As the groaning and splashing loudened, and a couple more zombies scurried onto the roof, adding to our weight, Casey grasped my shoulder. When I looked at him, he merely shrugged.
“What the hell,” he said. “Should probably just gun it.”
Still rolling ever so slowly forward, I glanced back at George. She nodded her approval, her face grim but resolute.
I didn’t consult my sobbing wife, who presently hunched over her own lap, clutching Azazel’s carrier to her chest. George must’ve retrieved it for her, to give Clare some much-needed comfort.
Frankly, I didn’t think she would’ve cared either way. She was too busy mourning the loss of her mother.
So, facing the grimy windshield again, I readied myself for yet another ill-advised stunt. The speed and pressure of our vehicle was bound to weaken the rickety-ass bridge even more, but anything was better than creeping across, certain we weren’t going to survive our latest challenge.
“Everyone, hold on,” I yelled, then hit the gas and hoped for the best.
To say we made it by the skin of our teeth would be a massive understatement.
By the time we neared the other side, the van sliding and vibrating in a bone-quaking manner, I could feel stability slipping from my grasp. From the wrenching sounds and heart-stopping reverberations beneath and behind us, I knew the bridge was literally collapsing under our tires. The boards cracked and split. The water splashed from the weight of wooden slats and undead children. And the din of groans and hisses morphed into a cacophony of grunts and shrieks.
Guess even zombies don’t feel much like drowning.
Just as I prepared myself to join them in the watery grave below, the front tires hit the opposite bank, spun through the gravel, and labored to maintain traction. Unfortunately, the entire bridge—slats, railings, and rivets alike—crumbled under the enormous strain, and before I could get all four of my tires on solid ground again, the back end of the rig dipped dangerously below the bank.
At the last moment of our journey across the hundred-foot span, we’d ended up at such a severe angle that I assumed the vehicle would soon tip backward and tumble into the Homochitto River.
Before I could lose all hope, however, and call it quits forever, a fucking miracle occurred. First, the two zombies still clinging to the roof slipped off the back, lessening our overall weight, and then, with a squealing of tires and a grinding of gears, my trusty girl—yes, I considered all vehicles female—managed to propel us forward and off the disintegrating bridge. Gravel flew as I sped down the road, refusing to hit the brakes until we’d reached something resembling safety.
Glancing in my side-view mirrors, I watched as what remained of the Breaux Bridge plummeted into the river, taking a ton of undead scouts with it.
Finally free of our carnivorous pursuers—at least for the moment—my cohorts and I exhaled a collective sigh of relief. But naturally, I couldn’t stop yet. I needed to put some distance between us and the zombies, just in case it took me longer than anticipated to change the compromised tire. The Fix-a-Flat sealant had saved our asses in the cemetery and given us enough time to flee the undead, but I knew it wouldn’t hold forever. As indicated by the sensor warning on the dash, the punctured tire was still a problem, and now that the undead cacophony was behind us, I detected an unnerving clunking sound in the general direction of the tire.
I had no idea what the pounding, grappling zombies had done to my baby, but I figured it couldn’t be good.
Chapter
19
“If I werenʼt about to shit in my pants right now, Iʼd be fuckinʼ fascinated.” – Jack MacReady, Slither (2006)
Worried about both the low tire pressure as well as the metallic clunking sound coming from the front driver’s-side area, I slowed my speed and stopped about three miles from the collapsed bridge. Any farther and I feared a blowout would propel us into a pine tree.
We were far enough away that I didn’t think any remaining zombie kids could easily spot us. Of course, for all I knew, none of the horde had drowned, as I’d hoped. Besides the fact that I had no inkling of the river’s depth, which might be less than a few feet, I also surmised that, as undead creatures, the zombified scouts and troop leaders likely didn’t require oxygen to survive.
So, perhaps instead of drifting toward the juncture of the Homochitto and Mississippi Rivers, they’d simply piled atop a shallow riverbed and inadvertently created a writhing ramp tall enough for some of their undead cohorts to scramble safely toward the far bank.
Even still, I hadn’t yet seen evidence to suggest zombies could outrun a vehicle at thirty miles per hour. So, unless one of them was the undead equivalent of an Olympic sprinter, I figured they could no longer see, hear, or smell us—meaning they’d probably lose interest in the chase and seek out less-elusive quarry.
I didn’t want to bet my life on that assumption, though, especially when other undead creatures—maybe a few more eighty-year-old hippies, for example—might be wandering in the nearby woods. I only intended to be outside long enough to change the punctured tire—and while it was close to two a.m., I figured my headlights and the ever-present moonlight would enable me to see well enough to tackle the job myself. No need for the glaring, zombie-luring floodlights.
“Casey, you mind helping me with the tire? Two of us could do it quicker.”
“Sure, Joe. Happy to help.”
I nodded toward the Desert Eagle still clutched in his hand. “Bring your gun.”
He grinned. “Absolutely.”
After removing my gloves, pocketing the keys, and grabbing the tire iron, I turned back to George and Clare. “You two can just stay inside and keep a watch on the road. See anything, let us know.”
Clare didn’t respond—or even glance my way—but George nodded.
“You got it, Joe.” Her brow furrowed. “But be careful. Both of you.”
Casey rose from his seat. “Will do, Mom.”
With my tire iron at the ready, I peered into the cool, eerily silent night, paused to make sure the coast was clear, and then hopped to the ground. Once Casey had done the same, I secured the door, and the two of us headed to the rear of the van, where I’d stowed the two spares beneath the undercarriage.
I only hoped I’d secured them well enough. After all the shit I’d put my rig through, they could’ve easily fallen off somewhere in Louisiana.
Luckily, the two spares were precisely where I’d left them.
“Oh, thank god,” I whispered.
Casey, who must’ve misread my tone, jerked his gun upward and gazed at the woods flanking the road. “What?”
“Nothing. Let’s get this over with.”
With his assistance, I managed to detach one of the two tires. Unfortunately, though, while kneeling on the ground, we both got a good look at (and whiff of) the unsightly condition of my step van. Between the taillights and moonlight, it was evident how banged up and dirty she’d become in just a couple days.
As I maneuvered my aching body back to an upright position, I shrugged sheepishly. “She’s pretty nasty, I know, but somehow, I don’t think I’ll find anyone to detail her for me.”
“I’ll help you clean her off.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You know, when we’re not running for our lives.”
I smirked. “When might that be, you think?”
He shrugged. “Even zompocs have to calm down sometime, right?”
A chuckle escaped my chapped lips. “Yeah, that’s how it always works in the movies.” I hefted the spare and lugged it toward the front of the van. “But thanks,” I added.
He trailed me back to the busted tire, keeping an eye on our surroundings. “For what?”
“Oh, I don’t know… everything, I guess.”
Before Casey could respond, I set down the replacement tire, reached for the nearest jack, and made a horrible discovery. Based on the kid’s gasp, he’d obviously seen it, too.
“Well,” I muttered, “now we know
what was clunking like that.”
Attached to the tire was the can of Fix-a-Flat. Attached to that was a severed hand—Jill’s right hand, to be precise, and only her hand, still gripping the can as if her life, or at least her daughter’s, had depended on it. Which it had.
Apparently, the hungry zombies had gnawed through her wrist, bones and all.
Once again, I found myself impressed by her fortitude and determination. She’d refused to release the can, even as she succumbed to an unimaginably painful death.
“That’s messed up,” Casey whispered.
Considering all the horrible shit we’d experienced since the previous morning, I almost laughed at his comment. A dismembered hand seemed far tamer than some of the other stuff we’d never be able to unsee… but having known the victim definitely made it worse.
Yep, the kid’s right. That’s all kinds of messed up.
Then, I spotted Jill’s favorite ring glinting in the moonlight.
A simple gold band with a tasteful cluster of tiny diamonds and garnets, the ring had rarely left her finger. My mother-in-law had never been fond of flashy or ultra-expensive jewelry, but I knew she’d possessed a few valuable rings and necklaces. I also knew how much this particular piece had meant to her and that she’d intended to leave it—along with the rest of her modest treasures—to her only child.
I wasn’t sure how I’d explain having the ring in my possession to Clare, but I certainly couldn’t leave it on her dead mother’s finger.
“Yeah, let’s not tell the women-folk about this,” I replied, then unhooked the can and carried both it and the stiff, clammy hand toward the woods.
Perhaps sensing my conflicted feelings and assuming I needed a moment alone, Casey hung back by the van, which gave me a moment to pry Jill’s fingers from the can, carefully remove the ring, and gently set the hand between two pine trees. I didn’t have time to bury what remained of my mother-in-law, but I didn’t want to toss it unceremoniously into the forest either.
After slipping the ring inside my jeans pocket, I rejoined Casey, and together, we loosened the lug nuts and jacked up the rig. Kneeling on the gravel road, we were about to remove the flattened tire when Casey unleashed a yelp and crab-walked backwards.
“Holy shit,” he spluttered. “I think one of ’em’s under there! Just tried to grab me!”
“I’m so sick of these motherfucking kids in this motherfucking forest,” I growled, hopping to my feet.
Not that I knew for certain who or what had hitched a ride on my zombie-mobile. But it’d be just my luck to snag a tagalong during the whole cemetery-to-bridge fiasco.
I retreated a few steps, bent my knees, and peered carefully beneath the vehicle. Not sure what I expected to see, but I assumed it would be as awful as everything else we’d seen and been forced to endure.
The zombie apocalypse was in full swing, of course, and I had no doubt that we would witness a slew of disgusting sights before humanity finally lost the war against the undead. But in the past few days, I’d already encountered an unfair share of gruesome spectacles. Hell, even the past few hours had provided enough fodder to inspire a lifetime’s worth of nightmares…
Hundreds of children turned into zombies? Check.
All manner of nasty, flesh-ravaged, limb-missing wounds? Check.
A shredded, half-eaten ranger dragging himself across the floor? Check.
Brain matter and black zombie goo squirting on my shoes? Check.
My mother-in-law’s severed hand? Double check.
And now for something completely different.
“Jesus, she doesn’t have any legs,” Casey informed me—as if I hadn’t noticed her legless body hanging beneath my van. “Or even a waist!”
The kid sounded both freaked out and fascinated. A whiz with computers, he’d undoubtedly played a ton of video games during his young life, including plenty of fucked-up, post-apoc ones with gory, hyperreal graphics. Even after everything he’d experienced over the past few days—including having to shoot his own undead father—I’d still caught him gazing at the walking pus-sacks as if they were mere figments of someone’s cracked imagination, like cinematic special effects or game graphics, not actual, zombified carnivores ready to murder every organism on Earth.
Casey had certainly taken the whole zompoc situation seriously so far and proven to be a useful member of the group, even saving my dumb ass on several occasions. But from his wide-eyed expression, I suspected a part of him had remained in his fantasy worlds of old. And a part of me envied him for that—because the sight of a legless Brownie, who couldn’t have been more than nine years old when she turned, made me want to puke.
“Well, she gets the merit badge for the most fucked up,” I muttered.
“Must’ve hitched a ride back on the bridge,” Casey surmised, gazing around the area, as if searching for any other stowaways.
“Guess we’re just lucky she didn’t try to attack us back there…” I gestured toward the rear of the van. “When we were trying to free the spare.” Brandishing the tire iron, I added, “Better take care of her before we finish the job.”
Nodding uncertainly, Casey raised his gun. As I’d suggested on the bridge, shooting kids—even undead ones—was infinitely less traumatic from a distance.
“Lemme try to get her first,” I said, letting him off the hook. “A gunshot might attract more unwanted visitors.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, lowering the pistol. “Could make it tougher to change the tire.”
With Casey behind me, I stepped forward, gripped my weapon with both hands, and steeled myself to brain the girl, but before I reached her, the situation took a dangerous turn. One second, Casey and I were both fixated on the upper half of the zombified scout, and the next second, she was gone.
Even without her legs and the lower half of her torso, she’d managed to drop to the ground and scurry to the other side of the rig.
“Whoa,” Casey whispered. “Where’d she go?”
Instinctively, we both stepped backward and waited for her to reappear. In that unnerving lull, I could’ve sworn I heard a girlish giggle. We both looked at each other and shook our heads in disbelief.
“There she is,” Casey shouted, aiming his gun toward the back of the vehicle.
I pivoted in time to see her ghastly face peering around the rear driver’s-side tire, but before I could take more than two steps in her direction, she vanished again.
“Dammit,” I muttered. “What’s up with this bloody kid? Was she a gymnast in her former life?”
Casey and I stepped apart and searched furiously around the area, hoping to surprise her before she could surprise us.
“Think you might’ve been right,” the kid said, retreating toward me.
I followed his gaze to the front of the van, where the former Brownie was walking on her hands, her head awkwardly cocked so she could keep an eye on us. Half an upside-down zombie girl getting ready to charge us.
“OK,” I said, “that might be the most fucked-up thing I’ve seen yet.”
Just then, the driver’s-side door slid open, and George stepped down, armed with her rifle. “What the hell are you two doing? You’ve been out here so long, I started to get worried.”
“Mom,” Casey yelled, “get your ass back inside!”
“Don’t you snap at me, mister. I’m your mother. I have a right to be—”
But George didn’t get a chance to complete her irritated thought. The handstanding zombie girl had startled her by hastening toward her and clambering up her back.
Casey immediately shifted the muzzle of his Desert Eagle, but with George still facing us, he couldn’t pull the trigger without possibly hitting his mom.
Meanwhile, it took a few seconds for the danger to register on George’s face. As soon as it did, though, she let out a shriek, dropped her rifle, and flailed around, vainly trying to toss the creepy little monster off her back. But the one-track-minded girl had too much strength and determinat
ion—even for someone as tough as Casey’s mother.
I dashed forward, closing the gap as the zombified Brownie reached the tempting, uncovered nape of George’s neck.
“Duck!” I screamed.
Luckily, George complied, and I swung the tire iron as hard as possible. My aim was true, and I managed to smash the kid squarely in the head and launch her half-a-body a good twenty feet in front of the van—without nailing Casey’s mom in the process.
George immediately straightened, glanced at the twitching torso on the road, and then shifted her gaze toward mine. “What the hell was that?”
I didn’t have time to answer her. The extra-petite zombie had already perked up, hopped onto her hands, and charged back toward us. Apparently, I’d only whacked her across the face. Her lower jaw was now missing—which, yes, made her look even more gruesome—but clearly, her flesh-seeking brain was still intact, and regrettably, she was hurrying toward us with preternatural speed.
I readied my tire iron for a better-aimed conking when Casey stepped between me and his mother, aimed his trusty handgun, and, with the girl only six feet away, shot her point-blank in the forehead. Her gymnastic days had officially come to an end.
Turning to George, Casey said, “Sorry I yelled at you, Mom.”
She scrutinized the decrepit corpse, shook her head with both sadness and disbelief, and retrieved her rifle. “No worries. I would’ve yelled at you, too.” Then, she looked at me. “Thanks for the save.”
“Anytime.” I glanced at Casey. “But your son’s the real hero.”
“Sorry about the noise,” he said, returning my gaze. “I just had to—”
“I totally get it.” Rustling leaves drew my attention to the woods. “But, hey, why don’t we get the new tire on as quick as possible—and get the hell outta here?”
So, while Casey and George guarded my back, I switched the tires, secured the new one, and stowed the busted one in the back. In case I could repair it down the road.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 61
