Otto Wakefield cocked his Mossberg 500 Persuader. It was black, with synthetic furniture, a 20 inch barrel, an 8 shot butt stock shell holder, and an 8 shot magazine. He was a tall man, with graying black hair. He was mostly muscular and lean, but he had a beer gut. Like his little brother, he was pale, and he had gray eyes. He wore a pair of black state trooper’s pants with a gold stripe on each side, and a pair of tall, shiny state trooper boots. For a shirt, all he had on was a plain whit beater shirt. Over this, he had a pair of black nylon bandoliers with .308 rifle shells. At his waist, he wore a black leather cartridge belt with a pair of holsters for his side arms, an S&W 500 and a Taurus Raging Bull Model 500. Both guns used S&W .50 magnum rounds. Those were stored in the belt. Otto closed the door to his Ford Crown Vic, and surveyed the territory before him. Supposedly, this was where the helicopter was supposed to be. Minneapolis/St. Paul International. Damn, it looked dead.
It hadn’t looked like this since, well, never. Where there used to be people and planes, there were bodies, charred and twisted bits of machinery, and a few weapons lying around. Otto hadn’t seen his kid brother in years. Now, he was probably dead. Like his Ex and his kids.
“Otto!” Jerry called, holding his Remington Express Deer aloft. Otto whirled around. Jerry had been his companion for no more than a few hours. He wasn’t exactly what Otto could call a friend, but nevertheless, he was capable with guns and had a good sense of humor, the latter of which Otto did not have, thus making Jerry a necessity on the long journey to safety.
“What is it? Are any of them here?” He asked; glancing to make sure no runners were about the place. Jerry shook his head, and raised a pair of binoculars. Otto looked up, and sure enough, in the distance, was a Chinook helicopter, headed toward the airport. Otto dashed to the car, and flipped on the sirens and the lights. It did signal the helicopter, but it also notified all of the zombies within a ten mile radius. The first of the runners rounded a corner, and sprinted their way toward the two survivors. Otto took no time in rallying his comrade. The two fired off a few rounds, then retreated to the top of the cruiser. The helicopter was still too far in the distance, but the sirens had done the job.
Jerry unloaded a round of birdshot into a runners face, knocking its dead body into the one behind it. Otto unloaded some buckshot into another bastard’s head, and it exploded from the impact. But the noise of the guns only drew more to their position. With a steady stream as this, Jerry and Otto could only hope to hold them off for a few more minutes. But luckily, as another batch of runners rounded a corner, a rope ladder floated down beside them. Jerry was first to latch on. Otto leaped off the car, and opened the trunk. He drew a black scoped Ruger M77 rifle, a backpack with an assortment of ammo, and an Ithaca 37 shotgun. Then, with a large jump, he too was hoisted into the air, dangling and swinging as the wind beat at him.
Jerry, who a moment ago had been scared shitless, seemed at ease in the air. He had been a grocery store owner before that. It had just so happened that during the beginnings of the epidemic, Jerry had been pulled over running from the zombies by Otto. Just as he was about to get bitten, Jerry, who thankfully had his Remington with him, shot the zombie that Otto otherwise would not have seen. Otto snapped out of his reminiscing as a pair of strong arms hoisted him into the passenger bay of the helicopter. Jerry was nowhere to be seen, but several other faces were. Most of the owners of the faces were armed with various types of weapons (mostly pistols and hunting rifles). A large man with a Winchester model 70 Rifle nodded his greeting. The man looked Otto over, and smirked.
“So…you used to be a State Trooper, no?” he asked, motioning for Otto to take the seat directly across the man. Otto did so, cautiously setting his supplies at his feet. The man looked at the Ithaca shotgun, and then at the Mossberg that was slung across Otto’s back. “Mind if I borrow that Ithaca?” he asked. Otto tossed it to him, along with a box of shells. The man gladly took them.
“You have a name?” Asked Otto, who was loading up his Mossberg 500. The man didn’t reply. “And yes, I was a State Trooper…before all of this shit hit the fan…” he changed the subject. “My name is Otto Wakefield.”
“Good to meet you. Mine’s Arnold.” He held out a hand, and Otto shook it. “Good thing you took the risk of putting on those lights. I was the one who saw you.”
“Thanks. Where is this helicopter headed, anyway?” Otto asked, switching to loading his Ruger. It was a long rifle, and it had polished wood furniture. Mounted on the top was a standard tactical scope. Arnold waited for Otto to finish, then he led him to the storage bay, where Jerry was laying down in a cot. They passed him, and entered the cockpit. Arnold opened the door, and a man stepped out.
“My name is Marcus. I am the pilot here.” Otto, who was quite taken aback, tipped his troopers’ hat and Marcus did the same with his pilot hat. “What is your name?”
“Otto Wakefield.” He replied. Marcus stopped.
“Wakefield? As in Carlisle Wakefield?” he asked, getting excited.
“You know my little brother?” he exclaimed. “Is he alright?” Marcus nodded, and Otto sighed with relief. “Thank god...where is this chopper headed for, anyway?” Marcus didn’t answer. Otto looked at Arnold, and Arnold decided to explain while Marcus slipped away to do some work.
“We are headed to Atlanta…there is a safe-zone there. Your brother will be there, though. And your childhood friend Patrick.”
“Hey! Quick, suit up. We have to land in some rough territory. Saw some flares go off below!” he left, and Otto took no time in getting ready. At last, Marcus, who seemed to be in charge, lined up the people in the cargo hold. “Okay. We are going to keep it simple. Everyone with rifles, to the right. You will cover the others while they storm the hostiles form the ground.” Marcus looked around, and motioned for the shotgun owners to follow him. Jerry, Otto, and Arnold followed. “Otto. You seem as though you have some experience. I am appointing you Commander. You need to make sure those survivors get out safe.”
“Uh…how many of those things are there down there?” Jerry asked, regretting the answer. Marcus didn’t reply. Instead, Jerry was led out to the door, and the three rappelled down into the hell below. Otto slung his shotgun across his back. It looked dead down here.
Every so often, the group would pass a dismembered limb, or a rotting corpse. And since the sun had begun to set, thousands of the more dominant number, the slow ones, seemed as though they were moaning in unison. Jerry was freaking out. Arnold was silent, and Otto was in charge and scared shitless.
“Ok. We’re going inside. Use your sidearm’s…” Otto whispered, taking out his two revolvers. Slowly, he crept through a broken door. Jerry followed, his shotgun held aloft. The first hallway seemed to be deserted. Smeared across the walls were various bloody handprints. Otto looked away in disgust as he passed a decapitated head lying on the ground. Nobody so far. That was a good sign. Also a bad one.
“Uh…hello?” asked Arnold, who was the first to call out. No answer. Otto looked around. His companions were looking at him for the answer. How should he know? But he was the most experienced member. He was supposed to be the guy with the plan. The big decorated state trooper. The Commander. He shook these thoughts from himself as he was pulled back into the current situation. The door ahead of him looked solid; a good sign that the survivors may be inside. Slowly, Otto opened the door. A fire axe whooshed by his face, hitting the wall. The swinger looked out, and with a relieved sigh, let go of the handle.
“Jesus Christ…thank god you guys came.” Was all he said. He was a young man, about mid twenties, and he was armed with a Mossberg 590. The shotgun looked rusted and beat up. It was mostly black, with a few bloodstains on it. Otto didn’t respond, but took a look around the room. He holstered his revolvers and grabbed an old fashioned Beretta M9 pistol and a crowbar. He also brought with him a Luger with a black synthetic grip. The man only had the Mossberg 590, but he seemed as though he was good with it. Without so much as a backward glance, the group burst out into the night air…