pistol, yanking it out of his vest.
“That’s my gun!” Washington cried out. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking it from you until you learn how to use it,” Peterson said.
“What do you mean? I saved Tag’s life!”
“But you nearly killed us all. You NEVER fire around an open gas leak,” Peterson scolded.
Washington looked like a chided schoolboy.
Peterson looked over and saw Cash, on the far side of the chopper, leaning all the way out.
What the fuck was he doing?
At just that moment, Peterson saw him take out a flare gun, lean all the way out and take aim.
“NO!” Peterson screamed.
But it was too late. There was the muted pop of a flare gun shot.
Peterson looks out just in time to see the glowing flare hit the gas stained ground.
A massive explosion suddenly lifted up into the air. The chopper was already a good hundred feet off the ground—but that barely mattered. The ball of flames rose and rose, and the shockwave sent the aircraft rocking wildly. Peterson could feel the heat, too uncomfortably close to his face.
Luckily, the explosion stopped just low enough to spare them.
It was a glory shot. Cash had aimed for the gas tanks, just as the hundreds of zombies had surrounded it, and the gas that had been pouring out everywhere lit up. It was a massive explosion, taking out hundreds of zombies with a single shot. And the fire below spread and spread, over the grass, over the zombies, like wildfire.
But it has also shot up into the sky, like a mushroom cloud, so high, it nearly consumed the chopper.
Peterson was in a rage. He’d always known Cash to be a reckless soldier—but he’d never realized that he was stupid, too.
While the other teammates were yelling in approval, Peterson lunged across the chopper, grabbed Cash with both hands by his shirt, and pulled him close.
“You do something so stupid again, Corporal, and I’ll throw you out this bird myself. Understood?”
Cash stared him down, a wild craziness in his eyes. Peterson realized that he could not be controlled, that it was like trying to scold a wild stallion.
But finally, something, somewhere, deep down from military discipline must have finally clicked into Cash’s mind. He grudgingly nodded.
“Sir?” came a hesitant voice.
As Peterson sat back, he turned and looked over. It was the rookie. Johnny-Boy.
“But wasn’t that a good thing? He killed, like, 300 of those things with a single shot.”
“And what’s that going to do us?” Armstrong asked the boy. “By now there must be 300 million more behind that.”
CHAPTER TEN
This isn’t just one of those missions. . .it’s worse , Peterson thought. Beirut came to his mind. 1987. He’d had a mission were everything went wrong from the start. There wasn’t enough manpower. The enemy Intel was underestimated. There was no exit strategy….He’d lost some of his closest friends on that mission, and he still had three scars from bullet wounds to show for it. He was the only one who’d made it out alive, and all throughout it, he’d never thought he would. He’d had a bad feeling about that one, from the second they’d set out, a feeling that no matter what they did, things would just get worse. He hadn’t had that feeling for at least 25 years.
Until now.
From the start, it was like a black cloud was hanging over them. It was that gritty, awful, unshakable feeling, deep in his gut, that things would just keep snowballing, just keep going wrong, until they spiraled down to the bottom a black hole where life merged with hell. This one was jinxed, he was convinced of it now. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but then again, he could only ignore the signs for so long. He wanted out of it already. He wanted any other mission except for this one. And ironically, he was the one in charge.
Not that he planned on losing, or backing down. He didn’t. He’d get whatever the hell it was his bosses needed, find a way to keep his men safe,
“That’s my gun!” Washington cried out. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking it from you until you learn how to use it,” Peterson said.
“What do you mean? I saved Tag’s life!”
“But you nearly killed us all. You NEVER fire around an open gas leak,” Peterson scolded.
Washington looked like a chided schoolboy.
Peterson looked over and saw Cash, on the far side of the chopper, leaning all the way out.
What the fuck was he doing?
At just that moment, Peterson saw him take out a flare gun, lean all the way out and take aim.
“NO!” Peterson screamed.
But it was too late. There was the muted pop of a flare gun shot.
Peterson looks out just in time to see the glowing flare hit the gas stained ground.
A massive explosion suddenly lifted up into the air. The chopper was already a good hundred feet off the ground—but that barely mattered. The ball of flames rose and rose, and the shockwave sent the aircraft rocking wildly. Peterson could feel the heat, too uncomfortably close to his face.
Luckily, the explosion stopped just low enough to spare them.
It was a glory shot. Cash had aimed for the gas tanks, just as the hundreds of zombies had surrounded it, and the gas that had been pouring out everywhere lit up. It was a massive explosion, taking out hundreds of zombies with a single shot. And the fire below spread and spread, over the grass, over the zombies, like wildfire.
But it has also shot up into the sky, like a mushroom cloud, so high, it nearly consumed the chopper.
Peterson was in a rage. He’d always known Cash to be a reckless soldier—but he’d never realized that he was stupid, too.
While the other teammates were yelling in approval, Peterson lunged across the chopper, grabbed Cash with both hands by his shirt, and pulled him close.
“You do something so stupid again, Corporal, and I’ll throw you out this bird myself. Understood?”
Cash stared him down, a wild craziness in his eyes. Peterson realized that he could not be controlled, that it was like trying to scold a wild stallion.
But finally, something, somewhere, deep down from military discipline must have finally clicked into Cash’s mind. He grudgingly nodded.
“Sir?” came a hesitant voice.
As Peterson sat back, he turned and looked over. It was the rookie. Johnny-Boy.
“But wasn’t that a good thing? He killed, like, 300 of those things with a single shot.”
“And what’s that going to do us?” Armstrong asked the boy. “By now there must be 300 million more behind that.”
CHAPTER TEN
This isn’t just one of those missions. . .it’s worse , Peterson thought. Beirut came to his mind. 1987. He’d had a mission were everything went wrong from the start. There wasn’t enough manpower. The enemy Intel was underestimated. There was no exit strategy….He’d lost some of his closest friends on that mission, and he still had three scars from bullet wounds to show for it. He was the only one who’d made it out alive, and all throughout it, he’d never thought he would. He’d had a bad feeling about that one, from the second they’d set out, a feeling that no matter what they did, things would just get worse. He hadn’t had that feeling for at least 25 years.
Until now.
From the start, it was like a black cloud was hanging over them. It was that gritty, awful, unshakable feeling, deep in his gut, that things would just keep snowballing, just keep going wrong, until they spiraled down to the bottom a black hole where life merged with hell. This one was jinxed, he was convinced of it now. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but then again, he could only ignore the signs for so long. He wanted out of it already. He wanted any other mission except for this one. And ironically, he was the one in charge.
Not that he planned on losing, or backing down. He didn’t. He’d get whatever the hell it was his bosses needed, find a way to keep his men safe,
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