Draconian Measures Read online

  I heard the echo of the shot at the same time I glanced at the engine housing. Something big had blown a hole in the side of the steel.

  Fifty cal was my first thought and that made me ignore the pulsating wave of pain radiating from my groin and crawl.

  I crawled for the wrecks, trying to get my brain to work on directions. It did, too slowly. Lucky for me, another bullet gouged a trench in the sidewalk in front of my face, showering me with chips of sharp rock and dirt.

  It let me know the shooter was on the right, and yep, he had a big gun. A very big gun.

  Why he was shooting at me I would try to figure out after I put something between the two of us. Preferably something solid, and three feet thick.

  I settled for a ditch.

  It wasn’t a ditch so much as a depression in the grass between the sidewalk and a building where years of rain runoff had lowered the level of the ground as it raced toward the street.

  I barely fit, and hoped my wounded butt did not hover above the ground, too tempting for the shooter.

  Ground erupted by my head and splattered black soil across my bloody face.

  Nope.

  He was going for headshots, and the dirt wasn’t enough to stop the bullet.

  I did my best impression of an Olympic sprinter and shot out of the blocks, dodging left and right as I made for the building.

  He wasn’t a trained sniper, that’s for sure.

  He didn’t lead me, or anticipate where I was going. He shot where I was, and missed by half a second. Maybe less.

  I heard the buzz of bullets.

  I felt the tiny sonic boom whiz past my head.

  The zing of thuds in the dirt behind me, around me in short bursts until I put the brick wall of the building between us.

  Then two shots into the brick that crumbled the edge of the wall.

  After that it was silent.

  I tried to picture what I had seen in that direction as I passed the road. A hotel, four stories high would have been the best vantage point. Unless he was at the stadium for the high school, shooting from the bleachers. A good scope could give him that range.

  Was he moving now? Adjusting his position to catch me when I ran from the side of the building, crossed the road to the next?

  I decided to change the rules.

  The old rail trail ran parallel to working tracks, empty of a train now. They led to the railyard in downtown North Little Rock, and from there crossed a trestle over the Arkansas River into Little Rock.

  They also ran four blocks from the kid’s school, albeit through what was once a really bad neighborhood.

  But could the gangs be worse than the zombies?

  At least I’m sporting colors, I snickered as I wiped blood from my cheek. Red. I didn’t know if that was Crip or Bloods, but it had to be Bloods, right? Blood is red.

  Then I couldn’t remember whose territory the neighborhood was in, and that was okay.

  I ended the self-debate with a sprint toward the tracks, down a ditch and a mad clawing scramble up the side. I pitched over the rails, and ducked behind the other side, putting a nine-foot mound of dirt between me and the shooter.

  It must have caught him by surprise.

  He sent a shot my way, but it was over the top of the mound, which was over my head.

  I glanced up the tracks and saw I could stay behind the hill and stay safe if I ran hunched over.

  So, I did.

  For a hundred yards until I reached a road crossing.

  Then I heard the footsteps.

  I turned just in time for Tweedle Dumb to plow into me from the other side of the tracks, a huge mass of muscled flesh that lifted me off the ground and slammed me into the ground.

  I thought the ATV punch to the jewels hurt.

  This was worse.

  He sent a kick into my hip that punted me five feet. I kept rolling, trying to use the hill and momentum to put distance between us.

  “Found you,” he growled and rushed me again.

  I wish I could say something elegant about the fight. Something from the Matrix or a Saturday afternoon Kung Fu flick where I leaped into the air with the grace of a ballerina, spun around as if on a string and delivered a toe point that stopped him in his tracks.

  But a real fight is ugly.

  And sometimes accidental.

  I got halfway up and lunged out of the way. Physics took over for him. I couldn’t think of the formula, Mass x Speed equals he tried to veer after me, but I was too lean, he was too large. Something happened and he tripped across my ankle.

  I felt a twinge, like a sprain.

  He fell forward and couldn’t get his hands up fast enough.

  Sometimes when road crews in Arkansas were planting signs, they would use concrete to hold the steel bar in place. Later crews would come behind them, and when they couldn’t dig the concrete up, just used a saw to cut the steel off a few inches above ground. It was lazy, yes, and time plus the elements would dull the end of the steel post until it was little more than a nub, a bump only a lawn mower could go over in an otherwise unused section of ground.

  Until some giant trips and falls forehead first into it.

  Mass times acceleration equals splat.

  I watched his legs twitch in the grass, the hands that couldn’t catch him shake in spasms.

  Then I remembered he had a brother.

  A brother with a big gun.

  I hunched over and starting running again, working extra hard to ignore the pain in my hip, my ribs and between my legs.

  It almost worked.

  I heard the scream that rolled into a roar of agony.

  When it stopped, I knew he was after me.

  Part of it was the echo of shots sounding. I’m intuitive like that.

  The other part was he told me.

  “I’m coming for you!”

  Like I was Murdoch and he was Rambo.

  Big guys can’t run long distance. That’s the common thinking. Since I had been a marathon runner and longer in the past, I knew a thing or two about distance and pace.

  There is a big difference between outrunning a lineman after ten miles and trying to get away in less than ten blocks.

  Huge difference.

  He had to be out of bullets, or maybe he just wanted to get closer for a better shot. Either way when I glanced behind me, he was gaining.

  He carried a large sniper rifle that he must have looted from the National Guard armory. How they knew I was going this way I wished I could ask.

  I always thought I was good at poker, but maybe I telegraph too many emotions on my face. Or talk in my sleep.

  Or maybe Jean told them, I thought.

  He was going to catch me.

  The blows to my nether regions, the hits to the ground were taking their toll. I couldn’t go full speed, and even half speed was a little faster than a tortoise.

  We made JFK where it turned into main street, and I had a moment to think I skipped gangland when he reached me. Dumber swung the rifle like a bat, gripping the thick barrel in his giant hands.

  I ducked just in time, close enough to feel the wind tug at the hair on the back of my head. I sent a rabbit punch into his kidney, a kick to his knee and hopped back to put ten feet between us.

  He was not fazed. He pulled the gun back like a bat and twirled the end in the air as he stalked me.

  “Got you,” he grunted.

  “Yeah, but how?” I thought I might as well ask as I danced back, working to keep the space between us.

  “We been following you.”

  He swiped. I darted back and moved left. Dumber anticipated it and swung in the other direction. A switch hitter.

  “Lost you in Sherwood. Then we heard you on the road.”

  He paced forward. I paced back. It wasn’t a stalemate, just a delaying tactic. I was hurt and tired. He was hopped up on rage. I knew the feeling, tried to dig in and tap into my own.

  It just wouldn’t happen. My nuts hurt. My body hu
rt. I kept trying to think that he was the only thing between me and my kids, but it wasn’t enough.

  He was too close, the swings took too much concentration.

  “You and your brother play baseball?” I asked.

  Delaying tactic. Anything to throw him off.

  He growled and swung again.

  “Did you see him slide face first into home?”

  A roar this time and he got close with the swing. His form was sloppy.

  I backed up the street.

  “Do you think he was safe? It was a close call, the ump said he was, but I think he’s out. Forever.”

  I think he tried to say something.

  Words were lost in spittle and screams as he charged. I did the duck and trip thing again.

  It didn’t work.

  He dropped the rifle on my head and grabbed me by the ankle. Dumber did his best impression of an Olympic distance thrower, spinning me around in a circle and tossing me up the street.

  It would have been a bronze medal throw. I blame my aerodynamics.

  I hit the blacktop and rolled but didn’t have time to get up.

  Then he was on me. Like a Rhino on my chest. He tucked my chin against my chest, but he clubbed my head and jammed his massive hands around my throat.

  Three minutes I thought, as the edge of my vision turned black. I had three minutes of air, give or take.

  Except the blood flow to my brain was cut off too. I’d pass out in less than a minute.

  I could see his face near mine, teeth locked in a grimace, lips curled in a snarl.

  I didn’t try to fight his hands. They were too big, too strong. I stabbed my thumbs into his open cheeks between teeth and skin and pulled. Cheeks are elastic and they stretch.

  Only so far.

  My grip was almost as strong as his, my arms bowed out and down. His skin split and sprayed blood across both of us.

  He sat up and roared in pain and rage, raised both hands over his head to bring them down in a hammer blow to my face.

  I had enough breath to realize this.

  A Z latched on to his head.

  Another grabbed him in a lumbering tackle and they folded back across my legs.

  Zombies all around us, drawn by his screams, the sound of the gun, the noise of the fight.

  He screamed as they bit him. I clawed my way free, felt one grip my coat. I shoulder checked it down, and crawled on hands and knees looking for free space.

  I found it a few feet away and got up on shaky legs. My brain pounded in time with my racing heart as air rushed back into the starving cells. I’m glad my groin decided to take a break because Z poured into the street.

  Most ignored me, drawn to the giant as he fought his way free and then went under another wave of the dead.

  The ones who didn’t ignore me shuffled in my direction.

  I could stay ahead of them, but more were coming in from every direction. I limped toward downtown, dodging Z as I did, head on a swivel as I searched for someplace to hide, a roof to climb on, anything.

  No weapon.

  Too injured to run.

  No time to make one.

  Hiding was my only option, at least long enough to buy time and catch my breath.

  They closed in, making the circle of grasping hands tighter, harder to dodge.

  Then there was nowhere to go.

  They were all around me.

  One of the Z had a Deputies uniform on. His gun still in the holster.

  I darted for him, used one hand to grip his shirt and hold his teeth away from me, fumbled with the other for the holster.

  Glock 9, common enough for the police. I jammed it under his chin and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  A Zombie grabbed my jacket and clawed for my neck, teeth chomping, the fetid stench of its breath covering me in a miasma.

  Safety idiot.

  I flipped off the safety, and blew a hole in the former gun owner’s forehead, then turned it on the Z trying to eat me.

  Fifteen shots in the magazine and it was full.

  Fifteen Z fell around me, slow and steady.

  I rooted around on the deputy’s gun belt and found two additional magazines.

  I’m not going to say it was a stroll in the park. I had forty-five shots and there were close to sixty zombies.

  But the last twelve or so took a collapsible baton to the head, closer than I wanted to get, closer than reason dictated I should be.

  In less than ten minutes I stood alone in the street, at the bottom of the overpass that ran over the railyard. Surrounded by dead zombies, splattered and sprayed with gore that dripped from the end of the baton onto the ground.

  My nuts hurt.

  My ribs hurt.

  My neck and head hurt.

  I stank.

  But I was alive.

  I was David to two Goliath’s.

  And I had a pistol. No bullets.

  Then I heard it.

  “DAD!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was him. He was alive.

  He was on top of the building next to the street and as I watched, he shimmied over the side and slid down the old drain pipe strapped to the wall with metal bands.

  He dropped on the ground and ran toward me, hopping over dead bodies, cradling a hunting rifle strap to his chest.

  He stopped five feet away and stared at me.

  “What did you do?”

  I opened my mouth to talk, but couldn’t. The lump in my throat was too big. My eyes watered up and everything blurred.

  “All of them?”

  Was that wonder in his voice?

  “I heard the big gun shooting,” he said in a rush. “I got up here to watch, and saw you. I didn’t know it was you or I would have helped.”

  He stepped closer then.

  “I’m sorry Dad.”

  Sorry? Sorry for not helping me?

  “Boy,” I sobbed and grabbed him and wrapped my arms around him like I would never let go.

  I felt his shoulders hitch as he cried too, head buried in my chest, a low sniffling snuffle of pain, and joy and suffering and release.

  We held on like that for a long time.

  When he pulled away, he smiled. I still couldn’t get used to his thirteen-year-old face without braces, and he looked thin. Too thin. Worry lines around the edge of his hazel eyes. Hair longer than the last time I told him he was looking like a hippie.

  My son.

  “You look like shit, Dad.”

  Another thing I wouldn’t get used to. The boy swearing. I guess I’d let a couple slide, it being the Z apocalypse and all, but he wasn’t too old to take across my knee. Yet.

  “You look like Mad Max.”

  He stepped back and indicated his outfit.

  “The leather keeps the bite from going through.”

  “Good man,” I said and secretly wondered why I thought layers instead of leather.

  “What happened to you?” he asked and pointed to the scar line that ran along the side of my head.

  “Someone shot me.”

  “They missed.”

  “It was close.”

  “Your face looks different too.”

  “Where’s your sister?” I couldn’t hold back.

  I’d get the rest of the story later. What he had done to stay alive. But I had found one of my three and needed to know where the second was.

  It was a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, an eternity of wondering between the time I got the question out and his face fell.

  I wanted to sob again, but not in joy.

  “I lost her,” he started crying.

  It was little boy tears, frustration and anger from letting me down. He was a man and he was supposed to protect his sister. That failure was eating him inside.

  “When?”

  “A week? Ten days,” he blubbered.

  I needed to get more details, and we needed to move. I could already see some Z wandering up the road, d
rawn by the noise and our presence.

  “Come on,” I grabbed his hand and started moving toward the Junction Bridge.

  He dug in his heels and stopped me.

  “We have to go back,” he said. “That’s where we said we’d meet.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  He watched me build a small fire, and we sat in front of it, drinking water after it had boiled. If I had more time, we would have raided a few houses around us, but the Z massacre and fight had left me spent.

  We were in the cafeteria that served as a gymnasium, nests of blankets on the floor for the two of them and a few others for kids they had met. No adults though, which surprised me.

  A lot of orphans heading for school to hide out the zombie apocalypse.

  “You look different Dad.”

  “I do?”

  I bet I did.

  But how do you tell your boy you’ve been shot? Blown up? Half drowned and ambushed? Chased? That you’ve killed more than zombies. Starved.

  “Your hair is longer,” he said.

  Or skipped a haircut.

  The boy had only known me with a buzz cut, my look du jour since I was nineteen. Easier to maintain, and let me focus on other more important things. I remembered a quote from John Malkovich who I wondered if he was a zombie now. He said upon losing his hair, “Good, now they can focus on the acting instead of how I look.”

  I felt that way about hair. Clothes. I wore the same type of thing to work every day, a sort of uniform for two reasons. I didn’t care about fashion and I didn’t want to waste time thinking about how to dress or what to wear.

  Leave it to the boy to notice that.

  “And someone tried to shoot you,” he added.

  And that too.

  “They missed.”

  “Why was someone shooting you?” he poked at the embers with the end of a sharp stick.

  “Which one?”

  “There was more than one?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that same question,” I said.

  He pointed to the side of his head where the scar was on mine.

  Because I killed his men.

  Because I took all this rage at your mom, and your stepmom but mostly at me and directed it outside.

  Because they were trying to keep me from what I wanted and I’m the most selfish son of a bitch in the world.