After escaping the death valleys of Colorado, Brenan, Jess, Dwain, and Daeshim hope to find safety and salvation in the Mormon state of Deseret. But their journey is far from over, as they face new perils and enemies along the way. In this mid-apoca...
Daeshim skulked behind the metal plates as gunshots and screams filled the air. He was terrified by the sounds of a brutal battle between the bikers and a Hunter. He knew it was a Hunter. When the noises stopped, he heard only eerie silence and faint growls approaching him. His fear wrapped around him like a cold blanket.
The Hunter skittered on the road like a giant camel spider, its head moving side to side, looking for any signs of its prey. It knew the smell of fear-Daeshim's fear-a pleasant fragrance that drove its bloodlust. The creature's head turned to the humvee and let out a growl. Its sharp, bloody fangs unfurled as it approached. It began to crawl towards the vehicle, driven by its morbid urges.
But then, a faint rumble roared from afar. The Hunter snapped its distorted head, but the last thing it saw was a white SUV bolting at a blistering speed.
A thud. Soft thumps. Tires screeches.
The vehicle pulled up a bit past the humvee, dragging the Hunter a few feet. It had green stripes running on its sides and other livery glimmering in yellow and gold, and a siren on top splashing blue and red lights.
Its driver was garbed in a beige shirt, its shoulder straps and pocket flaps dyed in dark brown, embroidered shield-shaped patches with seals and labels were stitched on its sleeves. His head, crowned with a black cowboy hat, its tip shaded his eyes.
He stuck his sawed-off shotgun out the window. A blast. A biker plunged into the cursed ground with a mangled chest. Pump. A zombie was bolting at his door. He then swung to the other flank. Another blast. The zombie's head blew off, and what's left of the creature flaccidly fell into the rough surface.
The cowboy climbed down his vehicle, snow and sand crumbled beneath his leather boots. His legs were swaddled with light-colored jeans which his beige uniform was tucked in, sealed by an oval, silver buckle of his snake belt that holstered his colts both side draw and cross draw. His badge shone like a real star as the sunlight reflected on it.
He was then welcomed by a herd of zombies, darting at him like a pack of wolves eager to devour. The caucasian jerked the sawed-off shotgun with one hand and fired from his hip. A blast. A zombie fell down. He marched forward and walked through the cloud of sulfur. Pump. A shell ejected. Bang! Another zombie flew with a marred torso. He was merciless. A click. Fire. Another kill. Click. He mowed the entire pack with his slugs until the shotgun went dry.
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But then, a mass of acid bombs hurtled up above, launched by the bikers.
The cowboy threw his empty shotgun away and reached for one of his colts. He pulled out the pistol and fanned the hammer, firing shots in rapid succession. The bottles shattered into pieces mid-air. Then, in a flash, the man in the beige uniform aimed at a nearby biker and fanned the last two shots at him. A smooth kill.
The worn out colt spun on his hand and dove straight to its holster. He continued his nonchalant march and drew his other gun, while shards and acid drizzled behind him. The lawman fired on the remaining enemies, filling the atmosphere with a sulfuric mist, until all those six shots were spent. He was quickly stripped of advantage.
