Draconian Measures

by Chris Lowry

  “Get the boys,” she said.

  The men on both sides of us jumped on the Boy and Tyler, yanking them away from the circle of the rest of them who closed in tighter around me.

  I wished we were in a kung fu movie.

  It was always funny to me how Jackie Chan or Bruce Lee could take on twenty men at a time, but they all fought one by one.

  A giant circle of warriors would surround the hero but then totally give up their advantage by only taking him on in tiny little individual attacks. The filmmakers tried to make it look more dangerous by letting the hero block one guy, or avoid another even as a second attacked, but it just wasn’t realistic.

  I’m not what you could expect from the movies about being realistic though.

  In real life, a group of six guys surround you, they don’t fight one by one.

  They rush in and tackle you to the ground, kick, stomp, punch, grunt.

  I’m lucky they didn’t bite.

  Two of them held my arms, two held my legs and the other two practiced their tap dance lessons on my rib cage, stomach and thighs.

  When one decided to play field goal kicker with my head, I didn’t want to play anymore and passed out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I woke up alone in the middle of a field.

  That wasn't quite right, I thought. I had to shake my head a couple of times to clear the cobwebs.

  One of my eyes was crusted shut with something.

  Blood.

  I reached up to try and wipe it away, but my hands were tied behind my back.

  The field was an amphitheater of some sort. I glanced left and right, but the kids weren't with me.

  I tried to turn around and rough hands grabbed me, jerked me back forward to face the stage.

  A large woman sat on a throne in the middle. She stared down at me with eyes that drilled into me.

  I felt like a bug under a microscope the way she studied, her lips pressed together in a half snarl.

  She had long red hair, bright eyes and wore hunters overalls like the rest of her men. It was a little warm for the extra layers, but smart. The bibs were thick padding and good armor against a zombie.

  I made a note to scrounge up a pair for us and looked down at myself.

  I could see why she thought I was a bug.

  My clothes were ripped and tattered from the fight in the woods. Smoke and soot covered what I could see of my skin peeking through the tears. I’m sure it covered my face and what was left of my hair too.

  Scorched, beaten and bloody.

  That had to be what she saw.

  "You got a name?" she asked.

  "The one my mother gave me," I shot back.

  She grinned and snickered.

  "I'm Mags," she said. "You think you're a tough guy, don't you? I've known a lot of tough guys in my day."

  She lifted a leg and draped it over the side of the chair.

  There was too much room between us for me to make a lunge for her, too many unknowns at my back.

  And the guys lining the stage behind her were a big reason to hold still too. A dozen or so of them, all armed with rifles, all glaring at me.

  I bet they could take me down before I made it ten steps. Maybe five.

  "You like my Colonels?" she asked. "They're a Kentucky tradition."

  "That's a lot of chiefs," I croaked.

  She smiled and nodded.

  Someone grabbed my arms and lifted me up, straining my shoulder against the tight bindings strapping the wrists together.

  They spun me around.

  Mags was at my back. She moved to the edge of the stage and said in a soft voice.

  "Lots of Indians."

  The amphitheater behind me was full of people. Stands on either side packed ground to top with armed men. Some soldiers, some hunters, but all of them watching me with intense interested stares.

  "Did I just hear you gulp?" Mags giggled.

  "Just wondering how many I have to kill to get out of here."

  The hands spun me around again, rougher this time and knocked me to the mud. They lifted me just as rough and held straight.

  "There's a difference between tough and just plain dumb," Mags crinkled her nose.

  I huffed out a breath and sniffed.

  "You've got to want something," I said. "Otherwise I'd be dead. Unless you're one of those evil Bond villains who likes to spill their guts about world domination while I

  hatch an escape plot?"

  Mags clapped her hands together.

  "I do think you are a delight," she drawled. "My boys said you put up a good fight out in our woods. And you're right, if I wanted you dead, you would be a doornail."

  She winked at one of the men behind me and he sliced through the plastic at my wrist. Two zip ties dropped onto the ground at my feet.

  "Now I'm not saying you won't be dead once we're done," she cackled. "But at least you can say I gave you a fighting chance as a thank you for clearing those zombies out of the Refugee Center at the Fort. That gave us a lot of supplies. I'm grateful."

  "Thankful enough to just let me go?"

  The cackle again and this time another motion.

  “I’m the head of the Council in here. That makes me the boss. And as the boss, everyone in here does exactly what I say. Sometimes without me even asking.”

  I heard someone moving in on me and ducked as a fist slid over my head. I kicked out with my foot and cracked the inside of the man's knee. It folded out with a loud snap and he screamed as he fell. Mags darted back as more men rushed in. "There's only two ways this can end sister."

  She glared at me. I wasn't trying to be misogynistic by calling her sister, I was trying to goad her into acting from anger.

  People do dumb things when they're angry.

  Like trek half way across the country to rescue kids who were probably dead, and then reversing direction to do it again.

  The odds were almost always against doing dumb things.

  Except God or whatever passed for it in this new zombie plagued world had a soft spot for dumb guys and their children. I wished it were for all children but I'd seen some kid Z and it broke my heart.

  "You will comply," she said in a crisp voice.

  "We are Borg, huh? Resistance is futile."

  She made a small motion with her left hand and the gate on stage left popped open. A bunch of rough looking guys started marching through. Six of them, so maybe it wasn't that many, but six on one never looked pretty.

  She was too far away to see me gulp.

  I tried to think of that line from Princess Bride where the dread pirate fights the giant, and he can't think of how to beat him because he's used to fighting groups of men, but it escaped me.

  Leave it to the zombie apocalypse to cut into quality movie memorization time.

  I settled for an old comic book stand by.

  "Bring it on."

  Or maybe it was a cheerleading movie, but in the middle of the beginning of a fight, no one bothers to check on your references.

  They rushed all at once, proving they didn't watch kung fu movies.

  Those guys would wait patiently while you smacked their buddy around, then come in when it was there turn.

  These guys didn't get the memo.

  Just for perspective, there are at least six ways to reach a body when you bum rush it. Front, back, side one, side two, top and bottom.

  These fellas were going to grab my arms, one to each, torso and neck, and I wasn't really sure what the other two planned.

  When the first two made their move and clamped on my wrists, I dropped.

  I wish I could say it was skill and planning on my part, but remember that whole God loves dumb asses theme I'm building? I really just slipped trying to back up, and the two holding me by the wrist were slammed forehead to forehead when they refused to let go of my arms.

  Bonk.

  The torso guy launched himself at the same time I fell, so he overshot me and gave me a good goose e
gg with his boot as he sailed over me.

  Number four was dry humping my leg as I went down.

  At least that's what it felt like.

  I let him have his fun, since number five towered over me and drew back his boot for a kick.

  I used my now freed hand to punch him in the nuts, and squeezed for all I was worth.

  I got a chest full of vomit for my trouble, but he was out of the picture.

  Dry humper must have finished, but instead of rolling over and falling asleep, he tried to claw his way up to my face.

  I grabbed him by the back of the hair and rubbed his nose in my freshly decorated chest.

  For the record, if someone rubs your face in another guy's throw up, you will probably throw up yourself.

  It was warm and chunky and had I eaten recently, I would have added my own repast to the two recent meals residing on my person.

  Urgh.

  Number six kicked me in the thigh vacated by the dry humper, and it hurt. I was going to feel that tomorrow.

  If I was going to make it to tomorrow, I needed to turn the tide, and not in a return the vomit comet kind of way.

  Rule number which one, I forget, but it's don't be on your back in a fight.

  So I started rolling, trying to bowl out some legs, trying to get clear of the group of them.

  I gained space and pushed up just in time to see a steel toe aimed at my eyeball. I ducked away and managed to take a scraping blow across my healing bullet scar, and hopped, skipped and jumped backwards more as stars exploded around my vision.

  There were now eight of them standing in front of me, but when I shook my head, some of the twins disappeared, and left four standing.

  One of the guys holding my wrist was knocked cold by his noggin bump with his buddy, the guy next to him was still clutching his crotch.

  Guess I must have popped something.

  The rest didn't rush this time.

  They spread out in a wider pattern, eyes bouncing off me to each other and back again as they tried to decide what to do next.

  "Get him," Mags screamed an order.

  I guess she expected them to make short work of me, or that I would go quietly.

  She was right about one thing.

  I was going to be very quiet.

  The four men screamed and rushed again.

  I ran to meet them halfway.

  Of course, we're only talking ten steps or so for the distance between us, but since they were screaming, they were losing air.

  I dropped to my knees and slid into one, punching for gut with the sharp point of my elbow, straight into his diaphragm.

  The combo sent him sprawling, stomach heaving as he gasped for wind.

  Going low threw the one beside him off.

  He rounded on me with a haymaker, but I spun and did my best sweep the leg move into both of his ankles.

  One snapped and he screamed.

  I kept spinning, tossing up little clouds of dirt and debris when the other two guys landed on top of me.

  They were good at punching.

  Experts even.

  One was hammering on the top of my head with one fist, clenching my shirt with the other as I kept my chin pressed against his neck.

  The other was trying to compose a drum symphony on my kidneys. A long one.

  But that left my hands free.

  I was fighting blind and just reaching, but hooked a finger in someone's mouth on one hand, a thumb in the other's eye and pulled with both.

  I got a reward.

  An eyeball popped on my thumb and sent warm juice running down my arm, and I felt what it was like to have a cheek rip open on my hand, then a warm spurt of blood cascading down that arm.

  Those guys screamed, or maybe it was me.

  When they rolled away in the dirt, I added some of my own vomit to the gunk already on my chest, even though I hadn't eaten.

  Then I stood up and faced the woman in the chair.

  I wanted to say something smart ass, or snarky, but close quarter fighting leaves one breathless.

  Plus, my side hurt. I bet I would piss some blood that night.

  If I made it that far.

  Six bodies lay on the ground around me, none of them dead, but all of them squirming. It really looked like something I would like to do, but I felt I had an image to maintain.

  The whole predators don't show weakness to other predator's thing.

  "Impressive," she said in her flat voice.

  I was glad the collective approved, and wondered why they didn't just shoot. They had guns.

  Was this some sort of test?

  Did I pass?

  "Can I just take my kid and go?"

  She smiled then, and I did not like the way she wore it on her face.

  A shark's smile under bored impassive eyes, or like a cat toying with its lunch.

  "Kid?" she asked with pretended innocence. "Or kids?"

  Another flick of her finger brought Tyler and the Boy to the stage, joined by Bem.

  My stomach did a flip flop thing, but on a bright note, it totally made me forget about the mish mash of my kidneys.

  "Bring out the giant," she said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  And then the giant showed up.

  It's not often you get the chance to say that in real life. I wouldn't have suspected an NFL player to survive the zombie plague, but for the life of me I couldn't fathom why I thought that.

  Of course some would survive.

  They are extraordinary athletes, and with a couple of thousands of them, it would only make sense.

  This guy looked like a sumo wrestler met a mack truck and they made a baby. A big giant bald headed baby glaring at me with pig eyes and what I hoped was oil that made his muscles shine.

  "You're dead," he predicted.

  I almost nodded.

  He was probably right. I'm not a large man, and trekking half way across the country scavenging for food made me wiry. All muscle, sure, but there wasn't much of it, as far as raw brute strength.

  The giant on the other hand looked well fed.

  Like he ate whole turkeys every day.

  And washed them down with protein shakes.

  Size isn't everything.

  At least that's what we tell the ladies.

  Big meant he was going to be slow. Which I was not.

  Big meant he would have more weight to carry and tire easy.

  I was fast on my feet and a long distance runner to boot.

  My mind raced. It was going to be an Ali Frazier fight, the old Rope a Dope. I'd wear him out by staying out of reach, and when he got tired, move in and finish him, just like the man suggested to Johnny at the all karate valley championship.

  Then he moved.

  Like a dancer, fast and lithe and his dad must have really been a Mack truck because he was going as fast as one.

  I barely had a chance to dodge out of his grip and then it was on.

  He was too big, too fast and looked too strong.

  I was too tired, too beat and too broken to win.

  This wasn’t going to be fair at all.

  I kept backing up, all the while thinking of Ali and Foreman. Rope a dope would work great on this massive stack of humanity, but I wasn’t sure I could handle a hit.

  Then he did.

  And I couldn’t.

  It was a glancing blow across the scarred side of my head and sent me reeling.

  Then his speed kicked in and he landed one on my chin.

  It would have been better it knocked me cold.

  But all it did was hurt.

  And bleed.

  He grabbed me in a bear hug and squeezed. Ribs cracked.

  My arms were pinned but my hands were free. I grabbed for his nuts and squeezed.

  He giggled in my face and laughed.

  “Ain’t that kind of date,” his breath smelled like coffee.

  He planted his forehead into my nose, once, twice and stars exploded in my head.

>   Then he dropped me, straddled my chest and started pounding with massive ham sized fists. I saw two, a third, then no more.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I woke up some time later and stared at the white walls around me.

  Plain, unadorned and unbroken except for a door and a window that looked out onto a courtyard, a sliver of blue sky visible at the top of the building across the way.

  My throat was sandpaper.

  I tried to move my hands, but soft cushioned cuffs held them strapped to a bar on the side of the bed.

  The door open and a tall white haired orderly in blue scrubs peeked in.

  “You’re awake,” he smiled.

  His face was kind, soft, thin hair touching the back of his scrub collar.

  He stepped into the room.

  “I’m Tony,” he said. “You’ve been out for a while. Are you thirsty?”

  I tried to answer, but it came out as a croak that cracked and evolved into coughing fit.

  He put a hand on my chest and nursed me through it, then held a small pink plastic cup full of water up and put a straw to my lips.

  “Just a sip,” he ordered. “You’ve been in and out for days.”

  I took two long swallows, almost crying at how good it felt as the moisture coated my mouth and throat.

  The sandpaper melted into something like gravel and I tried again.

  “Where are my kids?”

  Tony smiled and nodded.

  He must have been a priest before or some social worker. There was an air of kindness about him, a patience.

  “You’ve mentioned them before,” he answered. “The doctor is on his way and he’ll be able to answer more questions.”

  Tony checked the straps on my wrists, double checked the ones on my ankles and gave me another sip of water.

  “You said days,” I told him. “How many?”

  “You’ve been in here for almost a month.”

  My stomach dropped.

  A month.

  What had Bem and the Boy done? What were they doing to them? Bis out there, somewhere for a month on her own.

  I struggled against the bindings.

  Tony put his hand on my chest again.

  “Hold on,” he said. “Let’s just relax.”

  “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “That’s what you said before we put you under last time.”