There was barking, a lot of barking. Roger really wished those damn dogs would shut the hell up, they were killing his buzz. He’d just found the mother lode, and he wished he had larger shoulders to carry more weapons! Of the M-16s, he was sure he could get at least five of them on his right side. Maybe he could knot the straps together. M-5 tactical submachine guns… he needed some of those. MP-90 personal defense weapons… “Zombie hordes, your numbers will never outwit technology,” Roger giggled with glee.
He could take a flash-bang crate and add some wheels, and he’d have the most bad ass radio flyer ever. He could use it to run over those ruddy loud mutts. They jumped around the room barking and Spot was hopping up and down, trying to tug at his pant leg. “Hey you mangy beast! I only have the one pair of pants!”
“What is it?” Elliott asked, poking his head out from behind a shelf of flak jackets.
“I have no idea!” Roger tossed his hands up in the air. “They’ve come unhinged.” Spot jumped up and grabbed one of the straps of the many M-16s he’d shouldered and was dragging him to the door. “Boy, don’t think I won’t brain you just because you’re a dog!”
“Roger no!” Aubrey said, moving forward and crouching before Pat, who stopped barking once she was pet. But the German shepherd shook and turned to watch the door with loud whines. “They know something.”
“Spot is going to know what the butt of my rifle feels like!” That is all he got to say before alarms started going off, loud and insistent. He felt the shiver move up his spine. Spot huffed and watched him like he was saying, “I told you so.” “I am not going to be outsmarted by a dog!”
That statement couldn’t be backed up, as a calm but commanding voice came over the intercom. “All personal move to stations. This is a lockdown. All departments check in with full role call. All personnel must be accounted for.” He leaned out the door and looked beyond to see the front desk. The soldier was already on the phone.
Junie carried her cup, and she was still trying to find the best way to fire the grenade launcher, aim with the laser designator, and drink coffee without spilling a drop. Fipps was offering suggestions until he saw the look in Roger’s eyes.
“Paradise is lost!” He looks around the room: all these weapons that will have to be left behind. He didn’t even get the make his wagon. First he lost his battle minivan, then his tactical swat truck. Now he was losing his armory. There really was no justice in this world.
“What is it?” Elliott said.
“What it is my repetitive, friend, is what we’d feared all along! Oregon is lost. There is no tomorrow and we are all going to have to drink dribble for Christmas.” He locked and loaded his M-16.
“Why would we be drinking dribble for Christmas if there’s no tomorrow?” Fipps said confused.
“Do not play your mind games with me!” Roger stormed forward, and the man behinds the counter called out.
“Hey you can’t just take that out of here without a filled request form!”
“What the hell is going on?” Fipps leaned down talking softly to Elliott.
“Roger gets like this…when he’s drunk.” Elliot winced.