Page 2

"Alrighty then bro good to have someone I can count on. Gunnery Sergeant Mallory James K USMC retired. Call me Gunny or Mal." The younger man said extending his hand with the first genuine smile he had worn in a long time.

"Staff Sergeant McFeely George R USMC retired as well, four tours Vietnam with force Recon. Call me Mac." The old man said taking his hand giving it a friendly squeeze, "now it’s time to get a SitRep and make a plan to get the fuck out of dodge Gunny what do you say?" The old warrior suggested as he lit a cigarette and popped open a warm Budweiser from the display next to him slugging half of it down in one tip. Just then there was a thumping and a low moan from the doors to the fuel pumps, the frat boy yelped like a kicked dog and slunk away further into his corner the Hispanic girl dropped her bag and pulled out a cheap switchblade slowly backing away from the source of the sound, the two middle aged women in the back near the wine held each other out of fear. Pulling the Glock from its leather cradle snapping open the pouch nestled horizontally above the slide of the weapon pulling out his custom GTS suppressor and twisting it onto the threaded barrel in mid stride towards the shaking door.

"I’m open for advice Mac." The younger Marine said putting his back to the door frame and peeking out around the blinds holding his weapon in a low tactical carry. "I’ve got a four count on hostiles, the news said you gotta cause severe head trauma to put ‘em down for good." At the sound of his voice the moaning and battering intensified drastically making him step away and turn raising his weapon marginally in a threatening manner.

"Well Gunny I can think of two ways to cause severe head trauma off hand," the seventy year old man said with a wolfish grin as he dropped his empty beer can and fluidly drew his piece. "Point four five holes, and to a slightly lesser degree nine millimeter ones do as well. Now the only question is do we take glass shots and wreck our cover or let em in and risk splattering them all over infecting us and our only supplies?"

"Or our third choice," Mal said with a sparkle in his eye. Taking a knee at the window to the right of the door and sliding a magazine display aside uncovering an aluminum mail slot. Slipping his weapons suppressor outside the store he seemed to realize he couldn’t get an angle upwards, so he improvised like a good Marine should. Squeezing off two rounds in quick succession the knee caps of the nearest and consequently largest of the undead sprayed out the joints giving way under him bringing his head down into his field of fire, the last shot fired and the first target eliminated he made short work of the rest. Scanning the immediate area for more targets and finding no threats he slid the rack back into place blocking the view into the store from the blinds to the floor, he stood and changed magazines pocketing the empty. Making eye contact with the grizzled old Vet turned trucker he received a respectful weighing smile and a salute with a fresh beer, then had to quickly catch the one he tossed underhanded with his off hand. Holstering his weapon he opened the King of beers and slugged deeply pulled a pack of cigarettes and a brass zippo with an emblem that matched his tattoo. "Well then, I’m down to fifty-one rounds, on me at least. Hundred thousand more out in my trailer other weapons too. But it may as well be in Florida with all those deaders between me and it. Where’s your rig at Mac?"

"So just cause I’m a retired Vietnam Vet I must be a trucker eh? Or how about a bum?" The old man asked confrontationally.

"Either that or the fact that you’re wearing an R&J distributing hat and there’s a manifest sticking out of your pocket you fucking hard-on."

"Oh yeah, there is that of course." Mac replied with a wink as he slammed the last of his second beer. "It’s one hundred fifty meters out that door at the commercial pumps, so if your truck is Florida mine is Germany. Anybody else here have wheels? How’s about you sweetheart?" he asked of the shaky young Mexican girl with the knife.

"No. I walk and bus it around where I need to go. Which aint nowhere but far from here." She added nervously glancing at the doors and then the surveillance monitors on the counter griping her stiletto that much tighter, making both of the older men smile at her survival instinct and tenacity.

[ Continue to page 3 ]