The OT

The OT



Coleen Downs was a housewife, among other things. She had a loving husband, and a boy whom she loved like a son. She was a resident nurse at an assisted living home, and her job brought her the daily joy of helping those in need. She was a woman who was raised in a non-traditional way, but was still able to hold firm to her moral decency. She was a devoted, happy woman, who above all else valued her close knit family.  A family that called themselves the OT, they were a chapter of the North California Scorpions. The Out of Towners.

         When the virus hit, the bikers had an advantage. See, most people lived so sheltered  the only blood they’d ever seen was on TV. As a club member, or an Ol Lady, every day was an apocalypse. The zombies were around long before the rest of the world saw that particular stain on the sheets of society. Only then, they called them junkies, or whores. They were monsters and madmen. Dust bunnies and bogymen that we could shove into little cement boxes and forget about.

         But it was nothing new. And each member of the OT had seen his share of that shadow, been touched by dark part of a man’s mind. Most of the men had made friends with their monsters. Which made it all the easier to adjust to pulling the trigger.

         Even while round after round sank through mass in front of her, Coleen kept her eyes narrowed, and hugged the trigger. The first shot hit its right shoulder like a punch, shoving it back. At 6’ 5” the hulking shell only advanced with his opposing shoulder. Shoving his way through the air, like a bully walking through a high school hallway. It was met with another slug ripping through the soft tissue of its neck.

         Coleen felt the kick forcing her barrel higher, and she continued to shoot. Sinking three more rounds into the man’s shoulders and head. Tattooed hide stretched across a skull thick enough to deflect one of the shells.  The last bullet found the weakness and sank through a small tidy circle in the marble peeking out from the exposed tendon that flowered away from the head.

         In the slow moments after she saw the slug go in, she felt her revolver click. And watched as the putred stew trapped in the pressure cooker of the convicts skull painted the door behind it. Showering, damp black sponge onto the floor with a wet slap.

         The man’s frame slumped, spilling onto the floor after being held up for so long. Muscles that had long since died moaned under the stress of the sheer human hunger that raped it. Using every last bit of energy to feed that hunger.  The corpse was once again a corpse. A large man, Hispanic. An inmate she judged by what remained of his jumpsuit, could have been a nurse though. Either way they were getting closer to John.

         Her arm was the steel wire that held the Brooklyn Bridge. She didn’t think her bones could hold the tension of releasing her stance. She held her stare, and as the blood ran down the wall she let her gun float down in a slow deliberate motion, shaking empty shells out of the cylinder.

         Her other hand was already dancing with the shells she kept in an open satchel secured to her hip, curling her fingers and drawing fresh rounds into the chamber. Her eyes never moved from the point in space that once held her target. And her mind existed in-between times.

         Half in the moment that she pulled the trigger, and half in the moments that she was already scanning the two open doorways for more. It was as close to omniscient as Coleen felt she might ever experience.  In her mind she was already spreading out over the next three rooms, imagining janitors opening their eyes and bearing mops. In her mind she saw nurses howling, needles in hand. Saw puppets slowing standing, with honed muscle directing surgical steel. The shots were sure to alert others. So in her mind, she drank the darkness looking for dancing shadows, and sank into the silence waiting like a trap for a shuffle, a moan, or three slow rhythmic taps against the left wall.

         She glanced behind her at Kevin, who held his own gun at the ready, never having taken it off of the doorway behind the Latino inmate.  Coleen held her own weapon, one hand resting on the trigger and the other bracing the bottom of her wrist.

         The rough, ground barrel of a pump action combat shotgun pierced the shadow cast over the doorframe.  Kevin let a small sigh escape and focused his aim on the remaining door. Coleen kept her gun trained on the space a foot above the shotgun, and watched Seth’s face materialize in her crosshairs.

         His soft brow was drawn and his eyes were sharp, peering out from under a few strands of tangled hair. It wasn’t until her eyes met his that she let out her own sigh and retrained her weapon.





         Seth squared his shoulders against the wall at the first shot. He had swept this office and had almost reached the door in one motion when he heard the revolver crack in the next room. Muzzle flare reflected from shattered glass still clinging to the doors window, showing him the rear view of a giant as it lurched away from the doorway.

         He watched in the reflection the three strides it took to reach Coleen. By the second time its gait hit the floor she had already put four shots into its torso. Two shots rang out as one when it took its last step, falling with its momentum and spilling to the ground only a few feet in front of her.

         Her cylinder was clean and full again before the blood spray drew lines down her face.  She was clean and efficient, they all were. They had to be. So he tapped, three times with his heel on the floorboards. Watching the Barrel of the Magnum join an AK already waiting to greet whatever came through the door.

         He was slow when he walked through the doorway, making sure his gun went through first to herald him. Kevin let his frame slouch immediately, moving his concern to the remaining exit. His eyes followed the perfect triangle of Coleen stance to her eyes.

         As soon as he met her eyes, he saw her quiver. Almost like a shudder, like the whites on the edges of her eyes had vibrated, leaving the pupil still in the middle.  A momentary glance at the little girl still inside of her, wanting her husband’s comforting hand on the small of her back. Or perhaps what he had seen was a mother who had just seen her sun walk through a doorway alive, at least one more time.

         It wasn’t a look he thought he could ever get used to seeing in her.

         “Clear.” He mouthed to her. Never breaking eye contact.

         She fought her emotions back onto stable ground and nodded at him.

         Seth glanced over his shoulder at the barrel and blade ready to follow him through the door. Padre held an old Glock in his left hand, resting on the neck of a snake coiled and ready to strike. In the snakes mouth was bone handle of an eight inch bowie knife. The wrinkles that drew down into tired bags under the old man’s eyes tightened when he gave his own nod and motioned for Seth to advance. 

He turned and brought the shotgun up to his shoulder taking two strides and reaching the next room. His boot found the glass below the door shattered. It scratched the concrete floor under his foot. Before he could advance into the room he felt a hand on his cut. Seth turned and gritted his teeth, expecting the glare from Kevin. And the warning that came with it.

         He fell back into the office and let the older man take point. His eyes scanned the wall and fell on an old steel plate bolted into the concrete. The rust on the plate looked worn against the paint fraying from the wall at its edges.

         Engraved on the plate, in simple font was. OR.  He took a deep breath and flexed his fingers before following Kevin into the Operating Room.

         An eerie stagnant feeling made the air heavy. Seth let his eyes blanket the area, moving across the leftovers of humanity like running water through a still pond. The room was clear, but far from clean. Medical supplies were scattered across counter tops running the length of the walls.

         Padre nodded in response to Seth gesturing at the supplies. Once the room was clear he would collect what he could make use of. Kevin’s shoes ground plaster into dust where part of the roof had been torn away from the ventilation system. On the far wall a file cabinet rested carelessly on its side, and spilling itself out onto the floor.

         The metal around the heavy steel door was scared with deep trenches. Scratches carved into by rabid claws. There had been survivors in this room.

         “This is where they held out.” Kevin whispered, walking further into the room.

         There were four exits. A pair of reinforced steel doors stood on the far wall, barricaded with equipment from around the operating room. An IV machine was pulled from its base and wedged in between the doors handles, and a gurney lay flush against the bottom of the door.  Any item heavy enough to help was piled against the doors.

         The junk came up to the windows but didn’t cover them.  Seth could see into the hallway beyond them. Or could have seen, if there had been anything but stillness to see.

         “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been able to pass through for a while.” Seth said, turning to Coleen. “That means if John was in there, he still is.”

         Are you ready for that?

         He didn’t ask, but he didn’t have too. She knew what he meant, and her eyes answered for her. It was a solemn, quiet…

         No.

         “Don’t expect much. If he’s locked in there, them fuckers are too.”

         Seth didn’t wait to see her eyes water. To see her lip quiver. He stepped closer to Kevin, his eyes sharp and his stance challenging. For a few moments Kevin appraised him, waiting for him to speak. When Seth didn’t, the older man brought his face in close. Patches of stubble jutted from his haggard cheeks, and his breath was rotten with booze.

         “What, boy?”

         The muscles on Seth’s jaw bulged and flexed with his grinding teeth. He raised his hand, ready to speak, but was interrupted by Padre’s hiss.  He was in stance and closing in on the door that separated the  computer room.