The sun was directly overhead, but blotted out by low storm clouds as depressing as suicide. Underneath this, a single Chevy van pulled off the main road and approached the low expanse of the hospital. The van had no windows in its sides, and all of the lights had been smashed. The rear windows were also shattered, with heavy planks of wood patching the gaps. It pulled into the parking lot, did a quick u-turn, and backed itself up to the main doors with a huff of gas. The vehicle idled for a few moments, wary, ready to bolt if anything seemed dangerous. A small freight carrier in the old days, it was now war on wheels with enough scratches and dents in its hide to give any carjacker pause. It had a “Don’t fuck with me” menace about its battered bulk and might have been the inspiration for many a poster in the late ‘80s.
The engine died, and its drone evaporated into stillness. The van shook on its chassis, as if the beast were having a mechanical seizure. It continued for less than a minute, then thumps and other sounds emanated from within the Chevy’s guts, slowly making their way toward the rear. After a pause , the doors swung wide, and two motorcycle boots were shat to the pavement.
He wore black leather, from neck to shin. Knee pads and elbow pads protected his joints, a dark brace covered his neck. Dark, fingerless gloves covered his hands to allow a better grip on his shotgun. An aluminum baseball bat was slung across his back, Samurai-style, in a crude scabbard next to a large backpack He held a twelve-gauge shotgun before him, its butt tucked firmly against his shoulder, its strap dangling in a loop below its length. He pumped a round into the chamber, the schlack as loud as thunder. A motorcycle helmet and visor hid his features. He was protected against the horrors of the world, as it would take a strong bite indeed to gnash through the leather. He wore an extra layer of denim jeans underneath the pants, which he had taken from the same leather goods shop where he had gotten the jacket and boots. Only his fingers were at risk, but he needed those bare. He hadn’t found a pair of gloves that were both thin and strong enough to resist a bite, anyway.
Augustus Berry studied the double doors to the hospital for a moment. He listened. He could see no movement beyond the glass; the dark corridors inside seemed empty enough, but he didn’t think they were. He quickly patted his pockets, feeling the extra shotgun shells, and then reached over his shoulder and felt the bat, ready to grab if needed. He had combat knives sheathed in both boots, but it was rare that he got to use those. He brought them along nevertheless, remembering the old line, it was better to have and not need, than need and not have .
Gus shook his head once, clearing it, then moved forward, the barrel of the shotgun wavering ever so slightly to and fro, like the dark head of a Doberman giving fair warning. If anything not living came into line of sight, Gus would blow its fucking head off with extreme prejudice. Another line from another old movie, but he didn’t care. It was truth. And if it was living, he would exercise caution. People in these desperate days were not to be trusted. He had heard stories. There were bad people about, scavengers like him, but worse.
He reached the doors and peered into the shadowy interior. He huffed once, not liking the darkness in the least, and flicked up the visor of his helmet. His eyes were an alert blue, with lines at the corners. He took another contemplative breath. Of course they were in there, somewhere, waiting for him. For anyone. But he needed what the hospital potentially offered.
He cursed and looked behind, taking in the open doors of his waiting van and the empty space of the land to the tree line beyond. There was nothing else in sight, but he couldn’t be certain it would stay that way. And the hospital was big. The medical supplies could be anywhere in there. It would take
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