Reavers (Z-Risen Series Book 4) (7 page)

Douglas cranked the car again and this time it started. He accelerated,
but we didn’t move very far, and the sound from under the hood told me we’d done serious damage. Unless they had a shop around here, this thing was dead. This being the zombie apocalypse and all, it would be easier to just go out and get a new rig.

“We don’t have a choice. We’ll be overrun in minutes,” Diane said.

“Jackson, in the back is a large green seabag. Open it and grab weapons,” Douglas said.

He drew his sidearm and rolled down a window. The first shambler was almost on us, so Douglas leaned out, arm straight, and shot the man in the face. Guy had been ambulatory, but not by much. His left leg had been eaten almost to the bone, and most of his right arm hung by bloody sinew.

I got up on my knees and leaned over the back of the seat. Several bags were back there, including our own. The biggest was the tarp covering the shuffler. It twitched up and down as the creature flopped around. I grabbed the bag Douglas had mentioned and pulled it toward me, but the fucker was heavy.

The shuffler moaned through the gag they’d secured around his mouth and fought at his bonds.

I pulled the bag open and found an assortment of weapons.

“What do you all want?” I asked, because it was a smorgasbord.

“I’ll take handguns. A pair of something with high capacity. There’s a box in the back and it’s filled with magazines. Put it on the seat so we can match up weapons,” Douglas said.

“Shotgun for me,” Diane said.

Christy looked scared.

I dumped the bag and rummaged around. A pair of matching handguns stood out. I grabbed them, felt the weight and knew they were loaded. These I handed up to Douglas.

He shot another Z and then fell back inside the vehicle.

Christy took a deep breath, looked at the assortment, and found a small gun for herself.

Douglas stuffed guns into his belt while I moved aside larger weapons. I found a shotgun and handed it to Diane. She checked the load, then grabbed a bag from between her feet and took out a number of shells.

I took another handgun and felt around the back until I located the box. It was heavy, but I muscled it over the back of the seat and dropped it between me and Christy. Frosty sniffed the container, but when she didn’t find dog treats or a raw steak, she went back to staring out the window, hackles rising as she growled.

“We’re going to have to run for it, but wait until our reinforcements have arrived,” Douglas said.

“How fucking long will that take? We’re going to be overrun at any second,” I said.

“Just keep your eyes on the front of the
store
. We have a surprise ready.”

“I hate surprises,” I muttered.

“We need to get the shuffler and start toward the store,” Diane said, and opened her door.

She jumped to the ground and lifted the big shotgun. It boomed, and a pair of Zs fell away, one with part of its face missing, the other having taken the blast to his upper shoulder. Diane racked another shell and blew the guy off his feet.

“Do or die,” Douglas said and followed suit.

“Jackson?” Christy grabbed my hand.

“Stay put, I’ll go out and help. If we get overrun, just make yourself really small and keep Frosty quiet. With any luck the Zs will move on,” I said.

“Why the hell would I hide? We’ve been in worse places, ya
dork
. I’ll go out and help,” she said, and lifted her new gun. She dropped the magazine, inspected the load and then slammed it back home.

She dug around in the box, came up with a pair of matching magazines for her weapon and stuffed those in her pocket.

“Be careful, dude,” I said, meeting Christy’s eyes.

“You too,” she said with a half-smile.

“You stay here, and eat that shuffler if he gets loose,” I said to Frosty.

She stared at me with her big brown Lab eyes.

I thought about grabbing one of the assault rifles and going out shooting. Instead I settled for laying one across the backseat, and placed a pair of fully-loaded magazines next to the gun. 7.62 rounds gleamed back at me as they nestled inside their tight enclosure.

I’d do this the smart way: a gun and a big-ass wrench.

Christy swung out of the door, gun lifted, and aimed at the closest Z. She dropped it like a pro.

Diane dashed around the side of the Escalade and popped the
trunk. It rose into the air and the shuffler flopped across the carpeted back. She grabbed for his tarp-wrapped body, but he flailed away from her. She got a hold of a corner and yanked him out. The shuffler hit the ground with a crunch.

I was going to help her, but I suddenly had other problems: a shuffler landed in front of me. I wasn’t in the mood for his shit, so I swung the wrench around and almost took off his face. The ghoul fell back and didn’t move again. I shot him in the head
for good measure.

Douglas dropped to his knees, lifted the assault rifle and started shooting.

Unlike the guy I’d met a little while ago, the one who'd acted like he couldn’t tell which end of the gun spat bullets, this one shot a full magazine, and did some serious damage to the Zs around us.

The reinforcements from the Costco advanced on us, providing covering fire. I got a glimpse of them, and found mostly civilians in regular clothes. Then I noticed there were a couple of guys who were dressed in digital camo and moved like pros.

But we were far from being in the clear. Zs lurched toward us from several directions, and in force. A few shamblers wouldn’t be an issue. A few dozen were a threat. A few
hundred
meant we were about to be dinner.

“We need to run for it!” I yelled.

“Stay cool, help’s on the way,” Douglas assured me.

He slung his assault rifle over his shoulder and maneuvered around the SUV, drawing a handgun in the process, and shooting at Zs until it ran dry. I provided backup and shot three or four Zs myself, but there were so many, and they weren’t stopping.

More moved on our position from the street.
A lot more.

They did a poor job of navigating the potholes and many
fell, but that didn’t stop a Z, not for long. While not completely ambulatory, the Zs had a way of struggling to their hands and knees--unless they were missing a limb--and rising up again.

“What kind of help?” I called.

I shot a Z in the face and knocked another one on his ass.

Christy covered our six while I shot and bashed. She was pretty good with the gun, and hit more than she missed. Wish I could say the same about
my
shooting skills.

“Reloading. Jackson, hand me your gun,” she said.

I backed up a step and passed the weapon back to her. She handed me a fresh one: a sweet Beretta, if I wasn’t mistaken.

Douglas and Diane dragged the shuffler around the vehicle and in the general direction of the warehouse. Were they leaving us behind?

Something zipped out of the entrance: a loader with a huge front end. The lift had been equipped with something like a big cattle prod. A second lift exited the building, and they converged on our location.

Both of the little vehicles had yellow cages welded over the driver. The cattle prod at the front was shaped like a V mounted on a T-bar. The bar itself was a blade--a huge fucking knife, to be exact, and that made me nervous.

The first lift tore around potholes and found a pack of Zs in the path of the Costco. It sliced through them, casting bodies to the side. At the same time as it continued to push through the throng, it slowed until it had to back up. The driver, sitting in a constructed cage, roared with laughter.

“They’re clearing a path for us, come on!” Douglas yelled over his shoulder.

I leaned into the SUV and grabbed the bag of guns.

A Z stumbled into me and I nearly fell down. I managed to swing the sack around and knock him on his
rear. The rotter had a missing eye and the other, white and milky, stuck out over a half-torn face. The hole in the side of his face allowed his tongue to peek out. Gross.

Another Z followed, so I moved.

Christy opened the other door and grabbed for Frosty. The dog came out with hackles at the ready and teeth bared. She flashed in, grabbed a Z and yanked its leg until the woman--dressed in a frilly dress covered in blood—fell down. Frosty went for her throat.

Christy called to the dog. Frosty left her target and dashed to her side. I followed.

The mass of Zs coming at us from the starboard side were a gnarly knot of fresh and old. Skin hung in ribbons. Clothes, when actually present, were in tatters.
A woman in her seventies--naked as the day she was born, sallow, with hanging breasts that looked like deflated pigskin footballs--was surprisingly lithe. Her limbs were intact, so she made a beeline for me.

I fired, striking her chest, but that only stopped her for a second. The bullet must have passed through her skinny frame, because a stinker behind her--a dude dressed in camouflage and carrying a backpack that was loaded with who-the-hell-knew what--took the round.

He struggled to his feet, but I didn’t wait around to see his next move. Fuck that guy.

The second forklift ripped into the crowd. The driver came straight in instead of sweeping away the leaders of the pack. Bodies flew aside even as the lift’s momentum decelerated. The driver ran into the same problem when the mass of bodies became too much to just
summit.

The blades were a great idea for doing damage, but I could have told these guys that it would create mass they wouldn’t be able to drive over. Would have been better--like me with my favorite weapon--to bludgeon the shit out of the Zs. Push them aside with the cattle prod, sure, just don’t leave a pile of body parts to get over.

If I made it inside the building and bullshitted my way into getting a berth, I’d be sure to pass along my brilliant engineering thoughts.

A pair of Zs latched onto the driver’s cage and reached for him. He backed up and ducked to the side. A gun came up and he blew one of the Zs' heads clean off. The echo of the gun was a hell of a blast. He was packing some serious heat. The gun blasted again, tugging his arm up.

Douglas hit a wall and opened up with his assault rifle. He must have panicked, because the shots were aimed at the Zs, but they also crossed the path of some of our rescuers. He fired one-handed, rifle tucked under his right arm. His left arm was wrapped around the bound shuffler.

Diane struggled to keep up, and had to shoot with her left hand.

I dashed around our crowd, intent on helping my new companions, but a shuffler had other ideas: he leapt out of the horde and landed a few feet to my side.

I fired, but my shot went wide. When the shuffler came for me, I gave him a face full of green seabag. The weight of the guns shoved the shuffler off his feet. I swung with my wrench and caught just a tad of skin. A man would have yelped in pain. This guy, with his green eyes, just snarled.

Then I noticed he wasn’t dressed in rags. Jesus Christ! He was dressed in some kind of armor that would have been in place on a cop going into a riot situation.

Guns scattered as the Z shoved the bag aside. I shot him, but my aim was off and I struck him in the chest.

He fell back again, but the bullet must not have penetrated the Kevlar or whatever the hell he was covered in.

The guy was about my age, and big. His burly arms extended from ripped blue sleeves that had been torn off at the shoulders.

I could stay and fight this fucker, maybe write an epic about it later, but I took the smart way out and ran.

The shuffler didn’t pursue.

I risked a glance over my shoulder and found he was pawing through the remains of the gun stash.
He lifted a long rifle and snarled at me.

The fuck!

The shuffler had a weapon
, but didn’t seem to have full control of his appendages, because the barrel wavered all over the place. That didn’t stop him from figuring out the trigger mechanism.

A spray of bullets made me hit the deck.

I rolled on my back, and fired from between my legs.

I must have emptied half the magazine, but only a few struck home.

The shuffler spun having taken damage. A chunk of his arm had been blown off, and I was pretty sure I got him on the
side
of his exposed neck.

I noticed something in the near distance. A jeep had come to rest near the entrance to the Costco. It was red, but not military--more the kind of SUVs you used to see on the road every day.

I rolled over, heaved myself to all fours, and found my feet.

The shuffler dug out another gun, and that made my damn blood run cold. These things were Z-s--smarter than the milky-eyed fools, but still undead fucks. They might have shown some kind of intelligence, sure, even used a rock.

This guy knew what he was doing, and that was scary.

The new gun blasted, so I dove left and took the ground’s impact on my shoulder. Rolling
away, I managed to find a new Z, so I kicked it into the path of the bullets. The Z took a round to the lower torso and bent over.