Zombie Wake by Helicer Storm J

Author:Helicer, Storm J. [Helicer, Storm J.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Berzerker
Published: 2013-08-22T14:00:00+00:00

Bullets

8

Now, I wouldn’t say math was my best subject but I figure, pretty quick, that with two magazines for the AR15 (each 28 rounds), and my 40-caliber Smith and Wesson (three sets of 11 rounds plus 1), I have less than one third the bullets I need for this event. The pier is filled with… individuals. All look tattered, torn and decomposed. One, holding an arm severed at the elbow, spits out a finger. Most are moving forward.

We are trained that the use of force is a continuum. You are constantly evaluating the circumstances before you, and reacting appropriately. The Peace Officer Protective Equipment, sometimes jokingly referred to as the batman belt, is a toolbox of options. The most common first line of defense is voice, verbal judo it’s called. “Excuse me sir, that behavior is unacceptable in this public setting…” that sort of thing. Then there’s pepper spray and the baton. It is a common public misconception that the use of force is like a ladder. You have to stand on rung number one before you got to rung number two. In reality, you are continuously escalating and de-escalating your response to match your environment. And rungs can be skipped.

Now it’s time for bullets—all of them. As I start shooting, really start, I think, Don’t pick them up. It’s funny how even thoughts can become routine. In a famous shoot out, three cops were killed because they stopped shooting to collect their brass. During trainings, they had been taught to clean up their empty shells promptly after unloading their weapon. When the real thing went down, they maintained the tidying ritual. Because of that, trainings were reworked and we were taught to let the metal fly. I am conscious of them hitting the ground. BAM, ting-ting-ting, BAM, ting-ting-ting-ting.

The living dead go down with a thump, one at a time. I’m doing them a favor, I think. But with each shot spent my adrenalin levels increase, and my pity is short lived. What is propelling me started as fear, quickly turned to pity then finally to anger. Rage pumps out each bullet. This is not my job. Furlough days, decreases in budget, failed equipment and now this. This guy with a beer in his hand and one eye hanging out of his head wants to eat me. NO. Boom, tinka ting-ting.

But that was the last bullet. I let the AR15 fall to my side. Before the strap catches, I have my handgun up and shooting. Eleven zombies, they fall like dominoes almost stacking. I push another magazine in and start pumping. Another layer of them stack up and the ones behind start tripping. I push the last magazine with force. Methodically and calculated, I start back. But instead of plucking one off at a time, hair and scalp start flying--the zombies cease to fall. It takes me three rounds to realize it’s the bullets. Oh no not the pig bullets.

*

Months ago, we had some pigs to dispose of. You would never know during the day that they were there.

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