Gehenna (West of Hell #1) Page 10
Mad Dog McCall was loaded for bear.
Two gun belts crisscrossed his waist, each holding a six shooter. A lever action Winchester rifle sat against his back, held in place by its leather sling. He held a beat up double barrel shotgun in his left hand. The tomahawk, which he'd wrenched from the woman's head, was secured in a hoop hanging just below the pistol on his right.
Two ammo belts, one over each shoulder, overlapped in the center of his chest. One held shotgun shells, with bullets for his pistols resting in the other. He'd stuffed his pockets full of rifle rounds.
His Peacemaker, tucked inside the front of the pants, felt as reassuring as always. He'd need all the luck he could get to flee this town, and his Colt had always brought him the best of it.
After freeing himself from the cell, he'd closed the front door as quietly as possible. He'd snuck a peak outside first and didn't like what he'd seen.
Hundreds of people staggered around the town in the aimless, drunken stupor that he'd come to recognize. Even with all this firepower his chance of survival in the street was slim.
Checking the situation at the back door yielded the same result; monsters everywhere. While stocking up on guns and ammunition, he'd spotted a trap door above the sheriff's desk that led to the roof. It didn't have any steps, but was only seven feet above the desk.
Taking the tomahawk from its loop, McCall walked over to the barrels of black powder and started hacking at the closest one. Three or four swipes opened a hole several inches wide.
Dropping the axe back into its place, he kicked the barrel over, spilling gunpowder on the floor. Walking to the other side of the jailhouse, he grabbed a lantern that he'd already lit and jumped onto the desk. Reaching through the open door in the ceiling, he placed the lantern on the roof, followed by his shotgun.
Hopping to the floor, he grabbed the open barrel of gunpowder and led a trail from the other kegs to the desk. Throwing the barrel back with the others, he grabbed boxes of ammunition and dumped them all over the floor and the powder kegs. After emptying everything in sight he gave the room one more cursory glance, confirming he had everything he'd need.
Satisfied, he lifted the tomahawk from its loop and proceeded to the front door. Easing it open, he peeked out, ensuring nothing stood too close. Only one, of what he now thought of as 'moaners', walked within a dozen feet.
Throwing the door open, he stepped through and brought the axe down on the crown of the nearest man. The corpse dropped to the ground, kicking up billows of dust that McCall could barely make out in the darkening street.
"Who's hungry?" he shouted into the coming night.
Every moaner in sight turned at the sound of his voice.
"Come and get it!"
Hundreds of men, women, and children teetered in his direction, intent on doing just that.
McCall struck down the first two that arrived in quick succession, waiting as long as possible to spring his trap. As more closed in, he turned and marched back into the jailhouse.
Jumping onto the desk, he grabbed the door's frame and began hoisting himself through the opening. The wood under his hands felt spongy; it suffered from severe rot and immediately crumbled under his weight.
His legs swung out from under him as he fell to the sheriff's desk, the rifle slung across his back digging into muscle and bone. Air whooshed from his lungs upon impact, sending bursts of light across his field of vision.
Three moaners ambled through the front door, one after the other, as Mad Dog writhed on the desk, sipping in air. Forcing himself to his feet, he grabbed another section of the roof and felt it break off in his hands.
He tried to curse, but he didn't have enough of a breath to form the word.
Clutching at the other side of the door's frame proved more successful. His strength hadn't recovered though, and he struggled to pull himself up. The moaners clawed at his pants, their nails snagging on the seams.
A young boy, no more than twelve, tried to take a bite out of his calf. He couldn't get a grip on Mad Dog's legs because one of his arms was missing. It appeared to have been chewed off. McCall kicked him the face and pulled himself up with what little strength he could muster, succeeding on willpower.
Rolling to his back, he stared at the star filled sky, trying to remember how to breathe. A light breeze blew across his face that he normally would have found refreshing, but today it brought the smell of death.
Finally able to take a few breaths, McCall rolled to his side and looked through the hole in the roof. The jailhouse was stuffed with moaners. They were wall to wall, tripping over one another and sliding on the bloody floor.
A few shambling feet kicked at Mad Dog's custom black powder fuse, alarming him as it rapidly thinned.
Grabbing the shotgun and lantern, he stood over the trapdoor. Sneering at the monstrosities below, he raised the kerosene lamp.
"See you in Hell."
Hurling it at the desk, he watched the smashed lantern send fire three feet in every direction. A dozen of the closest people were set ablaze. Turning on his heels, McCall sprinted across the roof, vaulting onto the adjacent building.
The explosion was larger than he anticipated. The concussion from the blast propelled him through the air, crashing him against the chimney on the far side of the next building.
What remained of the jailhouse burned like wildfire. Flaming debris flew in every direction, landing on the neighboring homes and shops. The buildings on either side of the jail, and the one across the street, were already afire with plumes of smoke clouding the night sky.
The deafening roar of thousands of firing rounds of ammunition shook the town like an earthquake. Bullet riddled wood collapsed in on itself, causing a porch across the street to crumble in burning ruin.
The flames illuminated the entire area, displaying the chaos in the street. Many of the moaners careened around as fire devoured them. Streaks of blood and unrecognizable piles of tissue were scattered in every direction, shredded by the munitions.
Despite severed limbs and dismembered bodies, several of the man-eaters continued to drag themselves along. Beyond the spreading fire, McCall could see even more approaching, attracted by the explosion and the flames.
He'd wiped out a large group of them but attracted a giant horde in the process.
Getting to his feet, he checked the mobility of his shoulder, unsure of the damage the chimney had done. Everything seemed to work properly, but he could already feel stiffness in the joint.
Typically the streets would be dimly lit with lanterns, but tonight was an exception as everyone was preoccupied with eating one another. The massive fire McCall started had the fortunate, if unintended, consequence of illuminating much of the town.
Continuing across the rooftops, he worked his way down the street. He did his best to avoid detection by sticking to the shadows and keeping his footsteps as light as possible. The weight of the armory strapped to his body made the process difficult, but he refused to relinquish any of his weapons.
Reaching the end of the block, he stopped at the edge of the last building and sat on the peak of the sloped roof.
Escaping the cell bought him some time, but the situation in this town had gone to hell. The moaners moved in a slow, jagged style, making it possible to outrun them. But there were just too many; he wouldn't get more than a few hundred feet before the sheer number of them overwhelmed him.
Damage to their head seemed to be the only viable attack, making it much more difficult to shoot his way out. The scattergun would be devastating at close range, but it only handled two shells at a time, rendering it ineffective in a group of them. The rifle would be great at a distance, but lousy up close. The pistols were his best bet if he got surrounded, but he wouldn't hit anything beyond twenty feet.
McCall didn't like his chances. Even if he could get clear of the town, without a horse he wouldn't make it far. When the sun rose he'd be no better than me
at roasting on a spit.
Then he heard the woman's screams. They were coming from across the street, in the saloon.
Chapter 11