Stryker: A Post-Apocalyptic Tale by Bobby Andrews Page B

said. “Erin’s on her way in and I’m policing
up.”
    “Roger.” Stryker kept
the M-4 leveled at the man he assumed was Brody; a minute later, Erin
approached at a dead run.
    “You got her?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. Get her back
to where you parked and guard her until we can meet you there.” Stryker heard
two pistol shots and presumed Sarge was finishing the job. “That’s me,” Sarge
said. Stryker nodded and moved to the downed man, who had gained a seated
position and was staring at the hole in his stomach.
    “You shot me.”
    “You should be
grateful, Brody.” The man started at the sound of his name being spoken by a
stranger. “I really wanted to kill you very slowly with my bare hands.”
    “Go ahead and
finish it.” He grimaced in pain. “I’m going to die anyway.”
    “I will if you
answer one question honestly. If you don’t, I’m going to make it much more
painful. I might even patch you up so I can have fun for a longer period of
time.”
    “What’s the
question?”
    “Where are the
other girls? We have the ones that were here, but we also know there were more
before them. Do you know the men who bought them?”
    “No,” he replied
softly.
    “You sure?”
    He weakly nodded
his head. “We didn’t care who they were; if we asked, they would have lied
anyway.”
    Stryker stared at
the man until Sarge stood next to him. “He’s telling the truth,” Sarge said.
    “Are there any more
of you?” Stryker asked
    “No.”
    “You want to make
that your final answer?”
    “Come on, Regis.
Let’s get this over with,” Sarge said. “Only a couple of fools would stand out
here in the open.” Sarge carefully placed a pistol shot in the man’s left
kneecap. “That’s for Erin,” he whispered, as Brody writhed around in the dirt.
He fired again, and the other kneecap seeped blood. “That’s for Haley.”
    “And this is for
making me want to puke, you sick bastard.” Stryker killed Brody with a single
shot to the forehead, then shot him twice in the chest. “That should do it,” he
muttered, then walked over and picked up the LAW. Stryker and Sarge walked
about fifty yards. Stryker turned and sighted the weapon at the building and
released the rocket. There was a loud explosion. The front of the building
collapsed into the structure, but it still stood.
    Both men looked at
the rocket launcher. Sarge looked up and said, “Probably made in China.” Both
men chuckled and walked back to where Erin had parked the truck.
    “How do you suppose
they all survived the plague?” Sarge asked as they walked.
    “No idea. Maybe
they were all from the same family. Brothers, or cousins, or something.” Sarge
looked doubtful.
    “I’ve not seen more
than two survivors together since this thing started.”
    “Me either. Except
for us. I’m guessing that they knew each other before the plague started, and
maybe went into hiding somewhere in the country and waited for things to pass,”
Stryker answered. The men stopped by the pickup and both looked back at the
battlefield.
    “Sarge, we better
police up the weapons.”
    “Most of it is
junk.”
    “I know. But some
kid could stumble on them and start playing with them or something. Besides,
there’re two ARs and some pistols we could probably use.” Sarge shrugged and
the two men policed the battlefield, dumped the weapons in the pickup bed, and
took a last look around.
    “Job’s not done
until the tools are put away,” Sarge noted.
    Haley was
comforting the small girl who they just freed from Brody’s men. She was crying
and seemed beyond consolation.
    “I presume you
killed him?” she asked when the men stopped in front of her. She looked a
little shaky and pale.
    “Of course,” Sarge
replied
    “He took a lot of
killing. I counted five shots.”
    “We had to be
sure.”
    “I know.”
    “That was a nice
shot, Erin,” Stryker said.
    “I couldn’t let
them get to the building and I knew you wanted Brody alive, so that’s the