Seriously, if Nate ever reads this journal, I’ll be in so much trouble with him.
It was a little before noon when we’d finished that job, as we’d left at 7am. Days are a lot shorter, so we have to head out at the first creeping sign of light if we want to get a full day’s work done before returning home.
We all filled our bellies at the lodge from some of the canned goods there and ate a quick lunch, then we decided to start clearing out another cluster of mid-range houses a little further down from where that little girl under the stairs was.
I shivered as I wrote that. It still upsets me thinking about it, so I’ll quickly exit stage left from that one.
Sarah and I were out front in the pickup as we turned into the circle of eight houses, with Isaac and Dean behind in the van. Both vehicles stopped as we saw a group of about twenty people in the small circle, all their eyes fixed on one house. They were dressed in puffer coats and other jackets for warmth, all with hoods up over baseball caps and beanies. To a man, they carried a selection of savage looking weapons in their hands. Machetes, heavy one-handed hammers used in construction (I think they’re called club hammers or lump hammers, real skull-cracking beasts), hatchets, those curved ice axes that climbers use that look more like a small pickaxe, fire axes, and a whole host of other vicious looking weapons.
In fairness, every one of them was useful for braining zombies, which is probably why they had them. They hadn’t bothered with things like baseball bats or that kind of stuff. This selection of weaponry had clearly been accrued over time with the purpose of killing the undead efficiently with single head blows.
Most worrying was that the two apparent leaders carried basic firearms in hand. One guy carried a Mossberg pump, but it was a UK legal one that could only hold three shells, so had probably been found in someone’s house that was part of a clay pigeon shooting club or something. The second guy had a small snub nose revolver, a little “Saturday night special” piece of junk that definitely wasn’t legal.
“There are people in that house,” said Sarah, pointing up to the top front window. Sure as shit, we could see movement, with people at the window’s side peering out fearfully.
“Dean, there are people in that house,” I said into my radio.
“Copy. I think we know who the aggressors are.”
You’re damn tootin’ we did.
The mob of armed men turned towards us as we entered the cul-de-sac. The two with guns stepped to the fore, their obvious intention to intimidate. They could all see by now that the two in the lead vehicle were young women, and they were all male, aged between late teens and late twenties. A few of them shared nods and excited smiles.
“Time to show them their numbers don’t mean shit,” I said. “Ready?”
Sarah nodded. She was scared, as she should be, but she drew the Glock and we both opened our doors, buzzed down the windows, and stood behind the doors as shields. There was a mutter of surprise as Sarah pointed her Glock out from cover, and I rested the barrel of my L85 against the rim of my window.
Dean and Isaac followed suit. Isaac got out with his Glock up and moved a little wider of the van, and Dean moved forward with his G36C up and pointed right at them. Their little snub-nose and three-shot 12-gauge suddenly seemed inadequate in the face of two semi-automatic handguns, and two rifles.
Seeing this sudden stand off and the chance of salvation, the top window of the house opened and a woman in her early thirties shouted out to us.
“Please help us!” she hollered. “We’ve got a ten-year old boy in here!”
Well, that sorted out exactly which side of the fence we were sitting. I let Dean open the conversation, as I tend to antagonise things.
“It’s time you gentlemen went on your way, I’d say.”
The group looked towards the one holding the shotgun for a response. I should point out that this guy was not a looker. He was fucking ugly – like, old man toenail ugly – as if the content of his mean-spirited character had shaped his features.
“This ain’t none of your business,” Fugly stated with bravado.
“Despite the current state of affairs, I think it is,” replied Dean. “I’m a police sergeant you see, and I took an oath to protect the innocent. It doesn’t matter that the wages have dried up and I don’t have anyone to answer to. It’s who I am.”
“It’s a fucking pig!” shouted one moron from the back. Well, duh. He’s just said he’s a police officer. Spot on observation there, Einstein.
“Don’t have to take no orders from no pigs no more,” sneered the leader.
I almost shot him for crimes against the English language, right there and then. However, Dean dropped the fucking mic on him.
“And I am no longer bound by the laws of this land to use non-lethal force against brainless thugs, so I guess it’s a good day for us both.”
That slapped the cocky smugness clean off Fugly’s face. Me being who I am, I just straight up laughed at Dean’s comeback. It was an absolute peach and such wit should be recognised. He continued to talk while Fugly was still oiling the gears of his tiny brain.
“I’ll give you a moment to gather your wits, as I appreciate it might take a little longer than most, but then I expect you and your merry men to clear out before this sheriff starts shooting. There are
