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The Gas Station
(© Corbin Blakenheart)

Page 1

"Shut the fucking blinds kid I’m not gonna fucking tell you again."  An angry clean cut man about six foot and two hundred pounds hissed at a gangly nineteen year old frat boy looking kid complete with polo shirt and khaki shorts.

"Alright bro but they’re out there and there’s more than there was." The kid said in a nervous whine but stood straight up trying to look bigger and stronger than he really was, throwing the A typical scathing rich kid superior look. "Why is it you think you can order me around anyway? You should know I’m a legacy at the Delta Phi Capa house and my Father is a US Senator so you can’t talk to me like that!!  My brothers are… AAHH." The boy shouted in fear as the man closed the gap between them and took him to the floor one hand on his throat the other twisting his right wrist out of the way at a painful angle.

"I can and I fucking will talk to you in any manner that I see goddamn fit to keep you from getting any of us killed boy." The man hissed into his face. "Now keep FUCKING quiet or I’ll kill you myself you spray tan Nancy boy bitch." Surging up to his feet he turned away and paced to the far end of the store. Stepping up onto the register counter the man looked out over the blinds towards the parking lot passed the pumps and at the crowd of undead standing between him and his truck over the red puddle of mush and bone that was the small elderly Asian man that owned the place only minutes ago. And he got wrapped up in this for beer, chew cigarettes and jerky. "Fucking hell, I’m not dying in a Korean owned chevron gas station in pig knuckle Washington." Stepping down off the counter with a dull thud belaying his size and weight, he reached up and pulled out a fresh can of straight flavored chew and gently thumped it before snapping it open and taking a dip. "Well mister Nang shouldn’t mind that I help myself just a tidge." The man mumbled picking up a stack of canvas shopping sacks and stacking cartons of cigarettes and logs of chewing tobacco.

"Hey mister, are you like gonna take ALL of the smokes because that was kind of the reason I came here to the store and all…" a young Hispanic girl was saying to him and edging around trying to snatch up a pack of menthol Kools.

"I’ll tell you what child every pack of menthols and ultra-lights is yours." The man replied with a comforting smile.

"That crazy fuck bruised my neck now my initiation pictures are gonna look like shit, I’m calling a lawyer and pressing charges man your done man. I’m gonna make sure you spend the next ten years in prison you’re gonna get ra…." The Frat boy was cutoff mid rant for the second time by the same man by violence of action. Getting smacked in the side of the head by a Glock 17 is rather violent.

"You have now lost talking privileges, open your mouth again an I cut you down your frat brothers and US Senator Daddy aside you mean less than nothing to anyone here rich kid and I will kill you I shit you not, if you speak without being spoken to or piss me off in anyway. Now go and sit down over there on the floor next to the fountain drinks." The average sized man said angrily flicking the oversized spikey haired child in the septum with the threaded barrel on his favorite costumed out side arm a Gen III Glock seventeen nine millimeter. Staring down his charge and making sure he was being obeyed he holstered his pistol in the shoulder rig he wore under his button up work shirt, and caught an old man watching him intently. "Is something on your mind sir?" He asked in a firm but respectful tone taking a step forward to a more intimate distance.

"No son I just notice things is all and I happen to notice you have a pair of these," the old man said pulling a beat up old set of dog tags from his shirt. "And I also noticed when your shirt came open that under your left clavicle you have one of these," the man said pulling his shirt down revealing a faded round tattoo with a parachute sprouting spreading wings and a scuba mask in the middle crossed by a Ka-Bar and an M-16 series rifle in the background. "So what I’m saying is brother, I’m with you. And we are getting out of this one together and bringing as many of these people with us as we can, except maybe the rich kid." The old timer said with a grin making a gap in his unruly unkempt beard, simultaneously lifting the hem of his flannel shirt revealing a worn in Browning Hi-Power .45 in a paddle holster.

[ Continue to page 2 ]

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Genre:Living Dead
Type:Short story
Rating:6.58 / 10
Rated By:75 users
Comments: 7 users
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