Chapter Seven
8 April 2018
We had a running brush the next morning with a pair of daemons as we left the funeral home. One of them was a giant pink starfish in bright green shorts, the other was a square, bright yellow sponge in brown pants and a white shirt.
“I fucking hate this place!” Dalma shouted as she ran the sponge over. She was driving me again, having won the position by the simple expedient of sleeping in the driver’s seat.
No one said anything in response, but I will say that the sponge crunched when we ran it over. Sponges ain’t supposed to go crunch, man.
It took about ten minutes to get to the gun store/range combo on Old Ranch Road 12.
“Oh my god,” I said.
The design had probably started as a throwback to an actual adobe frontier-style dwelling, but it had been enhanced. The ground floor looked like a bunker from the outside; the upper floor looked very…defensible.
“Most folks refer to this place as ‘Just Machine Guns and Red Necks,’” Padgett said over the radio.
“I can see why,” I replied.
We dismounted, sweeping the surroundings for things that went bump in the night. Nothing. Dalma took over behind the Golf—not that she had any real experience, but she was probably the best bet to run it in a pinch, at least until she had a stoppage or a jam she couldn’t clear. Diindiisi backed her from the turret of the other Humvee, shotgun laid across the top of the turret.
I’d planned for door issues this time and brought the hot key. I used the torch to cut the hinges off and waited.
Nothing. The sky was gunmetal gray. I went through the door, and sure enough, there were enough firearms to arm a medium-sized putsch inside, including an M2, water cooled, on an anti-aircraft mount.
“Wonder where they keep the ammo?” Miller asked.
“Based on this map, in a bunker out back,” Holt said, pointing. He shifted the sprayer full of holy water on his back. “You want me to spray the area outside?”
“See if you can knock some of the goo off the lead Humvee? Maybe check the tires and the fluids as well,” Padgett said, leaning on a counter.
Holt gave him the finger before walking out.
“Ah, brotherly love,” I said. “If we’re here much longer, being with y’all will be like being back in the Corps. Before we go to the bunker, let’s see if we can find the office.”
“Why?” Miller asked.
“Invoices, man, invoices,” I replied. “Look, it’s not going to do us a damn bit of good if all there is on hand is ten thousand rounds of .22 short, now is it?”
We found the office and traced down the federally required storage documents—hard copy, one each—updated as of Saturday, 31 March. I smiled. Miller smiled. Padgett was grinning like a dammed fool.
“How much?”
“Fifteen hundred rounds of .50,” I said. “Five thousand rounds of 7.62 NATO, and about the same in 5.56 NATO. God bless America.”
“Thank God for machine gun shoots,” Miller said. “You want to check out the bunker now?”
“Yes,” I said, opening a key box. Sure enough, there was a key on the hook marked “Ammo Storage Bunker.” I took it. “John, move the Humvee with the M2 around back, and we’ll meet you out there, huh?”
“Right,” he said, going out the door.
“Father,” I said, gesturing Miller to the door.
“After you,” he replied.
We went out of the office, found the door marked ‘Range,’ and exited the building. Someone popped a round at us as we left the building. I became one with the earth, while Miller froze. I jerked him down into a sprawling heap.
“Who the fuck are you!” a voice shouted from the building marked ‘Range Office.’
“Human!” I shouted back. I’d managed to roll behind a large concrete planter.
“I can see that! I asked who you were!”
“Father Robert Miller,” Robert shouted, standing back up and taking off his armor.
“Like a priest?”
“Yes.”
“Come ahead, but slow. I’ve got ya covered!”
I covered Miller as he advanced. He finally got to where whoever was in the building could see him. There was a much lower-voiced conversation between Miller and whoever was in the range office, then Miller called for me to advance.
Padgett had stopped the Humvee at the first shot, waiting for me to tell him what to do. Holding position sounded like the best idea for now, I told him over the radio while I walked to where Miller stood.
“Your buddy don’t look much like a priest,” the voice said when I got in range.
“He’s a priest of the Church Militant,” Miller replied.
“I can see that,” the voice said. “I’m comin’ out.”
A tall man stepped onto the porch of the range office. He looked like he was in his early fifties, with thinning blonde hair, He was dressed in tactical gear, from his high-speed boots to the cap turned backward on his head. In his hands was a very serious-looking AR-based rifle.
“I’m Father Salazar,” I said to him.
“He told me,” the figure said. “I’m John Johnson.”
Sometimes my mouth overloads my brain. This was one of those times.
“You know, Father Miller, if we find one more John, we’ll have the whole set and be the first priests in a long time accused of running a house of ill repute.”
Miller gave me the fish eye. Oddly enough, Johnson thought it was a great joke. It broke the ice.
“Where the hell are we?” Johnson asked when he had finished wheezing at my joke. “Hell?”
“No, not really hell,” Miller replied. “More like limbo, without all the fog and waiting.”
“Or trying to go under bamboo poles to the sound of steel drums,” I said.
Miller gave me the look again. I just smirked. A scenic, all-expense paid, twelve week vacation to Marine Recruit Depot San Diego hadn’t ground the smart ass out of me. Eight years in the Corps hadn’t done the job, nor had ten years hunting the things that went bump in the night. Father Robert Miller was hoeing a tough row.
“Ok. What can I do for y’all?” Johnson asked.
“We’re collecting Johns, survivors, and ammunition, in that order,” I said.
“Ah. Question is why?”
“Better chance of surviving in a group,” I said.
“Makes sense,” Johnson said. “Had a couple of tense nights out here, I’ll admit. Y’all got room for one more?”
“We can always use another shooter,” I said. “Mind if I have them bring the vehicle around?”
“Nah, go for it. Y’all looking for any ammo in…I think I know what you want,” he said as the Humvee backed into place in front of the ammo storage bunker.
“Ma’s hungry,” I said.
“Let’s get her fed, huh? I hate to see a woman goin’ hungry,” Johnson said with a feral smile. “Especially one that sings like Ma does.”
It took about an hour to sort and load the Humvees, but I made sure the M2 was locked and cocked, just in case. Johnson got out another fifty, along with the vehicle mount from his arms locker, insisting we swap it for the Golf.
There was also a shit ton more .50 ammo in the bunker than on the invoices.
“I got a deal on some Israeli production ammo about a year ago. Stuff sat in Houston for the last six months thanks to fuckin’ Customs Enforcement,” he said around a mouthful of sandwich. “Showed up late Monday. I hadn’t had time do the damn paperwork when things went to shit. When things went gray, I said fuck the government paperwork in the ass. Sorry ladies.”
“No problem,” Diindiisi said.
Dalma shrugged.
“Anyway, been hanging out here wonderin’ what I was gonna eat when the Twinkies in the snack machine ran out,” he said. “Didn’t want to wander too far, in case things went back to normal, and I got lost wherever we are.”
Johnson had a box truck with a lift gate. He also had a pallet jack. Once we’d loaded the fifties and the extra ammo for them in the Humvee’s, it had taken little time to load what we were taking—.50 and 7.62 mainly, with all the .45 Raptor he had on site for Johnson’s AR—in the back of the box truck. We added the pallet jack with some assorted gear for Johnson and headed back to the funeral home after sealing the front door, just in case. We’d come back in a couple of weeks to make sure that nothing had disturbed the seals. Johnson even brought his own bed. It was an army cot with an inflatable mattress—not much, but it would do until we could get him something better to sleep on.
We took the direct route home, reset the wards, and unloaded everything. We had to move the hearse out of the garage to fit the ammo in, but I felt better with it under cover, even if it never rained in the Shadow Lands.
“I’d never have thought of using a funeral home,” Johnson said.
“Most of the churches we’ve seen have been burned out,” I replied. We were pulling preventive maintenance checks and services on the M2’s and the turrets of the Humvees.
“Makes some sense, I guess,” he said.
“So, I’ve got to ask,” I started.
“US Army, 19 Delta, Gulf War. US fucking Cavalry. Because I needed more excitement, I got stupid, and became an Eleven Bang Bang—Infantry leads the way and all that bullshit—then I passed Ranger School. Bill Clinton sent me to Somalia, where I lost three feet of small intestine in Mogadishu,” he replied. “You?”
“Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children, 0311, good old grunt infantry. Iraq,” I replied.
“Thought you looked like a Jarhead,” he said. “But how’d you become a priest?”
“Long story,” I replied. “I saw some things in Iraq that convinced me there was a higher power.”
“Damn sun’s hot enough over there that folks’ brains melt, and they start talkin’ to God,” he replied. “Although this place’d damn sure make an atheist believe.”
“True that,” I said, slipping down into the Humvee and out the rear door. “You married to that plate carrier you’re wearing?”
“This? Yes, why?” he asked.
It was a high speed, low drag piece of equipment, with no protection for his neck or upper arms. It was also considerably lighter and cooler than the models we’d pulled out of the supply cache.
“It’s kinda skimpy on the neck and arm protection,” I replied.
“But I can move in it, unlike that battle rattle y’all are hauling about.”
“I’ve got some plates that should fit,” I said, with a sigh.
“What’s the difference between yours and mine?” he asked.
“Mine were blessed by a bishop, with silver worked into the ceramic. They repel some of the undead,” I replied. “Might help here.”
“Father, I’ll take all the help I can get,” he replied.
* * * * *