Cameron rose from behind the shattered hulk of a humvee and unleashed a roar that would have had the capacity to stun a child unconscious. Jaira would later question herself as to what private hell had he summoned up that scream of the damned? To his left and still behind the dubious safety of the bullet ridden humvee, Jaira and Natalie popped up firing controlled bursts to keep the heads of their opponents on their left flank pinned down. Cameron moved in to the street, the shotgun in his hands barking cloud after cloud of death in to the twisted metal remains of the vehicle, their cowering enemy unwilling to risk blind firing over the top. The shotgun clicked empty and he dropped it to the gray asphalt as his hands rose with a pair of matched Berretta semi-automatics that clattered like fireworks, bullet casings arching from both guns deflecting sunlight like a river of falling gold.
His guns seemed to guide themselves towards the first man to emerge from cover. Twin trails of destruction smashed in to the chest of the heavyset leather jacketed biker. The second to rise was a little more fortunate as the bullets popped through the center of his face and he fell back without a sound.
Blocked from Cameron's sight, the promised Spartan reinforcements finally arrived and made short work of the small group that Jaira and Natalie had kept pinned in place. Meanwhile, Cameron was busy as he’d circled around the cover of his enemies and the firefight had turned in to a full melee. His pistols clicked empty and he froze for a fraction of a second. The first to face him caught both thrown Glocks with his face, followed up by a wild roundhouse that snapped in to the man’s temple as the remaining few turned their guns towards Cameron.
Four guns opened up and Cameron dropped to one knee, drawing his remaining Beretta. Above him, the human shield jerked and danced grotesquely as bullets and buckshot tore him to pieces. Almost comical, Cameron took aim from between the “shield’s” legs and fired back, downing another. He tossed the bullet ridden shield towards his frantically reloading foes and followed the flying cadaver in for the kill. It took down one of his two remaining opponents, and he fired at the last man standing. The shot was close range and impossible to miss.
His final opponent struggled to free himself, or at the very least his arms from beneath the corpse pinning him to the pavement when his eyes widened in fear. Cameron dove down like a vulture, pushing all air from the man’s lungs seconds before Cameron’s forearm crashed like a truck across the nose, his right held the Glock by the barrel, burning his hand but he didn’t care, burying the butt of the pistol repeatedly in to the man’s skull.
The sheer intensity of the fight, its carnage should have taken place over several hours, but it had taken place in several short minutes, and the adrenalin flood left him trembling as he collapsed, slumping against the ruined vehicle they had been using for cover. Strangely, it was all suddenly quiet to him, there was no ringing in his ears, and he ran his bloodied left hand through his hair and noted that the blood was thicker than before. Minutes, but it was over, he struggled but weakened fingers refused to cooperate, the blood on his hand helping the weapon slide a maddening inch farther out of reach. He smiled and noticed several things all at once: Breathing hurt his throat, a stabbing pain in his ribs coupled with a bloody jagged furrow in the side of his head that was still bleeding, and at least one cracked if not broken finger in his left hand.
He looked like he had taken a bath, fully clothed in a vat of blood, and his smile was a mixture of tired, adrenalin overload and pain as he stared up at Brenan, “What…” he blinked, searching his mind for words that his tongue could not articulate, “….took so long?”
At that moment, Cameron eyes slammed shut and he drifted out of consciousness. He moved feebly as they had loaded him in to the back of a vehicle, mumbling something, over and over, maybe a name, or a place but whatever it was, nobody heard caught it with any clarity.
It was Brennan who turned at the screech of metal on stone, turning with his weapon raised. He cursed, “Today cannot get any worse!” His thumb flicked the selector switch from “safe” to “semi” and started shooting, “Contact!” A solitary zombie fell but its “friends” were not deterred. Around Brennan, engines came to life as another two Spartan formed a short defensive line and began a controlled execution of the oncoming mob. A humvee turned, its gunner bringing to bear the destructive power of its big gun when Brenan waved them off, “Save the ammo! Get the wounded and evac!” He cut down several more with precise headshots in to the slow moving murderous crowd before running for the nearest vehicle.
The sun rose and set several times before Cameron was placed back in what he had converted in to his home within the confines of Pioneer Place Mall, and when Cameron woke up, three or four days later it was because of a headache that called for an aspirin at least the size of a hockey puck. It took him a moment to figure out exactly what was hurting before he flipped on the lights in the converted hardware store. He had been treated as well as they could with their limited medical supplies and knowledge which meant disinfectant, stitches and wound dressings, but then again, he had never needed more than that. He cursed creatively as he sat up, planting both feet on the floor and he knew that standing up would hurt like hell. His toes curled and uncurled against the floor as he took a deep breath, which pulled at the dozen or so stitches that ran across his ribs from a near hit or miss depending on one’s perspective.
He stood, leaning against the wall to let the dizziness pass through his bandaged head. His hand brushed against the stitches that ran down from his temple – that was going to scar. He winced as he smiled and winced for having winced, his facial muscles stiff from a lack of use, the bloodstained bandages chaffed and were rubbing his skin raw. The wounds, whether stitches or scabbed over had given his skin a sandpaper like feel that he hated but knew would pass. The apartment had little furniture in it, composed of a bed, a small table and chair parked against the bricked up and boarded windows that once gave a view on to the street outside. On top of the table dining table parked against one wall was a laptop computer and a stack of games., partitioned from the rest of the bench by a set of low shelves. The rest of the table was covered in tools, and parts of a homemade weapon that had been prepared and left to dry. The stone floor reflected the fluorescent light that shone down, thrown around by the pile of weapons and holsters at the far end of the table. A guitar hung from a haphazardly installed hook on the back of the door and he stared at it for a moment, realizing that it had been a week since he’d last touched the instrument.
Taking it down, he cradled for a moment before resting it against the end of his bed. He had a few things to take care off before he could turn his attention to distractions. He turned his attention to the laptop and brought it to life, letting it beep and whir as it booted up. He took his time, calling up the playlist entitled “background noise” to deny the silence its overwhelming hold on his surroundings as he set to work, cleaning and reloading his weapons, a long process made particularly arduous as with two of the fingers on his left hand splinted together.
It was almost two hours later when his weapons were prepared as he hefted the guitar, and cradled it, his left hand a little awkward as he struggled to strum several cords, to get a feel for playing with broken fingers. Satisfied, he scrolled through the playlist until he found the song he wanted and started to play, following the guitar perfect, chord for chord. But he knew that his playing, while technically sound, lacked life.
The music and guitar were loud, loud enough to be heard by those wandering around outside, but his door was closed and he knew it sent the message he wanted to send: Yes I am home, alive and awake, but I do not want company or visitors or well wishers. The rest of the Spartans had not gotten to know him due to the glacial nature of personality that few could tolerate. There were only four people who knew anything about Cameron. The first was Cameron and he did not about to talk about himself. The second person had only seen Cameron’s harsher and “darker” side and Steven was not exactly willing to talk about the numerous dressing downs that he had received. The third was his deadliest competition in the bi-monthly shooting tournament and an excellent poker player – Brennan- who knew nothing more than what anyone else knew about Cameron. The fourth person was Jaira Coltquist and she was hunting for answers to the enigma, starting with the enigma himself.
There was no door bell and she did not knock, simply walking in on the war path. He was sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall, guitar cradled comfortably in his hands as he strummed along to the music in the background, “Its technically proficient but lacks life, “ she said by way of greeting before wrinkling her nose at the smell. A cigarette hung from between his lips, burning down with cigarette ash sprinkled across his black t-shirt as smoke danced playfully towards the ceiling, “We have got to talk.”
He strummed a few chords in response, and raised an eyebrow as he took a long drag from the cigarette as he laid the guitar on the narrow bed next to him. Reaching on to his bedside table, he extracted another cigarette from the pack and put that in his mouth. Only then did he exhale the smoke from the first cigarette, as he ground it out in an ashtray while he lit the new cigarette with the other hand, a single continuous motion before he gestured towards the chair with the lighter “Pull up a chair,” he hesitated and took the headlong plunge, “Do I have to guess what you want to talk about?”
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