by Morgan Rice
*
We follow the tracks, walking side by side in the snow. Each step is a fresh burst of hell, as my calf, so swollen, is beginning to feel like a separate entity from my body. I hobble, doing my best to keep pace with Logan. Luckily, he is weighed down by the heavy machine gun, and is not walking too fast himself. The snow is still coming down in sheets, the wind whipping it right into our faces. If anything, the storm feels like it’s getting stronger.
Every few feet another crazy pops out from behind a building, charges us. Logan fires at them as they come, mowing them down one at a time. They all hit the snow, staining it read.
“Logan!” I scream.
He turns just in time to see the small group of crazies charging us from behind. He mows them down at the last second. I pray that he has enough ammo to get us wherever it is we need to go. My gun only has a single bullet left, and I feel I need to save it for a desperate moment. I feel so helpless, and wish I had rounds of ammo myself.
As we pass another block, several crazies jump out from behind a building and charge us at once. Logan fires, but doesn’t see the other crazy, charging us from the other side. He’s charging too fast, and Logan won’t make it in time.
I pull out the knife from my belt, take aim, and throw it. It lodges in the crazy’s forehead, and he drops to the snow at Logan’s feet.
We continue down Broadway, gaining speed, moving as fast as we can. As we go, the crowd of crazies seems to thin out. Maybe they see the damage we are doing and become wary of approaching. Or maybe they are just waiting, biding their time. They must know we will run out of ammo, and will eventually have nowhere to go.
We pass 19th street, then 18th, then 17th…and suddenly, the sky opens up. Union Square. The square, once so pristine, is now one big, untended park, filled with trees and waist-high weeds, sprouting up through the snow. The buildings are all in ruin, the glass storefronts shattered and the facades blackened from flames. Several of the buildings have collapsed, are nothing but piles of rubble in the snow.
I look over, checking to see if the Barnes & Noble that I once loved is still standing. I remember the days when I would go there with Bree, when we would go up the escalator and get lost in there for hours. Now, I am horrified to see that there is nothing left. Its old, rusted sign lies face-down on the ground, half covered in snow. There’s not a single book left in the shell of its windows. In fact, there’s no way of knowing what the store even was.
We hurry across the square, sidestepping rubble as we follow the bus tracks. All has become eerily quiet. I don’t like it.
We reach the southern side of the square, and I’m saddened to see the huge statue of George Washington mounted on a horse toppled, lying in pieces on its side, half-covered in snow. There is really nothing left. Anything and everything that was good in the city seems to have been ruined. It is astonishing.
I stop, grabbing onto Logan’s shoulder, trying to catch my breath. My leg hurts so bad, I need to rest it.
Logan stops and is about to say something—when suddenly we both hear a commotion and turn. Across the square, dozens of crazies suddenly rise up from the subway entrance, heading right for us. I can’t believe how many there are: there seems to be a never-ending stream of them.
Worse, Logan takes aim and pulls the trigger, and this time we hear nothing but an empty, horrifying click. His eyes open wide in surprise and fear. Now we have nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. This huge group of crazies, at least a hundred and growing, are closing in. I turn in every direction, looking frantically for any source of escape, any vehicles, any weapons. Any source of shelter. But I find none.
It seems we have reached the end of our luck.
T W E N T Y S E V E N
