by Mark Tufo
“BT?” I asked in alarm.
“I’m alright,” he hissed through his clenched jaw.
“Doubtful. Is it your leg?”
“Worse.”
Fuck. I knew what that meant. “Don’t hate me for this,” I told him. I didn’t give him a chance to respond.
I picked him up much like I had Melanie earlier and honestly it wasn’t even that much
more strain. I would imagine it would have looked pretty funny to an outsider; it
would have looked like Beauty carrying the Beast. Of course I’m the beauty, I’m sure
you can figure out who the beast was in this statement. He had to have been in a crap-load
of pain, because he didn’t so much as grunt at me as I started running back to the
DPW yard.
The extra strength I possessed made him feel like I was carrying a kid around ten-ish—so,
not a great burden—but after a while, even that will begin to weigh in on your reserves.
I was pondering how long I thought I could keep this pace up with him in my arms when
I caught sight of movement through my peripheral vision.
“Zombies, always zombies. Couldn’t be a fucking ice cream truck or maybe a herd of
cute little deer. Nope has to be fucking zombies.”
“Ice cream would be nice,” BT wheezed.
I took a quick glance to my side. I had about a half mile to get to where I needed
to be, and if I was doing my head-math right, I was going to come up short in this
equation. The half dozen or so zombies had taken an angle on us and would catch up
in the next couple of street poles.
“I’ve got something for you to eat!” I shouted.
I was pissed off at the world right now. I put BT down as gently as I could, my arms
felt not quite like rubber, but they were throbbing a bit. I grabbed my machete at
first.
“Screw that.”
I let it fall back into its sheath. I pulled my rifle off my shoulder, pulled back
the charging handle a couple of inches to make sure I had a round in the chamber,
flipped off the safety, and sprayed the closest zombie with three quick rounds.
“How’s that feel, fucker!?” I shouted as his head mushroomed and he fell backwards
smashing his already shattered skull. “That’s so damn good I bet you want some too,
you ugly fucker!” I said to the second approaching zombie.
The first round caught him in the chest, the second in the head. It snapped back and
then fell face forward. Nothing stopping his torque as he plummeted, the crack of
skull on pavement made a satisfying ‘thwack’.
“Good shit, right?” I asked his still form.
Then the damn zombies did something I wasn’t expecting. The remaining five stopped
running towards me. I lowered my rifle a little bit.
“What’s the matter, you guys not hungry enough? Am I not tasty looking enough for
you? What about my friend over here, he could feed a fucking village!”
BT feebly put up his hand in protestation. “Leave me out of this.”
The zombies had just plain stopped their forward progress. Don’t get me wrong, they
were eyeing us hungrily, but I could also see they were assessing the risk and reward
of this venture.
“Not a damn fan of smart zombies!” I shouted, blasting a third into whatever hell
it belonged.
They had to have been talking, because they turned and ran at the same time; not far
though. Just far enough to watch, but not close enough that they figured I would shoot
at them.
I stood there a few moments longer, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
When it became clear that the ones left were not going to charge, I guessed it was
time to leave. I released my magazine, quickly jammed in some new rounds, and then
put it back in the magazine well. When I looked back up, one of the zombies had vanished,
my guess was to go and get his whole damn village. BT was pulling himself up.
“You alright?” I asked, grabbing him under the arm.
“Better, it’s passed.”
He said it like he was familiar with it. “This has happened before?”
“Ever since I’ve been bit, been getting more frequent since Eliza died, though, and
more painful.”
“It’s progressing.”
“At least we know where Justin gets it from,” he said as he stood up completely. “You
tell anybody you were carrying me and I’ll sneeze on everything you own.”
“That hurts, man, but we have a deal.”
BT pretty much kept his gaze forward as if every step was a chore. I, however, stopped
every few paces to do a three-sixty and see if we were yet being pursued. Our small
tailing contingent stayed back about fifty yards and on the other side of the street.
It was not a welcome feeling to have them stalking us like that. Herding came into
my head on more than one occasion.
“We need to step it up, bud,” I told BT.
He grunted but did as I asked. I had the distinct impression we were being led to
the slaughter. The zombies behind followed diligently, never pressing the attack,
just like the good little sheepherders they were. And then I saw two things almost
simultaneously; one was rejoice worthy, the other…not so much. As we rounded a bend
on Chestnut Drive, I saw the front gate to the public works yard…and also a shitload
of zombies sprinting headlong towards us. They would pass by the gate coming towards
us before we would have a chance to get there.
“I see them,” BT said. He pulled his gun up, his hands visibly shaking. I knew it
was from the pain and not the sight of the zombies.
Tommy and Travis were at the gate. They had heard my earlier shots and were looking
for any signs of trouble when they saw the zombie horde.
“Going to need some help!” I yelled, getting Travis’ attention.
“Justin! Gary! Mom!” he yelled behind him as I watched him get his rifle up.
Tommy was already cycling rounds through his weapon. Travis was soon behind him, adding
his lead to the fight. BT and I were firing as we moved. Within short seconds, Tracy
and Justin joined the mix. The zombies paid them absolutely no heed as they passed
by even as scores of them were being rendered dead. If my magazine had not run dry
at just that moment, I would have missed the zombies from the rear. They had started
coming for us once they saw that we were distracted. I had been fumbling in my pocket
for my loaded magazine when I caught sight of them.
“Son of a bitch,” I said as I slammed the magazine home and spun, firing with less
than three feet between me and the nearest one. I’d only had enough time to get the
barrel up about chest high before he tried to impale himself on it. I shot two rounds
center mass into him attempting to create some distance between us. The second round
must have caught him in the spine. It was enough to push him back off my muzzle and
allow me to raise the rifle up. His forehead sizzled as he made contact with the hot
metal.
“Nice brand, bitch,” I said as I double-tapped his skull.
He fell away just as his girlfriend came up to get in on the action. An anemic, crack
addict with an eating disorder couldn’t have looked worse than the thing that begged
me to kill her. I happily obliged. The first round caught her in her brown, cracked
teeth. The second ble
w the top of her patchy haired scalp clean off. The third and
final zombie from the back stopped in mid-street and was looking to pull his iron
out of the fire. I didn’t give him the chance.
“You’re like those little fucking yippy dogs that always wait for the person to turn
around before they nip at people’s heels,” I was screaming as I advanced. “Well no
more ankles for you to bite, fucker!” Two rounds later and he became a stain on the
roadway.
I turned back to the front. We were screwed. The zombies had made it past the Talbot
family gauntlet. There was nowhere to run.
“It’s been a pleasure, my friend,” I said to BT as I started firing.
“See, Talbot? This is what pissing off God does for you! Crazy-ass cracker.”
BT was in the midst of reloading and I had a pretty good count on my rounds. I would
take as much time as I could between shots so that we would not both be empty at the
same time. BT’s hands were shaking so bad that he fumbled and dropped his magazine.
Frustration welled up in me and threatened to come out in an anguished scream. Not
sure what that would accomplish, and there really wasn’t any sense in my last dying
words being a dick to my friend. It was then that I heard—well I guess we, I saw BT’s
head pop up and realized he’d heard it too—the deep throaty roar of a powerful engine
revving. This was going to be one of those few times when the zombies being smarter
actually worked out in our favor. Not all, but at least some stopped to see what was
going on. This gave me enough time to pop another magazine in. Two more after this
one and then it was machete time. Oh boy, couldn’t wait for that! Nothing quite like
being covered in hot entrails.
I popped off a few rounds, reached down and grabbed BT’s lost magazine. He thanked
me with his eyes as I placed his magazine in. We were both up and shooting. The distraction
was giving us a little breathing room. Damn near jumped out of my socks when I heard
the large ‘blat’ of the truck horn. Knowing Gary, he’d super-charged it so that it
sounded more like something a five hundred ton train would be making. I saw a giant
shower of sparks as the truck hit a small dip in the parking lot. The plow dug into
the soft pavement and sent a plume of pebbles into the air.
The truck smashed into the now Talbot-vacated gate. The chain held, the fence did
not. At least a thirty-foot of section folded down like a paper airplane. Scores of
smelly bastards were getting the Play-Doh treatment as their bodies were being shoved
through four-inch squares. Zombie spaghetti sounded like about the worst thing ever.
Meatballs would forever take on a new meaning. The plow was bouncing around like Gary
had outfitted it with hydraulics; which wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities.
Some zombies began to scatter, others were a little slower on the uptake as the giant
steel blade bore down on them, and then there were still the ones that were coming
towards BT and me.
It wouldn’t do any good to get rescued if we were dead. Gary was like that mechanical
arm that comes down to clean out the pins while you’re bowling. Zombies were being
hurtled into space, dragged under the blade or run over, any of which caused instantaneous
visual horrors. I wasn’t sure how the timing of this was going to work. Gary at his
present speed and direction was just as likely to hit us as the zombies he was saving
us from. We were pinned down and there were not a whole bunch of avenues for us to
escape.
Then I saw the ladder attached to the side of the truck. I started to do the damned
salvation-math. It had all sorts of awesome variables like, Gary’s speed, amount of
zombies between us and the rungs, plus BT’s ability to be able to hold onto a moving
ladder. Fun shit like that.
There was a layer of only four or five deep of zombies between Gary and us when I
felt BT’s rifle graze the top of my head at top speed. If I had an inch more of height,
or his massive arms had dipped just a fraction, he would have sent the top of my head
into the cheap seats. I turned just in time to see a zombie in the midst of a heels-over-head
situation; its face caved in. BT had struck it so hard that it literally left its
feet. Well, that answered the ‘strong enough to hold the ladder’ factor.
“Holy shit. Thanks, man,” I told him.
It was one of the earlier zombies taking one last final shot in the pursuit of food.
And it had almost worked. How BT had seen it I didn’t know. Maybe he had thought of
something I’d done to him previously and was actually gunning for me but had gone
high and I’d just been fortuitous. Highly coincidental, granted, but still possible.
Gary was creating a clearing big enough for a truck to drive through (see how I did
that?). Although he had zombies to both sides and the rear, we only needed to be concerned
with the side he was planning on driving by us.
I pointed to the approaching ladder.
“I’ve got damn eyes,” BT told me.
“And an attitude apparently.”
“You say something?” he asked gruffly.
“Just get on the stupid ladder.”
Gary was fast approaching, and we’d done a decent job of clearing a path, although
it was much like digging sand. Every time we took some out, more would fill in from
the sides. I made a move towards BT, my hand extended, I was going to give him a little
extra assistance up.
“You touch me and I’ll scream rape,” BT said.
“Well at least you’re feeling better.”
Gary was going about ten miles an hour, which sounds slow enough, but when you’re
standing still and have to hop on, it’s fairly intimidating. BT flipped his rifle
over his shoulder and reached out with his right hand. I turned and started running
in the direction the plow was going. I couldn’t get on until BT had moved his bulk
up far enough to give me room to join him.
“Mike!” BT yelled.
It was a tone I’d never heard from him before. I was about even with the plow blade
when I turned. BT’s face had taken on an ashen quality. I was wondering if he was
being hit again with the zombie cramp. It was then I noticed his right leg was off
the ladder. A zombie had grabbed hold, which normally wouldn’t have been an issue
for BT, but two other zombies had also played piggy back with the first one. He literally
had three zombies dragging on him and more trying to get in position to add their
own anchorage. BT had wrapped his arm around the ladder step so that his armpit was
firmly lodged, but I could see the strain in his face as he tried to shake his leg
free of the huge parasites.
“Speed up, Gary!” I shouted. He was looking in the side-view mirror at BT.
A billow of diesel exhaust blossomed out of the stack behind the cab. I ran a little
further ahead while I had the chance, swung the rifle onto my back and grabbed my
machete.
“Again with the damn machete,” I said as I turned back around. “Do not move!” I yelled
to BT.
It would not have done any good if he started kicking out his leg and I slammed my
blade into his thigh. The first zombie that had latched onto him was being dragged
on his knees.
It hurt me to even think about his kneecaps being sanded down on the
ground like they were, especially with the other two hangers-on.
The timing had to be almost perfect. I took a step, already the cab was past, I was
mid-stride with my next step and had pulled my arm back as far as I could. I was in
full swing as my second stride hit the ground. The machete caught the zombie midway
in the back. I heard its back break as the blade cut deep. The knife was ripped from
