JP-8—a kerosene-based aviation fuel—highly
flammable with its own unique properties that set it apart from the stuff that
used to flow from gas pumps at stations on every other street corner in the
United States before Omega culled the people and stilled their petrol-thirsty cars
and SUVs.
With that in mind, he said a silent prayer, snugged the
carbine in, and tensed his finger against the trigger. The red holographic pip
hovered on the kid’s face. Sunlight glinted from some kind of steel caps
concealing an upper and lower picket of presumably rotted baby teeth—assaulted
in life from too many sweets or merely bad genetics—whichever the culprit was, Cade
had no idea. However, he was certain that he still hated nothing more than the
idea of going to the dentist. And aside from the long dead politicians of the
old world, the trying-to-converse-with-you-with-their-hands-in-your-mouth head drillers hovered somewhere around second or third on his list of people he
would not miss.
In the half of a heartbeat Cade used to steady his breathing
and take up some trigger pull, he regarded the metalwork someone had performed
on the kid in life. During the second half of the same heartbeat he decided the
shiny beacons were a perfect target to aim for.
The two rounds he squeezed off entered the creature’s parted
mouth, and after contacting enamel and metal, the bullets tumbled upward and,
with an audible pop that could be heard even over the avian din, created a
horrific exit wound. The upper two-thirds of the undead kid’s skull spun
through the air, an uneven wobbly arc of bone and fluttering hair followed by something
resembling moldy cottage cheese— large curd .
Save for the pint sized Z’s dome, there was no secondary explosion.
Thankfully his prayer had been answered—he had in fact been a safe distance outside
of the mysterious danger zone, and his teammates had not been instantly
incinerated inside the earthbound helo.
As the headshot body spun, its lifeless arms flailing like a
rag doll, Cade snapped the barrel to the right by a degree and dinged the next two
walkers with precise head shots.
A double tap. Two soft chugs from the suppressed sub gun. Eye
and forehead on the first Z. An implosion and a black dimple, separated by only
a millisecond—the former started its head spinning; the latter, centered
equidistant between brow and hairline, lifted the geriatric off of the ground.
The two nearly simultaneous impacts were followed at once by an aerated cloud
of gray matter that drifted to the ground with a wet patter.
Another perfect double tap. Temple and ear on the second
creature as it cornered a large, cross-shaped tombstone. The damage escaped
Cade’s notice because the creature had dropped quicker than his eye could track.
Faster than gravity by itself could tug on a falling human body. Terminal
velocity aided by two sizzling chunks of 4.6mm lead penetrators.
But the aftermath was evident. Gelatinous chunks of brain
painted the cross. Nothing survivable , Cade told himself as he left the
rest of the shamblers to figure out how to move around the newly-fallen
obstacles blocking their path.
Without a backward glance, he navigated the last two rows of
graves, finally emerging from between a pair of very large monuments to a
couple of long dead people.
The pink marble head stone on his left came up to just below
his sternum. It was the perfect height to lean on, allowing him to take the
weight from his bad ankle for a few precious seconds. He steadied his weapon,
drew a bead on a female first turn, and double tapped her in the forehead. As
the body collapsed, he unleashed a dozen rounds downrange, pausing slightly between
every other pull of the trigger to acquire a new target. He fired until the
bolt locked, and then with a fluidity gained from years of putting practice to
work dumped the mag and inserted a fresh one containing the final thirty rounds
for the MP7. By feel he charged the weapon, and then
flammable with its own unique properties that set it apart from the stuff that
used to flow from gas pumps at stations on every other street corner in the
United States before Omega culled the people and stilled their petrol-thirsty cars
and SUVs.
With that in mind, he said a silent prayer, snugged the
carbine in, and tensed his finger against the trigger. The red holographic pip
hovered on the kid’s face. Sunlight glinted from some kind of steel caps
concealing an upper and lower picket of presumably rotted baby teeth—assaulted
in life from too many sweets or merely bad genetics—whichever the culprit was, Cade
had no idea. However, he was certain that he still hated nothing more than the
idea of going to the dentist. And aside from the long dead politicians of the
old world, the trying-to-converse-with-you-with-their-hands-in-your-mouth head drillers hovered somewhere around second or third on his list of people he
would not miss.
In the half of a heartbeat Cade used to steady his breathing
and take up some trigger pull, he regarded the metalwork someone had performed
on the kid in life. During the second half of the same heartbeat he decided the
shiny beacons were a perfect target to aim for.
The two rounds he squeezed off entered the creature’s parted
mouth, and after contacting enamel and metal, the bullets tumbled upward and,
with an audible pop that could be heard even over the avian din, created a
horrific exit wound. The upper two-thirds of the undead kid’s skull spun
through the air, an uneven wobbly arc of bone and fluttering hair followed by something
resembling moldy cottage cheese— large curd .
Save for the pint sized Z’s dome, there was no secondary explosion.
Thankfully his prayer had been answered—he had in fact been a safe distance outside
of the mysterious danger zone, and his teammates had not been instantly
incinerated inside the earthbound helo.
As the headshot body spun, its lifeless arms flailing like a
rag doll, Cade snapped the barrel to the right by a degree and dinged the next two
walkers with precise head shots.
A double tap. Two soft chugs from the suppressed sub gun. Eye
and forehead on the first Z. An implosion and a black dimple, separated by only
a millisecond—the former started its head spinning; the latter, centered
equidistant between brow and hairline, lifted the geriatric off of the ground.
The two nearly simultaneous impacts were followed at once by an aerated cloud
of gray matter that drifted to the ground with a wet patter.
Another perfect double tap. Temple and ear on the second
creature as it cornered a large, cross-shaped tombstone. The damage escaped
Cade’s notice because the creature had dropped quicker than his eye could track.
Faster than gravity by itself could tug on a falling human body. Terminal
velocity aided by two sizzling chunks of 4.6mm lead penetrators.
But the aftermath was evident. Gelatinous chunks of brain
painted the cross. Nothing survivable , Cade told himself as he left the
rest of the shamblers to figure out how to move around the newly-fallen
obstacles blocking their path.
Without a backward glance, he navigated the last two rows of
graves, finally emerging from between a pair of very large monuments to a
couple of long dead people.
The pink marble head stone on his left came up to just below
his sternum. It was the perfect height to lean on, allowing him to take the
weight from his bad ankle for a few precious seconds. He steadied his weapon,
drew a bead on a female first turn, and double tapped her in the forehead. As
the body collapsed, he unleashed a dozen rounds downrange, pausing slightly between
every other pull of the trigger to acquire a new target. He fired until the
bolt locked, and then with a fluidity gained from years of putting practice to
work dumped the mag and inserted a fresh one containing the final thirty rounds
for the MP7. By feel he charged the weapon, and then
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