Faith in the Apocalypse - Pt. 01

He started with the pistols first. He loaded up with the many different auto variations of the Glock because they were highly dependable and interchangeable. He dug around and found silencers, extra magazines, sights and optics, holsters, speed loaders, cleaning supplies and even targets and hearing and eye protection.

He then turned to the rifles. He picked out the semi-auto Colt M4 carbine that looked a lot like the M-16 he'd carried in Nam, only shorter and fancier. It was chambered for the 5.56 round but it could take a.223 round as well. He looked around and found a tightly-secured store room with all the most expensive weapons locked away inside. There were a dozen M4s in hard cases with three magazines inside each... he took them all along with another dozen weapons that looked promising. He also found scopes and optics, three-point slings, pouches, tools, additional magazines and all kinds of accessories.

He also found all the equipment and components necessary to make reloads for the more common caliber rounds, including presses, casings, primer, gunpowder and anything else you need. He piled it all in one of the stout wooden cases and wheeled it into the van.

He moved on the shotguns, he stuck to Mossberg, Remington and Benelli.

From there, he moved on to the bows, from recurves to compound to bare to hunting bows, he took them all along with arm guards, arrows, quivers, strings and stringers along with anything else he'd need to use and maintain them. He even found a few things sized for children.

He found the display cases with the knives and filled an entire bin with blades of all shapes and sizes, including throwing knives, several kukri style machetes, tomahawk throwing axes, and sharpeners and cases to go with them.

He even found what looked like a 26-inch carbon steel, double-edged short sword in a stout leather sheath which he immediately attached to his belt.

He had no idea why they'd have such a thing, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He took it out and tested the edge. It was razor sharp.

He moved on to camping gear, taking everything he thought would be useful, tents, sleeping bags, packs, pouches, canteens, fire starters, rechargeable headlamps, flashlights and lanterns, camping stoves, compass, rain gear, a whole floor display of stacked pricey two-ply toilet paper and all the packaged and every bag of sealed meals similar to the military's MREs or C-rats.

Finally, he filled out several wooden crates with clothes. From cold-weather clothes, jackets, boots, to camouflage wear of all kinds. There wasn't much there that would fit his massive frame but there was plenty for the girls and the boy. Besides, he knew how to sew so he could use several outfits to create something for himself. He knew there'd be plenty of time in the winter when he'd be shut in out of the cold to work on any number of projects.

By the time he was done, it was three hours later, the van was three quarters full and it rode lower on its rear shocks, but it was a cargo van designed to carry heavy loads so he wasn't worried.

When Scorn finally took a moment to sit down on a high stool at the cash register, the two women approached him while the two children looked around the store and picked out stuff they liked. It wasn't stealing, not anymore, not in this new uncertain world.

"This is Veronica. She goes by Vero," Faith said, motioning at the tiny dark-haired girl. She pronounced it Beronica and Bero.

"She said the manager came into the store while the cleaning crew was here and he attacked them right as they were finishing up."

Faith looked at him, her gold-flecked green eyes flicking nervously.

He nodded at the closed and locked office door.

"They're in there. They were infected," he graveled. "I had to take care of 'em. Tell her I'm sorry but they're gone."

He paused for a beat, thinking quickly.

"The disease took them," he said, letting a brief sorrowful expression cross his weathered white-bearded face.

He watched the beautiful blonde turn and speak hesitatingly to the tiny dark-haired woman.

Vero stared up at him unblinkingly, her enormous brown eyes glued to his face, studying it intently.

She nodded and turned away to join the two children explore what was left in the store.

Faith could see the grief in on the old man's worn and tired face. His expression was tight and strained. He'd slain a lot of people that day, including the beautiful girl's pregnant mother and three little Mexican women, and though it barely showed, his soul was torn and bleeding.

He couldn't allow himself the luxury of rest and reflection. He now had four lives depending on him for survival and he couldn't afford to hesitate.

He looked down at the lovely young girl, studying her face as she studied his. She still wore his big baggy t-shirt but she'd changed out of her cheerleading uniform. She now wore a pair of snug jeans and blouse. So much had happened in such a short time that he found it hard to believe that he'd known her less than a day.

He glanced down at her and briefly recalled how she'd looked naked on his bed, her pale body shining with perspiration, her firm young breasts heaving as she panted for breath.

Flushing hot with shame, he shook his head and recalled his promise to make sure nothing ever hurt her again. Not as long as he had breath in his body. He'd meant it then, he meant it now and every day for the rest of his life.

"C'mon, let's go find everyone a gun," he said hoarsely and clearing his throat, turned towards the glass gun cases.

By the time they were done, Faith was weighed down with a Benelli pump-action shotgun, an M4 carbine, a compact Glock 19 Gen 5 pistol was in a drop holster low on her hip, a subcompact Glock 26 Gen 5 pistol was holstered at her ankle under her jeans, and she kept the.38 revolver under the back of her waistband. A collection of magazine pouches clustered her waist and filled pouches on a vest she'd found.

The two children and the Hispanic woman had never shot a gun before Scorn didn't feel comfortable arming them. He'd teach them when they got back to his place, but for now they'd have to depend on him and Faith to protect them.

It was midafternoon when they finally piled into separate cars. Faith stayed in the Bronco with her brother and sister, Vero drove the SUV and Scorn took the cargo van. It was crammed floor to ceiling full of weapons, clothes and equipment, but it still had a quarter of its hold available.

Scorn led their little convoy to their next destination... Sam's Club.

It took then less than ten minutes to get there. It was less than five miles from the gun store.

He left them in the SUV and told them to wait until he came to get them. Faith insisted on going with him, but he convinced her to stay and protect the kids. If she went with him and something happened to both of them, the kids would pretty much be all alone and defenseless.

Sighing in frustration because he was right, she watched as the enormous fat old man stopped at the entrance to the store. The lights inside were out and the automatic door didn't open.

She saw him look back at them and shrug his thick shoulders.

The old man carried an M4 carbine with a 30-round magazine inserted, on a three-point sling dangling onto his huge potbelly, his shotgun was slung around onto his broad back in a way that would allow him to swing it forward if he needed it, and his.45 ACP was holstered at his waist. He had magazine pouches for the different weapons at his waist and he wore a vest weighed down with even more filled magazines, and several pouches and every pocket bulging with extra 12-gauge shells.

He put cupped his hands on either side of his face against the glass door and looked inside.

There was no movement. Not a sound. Not a whisper.

He turned and looked around. The parking lot was empty except for their three vehicles.

There were no infected racing towards him and no undead zombies lumbering in his direction.

He hadn't had a chance to test the M4. Now was as good a time as any, he thought.

He turned back to the four people waiting for him and mimed putting a finger in his ear then pointed at the glass door with the muzzle of his rifle.

Putting the rifle butt to his shoulder, the thought that the rifle wasn't zeroed and had probably never even been shot before crossed his mind.

He raised his head.

"FUCK!"

Then he sighted down the iron sights and squeezed the trigger three times.

The door shattered as three rounds penetrated the glass. Red lights all around the inside and outside of the building began to flash. He expected a loud siren but there wasn't a sound except for the snapping echoes of the weapon's discharge.

Well, at least the fucking thing worked. He didn't know if it'd hit what he aimed at, but he guessed he'd see. He still had his handy tried and tested shotgun and his.45 ACP if the need arose.

He listened, dreading to hear the whining hungry cries of the infected or the zombies' soulless groans, but not a sound came to his ears.

The store entry consisted of two double doors, the entrance and the exit, a foyer with a storage area for the carts, and then two more sets of double doors.

Light from the front door lit the entrance and maybe 20 feet inside but it was dark as a pit beyond that.

Broken glass ground and cracked under his booted feet as he walked through into the foyer and he saw his rounds had broken one of the second set of doors.

He stepped through to the other broken glass door gingerly, warily expecting an attack at any moment, but not a sound came to his ears, only the sound of breaking crackling glass echoing throughout the giant store.

He let the M4 dangle onto his thick gut and drew out his pistol and a small but powerful flashlight holstered in his vest. That came in handy right away.

Fifteen minutes later the store lights came on and the old man went to fetch his companions.

They spent the next hour trundling canned food, boxes of dried jerky, spices, large bags of salt, sugar and rice to the van. They loaded the back of the SUV with every bit of meat they could fit, beef, chicken and pork.

By the time they were done, all three vehicles were crammed floor to ceiling with food, personal hygiene items, bedding, tools, more toilet paper, half a dozen sturdy lawn chairs and even some toys for the children. Scorn even took the time to gather up all the food seeds he could find, which were quite a few.

He had no idea when they'd be able to come again so he'd told them to stock up.

Finally, they piled into their respective cars and were ready to leave. Scorn guessed the sun would be low in the horizon by the time they got back, especially weighed down as they were so they couldn't waste any more time.

He led the way in the white van, Vero in the SUV then Faith in the Bronco close behind.

They encountered a few infected and several dozen zombies in clusters but Scorn led the way around them and left them far behind.

Eventually he plunged into the woods in the long white cargo van and before long he was at his gate doors.

They gaped wide open.

The deepening gloom made the wide open entrance seem ominous and dangerous.

Scorn looked around. Nothing in sight, but the crickets and other critters were quiet as the grave. The only sounds came from the wind hissing through the leaves and the wooden creak of trees swaying in the gloomy darkening forest all around.

The man in gray was around... probably within the walls of his compound.

"THAT MOTHERFUCKER!" he yelled from the comfort of the white cargo van.

The carbine still hung from the three-point sling around him and the shotgun was on the floor beside him. Still looking around, he bent down and retrieved it. He checked to make sure it was loaded and stepped out of the van, still looking around but now with the butt of the weapon at his shoulder and the muzzle following his gaze.

He made his way to a point where the two girls in the driver's seat could see him, he met their eyes, made a stay motion with his hands, hoping they'd understand he meant they should all stay in their cars then he crept through the double doors and into his compound, his shotgun at the ready.

From the way the old man was acting, they knew there was a problem.

As he walked towards the cabin, Scorn noticed the door was wide open and he saw movement inside.

When he was within 20 feet of the door, he saw the man in the gray suit step outside. The suit was even more ragged and bloodstained than before, he'd been feeding well.

They stared at each other for a split second then as Scorn aimed his weapon, the man fainted left then took off to the right.

He was like no infected Scorn had seen so far.

He wasn't mindlessly trying to attack the old man.

In fact, he was successfully skirting around the old man, ducking and weaving as Scorn tried to get a bead on him, trying to blast him screaming into hell, but the man ran on long legs, agilely avoiding every shot until he disappeared through the double doors and out past the white van and into the woods.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" Scorn yelled after the fleeting form, huffing and puffing as hobbled after him. It had been a long day and his tired old body was sore, aching and stiff. A nearly sleepless night, fighting, killing, digging a grave, lugging around heavy shit, and then taking the hour-long drive back had taken their toll on him. He was exhausted.

He watched as the gray figure melted into the woods.

The last thing he saw were a pair of glowing blood-red eyes staring at him unblinkingly, hatefully, malevolently, from the gloomy woods then they disappeared and the sound of crickets slowly came back.

Faith waited uncertainly in the Bronco, her small hands gripping the steering wheel in anxiety at the sound of five shotgun blasts.

Suddenly, she felt the marrow in her bones freeze and her breath caught in her throat in absolute terror as the man in the gray suit he pelted through the gate doors and disappeared into the woods.

It was the man who'd attacked her best friend Lynn, ripping open her stomach and tearing out her intestines in a shower of blood and screams of agonizing pain. The man who'd hounded her heels mile after mile as she ran from the football stadium, his cracked and jagged fingernails reaching for her, his mouth open in a loud hungering whine, his rasping breath echoing in her ears.

Her friend's screams of agony and the man in gray's pounding footsteps would forever haunt her nightmares.

Her little brother and sister cowered in the bench seat next to her, sobbing in each other's arms, terrified at her reaction and at the sight of the man in gray. They'd caught only the briefest glimpse of his face, but, young as they were, they knew evil when they saw it.

Scorn came running out, shotgun leveled. The hammer fell on an empty chamber and he realized he'd shot every shell. He swung the weapon down and back until it hung behind his back on its sling, and snatched up the M4 bouncing on his bulging barrel-sized belly in the same motion. He did it so smoothly, it seemed almost practiced.

He looked through the iron sights for any movement, but he knew the man was gone. He knew that when the bugs went quiet, he was there and when the bugs sang, he was gone.

The fucking dude in gray was goddamn gone!

He'd missed every fucking shot like a fucking nervous FNG in his first firefight or his first time with a Vietnamese whore.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" he screamed at the woods.

He was frustrated and angry at himself, at his stupidity, at his soreness, at his inability to hit such a close target.

This had probably been his best opportunity at ridding the world of that monster... and he'd fucking blown it!

He took a deep breath, the butt of the M4 still nestled in his shoulder, still looking around, and angrily motioned the women to follow, and then he got into the van and drove into the compound, the others close behind.

He parked the car and went to check the gate. It had been battered open. He'd locked it from the outside but that hadn't been enough to keep out the relentless infected fiend. He had shattered the bolt and entered his sanctuary, the place where he thought he'd always be safe.

That motherfucker, he cursed in his head yet again.

"I'm gonna kill that motherfucker," he muttered under his breath.

... to be continued

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