Free Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line by James N. Cook

popped like old rubber bands. But I was not looking for a quick victory. I did not care if somebody sent for the sheriff and I ended up in jail. My blood was up. The Irish devil in me was spoiling for violence. The little shit-worm on the ground in front of me had insulted my wife, and it was high time he learned a lesson in humility.
    Silas struggled to his feet and looked at me with venom in his eyes. The smile was gone. The beast behind the bluster had finally revealed itself, fangs and all. I took an open-handed stance and circled left toward his weak side. Montgomery switched to southpaw and tried to angle in on my right. He faked a jab, then charged in with a straight left that would have taken my head off if I’d stood still for it.
    The punch went over my head as I slipped it, shuffled left, and popped him in the ribs with a left-right combo. Silas grunted and tried to counter by clinching. I slipped his arms, caught him in a head-and-arm tie-up, and sent him flipping over my hip. It was a good throw. His legs pointed straight skyward at the apex and I landed solidly on top of him. Whatever air was left in his lungs came out in a rush.
    Not knowing how good his ground game was, or if he was armed or not, I wasted no time transitioning to side control. Popped the ribs with a couple of hard knees. Pushed the head sideways with the near side shoulder, hip switched, and transitioned to the full-mount. Left, right, left, and the arms covered the face. Gripped the wrist. Pushed the arm across the throat.
    Now he knew he was in trouble. If he had known what he was doing, he would have bucked upward with his hips, forcing me to use my free arm to keep from getting reversed. It would not have improved his position, but it would have kept me from hitting him. But he did not know what he was doing. Silas was a savvy brawler on his feet, but like most street toughs, he was helpless from his back.
    The crowd on the porch had gotten into the spirit of the event. Silas Montgomery was not well liked. Voices urged me on with such pleasantries as, fuck him up Riordan , beat his ass , and stomp a hole in that motherfucker . I looked at them, and then down at the desperation in Silas’ eyes, and in a flash, the anger went out of me.
    I did not want to be here anymore, rolling in the dirt with this viscous imbecile. If Allison had been there, she would have been screaming at me to stop. So instead of smashing Silas Montgomery’s face into hamburger, I let him roll over, hooked in with my legs, and applied a choke hold. Counted backwards from ten. At three, he went limp. I held on a couple of seconds longer than I needed to, then released and got to my feet. Silas did not move. I rolled him over on his side and vigorously rubbed my knuckles into his chest. The motion revived him enough to get him breathing again.
    I left him lying in the snow-dusted street, slipped my jacket on, and walked home.

FIVE
     
     
    At first glance, Parabellum looked like any other far flung wilderness settlement. A double-layered wooden palisade roughly a quarter mile in diameter ringed the outer perimeter, deep berms had been dug around the defenses, and the interior of the fort was accessible only via a heavy-duty lifting platform connected to a complex system of ropes, gears, swing arms, and pulleys. No gates, just the lift. Anyone who wanted in had to hail the guards. If the guards were in a good mood, and someone had something to trade, they might let them in. Or, if they deemed them sufficiently weak, open fire and loot the corpses.
    Heinrich heard Carter key his radio. “All stations, report.”
    A moment passed, then Carter said, “Copy. Stay alert.” He turned to his chief. “All clear, boss. No infected in sight.”
    “Good.”
    Heinrich glanced over his shoulder at his raiders. Each man carried a crossbow and a plentitude of bolts purchased on their way out of Kansas with trade from Heinrich’s own personal treasury. Many of those bolts now