H Romero - The Girl Who's Made of Leaves - Post Apocalyptic Science Fiction

The Wicked Briars move onward seemingly oblivious to the fact they’ve picked up a tailing party of humans. They travel down the road chittering and squawking to one another. Finger-snapping echoes reverberate softly against brick and wooden-clad exteriors as their armor tipped claws scrape and clack upon the street pavers.

Connors dares not to go any further without first meeting up with his men. He allows the colossal freaks to move away and out of sight, long enough for he and the sergeant to make a detour to the roof of O’Leary’s Drug Store.

“Did you call for an evac?” Connors smiles a crooked smile. It’s an awkward, lopsided grin framed by sun-dried and peeling lips.

White Deer is slumped down against the roofline, sopping up the salty sweat, pouring from his reddish-brown skinned forehead, with a blue-checkered handkerchief.

Austin carefully peers over the edge of the rooftop. “Jesus H.,” mutters Austin, never taking his eyes from the street below, “I thought ya’d never get off ya butts and get up here. What, were you two having a picnic down there?”

“Aw, now don’t take it to personal, major, he’s been bellyaching for the past two hours,” says White Deer who has the long barrel of a flamethrower resting across his lap. It bobs with each deep breath he takes.

The major assesses the situation creating a tactical plan in his head. He’s deadly serious, he must be, it takes much more effort anymore for him to concentrate.

“Hubba, Hubba. Would ya just get a load of Jane and her sister down there… I think they might be Khaki-Whacky. What do ya say, boys? Ya in the mood for some dates fellas?”

“I think the suns getting to you, Austin,” says Hollander.

Connors takes one last look down at the Wicked Briars and jogs to the ladder which runs down the side of the building and leads to the alleyway below.

The time for joking is at an end, so Austin dries up his comedy bit. They need to stand on their get-alongs and move out and move out now.

The stairs make a sharp squeaking noise as the four of them descend. No matter what they do; soft steps, slow steps, skipping treads, the stairs creak obnoxiously loud.

Once their brown, legging-topped, boots hit the dry red gravel, they cross the road to follow the things’ path which ultimately leads into a foreboding parking garage; five floors high.

Austin levels his Winchester M1987 shotgun, and White Deer lofts the flamethrower. It’s heavy and fully fueled, but White Deer is a huge, muscular man, so it’s not a problem for him.

Connors and the Sergeant Hollander ready their M1 Springfield rifles, and file in single line and tread after the Wicked briars.

The gloom of the garage can’t be helped. There’s no more electricity in Brownsville. The sun is diving toward the horizon and the shadow blankets the concrete floor as if it is pushing the men up and in faster than they are willing to go. Regardless, they proceed to take the site, step by cautious step.

The Major holds his hand in the air and clenches his fist, he unclenches it, and then clenches once more, before returning his grip to his weapon; it feels good in his hands.

The men hold their advance and to group up, tight. It’s thought that grouping together makes you appear larger and perhaps more menacing to the Turned , its well-rehearsed and carried out with precision.

The soldiers take the corner, walking up the gradual slope. The ramp leads to the second level. The realization that their way is being barred by two seething beasts comes like discovering there’s a rattlesnake in your sleeping bag. The situation has officially escalated to holy shit level.

Austin, always jackrabbit-jumpy, bolts from the group and half-ass fires in the direction of the Wicked Briars. The blast from his shotgun rings off the tight confines of the garage walls.

White Deer follows and pulls the flamethrower’s trigger, to release a blast of blistering heat slaps the faces of all four men, causing each to veer away to escape the blistering heat.

An ungodly scream of pain, or maybe it’s one of anger, comes from one of the Turned. The scream rakes across Connors’s tympanic membranes. Hollander fires his rifle and flanks out to the left. The discharge of the rifle can be felt beneath the feet of the soldiers as it travels through the iron and concrete construction of the garage.

Connors’s ears ring from the assault of the shot so close to his head. Tight quarters. He stumbles. He won’t back away from the threat until he pulls his three brothers away from assured death. He pulls. He pushes, he shouts for retreat. He heaves them away from the enemy one by one.

A muzzle flash from the shotgun. Shouting and fighting fills the ramp which ascends to level two, with maddening chaos. The Turned have the high ground. They outweigh the soldiers making them look like tiny children fighting against something three times their size.

The towering goliaths punch, jab, stab and kick. They make a great effort to skewer the soldiers. The beasts spear, and slice, and attempt to run their enemies through cleanly. One disemboweling swipe is all that’s needed. A near miss here and there. The beasts can’t connect with the bodies of the human interlopers.

A pike-like foreclaw pierces the windshield of a black 1937 Ford Coup, shattering it .

Connors fires at closer range than he’d prefer, two yards and some change, at most. His volley bounces off one of the armored plates on the torso of the creature. If the major had been six inches more to the right, he might have caught the ricochet in the throat.

The soldiers are repelled by the Wicked Briars. White Deer sprays flame wide arcs of ignited fuel that washes over the monsters. It’s nothing more than a deterrent if anything that harmlessly blackens the tough spiked epidermis of the angry creatures.

Connors, Hollander, and Austin draw their sidearms and fire in rapid succession. Ammo ricochets and pockmarks the garage walls, propelling lead slugs on unintended trajectories, hitting Austin in the shoulder. He falls. Connors helps him to his feet.

The men are shoved back to the landing of level one and the major, again, orders the men to retreat, but to stay tight. He knows separating would make it easy for the Wicked Briars to pick them off, like penny candy. Before the major can stop him, Austin makes run for cover, but finding none, keeps running leaving droplets of blood on the road behind him.

“Private! Get your ass back here!” says Connors his throat hoarse from the dry evening heat. He ducks, narrowly missing the incoming slice of a foreclaw and it passes harmlessly over his head.

The beasts separate, and one gives chase after, Austin. The pursuit is hot and heavy. Connors can’t afford the time to put eyes on him. They’re dealing with their own life and death struggle.

The distance between, Austin, and the demon on his heels is closing rapidly. He skids making a hairpin turn down an alleyway, nearly falling, his guts churn at the prospect, boots sliding on loose gravel, the smell of the soles disintegrating on the street, but he’s able to keep his feet under him. He grabs at rubbish bins as he passes them. Throws them haphazard into the path of the pursuer , which hurdles it with minimal effort.

A furniture delivery truck blocks the far end of the alley. Austin looks for an alternate route. There’re none to take. Time’s ticking down for him. Prayers are running through his head, rapid-fire. The Wicked Briar slows to conserve energy. Signals being sent to its brain that victory is near. Or, perhaps it wants to prolong the gut-wrenching fear that’s going through the quarry’s mind.