Craig Dilouie - The Killing Floor

So this is where you went.

The sight is breathtaking. So many people. So many lives destroyed just so that a mindless organism could survive a little longer. Sarge would have described the scene as a target rich environment , but she is not here to kill Infected.

Anne is looking for Ray Young, the man who caused all this.

She takes a drink of water from her canteen, breathes deeply, and gets to work. Peering into the eyepiece of the telescopic scope mounted on her rifle, she studies the crowd.

This might take a very long time. Might as well conserve energy.

She detaches the scope from her rifle and puts her back against a large tree, scanning the shifting crowds while she eats a granola bar.

Erin?

The girl drifts among the Infected with her arms at her sides, wearing a lost expression.

At least Todd will get some closure.

A flicker of movement far behind her catches Anne’s eye. A group of Infected swarm over each other, covered in blood, eating one of their own.

Something is moving on their left. She shifts her scope.

Ray Young jogs away from the Infected, looking terrified.

A smile flickers across Anne’s lips.

Got you, you son of a bitch.

She pockets her unfinished snack and reattaches the telescopic sight. Ray stops at the farmhouse and sits on the steps.

He believes he is still human. The tragedy is he is another product of Infection, perhaps the worst of all—a lie, a creature of deception, a Trojan Horse.

An abomination that must be killed.

Time for the killing.

The first step: find a good firing position.

Anne studies the ground, looking for a prone firing position offering support as well as concealment. Making herself as still as possible is necessary for an accurate shot, but is also exhausting. As muscles tire, they move, producing wobble in the crosshairs.

She cannot find a prone firing position on the hill with a decent line of sight. Not even a kneeling position. Anne will have to take her shot at Ray while standing.

Placing her palm against the rough bark of a tree, she extends her thumb to form a V and rests the butt of the rifle there, placing the stock against the pocket of her right shoulder.

Stay right there, Ray.

She flicks the safety to the FIRE position, pulls the bolt back to release the catch, and chambers the first round from the magazine. Locked and loaced.

Ray stands and paces, then stops. Anne rests her cheek against the worn surface of the walnut rifle stock and aligns her eye with the scope. The blurry image comes into sharp focus as she adjusts the magnification. As the reticle clears, she centers the crosshairs on Ray’s chest, making an adjustment to the ballistic cam to compensate for her higher elevation.

This done, she closes her eyes and relaxes. When she opens them, the crosshairs have dropped to her natural point of aim, a little left and below the target. If she were to correct and shoot now, her muscles would tense, which could throw off her aim. Anne adjusts her firing stance and repeats the exercise. When she opens her eyes, Ray is still in the crosshairs. Now she can shoot without any tension. The man looks as scared and confused as he did earlier. Rather than evoking any sympathy, this makes her hate him even more.

In a minute, all of your worries will be over, and you can go to sleep, you prick.

She inhales, exhales.

As she breathes out, she delays her next inhale, knowing she has about ten seconds of perfect stillness to shoot. Her finger touches the trigger.

Just a little more pressure, and BOOM.

Ray grins just before a man steps in front of her shot.

Anne pauses, blinking, and lowers the rifle.

Something strange is happening.

A large number of the Infected are streaming through the crowd, converging on her target.

Ray

Ray sits on the porch steps and watches the Infected bring him gifts. He thought about how hungry and thirsty he was, spoke the words aloud, and now here they come like robot servants, dumping pieces of jerky, cans of pasta in sauce, bottles of water, warm sodas, lint-covered Life Savers, sticks of gum, trail mix and a bag of multigrain tortilla chips crushed to the consistency of sand. He wishes for cigarettes, and soon has his choice of brands. He wishes for a stiff drink, and is given a metal flask with a bullet hole punched through the top and a little vodka in the bottom.

Saying the words is not even necessary. Picturing it in his mind, and willing it to happen, is enough to get what he wants.

Ray laughs. I’m king of the motherfucking zombies.

He takes a long snort from the flask and gasps, raising it in a toast.

“I drink to your health.”

He is starting to process what is happening to him.

The bug turned me into a superweapon. It allowed me to live for this, and this only.

The Infected stand around, staring at him with their glazed, needy eyes. He pulls his STEELERS cap lower over his face and wolfs down his meal of junk food and water. Ray doesn’t want them to see him crying.

He feels defiled. Diseased.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“ Sorry” doesn’t begin to cover it, bro.

He looks up at the Infected crowding around and feels something else, too. A fierce pride. They belong to him now. They are, in a sense, his children.

Is that me feeling this, or the bug?

A dark defiant thought seeps into his mind and replaces his guilt. The whole world can go fuck itself and become infected, as long as I live.

That was not the bug thinking. That was him. He lights a Winston and leans back on his elbows. I’m alive, and there is only this, and that makes this good. Whatever it is.

Breathe in, breathe out.

You do what you think is best, Ray.

“You got it.”

He smokes in silence, listening to the Infected growl, and tries to reason things out.

I’m a carrier for the bug. I can’t be around normal people. That’s the bad news. The good news is I can control the crazies. Maybe even the monsters.

In any case, it’s nice to finally feel safe. Like a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

On the other hand, the idea of living among the mindless Infected for the rest of his life is enough to make him doubt his sanity. He may be a bit of a misanthrope, but he is a sociable misanthrope. He may have a history of abusing people, but he needs people to be happy.

Ray smiles at the gray faces. If he can control the Infected, he can make them all walk off the nearest cliff, or turn on each other. He could be a major weapon against Infection.

He might, in fact, be capable of saving the world using this power. What would that idea be worth to the right people?

Maybe nothing. Maybe they’ll kill me on sight. Just in case. Just to make sure I can’t ever hurt them. It’s the safest move for them.

Maybe we could do a deal, though. I make all of the Infected climb the nearest mountain and jump off and die, and they find a way to cure me. It’s the least they could do for the man who saved the world.

He chooses to believe in this possibility. It is, after all, his one hope. Like he already learned, anything can happen.

Ray stands and stretches. That’s it, then. I’ll try to contact the government. But where is it?

The Army is in Washington. That’s where he must go.

The lump in his side buzzes with appreciation.

“I’m glad the idea pleases you.”

The solution is simple enough: All he needs is a vehicle with a full tank of gas. Maybe a pickup. He’ll take a bodyguard of Infected with him, and ditch the rest here.