Red Asphalt: Raptor Apocalypse Book 2

by Steve R. Yeager

  “They can't have Eve or Kate,” he said, directing the statement of defiance at Cory. “You hear me? Promise me that. Can't have. Okay?”

  Cory said nothing.

  A scream came from inside the house, Eve's scream.

  Jesse sucked down a lump of fear and sprinted through the door leading into the house. He heard footsteps ahead, then a screech. The sound sent shivers racing along his spine. He pumped his legs and bounced off the walls of the unfamiliar house, knocking random things over, driving himself hard to get to where he had heard Eve.

  She screamed again.

  He brought the shotgun up and sought a target, any target while keeping his finger near the trigger.

  Raptors.

  He could smell them, but he couldn't see them.

  Where were they?

  He spotted movement ahead and ran into the living room. Eve and Kate were preparing to crawl out through a missing window that overlooked the front yard. On the floor behind them, jammed against a dust-covered coffee table, were two young raptors. One had been stabbed and was now limping along, leaving behind a bleeding trail. The other moved liked it had been dazed. Its jaws were opening and snapping shut as it pulled itself across the floor.

  He raised his shotgun, but Eve and Kate were still in the line of fire. An errant shot could hit them. He kicked a broken metal toaster lying on the floor at the raptors to distract them. It had little effect. They kept moving as Kate and Eve scrambled out the window.

  Cory entered the room with his hand on the hilt of his sword. He drew it and quickly dispatched the first raptor. He turned to the other. Moving in a shallow arc, he brought his sword up and snapped it down diagonally. The remaining raptor was sliced almost in two. He whipped the sword back up into an attack position, spilling blood and gore across the dust-covered furniture.

  Jesse waved with the shotgun at the window. He stopped to retrieve the spear Eve had stuck in one of the two raptors. Cory ran past and took a running leap through the window. Jesse groaned and followed him through the missing window. Outside the house, he tumbled into the overgrown front yard, got back on his feet, and stumbled forward for two steps. The pain in his shoulder flared.

  He clenched his teeth, raised his head, and came to a sudden stop.

  Three men stood in the front yard. One man held a hunting rifle that was aimed at Eve's head. She had her hands up in surrender.

  Kate was hunched and turned sideways. She had her bat raised. The man with the gun shifted targets and motioned with the barrel for her to set the bat down then kept the barrel pointed at her head.

  Jesse considered lowering the shotgun and blasting away. He might be able to drop the guy with the rifle quickly, but he also knew his own shot would have to be extremely lucky. Even if he shot the guy, it would not guarantee the guy wouldn't still be able to pull the trigger.

  Only a perfect headshot would prevent that.

  Sever the brainstem.

  It was very low percentage shot.

  Next to impossible to pull off with a shotgun from over ten feet away.

  “Drop it,” the man said.

  Kate ignored him.

  “Drop it,” the man repeated.

  Kate continued to ignore him. She stepped forward, raising the bat farther.

  “Stop,” Jesse said in a commanding tone. “No need for this. Don't shoot.” He let the shotgun drop in front of him and raised his hands. Since the guy had not shot anyone yet, Jesse figured he could come to some arrangement with them. They could have all the stuff he'd stolen from Rose. That was fine. Walk away and start over. No need for anyone to get hurt.

  Cory didn't lower his weapon.

  “No!” Jesse said in a shouted whisper at Cory. Then he raised his voice and said, “Don't. Put it down. No need for anyone here to get hurt.”

  The man with the rifle held his fire but redirected it at Cory. The guy was trembling slightly. Jesse saw the barrel wobbling erratically. He was sure he could talk his way out or just let them have everything and escape. He began to think of what he could possibly say to get them to leave peacefully.

  Without warning, Cory surged forward. He closed the distance with the man holding the rifle in two leaping steps.

  Jesse's arms seemed to move ever so slowly in Cory's direction. He wanted to scream “No!” at him, but his lips would not work. He saw it all play out right before it happened. He knew just what would happen next. His lips parted and words began to form. He wanted to yell, wanted to scream.

  Cory struck with a downward stroke aimed at the man's arms. Jesse wanted to reach out to stop it. He wanted to stop the inevitable. He wanted to prevent a man's death. He saw it all so clearly.

  A shot went off.

  A rifle shot.

  Cory twisted. His head spun sideways. Then he fell, collapsing like a rag doll and pitching forward into the weeds. The sword tip continued to travel toward the man, but missed him by inches.

  Jesse's mind screamed, Do something!

  Then it demanded immediate action. Stepping sideways, he drew his Beretta from its holster and thumbed the safety in one smooth motion.

  The man worked the bolt on his rifle while trying to switch his aim.

  The Beretta in Jesse's hand snapped on target. It was as instinctive and quick as pointing a finger at someone. He squeezed the trigger. The first round clipped the man in the neck. It shocked him enough that he stopped reloading.

  Jesse fired again.

  The next bullet hit the man in the cheek, causing his head to jerk backward. Connective tissues in the guy's neck took over, and his head began flopping like a bobble-head doll as he collapsed in a heap.

  The sudden violence locked the other two men in place.

  Jesse took an extra second to line up his next two shots. He aimed for center mass this time.

  Neither shot missed.

  The gunshots did not kill the men outright. Both collapsed and ended up sitting in the weed-filled yard with their hands on their chests, making peace with whatever god they worshipped.

  Jesse glanced at the gun in his hand. He relaxed his grip. It had been so easy. Way too easy. He felt nothing. Nothing at all. No sorrow, no remorse. Just, nothing.

  But they weren't safe yet. And Cory. He was dead.

  Shit.

  Jesse holstered the Beretta and picked up the rifle and shotgun.

  “Come on,” he said. “We gotta go.”

  Eve ran to where Cory had fallen. She bent over his crumpled body. Jesse spotted more men down the street. They yelled something and started running.

  “We have to go. Now.”

  “What about Cory?” Eve asked.

  Jesse raised his voice. “No! Leave him! He's dead!”

  Eve nodded, visibly in shock over Cory's death. Kate ran around behind them both. Jesse pulled on her arm and gave her a push so she would be out in front and he could watch where she went. He grabbed Eve's shirt and yanked her to her feet.

  “Go!”

  Eve started running after Kate. Jesse glanced one final time at Cory.

  Sorry, just sorry. You should have listened.

  Turning, he ran after the women.

  The killing of the three men had all been so easy. He'd shot them in less than three-seconds. One man a second. So, damn quick. He'd never experienced anything like it. Every nerve in his body tingled. He shook his head to clear it and led Eve and Kate through a side yard and along a warped redwood board fence. He kept pushing them forward, prodding them to move faster. The backyard was narrow, and the weeds had grown so high they pulled at him as he plowed through the tangles. When he came to a fence at the rear of the yard, he pushed his way past Eve and Kate and stopped to kick a few of the fence boards down.

  He indicated to the opening. “Run. Keep going. Get safe. I'll lead them away. Here.” He handed Eve the shotgun.

  She glanced at the battered gun and then back at him. “Come with us. He's dead,” she pleaded. “Please. Just come.”

  “N
o,” he said. He wasn't about to run.

  “Please,” she repeated.

  Kate moved off through the weeds in the other yard. They almost obscured her and she quickly disappeared.

  Jesse shook his head then touched his finger to the barrel of the shotgun. “Point that end at what you want to die and pull the trigger. Pump. Repeat,” he said.

  Eve nodded knowingly.

  “Please, just leave them. Run. Come with us.”

  “No,” he said and shoved her away.

  With her eyes wide from near panic, she wheeled around and disappeared through the opening into the thick weeds of the neighboring yard.

  He backtracked to the rear of the house and waited in ambush for the men he knew would come.

  A few seconds later, a man in a sleeveless gray sweatshirt ran out of the side yard, going for the hole in the fence. Jesse sighted in on him with the rifle but held his shot. Another man joined the first. As the guy in the sweatshirt began to climb through the hole in the fence, Jesse fired, shooting the sleeveless guy between the shoulder blades. His arms flapped back like wings and he collapsed against the fence.

  Jesse spun while working the bolt. Round chambered, he sighted and pulled the trigger again. The other man's head exploded from the high-powered hunting round and tossed blood and brains and bits of skull into the neighboring yard.

  Two down, Jesse thought. More coming.

  He moved to the corner of the house and peeked out around the edge. A cracking shot skipped off the stucco siding, narrowly missing his chin. Backtracking again, he ran to the opposite side of the house, crouched there, and waited.

  Two more men came, cautiously this time. One had a rifle. The other had a baseball bat. The one with the rifle stayed hunched over while he moved. He went for the hole in the back fence, ducking low to use a brick planter for cover. Jesse took him down first with a shot that ripped through his arm, torso, and then came out the other side.

  As the first guy fell, the other guy straightened and brought his hands above his head, holding the bat with both hands.

  “Don't! Don't shoot!” he pleaded.

  Jesse aimed and pulled the trigger again. A red dot appeared on the man's forehead, and the back of his head burst open. A patch of red blossomed on the fence boards behind him. The man released the metal bat in his hands. And, like a puppet with its strings cut, he crumpled and fell. The bat clinked against the red brick planter, pinged, and came to a rolling stop on the concrete walkway.

  He looked at the dead man slumped against the fence. He wanted to scream at him. He wanted to cheer. Everything felt more vivid, more alive. He was even on the verge of laughter. He felt himself grinning broadly as he waited for the next group to arrive. Everything he saw had crisp, high-contrast edges. It was all so goddamned clear. He glanced at the house, thinking he should move to a new position, but his gut was telling him to stay where he was.

  Time ticked by. How long he did not know. Minutes could have been hours or seconds. In that time, no one came for him.

  His breathing slowed and he began to think more clearly, more rationally. Slowly, reality slipped through and he began to understand what he had done. Pull the trigger. People died. Not raptors, people. A new horror grew inside him. The one thing he had spent his entire life avoiding, he had just done.

  And he had enjoyed it.

  Bile rose in his throat. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to double over. He wanted somehow to punish himself. He looked up at the sky. Clear. Blue. Crisp. He wanted to scream. He wanted to know why. He wanted to understand.

  His mouth drooped open.

  He wanted to give up.

  “Got them!” He heard someone yell from far away, snapping him out of his inaction. Dazed, he pushed away from the house and accelerated toward the voices. It was coming from one of the other yards, probably the house directly behind him. He sprinted across the weed-filled backyard and ducked through the hole in the fence.

  Something tore.

  Pain ripped along his back. He crashed to the ground, feeling as though he had backed into a spinning saw blade. He stumbled forward and pushed himself up on one knee. He looked at the fence behind him. No one was following. No one had shot him, so it wasn't that.

  After a brief few seconds to catch his breath and let the white-hot pain subside, he lifted himself all the way to his feet and followed the trail the women had made through the chest high weeds. He eventually emerged onto another street. Most of the homes there were just blackened, burned out shells. He swiveled his head left then right and spotted the Suburban about a hundred feet away. Its doors hung open, and Eve and Kate were being hastily shoved inside.

  Jesse half stumbled, half sprinted toward the Suburban with the rifle raised and ready to shoot the first target that presented itself, but he needed to get closer so he would not hit Eve or Kate.

  The doors slammed closed. The Suburban sped off and rounded the corner at the end of the street. He considered shooting at it, or at the wheels, but held his fire, not wanting to hit Eve or Kate.

  He let the gun drop to his side.

  Stunned, he stood in the street and watched the SUV drive away. He could hardly believe what had just happened.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  He fell to his knees.

  Then a new thought hit him, blossoming in his mind. He knew what he could do.

  Nursing his injured shoulder, he rushed back through the yards all the way to the burning house. The vehicles that had been there earlier were now all gone, but the Dodge truck stolen from Rose remained parked alongside the curb.

  He ripped the keys from his pocket, hopped in the cab, and jammed the keys into the ignition while steadying himself with the steering wheel.

  He turned the key. The starter motor whirled.

  “Come on,” he said, pumping the accelerator. “Start!”

  He backed off and turned the key again. The starter motor spun, this time slower and with more effort.

  He tried again.

  The starter made a low-pitched growling noise, barely turning the engine. He released the key.

  “Come on. Come on.”

  When he twisted the key once more, he heard the click of the solenoid as it engaged the gear of the starter motor to the gear on the flywheel, but that was it. The amperage provided by the battery was just too low.

  He released the key and dropped his head against the steering wheel.

  -18-

  MAKING YOUR WAY IN THE WORLD

  JESSE STEPPED OUT of the cab and slammed the truck's door closed behind him. He kicked the first thing he came across in the yard, an empty plastic storage container. It shattered into cloudy fragments that went spiraling off in a flurry of dancing triangles.

  The translucent plastic container had once been filled with supplies taken from the sizable cache Rose had built up over the years. Now, it was empty. Something shiny in the yard caught his eye, an aluminum pot. He raced the three steps to it and kicked it hard enough to send the pot bouncing and bonging across the street.

  He skidded to a stop and turned toward the house that Cory had set ablaze, and for a few moments, watched the black smoke curl into the sky, drift up, and then hit an atmospheric layer that caused it to spread out. Glancing in the direction of the city, he thought of what awaited him there. He looked south and considered the dangers of going after Eve and Kate. He knew who had taken them. He was fairly certain he knew what would happen to them, too. He clenched his hands, unclenched them, then anger overtook him again, and he stomped around the yard kicking everything in his way.

  When the act of kicking and stomping no longer satisfied him, he augmented it by yelling and screaming until his throat was raw.

  Finally, he fell to his knees. Drool gathered at the corners of his mouth. Snot ran from his nose. He dabbed it all away with the back of his hand and spat in the dirt. Beside him was the rifle he had dropped. He picked it up, pulled the bolt halfway open, and checked. There was a round chambered. He
figured he could find them, or he could turn tail and run. Go back to his city and live there until the raptors inevitably killed him. Live with the shame. He'd been through it all before. He could do it all again.

  But today, that wasn't going to be enough.

  He'd done something he had never done before. He had killed. He had taken lives. He had killed a guy in cold blood. Killed someone who had surrendered. If he went back to the city, there was no way he could live with himself there.

  He'd eat a bullet for sure.

  But he was still alive.

  And he could still move forward.

  The city could wait.

  He rose to his feet, slammed the rifle’s bolt home, and locked it in place.

  Other than the crackling fire, the neighborhood was quiet. Weeds concealed the bodies of the men he'd shot, but not completely. He wondered why the others had left their allies behind.

  Would they come back for them? He suddenly realized the answer. He'd have to work quickly.

  Cory lay face down next to the concrete driveway across the street. His black jacket covered his torso, and his arms and legs were splayed out as if he were making a snow angel in the dirt and weeds. Jesse slung the rifle over his shoulder and jogged across the street. As he drew nearer to Cory, he spotted a dark gash running along the side of the guy's head. Blood was still running freely from the wound and dribbling into the dirt. The blood had already begun to coagulate.

  Cory stirred.

  What the hell?

  Jesse rushed to Cory's side and settled onto one knee beside him. He turned the man's head to get a better view of where the bullet had struck him. A strip of hair had been ripped away, and the skin underneath had reformed into a jagged grove.

  Movement came from Cory's lips. Jesse bent to listen, wondering how in the hell Cory could still be alive. He backed away, shaking his head.

  Blood ran across Cory's forehead, dripping into his eyes and mouth. He was choking softly on every other breath.