Part one is here
As he drove back in through the gate, he nodded at the guards, throwing them a smile as he punched the transfer button. He could see them in the rear view, checking their accounts on their wrist readers. Another night, another battle fought, another step forward.
There was a hunt tomorrow. The council called it a cull, but no one else did. They knew better now, that it was only an excuse for rich people to try out new weapons whilst clearing the area for a few weeks, enough to get the crops harvested, and clear the dead out of the city. The freezers were full to bursting. It had been a long, difficult summer, more and more of the dead heading north as the equator warmed up. He still couldn’t figure it, why they hated the heat so much. They were always cold, wasn’t it nice to get a tan?
He sailed into the garage, shutting the bike down and heading upstairs. He was looking forward to the hunt. As much as he loved the smart gun, he was excited about using some of his bigger pieces, some explosive rounds and shatter shells. Sleep came easy and as he drifted down, he thought again about the wooden-stock. So rare. What had they been doing even having it? Surely they’d have sold it long ago. Ah well, their loss. He slipped away.
The shotgun was still on his mind when he woke up, nagging at him like an impatient wife and he headed down to the garage. He pulled the weapon out from where it was slung next to his saddle, and inspected it. It was old, older than anything else around here. If it hadn’t come from the resistance, he’d have suspected that it was from before the changes, but there was no way they had owned such as this. It was a replica, albeit a very good one.
The stock was real though, the wood giving slightly as he dug his finger nail into it. There were flecks of what looked like soil clinging to the grooves, and he grabbed a cloth, rubbing it clean. Within minutes he was absorbed in the task, digging into every crack to rescue the mud and raise a shine on the twin barrels. It was a beautiful piece, really something, and the thought of those scum having it, letting it get muddy, was making his blood boil.
He sauntered into the back garden, and cracked it, pleased to see the shells were still there. At least they hadn’t come to fight him with empty weapons, he hated killing unarmed people. He set it to his shoulder and aimed, squeezing the trigger until it roared, deafening in his ear and sending him a step backwards. His aim was good as always and the plant pot he’d gone for erupted into splinters. He grinned, then paused, eyebrows creasing together as he heard a beeping sound. He stepped to where the pot had been and saw that the bullet had come apart, leaving a tiny module that looked like a flat battery, the kind they used to run the old watches. The very top of it was spinning, a blurring silver disc that emitted a high pitched beep. With a shrug, he lifted one leg and brought his foot down hard, shattering the disc.
Smart bullets were so common these days, and so varied; it was hard to know what they were for, but either way, that one wasn’t doing anything now. He sauntered back into the garage, slinging the shotgun over one shoulder, enjoying the weight of it against his collar bone. It was nice, but the wood was nicer, and he’d need to strip it out soon.
In the few seconds the disc had been spinning, signals had been sent out, high pitched waves of sound that tore through the head of every zombie in the area. They gathered around the cities, waiting for the travellers who risked the wastelands, heading to other cities, or like our friend Stait, sorting out business. The sound enraged them, sending them running at the fences, screaming in their high, tongue-less gibberish. From where he stood in the garage, he heard the screaming, and rubbed his hands together. The hunt was gonna be a good ‘un.