The Reaper: No Mercy

by Sean Liebling

  Multiple shots rang out to his west, and the Reaper frowned. Someone was in danger and in need of help. Perhaps it was a small group of survivors being attacked by the undead, or one group of survivors being set upon by another, which seemed to be happening all too frequently lately. Jason decided he would figure it out when he arrived at the location of the gunfire.

  "Don't worry, I'm coming," he muttered under his breath as he quickly sprinted back to his campsite and gathered up his already-packed belongings. Then he turned once again to the west and headed through the dense underbrush, his machete out and ready. Shots sounded yet again, this time, a veritable barrage of gunfire, and the Reaper picked up his pace. Whatever was happening had just taken on urgency. He could sense it.

  Two hundred yards further to his west, he came upon a road. The shots were not far off, and it was sounding more and more like a pitched battle. The Reaper put more speed on, hoping he was in time to save lives, when suddenly he spotted something on the ground ahead and froze. The Reaper crept closer, then stopped and crouched. Before him on the ground were the stripped bodies of an older adult male and two older females, along with those of three small children. From the signs, they had only been dead a few days; gently, he turned one of the children over and grimaced. All five were the victims of gunshot wounds. The tiny ones each had a hole in the center of their chest. He frowned, then his face twisted into a savagely angry mask, remembering the bodies he'd found the previous evening scattered along the road heading into the city from the east. Suddenly it was not looking good at all for somebody, and he rose at the renewed sounds of gunfire ahead.

  After taking a moment to close their eyes, he said a brief prayer over the bodies and continued onward. He had seen these signs before, and once again he realized the Lord was just reaffirming his mission. As he had told Jay, he was on the Lord’s mission and he would continue without hesitation, without reservation, until that mission was complete.

  The Reaper sprinted along the roadside towards the sounds of battle, and along the way he was forced to leap over the naked bodies of other small groups of men, women, and children, each appearing to have been gunned down, most recently. Anger burned bright within him as he closed to within a few hundred yards of the conflict. Ahead, he could see a beefy, camouflage-attired male, running while firing behind him. The rifle he held in his hands pointed at the stand of trees, where barely half-seen figures were appearing. Blind shots and the act of a desperate man, thought Jason. The Reaper needed no further understanding, and he quickly scaled the pine tree beside him while placing his modified M40A1 to his shoulder after flipping the scope’s magnetic lens covers up and out of the way. His rifle’s ten-round magazine was full with 7.62 and he jacked the first into the chamber. He was ready, but he still had to figure out who were the good guys and who were the bad guys.

  Quickly dialing down his 8.5x25 X 50mm Leupold Mark 4 ER/T M1 scope, he checked the runner first. The man's face came into sharp focus and the Reaper could see desperation written plainly there, along with resignation. Then he shifted his aim to those following this unknown figure and grinned mirthlessly. In his field of vision were well over a dozen figures, all staggering around and firing equally blindly towards the runner. Many were holding bottles, obviously alcohol of some sort, and equally obvious was that fact that they were drunk, for they stumbled over each other as they wildly discharged their firearms.

  This made his choice easy. The Reaper calmed his breathing, squeezed off the first shot in between heartbeats, and watched as the top of the foremost villain’s head disappeared in an explosion of blood. Without hesitation, Jason rotated another round into the barrel and fired again, taking the next in the lower forehead. Settling into a rhythm, he continued firing. Taking one with each shot, for the Reaper never missed.

  These drunken assailants quickly became aware of him as rounds started whistling through the branches of the pine he was resting in, but he ignored them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the runner had fallen to the ground and was firing at those attacking him from a prone position. Jason had identified friend from foe and continued firing, along with this other man who realized he had a friend coming to his rescue. Ten down and instantly the Reaper was switching magazines before firing again. Eleven down!

  Then the attackers were disappearing into the woods, and the figure of the runner was up and running towards him. As this man approached, the Reaper kept scanning the woodline but saw no others. He then heard engines starting up, and several trucks shot out of the woods further down the street towards what looked like a high brick fence surrounding a group of ornate buildings. Briefly, Jason thought about shooting into the trucks, but held back. He would figure it out shortly, as his gaze shifted to the man still lumbering to his position. He safe'd his Remington 700 sniper rifle and slid down the tree, only to draw his Colt .45 as the man approached at a run, breathing heavily.

  "Bruce! Oh my God, thank you man. I didn't realize you could shoot that good. You saved my ass."

  The Reaper said nothing and just stared at the man as he slid to a halt, the Colt ready in case he had misjudged the situation.

  "Wait, you're not Bruce!" The runner was now before him, and while Jason kept his .45 low, he could see not only the confusion in the man's eyes, but instant wariness when he recognized a ready weapon that was 'almost' aimed at him. Jason did not know nor care in these first few minutes who this Bruce was. He only cared about finding out what was going on, right here, and right now.

  "No."

  "Well stranger, thank you. I would be dead by now otherwise. Thank you!"

  "You're welcome. What was that all about?"

  "Where do I start?" the beefy tattooed figure before Jason sighed while rubbing his face tiredly.

  "The beginning is usually a good place," replied the Reaper sardonically.

  "That would be a tall order and a long story, friend. Let me first ask. ARE you a friend, and if so, why did you help me?" The stranger was apprehensive, and the Reaper could see that his hand, holding what looked like an AR-15 yet bulkier, was twitching as if he wasn't sure if the danger was over yet. Jason smiled mirthlessly and holstered his Colt as he replied.

  "I am the Reaper. My mission was given to me by the Lord after the devil’s spawn took my family. I mean you and yours no harm if you have good intentions. Those with bad intentions will feel the Lord’s wrath through myself, his servant." The Reaper did not hesitate to state his mission. He had no fear, for he firmly believed that when his mission was done, the Lord would reunite him with his family. The man was nodding as he listened, and suddenly thrust out a hand.

  "My name is Andy Kiwacz."

  "Reaper, or Jason, as you will," the Reaper replied as he shook the man's hand. Slowly Andy released his hand, then turned and gazed out over the field littered with bodies while shaking his head. The reply came slowly.

  "I think I'll call you, Reaper. You're certainly effective."

  The Reaper said nothing for a moment, then finally spoke as both men looked at each other. "Who is Bruce?"

  "One of my group that I'd told to stay behind and help guard the women and children. When you started firing, I assumed he'd followed me instead. I really didn't know who else it could be. But, come Reaper. Let's get back to my family and crew. We can talk there, as we’re not safe here. They'll be back shortly in much larger numbers." Making sure Jason was following him, Andy headed through the woods parallel to the road and into town. As they passed each group of stripped bodies, both young and old, the Reaper took a few seconds to close the eyes and rearrange the bodies of those that needed it to provide a semblance of family. Their mortal forms should rest with dignity, he thought as he straightened their stiff forms. The Reaper knew he was taking an additional risk of being spotted with these small delays, but did what needed to be done for the newly departed. At first Andy observed his actions, then started helping the Reaper. In the end, Jason counted over forty dead, before they finally headed down a side
street within the city. A church loomed ahead, this one heavy in concrete and brick, its door opening as they approached.

  Just inside, a woman was waiting for them, a .380 handgun held tightly in her hands. The Reaper instantly saw an intense yet strong, caring face, filled with concern for this man before him, and he took an instant liking to her. He watched as she hugged Andy tightly, then fingered the rip in his jacket while gazing up into his eyes. Then her gaze turned to watch the Reaper without speaking, piercing green eyes never leaving his face. Others were coming up behind her, and Jason saw seven small children, along with two more adult males, and five females. Andy was the first to speak.

  "Reaper, I'd like you to meet my family and friends."

  Introductions were quickly made as they bolted the door and headed into the interior. One of the men stayed behind to watch through a portion of a stained window, and the Reaper nodded in approval at the lookout as he followed them.

  *****

  Chapter 3

  "What the fuck just happened!" Ringo screamed. Five minutes ago he had been raping the shit out of a sweet fourteen-year-old redhead, whose screams of agony and terror were a real turn-on, and now he was standing in a frozen field just south of the cemetery gazing down in fury at the sprawled-out bodies lying there. An even dozen of his men were dead, with nothing to show for it. He could care less if they all died; what he did care about were bitches, farmhands, and supplies, and increasing his power. He waved his .44 Smith & Wesson Magnum around like a madman, brandishing it in the face of some of those present who were rapidly backing away from him, and punching it into the chests of others who were not quick enough to move out of the way of his furious rampage. "What the fuck do I pay you for?"

  "Well, technically you don't pay us anything," quipped one young, greasy-haired man who had just taken a healthy swallow from the bottle of peppermint schnapps he held tightly gripped in his hand. Ringo rounded on him in fury and fired his .44 without hesitation, the jacketed round ripping through the bony chest, eventually coming to rest somewhere a great distance away. As his lifeless body fell to the ground, Ringo rounded on the others again.

  "Nobody fucks with me, period! I'm the top guy, and I'll kill anyone who mouths off, so does anyone else wanna be a smart ass? Please talk shit, because that's thirteen dead now and thirteen's an unlucky number. I need to kill one more!"

  No one took him up on his offer as all fell backward, hands raised, partially-filled bottles of alcohol falling to the ground as they stumbled away in their haste.

  "No, man, no. We don't know who did it. One of our guys spotted some pervert spying on us from the barn and we went to take them out. Shots came out of nowhere, man. We were dropping like flies. Left and right, even. We had to take cover or we'd be dead too. Jesus dude, calm down, it's not our fault. Look at the bodies, man!" The new speaker was slightly older, yet still the epitome of a dirtbag by most standards. Disheveled and filthy, a .45 automatic stuck in his waist, he was beefier than the last man to hit the dirt, but not by much. His name was Duane, and he was one of Ringo's lieutenants.

  Duane was a drug dealer from Ringo's home town and in fact had been employed by Ringo for several years. When the shit hit the fan, Ringo had brought Duane along out of the city. Regardless of his appearance, Duane was smart and cunning, an person of interest to the local authorities but one who had never been caught.

  Ringo looked at the speaker and forced himself to calm down. He needed to control these men and be smart about it. A certain amount of fear kept the men in line, too much and he might lose some of them. Ringo had been doing alright so far, slowly expanding and consolidating his power base.

  Many of his current followers were members of his old crew from Columbia, Missouri, but even more were new arrivals. Some had just walked up to the gate, or one of his scouting parties, recognizing kindred spirits when they saw them. Others were from a few of the groups they had come in contact with, who had no desire to be farmhands the rest of their lives. Still others were culled from the captives they had taken; the test for entrance was simple. Hand them a gun with one round and have them shoot one of their group, or, point to a female captive and order them to rape her. It was a brutal method of testing, but surprisingly effective in how many were willing to kill and rape their fellow man, or woman, in order to gain acceptance. And while Ringo knew that most were lazy fuckers, even drug addicts or the mentally insane, he welcomed them all. Those he couldn't trust he would use as cannon fodder, for he was making a new world, one in which he planned to be King of Missouri, or as much of the state as he could hold.

  A mid-city drug dealer and loan shark from Columbia, Missouri, Ringo had risen high in the underworld, at least high in his estimation. He had quickly become known for his ruthlessness with those who owed him money. Those who owed him for drugs and had no ability to pay, he made permanent examples. The marks he loaned money to, who were late on their payments, would be dealt with more gently at first. It was true that it took willpower not to break their legs, but damaged marks didn't pay the bills. You had to be careful, and clever about it. The right amount of force and threat and your payments kept coming. Too much force and they were incapable of making payment. Payments equaled money, and money was power. A strong hand also equaled power, and Ringo was equally versed in both forms. However, this new world was all about power, as money no longer had meaning, so he went with what worked, and he was good at it.

  Within days of the dead rising, he and his boys had taken to the countryside, heading north. They'd barely escaped Columbia, but that was cool, and Ringo knew what he was doing. This had apocalyptic end times written all over it, and in those brief times he had been imprisoned he had read his fair share of books. He needed a central location away from the major cities for what he had in mind, which is why he'd settled in Paris.

  It did not take a genius to realize that after the crisis, many things would be needed. The need for physical labor was paramount, and that was a commodity he aimed to supply. There were many survivor groups out there, some much larger than others. Carefully he had cultivated contacts with these groups. Some he contacted himself, others his scouting parties had found. It was dangerous work without a doubt, but he had made deals and arrangements that would see his little empire expand. He wanted to be the Man. The man everyone came to when something was needed. It was simply supply and demand.

  He had carefully marked their locations on a special map he kept hidden. With that map was a notebook with each groups’ needs! Girls, farmhands, construction workers. The list was almost endless, and they paid in a variety of commodities including gold. Gold had value, after all, and when everything returned to normal, he would have a lot of gold. However, other commodities were equally important: percentages of crops; refurbished windmill generators for when gasoline was no longer available; hoarded medical supplies and doctors he would have access to; the list was endless.

  But not all new survivor communities were compliant. In fact, many had turned him or his men away at gunpoint. Some that did were too small to oppose his forces, and those he sent his boys after, cannon fodder first. They would beat them into submission, and then take the younger women and older children for labor or sexual slaves before killing the rest. Now, within a month of the crisis, he had accumulated an extensive list of communities that needed his services, and more that were interested, but had not committed yet. Everything was carefully written down in his notebook. After all, he needed to keep track of who needed what.

  Duane had been closely examining the bodies, and now he turned back to Ringo. "Most of them were killed by headshots. That's good shooting, professional."

  "Had to be those damn soldiers," Ringo said. Well over a week ago, one of his men had spotted a large convoy of survivors entering the city. With them had been a small group of soldiers with some really huge armored vehicles. They had occupied a group of industrial warehouses just south of town and after giving them a day, Ringo had gone visiting. That meet
ing had both gone well and not, for there were too many soldiers for his men to take on without a great many of them dying. The large guns mounted on those armored vehicles were crewed by men who looked ready to use them so Ringo had backed off, but not before arranging a truce. Leave each other alone and there would be no problems. Now it looked like the truce was broken, which infuriated Ringo.

  "But they agreed to leave us alone!"

  "I don't know what the fuck's going on, but let's talk to them. Gather up all the men." And with that, Ringo turned away to his waiting four-wheel drive truck, climbing in. It took only moments to call the rest of his men on the CBs, and within minutes he had over thirty vehicles lined up, all bristling with armed men as he instructed Duane to head to the military group’s position.

  Paris was not a large city, and less than five minutes later they were pulling into the parking lot of the industrial complex. One of the men in Ringo's truck bed was holding their white parley flag high overhead as they came to a stop two hundred yards away. Then, once his men had lined their vehicles up, Ringo directed Duane to drive forward, slowly, until they reached a point halfway to the foremost warehouse.

  Immediately two of the massive garage doors were raised, and Ringo found himself looking at the military vehicles with mounted guns, and armed soldiers standing to either side of them. One of those vehicles drove forward until it stopped twenty yards away, and a man exited from one of the rear doors. Ringo almost wished he had a grenade with him, as the door opened backward, what they called a suicide door, and tossing a grenade in would have been easy, but he'd used most they had acquired to create traps in the event they were attacked, and the others were back in his rooms at the cemetery.

  "What do you want!" The speaker was the Army man who called himself Platoon Sergeant Rodriguez. Ringo scowled at him.