The Reaper: No Mercy by Sean Liebling

approach the manor, walking down the sidewalk while sidestepping trash and vehicles that had jumped the curb before stalling.
    Its large, imposing structure dominated the corner ahead and was surrounded by a five-foot-tall brick fence with a wrought iron gate, akin to many older homes he had seen over the years. The Reaper propped his Remington against his shoulder as he approached, and swinging the front gate open, continuing to walk forward with purpose. His eyes took in every detail, sight, sound, and smell, and if the group he was approaching were also evil and it came to action, he was ready. The door stood before him, and so far he had not been challenged. He knew they were watching because he’d seen a curtain move in a nearby window; a challenge was only moments away. He reached outward, grabbed the ornate doorknocker, and let it slam home a single time.
    Instantly the door opened partway, a rifle barrel poked out inches from his chest, and a surly voice snarled, "Who are you and what do you want!"
    "I am Reaper, or Jason if you prefer, and I've come to talk. I'm not with the marauders who attacked you, but I'm sure you know that already just from my appearance." The Reaper spoke calmly and then waited. It was important to remain calm, as heavy suspicion along with shoot first and ask questions later was the new order of life since the apocalypse. It was only a matter of seconds before the door opened wider, wide enough to admit him, if barely.
    "Come in quickly, hands raised. You'll be disarmed while we talk." The voice was no longer surly, simply apprehensive. The Reaper nodded as he raised his hands, holding his Remington upward by the fore grip, and strode forward into the dark interior. Immediately his rifle was taken from him, as was the Colt from its holster, the knife from his belt, and finally his rucksack. He waited as the hands roamed his body searching for other weapons and, finding none, a shadowy figure grasped his shoulder, pulling him forward further into the interior. Being disarmed did not unduly concern him. He could kill, and quickly, with more than the metal objects he carried.
    Lanterns lit the room he was now led to, and four adult males regarded him somberly. He watched as his weapons were laid on a nearby table, then his rucksack emptied on the floor, its contents examined closely. He continued to wait patiently as the men watched him suspiciously while somewhere nearby he could faintly hear the sounds of women and children. After carefully examining the tools of death that marked Jason's trade, and running one finger down the barrel of the modified M40A1, one of the men looked up at him with a guarded expression while the others continued to remain wary. He was older, perhaps mid-forties, with a short, military-style haircut and a lined face that bespoke a life of hard knocks.
    "A fine piece of equipment that you don't see very often, modified also if I had to guess. I assume you can use it."
    "It's served me well in the name of the Lord," replied the Reaper. The other man nodded at his words.
    "I think we should keep his weapons and throw him out!" blustered one of the men standing behind Jason. The Reaper cocked one eyebrow at the obvious leader, and decided then and there, that if it came down to a fight, he would take out the one who stood behind him first and then use his body as a shield while dealing with the others.
    "Shut up, Harry. I didn't ask you to speak, so don't piss me off. So where are you from, Jason Reaper?" A boot scuffed behind Jason but no new comments were forthcoming from that direction, and he spoke.
    "It’s Reaper, or Jason. Not both." The other nodded and waved a hand for Jason to go on. "I am originally from Newaygo, Michigan, but the Lord has given me a mission so I'm heading west, attempting to organize survivor groups to protect against evil both dead and alive." Another of the men gave a start at his words and leaned down to whisper something in the ear of