It reminds me of the feeling when we’d hike twelve miles out to some remote mountain valley on a hunting trip. The next morning, you didn’t think you’d be able to roll out of your sleeping bag, but after a little breakfast, you were ready to move again. Only difference is, this time we’re the hunted.
“Car rental, this way!” Felecia shouts, pointing towards a sign my eyes are still too bleary to read.
The last thing we should be doing is running along a road, exposed. But what other choice do we have? We’ve learned the hard way, on foot, there’s no escape. These bloodthirsty savages don’t slow down or worry about obstacles thrown in their path. They don’t get tired and have to rest. They go until they die. Again, I guess, since they kinda already died once. Woulda been nice if those of us who got infected and lived developed these kinds of superhuman powers. What do we get out of it, other than an apparent immunity to future bites?
The blacktop of the airport road is less forgiving on my aching muscles than the unkempt lawn, but it makes for quicker travel. Passing between abandoned cars is easier than the uneven terrain hidden beneath the grass that’s probably never been this long in its life.
Even through the shaky beams of our flashlights, I can see the bloodstained driver’s seats through open doors. No one made it. They were ripped from their cars while driving. Shattered windows. Imprints the size of fists denting the steel frame. Do you get out and run or sit in the gridlocked roadway, hoping for help to arrive? They died no matter what they chose.
The loud crash in the distance means the infects have breached the barrier, the fence is down. I’d like to think we’re far enough ahead that they won’t know which way we’ve gone, but they’re like every chase scene in every movie, ever, where the pursuer somehow knows exactly what turns to make and which doors to enter.
These bloodhounds can smell us. I don’t know if it’s actually our blood they’re tracking, it could be our sweat, or hormones, or who knows, they might just be able to sniff out fear. Which will lead them directly to us. The car rental booth better not be far.
“I don’t know… how you little shits,” Marty chokes out between desperate gasps for oxygen, “have been doing this… for days. I like my spot… behind the wheel. By the way, I’m driving.”
“Like hell you are,” Maxwell snorts. “You hit every bump imaginable on that lawnmower, it’s like you were aiming for them.”
“It was a dirt road,” he shouts back. “And you were on a damn trailer, it’s automatically… gonna feel bumpy.”
“Ugh, you’re worse than me and my sister,” Sami groans, winded, but having no trouble keeping up with us. “How about this, whoever gets a car going first, that’s who drives?”
“No fair,” Marty squeals as Maxwell pulls ahead, despite carrying the heavy bag. “She’s black, she runs faster, it’s like in her DNA or something. That’s like us having a dance off.”
“We can do that too, if you’d like,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ll even go first, before I get behind the wheel.”
“Let’s play a game, that an old white man can win… instead,” he wheezes. “Anyone up for Parcheesi? Or a good ol’ fashioned game of back in my day? I’m also good at falling asleep in recliners with the TV on.”
“And,” Felecia sings, “also making inappropriate comments about girls way too young for you.”
“Hey, I object to that, my comments are always appropriate. And well timed. And… son of a whore! Three o’clock, we got another cluster on our asses.”
“Why does it matter what time it is?” Sami shouts.
“Not the time, the direction, to your right.”
“What does three o’clock have to do with– oh my god!” Her panicked breaths grow weaker as she looks over her shoulder at the sudden influx of corpses.
Their charred bodies are sprinting across the open field that separates the road from the runway, trampling those who fall. A number of them are still on fire, casualties of the grenades Marty shot from the chopper. The chopper we should be refueling right now!
It doesn’t matter who drives, a car can only go as fast as a car can go. And that’s not gonna get us to the airstrip in Yuma in time. If it was two hours by air, it’s got to be at least twice that by road. There’s no way we can beat Buckley there.
Maxwell disappears into a heavily windowed building, exactly the type of place you’d expect to buy or rent a car. That’s gotta be it. And it couldn’t have come at a better time because the buffalo stampede have followed our scent right to us.
Maxwell emerges, what can’t be more than ten seconds later, slamming through the door so hard she broke it off the hinges, duffle bag banging wildly off her, like Norwood wants to do. I think it’s safe to say she won, if she doesn’t slow down, she’s gonna hurt herself. She’s not really planning on doing a dance before hopping in the driver’s seat is–
God dammit! The door doesn’t even have time to swing shut on its broken hinge before an army of undead assholes come crashing through after her. They must have been hanging around inside, scrolling through their invisible phones, killing time between meals.
“Row F,” she screams at the top of her lungs. “Go go, I got the keys for row F!”
But before she can finish her thought, a large man in a suit too small for someone of his stature dives through the doorway. He smacks the pavement with force, a full gallon of milk getting knocked off the kitchen counter. The impact sends him bouncing, chubby fingers latching onto Maxwell’s duffel bag. He’s got her!
She keeps moving, despite Shopping Mall Santa clinging on with everything he has. The buttons burst from his dress shirt as she drags him behind her, shredding the silky fabric.
He groans and growls, trying to pull himself up the bag with one hand as she fights to merely move. I can hear his flesh being torn away, devoured by the tar. And it’s not enough to stop him. He doesn’t mind, he could stand to lose a little weight in his stomach.
Sami breaks ahead, leaping over the drainage ditch before the rest of us. For a place that doesn’t see a whole hell of a lot of rain, they sure do have an exorbitant amount of drainage. And, not complaining, but shouldn’t they have a fence around the parking lot? Maybe they figure the unnecessarily large swamp water gully will stop cars from driving through it. I know it sure as hell stopped our helicopter!
Yep, drainage ditch would definitely stop potential thieves, no way is a car getting over that. No fence needed, they were right. Not sure if the rocks were necessary though, those do not look fun to land on.
But Sami bursts to her feet, sending a flurry of pebbles flying behind her. She’s gonna reach Max before we do, but what then? Has she ever even swung a sword? I’ve seen her use my trusty morningstar, but that’s in the bag currently being yanked back and forth in a tug of war competition between Maxwell and Undead Car Salesman Santa.
I tell my feet to move faster but my commands go ignored. They’re right, no matter how much I hate to admit it, our bodies are beginning to shut down. I just can’t make mine do what I want it to.
Maxwell’s steps are getting smaller. How long can she pull an extra 400 pounds behind her? And it’s only a matter of seconds until the rest of the most vile, cunning, persistent creatures on the face of the earth, car salesmen, realize they’ll make it through the doorway a lot faster if they go one at a time.
What the hell is Sami doing? How did none of us stop her?
She races straight towards Maxwell before launching herself at the duffel bag. She has been watching us way too closely, this looks like a play out of Felecia’s book. Does she not realize how stupid we are? The things we do are more likely to kill us than actually succeed.
Her tiny arms arch back as she hurtles towards Maxwell’s obese anchor. I can’t watch. I know what she’s doing and I can’t watch. But I can’t look away either. Sami, you are so grounded when this is all over!
She swings at exactly the right moment, her blade touching down on his flexed forearm
is a thing of beauty. Not as dull as ours, it slices through his hairy layer of meat, only stopping when it encounters resistance against the bone.
His sweaty back breaks her fall, bouncing off him like a trampoline. It wasn’t enough to fully sever his arm but it’ll weaken his hold on Max’s duffel. He’ll have no choice but to let go–
Oh gross! There it is. It’s too much weight on his exposed bone. His elbow pops, completely breaking in half, weakened by Sami’s sword. Bits of it burst into the air, a fireworks display of blood and bone marrow, accompanied by a sickening crack as he rolls to a stop, his severed hand still latched on to the bag of weapons.
Sami springs to her feet, the goofiest of grins spread from ear to ear as she looks around, surveying the damage. “I did it,” she squeals, waving in our direction before noticing his co-workers emerging from the clusterfucked doorway.
“Sami fucking Slayer! Kid,” Maxwell shoots over her shoulder, able to resume her normal superhuman soldier speed, “when this is all over, I am buying you the biggest sundae you have ever seen! Now hurry, run!”
No fair, I want a sundae.
I wonder if this is how Dad felt every time I won a race. Or got an A on a test he helped me study for. Or when I got my license. I can’t explain how proud I am, or even why, but the way Felecia’s waving back at her in the same embarrassing way my mom used to do, I know I’m not alone.
We race between parked cars on our way to pole F, zigging and zagging, slowly losing the parade of car salesmen flooding the lot like we’re an NFL team looking to blow some of our signing bonus on new rides.
Row F? You don’t suppose F stands for fighter jets, do you? Because we could really use one right now. How many people can fit in a fighter jet? Pretty sure clinging to the wings isn’t a viable option.
Fast. Please let the F stand for fast. I’m not really a car guy, so I won’t know which one to pick, but Marty will. He’ll find us something that’ll zip… right… through…
Uh oh, the drainage ditch. How the hell are we gonna drive over that enormous drainage ditch? I guess the F stands for fucked.
CHAPTER 29
We can’t drive over the ditch, we just discussed this! Cars can’t fly. We can’t go out the front, the herd is too big to drive through. The road’s gridlocked. This’ll never work.
There’s gotta be another way out of here.
We reach the F pole at the same time as Max, slowing to a halt, a choir of asthmatic wheezes being sung between us as she dumps a handful of keys on the closest trunk. Well, I think it’s safe to say the F row is not fighter jets, it’s full of SUVs. That works, at least all five of us can fit. If only we had a freakin’ road to drive on!
“All you buddy,” Maxwell coughs, trying to catch her breath, peeling the severed hand from the duffel bag. “I need a minute. I think they were having a company wide meeting in there.”
Marty clicks the doors open with a press of the key fob and hops in, grinning from ear to ear. I’m not sure if he’s happier about the fact that he gets to drive, or that he no longer has to run. Because that’s got me smiling as well. Shin splints are not a myth, despite what the coaches might tell you. Neither are cramps in your side, ran too soon after eating. Definitely not an old wives’ tale.
“Shotgun,” Sami squeaks out over a failed breath.
“Shotgun my ass,” Maxwell says with a smile, climbing into the passenger seat. “I might owe you an ice cream, but kids in the back. Age wise, not maturity, otherwise Marty would be riding in the trunk.”
“Yeah, I’ll ride your trunk. That was one of those inappropriate old man comments you were talking about, wasn’t it?”
“If you’re referring to the junk in my black trunk, then yes. Which I’ll have you know I got from the white side of my family. Now drive this bitch like you stole it.”
He peels out in reverse, slamming into the two closest infects. “Kinda did steal it,” he smiles, as if he doesn’t feel the bodies we just ran over with the back tires. And now the front. “Let’s find a way out of this maze. I’m loving this backup cam, it’s like playing a video game. I think we’ll go this way.”
To be fair, we don’t have much choice, Maxwell’s group of persistent salesmen are filling the empty spot we just peeled out of. And the two Marty ran over are scrambling to their feet before they’re even done log rolling from the hit and run.
“Seatbelts,” Sami shouts from her spot between me and Felecia, I’m assuming so we can’t do anything gross like hold hands or cuddle. Don’t worry, if we really want to, we’ll just do it over her and make things extremely uncomfortable for the little runt.
Marty cuts the wheel, skidding out of row F. Not sure all four tires are on the ground as he spins us around before throwing it into drive. That, is why we wear our seatbelts. I didn’t need Sami to tell me to put mine on, I was already doing it. And no, that is not a dig at Marty’s driving.
“Monster trucks, huh?” Maxwell asks, one hand on the door handle like she’s thinking of bailing at any second, other hand clasped around the, um, don’t know the technical term, but the oh shit handle. The little one above the door.
“Monster trucks,” he says with a proud grin. “The 80s were a beautiful time. And none of you were even alive then, were you? Christ I’m old. Son of a bitch.” He pounds the wheel with his palm as we do a lap around the building. “That’s the only way out and they got it blocked. We ain’t driving through that pack, we’ll end up like the car we took in Sonny Valley, all four tires off the ground. This parking lot’s filling up with them, we gotta come up with something. Fast.”
“You drove monster trucks?” Felecia asks, trepidation in her voice. “Could you jump the ditch?”
“Hell yeah I could, if we had a ramp. But I don’t think these bastards are gonna give us time to build one outta car parts.”
“What about that sign?” I point towards what I’m sure is usually a neon sign, but without any power, it’s just a blank billboard. “Maxwell, you can hit the base with a missile, right? You can hit anything.”
“You’re damn right I can. Problem is, I can’t choose what way it falls.”
“I think we gotta take our chances,” Felecia says, fishing through the duffle bag for the rocket launcher. “They’re gonna overrun this parking lot and we won’t have anywhere else to drive. Here. Shoot. Just do it.”
Maxwell takes the weapon and nods, like she’s talking herself into it. She’s been shaken since the landing, understandable. “I know we can’t stop, but can you get me one row closer? I gotta try to hit the base of this thing.”
“Aye aye captain. I’ll get you as close as I can. Make it count. You just pretend that sign is my giant perverted old man boner, you know, just a little smaller than the real thing. Hit it with everything you’ve got!”
Maxwell leans out the window, rocket launcher resting on her shoulder as we zip up and down the rows of cars, keeping the zompires running in all directions. She inhales, holds it, and shoots.
The loud whistle is punctuated by an explosion across the parking lot. She did it, the sign is falling over in a sudden burst of grass and soil.
No, no, no, that’s the wrong way. Go the other way! Why am I tempted to blow, like I can push it in the other direction? No, wait, I’d need to suck, good thing I didn’t blow or this could have been disastrous.
Shit, I think it is anyway.
The sign crashed somewhere in the parking lot, just out of view. It hit cars, I can tell by the metal on metal. I was kinda hoping it would fall right across the ditch, like a bridge, and we could just speed right over it before it realized it wasn’t strong enough to support the weight of an SUV full of zombie killers. If it hit vehicles, we’re gonna have to get out and move it by hand. How much do you suppose a giant electronic sign weighs? Could Marty move it with the help of his enormous perverted old man boner?
“Holy shit,” he gasps as we come around the corner. “I’ll be damned, we got ourselves a ramp. It’s angled i
n the other direction though, we gotta go that way. Hang on!”
He slams on the brakes the second Max is belted back in, screeching to a halt. Did I just poo? I might have pooed. I don’t see any on the windshield so I think we’re okay to drive.
Marty throws it in reverse before we’re done spinning, sending a cloud of black smoke billowing into the air. Judging by the thumps behind us, we just ran over a few tailgaters who weren’t expecting us to reverse direction.
Their bodies get spat out the front, broken limbs aimed in the wrong direction as we skid to another stop, hitting a few more infects with the back of our SUV, which is probably going to need new tires before we’re even out of the lot.
My eyes drift up front, to the giant backup cam overtaking the console screen. Not what I wanted to see, they’re hanging onto the bumper.
Marty burns rubber yet again, taking off like a bat out of hell down the row to our left. He must have confused the backup camera, it’s still going. I can see them getting dragged behind, their burnt faces mere inches from the lens. These three are definitely from the plane crash days ago, their melted flesh has crusted over. One woman’s hair looks like it’s healed to her face, like it was stuck in the pus and she never brushed it away, so it just hardened there. It doesn’t even look like hair, black and crispy, flaking off in the wind.
Oh thank god, it switched back to radio view. I didn’t want to look but I just couldn’t peel my eyes off the screen.
We’re that asshole doing sixty through the parking lot, decimating everyone who steps in our path. They may as well be bugs on the windshield, getting clipped and sent flying. I cringe with every sickening smack. We are so not getting our deposit back on this. Something tells me the dents on the frontend can never be popped back out.
He rounds the corner so fast I’m convinced we’re crashing into the line of cars across from us. The sudden jolt sends one of our cling-ons careening through the air and smashing through a windshield. The splat he makes means he didn’t go all the way through. I don’t even know if it was the glass crunching or his bones, but at least he’s not on our tail anymore.
Blood Type Infected (Book 5): The Departed Page 18
