Free An Axe to Grind by Hope Sullivan McMickle

An Axe to Grind

    By Hope Sullivan McMickle

    Copyright 2008 Hope Sullivan McMickle
    Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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    John Warren squinted in the glare of the late morning sun and watched the girl stagger across the grocery store parking lot. He leaned forward on his perch in the deer blind he’d installed in the tall tree beside the university library, slowly adjusted the focus on his binoculars, and studied her for a long moment. She appeared to be an ideal candidate. Despite her unwashed and tangled blonde hair and flaking purple sparkle nail polish, her lithe body was still somehow graceful. A thin gold bracelet glinted above her right ankle - a glittering bauble above dirty bare feet. He lowered the binoculars and raised the barrel of the AR 15 - not yet modified to fully automatic although he supposed he’d get to it one of these days - until the girl was framed in the crosshairs of the sight. She wore a black silk halter top above a pair of high-cut blue jean shorts faded nearly white. A spattering of blood partially obscured the rose tattoo on her left shoulder, trailing back to the gaping maw where her throat had once been.
    He paused and swore softly under his breath, just to break the silence that filled so much of his days. He lifted his eye from the sight and watched her weave her way past the deserted parking area, getting hung up briefly in the cart corral, before resuming her lurching shamble in his general direction. Her age was right - she looked to be about 20 - her look was right, and her body was as yet largely unmarred by the decay that plagued so many of the others. As he watched, the dead girl made her way past the grocery store and approached the nearly invisible wire snare that he had rigged across the narrow alleyway between the store and the neighboring Domino’s Pizza, an area that created a natural bottleneck. At one time, the area had been notorious for exceedingly poor traffic flow but now it made for an exceptional capture point since traffic had ceased being an issue nearly two years ago. He knew the girl would keep coming, never straying from her trajectory as long as no obstacles got in her way and necessitated a change in path. It was the singularity of purpose and unity of the damned that he had observed a thousand times. Motivated only by hunger, the girl continued down the alley drawn to the scent of fresh blood that John used to bait the trap. There was an audible snap when the girl’s left foot triggered the snare. They fell for it every time. John laughed, clicked on the rifle’s safety, and climbed ponderously down the aluminum ladder to meet the new girl, who was dangling by her ankle in the snare.
    He paused at the base of the tree to scan north and south along Commercial Street, then east and west down 12 th . Although night was more dangerous due to limited visibility and the element of surprise, John found that daylight made them restless and he was more likely to come upon small contingents of them stumbling about. The dead demonstrated no capacity for planning or coordination, but their ferocity and tenacity could overpower and overwhelm those caught unaware, and he intended to put a bullet in his head before he became one of them.
    John shouldered his rifle and walked over to the police car he had appropriated and retrofitted compliments of the Lyon County Sheriff’s Department. Equipped with a 4.5 liter V8 engine, the Crown Vic Interceptor had a speedometer calibrated for 140 miles an hour. He’d got it up to 115 on the ten mile stretch outside of town, heading east to Olpe, before he chickened out and slowed down. Every so