The roar reached him before the impact but it didn’t give him a chance to avoid the attack. He was able to avoid resistance so the momentum carried him away, stumbling, from the infected man.
Woman.
He turned around and backed away as she approached. If she’d been the driver of the truck, she was about as stereotypical a female truck driver as they came. He could see through years of grime the remnants of a flannel shirt of some kind. It was stained, along with what was left of her jeans, with blood, some of it fresh. She roared again and started toward him and he realized he’d stupidly left his weapons in the car. There was no easy way to get them because the truck driver stood between Hal and the weapons. She was long dead if dead was an accurate description. Portions of her skull were visible along the side of her face and the sickly white of her jawbone stood in horrible contrast to the strangely intact gums and teeth and tongue.
She was beyond hope. He could see that. Already her eyes glinted with excitement, instinct for violence. He scanned for something, anything. Realistically, his only hope was evasion but it wasn’t a false hope. Though the sick didn’t really lose any of their physical speed, they lost a great deal of their dexterity, their reaction time. He dove to the ground and rolled beneath the truck. His aim was off and he felt a sickening and sharp burst of agony as something caught on his shirt and dug into his flesh before tearing away as he rolled over. He gained some time, though. The driver let out a gurgling scream and he kept rolling until he’d rolled through to the other side. He was on his feet and moving before the creature decided how to follow. He paused for only a moment before heading toward the rear of the trailer. Nine times out of ten, someone as far gone as the lady would eventually decide to run in the shortest route but the idea of crawling under the truck would be difficult for her to manage. Around the trailer would get him to the weapons while she probably still waited.
So, when she slammed into him, sending him sprawling over the sand abutment and rolling into the overgrown drainage ditch, it took a moment for him to understand what the hell had happened. He felt slickness on his face and retched as he lifted himself up and tried to understand the situation. He’d rolled into gore, rotting intestines or rotting meat or rotting something. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Coyote. There was a partially eaten coyote carcass, probably the truck driver’s dinner for the last few days. He retched again and then felt her again, this time wrapping her arms around him as she attacked. He rolled, primarily to get her beneath him rather than above, and then he lifted his upper body up and slammed it backward.
Of course, it was no use.
There was no pain. Or, at least, the pain was dulled so damned dramatically that there was no pain enough to shock a zombie—goddam, he hated that word—into letting go. He tried again, this time grabbing her wrists through the flannel and pulling them apart. That separated them, and he leapt up and stumbled a few feet away until he could jump over the abutment and back to the truck. He wanted to run for the car but at this point he wasn’t certain he’d make it, certainly wouldn’t be able to get to the weapons easily. What he needed, more than anything else, was a moment to breathe.
The cab.
He rushed to the passenger door and yanked. It was locked. He rushed around and yanked on the driver’s door. It opened but as he tried to step up, he felt her arms on him again. He slammed outward with the door but it only made her slide down so she gripped his legs and he ended up holding onto the seat belt to keep from falling. These situations always left him with a curious sense of conflict. The woman was clearly beyond hope, beyond any help he could offer her. Still, he couldn’t bear to think of her as anything other than a woman, as a woman who once had hopes and dreams and perhaps still did. How could he? If she were beyond hope than wasn’t it just inevitable that Lori and Kaylee would be beyond hope soon?
Kaylee. Lori. Ultimately, the need to protect them overcame his hesitance and though he winced as he did it, he lifted his free leg and brought it down hard on the truck driver’s shoulder. The woman grunted but didn’t stop.
Woman.
Creature.
Thing.
He tried desperately to consider her a thing as he pulled his foot back and brought it down again, this time on her face. He got a gurgled scream from her but her hands still didn’t relax their grip on his leg. If anything, her grip tightened and Hal felt something visceral and realized it was real fear. It was urgent fear, fear he’d lost some time ago in the omnipresent state of continual, frightened despair. He cursed himself for leaving his weapons in the car, cursed himself for an oversight that would surely kill him and more importantly leave Lori and Kaylee unprotected. He kicked her again but again it did nothing to loosen her grip. In fact, she screamed and yanked hard and he found his own grip failing and slid down the seat belt strap so that she was able to throw her arms around his waist.
Then he saw it. He cursed himself because he should have known it would be there. Didn’t most truckers keep them? The butt was about a foot away but it was risky because to reach it he’d have to let go of the strap with at least one of his hands. Hell, the damned thing might not be loaded and all he’d have would be a club. He had to risk it, though, and he shouted to give himself some energy as he let go with one hand and grabbed for the gun. His hand closed around the stock beneath the trigger, and the truck driver finally won the tug of war so both of them fell backward. The gun came out with them but he couldn’t keep a grip on it, and it tumbled to the left while he and the woman tumbled to the right. She lost her grip momentarily with the impact of the fall and he scrambled away but she grabbed his leg again before he could get clear.
The gun—he could see it was a shotgun now—was about three feet past his outstretched hands, and he clawed at the ground to try to close the distance. He made about six or seven inches of progress but she yanked him backward so he lost it again. He rolled over and a rock on the shoulder of the road bit into the small of his back so that he screamed as sharp pain shot through him. It angered him, and fueled by the anger he kicked out again with his free leg, catching the driver on her chin, a solid kick that sent her sprawling back. Of course, she leapt for him again but he’d gained the time he needed. When she landed on him, the shotgun was pointed at her. It ended up wedged against her midsection and he pulled the trigger.
And not a damned thing happened.
For a moment, nauseous fear gripped him. The damned thing hadn’t been loaded after all but as the butt dug into his shoulder, he realized he’d never pumped the action, so he screamed again and grabbed the pump with his free hand, pulling it down and hearing a satisfying click. He still didn’t know if it was loaded but he pulled the trigger. The explosion left him hurt and deaf. In the struggle, the butt of the gun had moved to his chest, and he felt like something broke from the recoil. The driver, though, flew back and landed on the ground, her midsection more like shredded rags of flesh than a body. She was screaming, Hal thought, but the sound of the gun still rang in his ears so he couldn’t be sure. He got to his knees, and the movement sent shards of hurt from his chest. Bruised ribs maybe but broken ribs probably. He still had to deal with her.
Head shots always killed them. They weren’t the only things that killed them but they always did the trick. He could feel a tear running down his cheek as he lifted the gun to his shoulder again. He aimed for her head and hesitated because he knew the recoil would hurt like hell. Finally, the sight of her screaming face was too much and he whispered, “I’m sorry,” and pulled the trigger. The sound was distant but the pain in his side was profound, and he saw the woman’s face disappear in red mist as the edges of his vision blackened. He felt the ground beneath him leap up and then felt hands on his cheeks.
He opened his eyes.
It was night. He’d been out for at least three hours. Lori held his face in her hands.
***
He watched the fire as it flickered, sending interesting shadows against the truck. It took a great de
al of time but he learned from Lori he’d been out for an entire day. She’d managed, with Kaylee’s help, to drive the car behind the truck. That, in and of itself was remarkable. She’d grazed the driver’s side against the trailer so there was a wide gash but appearance didn’t really matter anymore. She’d left him on the ground, afraid to move him, but she and Kaylee had scavenged the truck. She’d put everything she thought might be of use in a little pile. There was a first aid kit, flares, and some blankets. There were also cigarettes, and Hal smoked one now. None of the food in the trailer was good except for a case of teriyaki beef jerky. A few packages of it was boiling along with a few onions and some canned corn over the fire.
There was something both frightening and reassuring about her actions. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t have been able to keep things together if he’d been dead. On the other hand, he wasn’t entirely certain she knew he’d wake up. Still, she hadn’t reacted with blind instinct. She’d reacted, against all odds, as the Lori before all the shit hit the fan. She’d reacted, and she and Kaylee weren’t wandering the desert or declining. Kaylee slept in the car at the moment but she sat beside him, and Hal looked at her in wonder. “You did good, Lori,” he said.
“Well,” she said. It took a long time to get out, and he looked at her expectantly. She stared back at him and said, “Well.” He waited. “Not.” He still watched her, trying his best not to become impatient. “Good,” she said.
It took him a moment, and then tears welled up in his eyes. Well, not good. She’d corrected his grammar. She’d corrected his grammar! He reached for her and pulled her close to him, and before he could think about it, his mouth found hers.
Six months, really closer to three quarters of a year. He felt like weeping the entire time but he didn’t, and she hadn’t lost any of her skill even if she’d lost some of the speed. It was slow, sweet. When he finished, he lay atop her and felt the warmth of the fire against his sides and kissed her and finally wept. She slid her hand slowly up his back until she found his head and she stroked his hair softly and kissed his neck and his cheek.
They woke in the morning and his chest felt better but Lori insisted, in her way, that they address the injury so he used a roll of cloth sports bandages to wrap his ribs tightly. When he was finished, they woke Kaylee and ate jerky stew for breakfast. Kaylee played quietly at the side of the truck as they packed the car, and when he closed the trunk, Lori said, “Thought…you…didn’t…want…me…anymore.” He felt tears threatening and pulled her to him.
“More than I ever have, Lori.” He fought back the tears. “More than I ever have.”
He held her until she let go of him and called to Kaylee. He found it interesting that the two of them had no trouble finishing each others sentences or more commonly simply reacting to what the other was attempting to say. Kaylee made her way over, and for a moment Hal didn’t recognize the feeling he felt. It was hope.
He secured them in the car and turned the engine over. He backed up and saw a car in the distance behind them. “Get down,” he said. They obeyed but he felt a horrible sense of foreboding anyway, and he realized the car was slowing down. “In the glove box, Lori,” he whispered. He kept his eyes focused on the rear view mirror and waited until Lori pressed the gun into his hand. The car was slowing, only about twenty yards back. The headlights filled the car and he lifted up his hand to make sure they could see the gun in it.
The car slowed and then pulled up beside them. The man in the driver’s seat appeared to be alone. He was Hal’s age. Maybe a little older. A lot more sedentary. Probably an accountant or a middle manager before the shit hit the fan. He too held a gun. Hal pressed the button on his door to bring the window down and the man did the same with his passenger window. “I don’t want any trouble,” the man said. Hal didn’t reply and the man said, “Any food left in the truck.”
Something about the man’s eyes seemed vaguely familiar. It wasn’t just the fear because the fear was on everyone’s face these days. There was furtiveness. He hid something. Hal brought his gun down but only so he could chamber a round discretely as he said, “No. Well, yes. There was only some beef jerky, a case of it. We only kept about half, and the rest is around the side of the trailer.”
The man nodded. “Thank you. I’ll drive around. I don’t want trouble.”
We. God damn it. We only kept about half. That was an inexcusable mistake but the man didn’t seem to notice. He nodded again and moved his car forward and Hal sighed in relief but then saw movement in the man’s backseat and lifted his gun. He thought for a moment he caught a glint of metal but then dropped his gun. It wasn’t silvery or even reflected tail lights. The glint was pink. The infected ducked back down but the glint was pink. Hal realized he was shaking as the man pulled in front of the truck and turned his engine off.
Hal turned his engine off, too, took a deep breath and stepped from the car.
“Please!” the man said. “I don’t want any trouble.” Hal looked at the man. He stood with his gun pointed toward them but his stance was all wrong. He didn’t know how to use it.
Hal lifted his hands up and said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t want trouble either. I just want to show you something. Please, put down the gun and come over here.”
“You want me to get rid of my gun.”
“No,” Hal said. “You can bring it. Just stop pointing at me.” The man seemed like he was lost for a moment and Hal added, “We can help each other, maybe. Please. I won’t hurt you and I won’t hurt whoever’s in the car.” It was the wrong thing to say, and the man’s eyes grew wide. He shook more and Hal worried that the gun would go off whether or not the man intended it.
“Lori,” Hal said. “There’s someone else, someone else like you and Kaylee. Sit up.”
The man’s expression didn’t change and Hal realized his headlights likely made it hard for the man to see. “I’m going to turn off my lights,” he said.
“Don’t you move!”
“I’m going to turn out my lights so you can—”
“I said don’t you move! I swear to God I’ll shoot you and—” The man suddenly stopped speaking and his face seemed strange for a moment, almost crumpling. His hands seemed to grow weak and Hal watched as the gun fell from them and tears welled in the man’s eyes.
“My God,” the man said and Hal turned to follow his gaze. Lori stood there, out of the car, pink pupils almost glowing.
***
Frank. That was what the man claimed his name was but Hal was pretty sure it was something else because he didn’t respond to Frank naturally but paused as though remembering his alias whenever he was addressed. His wife was Clara, and she reacted with only the typical slowness of the infected, so Hal was pretty sure that was accurate. They hadn’t stayed at the truck. It was too likely anyone passing by would stop there. Instead, they drove with Frank behind and Hal in front for about four hours until they found a private house. It was probably a farm house before, and Hal led the tiny convoy down the private road to the location. More accurately, they drove down the private road down six empty stockyards and through several hills until Frank caught a glimpse of something that appeared to be a chimney and turned to investigate. The house lay in a small valley. Of course, the house was abandoned. However, Hal found goats grazing in the backyard, shot one, and thanked God for 4H years before as he butchered it. He brought the meat inside and discovered the stove still worked, which meant the place ran on propane and not municipal gas. He set the meat to simmering and then went out back again to shoot two more goats.
Frank approached him while he was skinning them. “We can’t stay together for very long,” Hal said. “You make it riskier for me and I make it riskier for you. But, these goats will give us each some meat for a day or so.”
“Where are you going?”
“Away.” He didn’t mean it as a deflection. It was the only answer he had.
“I… I heard there was somewhere we could go.” The man
paused. So did Hal. He looked at Frank and raised an eyebrow. “I heard there’s a hospital from when it first happened, and there are still doctors there and, well, they’re just past the border.”
“Mexico?”
“No, Canada.”
“Quebec?” The French separatists in Quebec had finally gotten their wish while the world was falling down around them. They were a separate entity. Of course, most of Canada was anarchy now. The U.S. had fallen into a structure almost like city states. Canada had done the same but not giant cities like Toronto but an endless sea of smaller settlements.
“No. What used to be British Columbia, I think. It might be on our side of the border, though.”
Hal sighed. “How do you know it’s not just a goose chase?”
Frank shook his head. “I don’t. It probably is but what the hell else am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t think we can go there together. Washington and Oregon were hit hard but they’re all survivalists there, the only hope of getting through there is by being less, not more, obvious.”
Frank looked hopeless, and Hal felt horrible but he added, “This is too cliché anyway. Here we are in the end of the world but there’s some city of refuge our heroes can escape to? That’s every goddam apocalypse movie ever made.”
Surprisingly, Frank didn’t back down. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is cliché. But that might be why there’s a shot. Maybe someone thought about it, set it up.”
Hal sighed. “I don’t think there’s any hope for it but even having a destination has got to be better than what we have going on now.” He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be heading that direction, pretty sure Frank wasn’t careful enough. The best solution was to find somewhere in the mountains, far enough from civilization that they could live without fear of discovery, somewhere with game and fresh water. Sure, the family would live like they were settlers in the 1800s but he was pretty sure they could live a fine life there until some scientist somewhere discovered a cure.
Our Dead Bodies [Anthology] Page 2
