Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

The two males circled the structure, trying and re-trying the door in a vain attempt to gain entry into the shed. The rusted lock that hung from the latch held firm despite their fevered efforts. Futilely, they both hammered their fists on the door’s frame.

The woman stood by, momentarily distracted by the flies that circled over and around their heads. She seemed to be patiently waiting for her companion’s labors to bear some blood-sodden fruit.

The team fanned out and cautiously approached as Ray Dog and Slider moved ahead. The soldier’s approach was silent and skillful. The Dead never noticed a thing until they were almost right on top of them.

"Yo, Nigga," Ray Dog rumbled as he stood up and flipped the safety on his weapon to the fire position, "’Sup?"

Ray Dog pulled the trigger and cut the two men down with the M-60. The massive 7.62mm shells tore through the first guy’s upper body, severing his right arm at the shoulder. The stream of bullets then back-tracked as the massive gun was swung back, effectively decapitating both of them.

The woman, who had been standing and swaying slowly and unsteadily on her feet, visibly jumped at the reports of the ’60. She’d only begun to realize that her companions were down for good when Slider came up behind her and pushed the Mossberg’s barrels up against the back of her head. He pulled the trigger and her expression of disbelief was blown apart by the back of her skull.

Masterson sidled up next to Bruce and whispered something in his ear. Without a word, the Asian took off at a run toward the farm’s main house with his MP5 tucked under his arm. He stayed slightly crouched so as not to be seen, but his pace was just this side of "sprint."

The rest of the team secured the area and searched the shed, which they found empty.

"What d’ya think they were looking for?" Slider asked.

The Dog walked up behind him, pointing the barrel of his M-60 toward the ground.

"Your mom."

In a few minutes, Bruce returned and fought to catch his breath as he spoke directly into Masterson’s ear.

"Ok, bitches, show time! Bruce here tells me that we have five—count ’em, five—more dumbfucks up around the house," Masterson explained. "I want The Dog and Slider to approach from the front. If any of these fuckers even thinks about trying to attack from there, you’ll stop that train of thought before it ever gets on the track. A-Rab, you and Lance take the left flank. Bruce, you and me are on the right."

The team split up accordingly and each drew and checked his weapon, racking rounds and flipping off safeties. The change in their collective demeanor was abrupt but clear. What was before a group of guys jolly-timing it suddenly became a sharpened team of professional killers. This was not their first rodeo and, despite all the bullshitting and dickin’ around, these were hardened soldiers. Some, like Masterson, spent a lifetime honing their skills while others had been dragged up a very steep learning curve. It was a field of study that to fail to learn meant death… or worse.

The farmhouse before them was an impressive two story structure with a large, wooden porch around its perimeter. On the right, a large willow tree snuggled up against the side of the house and blanketed it protectively in shadow. On the left, a storm cellar door led into the basement. The place seemed deserted, but they’d all seen that sort of scenario go sour a time or two before. It was how they’d lost Roehler and Fredrickson at the Home Depot and Dupont, Jackson and Miller at the gravel pit.

Having their instructions, A-Rab and Lance sprinted off, making their way around the left side of the house. Lance aimed his AR-10, sweeping the area for any unfriendlies and A-Rab came up behind with the SAW. Once they were set, the two men knelt down and waited for Masterson to give the "in position" signal.

On the right, Masterson and Bruce moved ahead and took up a spot next to the willow’s trunk. The Asian moved slightly further to the right to cover the squad leader’s flank.

Ray Dog and Slider stood calmly beneath the warm sun, feeling the weight of the artillery in their hands. It was turning out to be a nice day, weather-wise, and they were both grateful for the chance to drink some of it in.

"Hey, Dog," Slider said, "If we had us some Margaritas and some honeys, we’d be set, eh?"

"You know it, man."

The two men burst out laughing, but quickly cut their amusement short. They both knew the dangers of giving themselves away too early to these things. They’d been there to mop up when a squad of National Guard guys had their asses handed to them when they went wandering into a Starbucks making too much racket. Time and time again, being lackadaisical bred stupidity and stupidity bred carelessness and carelessness brought on a world of hurt.

Lance and A-Rab heard their friend’s laughter and glanced over to see what was so funny.

The Dog saw the two men staring and flipped them off.

"Lance," Slider hissed, "on your nine."

Lance shot a glance over and saw a zombie coming around the back of the house. The guy looked like another farmhand, which made sense given the locale. It stumbled over something on the ground, but continued to gaze up toward the farmhouse’s windows. It looked like it was searching for something, a way in maybe.

Who knew?

Who cared?

Lance raised the AR-10 and pressed it into his shoulder. As he zeroed in, A-Rab shot off a chirping whistle so that the rest of the team would know they’d found movement. Lance pulled the weapon tighter into his shoulder and prepared to fire.

From the same place behind the house, another one of the undead shuffled out behind the first. This one wore a business suit and his chest was caved in. The wound looked semi-circular in shape like it had been made by a car’s steering wheel.

A-Rab saw the second zombie and bumped his elbow into Lance’s side.

"Do it, Lance," he whispered. "I got ten bucks says you can’t do that shit a second time."

"Ten bucks, eh?" Lance considered the proposition from behind the sights of his weapon. "You’re on."

Lance pulled the rifle slightly tighter and did his best to keep it still. He took in a deep breath and held it, waiting. He slid his fingertips over the knurling on the thin, curling bit of metal and gently caressed the trigger.

His patience was soon rewarded as the second zombie stepped up just behind the first. Lance let out his breath in a soft sigh and gently squeezed.

The first of the .300 Remington Short Ultra Magnum rounds screamed out from the barrel of the AR-10. It was immediately followed by three more in a staccato burst. The bullets tore through the atmosphere, cutting a swath through humid air and shimmering sunlight. For a microsecond, all sound ceased: the wind halted, the trees went motionless, even the birds stopped their song. As the reports from the gun echoed off into the distance, a heavy and completed silence took its place.

It was in that quiet moment that Lance’s initial bullet hit the first zombie just to the left of its nose. As the bone and muscle were torn away, the second and third bullets slapped into the hamburger that had, seconds earlier, been the thing’s face and blew it out the back. Now, with a workable pathway made through the zombie’s head, the fourth bullet flew through the carnage and struck the second zombie square in the forehead.

Both of the reanimated dead teetered and then fell like trees; one to the left, one to the right.

"Sonuvabitch!" A-Rab sighed.

"That’ll be ten bucks, Caliph," Lance said with a wink.

At the sound of the gunshots, Masterson and Bruce stood up and headed ’round the back of the house at a quick clip. They figured that the sound would lure any remaining dead who were behind the house toward the left. It was their plan to come about from the right and flank them.