The Reaper: No Mercy

by Sean Liebling

  *****

  Sighing, he brought his mind back to the present, as now was not the time to be caught up in daydreaming. He was alone, as the chances of one man being spotted were much less than two ... that was the theory, anyways. Glancing behind his position again, he neither saw nor heard any indication of the living or undead. Andy knew this did not mean that something was not out there, only that he was not aware of any presence close to his position. Just now, he needed to get inside the barn he was beside, and then look out over the cemetery. He needed to see how many of the others were there. If most were inside the cemetery grounds, he could send his foragers out for supplies, but if the cemetery had few present, they would hide and wait for a better opportunity. Andy hoped these others were having another drunk fest as his previous spying had indicated they often did. If confirmed, his group would gather as many supplies as possible and get the hell out of this shit hole. Over the last two days they had been slowly gathering supplies from nearby homes, and almost had enough to make a run for it.

  Ironically, the best time for gathering supplies was still during the day. If you went out at night you were seriously risking your life, for night was when all the undead roamed the streets and countryside. That the bastards hid during the day, just waiting for unsuspecting prey to approach their positions, had quickly become obvious after several close calls. The undead were cunning and had somehow realized their prey was easier to catch at night instead of during the day, when the undead, themselves, were easily spotted and disposed of. However, foraging in daylight had dangers of its own, as the others were out in packs like wild animals and you had to be extremely careful.

  Quickly Andy crept to the boards he had loosened the other day and, lifting them, slipped inside the dark interior. He had his machete out and started swinging it wildly before him as he prayed for his eyes to adjust to the gloom quickly. If one of the undead attacked him, he hoped to take it out with a few lucky swings before it could latch onto him. Bastards were strong as hell, and he'd already tussled with them more times than he could count.

  Empty. He breathed a sigh of relief. You never knew where one could be hiding, and they were very good at hiding. Finally his eyes adjusted well enough to see, and as he made his way to the ladder leading to an upper loft, he sidestepped the two decomposing bodies of former zombies lying directly in his path. Those two he had taken out days ago when he first entered the barn in order to spy on the others’ compound.

  Andy made almost no sound despite his bulk, and once in the loft, he gently laid his rifle down, then his machete, as he neared the slanted metal roof. He only needed to lift the corrugated metal sheeting a few inches, just enough to peer out with his binoculars and gaze into the interior of the cemetery. This he now did, slowly and carefully, after propping the slanted sheet up with a board he'd left there for this purpose. Then the binoculars came out, and Andy started scanning the interior of the cemetery.

  First, he focused on the mausoleum because it was the closest, and yes, there were several of the others carrying boxes of supplies into its marble interior. A huge pile of caskets lay in haphazard fashion to its sides. Evidently, the others were using the crypts to store their supplies, which made a kind of sick sense. The smallish chapel further down was next, and like the last time he had checked, there were only a few men loitering around its stone exterior.

  Then he shifted his gaze to the combined seminary and administrative complex on the grounds. It was three stories tall, and had originally been used to house visiting Catholic priests, along with a small school for the children of local well-to-do Catholic congregation members. The administrative end had probably been used for coordinating all the Catholic churches and activities in this region of Missouri, but right now it was being used as the sleeping quarters for the others. At least he assumed that is what it was for as it was too large for such a small church by itself.

  Yes, as usual, there were almost two dozen out there, gathered around a large bonfire and obviously drinking even though it was still early morning. He often wondered if they had even slept the night before because of their wild antics, then dismissed the thought from his mind. It did not matter. What did matter was that most of those within appeared to be occupied with their 'fun' here within the confines of the cemetery and its structures. He shifted sideways to view the mausoleum-like structure near the back of the cemetery. He could barely make it out from his vantage point, but he had seen these small structures before. Catholics, by and large, were creatures of history and tradition. Though an outdated concept, many branches of the Catholic Church had the beginnings of catacombs on or near their cemeteries, prepared for eventual body internment of high-ranking church members. A casket in the ground was not adequate for those who had been powerful for most of their lives.

  The entrance was easily recognizable, and Andy could only assume this was where the captives were being kept, for no other place seemed reasonable. Occasionally, he had witnessed what looked like large quantities of food being delivered there, which convinced him that his suspicions were correct. Only four men stood outside, warming their hands over a flaming steel barrel, and Andy nodded to himself at their predictability.

  He then let his gaze shift to the front gate. There were usually a few guards there, sometimes as many as a half-dozen, but he wanted to be sure. As he twisted the focusing knob on the binoculars to bring the bus that was blocking the front entrance into sharp focus, he saw ... Oh shit ... another pair of binoculars staring right back at him. Busted! He needed to get the hell out of there and now!

  The time for stealth was over, and he snatched his weapons up on the run, then slid down the wooden ladder, ignoring the splinters gouging into his palms through the leather gloves he wore. Out the back, through the loosened boards, and he was off like a shot to the woodline fifty yards away. Suddenly a shot sounded behind him, then another as he felt something tug at the shoulder of the camouflage jacket he wore. Immediately, more rounds began hitting the dirt and trees all around him as he sprinted into their thick midst. Thank God the bastards appeared to be drunk, and thus shitty shots, but he was trapped, for the woods were only so thick before the houses started and he could already hear the sounds of engines roaring in the distance ... and getting closer.

  *****

  Chapter 2

  The Reaper took another bite, savoring the taste of homemade flour tortilla wrapped around refried beans, then frowned as nearby birds stopped chirping in the woodline to his south. A normal wood animal would not have frightened the birds, so this had to be something else. With deft movements, he stuffed the remains of his meal in his mouth, pulled his Navy Colt six-shooter from its holster, and picked up the machete lying on the ground beside him. He considered his rifle for a split second, then decided to leave it for now. The chirping soon started again, but he was not fooled for a second. He knew signs of danger when they were so apparent.

  He was born Jason Scott, though he went by the name Reaper now, and was a big man at almost 6-foot 200 pounds. His somewhat neatly trimmed gray beard surrounded a strong face set with piercing brown eyes. Being a large man did not necessarily mean he moved slow, for after pulling the Colt he quickly sprinted to the woodline to the north and went still with his back to an old oak, resting the flat side of the machete blade against his right shoulder. He waited and listened, as his military training had taught him stealth, allowing him to move as one with nature. He would be neither seen nor heard unless he chose to be, and while he knew the Lord would protect him, the Lord helped best those who helped themselves, so the Reaper was cautious.

  While he watched and listened, the Reaper’s mind drifted back to his very first encounter with these spawns of Satan. A family man, and retired from the United States Marine Corp as a Force Recon sniper with the 1st Marine Division, he had taken a job as a machinist to supplement their family income. Upon arriving home after working third shift on the day the undead rose, he found his entire family slaughtered. Going be
rserk, he had killed every zombie in sight using any means at hand. They had truly died under his wrath, and he, the Reaper, had survived. It was then that he realized the Lord had a new mission for him.

  Jason had always been deeply religious, even as a child. He knew the Lord had a purpose for everything that happened in life, so the fact he had lived indicated God's plans for him were unfinished. He had prayed to the Almighty, and realizing his mission through divine guidance, he once again donned his old tools of the trade—the tools of a Marine Corps sniper—and set out to eradicate the spawn of Hell from the surrounding Newaygo, Michigan area. After weeks of combat and slaughter, along with more than a few signs from God, he realized his mission had changed in a subtle manner. No longer was his mission to hunt only the undead, but also the evil men living amongst them, who in many ways were much worse. These incarnations of evil preyed on other survivors, and the Lord had spoken loud and clear. The unspeakable acts of murder, rape, and immorality he’d witnessed had shown the Reaper where he could best use his talents.

  In the weeks since the world as he’d known it had ended, the Reaper had done many things. He had gained a new best friend, Jay Scarmon, who was now the interim governor of Michigan, and as far as Jason knew, the leader of the largest group of survivors, both civilian and military, left in the United States. Jason had saved hundreds of people, killed thousands of the undead, and had even participated in a raid on a secret shadow government fortress to rescue hostages. It was during that last action he’d learned that the rise of the undead was the result of a biological longevity experiment and power grab gone wrong. Instigated by a secret organization known only as 'The Order', their attempt at the fountain of youth, along with world domination, had instead decimated the world.

  They had learned that 'The Order' was part of a larger shadow government within world governments, all tied together through money and power. These Godless, power-hungry men and women had instigated the tainted vaccine following a world-wide flu epidemic (also contrived), and in the process had caused the largest act of mass murder the planet’s history had ever witnessed.

  The released virus, through the medium of an innocuous vaccine, had killed off over seventy percent of the world's population. Another twenty-five percent had turned into what everyone was now calling zombies, leaving five percent of humanity whole. Unfortunately, two things really frustrated the Reaper. The virus was mutating. What had started out as typical slow shambler zombies had turned into fast walkers, almost runners. Then a certain number regained the skill to climb sloped surfaces and even tilted ladders, and that had turned deadly for many of the remaining survivors when you combined it with a unique pheromone sense of primordial communication. Still others could exude a gelatinous substance that made them impervious to submersion in water. Overall, it was bad for the survivors’ chances. The only good aspect of the virus was that it could not be transmitted through bite.

  Then, if that was not bad enough, with just a few percent of the population left, too many bad elements within the groups of remaining survivors seemed determined to further reduce the chances of ultimate survival for the human race. He sighed at the sick antics of too many left alive and set his mind back on the current task.

  It was times like this that having a backup companion would have been a nice luxury. His normal partner, Travis, was back in Newaygo recuperating from wounds received at the shadow government's compound they had recently destroyed. With Travis was a woman, Shannon. The Reaper had rescued her during the last moments as their assault force escaped from the compound’s subterranean depths. It would be a months before Jason had his protégé back, and he was content to wait. Right now, speed was not of the essence, and in fact, speed was normally the toll of death in the craft of stealth. Out there, somewhere around him, was one or more two-legged minions of Satan, either alive or dead, and the Reaper would find them. Skeptically, the Reaper surmised it might simply be an innocent refugee, but recent history had taught him that those without evil intent usually announced themselves sooner vs. later by calling out a greeting before approaching. Briefly, his thoughts again drifted back to Shannon, the woman he had rescued, and her willingness to accompany him, though also wounded. He would explore that more on his next visit to Newaygo, for he had a strong need to see Emma, his new godchild and Jay's daughter. Emma was the twin of his dead grandchild, Heather, and the Reaper had promised that tiny munchkin that at least once a month he would try to visit.

  Now the Reaper had three missions in one. Fight the Lord's fight and take the battle to the evil minions of Satan, both living and undead. Help survivor groups band together into cohesive assemblies better able to survive this new world, and finally, to scout westward into Colorado in order to recon the shadow government's stronghold there. This he had been doing for the last two weeks. The original plan had been to airdrop him on the Colorado border, but staging areas for the final assault against the shadow government would be needed further east, and the Reaper had a desire to check on those still surviving in Missouri and western Illinois. He had taken his leave of Jay, Emma, and those others he had come to respect and love just west of Jacksonville, Illinois, and slowly moved westward, ten to twenty miles at a time. He stayed on foot as he had no desire to announce his presence, and there was no rush.

  This soft recon had been needed, and as he left each small community, he ensured they were in touch with either Newaygo or other small groups near them. It had not been an easy task, as suspicions ran high, and more than once he’d found himself on the other end of a weapon held in the shaking hands of a frightened survivor. Ultimately it had proven worthwhile though, and vastly improved the chances for survival of those left alive. Now he gathered basic staples from nearby homes, and knew that if he needed heavy support he could count on Newaygo for an air drop or landing, as long as he could contact them. They had planned for this, and the Reaper was in his element.

  The Reaper gave himself an internal shake. In the here and now, such thoughts were a distraction, and he would think more about them later. He concentrated on the job at hand and waited. Twenty minutes passed before he decided to get this over. His faith was in the Lord, and if the Lord decided it was time to go home to his family, then he was fine with that. Dropping into a crouch, he silently crept through the thick undergrowth of the forest and slowly, with caution, made his way around the clearing to the spot where earlier the birds had indicated danger. Every few feet he would pause and slowly breathe in and out while flexing his thighs to keep them from cramping. He was sniffing the air around his location and it did not help that there was no breeze.

  Then, he suddenly smelled the sweet arrested decay of the undead and his lips automatically curling into a silent snarl. With experienced eyes, he examined every tree before him, and that was when he saw them. Four of the devil’s spawn were standing against the giant bole of another oak, motionless. It was a favorite tactic of their limited intelligence, and it was sad how often this tactic worked on unsuspecting survivors. He gritted his teeth and prepared to attack them, slowly raising the heavy machete for a killing stroke on the first, when he heard shots.

  Three of the creatures turned in the direction of the sharp reports, the three with intact ears that is, and he could see them preparing to move fast as the fourth finally turned with them. The Reaper did not hesitate! Instead he used their distraction to his benefit and launched his attack silently, taking the first through the neck, his blade partially lodging in its shoulder on the far side; but the cut had been true, and the beast’s head rolled back, hanging by a strip of skin. With a yank, he jerked the blade free, then hamstrung the second that was starting to turn towards him, followed by a quick overhand angled slice through its skull, cleaving the brain within in half.

  The other two spawn were upon him, and this time he did snarl in fury as their rushing forms pushed him backwards. His blade was in the wrong position to strike with its razor-sharp edge, but the tang with his fist wrapped around it wa
s almost as good, so he lashed out in blind fury, striking the foremost in the center of its face. His left hand reached out to grasp, then jerk the other creature by the fabric of its coat, throwing it off balance to the ground as he desperately tried to finish off the last one before him. The punch had also thrown it off balance but, quickly recovering, it launched itself at the Reaper, mouth gaping wide. His blade was still angled wrong but he thrust anyways, its sharp edge piercing the neck, thrusting up into the brain only to lodge at the top of the skull.

  A sharp pain exploded in his left arm; turning, the Reaper tried to wrench free of the last spawn of Satan whose teeth had fastened on him, while pulling his Colt at the same time. His arm would not come free but his Colt did, and lifting his arm with a grit of teeth, he shoved the barrel under the creature’s chin while pulling the trigger, the back of the head blowing outward in a spray of blood, brains, and bone immediately following the Colt’s muffled report. The jaws of the devil's spawn instantly loosened as it dropped bonelessly to the ground, and Jason straightened, then critically examined his jacket where the creature had bitten him.

  Thank the Lord! The teeth had not penetrated the tough fabric of his brown Carhartt, which meant he would not have to dig into his limited supply of antibiotics. A bite from the undead might not transfer the virus, but they'd give you a hell of an infection if left untreated. The Reaper flexed his arm and shook it to dispel any lingering pain while peering around his position, looking for more of the Godless. There were none that he could detect as he surveyed his surroundings.