by Rob Horner
Jasmine twisted and swung, sinking a right fist into her friend’s face. There wasn’t a lot of power in the punch—not coming from a seated position in the front seat of a Honda Element—but desperation and a growing certainty that their lives were absolutely in danger lent her enough strength to knock the dirty blond back. Desiree’s arm slipped from around Robbie’s neck. Her hand scrabbled and caught the upper edge of his seat near where the seatbelt came down.
Freed, Robbie finished what he’d started to do, jerking his foot off the brake and slamming it on the accelerator. The Honda shot back like it had a turbo charger farting fire in front of it. Desiree lurched forward, smashing her face into the back of Robbie’s seat. Her hand lost its grip and slipped forward, shooting out into the space beside his head. He yelled as it passed but his eyes were on the road in front of them and the throng of people receding as they moved backward faster and faster.
Then something happened.
Unlike most SUVs, the Honda Element didn’t have a bench seat behind the driver and shotgun positions. Instead, there were two foldable “buckets,” one behind the driver and one behind the passenger, allowing more space for storage. Because they were camping for three, the seat behind Jasmine was folded down, creating a lot of empty space beside Desiree.
The Element bounced over something, back to front, jostling everyone and throwing Desiree, the only person not seat belted in place, off her perch and into the no man’s land between seats. Camp chairs and tents and the propane grill clattered as she landed on the pile. The Element skewed to one side though Robbie wasn’t turning the wheel.
There was a pop, loud as a gunshot, from beneath the vehicle, and Jasmine let out another scream. The street they’d been driving on turned sideways to the front of the car. The back end humped up again and the front followed. Then came a jarring crash as the Element slammed into the side of a building, throwing Jasmine and Robbie so deeply into their seats that if there were any loose springs neither one of them would be an anal virgin any longer. Desiree tumbled/rolled over the piled camping equipment, coming to rest against the stove-in back hatch.
“Come on,” Robbie hissed, grabbing the gear shift in a trembling hand, jack-pulling it back into drive. The engine revved when he pressed the gas, but there the vehicle didn’t move. The tires spun, but they had no purchase.
Desiree groaned in the back.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Jasmine hissed.
Further away but not forgotten, the shuffling horde of people continued toward them. They picked up speed.
Oh God, they were running!
* * * * *
Desiree rustled and crashed in the back of the Element, trying to orient herself, maybe trying to attack them again.
Them, hell. She tried to kill him!
“Rob—”
He pushed the accelerator to the floor. The engine whined. The wheels spun. The front-wheel drive vehicle was jackhammered backward into a brick wall and must have climbed enough or hit hard enough for the front wheels to be off the ground.
Desiree moaned from behind them.
“We gotta go!” Jazz said, but she had both hands planted on the dashboard and her eyes fixated on the coming crowd like she didn’t dare look away.
Robbie pushed on his door but couldn’t open it. There didn’t appear to be anything outside the car blocking the door.
What the hell?
“Jazz, get out!” he said and tried again.
The door wasn’t locked. The little metal tab stuck up like a tiny hard pecker. If it was locked, the poor bastard would only be at half-staff.
Jazz hadn’t moved. She stared out the windshield, breath coming in and out in little gasps.
More rustling from behind signaled Jasmine’s crazy friend maybe orienting herself, maybe getting ready to grab his head again.
Robbie put both hands on the doorknob handle and shoved into the door with his shoulder.
The door inched open with a terrible racket of screeching and scraping, then stopped with a horrifying finality. He hit it again and bounced off without the door budging even an inch.
“Jazz!”
And now his voice showed fear.
The people outside were crossing the street, barely thirty feet away and still closing fast.
Rather than left, Robbie rammed his shoulder right, dislodging Jasmine from her white-knuckle perch on the edge of her seat.
“Open your door for God’s sake!” he shouted, already moving again.
Some sixth sense made him duck as he shoved right, and Desiree’s swinging hand grazed his back rather than the side of his face.
She moaned, groaned and moved further forward. Turning, he wondered how he’d ever thought it might be fun to have a three-way with her. Her eyes were still big and liquid, but they had a hardness to them which screamed psycho—Crazy Eyes, his mom used to call them. There was something black like a twisting vine running from under the front of her shirt, climbing the pale skin between her impressive breasts—no dreams of motorboating her now—and up her neck, like a vile alien tentacle copping a feel in one of those crazy Japanese pornos. Her lips were peeled back and her teeth showed; her mouth opened and closed spasmodically, each time coming together with an audible clack. Instead of swinging again she lunged forward with her mouth and clack tried to get herself a hunk of his shoulder.
He shoved again and felt Jasmine trying to help. This time he went flat out across her lap, arms reaching, balls squeezing up into his stomach in anticipation of another bite, another attempt to tear off a chunk, and this time it would be from his side, but instead of teeth he felt the galvanizing slap of her hand across his backside, for all the world like he was a bad boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar and his punishment was to be put over Jasmine’s knee and spanked by this other woman.
His hands found the door handle and he pushed and—wonder of wonders—the door flew open.
Even as he pulled his arms back, he fumbled for her seatbelt release, catching it on the first try and jamming his thumb on the button. His actions nearly cost him an eye as the metal buckle flew up and back across Jasmine’s body, retreating into the housing at her shoulder level.
Desiree’s hand retreated, her nails trying and failing to claw a hold in his ass crack. Thank God for denim.
Robbie withdrew his arms and shoved, spilling Jasmine out the passenger side of the Honda with an indignant squawk.
Not waiting to see if she was okay, not waiting for anything, Robbie pushed off the driver’s door, diving out the passenger side and ducking/tucking/crawling away from the stuck vehicle.
They were a foot off the ground—no wonder the tires couldn’t catch anything—but not so high that he was in any danger. Squirming, he got his feet under him. He turned, risking a glance at the street. The crowd was close, no more than a dozen feet away and coming fast.
He reached down, grabbed Jasmine’s hand, turned, and ran alongside the brick building, perpendicular to the rushing crowd, pulling the tall woman along for the first few steps. The crowd moaned and groaned. Feet slapped as they broke into a faster run, different sounds marking shoes, boots, and bare skin.
After three steps he didn’t have to pull anymore.
After five, Jasmine was ahead and pulling him.
Heart pounding, the two sprinted across one street and then another, took a turn onto a side street then an immediate left onto one paralleling the main drag, now running along behind a row of single-story business, the heart and soul of Main Street, USA.
Crossing the next street brought them into a residential area—neat,50’s-era houses identical in design if different in exterior color, all separated by white picket fences which perfectly delineated property lines from porch to curb.
Behind them, the moaning, groaning crowd followed.
* * * * *
The houses weren’t a hiding place, Robbie decided after passing two or three, each with doors standing open, windows broken, and stains l
ike red paint often visible along frames, vinyl siding, and concrete sidewalk. Whatever madness possessed the people of this corner of Suburbia to loot the department stores and pharmacies wasn’t limited to commercial buildings. Then again, no madness he’d ever seen would prompt someone to run out stark naked and tits-a-swinging with bloody hair and a broken hip.
And all those others. What the fuck did these people smoke last night?
“Robbie…those—”
“I know,” he huffed, risking a glance over his shoulder.
The crowd from the street was still back there, running hard but limited by something, maybe their injuries, so they were making good speed but steadily losing ground.
Except Desiree.
“Shit, she’s right behind us,” he said.
“Who?”
“Your girl.”
Jasmine tossed her head for a look.
They were running out of side street. The residential block ended a couple of houses ahead where the road bumped into a “T.” Considering the way they’d been pointing when the Honda decided to make its own garage door, they should still be heading north. A left at the street ahead would bring them back to the main road at the dark traffic light, right where the group had been congregating when they approached. He had no idea where a right would take them, presumably deeper into the neighborhood.
But if everyone in the street had chased their car and were now behind them, the main road might be open.
They couldn’t double back to their car; he didn’t think they’d have enough time to get the thing out of the wall and had no clue how to accomplish that anyway. And aside from their camping gear, there wasn’t anything in the vehicle they needed.
“Left,” he panted. “Turn left up there.”
Jazz nodded and let go of his hand.
Their arms pumped and their legs churned, and Robbie had never been so glad of his hours in the gym and the time spent jogging around the park. He’d never felt so grateful that he’d ignored all his friends and refused to start smoking in high school.
A glance over his shoulder showed Desiree closing the distance between them.
Damn, the chick was fast.
They skirted the corner at the end of the street, shoes picking up morning dew from the yard as they transitioned from one road to the next.
The rapid slap of feet on concrete, out of sync with his own, was all the warning Robbie had before Desiree pounced, launching herself from behind, arms out to grab his body. Robbie staggered under the sudden weight but managed to keep his feet. Jasmine screamed as the crazed woman got a hand in his hair, fingers digging in and pulling so hard tears sprang to life in his eyes. His feet kept moving. That, and his greater height, were the only things preventing the insane woman from digging her teeth into the back of his neck.
He yelled, reaching up and holding Desiree’s wrists, trying to keep his hair and scalp attached, even as her feet left the ground. Jasmine turned, growling something he couldn’t hear over the rush of blood in his ears. She swung, connecting somewhere on Desiree’s upper body; he felt the jolt through her grip on his hair. Once. Twice. A third time, solid thunks like a baseball bat striking a light pole.
Jasmine was screaming now, punctuating each swing with a single word. “Get! Off! Him! You! Bitch!”
Desiree’s feet churned, trying for purchase but only managing to buffet Robbie’s calves. With his hands holding hers, saving his scalp, she was like a rabid pinata at a birthday party, swinging from on high, a defenseless target.
Finally, her grip loosened, and Robbie released her wrists, stepping forward and turning quickly.
A good thing, too, because the woman shot right back to her feet, teeth bared in a rictus snarl, madness shining in her eyes, and hands out like a cat’s claws, ready to press her attack.
Behind her came the rest of the crazies from the road, staggered out over the distance, the younger and less…damaged…leading the pack. Naked lady was nowhere to be seen.
Robbie was hesitant to strike the nasty woman in the rest area. Just the way he was raised. But his reluctance faded in the face of his own pain. When Desiree lunged again, his fist met her face, smashing her nose. The hit jolted her, but she didn’t fall. Jasmine stepped in from the side, her whole body committed to a wild, wide-arm swing. Bone cracked where her fist met Desiree’s right cheek and she yelled. Robbie wasn’t sure if the crack came from the brunette’s face or Jasmine’s hand, and it didn’t matter. Desiree dropped like a stone.
Jasmine immediately drew back a foot and racked it against the still form.
Without waiting to see if the blond would get up again—with no time to wait—Robbie grabbed Jasmine before she could launch another strike, yanking, pulling, turning her around. Together they raced for the main road.
* * * * *
Flatwoods Road at 37th street looked the same as it had a few minutes prior, except the milling group of crazy people was gone.
Not gone, Jasmine thought, just behind us a bit.
Her right foot ached and her hand pounded like one of those old cartoons where the stupid cat smacked his own thumb with a mallet and it swelled to the size of a water balloon, but she was okay. She could still run. Robbie seemed to be okay, too, and that was even better.
Whatever the hell was going on, that crazy cunt Desiree better stop messing with her man.
She’s seen the way the dumb bitch mooned over Robbie during the camping trip, always making little comments about how nice of a man he seemed, how good he looked in his hiking shorts and hiking boots, how he must be a real man because he could start a fire or catch dinner in the river. Jasmine had let it go, not because she trusted Desiree but because she trusted Robbie. He was a perfect gentleman to Desiree during the trip, and a perfect lover to her in their tent at night.
But now she wondered.
If the crazy lady in the bathroom bit Desiree and it made her crazy, was that desire why the girl kept going after Robbie?
What the fuck am I thinking?
How did getting bit make someone crazy?
Well, there was rabies, but that took weeks and weeks, not minutes to an hour.
Just like the last street, 37th ended in a T at Flatwoods Road, leaving them with two options. Turn left and head back to the fucked up sporting goods store and pharmacy and their Dead-In-The-Water Honda Element, or turn right and head into God-know-where. As they approached the intersection, Jasmine craned her head left and right, looking for a clue. Though the street ended, there were driveways coming off the far side of Flatwoods. One for a church, then a perfunctory cemetery and a few houses—though who the hell would want to live next to a boneyard? The road curved around to the right, so she couldn’t see much more of the road. It looked like there might be more industry down that way, leading toward a School Zone, which might mean a McDonald’s and a Pep Boys, though probably not much else. All the big stores would be back toward the city.
Robbie pulled to the left.
“They could be waiting,” she said.
“They might, but there’s a Dick’s,” he replied.
They saw no one. Apparently every crazy, naked, bloodsucker was stuck in the back street, working their way toward one end or the other. Their Honda stuck out the side of a Roses Department Store, ass end hung up on the sill of a display window. She didn’t remember any glass breaking; so they’d just backed into an area where the window was already shattered.
Robbie tried to angle past the small SUV and into the neighboring sporting goods store, but Jasmine let go his hand, aiming for the car.
“Jazz, we don’t have time!”
“Just a sec,” she whispered back, darting around the front of the vehicle.
The passenger door hung open and there, on the floor, was her cell phone. Snagging it, she retreated around the front of the vehicle just in time to see the crowd of people pouring around the intersection.
“Back where we started,” he said. “Can we go now?”
Jasmine smiled grimly. “Lead the way.”
Glass crunched underfoot as the pair raced for the busted-out windows of the sports equipment store.
“Careful,” Robbie said, offering her a hand so she could climb through the display. He hoisted himself up after her, ignoring his own advice, and then they were in the darkened building, weaving through displays of Under Armor sweat-wicking, skin tight shirts and Nike sweat pants, past the shoe department with its Sketchers and Puma and New Balance in all different colors, sizes, and styles.
“I always wanted some of those,” he said idly as they blew through the golf display.
Jasmine chuckled, glad to see his humor hadn’t suffered.
They moved to the back of the store and found…
Archery supplies, but no rifles.
Fishing supplies, but no pistols.
A display of canoes and kayaks, but no ammunition, no holsters, no sights, no stocks.
“Where the fuck are the guns?” Robbie yelled.
“We stopped selling them about a year ago,” a man answered, ducking his head out of a door behind the counter. “Now hurry up and get back here before those zombies come back.”
Chapter 25
His name was Bert Chatman and he was the manager of the West Tuscaloosa Dick’s Sporting Goods.
He was also the only man in greater Alabama who believed a zombie apocalypse was coming and started making plans to survive.
“That was, oh, about eight years ago, give or take. Back when the shows started coming on TV. All of a sudden, there was zombies everywhere. Z-this and Walking Dead that. Well, it don’t take a genius to see that those shows was setting us up, so to speak. Testing the water, like. Putting the idea out there so people would be ready when the shit hit the fan.”
“Of course,” he added with a sniff, “with the proof starin’ ‘em in the face and tryin’ to scratch their eyes out, lot more people believing now. Hard to deny you crapped your pants when there’s a brown stain on the back, if you take my meanin’.”
Bert was a big man who carried his weight low, with round shoulders and a hunter-green store Polo shirt bulging around the middle. He had a bald dome of a head surrounded by a thick fringe of brown, like a friar’s tonsure, and bristling sideburns melting into a thick beard, brown like his head, but with a liberal smattering of white growing in its midst.
