Shamblers: the zombie apocalypse by Andrew Cormier Page A

Seven
     
    “Are you going to kill us?” I asked the Clint Eastwood-looking guy as he pointed his pistol at me from a window of the Payne’s Creek Store. It wasn’t the most intelligent question, and I didn’t expect an honest answer, but it was the only thing that came to mind. It was hard to think with a red laser-dot blinking on your chest. I simultaneously dropped my hatchet a he had instructed.
    “That’s yet to be determined,” he answered in a gruff voice. Oddly enough, I found his cryptic answer reassuring: I’d dealt with a number of bad characters in the course of my travels. In my book, the fact that these people hadn’t shot us outright was a good thing so far.
    With his pistol still pointed at my heart, the Eastwood impersonator bellowed out, “Search them, boys.” One of his cronies, a six foot tall Spaniard wearing a sombrero and blue overalls and carrying a pump-action shotgun, stepped out of the front entrance to the store and walked around behind us. Two more men, one fat and one thin, holstered revolvers and met us in the middle of the street. They signaled for me to come forward.
    “We’re unarmed,” I stated as I held my hands up and submitted myself to their search. As they patted me with their hands and reached into my pockets to steal my lighter and comb, now my only possessions, I commented, “feel free to cup the balls too while you’re down there.”
    The fat guy laughed. The thin one didn’t have the same sense of humor: he elbowed me square across my cheek so fast that I didn’t see it coming. I fell to one knee and shook the cobwebs out. The guy absolutely rocked me.
    “Larry doesn’t look like much,” the Clint Eastwood guy remarked, “but he’s a third degree black belt. He is also a homophobe.”
    “Ughh,” I groaned, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
    “I suggest you do,” Mr. Eastwood told me. “We’re not looking for trouble here. We’re just being thorough. We gotta protect our own, you know what I mean?”
    “I certainly understand,” I added.
    “Good, then keep your mouth shut. Let these nice men do their jobs. I tend to get itchy on the trigger when I get nervous. I’m sure you understand.”
    I swallowed. “Yes sir.”
    “He’s not carryin’ a nothin,” the fat guy informed his boss. He rudely pushed me to the side and called out, “Next!”
    I was instructed not to move as everyone else was searched. When it came Becky’s turn , the fat guy commented, “wow, yous’ a pretty looking thang.” Becky’s only response was to sneer and turn her head away from him. As he frisked her, he groped at her rather unnecessarily.
    At this point in my life, it was easily to tell the difference between a reasonable search and seizure and a fat pervert squeezing a pretty’s girl’s pussy and rubbing her tits for the fun of it. Becky suffered the indignity as best as could be expected. I could tell she was uncomfortable and utterly embarrassed. I resisted the urge to attack the fat fucker. I made a silent vow that I would punish him as soon as the opportunity arose.
    One by one, w e were searched. The few possessions we had were stolen. When it was done, Mr. Eastwood came out of the store and down to the street. He was accompanied by the rest of his crew.
    At the far left, I saw a black version of Rambo. He was complete with a bandana and carried, of all things, a sledgehammer. A LMG (light machine gun) with a telescopic sight and a shoulder strap hung down by his waist. I wasn’t certain who manufactured it, but I suspected it was a British or Belgian SAW. Whatever the case, it was certainly an intimidating weapon. Furthermore, the black John Rambo didn’t look the least bit encumbered by it.
    To his right, in stark contrast to him in every way, was a thin white, redheaded girl. She didn’t look much older than fifteen and reminded me of the girl from the Wendy’s commercials they showed back when we had TV. The main differences were that she wore an eye