8/1 11:58pm p3

Dave fell, the thin, black arrow protruding from his left bicep. He cried out in unexpected pain and fell, dropping his shotgun. At almost the same moment, scrambling, scratching noises burst from the second story of a dingy motel next to us. An avalanche of falling cans jangled on as someone, obscured by the deep shadow, scampered away from his sniping perch.

For a moment, I stood frozen, my hands white knuckled on bat, legs frozen mid stride. Then James darted forward to grab Dave. I ran forward to help him, grabbing him underneath his right armpit and dragging him away from the sidewalk, toward the motel’s lobby.

“Damnit! You dipshits! I can handle my damn self! Grab THE SHOTGUN!” He screamed, struggling to use James’ outstretched arm to lever himself up. In a shocked and guilty moment, I realized we’d left our only non-clubbing weapon in the center of the street. I left the old man and James and made a run for the gun, which lay in the center of the street, blunt barrel touching yellow divider line.

The rasps were close now, four, five, eight of them, all around. As I ran toward the gun, a moaner, this one lacking use of one of it’s legs, trudged halting toward me. A hollow, reedy moan passing through it's broken teeth.

I grabbed the fallen gun and ran, ungainly with a heavy pack, back into the lobby. Dave and James were already heading toward the stairs. Dave’s face, a white mask, spoke volumes. The arrow went in one side and exited the other side, four inches of black metal piercing his arm.

We busted into the stairwell, shutting the door of the stairwell and blocking it with a shaft of broken railing. Whoever did the shooting must have cleared the motel with his bow, and if not the entire building, the definitely the floor he was on when he shot.

We followed the old man into the main hallway of the second floor, where we paused. Dave was close to collapse; “The hell with this,” he growled. “Goddamn cowboys and indians in here.”

James set down his pack and rifled through it, his hands visibly shaking. “Knew that I found some back there... Where is that blasted... There we go!”

He pulled free a package of gauze and ripped it open.

With the other two busy, I was the only one equipped to find the bastard with the bow. Handed the shotgun to James and told him to watch over our friend.

It only took until the third room. The door was unhinged, and when I burst in, an arrow swished past my cheek. I didn’t wait for any other invitations and barreled in. The man was hastily attempting to reload his crossbow, and didn’t even see me hit him. I swung with the blunt side of my bat, smashing his arm in mid reload. His bone snapped audibly, send him crashing to the floor, tangling his broken arm in the workings of the bow.

He tried to rise again, and I saw the flash of steel in his other hand. With another powerful strike, his back, arched and thin, collapsed. Someone was screaming at that point, me or him, I don’t know.

I raised my bat once more, as he lay, flopped on his side, pain etching his hollow face. His eyes were wild and a scratchy, overgrown beard only reached halfway round his jaw, leaving a dark patchwork to descend his neck. His adam’s apple bobbed, and I realized that he was speaking.

“They came here! They’ll eat you! They’ll eat me! I won’t let them! They’ll grab and rip and break and gnaw and moan and moan and moan and--”

The insane, crazed man whipped out in one last, violent spasm. His huge survival knife, still somehow held by his unbroken arm, stabbed out. I brought the slugger down, screaming, onto his temple.

He died instantly.