A Time of Reckoning Part III

        Sunlight filtered between the drapes. George began the day with exercise just like every other day, on the bicycle-powered generator in the basement utility room. Afterwards he showered and broke his fast over the remaining egg supply; his last tasty morning meal of his life, for the future was nothing but canned food. Slinging a brown, leather satchel over his head George grabbed a recent addition to his weapon supply from the hallway closet.  The second choice for the day’s expedition was a standard 12-gauge, pump action shotgun. Ammo lined his duster’s pockets.

George began the hike up the stairwell, striding outside and swept his weapon left then right. The roof was clear as well as neighboring houses. A pile of junk forming a ramp sat to the west side. Pumping his legs George ran up the incline, leapt over the open space, limbs flailing and rolled to his feet on the other side.

***

Sporadically without notice gusts of wind came and went, bringing the stench of death with it. Crows flew above searching for scraps of flesh. They walked around aimlessly, completing their hundredth circle or their 10k walk. With no purpose in their actions; some was puking bodily fluids, others wheezing, more gnawing on their own limbs or brawling with each other. One’s head burst like a balloon. A second later came the loud, raucous noise similar to an 18th century cannon.

Roughly five hundred feet away was the prone form of a man grasping a high powered rifle attached with a military sniper issued scope; a gift from the previous owner.  Purpose was given to the undead creatures in the form of bloodlust. Racing each other they darted towards him, hunger in their bloodshot eyes as they leaped over cars and debris. The lead zombie stumbled over a thread of wire, it face-planted into the pavement, narrowly evading a hail of rocks. Others weren’t so lucky. “Nothing like being stoned to death,” George commented with joy.

Undead survivors crashed into ground level windows and doors. “Time to run,” he said. George grappled the rope he set up and slide down the brick wall. On the ground George jogged to safety behind an abandoned truck. Back up top they burst out of the roof access door, only to find an empty roof. But something lay burning on the rim of a pale. Seconds later it fell inside, igniting flammable fuel.

He watched them plummet in flames towards the earth. Every day he shocked himself at the ease with which he committed these acts of violence. The ingenuity and coldness of his actions exceed anything he thought himself capable of. Survival was bred into him thanks to his grandfather, a Vietnam veteran. Years of old war stories and traditions slowly but surely became part of George’s general thoughts. George grew up into a reflection of his grandfather, a man controlled by his gut and his habits.

Switching to his shotgun George jogged down the street, keeping his ears and eyes open. Aside from the yowling crows and himself there was nothing else alive on that road. Newspapers of the outbreak crunched under his feet. Vehicles lay ditched with smears of blood and shattered glass. The whole city felt desolate. A frightening feeling no matter how much he ventured out of his home.

Farther down the street he made a left, walked a couple more blocks, turned again and found a mob of the undead bloodying their fists against barriers; behind the barriers sounded muffled shouts. He began to work on another of his homemade traps. He’d draw them to his location where a mine field of grenades will be setup. The flatbed of a truck seemed ideal so he laid the shotgun down in it and knelt next to it.

George slowed his breathing, a technique his grandfather taught him. Gently he caressed the trigger and chose the first target; a balding man who seemed to be around his own age. He held his breath and fired, the round entered through the cheek. They spun around, bum rushing George. He ejected the bullet casing and fired again punching a bullet through a throat; the leg of another was shot off. A handful stumbled over the bodies.

         Within seconds they ran in the midst of his trap. As he ditched his long ranged weapon for the close ranged shotgun George yanked at the thread. Fragments of bone and flesh and trash flew through the air. Coughing from the dust George scanned the general area. The dead twitched. The top half of one particular fellow crawled towards him, intent on tasting his flesh.

         “Eat this!” George shouted before discharging a shell into his cranium; and yet still more walking cadavers appeared from within the smoke. He pumped a shell into the chamber and blasted the abdomen of the closest one.  A third shell took off an upper limb of the next zombie. Before long his shotgun was empty and with it targets. George slung the sniper and loaded the shotgun with more shells.
The barricaded building was a bit hushed. George leisurely walked up and tapped upon the splintered door. There was a short squeal quickly hushed.

         George called out, “Anyone wanting to see sunlight today?”

         Furniture screeched across the floor from within. The door knob jiggled before the door groaned open, revealing a black man with a full beard and graying hair. “You’re alone,” said the man “must be quite the resourceful man to wade through all those creatures unharmed.”

         Cradling the shotgun in his hands George replied, “You just need to know how to speak with them.”

         “The name’s Marcus, what’s yours friend?” He reached out his hand.

         George shook his hand. “It’s George. Tell me, how have you stayed alive for nearly a week?”

         “Was thinking the same about you, but then again you’re the one with the gun.” Marcus waved George inside. “The others and myself been here since the town began to riot.” Pointing to a mother and her daughter, “this was her families little corner shop. We hid in the back room and snacked on the food from the shop when our bellies ached.”

         The little girl looked up and said, “Who’s he? Are the monsters gone?”

         “His name is George, and yes he made the monsters go away.”

         “Will George keep us safe? I’m tired of sitting in here, can we go outside?”

         Marcus cut in before George had a chance, “slow down Audrey, one question at a time. I’m sure the man can help.”

         “Can I assume it’s just the three of you?”

         “Yes sir,” replied Marcus, “is there-“

         “Good. I want everyone to pack anything they can carry. Do it quickly so we can get moving. There will be more,” he glanced at the child, “monsters if we’re not fast.

         “Come on Audrey, let’s pack up some groceries,” said the girl’s mother.

         “So you mean to help us, am I right?”

         “That is the idea. I can take all of you to my hideout; unless you have somewhere else in mind.”

         “Well I have nothing left to go back to, as far as Audrey and her mother I don’t know. Odds are they’re alone too. How far is your place from here?”

         “Roughly half a mile, if we still got enough luck left over we just might get there in less than twenty minutes. A straight path won’t happen;” George looked over at the girl and her mother stuffing canned food in plastic bags “we’ll run into the monsters for sure. Longer paths might have to be taken to avoid them.” Meeting Marcus’ gaze again he added “think you can make the trip?”

         “I’ve been through hell and back in my days, think I can manage a little twenty minute hike. My body may be old but my mind is as sharp as it ever was. Got an extra weapon I can use?”

         “Sure, I got an emergency spare handgun.” George retrieved the handgun from his satchel, along with some ammo clips. Surprisingly with expert precision and speed Marcus ejected the clip, inspected it; smacked the ammo clip back in and loaded the empty chamber with a bullet.

         “Someone knows his way with a handgun.”

         “23 years ago I was forcibly retired as a police officer from when I injured my left leg during a foot pursuit. Bastard got away, but not before killing a civilian for his car.” Audrey and her mother strolled up to where George and Marcus were conversing, carrying with them half a dozen filled bags.

         “Hope you got a can opener, most of the food is canned goods.”

         “We wasted enough time, let’s not linger any longer.” With that George and his new friends ventured out the shop doors.

***

         Flies buzzed around the dumpster that George and his companions crouched down out of sight behind. George shifted his feet for another look out from behind the dumpster. Down the street were figures dressed in hazmat suits. They swept their weapons back and forth as they advanced closer to George’s position. One had a tank strapped to his back. Flammable liquid shot out of the flamethrower he held and passed through the igniter, charring vehicles, shattering glass, and burning anything and everything else in between.

         Swiftly George commanded for the others to hide in the nearby alley, to stay out of sight and be quieter than a mouse. Repositioning himself George slung his shotgun, switching it for the Chey Tac. The official name scribed on the side is Chey Tac Intervention M-200 Long Range Rifle system, he preferred calling it Chey Tac, much more efficient for speech.

         Moving into prone form George laid the Chey Tac down in front of him, taking a bead on one of the hazmat guys through the targeting scope. Holding in his breath to steady his aim George sent a .50 caliber bullet whistling towards the flamethrower wielding man. Blood spurted out of the wound in his shoulder, accidently setting his comrades on fire. Most of them screamed while they burned to death. Those that escaped friendly fire were swiftly taken down with George’s Chey Tac.

         George waited a moment to see if any more men came to investigate the commotion. None appeared. Within moments the group was on their way to George’s safe house. The flames crackled and popped as they passed by. Audrey’s mother kept her from looking at the death scene. Inside George led his friends through the building, past all the traps and into his apartment.

         “Make yourselves comfortable. I have a generator all setup, so you can get washed up if you want. If you’re hungry try the kitchen, it’s stocked with plenty of canned food. The can opener should still be out. Just don’t make too much of a racket. I’ll be across the hall cleaning a room for you all to sleep in tonight.”

         George began duct taping sheets over the windows in the apartment across the hall, twisted a bulb from his supply closet into a lamp farthest from the windows. Then he stashed two .45 colt pistols and the 12 gauge shotgun with extra slugs and ammo clips within an armoire.

         Back in his apartment he found his company enjoying a small meal of chicken noodle soup, “Hey everyone, why don’t you all check out your new room for the immediate future.”

         Audrey dropped her spoon in the bowl, splashing hot soup on the tabletop, and ran past George. Marcus stood up to follow her but was stopped from George’s outstretched arm. “Don’t let her in the armoire,” he said.

         Nodding Marcus said, “thank you friend.”

         After he left the woman spoke up, “why are you doing this?”

         “Helping out fellow sane people, mankind needs to survive somehow. One more person dead or set into a killing frenzy is another step towards extinction.”

         “Well thank you for everything you’ve done. I’d still be cowering in the shop with my daughter if it wasn’t for you.” Pausing she looked down at her feet then back at him. “My name’s Cordelia. Again, thank you so much.”

         George smiled, stepped to the side and replied, “Go, go be with your daughter.”

         While she took her first step the sound of the shotgun trap down in the ground floor sounded off. A man shrieked.

         Sighing George said, “I never get a damn break.”