HAHAHAHA!!!!! Fucking BRILLIANT! Check this out: After nightfall, it rained hard. The tapping on the tower lulled us all to sleep after we shot the shit about days gone by… typical war story stuff. I shared the “stickup kid” story but deftly left out the poopy-pants part. I couldn’t let these guys know that I was SUPER green compared to them lest I look like a jerk-off.
Morning was all business. I helped Cutty pack up while Junior went outside and scouted our westward path with the rifle scope. We reconvened at the bottom of the ladder and Junior let us know that he saw two directly in our path.
“Why you ain’t shoot ‘em?”, Cutty asked in his typical vernacular.
Junior informed us that he spotted another twelve or so about a hundred and fifty yards to the south of the pair and he wasn’t going to waste the ammo or make the noise and attract the modest herd. It would be easier if Cutty handled them. Except it came out like, “Twelve more yonder. Ain’t gon’ shoot and draw ‘em in when we can jes’ bash ‘em all quiet like… ‘sides, I ain’t no walkin’ ammo shop.”
We got it.
Now, I gotta say this… Cutty takes out biters like it’s his fucking JOB. I mean, he’s a beast. We crept up within twenty yards and hunkered down. Junior chambered a round and I made sure my pea-shooter had six just in case things didn’t go to plan. I took a look over at Cutty and he was holding… get this… two big-ass machetes. Cutty, hehe. Now I get it.
We were in a sparsely wooded area between the field and the service road that led to the depot so the cover was working in our favor. Cutty went ahead and did work. He didn’t even bother to flank them as he charged in at a full run and swung hard. The first geek dropped like a ragdoll as Cutty’s downward chop split its head straight down the middle.
I mouthed the words, “What. The. Fuck.” at Junior when I saw that the hit came down so hard that he bisected this bitch from the top of her head to right between her tits. He left the blade in her for the time being and spun full circle, baseball style, and caught the second just along it’s temple. This one fell sideways and landed on the other with it’s top open like a canteen. Not a clean cut all the way through but it didn’t need to be. He retrieved his blade and stood over them. I shit you not, he fuckin’ flexed on them like the Incredible Hulk. Junior winked at me and moved up to meet him.
It was suddenly obvious that it was no piece of farm equipment that stood in the middle of that blank spot in the field. Junior must have provided cover fire from a distance, hence the ones without heads, while Cutty stood in the middle and did his best helicopter impression. I was beginning to like these two.
Junior looked at the two on the ground and addressed Cutty as usual with, “Half-assed job as usual, dumbshit. Didn’t even take his top all the way off.” He spit a mouthful of that foul tobacco juice on them and looked up almost as if he was hoping for a comeback from Cutty.
He was met with a snort and a head shake followed swiftly by, “I see you was back there spectatin’ an’ shit.”
I interjected hoping to avoid another round with these two and snapped, “If you two ladies are finished, we got a ride to catch.” Lucky for me, they simply mumbled to one another as we moved on.
We hoofed it the rest of the way down to the service road in silence… focused. I could see the domes of the big salt silos first but as we reached the fence line of the depot I knew we were in the shit. We held up to make a plan.
Cutty looked me straight in the eyes and said, “A’ight homie, time ta earn ya keep. Ma turn to spectate.”
There were about fourteen shuffling around the yard inside the fence. All of them were wearing state-ish uniforms and obviously employees. I didn’t want to fathom what happened to turn them all. Nevertheless, the gate a little further down the road was clearly locked up tight and the little shack they were milling around looked like it held nothing more than a breakroom and a dispatch office. It was also clear that Cutty wasn’t getting his big ass over that fence leaving me and Junior to get to the plows lined up about twenty five yards away along the rear fence. Cutty boosted Junior up so he could easily get over and I climbed on my own.
Junior broke left toward the dome and whistled which easily grabbed the attention of the geeks and they shambled in his direction leaving me room to break into a full sprint towards the trucks. I had hoped I could hop in, turn the key, and smash the gate but nothing comes that easily these days. With Junior distracting the biters and Cutty keeping watch on the bigger picture, I hit the line of seven trucks and pulled the handle on the first one. Fuck! Locked. Second. FUCK. Locked. Third… Wasting time here… Fuck-fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. Locked. Sure as shit the keys are sitting in the office, no doubt hung on a board under the proper truck number.
I broke for the shack but not before three of Junior’s fanbase spotted me. Junior was kinda funny actually. He was just circling the dome with the pack in tow all the while hootin’ and hollerin’ like some sort of demented rodeo clown, “Come an’ git it, pussbags! Come an’ git you some!”
I hit the shack door and flew inside as the three behind me closed the gap. I locked the door behind me and broke right. Inside the office I scanned for anything that might shout, “Hey, asshole! Keys are in HERE!” Then I smelled it. That unmistakable mix of roadkill, garbage, shit, piss… -death-. A glance to my rear confirmed that one must’ve been in the breakroom and I had just locked myself inside a cramped shack with a goddamn stinkface. Fuck those keys. I pulled my little .38 and took aim. BAM!
Now, I can’t shoot to begin with… add to that nerves and my eyes watering from the smell and needless to say my first shot, from eight feet away, missed by a country mile. He kept comin’. Making that throaty whine, face all fucked up, eyes sunken in… four feet… I aimed again… three feet and closing… two feet. BAM! Dude, the gun was –touching- his forehead when I finally squeezed off. Brain and skull and black blood spray painted the floor behind him and you better believe I didn’t stick around long enough to even see him drop. I was grabbing the desk chair and preparing to bust out the window to make my exit. Surely the three from outside had reached the door by now.
Outside, we were well and truly fucked. All of Junior’s geeks were now heading my way as well as the three from the door thanks to all the noise. I could see behind the pack that Junior had displaced and was taking aim. I also noted Cutty now up on my left and outside of the gate shaking it in an effort to distract a few. Some of them broke off from the pack and headed his way.
And then…. Like rain from heaven itself Junior’s rounds found a home. One of the door biters dropped. Then another. Finally the third fell and I caught a glimmer in the sunlight.
“Please… please, please, please be what I think you are.”, my mind raced. Now, with a lane back to the trucks and with Junior’s covering fire I headed to the downed geeks and son-of-a-bitch if there wasn’t a keyring on stinky’s belt. The snap-on kind too. I snatched it off and broke into a run to the trucks while I fidgeted with they keys. One had the number seventeen taped to it. I could only hope.
I called to Junior, “Seventeen, seventeen… find truck seventeen!!!!”
He laid down two more geeks and broke for the trucks. I not only beat him to the line but I found seventeen on my own. At my gesture, Junior hopped in the dump bed and perched his rifle over the truck’s roof. Geeks were closing in on us yet again but as I fired up the engine I could see their heads popping like bloody water balloons. Surgical indeed, Junior… surgical indeed.
I laid into the rest with the plow and accelerated toward the gate. It was the SHIT! Dukes of Hazzard-style we busted that bitch right open and then I slammed the brakes throwing six or eight geeks that had been gathered by the plow about twelve feet into the woods to the left of the road.
I scooted over to the passenger seat and Cutty hopped in to take my place at the wheel.
He grinned as he took off and said, “Dayum, nigga…. You’s a runnin’ muh fucka.”
I couldn’t say a single thing back to him. I was wheezing like a bitch.
So here we are. Thirty five miles to salvation and I’m in the passenger seat of a snow plow with Snoop-Dogg to my left and Garth Brooks back there in the dump bed letting the wind blow through his hair like a retarded labrador. Things are lookin’ up.