Dead World: Hero

by D. N. Harding

  Jack wiped his hand over his face and sighed. “I happen to know of at least two groups out there who if you were to meet them you would find yourself in quite a pickle. They are takers and abusers, Carol. They will hurt you for the fun of hurting you. Those are not the kind of people you want your children around, do you?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Carol added, reluctantly.

  “Something’s going on outside!” Sheri said as she ran into the faux campsite.

  “What is it?” Jack asked as he stood and looked toward the front of the store where Denise was waving at him. Through the glass front of the store, Jack could see figures moving across the parking lot from left to the right in front of the building. Everywhere, as far as he could see, the dead were on the move. That could only mean one thing. “We’re going to have company.”

  * * *

  Tobacco smoke floated on a level plane in the cockpit of the Blackhawk helicopter like early morning fog. Colonel Berkley sat chewing on his Tampa cigar. The raid on the depot wasn’t a raid at all. He had anticipated a fight for the supplies that were being hoarded at the facility. Fortunately, they had been taken by the plague. They had died from the inside out. The thought made him smile.

  Berkley turned his eyes to the highway below him. His bounty was stashed in two deuce and a half trucks. The heavy-duty military vehicles looked like olive green caterpillars below him. They were filled with enough weapons, ammo, fuel and supplies to get his troupe through most of the winter, assuming of course the camp hadn’t been overrun by the increasing number of dead flowing out of the city.

  The smoke spiraled and then dissipated when the side door opened behind him. The chopper was passing beside a large mall where hundreds if not thousands of the city’s former inhabitants had deigned to congregate. It was like flying over a refugee camp. The deafening sound of the M-60 machine gun was muffled by the headset covering his ears. He watched as Zeek mowed down dozens of the moving dead. Their carcasses were cut to pieces as thoroughly as if they’d been placed in a meat grinder. The Russian released the trigger, shouted something in his native tongue, and then poured more hot lead into the crowd below.

  Soon the City Mall was behind them and they flew over another long building on the top of the next hill. The colorful marquee that stood nearly as high as they were flying boasted any number of different shops. However, the words “military surplus” caught Berkley’s attention.

  “Just our luck,” Berkley said to Samuels whose large meaty hands were on the flight controls. “We raid the city and leave nothing behind. Land the chopper right there.” He pointed to a clear space in the parking lot about fifty yards from the store.

  “Eagle to Caterpillar One. Come in Caterpillar One,” Berkley said after keying his headset.

  “Go, Eagle.” The nasally accent was Torres.

  “Head on to the camp, we’ll catch up as soon as we make a quick stop.”

  “Copy.”

  The chopper touched down on the pavement softly. “Let’s make this quick — in and out. Take everything you can carry. We’re only making one trip.”

  The lanky Russian was the first to climb from the chopper followed by Primrose and Simpson. Samuels had just opened the cockpit door when Zeek spoke up.

  “Colonel,” He was pointing.

  Standing in the glass doorway of the store was a large man with graying hair. He was shouting at a woman who was running full speed for the helicopter. She was smiling and waving. The Colonel shook his head. He’d seen that look so many times that it was getting boring. Everyone wants to be rescued. But nobody wants to do their part to survive. This would be no different.

  He could see her panting as she yelled, “Thank God you’re here!” Simpson stepped forward and she nearly collapsed in his arms. She was the perfect damsel in distress.

  “Samuels, get up there and find out what the deal is. How many are there?”

  “Roger,” the big lieutenant said and started to jog toward the storefront.

  The man was holding an Ak-47 when he stepped out to meet with the lieutenant. He was broader and a head taller. The two men parlayed for several minutes. Shadows of others could be seen behind the glass in the interior of the store. Some looked small like children.

  “Please take us with you,” the woman yelled over the whopping sound of the chopper blades.

  “How much people you has vish you?” Zeek asked in choppy English.

  “Counting myself, we have three adults and three children.” Carol leaned forward and added, “I think that the other woman with us is a Nazi, though. She’s not very patriotic. She’s wearing camouflage to hide the truth of her affinity.”

  After a couple of minutes, Dave Primrose sighed and looked to the Colonel. He received a nod and Primrose smiled. “Ma’am, if you will step over here for a moment.” He even sounded official.

  When she stepped around Simpson, Dave Primrose raised the butt of his gun and split her forehead open with it, knocking her unconscious. She crumpled to the pavement.

  * * *

  The companions watched the helicopter hover and then land in the parking lot. Jack and Denise shared a look. This could be good or bad and Jack didn’t intend on giving them the benefit of the doubt. “Looks like we’ve got company. Here’s the plan—.”

  Carol ran out the front door like hostage seeking freedom. She wasn’t waiting for anyone to talk this situation to death. The marines had landed on the shores of the hell and all she could think about was being rescued. She heard Jack screaming at her from behind, but she had known any number of G.I.’s and she knew what they liked. In fact, she had it figured that she would have them eating out of her hand in a few minutes. Then she’d see that Jack and his new girlfriend would get what was coming to them.

  “Carol!” Jack cried. “You don’t know who they are or what they are about!” He knew his voice landed on deaf ears. He stood in the doorway watching as she sprinted across the pavement. He scanned the parking lot in both directions. The chopper was attracting the dead from everywhere. The closest group was small and lumbered their direction, but it would be a few minutes before they would be a danger so he turned his gaze back to the helicopter.

  Three soldiers stepped out of the side door past an ugly looking machine gun. He figured it to be an M-60 from the movies he’d seen. Carol threw herself on a young soldier who couldn’t have been much past the drinking age. Jack watched as a large black man with a thick neck and broad muscled shoulders step from the front of the vehicle. He said something to the co-pilot and began to jog in Jack’s direction.

  “Be careful,” Denise said and handed Jack her rifle. She turned and trotted down one of the aisles.

  “Sure,” Jack said and stepped out the door to meet the man. He was probably in his late twenties and had the hard look of a man who was used to killing. For encouragement, Jack shouldered the Ak-47 while keeping the muzzle pointed at the pavement.

  “You guys alright?” the soldier asked when he was still a dozen feet off.

  “Sure,” Jack replied. “Where’d you guys come from?” He realized that the helicopter looked familiar. It could have been the same one he and Randi had spotted earlier that week.

  “Uptown. We’re coming from an Army depot that was overrun by the dead. We’re lookin’ for supplies. You guys mind if we look around? I’m sure there’s enough for everyone.”

  Jack looked from the soldier in front of him to the helicopter where Carol stood talking to the other three soldiers. He could feel the eyes of every one behind him in the store. “If you don’t mind me asking, what group are you with? I mean, do you have a name or something that you call yourselves?”

  “Sure, we’re with a company called The Band under Colonel Berkley.”

  The hair stood on the back of Jack’s neck. Beyond the soldier, Jack watched Carol as she was speared in the head by the butt of a rifle. The young soldier who struck her offered his companions a toothy smile as she dropped limp onto the pavement.
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  The big marine shook his head and shrugged. “Kinda’ wish you hadn’t seen that,” he said and stepped menacingly toward Jack. The violence in the man’s eyes said this was no game.

  Jack tried to raise the rifle as quickly as he could only to find it pushed aside by the man’s meaty hand. The move had been anticipated. The soldier was inside Jack’s personal space before Jack had a chance to respond and all he could think as he found himself choking from a knuckled-blow to the throat was, CRAP! In seconds, Jack was lying on the pavement face down scratching at a throat that wanted to swell closed. He’d been struck three times — once in the neck and twice in the stomach before he was disarmed and pushed over.

  Staring past the stars painting his vision, he could see Carol’s unconscious body being unceremoniously dumped into the chopper. The young soldier who had knocked her out, climbed in behind and was cutting her blouse open with a wicked-looking knife. The pleasure on the young man’s face stirred something deep inside Jack.

  He looked up at the marine just as the burly man was pulling the lever on Jack’s AK-47 to make sure a round was chambered. The barrel of the weapon descended toward him. The look in this man’s eye was one of complete indifference. Jack’s realized that his death would mean nothing to this man. He wouldn’t even remember Jack tomorrow.

  Jack let out a strangled laugh and tried not to grimace at the pain it caused his throat. Let’s see if I can make my death a little more memorable, he thought and then he croaked to the soldier, “I think I can take you.”

  “What?”

  “I think I can take you.” Clearing his throat, he continued. “Sure you can knock me down when you surprise me, but you’d never have gotten off so easily had I known you’d try something like that.” With that said, Jack let his eyes strafe up and down the man’s body and then added, “Yup, there’s no doubt . . . I can take you.”

  The man was too much of a professional to be baited into doing something foolish. Yet, there was something brewing in the soldier’s eyes that caused him to pause. It wasn’t pride as Jack had hoped. Was it curiosity? The soldier cut his eyes at the chopper, thinking.

  Jack tried not to hold his breath as he sat up and purposely pulled his hand from his bruised throat. It was almost as if he could hear the dice rolling in the man’s head. How it played out would determine if Jack had a chance to survive the next few moments.

  The rifle flew through twenty feet of air before it clattered across the pavement. The decision was made. The soldier did not smile. He was all business. From sheaths at his hip, he withdrew two Ka-Bars and tossed one between Jack’s legs. “Let’s be quick about this,” the soldier said stepping back to allow Jack to get up.

  Jack looked at the knife lying on the pavement between his legs. It was as heavy as it looked. Holding it loosely in his grasp, he stood slowly with a groan. He brushed off his pant legs before placing his hands on his lower back and stretching. He watched the soldier lower his center of gravity and widen his stance. The blade in this soldier’s hand seemed a natural extension of the warrior. The man was like an animal, a predator. When Jack’s hand came back around the front, he was holding Steven’s Walther PPK he had stuffed down the back of his britches the night before.

  “Change of plans,” Jack said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  S omething just didn’t feel right, Denise thought to herself as she made for the rear of the store. With a helicopter landing in the parking lot, she should have reasoned that the cavalry had arrived to rescue them. Yet one look at Jack made her think twice about her assumption. She couldn’t place her finger on the problem, but she didn’t need to know the problem. She might have the answer, however.

  The time she had spent in the store prior to her release from her captors afforded her a more intimate knowledge of the building. There were two things that she needed right now. One was the rifle she had seen stored in the warehouse in the back and the other was the access hatch to the roof. If she could position herself on the high ground, it might just give Jack the edge he’d need to make a difference.

  Her feet crunched on the glass scattered about the warehouse floor in front of the swinging double doors that led into the darkness. The beam of her flashlight cut the darkness like a lightsaber waving back and forth until it landed on a long wooden box stamped with serial numbers. It took her several minutes to pry the lid off the crate. Inside she found what she was looking for. It was encased in hard foam. Only the butt of the weapon protruded from beneath, hinting at the make and model.

  The Barrett M108 sniper rifle was long and she knew from experience that it would be heavier than most rifles. It was a .50 caliber death machine. She ranked a meager marksman on the weapon when she was in the army and knew the damage it was capable of doing to the engine block of most vehicles, not to say what it would do to human flesh.

  Lifting the weapon so that it rested vertically on its butt, she ran her hand down its length. She could smell the gun oil used to preserve it during shipping. She pulled the action back and checked the receiver and the barrel to make sure they were clear of obstructions. In the crate were three five round magazines and packages of wax earplugs. Sitting on the floor near her feet were several olive green ammunition cans that held the .50 caliber shells.

  In a few minutes, she was moving back through the swinging doors and heading up the steps to the manager’s office where she had spent three grueling days and nights with Billy and his cousin, Daryl. The office was a mess. This was Carol’s room now and it was filled with items and supplies that communicated much about what the woman considered important. Denise couldn’t help but smile as she approached the desk. Carol was not living in reality. Where she managed to find cases of makeup, perfume, and a host of other toiletries in a military surplus store was beyond comprehension.

  Denise looked up. Above the desk, mounted in the ceiling, was a small door-like hatch and in small red letters she read the word, Exit. She stood on the desk and tippy-toed to grasp the handle. The door pulled open and a narrow set of steps folded down. She was able to throw the heavy weapon over her shoulder and climb through to the tar-covered roof.

  The bright sunlight caught her off guard and so she paused with one foot on the steps to allow her eyes to adjust to the brightness of the day. It was easy to forget that without electricity, the gloomy interior of the building would sharply contrast the daylight outside. She made a mental note to scrounge up a pair of sunglasses.

  The low rumble of the helicopter’s motor blending with the sound of its blades cutting the air gave her a sense of where she needed to go. The roof was a large expanse of nothing except the occasional vent pipe or the HVAC units that stood out like square, ancient, metal robots every hundred feet or so. By the time she reached the side of the building, she was panting and sweating under the strain of carrying the thirty-pound weapon in her arms.

  She was dropping the bi-pod and situating the weapon on the roof edge when she watched the soldier slam the butt of his weapon into Carol’s forehead.

  Carol went down . . . hard.

  The soldier was so proud of himself. The smile on his face said so. It was a similar look that Denise herself had been forced to endure on the faces of her abusers as she was repeatedly raped and tortured for three days straight. The men were animals, and so was this one.

  The action snapping in place echoed in her ears like music as she turned the weapon toward the helicopter. The wax plugs fit snugly into her ears and deadened the noise of the chopper. She could hear very little over the sound of her own breathing. Through the scope, she gauged the distance to be about fifty yards and aimed about a half a click lower in the sight. The soldiers were dumping Carol’s unconscious form into the rear of the chopper. The smiling soldier followed in behind. He drew his knife and began to cut the buttons from her blouse, the whole while joking with the other soldier.

  Slowly, Denise calmed her breathing. In her mind, she counted slowly to three, and then deliberatel
y exhaled through her nostrils. Without rushing, her index finger applied gentle pressure to the trigger. She would not know when the weapon was going to discharge. What she did know was that if she continued to apply pressure, the weapon would soon spit out a projectile whose concussive force alone would wreak casualties.

  Three shots echoed from somewhere below her and her first thought was that she hoped Jack was okay. Her second thought made her smile. The soldiers in and around the chopper were scrambling. To her line of thinking, Jack must have gotten the upper hand. Then, below her cheek, she heard the firing pin release. The weapon lurched in her hands as it spit fifteen hundred grams of metal across the parking lot so fast that the soldier straddling Carol would never learn what had ended him. Even with the plugs in, the weapon was loud!

  * * *

  Zeek watched Primrose knock the woman out with the butt of his gun. He could tell by the way she spoke and how she moved that she was one of those haughty women who thought they were better than men were. In that moment, as she crumpled under the blow, he wanted to show her that she was nothing to him. It was a lesson he’d taught many women when he’d been free to prowl the city streets of Moscow. Few ever survived him. He itched to hurt this one.

  “Come on, Zeek,” Dave Primrose said. “Help me get her into the chopper. We might as well have a little fun while we wait for the go ahead from Bulldog.”

  “Yah,” Zeek grunted as he bent over to grasp the woman under her arm pits. “You ‘av your’l fun. You make her have mooch pain, no?”

  The look in the Russian’s eyes was fevered and Primrose smiled even more. He grabbed her legs and together the men tossed her in the chopper. “I like the sound of that,” he said huffing from the exertion. “I will make her have much pain, Zeek. Much pain.”

  “Goot,” the Russian said as he stepped back to let Primrose climb past the M-60. He watched the boy draw his knife and begin cutting the buttons off the woman’s shirt. They popped and bounced somewhere into the interior of the vehicle.