Free The End: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller by Dane Hatchell, P.A. Douglas

jacket, and his wallet. There wasn’t any money in it. Eric smiled a little as he pushed it into his back pocket, thinking to himself, Not like any money is going to do a bit of good anyhow .
    Kent followed suit snatching up his shades, checked his pocket for his lighter, and picked up his crowbar. The weapon was covered in dry blood and had a few unidentifiable chunks on one end.
    “Will you two hold on just one minute? If we are really about to do this, what’s the plan? Do we even know where this stupid radio station is? Last I checked, Kent is the only one with any kind of a weapon. How do we know they’ll still be there if we make it?”
    Eric threw the sheets and pillows from his bed, then flipped the metal frame over. “We improvise.” He kicked one of the metal leg posts, and after a few solid kicks, bent it enough to pry it free by force. He tossed the makeshift weapon across the room toward Cynthia and proceeded with breaking free another one of the legs.
    “We’ll use Cynthia’s bag to bring some water bottles and anything else we might need that’ll fit,” Kent said. He and Cynthia hurried to fill the bag. Once filled, he said, “I’ll take it.”
    The three gathered under the door and looked up. Moments passed without anyone saying a word.
    Eric finally broke the tension, “That lady bag matches your eyes.”
    Kent glared up at him, crowbar in hand, shoulder bag tossed to one side. “I’ll get you to tell me how it feels slammed against your balls if you don’t shut up.”
    “Are we seriously doing this?” Cynthia asked.
    The three of them peered up into the small glass opening in the door overhead. Small bits of lights periodically shown through, suggesting the sun was still out, which was a good sign. Last thing they felt was needed was to be taking this situation on in the dark. Hands, teeth, various fluids—mostly blood, and the occasional faces could be seen on the other side of the glass, blocking most of the sunlight.
    “You guys ready for this?” Eric asked, attempting to come across with a laugh and smile but only sounding scared to death in the process.
    “As ready as I am ever going to be,” Kent said. “And besides, I’m out of smokes. Going to have to go out and get some sooner or later, right?”
    Both men looked over at Cynthia, who held her weapon tightly gripped with both hands close to her chest, obviously nervous as hell. She just shrugged her shoulders; Eric and Kent looked back at one another having no words to say.
    Eric reached for the latch and pulled the lever, releasing the locking mechanism on the door. All three of them found themselves looking back toward the room they were about to abandon, their sanctuary for the past two and a half days. It lasted only a moment. The thought of Tyler flashed into Eric’s head. If his dad was at the radio station, then where was Tyler?
    “Here goes nothing.” Eric twisted the handle to the shelter door. The latched door swung open.

MOVE
     
    1
     
    The double doors came crashing closed, both Gus and Willy had landed on their backs in the center of the lobby. Boards, tables, and chairs, along with a single desk, lay scattered about in the room along the front. A little boy hid behind a fake tree in the corner, crouched behind its woven container, mostly exposed. The child smiled right at Gus. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old.
    The two soldiers surveyed their surroundings for a brief moment while standing to their feet, brushing themselves off. Chunks of gray, matted meat covered with blood fell from their black on black attire.
    A large hunk of rotting skin was stuck on Willy’s ammo belt, and he had to remove it with his bare hand. It was part of someone’s face—the ear still attached.
    While Willy spastically continued checking his gear and assessing the remaining ammunition in his guns, obviously shaken up a bit, Gus stepped toward the two men slinging boards to the front doors using makeshift hammers