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...
A literal slugfest welcomed the new group that had ventured into the small-town-turned-warzone. They have fought against various enemies. Zombies here, outlaw bikers there.
The lawman had picked up his shotgun he threw away earlier and spent some shells unto the foes. While the Indian switched to his double-barrel and ran around the place on his horse, picking off enemies. Infected or not, they weren't able to escape his rampage.
In the meantime, the female biker turned into the main street, brandishing her lever action shotgun and firing at every hostile she would pass by. Her versatility shone as she handled the bike and the boomstick impeccably. Fire. Twirl. Cock. Aim. All that while driving.
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Moments later, she was followed by another pair of bikers on cruiser motorcycles. They emerged from each side of the intersection and followed her. The other one had the country's flag on its tail, whereas the other one had some sort of a clear windshield installed above the handles. Then, like her, they fired at the bandits while riding.
"Cruisers!" One of the outlaws shouted.
The main street was suddenly filled by heavy engine roars, gallops, and barrage of shots being fired. Tiny hills of infected and non-infected corpses began to form on the roads, sunshine bouncing against their blood. The smell of sulfur and smoke engulfed the atmosphere, the fragrance of death and chaos.
Half of Daeshim's head emerged from the turret as he cautiously peered at the main street where he witnessed the mayhem unfold. His eyelids expanded as he saw the bandits being annihilated by the heroic crusaders who came to help. But then, his eyes bulged out of his sockets when he captured a massive figure from afar. Daeshim's heart sank when he was met by its familiar, horrifying countenance.
Standing out from the morbid crowd, a tall, athletic creature emerged from the hot, distant horizon. A Thug. Different Thug, same fear. It's as if it rose from the dead and returned to him for vengeance.
It made a strong bellow and hauled its muscular entirety throughout the main street with a burning passion for violence. The ground trembled under the weight of its furious, relentless dash.
A few bikers met the raging anomaly on its path. They opened fire at it, their bullets being buried in its thick skin; it's no use, and the creature kept bolting like it's nothing. They didn't stop shooting as the gap between them shrunk. And as it got close, the Thug swung its massive arms and pounced the bikers, throwing them out of its way like trash.
"Here comes a big one!" The sheriff yelled. He made careful backward steps as he fired his shotgun at it.
Right then, the Indian on a horse appeared behind him. He pulled out an arrow from his quiver, but it had a copper cone-like object as a tip. The Native American nocked the arrow on the string and drew, then calibrated his aim, but the Thug was getting closer. Higher. A little to the left. He had to calculate quickly. Right then, he got the right angle and let go.
The reed with a strange tip pierced the air. A literal missile, springing in the humid atmosphere with precision. Within a few seconds, it had hit its target. A short blast. The blast withered the Thug. The arrow was rigged with an explosive. The creature roared and faltered because of the impact.
Next, the female biker zoomed past them. She was wielding, what appears to be, a set of balls with ropes connecting them ( bolas ) spinning overhead. The woman swerved and threw the bolas towards the Thug as she drove by. It spun and immediately wrapped around the creature's body, completely locking its arms with its body airtight. She was followed by a companion-another rider-who was wielding a similar object. He threw his bolas and it caught the Thug's feet, causing it to trip and completely fall down. Now being completely tangled, the Thug struggled to break free from the clever rummage.
The sheriff made heavy steps towards the poor entity and casted a shadow on its pathetic face-once was an embodiment of violence and utter bloodlust, now a decaying caricature of disgrace and weakness.
"You ain't welcome to my town, boy." He declared with gritted teeth as he guided the muzzle of his shotgun to its head and blasted it.
The chaotic symphony gradually faded and the atmosphere had calmed down. They had finally achieved triumph over the overwhelming adversaries. But at the peak of their victorious silence, a set of mechanical roars barged in. The sheriff and the Indian-who had already climbed down off his horse-turned behind them. And there they were, five chopper bikes inbound, their riders' weapons raised at them.
The two got into combat positions, but they seemed too late to react. However, as the bikers pulled up, a barrage of gunshots erupted, and a lead storm bursted from an alley and annihilated them. The bandits were dusted and immediately dropped dead.
The pair looked at each other in disbelief. That was close, but who fired the shots?
That question was immediately answered when the alley spat out a woman covered in black fabric with a submachine gun. It was Jess. A pack of infected emerged from the intersection, fast. Striding on a nonchalant pace, the nun guided her weapon on the herd's flank and dumped the rest of the twin drum magazines onto them before pulling up and throwing away the empty weapon.
"Looks like God's still in play," the sheriff uttered.
In the meantime, Daeshim came into the middle of the bombarded street with Dwain on his side, limping. He had the man's arms wrapped on his back as he helped him walk.
Jess caught her teammates inbound. She looked at the pair with her usual cold stare and just watched them approach her.
"You better be fine the next time we have to run; I won't carry you throughout the way," she taunted.
Dwain sighed and replied, "That is damn helpful sister, thanks." Sarcasm couldn't be more clearer in his voice.
Right then, a holler turned the nun's head. "That's some good shooting out there, sister!" It was the cowboy with a badge, the Native American on his side, pulling his horse on a leash. And behind them were the three musketeers on cruiser motorcycles.
"Yeah, and apparently, her empathy's ain't no good as her shootin', sheriff," Dwain rebutted as he stopped limping and gave the lawman a weary look. "Hey, thanks fo' saving our ass out there, man."
"Let's not celebrate too soon," the old cop dismissed and placed his hands on his hips. He avenged the man with a squinty look. "Them choppers ain't gonna stop until they have our heads for their greasy hotdishes, not to mention these biffo-mouthed animals on our butts," says the sheriff. "Let's get you all out here. The station's not far; you guys can stay there for a while."
"We appreciate that," Dwain greeted and glanced around. "Where's Doc?"
"Howdy, y'all."
But to their surprise, their hearts sank when they saw him in that state. It was the slick man, caging the paramedic in his arm, the muzzle of his bulky revolver kissing the doc's temple.
