Zompoc Survivor: Odyssey (10 page)

It went off a second before they ran their mags dry, and by the time the first one of them called out that they were reloading, there was a plume of thick gray smoke billowing up.

“What the fuck is this shit?” one yelled. Light flared behind me as George’s second and last Molotov went off. With the renewed light, I could see a white vapor starting to form at the top of the water bottle. It was time to throw the pressure bomb. Under the cover of the smoke, I went around the corner and tossed the bottle over the top of the sandbags, then dropped flat. Gunfire erupted over my head, then cries of alarm.

“What was that?”

“Throw it back!”

“I got it!” Half a second later, the pressure in the bottle exceeded its strength, and it blew apart, sending boiling, corrosive liquid flying. I lit the fuse on the powder charge as the first screams tore through the night, then chucked it over the sandbags and scurried back to the corner. No one seemed to notice it amid the chemical burns, and it went off like a charm. I pulled the respirator up over my face and pulled the goggles into place.

When I came back around the corner, the smoke was clearing. Sandbags were tumbled onto the ground, and only moans reached my ears. The glass door had been blown off its hinges, and almost nothing but broken glass and wisps of acrid smoke stood between me and the interior of the armory. I tossed the deforming chlorine bottle into the hallway then stood to the side and unslung the Mossberg. I heard it bounce once, then the deep
boom
of it rupturing came from inside. After a few seconds, I came around the corner and found myself in a reception area that opened onto a hallway. A tumbled lantern lit the room. Movement came from my right, and I turned the shotgun toward it. It bucked in my hands as I found a target, and the guy went down. I heard footsteps coming my way, then coughing and cursing. I pointed the Mossberg down the hallway, pumped a fresh round into the chamber and sent three more blasts down the hallway. My effort was rewarded with a scream, and I put my back to the wall and loaded four more rounds into the tube.

Muzzle flash lit the hallway and plaster flew as someone opened fire from down the hallway.

“Got your six,” I heard in my earpiece, then a fresh scream joined the chorus.

“They’ve got the doors covered!” someone called out from deeper inside.

“We got night vision!” I heard Damon yell. “We fucking own the night!”

“Damon, someone’s inside, man!” I heard from nearby. “They shot me!”

“We got fucking body armor!” Damon yelled back. I peeked around the corner and didn’t see anyone.

“I’m bleeding man!” the guy close to me screamed. Then he coughed, and staggered into view, and I aimed for his hips. He flopped and writhed as he let out a high pitched squeal.

“They’re using some kind of nerve gas!” one yelled as I scrambled down the short hallway. Ahead of me I could see a dim light in an open area. The guy I’d shot was just outside the hallway.

“Turn out the lights!” Damon yelled. As darkness descended, I reached out and grabbed the wounded man and dragged him into the hallway with me.

“He’s got me!” the wounded man screamed. “Help!” I pulled his NVGs off and slipped them down over my face.

“Shut the fuck up,” I said and hit him in the jaw with the butt of the shotgun. More coughing started to come from deeper inside the building.

“Hey, Damon,” I called out. The respirator robbed me of a lot of volume, but I was sure Damon and his crew were listening real close now. “Remember me? I’m the guy who broke your nose earlier.”

“I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker!” he yelled back. I risked a look into the open area and saw four Humvees. Damon and his crew were spread out, hiding behind the Humvees and crouched in doorways. Only a few of them had NVGs or flak jackets on. Most of them were only carrying sidearms and stumbling around like they’d just woken up.

“Yeah, good luck with that. Do you smell that? That’s one of the things you can do with bleach if you know what you’re doing. You feel that burning sensation in your nose and throat? That’s what it feels like when the mucus membrane first starts to break down. Your eyes will go next.”

“Bullshit!” Damon called back. “Open the garage door.” I heard the creak of the door lifting, and a fresh breeze filled the room. With the air starting to clear, I pulled the respirator and goggles off and readjusted the NVGs. It was time to turn their strength against them. I reached into my vest and pulled out a road flare. It glowed red when I activated it, and I heard several surprised cries as NVG screens flared. When I threw it, I could see several heads turning. I pointed the shotgun toward a doorway where one of the gawkers was and pulled the trigger as I rushed forward. Gunfire erupted on the hallway, but by then it was several feet behind me. Now I was into the room, and out of the choke point.

As the first salvo stopped, I hit the ground and slid a couple of feet. From my vantage point, I could see a pair of feet on the far side of a Humvee, so I brought the shotgun up and sent nine double ought buckshot pellets at them. The guy hit the floor howling, so I pumped another round into the chamber and pulled the trigger again, then rolled to an office door and pulled three shells from my vest.

“Where the fuck is he?” someone asked. As if in answer, a rifle boomed, and more cries erupted.

“He’s behind us!” someone yelled.

“Shut up,” Damon yelled as another shot rang out. “That came from outside. Close the garage door!”

“I’m in,” I whispered into the mic.

“Right behind you,” I heard Amy say. I grabbed an office chair and pulled it toward me, then leaned out and shoved it toward the next door. I had barely pulled back behind cover before two guys opened fire on it. They ran dry at almost the same time, so I stepped out and shot the one who was standing in the door of the next office down, then shot at the one behind the next Humvee. I heard the second guy curse as I kept moving, hoping against logic that this crew wasn’t as good in a real firefight as they might have been at the virtual kind. Another shot boomed from outside, and I heard a body drop.

“Get that fucking door closed!” Damon yelled. I came up on another guy taking cover in an office, and barely managed to get the first shot off. He squeezed the trigger on his M16 and sent a three round burst zipping past me before he stopped twitching. Then I was past the second Humvee and had a clear shot on the guy who had just made it to the door. I shot him in the ass. Then I heard the first shot from the hallway.

“Who the fuck was that?” someone cried out.

“That would be the rest of my team,” I lied. “You’re running out of people, Damon. How many more are you going to let die before you give up?”

“Fuck you!” Damon yelled back.

“I already took your one advantage from you,” I said as I tossed another flare into the room. “You’ve got what, five or six guys left?” A shot rang out from the other side of the room and someone else started screaming. “Sorry, four or five guys left?” I pulled a shell from my vest and went to load it. As I was about to slide it into the loading port, something knocked the Mossberg out of my hand. I jumped back as a sword blade sliced through the air where I had just been.

“Don’t shoot him!” the sword wielding badass yelled as I backed away from him. “He’s mine!” He thrust the tip toward me and gestured toward the middle of the open area opposite the Humvees.

“Seriously. Have you
ever
read the Evil Overlord’s list?” I asked as I backed into the open.

“Draw your blade!” he said.

“Guess not,” I said as I drew the Deuce. As close as he was, I probably couldn’t get the SOCOM out before he skewered me. For the moment, I had to play along. He smiled as the blade cleared the sheath, and I knew he’d never fought against anyone with any serious training. Whenever I faced new opponents in the SCA, none of them were happy when they saw that they were fighting a lefty. Sir Ginsu of Cuisinart, on the other hand, didn’t look upset or even mildly irritated at my unholy southpaw ways. He dipped his blade to me and stepped back, then dropped the point to the concrete and dragged it in a semicircle in front of him. I couldn’t help myself. I hung my head and shook it.

“Kid, you’re not Blade. Hell, you’re not even Wesley Snipes.”

“My name is Razor,” he said as he spun his blade in a broad arc. That part he seemed to know how to do. “It’s the last name you’ll ever hear.”

“Razor,” I said, suppressing a laugh. “My name is Dave Stewart. You killed my truck. Prepare to die.” I settled into a ready stance and waited for him, my eyes on the middle of his chest.

“You’re quoting The Princess Bride?” he asked as he started to circle to my left.

“I thought it fitting, considering the comedic terrain,” I said as I stepped to my left, inside his circle. The move caught him off guard and he stepped back, crossing his feet as he did. He tried circling the other way, and I side stepped into his movement again. He feinted at me, but his center of gravity never changed, so I stayed still. He tried it again, but never committed to a full thrust, so I didn’t move. Finally he made a serious thrust, and I moved my blade to the left a few inches, keeping the point in place on my center line. The move knocked his attack away from my body, and he withdrew. A split second later, he came at me again with a bevy of rapid fire blows.

One of the things Willie had been teaching me while we had been in KC was a defensive technique called the cone of power. The sword itself barely moved, the point staying nailed in place along the centerline of the body. By moving the lower part of the sword like a pendulum, all it took was a few inches of movement to cover one side of the body from head to hips. Razor’s katana bounced off the Deuce with a series of discordant clangs, none of his strikes coming close to me.

“What are you waiting for?” he yelled after he broke off the attack. “Fight damn it!”

“I just want you to feel you’re doing well,” I quoted. “I hate for people to die embarrassed.” He brought his blade up over his head and dropped into a sloppy fighting stance. It was a mediocre imitation of a kendo stance, and I’d been on his side of it before. In my case, I’d been facing an SCA knight using a rattan sword. All I’d been betting on it was my pride.

“I’m going to take your sword after I kill you and cut your head off with it,” he snarled. “There is no defense against this stance.”

“Unless your opponent has studied his Agrippa,” I said as I came forward. “Which I have.” As I finished the line, I lunged forward and snapped my blade at him, aiming for his right wrist. He had three options. He could defend and survive, he could attack and die, or he could flinch. Although attacking would end up killing him, though there was an outside chance he could take me down with him. Defending would save both his life and some of his pride.

He flinched. It saved his life, but it probably killed his standing with his few surviving friends. Whether it was pride or some remaining belief that speed and flash were a good substitute for skill that drove him, I couldn’t be sure. He slashed at me a couple of times, then wove his sword in front of him in glittering figure eight, the red light of the flare glinting off his blade as he spun it around and came at me with a yell on his lips. I’d played his game long enough; I was done with this fight.

“Enough!” I bellowed as I swung the Deuce straight down. It caught his cheap katana on the upswing and sheared through the blade near the suba. The blade spun though the air and embedded itself in a door. “Yield,” I said to Razor as I put the point of my sword a few inches from his throat. “Don’t make me kill you.” His face twisted into a snarl, but he tossed the broken sword away. I came up out of my stance and inclined my head to him, then brought the Deuce up in a salute. He looked like he’d swallowed a lemon whole, but he nodded. Without taking my eyes off of him, I reached up and slid the sword back into its sheath, then turned halfway away from him and released the strap on the SOCOM.

“And don’t think about trying to stab him in the back,” Amy said as she stepped into view from behind a Humvee with her gun trained on Razor. “That shit never works.” To my left I could see Damon and the kid in the hoodie standing by an office door. Two more of his crew were crouched over the prone form of a third, their expressions grim. Johnny came out behind Amy, his pistol out but pointed down.

“Is this your fuckin’ team?” Damon said as he looked us over.

“Nope, there’s more,” I said.

“Bullshit,” he said and drew his pistol. Mine came up at the same time and we stared at each other over the barrels. “Put the gun down bitch, or I shoot his ass,” he said as he turned his head toward Amy without taking his eyes off of me.

“Dave?” she asked.

“Rule fourteen,” I reminded her.

“Gotcha,” she said, and I could hear the feral grin reflected in her voice.

“I said put it down bitch!” Damon said again, his voice louder. “Don’t fuckin’ push me, or I swear I’ll blow his-“The rest of his final words were drowned out in the report of the SOCOM. When my barrel came back down, Damon was sprawled on the floor, and the wall behind him was black with blood splatter. Slowly, I turned the gun on the hoodie kid. His eyes were wide and he was shaking hard enough that I could even see it in the fading red light.

“Drop your gun, kid,” I said. His M4 clattered to the floor. The other two set their weapons down as well.