Dead America The Second Week (Book 9): Dead America: New Mexico Page 6

  Landry took out two men on the other side with a few well-placed shots, but the bodies falling caused another man to turn and fire up at them, making both soldiers duck back for cover. Bullets shredded the wooden exterior of the building, splinters and dust flying everywhere.

  Landry peeked up over the window sill, noting that there were sixteen men remaining, and they were all focused on the soldiers above. He fired a few more times, quickly catching one guy in the shoulder and spinning him around.

  Several of the men yelled and tore towards the general store.

  “Whitaker, they’re coming for us!” Landry screamed.

  “I got ‘em!” she called back, and stayed low, heading for the stairs and swapping out for one of their pilfered three-burst assault rifles. At the top of the stairs, she aimed down, watching the flickering of lights moving about in the store. When the flickering moved away from the stairs, she rushed down and dove behind a barrel of candy.

  She peeked around the edge of the barrel, noting four men aiming carefully at the stairwell, walking forward in a straight line. Almost at the floor, she fired at the man on the right, cutting him almost in half with a trio of bullets.

  “She’s by the stairs, get her!” one of them cried, and the remaining three men opened fire.

  Whitaker flattened herself on the floor, slithering to another vantage point. She hopped to her feet behind a clothing rack, rushing towards the front of the store in an attempt to flank them.

  They finally stopped firing on the barrel, brightly-colored sweets spilled out all over the floor. They moved forward, shoes crunching on sweets, and Whitaker popped up behind them, wasting no time unleashing another three-shot burst. Two bullets hit center mass on one man, the third hitting the middle guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with the force of it.

  He raised his weapon, but she tore him to shreds with another burst, and the last hunter lunged for her, yelling something unintelligible in his anger. He fired wildly, and she took cover under a display of china plates. As they shattered into pieces, raining down on her, there was a blast of red and then everything went quiet.

  Whitaker peered over the counter.

  “Will you come on, it’s a fucking war up here!” Landry cried from the staircase, and ran back up to his spot.

  She shook her head, vaulted over the display, and ran up the stairs, switching back to her main assault rifle as she took a knee next to her partner.

  The zombies had overtaken the position below, men fallen beneath their gnashing teeth.

  “On the plus side, there shouldn’t be enough of them left to be runners when they reanimate,” Landry joked.

  Whitaker furrowed her brow. “I only count four, where did the rest of them go?” A shot whizzed by her head, causing her to duck back behind the window.

  “Seems as though they liked our idea about getting to the second floor,” Landry replied. He leaned out and popped off a few shots, but didn’t hit anything of substance.

  “How do you want to take them out?” she asked.

  He motioned to the street. “I think our biggest concern right now is going to be the zombies finding their way into the shop.”

  “I’ll cover the stairs if you want to keep an eye on them?” Whitaker suggested.

  “I’m good with that,” Landry agreed, and pulled out an extra magazine and held it out to her. “Just in case.”

  She nodded and took it, staying low and pressed against the wall as she made her way back to the stairwell. She set up in a dark corner out of view of the windows, and aimed her rifle down the stairs, awaiting any shambling dead that came her way.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mathis snaked his arm through a broken window and unlocked the back door of a building at the far end of the street, opposite city hall. He drew his knife as he silently closed the door behind him, just in case there was company inside.

  It looked to be a two-story clothing store, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he nearly stabbed a mannequin next to him. When he realized that the unmoving humanoid shapes were all displays, he moved through them to the stairs and worked his way up to the second floor, setting himself up at the window farthest from the target.

  He peered through the scope and took in the street before activating his communicator to radio Hammond outside. “Locked, loaded, and in position.”

  “Call it out,” the Sergeant replied quietly.

  “Four guards by the entrance,” Mathis said. “Two more on the second floor catwalk. Half a dozen guards in the street.”

  “Can you see inside?” Hammond asked.

  The Private scanned the building, but the windows were curtained. He could make out a few shadows moving around on the second floor, but nothing concrete.

  “Shadows only,” he reported, “but there is movement on the second floor.”

  “When we get Landry’s signal, you take out the ones on the second floor first,” Hammond instructed. “Then whoever looks like they’re about to shoot me next.”

  Mathis cocked his head. “What are you going to do?”

  There was a pause before the Sergeant replied, “I’m thinking Kamikaze to the building across the street. I’ll distract them while you pick them off.”

  “You’re a goddamn maniac, Sarge.” Mathis laughed.

  Hammond barked his own laugh back. “Make sure they put that on my tombstone.”

  “One day, many years from now, I will make sure that happens,” the Private promised.

  “Love the optimism,” Hammond replied. “Sixty seconds, let’s get in position.”

  The Sergeant hopped into the SUV he’d ducked behind, single shot rifle on his back, and the three-burst rifle on his lap. He kept his hand on the ignition, muscles tense as he watched his clock. He began to count down from ten, but before it got all the way down, the vehicle shook from an explosion a few blocks away.

  “Goddammit Landry,” he muttered, and ducked as all the windows on the street shattered from the shockwave. Shards rained down on the asphalt as Hammond started the vehicle and slammed it into gear, hitting the gas.

  He screamed down the street, and the frazzled guards took notice, firing on him. The Sergeant sat low in his seat, keeping his head down and looking through the steering wheel and over the dash like a little old lady driving to church on Sunday.

  The windshield cracked as a few bullets ripped through it, and he skidded to the left, pointing himself at the building across from City Hall. Thankfully there were no zombies coming out of it, and his only opposition seemed to be a single guard firing at him from behind a trash can. Hammond steered towards him, slamming into the can. Before the guard could leap out of the way, he met his fate crushed between garbage and a brick wall.

  Hammond grunted as he flung forward violently, regardless of how well he’d braced himself for impact. He dove from the vehicle just as bullets peppered the outside from across the street, and managed to slip into the store, hitting the deck. He lay flat on the wooden floor, bullets flying over his head and ripping through displays and wooden support beams above.

  He waited, listening for Mathis’ cracks to take out more of his attackers. When the bullets stopped flying his way, assumedly pointing towards the sniper, the Sergeant popped up and skidded back outside, taking cover behind the Swiss cheese SUV.

  He peeked out, noting four guards still standing. Two were in the doorway firing towards Mathis, the other two in the street trying to drag wounded comrades back to safety.

  Hammond rushed out and opened fire, shredding the guard closest to him and then filled the doorway with lead, dropping both guys there as Mathis blew open the head of the last remaining guard, who died while fumbling with his weapon.

  The Sergeant made it to the door and smacked his communicator. “I’m heading in. Cover the outside. If someone approaches you, make them regret it. And if a lot of someones approach, you let me know about it.”

  “Go get ‘em, Sarge,” Mathis replied.

  Hammond
reloaded his weapon to make sure he was ready for whatever forces he was about to face. He pushed through the door into the large lobby of Silver City Hall. He swept the area, noting the open space with offices on either side. The stairwell lay ahead, and the whole area was eerily quiet.

  “Guess they’re all waiting for me upstairs,” he muttered to himself, and shook his head, keeping his weapon aimed and at the ready. When he got to the landing, it broke off to the right and left, providing two ways up. He rushed up the right and took cover in the corner, inspecting the set of double doors at the top that presumably led to the main offices.

  “Sarge, we got trouble,” Mathis came through. “Two vehicles headed your way.”

  Hammond kept his voice low. “Pin them down if you can, shoot anyone who gets close to the door.”

  “Consider it done,” Mathis replied.

  Hammond slowly approached the door, and paused at the sound of a sniper shot from outside. He smiled slyly to himself, confident that Mathis had his back. He knelt beside the door and gently pushed it open. As soon as it slivered open, bullets smacked into it. He gave it another gentle push and it was nearly torn to shreds with another volley of bullets.

  “Third time’s the charm,” he muttered, and readied his assault rifle in one hand before pushing the door one more time. More bullets tore through it, but as soon as it stopped he leapt inside, guns blazing.

  He fired wildly as he burst into the room, a large office facing the street. There was a metal desk ahead of him, and he dove behind it for cover. He waited for another volley of bullets, but it never came. He laid down and slithered to the edge of the desk, peeking out at the back wall.

  There was only one portly man back there, struggling to get to the window.

  Hammond furrowed his brow and slowly got to his feet, saying crouched as he swept the room. It was empty save for that man. He wore a cowboy hat and gator-skin boots, one of which was drenched in blood as he dragged it behind him.

  The Sergeant stalked over and grabbed him by the collar, wrenching him back inside the busted window.

  “You must be Dutch,” he said, voice as conversational as if they were discussing the weather.

  The man’s eyes went side and he looked like he was about to shriek like a little girl. “Please don’t hurt me!” he cried. “I’ll do anything you want!”

  “Well first off I want you to calm the fuck down because I don’t want you to piss on me,” Hammond said, and waited for his captive to take a deep breath. The shred of calm didn’t last long as another sniper round cracked outside. “You hear that? That’s another one of your men dying in the street below. You think they’re going to come save you, but they’re not. Your fat ass is all mine.”

  Dutch shook his head, quivering in his overly expensive boots. “Please, what do you want?”

  “You got a radio to your men?” the Sergeant asked.

  The cowboy nodded, pointing shakily to the table a few feet away. “There!” he said.

  “Tell your men to stand down,” Hammond instructed, and dragged him over to the lone walkie talkie sitting there.

  “But your people will kill them!” Dutch argued.

  “If they lay down their weapons, my men won’t do a thing. Unlike you, we’re not cold blooded murderers,” Hammond replied, and lifted his gun, pressing the cold barrel against his prey’s temple. He lowered his voice an octave. “Although if you don’t do as I ask, I will make an exception.”

  Dutch panicked and fumbled the radio, finally picking it up and hitting the button. “This is Dutch. Everybody lay down your weapons. This is an unconditional surrender.”

  “But sir, if we put our weapons down we’re going to die!” a shrill voice came back.

  “This is an order!” Dutch demanded. “Put your weapons down, the military isn’t going to hurt you!”

  “We’re not fighting the military!” the voice replied.

  The cowboy stared up at Hammond helplessly, confusion in his gaze.

  The Sergeant rolled his eyes and smacked his communicator. “Hey Landry, you copy?”

  The Private came back immediately, gunfire in the background. “Not a great time, Sarge.”

  “Y’all got zombie problems?” Hammond asked.

  “Ten motherfucking four,” Landry replied. “They must have had five hundred of those things in that building. We got ‘em pretty well stacked up on the stairs here, but we gotta keep at it.”

  “Hang tight,” Hammond said, and released his communicator, turning to Dutch. “Introduce me to your men.”

  The cowboy nodded jerkily, pressing the button. “Okay men, this is the military. They’re in charge, now.”

  “Everybody listen up,” Hammond took over, speaking quickly but firmly. “This is Sergeant Hammond. My men are spread out in this town, some of whom are fighting zombies just like you are. You are to work together to eliminate the threat. However, if any of you even think about taking a potshot at one of my men, just know that I have the resources to completely level the school where your families and friends are currently taking shelter, and you’d better goddamn believe I will give that order. Does anybody have any objections to that?”

  There was a moment of silence, and then a chorus of no, sir, came through from various voices.

  “Good. Now, we’re sending in some reinforcements your way, so just keep holding out.” The Sergeant dragged Dutch over to the broken window and looked out at six men cowering behind an SUV. “Hey, assholes! Did you not hear me on the radio that we’re sending reinforcements to fight the zombies? That means you! Go, now! Three blocks over, and remember what I said about the school!”

  They furiously nodded and scrambled to get into the SUVs, speeding off towards the zombie fight.

  Hammond turned back to his captive. “Now, Dutch, you and I are going to have a chat about the nice people just up the road that you seem to enjoy terrorizing. Do you want to give me a lame excuse as to why you’ve been doing that? Or do you want to just go straight to groveling for forgiveness?”

  “Oh god, I’m so sorry!” Dutch blurted, pressing his hands together in prayer. “It… it was all Diego, he just didn’t-”

  Hammond put his finger to the man’s lips. “No, no, try again.” He raised an eyebrow. “Actually. You know what? I think you owe everyone an explanation for your actions. And I stress, your actions. After our people finish up with the zombies, we’re going to have a little assembly up at the school. In the meantime, think long and hard about what you’re going to say, as if your life depends on it.” He winked.

  Dutch drew in a raw, ragged breath, eyes wide as saucers.

  “Hey Landry, you there?” Hammond asked into his communicator.

  “Yeah, Sarge,” came the reply.

  Without taking his eyes off of Dutch, he asked, “How we looking?”

  “Pretty good, actually,” Landry said. “Looks like the reinforcements you sent did a good job of breaking these fuckers up into multiple packs. We should have them cleared out here pretty soon.”

  “Good, when you’re done there, escort everybody up to the school,” Hammond instructed.

  “You got it,” the Private came back.

  The Sergeant raised his own radio to his lips. “And Simon, Sofia, I know you’re listening. If you would, please join us in a half an hour.” He dragged Dutch after him as he stalked towards the door. “Come on, we have an assembly to prepare.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The civilians in the school took their seats in the auditorium at the school, and Hammond couldn’t believe how normal it all looked. If it weren’t for the blood-splattered hunters and policemen filing in, it almost would have seemed like a regular pre-apocalypse PTA meeting.

  “I’m so happy you’re okay!” Sofia cried as she and Simon rushed up the center aisle to the stage.

  Landry nodded from the side of the stage, assault rifle in hand just in case any trouble cropped up. “So are we,” he replied.

  “Were any of you h
urt?” Sofia looked to his companions.

  Whitaker grinned. “Nothing that won't heal.”

  “Come on, we should take our seats,” Simon said, and took her hand, pulling her towards a row of empty chairs.

  “We’ll talk after,” Sofia said, excitement in her bright eyes. She pointed at Mathis. “And you still owe me a race.”

  He chuckled. “Looking forward to it.”

  When the congregation was seated, murmuring and whispering to each other, Hammond finally dragged Dutch onto the stage and shoved him towards the microphone.

  The fat cowboy wrung his hands, sweat clear on his brow as he opened his mouth to speak. “Hello. Hello everyone,” he greeted, voice timid. “This is Dutch, your leader. I am… I am here tonight to…” He looked back at Hammond, and grimaced at his hard glare. “I am here tonight to confess my sins. In a misguided attempt to preserve our resources, I have been ordering Diego to isolate a survivor group to the north of us. This escalated today, when a simple bar brawl between some drunks and these military members turned into a full-scale war. Due to my foolishness, so many good people d-died today. I…” He swallowed hard, voice going thick. “I’m so sorry for the families who lost fathers and brothers and sons due to my wrongheadedness. I… I wish I could take it all back. I… I wish I could make things right.” He began to cry, but the sobs seemed forced to the Sergeant.

  Hammond looked out into the audience, seeing true tears from the shocked faces of the scared families. He stepped forward and confronted the man, who, in his opinion, was far less sincere than he should have been.

  “Is that all you have to say, Dutch?” he asked, voice hard.

  “I… umm… I…” the cowboy stammered. “Oh. I would also like to welcome our new friends from the north to join our community.”

  Hammond crossed his arms. “Because this is a welcoming community, now?”

  “Oh, yes, this is absolutely a welcoming community!” Dutch replied, nodding vigorously. “Any survivors that come our way, we will welcome them with open arms!”