jawbone with it. A millisecond later
the unfazed first turn marched headlong into the second speeding bullet which
entered its right eye socket and exited out back along with the entire contents
of its cranium. The wet mess, propelled by an incredible amount of kinetic
energy, spread out and splashed the four remaining monsters with something
resembling rancid ground chuck.
Cade moved his aim right
but found the telescoping side mirror between him and any kind of a reasonable
shot, so he backed off the brake and goosed the accelerator. The truck lurched
forward a yard or so, leaving him a better angle on target; as he waited their
approach, the creatures started in with their raspy snarls, setting the hairs
on his neck standing on end.
He drew a bead on the
blinding white pate of the nearest and put a closely spaced double-tap into the
center of the horseshoe-shaped clearing atop the Z’s head. Then he walked six
rapid-fire shots across a flat plane. Halos of pink mist bloomed into the air
as the three flesh eaters fell to the blacktop in a moldering heap.
Cade changed magazines
with practiced movements, placed the pistol on the seat and powered the truck
through a tight one-eighty. He rolled up adjacent to the hardware store with
the Ford’s pug-like snout pointing west towards Colorado Springs and the thin
smudge of mountains on the horizon. Then, with the Ford straddling the curb and
blocking the recessed entrance to Abe’s, he slid across the leather bench,
popped the door, and jumped out onto the sidewalk.
Chapter 8
Outbreak - Day 15
Schriever AFB
Colorado Springs.
Colorado
Trying his best to
remain calm, cool, and collected—when in fact his guts were churning—Wilson
covertly tracked the new girl out of the corner of his eye. The sensation in
his stomach reminded him of the teen angst he’d lived with all throughout high
school. Wanting so badly to talk to the new girl, any girl for that matter, on
the first day of school—the hours spent building up false self-confidence until
lunch period—then the shame he’d shouldered because he could never follow
through. The pressure cooker build up coupled with the lack of release made him
feel like the antithesis of Yellowstone Park’s Old Faithful.
“She’s coming this way,”
Sasha said, a little too loud for comfort.
Might as well use a
megaphone , Wilson thought. His
face flushed hot as he panned his head back to twelve o’clock, then tore his
eyes from her, panned them forward, slowly, incrementally, only to meet Sasha’s
prosecutorial gaze. “Who is she and what the heck are you talking about
Sis?”
“Her,” Sasha said,
pointing at the dark haired young woman with a stabbing motion of her spoon.
“You’ve been hawking her since she walked in the door. Like a cheetah watching
a gazelle. Heck, if you had a tail, Wilson, it would have been twitching. Nothing, and I mean nothing , gets past me.” Sasha smiled, then shoveled in
another spoonful of oatmeal.
“I wasn’t watching
her...” he lied, dragging out the word ‘her’ as if the lithe, toned and
tanned woman were well below his standards—she a mutt and he the star
quarterback. In reality, a puddle of mental drool an inch deep had pooled
around his boots on the Formica floor.
“I’m calling bullshit,
Wilson,” Sasha blurted.
He stared daggers.
“Language, Sash.”
Busting his balls in new
and different ways was a constantly evolving talent in which Sasha took great
pride. The frequency and tone had gotten worse since their mom had gone missing
the day Washington D.C. fell to the dead. He didn’t understand her. Most kids
her age found pleasure in reading. Some even enjoyed lusting over the long dead
and gone boy bands. Sasha—she just enjoyed fucking with him. He had to hand it
to the fourteen-year-old; she had a knack for getting under his skin. And when
she found a chink in his armor—which happened often because there were many—the
needling and jabbing and
the unfazed first turn marched headlong into the second speeding bullet which
entered its right eye socket and exited out back along with the entire contents
of its cranium. The wet mess, propelled by an incredible amount of kinetic
energy, spread out and splashed the four remaining monsters with something
resembling rancid ground chuck.
Cade moved his aim right
but found the telescoping side mirror between him and any kind of a reasonable
shot, so he backed off the brake and goosed the accelerator. The truck lurched
forward a yard or so, leaving him a better angle on target; as he waited their
approach, the creatures started in with their raspy snarls, setting the hairs
on his neck standing on end.
He drew a bead on the
blinding white pate of the nearest and put a closely spaced double-tap into the
center of the horseshoe-shaped clearing atop the Z’s head. Then he walked six
rapid-fire shots across a flat plane. Halos of pink mist bloomed into the air
as the three flesh eaters fell to the blacktop in a moldering heap.
Cade changed magazines
with practiced movements, placed the pistol on the seat and powered the truck
through a tight one-eighty. He rolled up adjacent to the hardware store with
the Ford’s pug-like snout pointing west towards Colorado Springs and the thin
smudge of mountains on the horizon. Then, with the Ford straddling the curb and
blocking the recessed entrance to Abe’s, he slid across the leather bench,
popped the door, and jumped out onto the sidewalk.
Chapter 8
Outbreak - Day 15
Schriever AFB
Colorado Springs.
Colorado
Trying his best to
remain calm, cool, and collected—when in fact his guts were churning—Wilson
covertly tracked the new girl out of the corner of his eye. The sensation in
his stomach reminded him of the teen angst he’d lived with all throughout high
school. Wanting so badly to talk to the new girl, any girl for that matter, on
the first day of school—the hours spent building up false self-confidence until
lunch period—then the shame he’d shouldered because he could never follow
through. The pressure cooker build up coupled with the lack of release made him
feel like the antithesis of Yellowstone Park’s Old Faithful.
“She’s coming this way,”
Sasha said, a little too loud for comfort.
Might as well use a
megaphone , Wilson thought. His
face flushed hot as he panned his head back to twelve o’clock, then tore his
eyes from her, panned them forward, slowly, incrementally, only to meet Sasha’s
prosecutorial gaze. “Who is she and what the heck are you talking about
Sis?”
“Her,” Sasha said,
pointing at the dark haired young woman with a stabbing motion of her spoon.
“You’ve been hawking her since she walked in the door. Like a cheetah watching
a gazelle. Heck, if you had a tail, Wilson, it would have been twitching. Nothing, and I mean nothing , gets past me.” Sasha smiled, then shoveled in
another spoonful of oatmeal.
“I wasn’t watching
her...” he lied, dragging out the word ‘her’ as if the lithe, toned and
tanned woman were well below his standards—she a mutt and he the star
quarterback. In reality, a puddle of mental drool an inch deep had pooled
around his boots on the Formica floor.
“I’m calling bullshit,
Wilson,” Sasha blurted.
He stared daggers.
“Language, Sash.”
Busting his balls in new
and different ways was a constantly evolving talent in which Sasha took great
pride. The frequency and tone had gotten worse since their mom had gone missing
the day Washington D.C. fell to the dead. He didn’t understand her. Most kids
her age found pleasure in reading. Some even enjoyed lusting over the long dead
and gone boy bands. Sasha—she just enjoyed fucking with him. He had to hand it
to the fourteen-year-old; she had a knack for getting under his skin. And when
she found a chink in his armor—which happened often because there were many—the
needling and jabbing and
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