No Flesh Shall Be Spared by Thom Carnell Read Free Book Online Page B

her and gnawed off the lower half of her face, leaving her ravaged.
    The two males circled the structure, trying and re-trying the door in a vain attempt to gain entry into the shed. The rusted lock that hung from the latch held firm despite their fevered efforts. Futilely, they both hammered their fists on the door’s frame.
    The woman stood by, momentarily distracted by the flies that circled over and around their heads. She seemed to be patiently waiting for her companion’s labors to bear some blood-sodden fruit.
    The team fanned out and cautiously approached as Ray Dog and Slider moved ahead. The soldier’s approach was silent and skillful. The Dead never noticed a thing until they were almost right on top of them.
    "Yo, Nigga," Ray Dog rumbled as he stood up and flipped the safety on his weapon to the fire position, "’Sup?"
    Ray Dog pulled the trigger and cut the two men down with the M-60. The massive 7.62mm shells tore through the first guy’s upper body, severing his right arm at the shoulder. The stream of bullets then back-tracked as the massive gun was swung back, effectively decapitating both of them.
    The woman, who had been standing and swaying slowly and unsteadily on her feet, visibly jumped at the reports of the ’60. She’d only begun to realize that her companions were down for good when Slider came up behind her and pushed the Mossberg’s barrels up against the back of her head. He pulled the trigger and her expression of disbelief was blown apart by the back of her skull.
    Masterson sidled up next to Bruce and whispered something in his ear. Without a word, the Asian took off at a run toward the farm’s main house with his MP5 tucked under his arm. He stayed slightly crouched so as not to be seen, but his pace was just this side of "sprint."
    The rest of the team secured the area and searched the shed, which they found empty.
    "What d’ya think they were looking for?" Slider asked.
    The Dog walked up behind him, pointing the barrel of his M-60 toward the ground.
    "Your mom."
    In a few minutes, Bruce returned and fought to catch his breath as he spoke directly into Masterson’s ear.
    "Ok, bitches, show time! Bruce here tells me that we have five—count ’em, five—more dumbfucks up around the house," Masterson explained. "I want The Dog and Slider to approach from the front. If any of these fuckers even thinks about trying to attack from there, you’ll stop that train of thought before it ever gets on the track. A-Rab, you and Lance take the left flank. Bruce, you and me are on the right."
    The team split up accordingly and each drew and checked his weapon, racking rounds and flipping off safeties. The change in their collective demeanor was abrupt but clear. What was before a group of guys jolly-timing it suddenly became a sharpened team of professional killers. This was not their first rodeo and, despite all the bullshitting and dickin’ around, these were hardened soldiers. Some, like Masterson, spent a lifetime honing their skills while others had been dragged up a very steep learning curve. It was a field of study that to fail to learn meant death… or worse.
    The farmhouse before them was an impressive two story structure with a large, wooden porch around its perimeter. On the right, a large willow tree snuggled up against the side of the house and blanketed it protectively in shadow. On the left, a storm cellar door led into the basement. The place seemed deserted, but they’d all seen that sort of scenario go sour a time or two before. It was how they’d lost Roehler and Fredrickson at the Home Depot and Dupont, Jackson and Miller at the gravel pit.
    Having their instructions, A-Rab and Lance sprinted off, making their way around the left side of the house. Lance aimed his AR-10, sweeping the area for any unfriendlies and A-Rab came up behind with the SAW. Once they were set, the two men knelt down and waited for Masterson to give the "in position" signal.
    On the right,