Free Hunger Driven: A Zombie Short Story by William Allen

twenty pound tank I’d salvaged.  I needed a good line of sight back to the store roof, but not something that looked contrived.  Feeling short of time, I just shoved the keg shaped metal barrel up under the bottom of the fuel carrier and slid a piece of sheet metal in place to shield any curious eyes from the road.
    Deciding this was good enough, I sprinted back to the Ford and fired it up.  For some reason, I felt like I had eyes on me out here though I could see nothing even with the binoculars on maximum magnification.  Now, one more thing.
    Climbing the ladder for the umpteenth time this day, I carefully shed my gloves and donned another set.  I made sure to avoid letting any of the contaminated surface come in contact with my bandages on my right hand.  Using the toe of my boot I eased those stinking gloves over the side of the building.
    Then I had no more time.  I could hear engines in the distance.  Big engines.  It sounded like some of Sandoval’s dogs were coming in search of their missing Tarantulas.  Hustling over to the cased rifles, I removed the Winchester and laid it out with the barrel pointed out over the concrete parapet.  That would be for later, but first I needed to uncase the monster.
    The case was a custom foam job, with cutouts for each component.  I grunted at the weight as I unlimbered the Barrett M82A1 fifty caliber BMG anti-material rifle.  The bipod legs helped with the weight, but still it weighed over thirty pounds unloaded.  The ten round magazines looked as big as old VCR tapes, and the optics package included a ballistic computer that was no doubt smarter than the operator.
    This was the civilian version, a toy I salvaged from a rich man’s estate out on Lake Livingston.  It came with two magazines and a total of ninety rounds.  I’d never fired one of these monsters before the end of the world, and honestly I didn’t enjoy the experience.  The recoil was too much for fun shooting, but I’d made myself waste enough rounds to familiarize myself with the beast.  Now I was going to be relying on this thing to even the odds.  Like the Model 70, this was a weapon intended for use against humans, endangered but still the most dangerous species on the planet.
    Good thing I was where I would be making my stand, because for right now I was too freaking tired to move anywhere else.  Now we would see if a big gun and my harebrained plan would work to stop these guys.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    The lead vehicle was a Peterbilt tractor outfitted with an oversized ram, like a train’s cowcatcher.  This diesel monster looked like something out of a Mad Max sequel down to the welded-on armor and spikes.  The purpose was obvious as it bulled through the scattered traffic and cleared space for the trailing convoy.  I counted three Humvees in line, with an armored car looking vehicle covering the rear.  I saw six wheels and an oddly shaped hull.  Then it clicked.  That’s a Stryker.  Some kind of assault vehicle, and it was supposed to have either a heavy machine gun or an automatic grenade launcher.  Fuck.
    I checked the laser range finder and saw the tractor was at twelve hundred meters.  Then I lased  the tanker and discovered the range was actually a little over six hundred meters.  I would definitely be shooting up the Peterbilt, but first I needed to see if I could take out that Stryker. 
    As I hoped, the impending action finally got my adrenalin pumping and I found myself anxiously watching the distance drop.  I wondered idly if Doctor Gooden made it safely to the Woodville base, but even if she’d been hauling ass, there was no way I would getting the help I needed.
    As soon as the Stryker drew even with the tanker, I took up the last bit of slack and squeezed the trigger.  BOOM.  My ears rang through the ear protectors, and I waited for the second, larger explosion which did not come.  Fuck.
    I fired