Least Likely To Survive Read Free

spinal column, causing him to be down for the count.
    Out of breath at that point, I retracted the blade from his neck and reaching down, unclipped the keys from his belt loop, while trying to not get anything gross on me.  I then jumped over the counter, which at 5’4” turned out to be entirely ungraceful and humorous; landing hard on my ass on the other side.  I jumped to my feet and began to unlock as many guns as I could, while opening the ‘key only’ safe and locating the correct bullets for said guns.  As fate would have it, I had never actually fired or loaded a gun, but had played enough first person shooters to put a teenage boy to shame which made me confident in my ability to aim. 
    Some years back I had worked in a pawn shop, which sold guns, so I had a good working knowledge of handling various rifles, shotguns and some hand guns.  I knew about magazine clips and shotgun shells, which as fate would have it, was now coming in handy.
    Rapidly deducing that with my size I could carry quite a few guns, I grabbed the coolest looking holster I had ever seen and strapped it on. It was a black and an entirely too strappy contraption, with criss-crossed holsters in the back, two underarm handgun loops which reminded me of the kind you see on undercover cops, and additional dual holsters along the waist, with various compartments for clips and shells. I couldn’t help but feel a little like Rambo; except in my mind, I ended up as a female punk rock version of Brutus, from Popeye. 
    Grinning at my ridiculous imagination, I perused the inventory and spotted a few things I absolutely had to have.  The first was a Mossberg Zombie Series 500 12 gauge chainsaw shotgun. I had to stop and drool a little; it was a sight for sore eyes.  How apropos.  I was going to be hunting zombies, so of course the logical girl side of me argued that we would need such a gun; especially one from the Zombie Series.  I had to wonder if the makers of such a fine weapon ever seriously thought it would be put to use fighting its namesake.  I grabbed it and as many boxes of shells as I could fit into my little compartments, and continued my oddly entertaining shopping spree.
    My next few “purchases” ended up being a Benelli Super Black Eagle II, which I thought somewhat lofty at 28 inches for someone my height, but strapped it on anyway.  I worked my way over to the counter, where nestled under the glass was an array of handguns.  I had four spots to fill.  I ended up settling on two Smith and Wesson M&P Comps, a Ruger P95PR, and a Taurus 709FS.  I was aware the shotguns were 12 gauges, which would make the shells a little harder to carry, but I was fighting against people trying to eat me; when I shot someone, I didn’t want them getting back up.  I stuck with 9mm handguns just to make picking out ammo easier.  Besides, I would run out of bullets at some point, and would probably have to ditch these guns for new ones later.  I just needed these to get me to Texas, where surely I would find gun paradise.
    I stuck the Ruger under my arm, and filled every pocket I could with bullets and shells.  “God Damn this shit’s heavy,” I muttered under my breath.  With all the ammo, I must’ve been carrying about fifty pounds of weaponry.  I was short, but stocky, and it was good thing I was.  A smaller girl would collapse under all the weight.  Being overweight, I might as well; but figured the muscle mass I had obtained from carrying my own extra weight everywhere would serve in my favor.  One thing was for sure; I was about to get a lot of cardio, and if I didn’t die, would probably end up looking damn good after the apocalypse.
     
    Just as I was about to head for the door, I decided to grab the sword I had used to bring about Salvatore’s gruesome end; cautiously wiping the gore off the blade using his pant leg and slipped it into a sheath that had been displayed beneath the sword and secured it to my thigh,