Read Online Mountain Man - 01 by Keith C. Blackmore - Free Book Online Page A

calmness of one used to playing first-person video games. He took the heads off two zombies with the gun in his right hand, while putting down the pelvis-shot zombie crawling towards him with his left. Three more had their faces shot off and wholly destroyed. A boy-sized zombie came around the corner of a car, not ten feet away from where he knelt, and Tenner took his time lining up the smaller cranium before bursting it with one squeeze of the trigger.
    Then there were no more.
    He got to his feet and surveyed the dead. The place had gotten much quieter. He shook out his arms, feeling the after-ache of firing so many rounds, and got to his feet. Carnage. Raw and unimpeded by anyone’s law, that was what he liked about the world of today, the ability to unleash hell and muzzle it as he saw fit. Jesus Christ and balls of holy hand grenades, but it was awe-inspiring. And satisfying––better than a cold beer after a ten kilometer hike, that was for sure. Tenner wanted the dead to rise again so he’d have just cause to blow the fuck out of them once more.
    They did not, however. Well, fuck ‘em , Tenner thought and went among the cars, searching. Nothing made a grab for him as he reached the Irving station’s open door and looked inside. The shelves had already been picked clean of supplies, not that he had expected to find anything. It was becoming harder to scavenge anything of use. He suspected that, unless he found the armory in Halifax, his days with the twins were numbered.
    He entered the station and walked to the men’s room. There, he holstered his pistols and took a leak, peeing in the sink, across the wall and broken urinal, and making a loop. Once finished, he tried the water and got not even a trickle. He flick-dried his hands, knowing they weren’t wet in the least, but not giving a shit. Next, he went through the restaurant area, ignoring the dry human remains littering the floor. The kitchen area was empty, as was the dining area. Nothing to scavenge anywhere. Unfortunate. Food might become a concern, as it was running low. Tenner thought it too bad that he couldn’t eat one of the zombies. That would make things bearable instead of foraging from town to town.
    Having made the stop, he figured he might as well get some gas. He walked back to his SUV and hauled out a twenty-liter red plastic gas container, a metal stake and mallet, a funnel, and two large plastic bowls. He went to the nearest car, a Dodge sedan, and got under it. He located the plastic tank and got the bowls into position to catch the falling gas. Tenner worked quietly, looking around occasionally, though he knew he’d hear anyone before he saw them. He punched a hole in the tank and let the gas flow into a bowl. Gasoline. Twenty years after peak oil, and the world still thirsted for it. Well, he mused, not anymore. It was probably the most abundant resource on the planet. Every derelict car and truck was a mini-deposit of regular or unleaded. He repeated the tapping process for six more cars until he filled the gas container. He used the container to top off the tank of the SUV, then filled the container again. Once finished, he lugged it back to the rear of his ride, grimacing at the weight. He secured the fuel in back, scanned the highway left and right, and sized up the Irving station.
    Quiet. Too damn quiet. The natives were obviously planning something. Chuckling, he removed his leather holsters. He hauled out a box of nine-millimeter shells, the hollow tip kind, and took the time to reload each of his pistols’ long magazines before placing them back into their toolboxes. Ordinarily, he would clean them at the end of an encounter, but being the only guy around was making him feel relaxed. He would do it tonight, just before sleep.
    Checking on the gas container and guns once more and ensuring all was secured for transport, Tenner closed the rear door and walked around to the driver’s side. He reached up and patted the plastic