Resident Evil_ Extinction - Keith R. A. DeCandido [51]
With L.J. pulling harder so the gun was at a sharper angle, the fifth shot went through the shin.
Still nothing.
Only one bullet left. L.J. was having a bitch of a time focusing.
Come on, pull the fucking trigger, nigger! The rhyme gave him focus, and he pulled the trigger.
The sixth shot blew off the motherfucker’s kneecap. Officer Zombie stumbled and loosened his grip. L.J. grabbed his head as he buckled and turned the head violently the way Carlos had taught him, snapping the motherfucker’s neck.
Zombie Cop fell to the sandy floor, and L.J. fell back onto the bed. “Son of a bitch.”
Looking down, he saw his Beretta under the desk. He reached down for it—
—and saw something move!
Fuck, L.J. forgot that he saw something moving up in here. He looked up and saw another zombie-ass motherfucker, and he shot at it.
Glass shattered as the mirror L.J. had just shot fell to pieces—and the zombie-ass motherfucker who’d been reflected in it jumped L.J.
Jumping back on the bed, L.J. tried to avoid getting bit. He wasn’t turning into one of them, no fucking way!
The report of another gun echoed through the room, and blood splattered on L.J. He knew it wasn’t his own on account of it being all coagulated and shit.
Then the zombie-ass motherfucker fell onto the floor on top of the cop.
Looking up, L.J. saw Carlos.
“The fuck you been, yo?” L.J. asked.
Carlos smiled. “Figured you could handle it.” He looked down at the splintered glass on the floor. “The mirror piss you off?”
“Nah, man, this asshole”—he pointed at the second zombie-ass motherfucker with his gun—“was reflected in it. Shit, I thought they wasn’t supposed to have reflections.”
“No, that’s vampires.”
“What-the-fuck-ever, yo.” He put his hand down on the bed to brace himself so he could get up, only to have his wrist collapse and pain slice through his entire forearm. “Fuck me!”
“What is it?” Carlos asked, grabbing L.J.’s arm.
Quickly, L.J. said, “Just, uh, my wrist. Probably sprained or some shit.” He gently eased out of Carlos’s grip—he didn’t need the man’s help, though it didn’t pay to be rude or nothing—and then started gently rubbing the wrist to make it look good.
Carlos took out his walkie-talkie—or PRC, whatever the fuck that meant. Just a fancy-ass name for walkie-talkie, far as L.J. was concerned, but he used the stupid letters to keep Carlos happy.
“Claire, it’s Carlos. The motel’s clear—now. Found two undead, but L.J. and I took them out.”
“Nice job.” Claire’s voice sounded all tinny and shit over the walkie-talkie. “We’ll be right down.”
“Oh, and L.J. sprained his wrist.” L.J. started waving his hands back and forth. He didn’t want to be examined. “It’s no big, yo, just—”
Ignoring him, Carlos said, “So he might need some medical attention.”
“Copy that,” Claire said.
“Shit, you didn’t need to be—”
Carlos interrupted L.J. “Maybe, maybe not, but you’re not a doctor, and neither am I.”
“And neither ain’t nobody else, yo! Look, I ’preciate you lookin’ out for me, but I’ll be fine.”
The pair of them went to the front to wait for the convoy to show up, which it did in short order. Chase, that glorious redneck motherfucker, drove the Enco truck, and Kmart was driving the 8x8. She’d been arguing with Claire about whether or not she could drive. Claire kept saying she was too young to drive and shit. Carlos, L.J., and pretty much everyone else pointed out that there wasn’t no DMV no more. Didn’t matter, long as she could reach the damn pedals. Besides, everybody needed to know how to drive just in case. L.J. didn’t know why Claire had such a bug up her ass about it, but she gave in, so Kmart got to drive the 8x8.
L.J. never had a ride like that when he was fourteen. Back then, best he could do was his cousin Bodie’s Lincoln, least until he crashed it. Bodie wouldn’t let him use nothing after that, like it was all L.J.’s fault or something.
As she hopped out of the Humvee, wearing a pair of shades that looked disturbingly