You and Me against the World: The Creepers Saga Book 1 by Raymond Esposito

the Creepers as he made his way out of the fishing department. Fish finders were fine, but the rack of shotguns in the gun department would even the odds a bit. He grabbed a canoe paddle when his assistant manager came down his aisle. One of her arms was just a bloody stump, but that hadn’t slowed her. She screamed at Connor in a mad howl. The sound was close enough to the one she’d made when he had shown up late last Saturday morning. He opened up her skull with the paddle, and she went down, twitching. He walked past, gave it a second thought, and returned. He took another hard swing at her head, and the twitches stopped.
    A rather large fellow in a green camo trucker’s hat grabbed Connor’s arm.
    “Fuck, man, you gotta help me. Is there another exit? The front is blocked.”
    The guy was no less than 250 pounds, and Connor was disgusted by the guy’s tears.
    “Don’t you think we should help these people?” Connor asked as calm as if he were asking about the weather.
    “Fuck that, I’m savin’ my own ass, and you should too,” the sniveling, selfish moose said.
    “You’re right, sir. There’s an exit right through that door.” Connor pointed to a corner door.
    The guy considered it with measured suspicion.
    “But there’s no exit sign over that door,” he said.
    “I know. It’s an employee exit. Just follow the hallway.”
    “Okay, thanks, man. Aren’t you coming?”
    “I’ve got to get my little sister. She’s in the break room,” Connor lied. “Will you help me?”
    “No can do, but good luck.”
    “You too,” Connor said.
    He watched the big man run to the door. Two Creepers saw the big meal and gave chase. The guy threw the door open and went through. The Creepers followed.
    “Dead end, fucker,” Connor said and laughed. That short hallway led to a storage closet.
    Connor reached the gun counter. He was alone on this side of the store. He smashed the glass case and took out a Mossberg pump action. He kicked open an ammunition drawer and dumped the shells onto the counter. He fed them into the gun and then pulled more guns from the rack. His cell phone rang.
    “Yeah …. Yep, I’m at work … Getting guns. Pick me up in front … Nope, don’t come in … Two words—fuckin’ blood bath … I guess that is three … I’ll carry what we need … Gotta go.”
    A woman galloped at him. He picked up the shotgun and blew her head away in a spray of blood and bone. He went around the counter and grabbed the largest bags he could find. He filled them with as much as he could carry and then headed out the emergency exit.
    Kevin Bradley and the HOA
     
    Kevin Bradley had just finished an oil change on his Chevy Silverado when he heard an engine roar. He wiped his hands on a dirty rag and walked out of his garage. His curiosity over the noise’s source was second to his desire to witness Mr. Jenks’s reaction. He wanted to see if Mr. Jenks would rush outside with his little notebook. Mr. Jenks was the Homeowners’ Association’s volunteer compliance agent. The man was ruthless in the execution of his duties, citing every weed, every dirty mailbox, and every extra car in a driveway. A race down the street would certainly draw Mr. Jenks and his big stack of violation forms.
    The big Buick came down the street too fast for their residential area. Actually, it drove too fast for any street. It swayed from left to right and back again, as if the driver could only estimate where he wanted to steer. Kevin took a step back when the big street boat angled in his direction. The car overcorrected its course and headed for Mr. Jenks’s yard instead. A very un-Christian-like thought surfaced as he considered the absolute rage Jenks would display if the car careened across his perfectly manicured lawn.
    The violation sheets will fly , Kevin thought with a smile and then chastised himself.
    Mr. Jenks appeared at his front door. The skinny old man, with his Marine buzz cut, stormed through the door