Hey everyone. Thanks for stopping by. I’ve meant to post something last Thursday, but…well, life keeps happening, and time waits for no one. My time has been eaten up by home renovations, work, working with my son to get his required time in to take his driving test, and work. As an aside, anyone that has gone through teaching a teenager to drive I’m certain would consider that activity cardio exercise. I do because you fight for breath as your heart races along with the car as it seems to accelerate toward a red light. This has happened a time or two, and I’ve earned every extra silver hair on my head.
Nevertheless, it’s the 239th birthday of the US and I certainly hope every American is having a good holiday.
With the backdrop of grill-outs and fireworks in my neighborhood, I’m posting chapter six of Werewolves of the Dead. Enjoy!
After making it back to her car Shannon figured out that she had four hours of night left and she knew that she needed to make the most of it. Daylight very seldom brought relief in her world. Moving in the day light would leave her lycan abilities exposed and add hours of pain and despair to the children. She couldn’t leave them alone any longer just so she could plan. When she told Deakins that she’d like to wing it in the execution of her operations wasn’t her being a total smartass. She could actually do it pretty well, but this time had been a case of hurry up, time’s a-wasting.
She hurried back to the hotel, staying within the gray area that constituted being in a hurry and flat out speeding.
Shannon rushed into her room, going straight to where her secret inventory. Her belongs were well hidden and she knew exactly what her inventory consisted of. She had ten magazines filled with silver jacketed rounds in reserve and another ten in copper jacketed hollow points.
The M1911A1 was a sleek, yet heavy weapon. It had good stopping power but more importantly it had cheap, plentiful parts. When she’d decided on using a firearm she spent hours looking into 9mm, .40 caliber and even the small quieter .22 calibers. She found at the end of her search that most people enjoyed the .45 caliber power of the military style 1911.
Parts were easy to find and more important so were the magazines. She stocked up on good eight round jobs that were more costly but well worth it for their dependability. Never before that moment had she been thankful that she had twenty-five magazines at her disposal.
Hidden in a false bottom of a dresser were her precious magazines, ammo and an old World War 2 issue deep tanned leather military holster on a newer model nylon war belt. She liked the leather look, which among women and some men made her weird as far as weapon accessories went. She could live with that. She was weirder in so many more important ways.
The nylon belt was adorned with magazine pouches from the same era as the holster. Hurriedly she tossed her war gear onto the bed. She’d bought a set of black BDU trousers with a black BDU jacket years before on a whim. She’d never used it and didn’t think she ever would. Life was funny in how you did things that never made sense until months or years later. She was grateful to have them now.
She pulled on her combat boots, blousing the pants and donning the jacket over a black tank top then put on the war belt. She felt odd satisfaction in tying the holsters’ retaining lanyard around her leg.
Shannon checked her magazine pouches to make sure that all were filled. Four on her right were silver loaded while the others were regular. She did her final equipment check on the run.
Pausing at the doorframe she sniffed the air. The night was hers to do with as she further pleased. Forty minutes later she was parking out of sight of the main road to the abandoned insane asylum.
The night was stiller than she cared for. Nothing moved. No insects, animals or even air currents dared to brush her face or fill her ears. It was the stillness of that much-overused adjective…tomb.
The closer she moved to the building the more gothic it looked. She liked it. The building pleased her aesthetically. The smell that met her nose however, did not. It was the smell of fear, battle and long dead things.
Her heart pounded as she approached. Had she been too late? Deakins had acted like the children were still alive yet the smell said otherwise. It didn’t take a werewolf to smell the rot of flesh and tang of fear or the bitterness of new death. A human could have smelled it if they ventured close enough. But none would dare.
The hospital was almost one and a half miles off a main road and sat on eight hundred acres. No one wanted to buy it and none wanted to renovate it. What it was and how it looked was enough to keep all but the stupid or evil away.