Nurse Alissa vs. the Zombies | Book 3 | Firestorm

by Baker, Scott M.

  “Well… we’ll be able to hear it from inside the cabin.”

  “The walls are insulated. And with all the noise inside we can’t hear a thing outside.”

  “Yeah,” teased Chris. “What about all the noise inside?”

  Nathan scratched the bridge of his nose with his middle finger. “We really only need it at night so nothing can sneak up on us. I’ll sleep with my window open.”

  Kiera’s eyebrows crinkled. “Will you hear it over your snoring?”

  Chris burst out laughing.

  Kiera switched her gaze between Chris and Nathan. “Did I say something funny?”

  “You’re fine,” answered Nathan. “Don’t worry about it.”

  A few minutes of silence passed.

  Kiera spoke first. “Uncle Nate, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.” He took another sip from his canteen.

  “Why haven’t you asked Alissa out?”

  Chris snorted. Nathan choked on his water, which made Chris laugh out loud again.

  It took a few seconds for Nathan to catch his breath. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s obvious the two of you like each other.”

  “Well… yeah… we’re friends.”

  “Please.” Kiera dragged out the word in a dramatic expression of frustration. “I’ve seen the way the two of you look at each other. You know she’ll say yes. All you have to do is ask.”

  “Yeah.” Chris enjoyed Nathan’s discomfort way too much. “All you have to do is ask.”

  “That’s enough out of you.” Nathan flashed his friend the evil eye.

  “And if you’re not interested in dating Alissa, then you should allow Uncle Chris to ask her out.”

  The grin drained from Chris’ face. “What?”

  Kiera turned to him. “I know you like her. Why else do you come over every night for dinner?”

  Nathan grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “Why do you come over every night for dinner?”

  “Because your mother is a good cook.” Chris stood up. “And if we want to be back in time for dinner, we should get back to work.”

  “Nice save,” Nathan whispered as Chris walked.

  Not surprisingly, no one spoke for the remainder of the day.

  Chapter Five

  Dickson drove east along Route 112 and kept to the speed limit to preserve fuel. The Hummer and Silverado made great vehicles for cutting cross country and pushing through hordes of deaders, but at the expense of being gas guzzlers. Several times they had come precariously close to running out, pulling into a gas station with the fuel gauge hovering below E. One time both the Hummer and the pick-up ran dry, forcing them to syphon gas from the other vehicles. They barely made it to the next service station. Ever since that day, Dickson didn’t push as hard and, so far, they had no problems. It also helped that the convoy kept to the back roads, avoiding most of the deaders and providing greater opportunity to find fuel and supplies. Unfortunately, the last five stations they had come across, as well as the few vehicles they had encountered, were empty. The Hummer’s gauge hovered above the E line.

  Since entering eastern Vermont, and continuing into western New Hampshire, the number of deaders they had encountered dropped dramatically, except for when they crossed Interstate 89 that morning. The back road they traveled led them through an underpass beneath the highway, which avoided the bulk of the deaders. A few that had stumbled down the embankment attacked the convoy but were either avoided or quickly dispatched. Most of the living dead on the interstate weren’t even aware they had passed. Dickson hoped their luck would hold until they reached Maine, though he doubted it.

  “Hey, boss.” Carter’s voice came over the radio. “You there?”

  Dickson keyed the microphone. “What’s up?”

  “I need to find a gas station soon, or we need to pull over and trade out, cuz my gas gauge has been below E for ten minutes.”

  “It would have been nice to know that ten minutes ago.”

  Joel leaned forward from the back seat. “There’s the New Hampton Fire Department.”

  “What the fuck good does that do? We’re not going to find gas there.”

  “No.” Joel sounded much more contrite. “But it probably means we’re entering a populated area, so we might find a gas station.”

  Dickson keyed the microphone. “The newbie says there should be a gas station up ahead.”

  “What do you know? He’s good for something after all.”

  “We’ll see,” answered Dickson. “If he’s right, we’ll stop in a minute. If not, the newbie can suck the gas from one tank to the other.”

  Carter laughed. “He’ll probably like it.”

  Dickson placed the radio back on the dashboard and glanced at Nora. “Where are we?”

  “How do I know?”

  “Read the fucking map, bitch.”

  Nora pulled it from the central console and opened it, searching for their location.

  “Well?” barked Dickson.

  “I… I haven’t been keeping track of where we are.”

  “Fuck me.”

  Rebecca reached between the seats, yanked the map from Nora, and brought it in back with her.

  “Hey,” Nora protested.

  “Shut up.” Rebecca unfolded the map on her knees.

  Nora turned to Dickson. “Are you going to let her—?”

  “Fuck off. Let her do your job.”

  Rebecca scanned the map until she found New Hampton.

  “We’re approaching 93,” whispered Joel.

  “I know that.”

  Joel placed his hand on hers. She jerked her arm away. “Leave me alone.”

  The overpass for Route 93 came into view. Hundreds of deaders stumbled along the highway, and scores more staggered along the on/off ramps and the lanes of the road they were on. As they drove by, they turned toward the convoy and shambled toward it.

  Dickson leaned back. “I need info.”

  “One second.” Rebecca found the location and tapped her finger on the map. “According to this, there are several gas stations and places to eat on the other side of the interstate.”

  “Good.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Not really. If there are this many deaders here, the rest areas are probably swarming with them.”

  As if on cue, Dickson slammed the brakes on the Hummer. Nora nearly hit the windshield, grabbing the dashboard at the last moment. Joel and Rebecca, not wearing their belts, slammed into the back seats. Behind him, Carter applied his brakes. The Silverado slid along the asphalt, coming to a stop three inches from the Hummer. Dickson didn’t notice any of this, his attention drawn to what lay ahead of him.

  A few hundred feet in front of them stood an Irving Oil and a Mobile gas station, a liquor store, and a Dunkin Donuts and other fast food restaurants. This place had been a rest stop for drivers and truckers. During the first few days of the outbreak, it had served as a safe haven for those stranded or seeking a break from the gridlock that paralyzed I-93. The spread of the outbreak this far north transformed the area into a hotbed of deader activity. Close to a thousand of them roamed the streets and parking lots, milled around the pumping stations, and wandered through the surrounding woods. When they heard the squeal of brakes, all milky white eyes focused on the vehicles, recognizing them as food.

  The horde lumbered toward the convoy.

  “Shit!”

  Elaine, from the cargo van at the rear of the convoy, yelled over the radio. “What’s going on? Why have we stopped?”

  “Deaders,” answered Carter. “Hundreds of them blocking our path.”

  “Do something.”

  Dickson grabbed the microphone. “Shut the fuck up. Let me think.”

  Rebecca’s eyes connected with Joel and she mouthed, “We’re all going to die.”

  Elaine checked her sides mirrors. The deaders from the I-93 interchange had reached them and flowed around either side of the cargo van. A few dozen stopped at the side window
s, scratching and biting at the glass to get to her. The rest passed by, focused on the real prize — Diana and her two children trapped in bed of the Chevy pick-up.

  Diana watched the deaders lumber toward them. She felt a stream of warm urine flow down her leg and fought back the urge to shit herself. Connie cried, even more terrified than her mother at the sight of the living dead. Brian threw his sister down onto the bed and covered her with his body.

  “Mom, we have to get out here.”

  Crawling to the rear windows of the cab, Diana banged on the glass until Stratman slid open the window.

  “What?”

  “You have to get us out of here.”

  “No shit, bitch. I’m waiting for the boss.”

  “If you wait for him, we’re all going to die.”

  Stratman slammed shut the window. Diana went to bang on it again when a hand clutched her dress and pulled. She broke free and fell against the rear of the cab. Deaders swarmed around the pick-up bed, seven or eight deep. Scores of rotted hands reached through the open windows in the cap and clutched at her and Brian. A swarm of flies and hornets hovered around Diana and her children, with even more still feasting off the living dead. The hideous sight of ravaged and rotting faces mixed with the overpowering stench of decay made her retch. Connie screamed at the top of her lungs beneath her brother, her fear having switched to pure terror. Some of the tattered hands reaching for Brian clasped on his arms and yanked, threatening to pull him off his sister.

  “Mom, I need help.”

  Diana crawled over to assist her son. A hand entwined itself in her long hair and tugged, knocking Diana onto her back, then pulled her across the bed. She raised her eyes and saw the gaping mouth of a deader through the window only inches away.

  Watching what went on from his rearview mirror, Stratman keyed the radio. “We gotta get out of here now!”

  “We gotta get out of here now!”

  Dickson didn’t bother responding. His mind had gone blank under pressure.

  “Go through them,” ordered Nora.

  “There are too many. They’ll box us in and then we’re fucked.”

  “What about back tracking?” suggested Joel.

  “Too many behind us.”

  “You’re all assholes.” Rebecca leaned forward and pointed to the left where a park-and-ride lot stood. “Go that way.”

  “It’s fucking parking lot.”

  “There’s a road running behind it. With luck it’ll take us around all this.”

  Dickson spun around to face her. “What if it’s a dead end?”

  “It’s better than staying here and being eaten alive,” she snapped.

  Being yelled at snapped Dickson back to reality. He picked up the radio and keyed the microphone. “There’s a road to our left. Follow me.”

  Spinning the steering wheel hard to the left, Dickson made a U-turn, bounced over the curb, and veered past the park-and-ride onto the road leading to the Department of Transportation compound.

  Carter started to follow Dickson until the latter circled back and headed down the side road. He then got his first full view of what lie ahead of them. Deaders flowed out of every parking lot along the road, converging on them, hundreds of them stretching across the width of the road and packed several layers deep.

  Gunning the Silverado, Carter fell in behind Dickson.

  Diana reached out with her right hand and jammed it against the bed of the pick-up, preventing herself from being dragged to the deader’s mouth. She spun around, placed her knees against the interior wall, and kicked. A sharp pain shot through her head as she pushed herself away from the deader, which still clutched a fistful of her hair in its hand. No sooner had she broke free when the living dead on the other side clutched at her through the windows. Diana scrambled back to the center of the bed, slapping away the outstretched hands.

  At that moment, the pick-up lurched forward. Most of the hands disappeared as the pick-up drove away. A few grabbed for the canopy, hanging on desperately for a few seconds before their grips loosened and they dropped off. All except one deader, a large man in a road construction uniform, that had a firm grip on Brian’s right arm. When the truck accelerated, the road crew deader fell to the side, dragging Brian across the bed until he crashed into the canopy. A loud snap accompanied Brian’s scream of pain as the bone shattered and punched through the skin. As the pick-up distanced itself from the horde, he rolled around, howling in agony.

  “About fucking time,” Elaine mumbled as she pushed her way through the horde and turned left at the park-and-ride.

  The convoy reached the end of the lot and entered the DOT compound, passing by the garage. Five orange-colored dump trucks sat parked off to the left.

  Dickson punched the steering wheel. “It’s a fucking dead end.”

  “No, it’s not.” Rebecca leaned forward and pointed directly ahead of them. “That road should take us out of here.”

  “You better be right or I’m feeding you to those things.”

  Dickson accelerated and headed for the opposite end of the compound. Sure enough, the road extended into the woods beyond before turning back toward the main road. They might make it yet.

  The Silverado bucked. The engine stuttered and the engine bucked again.

  Carter stared at the dashboard. “No. No. No. No.”

  The Silverado bucked a final time and stalled.

  “What’s going on?” asked Williamson.

  Carter grabbed the radio and jumped out of the cab, leaving the door open behind him. “I ran out of gas. Elaine, pull up beside me so we can unload into your van.”

  “We don’t have enough time,” she replied.

  “We do if you haul ass.” Carter popped open the lid to the bed and banged on the side of the Silverado, motioning for Williamson to join him.

  Stratman parked the Chevy on their left, jumped out, and raced around to the passenger door. Opening it, he began to load as many supplies as possible into the front seat. Elaine pulled up along the right, stopping so the rear doors were in front of the pick-up’s bed. Carter whipped them open and began transferring the Silverado’s load into the van.

  “Brian needs help,” pleaded Diana.

  “We’re a little busy.”

  “His arm is broken.”

  “Bitch, if you don’t shut up, I’ll break his other one. Let me know when those things get close or I’ll leave the three of you here.”

  “Stop the car.” Rebecca stared out the rear window. “The pick-up stalled.”

  “Damn it.” Dickson slowed and checked his side mirror, watching as Carter and Stratman unloaded the Silverado and packed the supplies in the other vehicles.

  “Should we help them?” asked Nora.

  “Not enough time,” he lied, not wanting to get that close to the horde. “They’ll be fine.”

  The three men continued unloading as much as they could from the back of the Silverado.

  “How close?” Carter yelled out.

  Diana glanced up from tending to Brian’s arm. “About a hundred and fifty feet.”

  “I’m full.” Stratman slammed the passenger door. “Do you guys need help?”

  “No time. Get ready to haul ass out of here.”

  Stratman climbed back into his pick-up, standing on the running board.

  Carter gave the back of the van a quick scan. He had forgotten some of the ammo. He rushed back to the Silverado and rummaged through the remaining supplies for the boxes.

  “Seventy-five feet,” called out Diana.

  Stratman blared the horn, attracting the attention of some of the deaders, but not enough. Half still closed in on Carter.

  He found the boxes of ammunition and waved for Williamson. When Williamson approached, he loaded into his arms as many boxes as the kid could carry and then pushed him toward the van.

  “Get in back and close it up. Tell Elaine to be ready to move.”

  “Less than ten yards.” Diana banged the cap to get Cart
er’s attention. “Hurry.”

  Carter picked up a box of ammo in each hand and started for the van when a deader in a waitress uniform snarled and grabbed his left shoulder. He jumped to the right, breaking its grip, knocking the deader off balance. Carter moved around it when another deader, naked and with its abdomen torn open, surged forward. It tackled Carter. Both fell backwards into the van’s bay. Carter dropped the boxes of ammo and wrapped his hands around the deader’s throat, preventing it from getting too close. A dozen more deaders closed in on the van.

  Williamson unholstered the Beretta he had taken from Rebecca, aimed at the deader’s head, and fired. The bullet missed, punching into the forehead of the deader behind it.

  “Try hitting it next time,” said Carter.

  Williamson moved closer and pumped two rounds into the naked deader’s head, blasting away everything above the neck. Carter pushed the carcass off him and rolled into the back of the van. Three more deaders tried to crawl in after him. Carter rushed forward, pushing Williamson along with him. He tapped the back of Elaine’s seat.

  “Go.”

  Elaine slammed her foot on the gas pedal and the van lurched forward, spilling the three deaders and several boxes of supplies out the back. Once he got his footing, Carter made his way to the rear and closed the double doors.

  Deaders surged around the Chevy, reaching through the open windows at Diana and her children, driven to a frenzy by the smell of blood from Brian’s compound fracture. She covered her son with her own body and kicked the cab. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Not until I’m sure Carter’s safe.”

  When the cargo van pulled away with everyone safely on board, Diana yelled, “He’s okay. Now can we go?”

  “All right. All right.”

  Stratman pulled away, leaving the rest of the deaders stumbling after the convoy.