Elliott wasn’t comfortable being the leader of this misfit crew. He had no idea how on earth he of all people had landed with that in his lap, but it wasn’t sitting well… sort of like the last time he tried Indian food.
He watched his friends closely as they scrambled into the SWAT vehicle. Shavian hung back, watching where Jackson went; when he climbed into the back, she climbed into the front. The whites of her eyes were showing and she was trembling. Every little noise made her jump, and she looked scared, miserable and… well, kind of on the brink.
There were plenty of noises to jump at, too. Horrible sounds, screams and tossing furniture, were coming from inside as more zombies broke through into the station. They echoed throughout the cement garage menacingly.
Roger was having no such issues. His gaze fell upon that SWAT van and his eyes lit up like a groom watching his bride walk down the aisle. It was disturbing how he rubbed his hand over the side as he approached. Elliott could have sworn he heard the Scot whisper, “Who’s a good girl?” to the front bumper. It was even worse when they opened the back. Fipps whistled when he spied all the equipment inside. The volume of guns and ammo inside was staggering and Elliott couldn’t identify more than a few pieces. There were a few things that looked like grenades, and more styles of rifles than you could shake a night stick at (and there were night sticks too, but they looked like they got less use, as one of them was hanging from the rearview mirror like a pugilistic joke). There was body armor so heavy it looked like it could stop a stop an angry rhinoceros strapped to the front of a Sherman tank. There were pistols of various sizes, ammo cans everywhere, explosives and tear gas canisters.
“Must have been preparing to rollout for something,” Fipps said. “This baby is stocked.”
They all looked to Higgins for confirmation. He merely shrugged and pointed at this nametag. “Sergeant,” he said, which Elliott assumed was shorthand for, “I’m not SWAT so I wouldn’t know.”
Shavian, realizing she was the only one actually in the vehicle with Jackson, got back out. She scampered back towards the others and glancing to the side, she frowned.
“This says ‘K-9’ on the side,” Shavian said. “Does that mean there’s a-“
There was a loud echoing bark from inside and beneath one of the benches that lined the inside. A huge German Shepherd came out from under, his lips pulled back from his teeth, a low growl in his throat staring hard at Jackson. The dog was wearing his black SWAT vest that identified him as a police dog. Jackson curled up as far on the bench as he could when the dog barked again. Everyone subconsciously took a step back save for Higgins.
“Sit,” he commanded.
The dog sat.
“Stay.”
The dog laid down with his head on his paws and looked up at them, all eager-to-please brown eyes and wagging tail now that someone had taken charge.
“I hope you never have to tell it to roll over,” Fipps said quietly to Higgins; Higgins smirked.
Jackson gently began to uncurl; the dog, without moving from his place, growled low once again and Jackson froze.
Fearing neither dog nor man, Roger approached slowly, extending his hand. The dog sniffed it and licked his fingers once. Roger smiled and scratched it behind the ears; the dog’s tongue lolled out of his mouth happily.
“Oy, he’s fine, other than being German,” he said. With no further protest from the dog, he climbed into the back of the SWAT truck.
Shavian huffed. “Its name is Pat, it could be a girl,” she said, eyeing the dog warily.
Elliott turned to Higgins. “Can you drive this thing, Sergeant?”
Higgins nodded. “Yup.”
“Jackson, take shotgun,” Elliott instructed. The criminal slowly unfolded himself from the bench and made for the front; he seemed very thankful to not have to go past Pat.
Higgins took the wheel and everyone else climbed in the back. Roger was already seated with two submachine guns, a bolt-action sniper rifle and a handful of flash-bangs in his lap, hugging them like they were his kidnapped children only recently returned. He looked happier than George Michael in a public restroom.
The dog Pat stood and loped over to Shavian, resting her head in the girl’s lap. Hesitantly Shavian reached out to scratch her under the chin; when she didn’t lose a hand she seemed to relax.
They pulled out of the garage and Elliott leaned back against the wall of the truck. “Junie, where did you go?” he asked of no one.