle and then fall to the ground. Emily hops to her feet, but crouches low, slowly raising her head to peek around the truck.
Three men, all in miss-matched military fatigues, lay dead on the ground, each with two shots in the chest and one in the center of the forehead. Only one was able to clear his weapon from its holster before death.
Her savior approaches the truck. “Stay down.” He draws the magnum. Walking around the Jeep the strangers arrived in, he opens the back door, gun poised to shoot.
Nothing.
Only three men. The fourth seat has a sack instead of a passenger. He pulls it out and hears the dull thud of full tin cans.
“So much food.”
He ejects the clip of his Beretta and begins to add bullets. “Always keep your weapon fully loaded.”
“What—”
“They were going to have fun with your friends and sell you for a bag of food. Your dead girlfriends may have suffered but you, you would’ve been the camp plaything for weeks before they let you starve to death.”
She collapses to her knees in a disheveled heap. The reality of what just transpired sinks in. Without him, her last few days of life would have been the most horrid she could imagine.
He holsters his loaded gun in order to search the new men. He takes everything useful from them and stuffs it into the back of the Jeep.
Emily stares, watching him remove boots, and any useful clothing not soaked in blood. He wraps a nice white camo jacket around her shoulders. It’s padded for winter wear and still has the dead man’s warmth. She should hate it, but it gives her comfort. She drops to her knees then slides against the truck tire, scrutinizing his purposeful movements. He drops granola bars into her lap before siphoning the gas from the first truck to fill the Jeep. He loads his sniper rifle into the front seat and rechecks each man for a final sweep of useful items, ignoring the dead man in the farmhouse.
Once satisfied they are stripped clean of useful items, he yanks Emily to her feet. She wobbles a bit but stands on her own. He helps her put her arms in the sleeves like dressing a two-year-old. He wraps a belt around her waist with a pistol holster attached to it. He waves a pistol in front of her face.
“Ten shots with one in the chamber. Safety on…” is all she hears of his explanation.
He practically carries
her to the Jeep, places her inside, and buckles her seat belt. He even wipes a crumb of food from the corner of her mouth. He returns to the barn, retrieving a black bag and small gas can. He tosses the duffle bag into the Jeep before emptying the gas can on a hay bale. He chucks the bale inside the house. He strikes a road flare and throws it in after. The house erupts in flames.
“Are you leaving me?” she screams, waking from a trance.
“Look, little girl, you need to hold it down. Those gun shots will attract the biters. Not to mention the fire.” He leaves her again.
It takes him what seems like forever to exit the smaller outbuilding. He carries a pair of bolt cutters and a corn knife.
“I needed some bolt cutters and I figured a farm had some.”
“You seem so prepared.”
“I try to travel light.” He stretches open the skin around her eyes to gaze at her pupils. “You’re in shock.” He puts her tiny feet on the dashboard and reclines the seat as far back as it goes.
“You know where there’s safety?”
“I know a lot of things.” He winks at her before turning the Jeep key.
He nudges the Jeep against the tree. The slight bump jars Emily awake.
“You hit the tree.”
“I meant to. I’ve found most people will figure a Jeep wrecked against a tree is useless. They won’t bother with it.”
“Why don’t we just drive wherever you are going?” She pokes at the swollen spot above her left eye.
“I don’t want to lug all these supplies around, and I don’t want to attract any unwanted guests where I’m going.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“You ask a lot of questions.” He disembarks from the vehicle.
“Should I come with you?”
“If you want to stay alive.” He marches into the tree line.
Emily jerks at the seat belt buckle, nearly falling out of the Jeep to chase after him. “You were going to leave me. What if I had just taken the Jeep full of food?”
He jingles the keys. “I doubt a socialite girl learned to hotwire a car.”
No Room In Hell (Book 1): The Good, The Bad and The Undead Page 1
