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Mitchell grunted with satisfaction.

There’s a purity in a solid swing that connects just right.

It’s like hitting a homerun every time at bat.

It’s like hooking a Lake trout on a favorite fly.

It felt good to the man, this was the thing to do, and to do right.

There’s nothing but a solid sting in the palm and the fingers don’t feel it.  He always wore gloves. There’s no vibration, no wrist turn, no jarring of the elbow.  The sound and feel of the crack went to his bones as a solid powerful, familiar surge. The thing went down without drama. The bar didn’t stick in the shell of shattered skull or gooey matter beneath. The skull caved in, the steel shaft came out slickly, and the recovery from the swing was quick.  Mitchell looked about. He flicked off residue of both out of habit, he’d already selected his next one, but it wasn’t close enough to require an immediate response. He was ready to swing again and again as necessary, and he could do this for several minutes without effort.

He understood his role and reveled in doing his job. 

He felt useful.

He felt more useful since the crisis began, so many long years ago.

Before that he was just an underemployed, frustrated man.

Times had changed.

He was a destroyer of the threat to humanity. They called his type that, destroyers rather then killers, exterminators, or eradicators as to kill, to exterminate, to eradicate, one had to be talking some type of lives and he wasn’t doing that right now.  He was destroying something moving and dangerous, but lifeless, soul less, sickening aberrations and freaks against creation and nature.

He’d saved many lives by taking out a lot of the walking, hunting corpses. When he went to places, his reputation preceded him.  Women slept with him and even after that were still in awe of him.  Men gave him drinks of their finest, whether it was home brew or stashed good stuff. He ate meat regularly, often the prime cuts of swine, cow, and dog. He often slept in warm, dry places now, and he didn’t sleep alone often when he was in major compounds and holds.

But it wasn’t inside the compounds that he really enjoyed himself.  It was times like now, where and when he earned his reputation.  He was on the prowl, destroying the ones brought in by the ‘chumming’, during a highly organized kill and he was in his element…although there weren’t as many of them now as there use to be.

He was having a good day.

It felt better than shooting hoop when he was hot.

It felt better than splitting wood when he had gotten in rhythm.

This was much more productive.

He’d not started doing it right regularly, excelling in techniques until the second six months after the dead rose, and only after he selected the right implement.  He weighed it. The knocker was built up from a length of steel bar with a wooden grip, an impact head of massive bolts, welded to lock them in place.  He used it more than anything else, including the rifle he left with someone else, and the holstered automatic on his hip.  He’d gotten good with his ‘knocker’.  The trick was finding just the right angle depending on the height of the walking stiff, and timing its staggering walk, stepping in and precisely aiming with the right amount of force, which was considerable.  It also was about developing the right muscles. He might be swinging laterally, or downwards, but never upwards, and each swing had to be ingrained the hard way. He always swung down or diagonally from right to left, but never from right to left. He learned he must never engage one up close if it towered above him and a surprising number did although he wasn’t a small man himself.

Then he’d go for the knees, to take them down to size. He’d then crack them down and across. There was some talent to doing that reliably, but it was easier then the lateral and he could teach someone to do it in a day, with them having to practice to get it right.  Doing it right almost every time and taking them out in one blow was another matter.  As for taking out the ones that were already down, on the ground…that was another matter and across his back he had a wrecking bar slung.

The former man, a ragged, maggot infested straggler, feeble in life, probably more dangerous in death came forward, it’s remaining arm raised toward his face, fingers clutching.  This close Mitchell could smell them.  They almost all smelled the same, foul, sickly, invasive. He held his breath as he stepped in and swung. 

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