The McClane Apocalypse Book 4 (23 page)

“Easy, boy,” he says quietly. “I’ll
be back. Think about hot
chics
and getting laid.” The stallion
snorts at him impatiently and paws
at
the cement floor.

Cory removes three extra magazines
of ammo for his rifle from the saddle bag and heads back out into
danger. A woman’s cry of terror comes from his west. This is the
direction he jogs,
using the
buildings and vehicles as cover and to prevent
himself from being shot. It doesn’t take long to find them.
They are less than a hundred yards from him. A dead body is on the
sidewalk already. There are four men with guns who appear to be
terrorizing a small group of people outside of a Gothic style stone
church. There are women and children crying and huddling close
together. Another woman and an older man are leaned over the dead
body of a man and sobbing. He needs a good fighting
position.

Cory spots the perfect place, an
apartment building with many windows facing the area he needs to
view. He sprints
low
to the
six-story
building, moves quickly inside
and scans the area. The building seems empty. Nobody is squatting
on the
main
level that he swiftly previews. No lighting source comes from
anywhere that he can see. The long hallway leading to the
first-floor
apartments is eerily dark, but no movement alerts him. The
smell of mold is overwhelming. Fungus grows up the walls and doors
like black stains expressing the torment of the
once-inhabited
structure. This
building has apparently flooded, likely the first winter after the
apocalypse. There are two suitcases sitting unattended near the
elevator. He’s guessing that special vacation to the
Bahamas
or some
other exotic destination was never taken.

He runs up two flights, taking the
stairs two and three at a time. Not a soul is in sight. He jogs
left down a hall toward the west-facing façade of the building. He
cautiously opens an apartment door and scans the rooms within.
Nobody resides here
anymore
and likely have not for some time. Fortunately,
the dead smell isn’t
residing
here, either. He hates that
nasty smell. He goes back to the entrance and locks the door so
that nobody can come up behind him. As he assumed, there are no
people still living in apartment 2C. He crosses the main living
room still dotted with furniture and belongings covered in a thick
blanketing of gray dust, slides up a narrow window and cuts a hole
in the screen with his
pocket
knife.

The hoodlums are still yelling and frightening
the group of people below him across the street. One of the men has
a woman held to his front against her will. He’s holding a gun to
her head, has an arm around her waist and is threatening the
others. Another man has a woman on her hands and knees and is
simulating what he’ll do to her later. The other three are laughing
and egging him on. She’s crying and trying to crawl away. The man
just yanks her back by her blonde hair. Her clothing is wet from
the snow, her palms an angry red from being cold.

Cory calmly screws his
silencer
onto
the end of his rifle. He doesn’t feel rushed, but he wastes no
time in taking action. These assholes are enjoying their
monologue
showmanship and fear-mongering. A short creep screams in a
rage at one of the people and then shoots the man point blank to
the chest. Apparently their negotiations aren’t going
well.

Cory takes a few breaths to slow
and steady his heart rate even further. Kelly gave him books on
snipers like Carlos Hathcock and Chris Kyle so that he could
further educate himself even beyond what the men had taught him.
Simon is a natural
sniper
, though. He is probably by far
the best long distance shot on the farm. Cory’s specialty is
hand-to-hand combat and stalking. All three of the Rangers at the
farm believe in self-improvement through education and have
encouraged him and Simon to work
on
their skills.

He flicks off the safety, hooks his
index finger into the trigger slot and takes aim through his Zeiss
scope. A firm squeeze and pop, one target down. The woman he’d been
holding lets out a bone-chilling scream as blood and brain matter
splatter against the side of her face. Cory aims
again,
this time
on the asshole who’d just
murdered
an unarmed old man. Another pop
and target two
is
down. The other two realize they are being sniped
and turn to flee. Cory shoots and kills the first with two
quick-succession shots to the man’s back. He knows they are both
kill shots. He watches the man’s blood and tissue spray against the
wall of the building he’d been running toward. The fourth is out of
range as he avoids the building his friend was
running
toward. He changes
direction and runs northbound for his life. Time to stalk on
foot.

Cory sprints down the stairs of the
apartment building, this time using the back exit. It brings him
around slightly to the south of the terrified people who had still
not spotted him. Cory
jogs
at a steady pace down an
alley,
turns left and keeps going.
His heavy duty boots give him good traction in the snow, and he’s
not too worried about being tracked, not when he’s the worst sort
of death stalker this city’s ever seen. He’s never been in better
shape in his life. For almost four years, he’s been in constant
training mode on the farm. He’s gone up two sizes in clothing, now
wearing an XL. His shoulders are
wide
and
strong
and match the muscles in his back
from chopping and hand splitting firewood, handling livestock and
loading and unloading thousands of bales of hay. The men took him
and Simon on every mission immediately following their basic
training. He knows how to kill a man with a gun, a knife, an
improvised weapon like a piece of metal or
glass,
or hell, just his bare
hands. He can build and set human traps, animal
traps
and snares. Weapons
training was not the only drills that he’d
been
put through. He also knows how
to build explosive devices and small bombs and how to detonate
them. Knowing when to do E & E is also
important
. Escape and evade isn’t
one of his favorite activities, but he understands the importance
of knowing when he’s outgunned and outmatched. It doesn’t
happen often
. Cory
feels no fear. His heartbeat is even. His composure is not ruffled
in the least. This will be an easy hunt. Unless Cory’s opponent has
a time travel escape pod, he’s fucked.

He must find the runner. The man
could be joining back up with others. He may report back to a
larger group to tell them that someone has killed the other three
men. He could possibly bring others back to attack the people in
front of the church. There can be no quarter offered to this man.
He pauses and
listens at
the corner of two streets, waiting for his perp to
give himself away. It doesn’t take long.

Cory hears the faint rattling of metal or
steel being shaken or tested and turns in that direction. It only
takes him a second to find the other man who is disappearing into a
short, square building’s front door as Cory rounds the corner. He
will try to enter through the rear. He runs to the back of the
small, cement block building and finds the door already pried open.
Easy enough. He steps gingerly around debris, careful not to kick
anything and alert his prey. He’s in some kind of a restaurant.
Cory leads with his rifle and moves into the dining area, finding
the man peering frightfully out the front display
window.

“Hey,” he calls softly, startling the other
man.

The perp swings his shotgun toward him, and
Cory drills him in the right shoulder, causing the man to drop his
weapon. Then he shoots him once more in the left thigh, disabling
the man which makes him cry out in anguish. Sliding down the wall
and window and leaving a trail of blood from his shoulder wound,
his prey drops to the dirty linoleum floor.

“Please, man!” he screams and begs. “Please,
don’t kill me.”

Cory steps around an overturned table and
walks closer to the bleeding man. He kicks his shotgun away and
checks him for a pistol. He finds none. Bummer. He could always use
another handgun or really just ammo for his.

He asks the man who is bleeding out, “What were
you doing with those people?”

“We
was
just lookin’ for some help,” he
lies.

“Help? You mean by raping their
women?”

“What?”

“I saw you,” Cory admits. “You were the one
with the woman on the ground. You like raping women,
fucker?”

“Who cares? What are you some kind
of saint? Like you ain’t never taken a woman. My
woman
was killed a
year ago. We just wanted
food,
and then we saw their
women
. Ain’t no
big deal. They
was
just with an old man and some young
punk.”

“Not now, dumb-ass. You killed their men,”
Cory states with irritation.

“Hey, hey, we can go back there.
You know, me and you. Yeah, man. Help
me
and we’ll go back there together,” he
suggests.

Bad move on his part. Cory nudges
him in the arm with his rifle tip. The man yells loudly from
the
pain
.
He grits his teeth and tries to scoot away. Cory doesn’t want to
kill him, though.
He needs more
information.

“How many others are with your
group?”

“Please, don’t shoot me again. I’m
not
a bad
person,” the guy says while trying to stem the blood pumping
out of his leg.

The leg wound, left unattended,
will be fatal. Blood squirts between the man’s thin fingers and
splatters the black and white checkerboard pattern
on
the
floor.

“Answer
me
and I won’t shoot you again,”
Cory warns. His eyes dart above the man, watching the street
cautiously so as not to
be
come
upon. “You don’t answer and you get
shot in the other arm. You don’t answer
again
and I’ll shoot you in one
foot and then the other. Got it? Give me their position. Where are
you camped? How many are with your group?”

“Aww, man, fuck! I’m bleeding to death!” the
man whines loudly as tears stream down his face. “Help me, man!
Help me tie this off or something!”

Cory kicks the jerk’s foot and
lifts his chin in a
gesture
that the man should start speaking and
quickly.

“Ok, ok, just don’t shoot me
again!” he
bleats
hysterically. “They’re up in a neighborhood. We’ve
got a house up there. ‘Bout a mile from here or so. We
was
just
out
…
looking for supplies and shit.”

“How many others are there?” Cory inquires. He
has no doubt that this man and the other three were looking for
women, not supplies. He’s seen this more times than he’d like. They
take women and use them until they die. They give them just enough
to keep them alive while they repeatedly rape and abuse
them.

“Five guys,” the other man answers.

His eyes are a dark brown, almost black and
remind Cory of that little fucker Bobby, Simon’s cousin, who John
had killed in the forest. This man’s eyes, however, are filled with
fear. They should be.

“Give me directions,” Cory demands
and the other man starts rapid fire spilling forth details about
their compound. He gives him the directions to the house, where
it’s positioned in the
neighborhood
and everything Cory
demands. When he stops answering questions, Cory steps on his leg,
the wounded one.

“Aigh
! Stop! Ok, ok,” he whimpers in defeat.

Cory asks, “Any women or kids with your
group?”

He only gets a shake of the head in answer. So
they were looking for replacement women.

“Don’t kill me, man,” he pleads
again. “Please, man. Who are you? What the fuck? You just go around
shooting people? Shit!
What
are you, the new police force around
here?”

Cory smiles ruefully and states, “To scumbag
sons a’ bitches like you? I’m the Angel of Death.”

And with that, he head-shots the creep and
takes his weapon.

Chapter Twelve

Reagan

Her eyes peep open and then close again as if
heavy weights are attached to her eyelashes. When she opens them
next, she is greeted by Hannie’s gentle face, covered with a
surgical style cotton mask. A hand squeezes her own. Reagan clears
her voice, which comes out more like a weak croak.