quick one from that broad you were sweet talkin’ at that last compound?' Despite the fact that Takahashi was of Japanese heritage, the men had given him the nickname 'Bruce' after Bruce Lee who, William theorized, was the only Asian guy they all knew.
Takahashi smiled broadly. 'Let’s just say that she was very grateful at our having rescued her from the top of that water tower.'
'Yeah,' laughed Lance, 'but did she show you her appreciation.'
Bruce winked and grabbed at his crotch.
'The only thing was…' Ray Dog whispered back over his shoulder, 'she was horny again an hour later.'
The group laughed and for a moment it almost felt as if things weren’t so dire. For a second, they collectively forgot how bad things had gotten over the last few weeks, forgot about how most of the people they had known and loved were now dead. Dead or walking around with their faces torn off and trying to eat anything still left alive.
For a second, they were just a group of guys hangin’ out and shootin’ the shit.
Then, Masterson spoke and brought all of that to an end.
'Stow it, Ladies,' he said in a whisper that to the men’s ears seemed louder than any scream. 'We’ve got movement.'
As one, the men dropped into a crouch and immediately broke off into the brush on whatever side of the road was closest.
'By the shed… on the right,' hissed Masterson.
Lance directed his attention toward the small shack that looked like it was a combination utility shed and place for a gas-powered generator. The squat building had the same look as the larger ones far off across the homestead: colonial and just a step out of time.
For a moment, things looked pretty normal. The birds chirped in the trees, the grass swayed in the soft breeze and none of the dumbfucks could be seen. Things looked clear. Then, just below the rise of the hill where the shack stood, a small blur of color could be made out.
Then, another.
'Sarge, you amaze me sometimes,' Bruce said quietly. 'You sure you don’t have E.S.P? I mean, the way you track these fucks makes my head spin.'
'Well,' grumbled Ray Dog from the back of the pack, 'I guess that makes you a dis-oriental.'
The men all chuckled under their breath.
Suddenly, three of the reanimated dead staggered around the side of the shack. Two of them were men; white guys dressed like they’d worked as farmhands on this or a neighboring spread. The other was a woman who looked as if she’d almost been pretty once, in a plain sort of corn-fed way. But now something had gotten to her and gnawed off the lower half of her face, leaving her ravaged.
The two males circled the structure, trying and re-trying the door in a vain attempt to gain entry into the shed. The rusted lock that hung from the latch held firm despite their fevered efforts. Futilely, they both hammered their fists on the door’s frame.
The woman stood by, momentarily distracted by the flies that circled over and around their heads. She seemed to be patiently waiting for her companion’s labors to bear some blood-sodden fruit.
The team fanned out and cautiously approached as Ray Dog and Slider moved ahead. The soldier’s approach was silent and skillful. The Dead never noticed a thing until they were almost right on top of them.
'Yo, Nigga,' Ray Dog rumbled as he stood up and flipped the safety on his weapon to the fire position, '’Sup?'
Ray Dog pulled the trigger and cut the two men down with the M-60. The massive 7.62mm shells tore through the first guy’s upper body, severing his right arm at the shoulder. The stream of bullets then back-tracked as the massive gun was swung back, effectively decapitating both of them.
The woman, who had been standing and swaying slowly and unsteadily on her feet, visibly jumped at the reports of the ’60. She’d only begun to realize that her companions were down for good when Slider came up behind her and pushed the Mossberg’s barrels up against the back of her head. He pulled the trigger and her expression of disbelief was blown apart by the back of her skull.
Masterson sidled up next to Bruce and whispered something in his ear. Without a word, the Asian took off at a run toward the farm’s main house with his MP5 tucked under his arm. He stayed slightly crouched so as not to be seen, but his pace was just this side of 'sprint.'
The rest of the team secured the area and searched the shed, which they found empty.
'What d’ya think they were looking for?' Slider asked.
The Dog walked up behind him, pointing the barrel of his M-60 toward the ground.
'Your mom.'
In a few minutes, Bruce returned and fought to catch his breath as he spoke directly into Masterson’s ear.
'Ok, bitches, show time! Bruce here tells me that we have five—count ’em, five—more dumbfucks up around the house,' Masterson explained. 'I want The Dog and Slider to approach from the front. If any of these fuckers even thinks about trying to attack from there, you’ll stop that train of thought before it ever gets on the track. A- Rab, you and Lance take the left flank. Bruce, you and me are on the right.'
The team split up accordingly and each drew and checked his weapon, racking rounds and flipping off safeties. The change in their collective demeanor was abrupt but clear. What was before a group of guys jolly- timing it suddenly became a sharpened team of professional killers. This was not their first rodeo and, despite all the bullshitting and dickin’ around, these were hardened soldiers. Some, like Masterson, spent a lifetime honing their skills while others had been dragged up a very steep learning curve. It was a field of study that to fail to learn meant death… or worse.
The farmhouse before them was an impressive two story structure with a large, wooden porch around its perimeter. On the right, a large willow tree snuggled up against the side of the house and blanketed it protectively in shadow. On the left, a storm cellar door led into the basement. The place seemed deserted, but they’d all seen that sort of scenario go sour a time or two before. It was how they’d lost Roehler and Fredrickson at the Home Depot and Dupont, Jackson and Miller at the gravel pit.
Having their instructions, A-Rab and Lance sprinted off, making their way around the left side of the house. Lance aimed his AR-10, sweeping the area for any unfriendlies and A-Rab came up behind with the SAW. Once they were set, the two men knelt down and waited for Masterson to give the 'in position' signal.
On the right, Masterson and Bruce moved ahead and took up a spot next to the willow’s trunk. The Asian moved slightly further to the right to cover the squad leader’s flank.
Ray Dog and Slider stood calmly beneath the warm sun, feeling the weight of the artillery in their hands. It was turning out to be a nice day, weather-wise, and they were both grateful for the chance to drink some of it in.
'Hey, Dog,' Slider said, 'If we had us some Margaritas and some honeys, we’d be set, eh?'
'You know it, man.'
The two men burst out laughing, but quickly cut their amusement short. They both knew the dangers of giving themselves away too early to these things. They’d been there to mop up when a squad of National Guard guys had their asses handed to them when they went wandering into a Starbucks making too much racket. Time and time again, being lackadaisical bred stupidity and stupidity bred carelessness and carelessness brought on a world of hurt.
Lance and A-Rab heard their friend’s laughter and glanced over to see what was so funny.
The Dog saw the two men staring and flipped them off.
'Lance,' Slider hissed, 'on your nine.'
Lance shot a glance over and saw a zombie coming around the back of the house. The guy looked like another farmhand, which made sense given the locale. It stumbled over something on the ground, but continued to gaze up toward the farmhouse’s windows. It looked like it was searching for something, a way in maybe.
Who knew?
Who cared?
Lance raised the AR-10 and pressed it into his shoulder. As he zeroed in, A-Rab shot off a chirping whistle so that the rest of the team would know they’d found movement. Lance pulled the weapon tighter into his shoulder
