The Apocalypse Crusade 2 Read Free

stupid preppie jock who had bought it right in front of his window. He was absently fingering the rounded head of a tremendous zit on his chin. Cheryl had trouble looking at him.
    “Ok, ok, eaten. They w-were getting eaten. Eaten alive, right?”
    “Yeah,” Benjamin answered and then took another swig of the awful beer. Again, a grimace twisted his features, but he accepted it this time, he even took another swallow as soon as he could set his face to rights again. The beer helped with the shaking.
    “And you kill them with head shots. Do you have another gun?” She looked hopeful until he shook his head. Crestfallen, she asked, “So what do we do? I tried the police but all I get is an answering machine.”
    “Have you tried seeing what they’re saying on TV?”
    “No, I was afraid the light and the noise would draw attention. I mean, did you see all of them out there? They were breaking into people’s houses and cars and dragging them out and…” For a few seconds, her mouth continued to form words but the sound had stopped.
    Benjamin took a huge pull of his sewer-tasting beer, coughed, spluttered weakly, and said, “Yeah, I saw. Maybe we should try to find out the extent of this. What we do will depend on if this is nationwide or if it’s just us, together, alone.”
    It was just after four in the morning and more than a hundred calls had been made to the local CBS affiliate, but not many of them had been answered and none since the lone technician had stepped out to see whether he was the butt end of a seriously huge practical joke. His name was Arnold Ness, and the sound-reducing headset he wore had made him oblivious to the frequent gunshots that had been going on for half the night.
    He had taken less than twenty steps into the parking lot before he was attacked. Now Channel Two was running unattended and the feed coming in from New York hinted that nothing in particular was amiss.
    Benjamin and Cheryl squatted in front of the TV. He had a hand on her back; she wasn’t wearing a bra. They watched until there came an explosion from somewhere north of them. Cheryl ran to the window and stared out. “I think it’s the hospital,” she said and again there was that airiness to her that made it seem as though she was made of helium, like some sort of balloon, and that a stiff breeze might send her floating away.
    “Get down!” Benjamin hissed, pulling her to the floor and getting in a good feel in the process. She didn’t seem to notice. “If you’re seen they’ll come for us,” he said directly into her ear. He then pulled his gun, theatrically—the only way he knew how—and went to the edge of the window and peaked out. “It’s the hospital alright. It’s on fire. Ho-lee-shit the flames are all the way to the top of the building.”
    “So what do we do?” Cheryl asked again, pulling him down into a squat. When Benjamin started to shrug she snapped, “You’re the expert. That’s what you said. So what do we do?”
    She was right, he was the expert. He wanted to stay put. Hiding in the apartment with her had a lot of possibilities. Then he remembered the Ex saying: I can smell you . Benjamin didn’t think a person could hide from their own smell. “We make a break for it,” he said, feeling the shakes threaten to come back. He put his hand on her back again. “There may be other survivors.”
    He stood, went to his kitchen table and finished off the first beer of his life. Next, he went to his bedroom and grabbed a box of shells. Behind him, Cheryl watched on tippy-toes as he used his thumbnail to dig out the spent shells from the cylinder. They bounced on the hardwood floor and rolled away under his bed. He reloaded and stuffed the remaining shells into his backpack.
    “What should I bring?” she asked.
    He considered for a moment trying to weigh all his fears. He desperately wanted to get out of the city as fast as possible, but all his reading told him to expect the worst: a full on