H1Z1 Chapter 12

I snapped the last bullet into the magazine, shoved it into the pistol and chambered the first round just as the source of noise rounded a rack of sleeping bags to my right. He was dressed in hiking shorts and a tech-shirt. Obviously a customer who had stopped before a morning trek. And obviously heavily infected.

"Bill, hold the dogs," I warned, raising the pistol. The sound of the gun drowned out any other noise, even the low growl of the dogs. My pistol shooting skills were a bit out of date. Two rounds hit the creature in the left shoulder, knocking it back and down as I, almost on auto pilot, kept pulling the trigger on the big .45. Boom! Boom! Boom. click. Uh-oh.

The zombie was dragging itself toward me with its right arm, a weird high keening noise coming from its throat. I could see shattered bones poking out the back of its shirt, the result of the two rounds that had actually hit. Slamming the pistol down onto the counter, I reached for my shotgun.

BOOM!

Bill beat me to it. I hadn't even noticed him rounding the corner from the shelves, but he had, and had immediately raised his shotgun and took action, blasting an almost neat hole through the back of the creature's skull, spreading its face across the floor and splashing little bits of brain on my shoes.

I was frozen, that little voice of terror trying to make its way back into my conscience. Bill, face ashen, promptly leaned over and threw up. He then calmly reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a shell, replacing the round he'd fired from his shotgun.

I managed to eke a "thank you" out as he turned back into the aisle he'd been searching for the right sizes of shoulder holsters. He simply nodded. When had my little boy turned into a cowboy? I didn't have time to continue that line of thought, though, and returned to the task at hand, loading magazines.

There were more zombies in the store, and between my wasteful unloading of an entire magazine and Bill's single shotgun round, we'd practically given them a foghorn to guide them in. We needed to hurry.

I loaded the mags for each pistol without incident, then turned back to the cabinet, selecting a pair of 9mm's for my son. He could handle a 9mm a lot easier than the big .45s I had chosen, and the rounds would be just as effective if he aimed for the head.

Bill returned, pulling his head into his second shoulder holster. "Jump back here and find spare magazines, Son.

".45's for me, 9mm Ruger for you. And get rounds. All you can find."

I began loading Bill's magazines, listening for the creatures I knew were approaching, our fresh flesh their only aim. The dogs' hackles raised again, and their low growls confirmed my fears. We still had to pull supplies together. We still had to get everything out to the truck and loaded. We had too much to do, and the danger increased the longer we stayed in the store. The only good thing about the situation, if there could be a good thing, was that there was a finite number of the creatures in the store. Bad, however, was that by now, they were probably all coming right for us.