forgot to fill out the paperwork.”
“That must be it,” Cy said. “All right, come on to cabin seven.”
“I thought you only had six cabins?” Daniel said.
“Cabin seven is what he calls his bunker,” Edsel explained, and Cy grinned and led them into the back.
“My daddy built this bomb shelter back in the ’50s, before he figured out the Communists were just the dupes of the Trilateral Commission, and that nuclear bombs don’t actually work. The Trinity tests were faked, you know, and the bombings in Japan were just conventional TNT bombs and a lot of special effects to make it seem like we had an unstoppable superweapon.” Cy spoke the words without heat or inflection, as if he’d said it all many times before and repeated himself now out of habit, but Daniel didn’t pay him much attention anyway, as he was gazing around the long, low concrete underground room at the truly awesome quantities of weaponry present there.
There were guns, and not just handguns: also shotguns, assault rifles, sniper rifles, and bristling, black, oily-looking weapons that looked as if they belonged in a science fiction movie about space marines. The guns were mounted on wall racks, interspersed with assorted knives, a machete, and even several ninja throwing stars. Long, low crates lined the walls, and Daniel suspected they were filled with ammunition. He hoped they weren’t full of anything else, though he wouldn’t have ruled out rocket launchers and stacks of C-4. “Where did you get all this?”
Cy shrugged. “Gun shows. Estate sales. Ads in the backs of magazines. Out of a truck behind a flea market in Minneapolis. Here and there. Been collecting for a long time. Glad they’ll finally get some use. I was figuring they’d come in handy when the government decided to declare martial law and socialized medicine and the people had no choice but to openly revolt, but they’ll kill zombies too.”
“This is wonderful, Cy.” Edsel clapped him on the back, then took an Uzi down from the wall and opened a crate to take out a few full clips of ammunition. Didn’t even have to hunt around, which told Daniel that Edsel had been down here more than once or twice before. “We’ll assemble our warriors for God and bring them back here for arming. How would you like to be ordnance officer for the Interfaith Anti-Zombie league?”
“I’d be honored to serve,” Cy said. “Here, Pastor, let me set you up with a Heckler & Koch G36.” Daniel accepted the rifle, which didn’t weigh much more than a couple of gallons of milk, though it obviously had far less nutritional value. “For myself, I think I’ll take this Saiga 12-guage semi-automatic shotgun with a ten-round magazine. I could drop a whole herd of zombies in about three seconds with this baby, but it’s got a kick that might trouble you, Pastor.”
“Uh,” Daniel said, but Cy had joined Edsel before he could come up with anything else to say.
“I don’t suppose a knife would be much good against a zombie.” Edsel had the Uzi slung over his shoulder on a strap, and he perused the knives arrayed on the wall. “Even a big hunting knife isn’t much good for decapitation.”
“Well, maybe you’d like this.” Cy presented what looked like an ordinary hunting knife, and Edsel’s look of disappointment was obvious. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but there’s a CO 2 cartridge hidden in the hilt, and if you press this button, it releases a big burst of compressed air, about the volume of a basketball, at 850 psi.” Daniel looked at him blankly, and Edsel didn’t seem much more comprehending, so Cy grinned and said, “Stick this in a zombie’s eye and push the button and I’m pretty sure the poor sucker’s head will explode. I’ve only tried it on a pumpkin, but that blew up real good.”
“Perfect.” Edsel plucked the knife from his hand, found a sheath, and slipped it onto his belt.
“Just be sure you don’t hit the button by
“That must be it,” Cy said. “All right, come on to cabin seven.”
“I thought you only had six cabins?” Daniel said.
“Cabin seven is what he calls his bunker,” Edsel explained, and Cy grinned and led them into the back.
“My daddy built this bomb shelter back in the ’50s, before he figured out the Communists were just the dupes of the Trilateral Commission, and that nuclear bombs don’t actually work. The Trinity tests were faked, you know, and the bombings in Japan were just conventional TNT bombs and a lot of special effects to make it seem like we had an unstoppable superweapon.” Cy spoke the words without heat or inflection, as if he’d said it all many times before and repeated himself now out of habit, but Daniel didn’t pay him much attention anyway, as he was gazing around the long, low concrete underground room at the truly awesome quantities of weaponry present there.
There were guns, and not just handguns: also shotguns, assault rifles, sniper rifles, and bristling, black, oily-looking weapons that looked as if they belonged in a science fiction movie about space marines. The guns were mounted on wall racks, interspersed with assorted knives, a machete, and even several ninja throwing stars. Long, low crates lined the walls, and Daniel suspected they were filled with ammunition. He hoped they weren’t full of anything else, though he wouldn’t have ruled out rocket launchers and stacks of C-4. “Where did you get all this?”
Cy shrugged. “Gun shows. Estate sales. Ads in the backs of magazines. Out of a truck behind a flea market in Minneapolis. Here and there. Been collecting for a long time. Glad they’ll finally get some use. I was figuring they’d come in handy when the government decided to declare martial law and socialized medicine and the people had no choice but to openly revolt, but they’ll kill zombies too.”
“This is wonderful, Cy.” Edsel clapped him on the back, then took an Uzi down from the wall and opened a crate to take out a few full clips of ammunition. Didn’t even have to hunt around, which told Daniel that Edsel had been down here more than once or twice before. “We’ll assemble our warriors for God and bring them back here for arming. How would you like to be ordnance officer for the Interfaith Anti-Zombie league?”
“I’d be honored to serve,” Cy said. “Here, Pastor, let me set you up with a Heckler & Koch G36.” Daniel accepted the rifle, which didn’t weigh much more than a couple of gallons of milk, though it obviously had far less nutritional value. “For myself, I think I’ll take this Saiga 12-guage semi-automatic shotgun with a ten-round magazine. I could drop a whole herd of zombies in about three seconds with this baby, but it’s got a kick that might trouble you, Pastor.”
“Uh,” Daniel said, but Cy had joined Edsel before he could come up with anything else to say.
“I don’t suppose a knife would be much good against a zombie.” Edsel had the Uzi slung over his shoulder on a strap, and he perused the knives arrayed on the wall. “Even a big hunting knife isn’t much good for decapitation.”
“Well, maybe you’d like this.” Cy presented what looked like an ordinary hunting knife, and Edsel’s look of disappointment was obvious. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but there’s a CO 2 cartridge hidden in the hilt, and if you press this button, it releases a big burst of compressed air, about the volume of a basketball, at 850 psi.” Daniel looked at him blankly, and Edsel didn’t seem much more comprehending, so Cy grinned and said, “Stick this in a zombie’s eye and push the button and I’m pretty sure the poor sucker’s head will explode. I’ve only tried it on a pumpkin, but that blew up real good.”
“Perfect.” Edsel plucked the knife from his hand, found a sheath, and slipped it onto his belt.
“Just be sure you don’t hit the button by
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