Wretched Culling by E. G. Michaels

Author:E. G. Michaels [Michaels, E. G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-03-21T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Three

Foster and Sams managed to make it most of the way to where the abandoned truck was located without running into any Reapers. But it had taken a good amount of effort to convince the survivors that they couldn’t tag along. It took Sams threatening to leave them fending for themselves to get their cooperation. Even so, Foster kept looking back periodically to make sure no one had decided to defy their request and follow them to the truck. They had almost reached the truck when Foster called an audible and headed to a different room overlooking the truck. Five minutes later, the two men were still arguing about it.

“Your new plan sucks,” Sams complained. “I don't understand why you think we need to do it this way. The plan we decided on would have been perfectly fine.”

“You really need to come up with some new material,” Foster replied. “Look, I've already told you. We’ve got limited options. If we wind up in close combat, the advantage shifts to the Reapers. It's better for me to use the Remington and snipe as many of them long-range as possible.”

“I still think between your magic dagger and this,” Sam said as he held up his K-Bar, “we can sneak up quietly and take them out. This new idea of yours? We’re in a room with only one exit and a door that your mother could break by accidentally farting too close to it.”

“Tell you what. How about we see how many I can take out long range? Then we go in and take out any of the remaining stragglers up close and personal.”

“Fine.”

“Just do me a favor.”

“Sure, why not,” Sams snarked. “We’re probably gonna wind up dead in less than two minutes thanks to your brilliant idea.”

“Make that two favors.”

“Wow. Now you're really pushing it.”

“Favor number one: Play spotter for me. Make sure nothing sneaks up behind me,” Foster said as he shifted into position on the Remington 700. He double-checked to make sure the shooting bag was still in place. He rechecked the sand sock and was pleased it was still wedged firmly in the back of the weapon. Satisfied that his rifle was positioned the way he wanted, Foster positioned himself prone behind the weapon.

“Okay, I can do that,” Sams said. “What's favor two?”

“Quit fucking complaining so much. You’re starting to sound like the prom queen who didn’t get what she wanted on her big night.”

“Fine,” Sams grumbled.

Foster shifted his body so he was looking through the rifle scope and double-checked his slight alignment. There was a pair of Reapers in plain view near an abandoned truck. Each one was wearing a bloodied, tattered military uniform.

I bet they were part of the former squad assigned to help protect the airport refugees against the Reapers. Poor bastards probably never thought they’d become Reapers too, Foster thought.

Foster took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He sighted on the first Reaper, waited until the creature stopped moving, and gently pulled the trigger like he was drawing a line in the sand.

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