Mountain Man - 01 (7 page)

*

Two days later, the hangover that had kept him glued to his sofa finally dissipated. Gus swore off all booze, but had a drink of rum and Coke by early afternoon, filling the glass half and half, trying hard to ignore how his hands shook as he poured. He shuffled through the house in warm pajamas, knowing he should be doing something, but not sure what. He finally decided to outfit the van again and get back up on the horse. There wasn’t much time before the snow came, and he used the thought of being cut off on the mountain for four months to get him moving.

Making his way to the garage, he consulted his mental list of what he needed and scratched off dildo. That made him smile.

Cold air embraced him as he opened the door to the garage and went around to the rear of the van. He opened the doors and pulled out the duffel bag full of the items picked up on the last trip. He looked back to see if he had everything and noticed a spray of holes in one side of the beast.

Gus’s jaw dropped.

Someone had shot at him.

He went around to the van’s side and ran a hand over the wide cluster of bullet holes. Obviously a shotgun blast, but who would want to fire on him? Someone in the house? Not possible, as he checked it from top to bottom. Someone in another house? That made sense, but why? It was one thing to have to worry about gimps, but to add a shooter to the mix made things worse. Who had he managed to piss off enough for them to take a shot at him? He stood back and thought about when the zombies had crowded in, pounding on the walls of the van as he escaped. Then a thought hit him.

Maybe the shooter had been taking some of the heat off of him.

That put an entirely new spin on things. There might be living people in the subdivision, and he had left them behind to face a mob of gimps he had attracted in the first place. As much as he thought being alone was a good thing, he didn’t like leaving behind people who tried to help him. And he had left them down in the city for two whole days while he got drunk, then recovered from a hangover. The notion sank his heart, and he slumped against the van. What were the odds whoever might be down there was still alive after two days?

The black SUV came from the east, from the direction of the Cape Breton Highlands. It followed the Trans-Canada Highway all the way down to Halifax County, where it eventually hooked up with Highway 101. Having never visited that part of the country before, the driver thought he would take the scenic route and make the best of it. He had all the time in the world to play tourist, and he knew that sometimes, great bits of fun could be had on side excursions. The final destination remained Halifax, and the armory located there, but it didn’t concern him if he got there this week or next. He suddenly longed to see the valley and the city of Annapolis.

The landscape meandered by, and as he drove around the occasional derelict car or truck, he admired the colors of the season. He pushed a button on the armrest, and the window came down. A blast of fresh air rushed into the interior, and he took a great whiff, missing the smell of burning leaves. That was one thing he loved about fall in Nova Scotia, that wonderful drifting scent that would cut under one’s nose when least expected. No longer, however, he thought with a frown. Maybe even not ever again. Unless he was the one doing the burning.

An Irving roadside service station came into view, with a number of cars and trucks parked around it. He had always enjoyed the meals at the restaurant attached to the station, back when the world still had all of its marbles. He glanced at the fuel gauge and saw that the tank was half empty.
Why not
? he thought, and flicked on his indicator. It was important to him to observe the rules of the road.

He pulled into the parking lot, parallel with the gas pumps, and let the motor run for a moment, craning his neck to see if there was any reaction from inside. He saw none, but knew that really didn’t mean anything. Opening the door, he got out of the SUV and stretched. Standing at almost six-five, he thought of himself as a high cross of a man, thanks to his broad shoulders. His frame had been much more powerful two years ago when he maintained a better diet, but lately, he felt his strength ebbing away. Motorcycle boots covered his feet, complementing a pair of faded black jeans and a drab-looking, dark-olive sweater. His black hair, streaked with silver, ended in a fox’s tail at the back of his head. The silver in his hair highlighted the silver pricks deep in otherwise black eyes. Shark’s eyes, he liked to think. Soulless and hungry looking. Back in the day, his name was Joseph Tenner. He thought of himself as simply Tenner. It possessed a certain
Road Warrior
charm about it.

Tenner gazed at the cloudy morning sky and took another breath. He walked around to the rear of the SUV, depressing a button on his key fob and getting an answering chirp. He opened the rear door and squinted at the station, thinking he should’ve worn his sunglasses. He reached in and took out twin leather holsters, which he leisurely slipped one arm into and then the other.

From the station came a hissing. Tenner paused in arming himself and placed one hand on an aluminum bat that he sometimes used. The hissing continued, from multiple points, but he didn’t see any targets. From the back of the vehicle, he extracted a Glock 18. The older pieces were more for show at one time, as were most of the other weapons in the back of his ride, but they were just as good as anything else out there, based solely on availability. Or in other words, they were the weapons his father had stockpiled in his basement as part of his once very illegal gun collection, complete with ammunition. Tenner had to hand it to dear old Dad. What point was there in having a cache of automatic weapons if you had no ammunition for them? Like a broken pencil––pointless.

The hissing intensified, and he heard the scuffing of footsteps. Moans. He should’ve worn his sunglasses, but they were up front.

Tenner loaded an extended magazine capable of holding thirty-three rounds into the Glock 18. He flicked the selector switch to semi-automatic, not wanting to blow his load too quickly. He then pulled out the twin of the Glock and loaded it as well. He holstered both pistols, inspecting each magazine.

In the shine of the SUV’s body, he could see a shadow lumbering toward him from behind. His peripheral vision picked up movement coming at him from the station itself. It was a veritable mob. Tenner would never have suspected the Irving station to be such a welcoming pit stop for so many motorists.

He looked over his remaining weapons and ammunition in the rear, wondering if there was anything he missed. None he could see. He didn’t like using the heavier stuff for such occasions, preferring the more personal devastation of the pistols. Believing he was ready, he turned around and saw the first zombie staggering toward him with its black mouth open. About a dozen others followed.

“Philistines.” He wasn’t religious, but he liked the sound of the word. He drew both of his pistols and extended his arms.

In three seconds, he unleashed thunder at the zombies, their heads exploding with each measured shot and their bodies dropping in rapid sequence. The last zombie spun with half of its skull missing, and Tenner put a finishing bullet into the brain matter that remained. He then turned to face the zombies coming at him from the station. Tenner stepped away from his SUV, waiting patiently for the zombies to close, shaking out the shock in his arms from firing the Glocks so rapidly. His father would have bawled him out for doing that. His father didn’t need much of a reason to bawl him out, which was one of the reasons Tenner had had no problem putting a bullet in the old bastard’s head. The old man had already turned into a zombie, but that was beside the point.

One corpse stepped out from behind a sedan, and Tenner took aim. The head shattered when he fired, and Tenner mentally thanked his old man for not only stockpiling the weapons and ammo, but the hollow points as well. Well over two thousand rounds of ammunition. If Tenner didn’t know better, he would’ve thought his father had actually anticipated the rise of the Philistines and prepared accordingly. That, or he just felt nothing killed better than the specialized bullets. Tenner had to admit that having the extended twins in his hands gave him an incredible surge of power. With his boys, he felt there wasn’t much on the highway he couldn’t handle. And if there was, well, that was just more of a challenge.

Tenner fired a round into the kneecap of one zombie, exploding the joint, while at the same time blowing a huge hole in and out of the body of another. He chastised himself for wasting bullets, but
goddamn
if it didn’t feel good to play. He executed both corpses as they tried to rise from the ground, the tops of their heads splattering to the stutter of the Glocks. He took an arm off at the shoulder of one, spinning the zombie about like a top before stopping its whirl by firing a round into its ear. He blasted the heads off three in quick succession before dropping to a knee, sighting another target, and blowing out one zombie’s pelvic region. He turned from left to right, killing the undead with the focused 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 carrier on top, where he stowed a few extra goodies. He got behind the wheel and started up the engine.

Ahead lay the carcass of one of the Philistines. Headless and staining the asphalt with brain matter.

A bad place to lie down, Tenner thought, and shifted into drive.

He slowly drove over the unmoving body, relishing the soft squish and bump as it went underneath his wheels.

Gus replaced his motorcycle jacket with his spare, thankful for the practice of keeping at least two of everything when he could, and hosed the dead matter off the van and grill guard. That was one thing he didn’t like doing, cleaning up after hitting some of the fuckers. He didn’t throw the damaged jacket away, thinking perhaps he could repair it somehow later.