The Reaper: No Mercy (2 page)

They had moved to St. Louis following a movie gig he became involved in through word-of-mouth on his artistic skills as a gifted tattoo artist. Andy was very good at his job. Not only could he ink your entire body in glorious art, he could do it temporarily ... and quickly. That had earned him a name in the industry, thus sought after for lucrative commissions with commercial clients. When the shit hit the fan, they had bugged out of Louie and headed north and west, and now temporarily resided in Paris, Missouri. He'd been attempting to head up to Iowa where he knew the territory, and hopefully his family and friends were still alive. After some thought, he’d decided traveling straight north on an interstate might not be the wisest decision he'd ever made, as the undead often lurked around stalled vehicles. They would get to Iowa eventually, but in the meantime he had people and loved ones right here to protect.

Now he was worried for his immediate family and the small group of survivors he had allowed to accompany them from St. Louis. Other undesirable elements were making this new existence more difficult; he had found that while the undead were bad enough, those still alive could be worse, with one such group residing in Paris. After witnessing what the
others
were doing to small groups of survivors, he was being very careful indeed. He referred to them as the
others
because he did not really know whom they were, only that they were fellow survivors who seemed bent on killing or capturing those around them.

However, Andy and his crew needed more supplies before heading further north. They had learned the hard way to have plenty of supplies on hand in case they were trapped by the undead—or zombies—for movie zombies were exactly what they looked like. That was why it had taken weeks to get to Paris. Halfway to this small city, they had been set upon by a large group of the undead, and became trapped in a service station for several weeks. There, they had all almost starved to death as they waited for the bastards to drift off. All had lost weight during that harrowing experience, with Andy himself losing over forty pounds.

Once freed, they had been set upon by survivors holed up in a supermarket when they attempted to enter in search of food. After a brief firefight with no casualties, they’d managed to get away and decided that resupply through homes was the safest course of action. Andy could not allow them to be caught in a situation like that again, so as bad as it was here in Paris, he was not leaving until they had adequate food supplies. Weapons were not an issue, for this was Missouri, and many if not most homes contained a rifle or handgun along with ammunition. Andy's group had even come across a small, overrun National Guard roadblock during their journey northward, and while the crew’s weapons had been depleted of ammunition, they had lucked out with the discovery of several grenades along with several functional M16A2s, one of which Bruce had instantly fallen in love with, the others Andy had distributed to the women. They had quickly gathered everything useful, from and around the chewed remains of men sworn to protect, and continued north.

Resupply should have been a simple task, for the zombies were light here in Paris. Instead, the city was in a partial lockdown by the
others
. What he had witnessed that first day they'd arrived had shaken him to the core of his being. Savage, murderous acts of evil that had left him in shock.

*****

When they first arrived in Paris several days ago, their first task was to find a secure location that would provide protection from the zombies, yet was close enough to homes or other facilities where food and supplies could be gathered. An old Methodist church was found, made mostly of brick and concrete, situated directly in the middle of a housing area. After carefully searching its interior, they found it devoid of any form of life, or nonlife, and quickly settled in. The vehicles they'd arrived in, they parked out back.

They now numbered fifteen souls: three men, five women, and seven children all under the age of ten. Leaving Jake with the women and children confined within the safety of the church, Andy and Bruce had gone in search of supplies. Bruce was a godsend, another survivor with two women and four children in tow. This ex-cop-turned-construction-worker had the skills necessary to survive the initial viral outbreak, and teach them to Andy. He and Andy had met on the outskirts of St. Louis as those still alive were fleeing, and had been friends and comrades since.

Together they had developed a system of their own in the aftermath of the virus outbreak. They would enter homes through the back near the kitchen, then carefully check for food and other supplies that were needed. Those homes that held plenty of provisions were marked with a piece of chalk to the back door. Part of their system also involved canvassing homes furthest away first, and then heading inward. Andy did not know why he preferred this method of gathering, just that he liked to save the easiest for last. Eventually, when they had enough sources marked, they would use one of the trucks to load up quickly with everyone helping.

This method of gathering was not without its dangers, as it was common to find from one to several zombies in each. So, when they did enter, they entered carefully, on full alert. They carried heavy machetes for this purpose, and both men were proficient in their use.

Now, heading east and south, they were three blocks from the church when they first saw smoke from the chimney of a nearby home. It was not the first sign of activity in the city, as they had also seen four other trails of smoke rising into the sky as they carefully scouted outward. In the distance, Andy saw a small pack of feral dogs: three canines of indiscriminate breeding skirting around a home further down the street. He frowned, as more than once he had been surprised by the wild beasts, and not in a good way. Once man's best friend, they were becoming a dangerous nuisance whose barking could give you away to any undead that happened to be nearby. He knew that wherever they ultimately settled, these wild animals would need to be disposed of.

"Well, what do you think? Should we contact them?" Bruce asked. He and Andy were hiding in a porch heavily screened by thickets, two doors down and across the street from the occupied home.

"I don't know. Maybe. Let me think," responded Andy, deep in thought as he dismissed the dogs and turned his attention back to the larger dwelling.

"You know they might not be glad to see us. Remember what happened at that supermarket," Bruce continued.

"I know, it's what I'm considering. Be quiet for a minute, hear that?" In the distance, they heard the roar of racing vehicle engines; crouching lower, Andy and Bruce turned, looking back the way they'd come. A large number of big trucks were coming around the corner at the end of the street, headed their way. Andy could see the stick-like forms of rifles pointed out of windows and held still, not wanting to be seen.

It was soon obvious these trucks were headed to the occupied home, as a half-score or more of the large vehicles pulled into the driveway and yard and over two dozen men spilled forth, all with rifles pointed. The men looked dirty and unkempt, many with bottles in their hands. Some of those bottles they were drinking from, others had wads of cloth sticking from their necks.

"Come on out and let's see who you are!" shouted one of the new arrivals. He was larger than most, with a heavy black beard and a leather jacket. Some kind of pistol was strapped to his side, and he appeared to be the one in charge.

"Go away, we don't want any trouble." The muffled voice obviously came from the interior of the home, and was so faint Andy had to concentrate to make the words out.

"You already got trouble, man, so open up or we'll burn you out!" With that the leader gestured at one of the men near him, one of those holding a bottle with rags poking out the top, and nodded. Instantly the makeshift Molotov was lit and thrown against the side of the home to one side, away from the front door and near the corner of the building. Flames immediately splashed outward, engulfing that quarter of the house, and high-pitched screams sounded from within.

"Okay, we’re coming out. Don't shoot!" The voice from inside was louder now and almost masked by those inside still screaming. Suddenly Andy saw the door opening, a balding older man walking forth, his rifle held high overhead as others followed out behind him. As they left the front entrance, each was grabbed, disarmed, and thrown together into a small group where they huddled. Some of the women were crying, as were most of the children, causing Andy to tense up. Beside him Bruce was breathing heavily, and Andy prayed his friend would not make a sound, as there were too many of the obvious bad guys. Andy instinctively knew they would be killed almost instantly, or captured, if they tried to intervene. Now he listened intently as the big bearded man started shouting again.

"I said, shut the fuck up! I'm tired of hearing crying. You!" He was pointing at an older woman, who was maybe in her mid-sixties. Arms outstretched in a plea for mercy, while wailing nonstop, she was obviously pleading for them to be left alone, though it was hard to make out individual words. Still the intent was clear. "Shut the fuck up bitch!" The bearded man had drawn his gun, and Andy noticed now that it was a revolver of some kind, and it was pointed at her head. "I said shut up!" he screamed. When she did not immediately quiet down, the man pulled the trigger, Andy watching helplessly as her lifeless body collapsed to the ground.

This caused another wave of screams and entreaties from the captives, which were ignored. Almost simultaneously, some of the other newcomers started grabbing the captives, and it was soon obvious those held prisoner were being sorted. The older adults and very young children were pushed into one group, and the younger women, men, and older children into another.

"What are they going to do?" whispered Bruce beside him.

"I don't know, but I don't like it."

"Maybe they'll just take their guns and supplies, and let them go?"

"I don't think that's gonna happen, bro. Now be quiet or they'll hear you." Bruce quieted again at Andy's words, and together they watched powerlessly as the younger men and women and older children were first tied at the wrists, then loaded into the backs of the waiting vehicles. Those left behind continued to huddle together, the older adults asking what was going on, and the small children crying for their parents who were being forced into captivity.

"Finish it!" called out the bearded leader. Instantly, shots rang out as the surrounding crowd of captors fired into the much smaller group of captives left behind. Andy felt gorge rise in his throat as he witnessed innocent, tiny children, even infants, slaughtered in cold blood. He started shaking and the rifle in his hands half rose, his finger tight on the trigger, as his mind moved at hyper-speed in an attempt to figure out a way to save these innocents. But it was too late, and Bruce's arm was suddenly around him as they watched the last figure collapse. One of the assholes then threw another Molotov onto their blood-drenched bodies, causing Andy to turn away with a sick feeling in his stomach, for all were not completely dead, and faintly he heard a few small cries from younger children. He had to get away from here. He had to make sure his family was safe. Beside him, Bruce was crying, silently, tears streaming down his cheeks. His silent sobs of grief for those who did not deserve to die so young were a testament that at least some had not lost all vestiges of their humanity. Those young futures cut short by the murderous acts of these
others,
was an evil unbelievable. Andy could not vow vengeance though, for he would have had no chance against such numbers. All he could do was keep those under his protection hidden and get out of this rat-fuck as soon as possible.

*****

Sighing, he brought his mind back to the present, as now was not the time to be caught up in daydreaming. He was alone, as the chances of one man being spotted were much less than two ... that was the theory, anyways. Glancing behind his position again, he neither saw nor heard any indication of the living or undead. Andy knew this did not mean that something was not out there, only that he was not aware of any presence close to his position. Just now, he needed to get inside the barn he was beside, and then look out over the cemetery. He needed to see how many of the
others
were there. If most were inside the cemetery grounds, he could send his foragers out for supplies, but if the cemetery had few present, they would hide and wait for a better opportunity. Andy hoped these
others
were having another drunk fest as his previous spying had indicated they often did. If confirmed, his group would gather as many supplies as possible and get the hell out of this shit hole. Over the last two days they had been slowly gathering supplies from nearby homes, and almost had enough to make a run for it.

Ironically, the best time for gathering supplies was still during the day. If you went out at night you were seriously risking your life, for night was when all the undead roamed the streets and countryside. That the bastards hid during the day, just waiting for unsuspecting prey to approach their positions, had quickly become obvious after several close calls. The undead were cunning and had somehow realized their prey was easier to catch at night instead of during the day, when the undead, themselves, were easily spotted and disposed of. However, foraging in daylight had dangers of its own, as the
others
were out in packs like wild animals and you had to be extremely careful.

Quickly Andy crept to the boards he had loosened the other day and, lifting them, slipped inside the dark interior. He had his machete out and started swinging it wildly before him as he prayed for his eyes to adjust to the gloom quickly. If one of the undead attacked him, he hoped to take it out with a few lucky swings before it could latch onto him. Bastards were strong as hell, and he'd already tussled with them more times than he could count.