by Gunther, Cy
“Check the atmosphere,” Ernst said. “Parker was a dumb ass. We burned his corpse.”
The men began to murmur, a couple on the edges trying to turn their bikes around.
“You killed Parker?” the blonde sneered.
“Nope.”
“Then where the fuck is he.”
“Dead.”
“But you said you didn’t kill him.”
“I did.”
“You did kill him?”
“No, I said I didn’t kill him. I was agreeing with you.”
“Well if you didn’t,” the blonde snapped, “who the fuck did?”
“A little Chinese mother who’s with us.”
“What?”
“Yup, drove a spear right through his fucking neck, then, when it was through, she twisted the damn thing and just about popped his head off.” Ernst smiled. “It was the damndest thing, you know, sort of like watching a human pimple getting popped off the face of existence.”
“You know what, I’ve had enough of you, you little prick, you –“
“Did you ever see…fuck, I can’t remember now. A music video with a guy pretending to hold an AK?”
“What?”
“You know, back when music videos were actually on TV for more than a little while? Hell, back when there was TV?”
“Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Anyway,” Ernst sighed, “there was this great video. Guy pretends to have an AK, tears shit up with imaginary bullets, you know?”
“I know that pistol in your lap isn’t imaginary,” the blonde said.
“Neither’s the one in my pants.”
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks,” Ernst smiled. “Anyway, here,” he put his pistol on the table and stood up. “The guy in the video, he got set up, like this,” Ernst spread his legs a little and made like he was holding an automatic weapon. “And then he just went, bada bada bada!”
As the words left Ernst’s mouth, the two teams opened up.
The heavy, thudding, punishing sound of the .50 ripped into the street, a sound accompanied by the steady rip of the 240. Men started screaming, blood spraying, limbs being torn off. They went for their weapons but the machine guns traversed back and forth.
It was over in a matter of moments.
Men continued to scream and weep, the sounds echoing off of the buildings. Ernst’s ears ached as he picked up his pistol and started walking forward, picking his way carefully. Calmly he put a round in each man’s head. Reloading as he went, smoking steadily and humming to himself around the stem of the pipe.
By the time he was done only one young man was still alive, miraculously unharmed but trapped beneath his bike. Adam and Lee, Corey and Brian, had all made their way into the street, had all watched him in silence as he worked through the wounded and the dead. Ernst nodded to the twins, who lifted the bike off of the young man.
“Take the fucking colors off,” Ernst said softly.
The young man stripped the vest off, shaking.
“Go home, tell them what we did. Tell them not to come back. Is that understood?”
The young man nodded.
“Good. Go.”
The young man turned and started to run.
Lee came up to Ernst and kissed him on the cheek, wrapping her arms around his waist. He smiled at her. “We’ll need to siphon the gas, take the ammo, and booby trap the weapons. Leave the fuckers where they are.”
“They’re stopped for now,” Adam said, looking around at the devastation.
In the distance, though, the sound of moaning began to rise, and Adam sighed. “But I think that it’s going to be one hell of a long winter.”
