Rotter Apocalypse

by Scott M. Baker

  The truck slowed, turned left, and rolled to a stop. They all listened to the conversation over their headphones.

  “Hey, man. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Thanks,” said Jim. “How’s your deader situation been?”

  “The motherfuckers have been all riled up after the commotion on the bridge. What happened out there?”

  “Some survivors coming in from Oakland got into a gunfight with them and shot up a propane truck. Blew out the center span in the process.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Tell me about it. The deaders in our section are still stirred up,” said Jim.

  “I hear you. Let’s get this over with so we can get you on your way.” The voice changed in pitch. “Open up the gat—”

  “Wait,” ordered another voice with a Puerto Rican accent. “The Boss wants us to inspect the truck before bringing it onto the compound. He’s jittery after what happened on the bridge. Is it unlocked?”

  “I think so,” Jim replied, a hesitancy in his voice.

  “Hang on while I check it out,” said the man with the Puerto Rican accent. “You guys come with me.”

  Natalie looked to Endo for guidance. He and the soldiers along the rear row had already raised their weapons into firing position and trained them on the sliding door. She heard footsteps walking down the length of the trailer, followed by the sound of the locking device being unhitched and swung to the side. A second later, the door slid up. The three faces that stared at them registered a brief moment of shock before a fusillade of gunfire tore through their heads and upper torsos. The bodies had not even hit the pavement before Endo and his men poured out of the truck and spread out, laying down suppressing fire. Natalie raced forward and jumped off when all Hell broke loose.

  Automatic weapons raked the front end of the truck and the flanks where Endo’s men tried to deploy. The soldiers dropped to the ground, some taken down by return fire, most going prone to present a smaller target. Bullets punched through the thin metal container, thudding into the first few rows of troops packed against the front wall and transforming the inside into a charnel house as chunks of bodies and spent rounds ricocheted off the walls. A stream of weapons fire slammed into the rear corner of the truck beside Natalie’s head, showering her with wood splinters. She ducked under the trailer. From the two-story apartment complex off to the left, more than a dozen gang members fired from the windows or from the flat roof. While a few engaged Endo’s troops, most concentrated on the left corner at the rear of the truck, shooting those trying to get off. The same thing was happening on the right. After the first eleven soldiers fell, the rest clustered around the end of the trailer. The troops still inside the truck, exposed and unable to get out, screamed frantically for the others to move.

  A heavy staccato drumming cut through the din of battle. A line of bullets walked their way along the left flank, kicking up geysers of dirt or, when one struck a human, vomiting up a cloud of blood from the wound. One round slammed into Endo’s face, blowing out the rear portion of his head. The heavy gunfire paused for only a moment before resuming, this time directed at the left side of the trailer. The bullets punched their way through the metal as if it was tissue paper and ripped apart the troops still trapped inside. They pulled the bodies of their dead buddies on top of them as protection against the slaughter. Natalie searched for the next in command. Anyone on either flank who tried to take charge didn’t live long enough to give more than one or two orders. Those sheltering inside and behind the trailer seemed more concerned about surviving the next few seconds.

  From the back of the truck, Josephine cried out and tumbled onto the driveway, holding her left shoulder. A tear ran across her uniform, and blood seeped through the material.

  “How bad were you hit?” Natalie asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s fatal.”

  Natalie knelt down behind Josephine and checked the wound. An abrasion five inches long ran from the tip of her shoulder blade toward the spine. The bullet had not punctured the skin, but instead tore a gash across the surface half an inch deep, exposing the muscle beneath. Though it would hurt like a son of a bitch, Josephine would live—provided they could get out from behind the truck.

  “Jesus motherfucking Christ!” screamed the private standing behind her.

  “They’ve got a fucking .50 caliber,” called out another soldier from inside the trailer.

  “Where the fuck did they get a .50?” yelled a third.

  “Cut the shit,” ordered Natalie. She saw a corporal crouched three feet away who did not seem on the verge of panic. He had the name BROWN stitched onto his uniform nameplate. “Do you have any rocket launchers?”

  “We have SMAWs,” said Brown. “They’re shoulder-launched assault weapons.”

  “Get them up here now.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ari moved up to Natalie. “What are you planning on doing?”

  “I’m going to get us out of this slaughterhouse,” Natalie stated resolutely. “Are you with me?”

  The face that stared back bordered on panic, yet the eyes showed trust. “Of course.”

  “Wait here.”

  Still crouching, Natalie made her way to the right side of the truck. Machinegun fire came from the balcony window of a second-floor apartment. Another seven or eight gang members shot at them from various locations inside the building and on the roof. Two of Endo’s men had advanced as far as the perimeter wall, a makeshift structure composed of three Jersey barriers stacked on top of each other, where they were pinned down.

  Brown knelt beside her. “We’re ready.”

  “How many SMAWs do you have?”

  “Six.”

  “Put three on each side. The machinegun is in the second window from the left on the top floor. I need half a dozen of your men to provide cover fire. Do you have smoke grenades?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But….” Brown motioned toward the dead troops on either side of the truck.

  “We’ll we have to do without it.”

  “No offense, ma’am. I should lead this attack.”

  Natalie shook her head. “Once we take out that machinegun, you’re leading the charge on the front gate.”

  “Hoo-ah,” said Brown. He barked orders to the rest of the troops, and then focused back on Natalie. “On your order, ma’am.”

  Natalie waited until the fire from the machinegun paused. She prayed they were reloading and not waiting for a target of opportunity. “Now!”

  Natalie dashed out from behind the truck and ran to the right, her M-16A2 trained on the apartment building. Automatic weapons fire came at her. Nothing from the .50 caliber. When the others joined her, enemy gunfire tapered off as the defenders sought cover. The two-man teams carrying the SMAWs deployed. One of the weapons operators dropped to his right knee, raised the multipurpose assault weapon to his shoulder, aimed at the roof where a gang member reloaded, and fired. Natalie heard a swoosh and followed the trail of white smoke as it struck the building beneath the gang member. The rocket punched its way through the wall and exploded inside the apartment, blasting a hole through the roof. Body parts and blood mixed with black smoke and tile. Rockets from the other two SMAW-equipped soldiers struck the corner of the building, one entering through the balcony doors where the machinegun nest stood, the other slamming into the wall beside the bedroom window to its left. The simultaneous explosions gutted the apartment, and two fireballs burst through the window casings. The machinegun was ejected from the apartment and fell to the ground. Three explosions on the other side of the trailer told her that the gang members there had met a similar fate. The teams’ ammo bearers had already reloaded the SMAWs with more high explosive rockets.

  “Move it! Move it!” ordered Brown, standing behind the trailer and waving everyone out.

  Those who had survived the initial onslaught jumped off the back of the truck and swarmed the wall and front gate, shooting at anything that moved. A lanky sol
dier with a red beard crawled up into the cab, pulled out Jim’s body, and took his place. Shifting into gear, he headed up the entry road. Gunfire erupted from the school bus blocking the entrance, slamming into the front of the truck. A rocket from one of the SMAWs punched its way into the bus and exploded. The truck shoved the burning vehicle away from the wall and into the parking lot. Taking advantage of the breach, the soldiers rushed the gate.

  The rest of the Angels hovered around Josephine. Natalie rushed over to them. “We have to find Doreen and Sandy.”

  The women hesitated, responding when Josephine said, “Go on. I’ll be safe here.”

  With that, the Angels raced up alongside the truck toward the front gate. By now, the fighting had shifted inside to the compound.

  * * *

  The sound of battle shattered the silence in the basement. Doreen, Sandy, and Sarge looked between each other, trying to figure out what was going on.

  “Is that gunfire?” asked Sandy.

  Sarge nodded.

  “Does this mean we’re under attack by rotters?” Doreen asked.

  “Shut up in there!” Snake yelled from the corridor. He stood with his gaze focused on the door leading to the basement.

  A second later, more gunfire joined the fray. Sarge glanced over at the women, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “There’s a lot of weapons fire, and some of it sounds like it’s outside the compound.”

  “Hey!” Snake centered himself in the door. “I thought I told you to shut the fuck up!”

  Sarge whispered. “I think our people are coming to get us.”

  Snake stepped up and placed the barrel of his AR-15 against Sarge’s forehead. “Then maybe I oughta shoot you rig—”

  Three explosions rocked the building above them. Dust drifted from the ceiling. Snake forgot about Sarge and ran out of the room. “Come on, man. Where are you?”

  * * *

  By the time the Angels passed through the gate, the battle had pushed deep inside the compound. Two-thirds of Brown’s remaining men had secured the parking lot north of the entrance and were clearing the three buildings in that area of combatants. The rest had set up a defense line across the drive leading to the five buildings in the southern sector of the complex and had engaged the enemy. Bodies littered the area opposite the gate, most belonging to the Deaders. Near the makeshift perimeter wall, a gang member dragged himself through the grass toward the first building on the right, leaving a trail of blood. Natalie waved for the others to follow.

  “What’s your hurry?” Natalie asked as she squatted beside the gang member. She rolled him onto his back. He had a gaping wound in his abdomen the size of a baseball, and dragging it across the ground had not done it any good. “Where do you keep your hostages?”

  “Fuck you, lady.”

  Natalie shoved her hand into the open wound and twisted. The gang member convulsed around her fist and attempted to sit up, screaming in agony. She removed her hand after a few seconds. He fell back onto the ground, gasping for air.

  “I’ll ask you again. Where do you keep the hostages?”

  “You can… kill me... if you want… bitch. I’m not… telling.”

  “No. I won’t kill you.” Natalie shoved her fist inside the wound again, this time deeper. Her fingers wrapped around something that felt like intestines; she grabbed and yanked. The gang member’s body went rigid and his eyes rolled up into his head. His cry cut off in his throat. “I’ll keep this up until you tell me what I want to know.”

  To emphasize her point, Natalie twirled the intestine.

  The gang member raised a hand and shook it in supplication. Natalie released the intestine and removed her hand. The gang member went limp.

  “Well?”

  He pointed to the building ahead of them. His voice croaked out a whisper. “In there…. basement…. third door…. on right.”

  “How many guards?”

  He couldn’t muster the energy to speak. Instead, he raised two fingers, although they barely moved.

  Natalie stood up and focused on the apartment building in front of them. “Let’s go get our people.”

  * * *

  The fighting outside intensified. As it drew closer, Snake became more agitated, changing position every few seconds and keeping his weapon trained on the door leading into the basement. Doreen eyed him carefully, trying to determine if he would panic and run, or kill them out of spite.

  She never considered that Batchelder would attack.

  Sarge jumped to his feet and raced for the door, bending to tackle Snake. Without hesitating, Doreen jumped to her feet and followed, knowing Sarge would need all the help he could get. She lost her balance and righted herself. The noise drew Snake’s attention. He turned in time to see them charging him. Snake spun his AR-15 around. Being so close to the doorway, the barrel hit the jamb. He backed up and readjusted his aim as Sarge body checked him. The weapon discharged. Sarge grunted and collapsed, blood pouring from a wound in his left leg. Snake fell to the floor, dropping the AR-15. He started to get back up when Doreen slammed into him, driving her right knee into his chest. The two slid down the wall. Doreen straddled him, with one knee on his chest and the other on his stomach. Walking on her knees, she moved up toward his neck. Snake regained his second wind. He grabbed her by the belt with his left hand, holding her in place, and punched her in the face. The first blow glanced off her cheek because of the angle. Doreen shifted her torso so that her back faced him. Snake grabbed a handful of her red hair and yanked, pulling her off balance.

  Sandy rushed into the corridor and dropped to her knees, the right one landing on Snake’s crotch. Doreen heard one of his testicles pop, like a walnut being cracked. Snake’s body went rigid. He cried out, tears streaming down his face, and released Doreen’s hair. She took advantage of the opportunity and shifted on his chest. Her left knee slid down his sternum and against his neck, choking off his sobs of pain. Balancing herself on her right knee, she raised her left and slammed it down again on Snake’s neck. A loud cracking of bones filled the corridor and Snake went limp. Only then did Doreen fall against the wall and begin crying.

  A commotion sounded further down the corridor. Doreen didn’t have any fight left in her. She rolled over to face the door leading into the basement and accept her death. Relief washed over her when she spotted Natalie and the rest of the Angels approaching, their weapons raised and aimed. Natalie headed straight for her and Sandy while the others checked each of the rooms along the corridor. Natalie dropped to her knees when she reached her girls, placed her weapon on the floor, and hugged them. Ari stood to the side, keeping her eyes on the opposite end of the corridor.

  “I’m fine,” said Sarge with a heavy tone of sarcasm. “Thanks for asking.”

  “I’m sorry.” Doreen raised her arms behind her back to show Natalie the handcuffs. “Get us out of these things.”

  Natalie patted down Snake, found the key in his shirt pocket, and used it to free Doreen and Sandy. Doreen took the keys and stepped over to Sarge. He shifted so she could reach the handcuffs. When his hands were free he massaged his wounded leg. “It feels funny. Almost like a burning sensation.”

  “What do you expect? You’ve been shot.”

  “I was shot once before in Iraq. I know what it feels like,” Sarge grunted. “This is different.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Doreen. “You’ll be okay.”

  Natalie patted her on the shoulder. When Doreen looked up, Natalie shook her head.

  Shit, thought Doreen. Will anything ever be all right again?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Denning woke up at his usual hour, although not under the usual circumstances. Rather than listening to the chirping birds and the wind blowing through the trees outside his bedroom window, he heard the clanking of dishes and laughing coming from the kitchen. Even more pleasing was the aroma of coffee, eggs, and bacon that wafted through the house. Anna was the last person to have made him breakfast. A momentary tinge of
sadness over her memory tainted his contentment. Windows and Cindy were preparing a special treat for him, and he intended to enjoy it.

  Sitting up and swinging his feet onto the floor, Denning paused for a few moments to catch his breath. He got up, dressed, and went downstairs to the kitchen. Windows and Cindy sat at the table eating breakfast and chatting. Both had showered and changed, borrowing some of Anna’s old clothes. The jeans and white cotton button-down shirt Windows wore hung loosely on her, mostly because of being underweight. Cindy’s dress engulfed her like a tent. Windows had patched it as best she could by using a belt to hold the material tight against the girl’s waist and lifting the hem nearly two feet with safety pins. At first, Denning felt irritated that they had borrowed his wife’s clothes without asking permission. He pushed those feelings aside. They looked so much better than the two lost souls who had wandered onto his property yesterday, both physically and mentally. The shedding of the grime and dirt had been a psychological break with their past. Besides, if Anna had been here, she would have offered her clothes to these two as well as helped mend them to fit better.

  When Windows saw him standing in the door, she said, “Good morning.”

  Cindy stared down at the tabletop. “Good morning, Mr. Denning.”

  Denning realized he must have been frowning because Window’s demeanor went from pleasant to apologetic. “I’m sorry we borrowed your wife’s clothes without asking. Our stuff has to be washed and mended before we can wear it again.”