“Morning friend,” he replied. His voice was deep and gravelled. He gestured to the rifle across Dean’s chest. “Have to say, seeing someone with that kind of hardware out here is damn rare.”
“I’m a police sergeant and authorised firearms officer,” he said, purposefully leaving out his specialist title. The less they knew about him the better. “When everything went to hell, I grabbed what I could. Got this, a little bit of ammo, and the Glock. Not much, but it’s kept me alive.”
“Mmm hmm,” intoned the man. “You look like you’re pulling sentry, standing here as you are. Anyone else inside?”
Dean’s heart sank.
“Just a kid, and we’re picking up supplies.”
“Where’s the kid then?”
“No offence, mate, but with four armed guys rolling up in an armoured Humvee and pointing a rifle my way, I’m inclined to tell her to stay where she is.”
“Her, eh?”
The way he mused aloud twisted a tight knot of fear in Dean’s belly.
“Well, I guess we are being a mite unfriendly, what with you being so open and honest.” He lifted his arm to the rifleman on the vehicle and gestured for the man to lower the weapon. The barrel dropped and the man moved from behind the sight, but it was still ready.
“I appreciate the gesture. The name’s Dean Williams.”
“Tucker,” the man said. He gestured to the three men in turn, finishing at the rifleman. “These are Lloyd, Simmons, and Tipps.”
“You seem to be pretty well equipped, Mr. Tucker. And organised. Are you part of a survivor community?”
The four men laughed as though Dean had made a witty observation.
“You could say that, Officer Dean.”
The address sounded like mockery. Dean sensed things were going to turn no matter what, and it was all just a question of when. He affected a more relaxed pose, as though merely readjusting his feet, but slowly inched back towards the pharmacy door.
“Oh? I haven’t come across any other survivors. Heard a big gun battle a couple of months back, so I tried to stay out of town until necessary.” He kept inching back in almost imperceptible increments.
“You did?” Tucker was intrigued by that knowledge, which worryingly suggested that his group had not been part of that battle. “Interesting. Where are you and your girl holding up? Are there any more of you? She should come out so we can say hello.” Lloyd and Simmons chuckled at that.
“No disrespect, Tucker, but we’ve only just met, and I’m not really willing to give away a safe location to a bunch of armed strangers. We can certainly talk about opening up an alliance though for trade.”
This time it was Tucker who laughed.
“Trade? Officer Dean, we don’t need to trade with you.”
He tapped a white band of cloth wrapped around his left bicep. For the first time, Dean noticed all four men had the same band. Tucker turned his arm so Dean could see the insignia. Embroidered into the white cloth was the image of a black sun rising over the horizon.
“We are the future, Officer Dean,” said Tucker, his voice taking on a strange tone. Gone was the casual arrogance, replaced with something like reverence. “The Dark Resurrection has finally come, just as the First Disciple prophesied, and we are his Children of the Resurrection. We are the chosen to reclaim this world and gather the remnants of humanity, so we may rebuild a new and better existence. We are ready, and we will rise!”
“We are ready, and we will rise,” repeated the three men.
There were few things more dangerous in the world than zealots. Dean had thought he was readying to defend himself against opportunists, or possible gun nuts who fancied themselves as feudal lords over a new territory.
But this? Zealotry was something he was totally unprepared for.
“So, as you can imagine Officer Dean, we have no need to trade.” Tucker’s voice had lost its zeal, once more returning to the smug arrogance of their early interaction. “We are well supplied, armed, and number in the hundreds. I think you and your young friend should return with us to join our restoration.”
It was not a suggestion, and Dean had no choice but to act.
He moved, sharp and sudden, while the four men were still overconfident and relaxed, turning and diving through the pharmacy doorway.
“Behind the counter!” he roared at the three youngsters, just as Tucker’s shout of outrage signalled a barrage of gunfire that shattered the glass front of the store. The four of them cowered behind the pharmacy counter as the boom of the shotgun and rattle of the MP5 ripped through the shelving, exploding packs of diapers in a puff of fibres and shattering bottles of cough medicine. The thin back wall was shredded into clouds of plaster dust, perforated by buckshot and the stream of rapid fire from the submachine gun.
Zain and Alex curled up small behind the counter, hands clamped over their ears, terrified tears on their cheeks as they leaked from tightly closed eyes, as the small pharmacy was torn apart in a thunderous barrage.
“Officer Dean,” shouted Tucker as the assault fell silent, “do not make this more difficult. You are outmatched, despite your pretty hardware. I will give you five minutes to consider your position. If all inside do not come out with hands raised after those five minutes have passed, you will give me no other option but to assault.” He sighed theatrically. “We are not the enemy, Officer Dean. Our goal is to unite the remnants of humanity under the First Disciple’s benevolent rule. If you had seen the miracle we have, you would not be so quick to judge us.”
“And what miracle would that be?” hollered Dean in response, stalling for time.
“The First Disciple can command the dead,” said Tucker. “The home he has provided for us, that which he has named Ascension, is a haven of life where the dead may not roam.”
That gave Dean pause as he tried
