Resident Evil_ Extinction - Keith R. A. DeCandido [50]
The door budged a little but wouldn’t open all the way. Was probably all warped and shit from the heat.
So L.J. threw some weight into it. This time, it budged a little more. Not letting no door beat his ass, L.J. hit the door with his shoulder.
That knocked it loose. L.J. quickly held up his nine-mill Beretta. Not as cool as the nickel-plated Uzis, but he lost them a while back. Besides, it was easier to find ammo for the nines.
’Course, it was dark in Room 9, so L.J. shined the flashlight in so he could see what the fuck—
BAM! Something slammed into L.J.’s back, knocking him into the room.
Not something, some one. L.J. knew what the zombie-ass motherfuckers smelled like, and even as his ass fell to the floor, he started crawling across the ugly carpet to get away from it.
Quickly getting to his feet, L.J. saw that this guy was po-po—a highway cop, complete with those fucking aviator glasses. In fact, L.J. could see his own damn face in those shades, and damn, but he looked scared.
He raised his Beretta to shoot, but the cop was too close—and too big, the motherfucker was six-three at least and had shoulders wider than Claire’s Humvee—and he barrelled his cop ass up into L.J., knocking them both down onto one of the two beds. L.J.’s piece went flying across the room and under the desk. L.J. tried to get up to get it, but the zombie cop wasn’t having none of that shit.
L.J. had always had a simple philosophy when it came to fights: run his black ass away. That was why L.J. wore the LOVE ring—he wasn’t about the violence. Sure, he armed himself, ’cause he wasn’t no fool, but given a choice, L.J. always went for the run-the-fuck-away option. Folks who ran away lived longer, and L.J. planned to live for-fucking-ever. Shit, he’d survived Raccoon being nuked and zombie-ass motherfuckers taking over the world; he could survive any goddamn thing.
Unfortunately, he was trapped in a shitty motel room with Officer Zombie blocking his only way out. He tried to fight, but the zombie cop was too big, and he knocked L.J. on his ass.
Then he used his big-ass hands that were the size of fucking hams and started choking L.J.
No fucking way. As it got harder and harder for L.J. to breathe, he thought that there was no fucking way he was going out this way. No-fucking-how. He was Lloyd Jefferson Wayne, and this was how he do. He was a fucking survivor.
But nobody told Officer Zombie that. L.J. started seeing stars in front of his eyes as the zombie-ass motherfucker’s grip tightened.
In his reflection in the cop’s mirror shades, L.J. saw tears running down his face and into his beard. That was just fucking wrong. L.J. didn’t play that. He had to do something, but his motherfucking Beretta was under the motherfucking desk.
Suddenly, it hit him. This was a cop—he had a piece of his own. Glancing down, he saw that there was a revolver in the holster.
L.J. paused for only a second to wonder who the fuck still carried a revolver—didn’t this motherfucker know it was the twenty-first century?—then grabbed for the gun. Any port in a fucking storm, that was L.J.’s motto. Or, at least, it would be if he got out of this shit.
One of the things L.J. loved about zombie-ass motherfuckers was that they didn’t multitask. A real cop would’ve noticed L.J. going for his piece. ’Course, a real cop would’ve gone for it his own self, instead of choking a poor, defenseless Negro.
Problem was, the gun was strapped in, and L.J. couldn’t undo the fucking thing, especially what with the world getting all hazy and shit.
But he could slide his finger into the trigger.
The first shot fired down into the sandy floor. Officer Zombie didn’t even flinch.
He didn’t flinch the second or third time, either. L.J. was starting to feel all woozy, and he needed to get this shit done. He pulled on the revolver so it was pointing at the zombie cop’s leg.
Fourth shot