They made good time to the armory, the retreating sun behind them adding haste to their steps, like a ticking timer in the sky… each shifting, lengthening shadow a countdown from safety to peril.
He slugged off a couple of growling, hissing approaching infected, barrel of his magnum smoking with three shots remaining as they stood at the door to the arsenal.
"Damn thing is padlocked," Coach grumbled, said lock firm in his meaty grip. He gave it a couple of tugs, proving it wasn't going anywhere without extra 'convincing'. Nick glanced at it. It was a combination lock. He might be able to pop it with his ear if he was given some time and quiet–
Rochelle's rifle sounded.
That clearly wasn't going to happen. He glowered and the football player got the message.
"Gimme some room, youngin's," Coach instructed. They all took a good step back. He brandished his aluminum bat, rolling it in his hands to get a firm hold between his gloves, and began swinging, hammering away on the metallic clasp one loud thunk at a time.
Nick wet his lips, watching the descending sun. He could almost hear the seconds ticking by in his head, but he was sure it was his imagination inventing unfounded concerns that they didn't have enough time for this 'quick' excursion. They needed ammo, sure, but if they got surrounded in the dark and couldn't see where to shoot, all the ammo in the world wouldn't help them.
Ellis stood tall beside him. Since his breakdown there had only been diligence and determination in both his stance and eyes, a more somber side that Nick wasn't used to seeing from him. He was amazingly beautiful that way… his jaw set, brow drawn down just a touch… he stared a while longer at his profile, admiring how strong he looked. Still and all, he was worried about the kid, feeling like he was the one who had accidentally set him off again. Experimentally he reached out, giving Ellis' arm a friendly squeeze, a 'relax, kiddo' conveyed but unspoken on his lips and the mechanic's baby blues softened a touch. He smiled in return, putting his palm over Nick's hand and squeezed back.
It was so weird how they had established this deep bond between them, how they shared touches that were so intimate yet non-sexual. God, he loved it as much as it drove him crazy, because he longed to be closer, but he was so afraid to lose what he had.
Which sounded about as asinine as the stereotypical school crush suffered by people less than half his age.
The lock popped loose then suddenly, shattering against the pavement. Coach drug the back of his hand across his brow, having worked up a sweat; Nick turned to clap him on the back. "Nice lock-smithing, big guy." The football player gave a chuckle and they all quickly filed inside, shutting the door closed behind them so nothing could get the drop on them.
"Whoa, shit, look at this stuff…" Ellis murmured in awe. Large belt guns and turrets, meant for mounting to the ground or large vehicles were scattered about the room in droves, strings of bullets fed into their mouths, ready to go. There were even some bombshells and missiles hanging around for loading into the guns on ships and anti-air cannons. It was kind of humbling, but they were in a military airbase after all. Nick moved past the heavier equipment, further in, his discerning eyes locking on a number of storage cabinets against the wall. Ellis and Rochelle and Coach all hurried after him.
He stopped in front of a dull green locker and readily pulled it open, greeted by a literal row of SPAS-12s, their surfaces a black luster and gleaming in the light.
At the sight, his compatriots began doing the same, opening each and every crate and cabinet, revealing row after row, cache after cache of guns upon guns upon glorious guns.
Nick dropped to click open a safety box he had found in one of the cabinets, kneeling. His green eyes glimmered. "Jackpot," he grinned, propping the lid of the box up. He wrapped his fingers around the shiny magnum that had been stored neatly inside, lifting it up to admire it. Not only was there the handgun, the case held another leg holster and five more clips, two of which were 'extended' magazines meant for housing ten shots each instead of the typical seven. They'd stick out the bottom of the grip when inserted, but function had finally trumped form in his book. He honed in on the ammo next, grabbing the appropriate square packages and opening them up– he'd load a couple magazines now for the trek back but save the rest of the loading for when they were safe in the control tower once again.
"Oh. Mah. God." Ellis exclaimed, pronouncing each word on its own, his eyes gone wide as he held up his prize. Nick looked over; the mechanic held a .50 cal military sniper rifle, cradled in his arms almost as if it were a small child.
Yeah, he could see where the kid would really get a kick out of that.
"Oh Lord, this's so cool…" he said reverently, hands gliding over the notched black surface. Ellis hefted it up with ease, the extra weight not even a trifle in the muscular arms, pressing his eye to the scope, and only a second later he started chuckling merrily. "Oh ho ho… those sons'a bitches ain't gonna know what hit 'em!"
The mechanic shucked the nearly empty hunting rifle from his back and secured the strap of the new weapon across his chest. He caught Nick's eyes on him and proceeded to grin. "How do I look?" he joked, striking a pose with the gun.
Nick secured the second strap around his left thigh, mirroring the one on the right. He holstered his own new acquisition before speaking. "Like a badass zombie-killing machine," he grinned and Ellis literally beamed.
Coach went for one of the SPASes while Rochelle replaced her rifle with an M-16. It was a gun that probably would have been too heavy for her to lift just two weeks ago, but now she shouldered it easily, the muzzle held out unwaveringly in front of her as she aimed it experimentally around the room.
Nick contemplated her switch from scoped to assault rifle– there was quite a bit of difference in the way each handled and he didn't want her choosing something that she would find awkward in the middle of a firefight. A constant barrage of bullet stream would be far more difficult to keep steady and accurate than something that fired one pull of the trigger at a time. He stepped up to the reporter. "Give it a shot," he said, motioning over at the far wall where a number of half-blown out targets were pinned up with tacks.
She lifted a thin black eyebrow at him before lifting the gun, humoring him in his suggestion. Nick stepped back and watched her stance as she emptied a quarter of a clip, her earrings moving with the kick of the gun, but the rest of her remained solid and each bullet found its mark somewhere in the target's torso.
Well, maybe it was a better choice; he'd take it back. He gave her a half-sided smirk. "Nice."
She smiled confidently at him.
A sharp shot rang out beside them unexpectedly, a large bullet hole appearing dead center in the target's head. Nick cast a sideways glance at the mechanic who had done it.
"Oh ho… that kicks like a son-of-a-gun!" Ellis grinned merrily, then seemed to notice their eyes on him. "Sorry, were we done practicin'?" he asked as he lowered the sniper rifle, unable to hide the mischief curling his lips and wrinkling his eyes.
Damn, he wanted to just pin the southerner against the wall and french those smirking lips for the words. What a scamp.
"We got everything we need?" Coach asked, reminding them of the need to get a move on back to the control tower. Dark was falling.
"Just about," Nick responded, returning to the submachine gun cache. No more taking chances, no more scrimping with ammunition. He went ahead and threw a few light uzis into a gun bag, along with several clips for them and ammunition, slinging the extra weight over his shoulders with the rest of what he was hauling. They weren't fantastic weapons by any means, but in a bind they'd be glad to have them, that much he knew.
"You guys want to take a handgun?" he recommended to both football player and reporter, holding out two pistols he had found towards them. They were the same model as Ellis' pistol. Every little bit could help.
Rochelle nodded and fastened it and an accompanying holster to her right hip. Coach did the same, the handgun almost comically tiny in his large hand before he slid it into its carrying case. They both grabbed clips and Nick stored away more ammo in the gun bag for loading.
"Alright," the football player nodded, "let's get a move on." And back out they went, a new sense of security to their steps.