Out the bus door, up the narrow path, to the heavy brown front door of Mike's house, the two teens sprinted as if their lives depended on it. Hell, maybe they did.
Nick, having the head start of leaving the bus first, was coincidently the first to the front door of the house. He stepped away from the door, and turned his back to it, as to cover Mike as he arrived a close second, pulled the key from his teeth, and unlocked the door, pushing it open.
Mike was first inside. It being his house, this made perfect sense.
"Let's fuckin' go!" he whispered urgently, eyes darting around his front yard, looking for any of what may or may not be called "zombies".
Mike himself preferred "crazy fuckin' people" though he had yet to voice this to anyone besides his own mind.
Nick, slowly backed up, the baton raised in a ready position; ready to strike. Not taking his back from the door, he slowly backed inside the house.
Once inside, the last thing Nick saw was what appeared to be a completely abandoned bus. Chad and the others were doing their job perfectly.
Good.
Mike closed the door, making sure it didn't slam, and Nick's sight of the yard was abruptly cut off. He then bolted the door with a snap and the only sound for a few moments was the boys' heavy breathing.
"Mike, find a weapon," Nick said quickly, scanning what he could see of the house intently, looking for any possible threat. He had been here many times, and he knew the layout.
"No problem," Mike replied smiling a bit as he picked up a aluminum baseball bat that was right next to the door.
Nick returned the smile, "What's that doing there?" He had noticed it one or two times, and it had never seemed to move
"It's been there forever. No one bothered to move it." Mike said, grinning broadly.
Nick nodded, "Alright, Mike. We need to secure this house. Have you ever secured a building before?" It was a sarcastic question, and it spawned a sarcastic answer.
"Not really, no," Mike muttered absent mindedly looking around his on house as if it could kill him at any moment. Hell, for all he knew, it could.
Nick glanced at his friend, "Alright, neither have I. It'll be a wonderful learning experience for us both," he said, also looking around the house with the same expression Mike had.
The two boys slowly, very slowly, began walking from room to room, checking for anything that would have anything to do with insane undead creatures. They locked every window and door as they went.
It took them nearly ten minutes to "secure" the house.
"Thank fuckin' God," Mike muttered as he lead Nick to a small storage closet in the very downstairs of the house, well out of the way. The closet was definitely one of those things most people would pay no heed to. But that was the point.
Nick folded up his baton and returned it to his pocket, and Mike tossed his bat aside. He knew he wouldn't be needing it right at hand anymore.
Mike then opened the closet, and pulled aside what looked like some Christmas, or other holiday decorations.
Once that was pulled aside and out of the way, a small armory lay before them.
Mike didn't wait for any orders from the stunned Nick. He reached into the closet and pulled out a nice looking black gun bag, unzipped it, and pulled out a mammoth black shotgun.
The shotgun, a Remington 870 in full size, is something to behold. A beast, it weighed around eight pounds, and had a total hold for eight shotgun shells in the size of .12 gauge.
"Dibs," Mike muttered pulling out a bandoleer for shotgun shells, and three boxes of twenty-five shells each.
Nick recovered from his shock, and grabbed the closet gun bag to him, unzipped it, and pulled out a Colt M4 carbine, the M16's little brother. It was chambered in the 5.56 NATO round, and had a telescoping stock, so the user can customize the length to fit his or her size. The M4 was overall also much shorter the the M16.
Mike smiled. "Merry Christmas," he said, grinning widely as he glanced at the Christmas and other holiday decorations he had pulled out of the closet not one minute earlier.
"Mike..." Nick questioned, looking the M4 over. "Why didn't your dad bring this to the range, Nick said sarcastically, then added "And, more importantly, why does your dad even have an M4?" Nick finished, making his second question a serious one.
"Because it's illegal. For civilians anyway. Dad didn't want to freak anyone out." Mike said, matter-of-factly, as he popped open a box of bright red .12 gauge shot gun shells, and one by one, began sliding them into the black bandoleer.
"Yeah, I know that," Nick muttered, his sarcasm lost in this serious situation. He reached into the closet, and grabbed two cardboard boxes that were both labeled "M4 MAGAZINES" in a black military style labeling.
"But why does he have this, and that shotgun for that matter?" Nick asked, staring dumbfounded at his larger friend, and his newly acquired shotgun.
"Yeah." Mike paused for a moment, from loading the bandoleer, "Yeah I suppose it doesn't matter. My dad's in the military. Something classified or some shit. I only know it's classified, and that I wasn't supposed to tell people that."
Nick quietly nodded several times, and opened the box of M4 clips. Each cardboard box contained ten of the thirty round mags. Twenty total.
"Where are your parents?" Nick asked. There had been nothing at all in the house.
"Work. Couldn't get a hold of them even if I tried," Mike replied.
"You sure?"
"Positive. If I know my parents, and if they're still... alive, then they're hunkered down out there somewhere, and they'd want me to do the same," Mike said.
"Jesus..." Nick muttered. "Are you absolutely sure, Mike?"
"Yes," Mike said. He then cut off any further questioning by pointing to box upon box of 5.56 ammo for the M4 that Nick currently held.
"Anyway... My dad, being a freaking gun nut, used his position to get free guns from the military," Mike said, the first box of twenty-five now on the bandoleer. He picked up another box of the shells.
"No shit," Nick muttered.
"Yeah shit... Anyway, that's that." Mike muttered back opening the second box and adding those shells to his bandoleer.
It took Nick a few moments and a few failed attempts to figure out how to properly load an M4 clip. He hadn't managed to learn that from reading.
"How's the kick on this thing? Anything like The M1 carbine"
Nick questioned as he loaded the first clip, and moved on to the second. Each box had a hundred rounds in it, so each had three and on thirds of a full clip.
"I dunno. 'Bout the same I'd say. Plus double the clip size of the M1."
The pair worked in silence for several minutes, Mike's bandoleer was now full, and he slung of Chad's yellow back, and put the bandoleer on. The bandoleer itself could hold fifty-five of the crimson shotgun shells.
It only took Mike about thirty seconds to load the 870's full payload of eight. And that was at a very slow, relaxed pace.
Mike racked the shotgun once, chambering the first shell, then he began shoveling as many boxes of shells as he could in the bag.
"What about your parents?" Mike asked.
"Dunno," Nick said. "I know my Dad's gotta be in the thick of it by now. Probably didn't make it if what's going on out there is really as bad as it looks."
"Don't fuckin' say that!" Mike exclaimed.
"Why? You just said basically the same thing."
Mike paused. "True," he conceded.
"The way I see it," Nick began, "Is if our parents are alive, they'd want us to do what we think is right. And if they're dead, my guess is they'd still have the same opinion."
Nick had never stopped loading the M4 magazines, but he only had of the twenty total loaded.
"True that," Mike agreed. "So do you think this is really it? The End of the World?"
"Dunno. Let's hope not, but let's play like it is," Nick said.
Mike nodded, then remembered the man that he had punched and Nick had beat to death. "So, that's a baton you've got, right?"
"It is," Nick responded, not looking up from his loading.
"Why the fuck do you have that?"
"Present. Happy thirteenth birthday to me, from dad."
"Oh," Mike whispered quietly.
"It's certainly useful," Nick said. "The old man knew what he was doing."
There was another pause.
Nick broke it, "Mike, you have duck tape anywhere?"
"Yeah, hold on."
Mike almost left the room to get the duck tape when Nick muttered, "Mike, take your shotgun with you."
The big teen didn't argue.
He returned several minutes later with two rolls of duck tape. One unopened, the other about half used.
Nick had loaded two more magazines by that time. Five down, fifteen to go.
Mike handed Nick the used roll, and Nick taped two of the magazines together, so once one was used the other could be flipped over and reloaded much faster then it would take to go for an extra one. Nick seemed to know that, and he loaded the double magazine into the M4 carbine, and looked where the cocking bolt on top of the gun was, right behind the hand grip. He didn't cock it yet, not taking the chance of arming the weapon yet. He most definitely didn't want to shoot himself. Nick then safetied it, knowing where that switch was from constant study in Guns and Ammo Magazine.
Mike smiled, "We haven't even gotten the legal guns yet."
"Yeah, Jesus..." Nick muttered, looking the M4 up and down.
Mike smiled. " My dad, uh, he was kinda training me for the military. It was like me being alive was taking a full-time class, y'know? I took tests on American Military history, learned about all the weapons in this closet. All that shit." Mike paused to give his friend enough time to answer.
"What, was your dad a recruiter or something?"
"Fuck if I know," Mike muttered. "He used to say to me that he wanted you and Chad to join up with me when we got out of high school. Like, do college there and become officers or something."
"That would explain why he mentioned that the army would be the right career for us on the range that time, remember that?"
Mike smiled "Yeah, man, I do."
We weren't even very good shots," Nick nodded his agreement as he remembered that particular day. "Mike, grab the M1 and that Ithaca we used that one time, would you?"
"Sure." Mike stepped partially into the closet, and pulled out the requested firearms.
The M1 carbine is a World War II edition weapon, that has a wood finish, a magazine of fifteen and, chambered in a short 7.62 caliber. The model Mike had was the full-stock version.
The Ithica 37 .12 gauge shotgun, is a smaller shotgun. Much, much smaller then the 870. It has a wood stock and pump, and only holds 4 shells in the lower tube of the weapon. It is commonly used by smaller police forces.
"Load the Ithica and the grab the M1 clips, please," Nick said.
Mike did so.
"Hey Mike?" Nick asked as the bigger teen pulled out the six magazines that his dad had had for the aging M1, and the short 7.62 caliber ammo that went with the weapon. He was thinking about certain chains of events.
"Yeah, man?" Mike looked up.
"Is it just me, or have we had it kinda easy?"
Mike reflected on this. "I don't think being attacked by your "zombie" buddies and having everyone we know brutally murdered is easy, man. Sorry."
"No, no. I mean the bus for starters. What are the odds? We shouldn't have made it out of The school at all.. And now the guns... I was expecting the M1, the Ithica, the 30-30," Nick said pointing to the Winchester lever action tucked into the corner, "And that double-barreled shotgun. And that's it. We've had it so lucky, it's fucking creepy."
Mike paused for a moment before answering, "You, my friend, are having major survivor's guilt right now. My dad told me about that shit. And hey, whatever happened to you not freaking out? You have a reputation to keep."
Nick eyed his friend with a look of disbelief
"Mike listen to me," Nick said, keeping his voice very low as always, and ignoring the 'freaking out' comment. "We should've died back at school with everyone else," He said calmly. "It's real fuckin' scary how lucky we've been. That's all I'm saying, man. The bus, the guns, it's like what the fuck? No one gets that lucky."
"Yeah, we should've died back there," Mike agreed, not beating around the bush, "But we didn't. And now it's just us two, Chad and the girls out there," Mike pointed in the direction of the bus for added emphasis, "And Molly, who I'm not gonna rest until I get back. And you're gonna fuckin' help, and knock off this bullshit."
Mike paused, and then sighed "It's fucking scary how calm you are, man. I mean look at you. You were giving orders back there like my dad, or something. I mean what's with that?"
"I dunno, man. I don't fucking know."
"Well, whatever the fuck it is, keep it up. That shit'll keep you alive."
Nick just nodded once.
After a few moments silence, Nick, all business again, said, "Where's that pouch thing for the M1 mags?"
Mike nodded in understanding, and reached into the close, moved a box of 9mm handgun bullets, and pulled out the leather pouch which attaches to the wearer's belt. It held six extra magazines for the M1.
"Kay Mike, load all the mags for the M1 would you?"
"Sure, man."
Another four minutes had passed in the time it took Mike to load all six M1 clips, and deposit five of them in the leather pouch, which held six, and the last clip into the M1 itself.
"Done," Mike reported.
Nick had loaded nine of the M4 magazines by this time.
"Hey,' Mike said, giving a smile. "I just remembered."
Mike grabbed the huge 870 shotgun, which he had claimed as his, and left the room.
Nick finished loading his tenth clip, and was just picking up the second box of then when Mike returned, carrying a vest.
"This goes with the M4, he said smiling. "Other then the bloodthirsty rabid people, this has totally been your day."
Mike passed Nick the vest, which was full black, and had four pounches in the front.
"Each of those pounches holds two of those mags." Mike reported happily.
Nick took the vest and eyed it like it was the best thing he'd ever received. It looked like something a S.W.A.T. team would use, or something.
"Mike, your dad was either a paranoid psycho, or he was fucking brilliant..."
"Yep," Mike agreed simply, nodding his head once. "You've just completely described my old man."
There was an eleven second silence. What was happening with the world? Was it really the end? Was humanity collapsing around them right now as they sat here arming up? Were their families dead? Were they going to die?
Mike didn't know.
Nick didn't know.
But they both knew they wanted to live. And they were both going to make sure that happened.
"I hope he's okay..." Nick added, referring to Mike's dad.
"I hope everyone's okay," Mike said, "But what if they're not? We can't crumple here even if the worst has happened... We have to keep on, y'know?
Nick nodded. "Yeah."
He thought for a few moments.
"Mike," he said, as he slung off his backpack, which hadn't been touched since he put it back on after emptying it in the bus.
"Yeah?" Mike answered.
"Load this bag with any other shotgun shells you have, and the rest of the M1 ammo would you? Also, any cleaning tools for any of the guns."
"Yeah, sure. What are you gonna do?"
"I'm gonna make a phone call." Nick answered, pulling out his cell phone.
"We're gonna need more help."