by Morgan Rice
I take my eyes off the driver for too long, and it is a stupid mistake.
He pulls out a handgun, and now aims it right at me. He smiles a cruel smile. He has me.
He cocks back the trigger and is about to fire. I brace myself. There is nowhere to go, and I realize I’m dead.
Suddenly, over the driver’s shoulder, I see a crazy jump out of a manhole, aim his RPG right at us, and fire. I watch as the missile sails through the air, coming right for us.
A tremendous explosion rocks our world. The noise is deafening, and I am thrown up into the air, smashing my head, as I feel the tremendous impact of the heat. Then my world turns sideways, as the bus smashes onto its side, skidding.
Because I’m the only one standing, the only one not buckled or chained down, I’m the only one who goes flying across the bus. I go flying through an open window, propelled out of the bus, and as I do, the bus explodes—and the shockwave sends me flying even further. I continue flying through the air and land twenty yards away, face-first in a mound of snow.
Flames rip through the air, just searing my back, and I roll in the snow and luckily put them out. I feel the tremendous heat of the waves of fire behind me.
I turn to see the entire bus is up in flames, on its side, in the snow. The flames must rise twenty feet high. It is an inferno. My heart drops as I realize that no one could possibly survive that. I think of all those innocent little girls, and I feel sick.
I lay there in the snow bank, trying to catch my breath from the smoke. My head spins, and I hurt more than ever. It is an effort to sit up. I turn and set my sights on our Humvee. It sits there in the distance, at the base of the Flatiron building, on its side, like a dead beast, two of its tires blown off.
Logan. I wonder if he is alive.
I claw myself to my feet with my last ounce of strength, and manage to hobble his way. He is a good fifty yards away, and it feels like I am crossing a desert to reach him.
As I get close, another manhole opens up, and a crazy suddenly sprints right for me, holding out a knife. I reach down and raise my gun, take aim, and shoot him in the head. He lands on his back, dead. I reach down and take his knife, and put it in my belt.
I check over my shoulder as I run, and several hundred yards back I spot a group of crazies charging right towards me. There must be at least fifty of them. And all around them I see more manholes open up, more crazies crawl up from the ground, and come running out of the subway stations, scurrying up from the steps. I wonder if they live in the subway tunnels. I wonder if any subways are even still running.
But there is no time to think about that now. I race for the Humvee and as I reach it, I realize it’s destroyed, useless. I climb up on it and open the driver side door. I brace myself as I look in, praying I don’t see Logan dead.
Luckily, I don’t. He is still sitting in the driver’s seat, buckled, unconscious. There’s blood splattered on the windshield and he’s bleeding from his forehead, but at least he’s breathing. He’s alive. Thank God he’s alive.
I hear a distant noise, and turn to see the crazies getting closer. I need to get Logan out of here—and fast.
I reach in, grab his shirt, and begin to yank him up. But he is heavier than I can manage.
“LOGAN!” I scream.
I pull harder, shaking him, afraid the Humvee will blow any minute. Slowly, he begins to wake. He blinks and looks around. He realizes.
“You OK?” I ask.
He nods back. He looked stunned, frightened, but not seriously injured.
“I can’t get out,” he says back in a weak voice. I see him struggling, and look over and see the twisted metal of his seatbelt buckle.
I climb in, reach over him, and jab at the buckle. It’s jammed. I check back over my shoulder and see the crazies are even closer. Fifty yards, and closing in. I use both hands, pushing it for all I have, sweating from the exertion. Come on. Come on!
Suddenly I get it. The buckle snaps and the seatbelt goes flying back. Logan, free, rolls over, banging his head. He then begins to pull himself out.
Just as Logan sits up, his eyes suddenly open wide, and he reaches out with one hand and roughly pushes me aside. He raises a gun with the other and takes aim just past my head and fires. The fire is deafening in my ear, which rings badly from it.
I turn and see he’s just killed a crazy, a few feet away. And the others are only thirty yards behind him.
The crazies are closing in fast. And there’s no way out.
T W E N T Y S I X
