Craig Dilouie - The Killing Floor

Strickland asked about her spiritual health and she told him she was spiritually dead. He said she should return to her faith, which could serve as a source of strength for her as it has for so many others, reminding her there are no atheists in foxholes. Anne answered there are no believers either. There is just you, dying. And that is the true sadness of life.

You’re here, and then you’re not.

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

The cops step aside as the bus roars past, emptying their guns at point blank range, the bullets punching holes through the thin metal skin of the vehicle.

The firing stops. Marcus straightens in the driver’s seat, his face flushed with rage. Anne climbs to her feet and looks through the back window to see the two cops standing in the middle of the road, staring at the bus as it zooms away from them.

“Who’s hit?” Anne says. She has to shout to be heard over the rush of wind whistling across the seats.

“Just glass,” says Ramona. “Nothing major.”

“I’m all scratched up,” Marcus says. “I’m all right, but I’m bleeding.”

Evan and Gary tell her they are okay.

“Ramona, get the first aid kit,” Anne says. “Gary, take a look at Marcus and let Ramona know where he’s hurt and how bad. Ramona, patch him up first if you can.”

“Shouldn’t we stop?” Gary says.

“Not after that. Those people who were shooting at us were Infected.”

“How can that be?” Evan says.

“Ray Young,” Anne answers. “Evan, I need you to fetch the machine gun.”

Despite everything that has happened, Evan grins. The M240 is his baby. He hurries into the back, dodging Ramona, and returns with the gun.

“Where do you want it?” he says.

“We’re going to mount it right up there next to Marcus where the windshield used to be.”

“Hot dog,” Evan says. “Here, take the gun. I’ll go get the ammo.”

Their boots crunch broken glass as they lug the twenty-six-pound machine gun to the front of the bus and mount it on the hood, the barrel resting on the integrated bipod.

Marcus glances at them as they set it up for firing. Evan pulls the charging handle, locking the bolt to the rear.

“Give me the ammo,” he says.

Anne opens one of the ammunition boxes and pulls out a long belt of shiny rounds, which he connects to the machine gun, sliding the first round into the firing chamber. Locked and loaded.

“We’re in business,” he grins, the wind ripping through his hair. “It’s set for a cycle of eight hundred fifty rounds per minute. Just keep feeding me the belt.”

“Gary!” Anne calls out. “Sit right there. When I say so, get behind Evan, brace your back against the pole here, and put your hands against his back right about here. Keep him stable, okay?”

“I can do that,” Gary says.

“Good idea,” Evan says, hunched over the machine gun, one hand wrapped around the firing handle and the other hugging the gunstock.

“You’re a long way from designing electrical circuits now,” Anne tells him.

Evan laughs into the wind. “Seems like a dream.” Past or present, however, he does not elaborate.

“People in the road!” Marcus says.

Anne raises her rifle and peers through the scope. A crowd of some fifty grim-faced people, holding knives and baseball bats and hockey sticks, stands in a line across the road next to a massive billboard proclaiming, WELCOME TO SUGAR CREEK.

“Fire, Evan.”

“They don’t look Infected!”

“Fire!”

“Anne!”

“FIRE YOUR GODDAMN WEAPON.”

The machine gun fills the air with its loud chatter as fifteen rounds per second rip downrange into the crowd, every fourth a streaming tracer. Dozens of people crumple under the withering fusillade, body parts and guts torn and hurled across the asphalt, while the rest charge howling, throwing bricks and waving their weapons.

A rock sails past Anne’s ear and falls into one of the seats behind her. The town’s welcome sign collapses into pieces. The snowplow strikes a rushing knot of people with a jarring bang and sends them cartwheeling into the fields bordering the road. Next to her, Evan fires, his body shaking, Gary holding onto his back and trying to keep the man steady. Anne feeds the belt into the machine gun, which spits the rounds at a murderous rate. She catches Marcus’s profile while he drives, ramrod straight in his seat, gripping the wheel with white knuckles, bleeding from a cut in his forehead, tears flowing down his stubbled cheeks and drying in the wind. She knows how much he hates this. The endless slaughter. He hates all of it.

The bus zooms down the town’s main street, scattering garbage and scraps of paper. Hundreds of people emerge from houses and buildings, throwing rocks and waving homemade weapons. Stones and shards of brick clatter against the sides of the vehicle.

Evan continues firing, cutting them down and chewing up the fronts of houses. Anne eyes the ammo belt’s shrinking length with alarm. The sides of the bus thud and vibrate as the Infected throw themselves at it. The street behind them fills with clouds of dust. Signs flash past proclaiming zero down financing, world famous tacos, propane for sale.

“Reload!” Evan screams. “Reload me!”

Anne pulls out the second belt of ammunition as the bus approaches another mob of Infected at the other end of town, arrayed in ranks like a medieval army.

Ray

Ray awakens on musty sheets with a pounding headache and a mouth that feels coated with moss. Lola smiles in her sleep, and as Ray gets out of bed, yawning and rubbing his belly, she frowns, stirs, wakes up Infected. Feeling a little nauseous, he plods into the bathroom and pisses loudly. Then Lola pulls up her dress and sits on the toilet, and he thinks: At least I have her potty trained .

“I had the weirdest dream. Did you sleep well, honey?”

Lola barks, making him laugh. His body is paying for last night’s bender, but it did the trick. Overall, he feels better than he can remember.

“Today, we’re going to find ourselves some Feds and make a deal.”

He gives her some fruit juice in a plastic jug, which she gulps. While he brushes his teeth, he wonders what it is like to wake up every day driven by hunger and rage. Maybe a lot like my twenties , he thinks with a snort. The whole thing seems so pointless but then he remembers the Infected are just a means to an end. The bug’s real goal is to plant new life on the planet.

Ray lights a Winston and pats the lump on his ribs, which vibrates like a tiny hummingbird.

“This is not going to turn out the way you wanted, Mini Me,” he tells it.

We like this world just the way it is, and we don’t appreciate you messing with it.

He pulls on his T-shirt and steps into his jeans.

“Let’s go, honey. We’ll get something to eat on the road. The world’s our oyster.”

She takes his hand and he leads her outside into the bright day.

His guards step aside to let him pass: French, Anderson, Cook and Salazar. Ray walks to the edge of the balcony and waves at the Infected gaping up at him with hopeful expressions. The sun is already high in the sky. He overslept, and yet he is still exhausted.

Thank you for watching over me , he tells the Infected.

The sun’s glare makes his eyes tear up. He takes a last drag on his smoke and steps on it.

“There’s just four of us now,” he tells the survivors of Unit 12. “You’ve always been good guys, normal or Infected, don’t matter which. I’m taking you all the way with me. If they want me, they’re going to have to cure you too.”

He leads his entourage down the cement steps and into the parking lot, where he left his truck. The Infected stare at him, sweating and grunting, their skin burned red by the sun, their hair greasy and matted. They touch his shoulders lightly as he passes, growling deep in their throats. Some of them show him weapons they scavenged, baseball bats and shovels, while others try to give him gifts of food. The air is thick with their stench.