it were, was not without risk. On the other hand, if John and Jules had chosen to hide somewhere, the RV was as likely a place as any. He couldn’t leave without checking it.
The drop was only about seven feet, but with all the pillows, dishes, and food lying about, there was no guarantee that he would land on his feet. Mason gently set down his M4 and drew his Supergrade. It would serve him better in close quarters. He also double-checked the hunting knife on his belt, although he knew that if he were forced to draw it, the fight was already half lost.
“Ready or not,” he whispered.
Mason took a step forward and dropped down into the motorhome. His landing was better than he had feared, one foot planting firmly on a microwave oven and the other smashing through a glass-faced cabinet door.
As soon as he hit, an infected man leaped at him from the front of the RV, his hands extended like bony claws. Mason swung the Supergrade up and fired a quick shot. The slug hit the man directly between the eyes, generating enough compressive force to blast a golf ball-sized hole out of the back of his head. The 230-grain bullet, however, didn’t have nearly enough mass to overcome the man’s momentum, and Mason found himself wrestling with the dead body.
As he struggled to shove the man away, a second man slammed into him from behind. Mason tipped forward, his foot refusing to come free of the broken cabinet. Unable to turn around, he swung the Supergrade down and shot blindly back at an angle. The bullet caught his attacker in the shin, splintering off a chunk of bone and opening a huge bloody gash in his leg. The man screamed and beat down on the back of Mason’s neck.
With one foot still entangled in the cabinet, Mason dropped to a knee, pivoted, and fired three shots into the man’s gut. He too fell forward, adding to the mass that was already threatening to pin Mason to the floor. Another man scrambled to get by his fallen comrades, jabbing forward with a sharp metal railing torn from a bunk at the far end of the motorhome. The corner grazed Mason’s cheek, leaving behind a bloody scrape.
As the man brought the weapon up for a more powerful thrust, his feet were suddenly pulled out from under him. He fell, kicking and thrashing to get free, but it was to no avail. Bowie ripped into him, only stopping when he had chewed through the man’s spinal column.
With one final grunt, Mason pushed the dead men off to the side and took a quick look around. Other than himself and Bowie, the RV was empty. He touched his cheek. It was sore and already starting to swell. His neck felt even worse, but when he rotated his head, everything seemed to work. He carefully lifted his foot from the cabinet and stood upright.
“That could have gone better,” he mumbled.
Bowie looked up at him, blood dripping from his mouth.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re downright scary sometimes?”
Bowie turned away and began bumping cabinets open with his nose in search of food.
Even though the motorhome was in a complete shambles, it was easy to see that it was a high-end model. Some of the many features included a granite kitchen counter, four-burner gas stove, bathroom with shower stall, and even a queen-sized bed. The fresh spatter of blood, brains, and bone, however, did absolutely nothing to improve the upscale ambiance.
“Well, they’re obviously not here,” Mason said, thinking aloud as he reloaded his Supergrade. “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”
Bowie had found a box of Vanilla Wafers and looked up with a couple of cookies poking from his mouth.
“When you’re done with your snack, meet me outside.”
Mason stepped back up on the microwave and poked his head out through the door like a tank commander surveying the battlefield. Fortunately, no one had been drawn to the brief firefight. He hauled himself up and out, retrieved his M4, and stood on top of the overturned RV, studying his surroundings.
His first
The drop was only about seven feet, but with all the pillows, dishes, and food lying about, there was no guarantee that he would land on his feet. Mason gently set down his M4 and drew his Supergrade. It would serve him better in close quarters. He also double-checked the hunting knife on his belt, although he knew that if he were forced to draw it, the fight was already half lost.
“Ready or not,” he whispered.
Mason took a step forward and dropped down into the motorhome. His landing was better than he had feared, one foot planting firmly on a microwave oven and the other smashing through a glass-faced cabinet door.
As soon as he hit, an infected man leaped at him from the front of the RV, his hands extended like bony claws. Mason swung the Supergrade up and fired a quick shot. The slug hit the man directly between the eyes, generating enough compressive force to blast a golf ball-sized hole out of the back of his head. The 230-grain bullet, however, didn’t have nearly enough mass to overcome the man’s momentum, and Mason found himself wrestling with the dead body.
As he struggled to shove the man away, a second man slammed into him from behind. Mason tipped forward, his foot refusing to come free of the broken cabinet. Unable to turn around, he swung the Supergrade down and shot blindly back at an angle. The bullet caught his attacker in the shin, splintering off a chunk of bone and opening a huge bloody gash in his leg. The man screamed and beat down on the back of Mason’s neck.
With one foot still entangled in the cabinet, Mason dropped to a knee, pivoted, and fired three shots into the man’s gut. He too fell forward, adding to the mass that was already threatening to pin Mason to the floor. Another man scrambled to get by his fallen comrades, jabbing forward with a sharp metal railing torn from a bunk at the far end of the motorhome. The corner grazed Mason’s cheek, leaving behind a bloody scrape.
As the man brought the weapon up for a more powerful thrust, his feet were suddenly pulled out from under him. He fell, kicking and thrashing to get free, but it was to no avail. Bowie ripped into him, only stopping when he had chewed through the man’s spinal column.
With one final grunt, Mason pushed the dead men off to the side and took a quick look around. Other than himself and Bowie, the RV was empty. He touched his cheek. It was sore and already starting to swell. His neck felt even worse, but when he rotated his head, everything seemed to work. He carefully lifted his foot from the cabinet and stood upright.
“That could have gone better,” he mumbled.
Bowie looked up at him, blood dripping from his mouth.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re downright scary sometimes?”
Bowie turned away and began bumping cabinets open with his nose in search of food.
Even though the motorhome was in a complete shambles, it was easy to see that it was a high-end model. Some of the many features included a granite kitchen counter, four-burner gas stove, bathroom with shower stall, and even a queen-sized bed. The fresh spatter of blood, brains, and bone, however, did absolutely nothing to improve the upscale ambiance.
“Well, they’re obviously not here,” Mason said, thinking aloud as he reloaded his Supergrade. “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”
Bowie had found a box of Vanilla Wafers and looked up with a couple of cookies poking from his mouth.
“When you’re done with your snack, meet me outside.”
Mason stepped back up on the microwave and poked his head out through the door like a tank commander surveying the battlefield. Fortunately, no one had been drawn to the brief firefight. He hauled himself up and out, retrieved his M4, and stood on top of the overturned RV, studying his surroundings.
His first
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