ZOMBIE'S DOOM? "Chronicles of Jack Doom" (9 page)

As we scavenged up as much of the new supplies as we could carry, I had a thought.

"
I wonder if Jason has a vehicle, he never did mention how he got here from Oklahoma?
"

Jason now was sporting his original rifle, and two 9mm pistols he had appropriated from the gun store, all with silencers attached, and several boxes of ammo for all three guns.

"That's quite a load to carry, it's almost as much as I've got," I said. "You wouldn't happen to have some kind of a vehicle parked near here would you?"

"I have an old pick-up truck parked a few stores down the block, I didn't want to just drive up here and stop in front of the gun shop not knowing if anyone was inside," Jason answered, seeming not to understand what I was getting at.

"Well, my ride ended up down the road a piece with three flat tires, it was a nice ride but spare tires were a little hard to come by at the time, so I had to leave it behind," I told him. "Maybe we could ride together in your truck?"

"There's nothing that I'd like better Jack, but we're going in opposite directions," Jason answered, oblivious to my hint.

"No we're not, I'm going to Oklahoma to find the Sarge, aren't you coming with me?" I asked, now staring at Jason with a blank look on my face.

Before Jason had a chance to answer my question, we heard a noise coming from outside of the building.

"Quiet! Eaters," I whispered, pointing to the front door.

I hoped that it was a couple of picaroon zombies and not a pack of feral dogs on the prowl that was making the noise. But I'd take the dogs over a raptor or two.

"It's been a while since I've seen any of the dead walking around, that's a good sign, right," Jason concluded.

"I've noticed that the lack of eaters in a given area usually means that there's a pack of feral dogs nearby, or worse," I informed him as I slowly made my way toward the front of the shop.

"Feral dogs? That doesn't sound good," Jason declared, as he too moved in the direction of the front door.

As I approached the door, I could see two mutts running south down the street, then a moment later another three dogs passed by the doorway on the other side of the street, all heading south.

"Stay still," I order Jason. "They haven't seen us yet."

Being fortunate enough not to have crossed paths with any of the feral dog population as of yet, Jason should have done as I ordered and froze in his tracks.

However, never having seen a pack of the roaming curs, and not realizing the danger that these vicious mongrels posed, he continued to walk forward to my position.

Strike two!

"Freeze you dumb-ass, you'll get us both killed," I barked in my best drill instructor whisper as I set my M-4 to full auto.

But it was too late, a straggler that had allowed the main pack to advance a couple of blocks ahead of it, caught a glimpse of Jason's movement as it passed the doorway.

The malicious K-9 abruptly skidded to a halt, and turned its full attention to the doorway of the gun shop. Then, in a split second, it bolted toward Jason and leaped into the air with the intention of landing on my new found partner's face.

Standing only a few feet from Jason and the malevolent attacking dog, I leveled my suppressed M-4 at the lunging crossbreed and pulled the trigger.

At between 600 to 800 rounds per minute, my rifle spit out a fusillade of full metal-jacketed projectiles of the 5.56 variety into the attacking animal in mid-flight.

The effect of such a myriad of bullets hitting the beast almost simultaneously was to slam the vile critter against the doorjamb just inches from Jason's face, killing it instantly.

Apparently, Jason still hadn't learned his lesson, the dog I had just killed had barely hit the ground when Jason sprang out the front door of the gun shop to see where the other dogs had gone.

Strike three!

"Look, I think they're after that group of dead!" he shouted, pointing at a small clutch of zombies in the distance.

"Better them than us," I whispered back to him, as I pulled him back inside the shop by the collar of his shirt. "I've never seen any live dogs and eaters together, but in this crazy world who knows, there's a first time for everything I guess."

With three strikes under his belt, at this point, I realized that Jason was a little too high strung to be traveling with me. He didn't seem to be able to follow simple instructions (like stop moving), and immediately after almost being ripped apart by a feral dog, he jumped out into the open and started shouting.

Fortunately for us, the main pack of dogs were busy a few blocks away running around doing whatever it is that feral dogs do when they're not attacking
me
, and didn't hear him yelling at the top of his lungs.

It was only a matter of time before his antics would get him killed, and I didn't want to be his conjoined twin when it happened.

I felt that in the light of what had just taken place, I had only two options to choose from.

Option number one
(my preferred option), I could ask Jason nicely for the keys to his truck, and then send him on his way. I would take his truck and follow the Sarge and Beth's trail into Oklahoma, and Jason could continue his journey south on foot until he found himself another vehicle, or was torn apart by zombies, feral dogs, or raptors, whichever came first.

Option number two
(not my preferred option, but still on the table), I could ask Jason nicely for the keys to his truck, and if he refused, I would kill him. and leave his carcass to be torn apart by the zombies, feral dogs, or the raptors, whichever came first. Then I would take his truck and continue to follow the Sarge and Beth's trail into Oklahoma, while he was slowly being digested by whichever pack of carnivores decided to choke down his dumb ass for lunch.

Whichever option was to be chosen, the choice was going to be solely up to Jason.

Even though I had no intention of reviewing his options before the fact.

He could choose to cooperate, and allow the zombie apocalypse to choose the time and method of his ultimate demise. Or, he could choose not to cooperate, and to die a quick and relatively painless death in Amarillo Texas by my hand.

Either way was fine with me, but one way or another, I was going to take possession of his truck and head into Oklahoma in search of my prey.

"That was pretty stupid of you Jason, first you didn't stay still like I told you to, and then you went outside and started shouting," I asserted, still whispering angrily.

"I just got excited, that's all," he replied.

"No, what you got was us almost killed," I challenged. "That's all I need, is a letter sent back to my family that reads;
Jack Doom was killed because he befriended an idiot named Jason
."

Jason had no idea whether any of my family was alive or not, but the curious look on his face when I stated that a letter might be sent to them announcing my premature death, was almost worth the price of admission.

"Letter?" Jason asked curiously.

"Never mind, I need the keys to your truck, hand them over," I sternly ordered.

"That's okay, I don't mind driving," he replied.

"No, it's not okay, you won't be coming with me, give me the keys," I demanded once more, slowly turning my rifle in his direction.

"I don't have the keys, I left them in the truck, take the truck, just don't shoot me Mr. Doom," Jason pleaded, now again visibly afraid.

"I intend to do just that," I said, now pointing my rifle at his chest.

"Th...th...that's fine, y...you take the truck, I...I'll find another truck, or a car, or som...something," Jason maintained, as he began to stammer again.

"I'm glad you see it my way Jason, now let's go get
my
truck, and for your sake when we get there the keys better be in it," I stressed firmly, secretly hoping that he was telling me the truth about the truck's keys.

We cautiously retreated from the gun shop with Jason leading the way. He claimed that his vehicle was only two blocks away, so I allowed him only one knife to fend off any peril that we might encounter along the way, or that he might run into on his way back to the gun store to retrieve his other weapons after I had gone.

"There it is; the primmer gray one parked by the curb."

"As soon as I confirm the keys are in it and it starts, you can go back to the gun shop and pick up the rest of your guns," I affirmed.

Jason now began to act strangely, turning his head back and forth as if he were looking urgently for something.

I had seen this type of behavior before, in Afghanistan. Some of the hajji's we had captured had exhibited this type of behavior when they were close to panicking and trying to decide whether to make a break for it or not.

I quickly tossed my paraphernalia into the bed of my new gray truck and glanced inside, and seeing that the ignition had no keys dangling there.

"Son-of-a-bitch Jason, I tried to be nice," I said.

At that moment, Jason turned and began to run back toward the gun shop.

"Damn it Jason, I really didn't want to shoot you in the back," I mumbled to myself, as I took aim at Jason's lower spin.

My M-4 let out four quick muffled pops as I pressed the gun's trigger to the rear. My shoulder felt a mild shove from the recoil of the weapon as I watched Jason fall to the sidewalk just yards from me with four bullets in his back.

I had forgotten to put my rifle back into semi-auto mode before shooting Jason, so the quantity of bullets entering his body disjointed his spin on impact, splintering several of his vertebras and severing his spinal column, killing him instantly.

Fearing the smell of blood in the air would hasten the return of the feral dogs, or bring in any wandering zombies or raptors that might be patrolling the streets; I quickly rifled through Jason's pants pockets searching for the keys to my new truck.

"Ah, here they are," I said quietly to myself as I pulled a blood soaked keychain out of the dead man's pocket.

I had killed Jason with a quick twelve-yard volley to his backbone, which had severed his lower spin. As I stood up to walk back to the truck, I flipped the control on my rifle to semi-automatic and pulled the trigger once more, putting a single bullet into Jason's head to prevent him from becoming one of the living dead.

I thought I at least owed him that much, as payment for the truck if for nothing else.

I had searched Jason earlier, and had missed the truck keys, but in my own defense, I was searching him for weapons, not for keys.

Upon returning to the pick-up truck, I inserted the key into the ignition and heard the engine turn over, sputter, and then start up.

In moments, I was on the road once again and making good time, I was headed into Oklahoma and back on the trail of the Sarge.

However, as I pushed northeast in the new and unfamiliar ride, I couldn't resist adding two more of the living dead to my tally of felony hit and runs, by sideswiping a couple of hitchhiking corpses and sending them spinning clear off the road, and temporally clear of their adopted flies.

At the same time, I managed to do minimal damage to
my
new truck.

As I drove past the city limits sign of Amarillo. By veering slightly off the road to clip the hips of another unsuspecting pair of zombies, I left them with some exposed broken bones and secreting some of their spoiled juices as they wallowed and twitched in the nearby roadside ditch, hopefully suffering greatly.

I had developed a technique for accruing a large number of zombie hit and runs after losing a sweet little ride I had acquired some time ago in west Texas.

After butchering several zombies execution style just outside of Pecos Texas, I ran across a classic car dealership that had a fully restored 1969 Mach 1 Mustang setting in its showroom.

This little gem was maroon with dirty piss-yellow racing stripes and sported a 351 cubic inch Cleveland engine under its flat black pinned down hood. It also had a 4-speed manual transmission along with a posi-traction rear-end and original Goodyear poly-glass tires.

Sweet
!

This little honey was faster than a coon dog chasing a bitch in heat. And that's where the problems for me began to surface. My new hotrod brought out the teenage boy in me and I just couldn't resist sticking my toe down the throat of the carburetor every once in a while.

Well, as fate would have it, I was driving way too fast up interstate 20 after checking out one of the countless dead end leads that I had been chasing, this particular one had dried up just east of El Paso.

After stopping for a well-deserved urination station break (I had to take a piss), I had reinserted my toe back into the carburetor, when I spotted an obese zombie staggering across the freeway and figured I could dust him off with the right front fender of my "Stang" and no one would be the wiser.

I didn't take into consideration that this particular undead hunk of shit was rather new to the world of the walking dead, and its flesh had not decomposed enough to just slide off the bone like a well cooked rack of Louisiana ribs when scraped by my speeding sports car.