When he reached the end of the alley, Jackson considered his options. He could hear those things, whatever they were, moaning from the stairwell. He imagined their jaws working sinewy gore up and down. He shivered and forced his mind back to the present. There hadn’t been any way for him to seal the door and that resulted in one unenviable truth: they were going to get out.
Part I
Part II
C-Street was buzzing. It wasn’t like an airport during the holidays, but there were dozens of people carrying on their daily business. A postal worker was removing mail from his truck; a group of teenagers smoked cigarettes and discussed the poetry, not the music, of Jim Morrison; a homeless man rattled a cup of change.
Shit, Jackson muttered to himself. He checked his pistol, popped out the clip, and inserted a new one, deftly chambering a round. The hollow ‘click’ echoed down the alley. The door opened.
First out, strangely enough, was Lamar Alexander. The elderly senator shifted menacingly toward Jackson, his gaze locking on. For a moment, Jackson wondered if the rest of the flesh-eating ghouls had purposely put Alexander out to absorb the waiting punishment. He didn’t think they had that kind of ability, at least not anymore; they were plenty cunning before they were...the thought came suddenly and unerringly: Infected.
Jackson instinctively went to his shooting stance. He leveled the pistol at Alexander, steadied, took a deep breath and upon exhaling, pulled the trigger. The report sounded like a jet thundering through the tight alley. Alexander’s momentum was nearly canceled with the first shot as it hit him center mass. The Lamar-thing shambled around on one foot, regained its composure, and charged at Jackson, teeth curled back, lips dripping with gore.
Jackson exhaled again, aimed higher, just like they did in the Air Force. He pulled the trigger and Alexander’s head snapped back. Its body followed suit; the knees buckled and its neck shifted, as if the Grim Reaper was a chiropractor and Alexander's appointment was the senator's last, then the thing finally hit the ground, face first.
So that was it, Jackson told himself. He should have known. Head shots put those freak-bags down for good. He checked his ammo as a pissed-off Thune-thing ran down the alley, its wildly swinging arms scratched the brick walls and its lips curled back to reveal a fiendish snarl.
Jackson considered trying to put them all down. He only had fourteen rounds left. They were now piling into the alley. There was no way he could take out all of them. He aimed at Thune, pulled the trigger twice, and the horrid thing’s neck snapped back. Its limbs spasmodically twitched, and for a moment, Jackson thought it was going to rise again. After a few seconds the twitching stopped. The others behind it hardly noticed one of their brethren collapsing like a heap.
Jackson turned and ran, yelling for the people on C-Street to run, to get away. Some of them saw the blood-soaked white shirt under his black jacket and heeded his advice. Others watched in numb surprise, waiting for whatever was coming.
In his mind, his spectacularly trained mind, Agent Jackson plotted the most direct route to the White House. He groped for his cell phone as he sprinted, knowing his first call should be to his boss, Agent Calvin Whitehead, but instead he found himself calling his wife as his platinum wedding band glinted in the lazy afternoon sun.
To be continued...
Once again, this is a choose your own adventure. Kossacks, choose wisely! Most votes wins.