by Joe Augustyn
This is no joke. If I don’t stop that girl from talking, I’m as dead as these sorry bastards.
36
“Did you hear gunshots?” asked Cat of her partner.
“Sounded like it,” said Nick. “But it could’ve been thunder.” He drove slowly, straining to see through the flooded windshield. They were on a quiet residential street, still several blocks from the hospital on Route 9.
“Stop!” Cat cried suddenly. “Stop, Nick! Stop!”
Bronski stopped the SUV.
“Somebody’s out there on the road.” Cat rubbed a chamois across the windshield, trying to get a better look at the hunched, staggering figure blocking the road in front of them.
A man stood in the glare of their headlights, head down, hair dripping, ankle deep in a puddle. He waved his arms in a weird jerky motion, then sloshed slowly forward toward their vehicle.
“Idiot’s gonna get hit,” said Bronski. “Jesus, there’s another one.” He nodded to a second man further down the street, also walking in the middle of the road.
“What’s wrong with them?” Cat asked.
“They’re obviously drunk or on drugs,” Bronski answered. “Why else would they be walking around in the pouring rain?”
Cat studied the slow moving walkers. “I don’t know. Something’s not right. I think they might be injured or something.” She rolled down her window and called out to the nearest man. “Hey! Sir, are you alright?”
The man looked up at her. His face was sickly pale and covered with dark splotches, his features obscured by the rain. He stared at Cat dully and wandered towards her open window.
“I think he’s in shock,” Cat said. “Either that or on serious drugs.” She started getting out but as she opened the door Bronski grabbed her arm, noticing more shadowy movement on the road ahead.
“Wait, Cat, close your door. Quick! Put your window up. Put your damn window up now!”
Cat quickly complied, knowing enough to trust her partner’s instincts. “What?”
“I’m not sure but—”
As her window slid shut the zombie banged his face against it. He clawed at the window and tried to bite through the glass.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “Look at this joker. He’s on his own planet.”
“No, he’s not,” said Bronski. “Look.” He switched on the spotlight, revealing dozens of sluggish walkers swaying drunkenly on the road, oblivious to the rain. An instinctive chill rolled up his backbone.
“What the hell?” Cat said. “Are they all on drugs or what?”
“I don’t think it’s drugs. And I don’t think they’re drunk either. Look at them. They’re old, they’re young, there’s no common thread. I don’t see this bunch partying together. And some of them look really sick. Something weird is going on down here.”
Cat aimed her flashlight through the window at the man outside. Instead of recoiling from the blinding light like a normal person, he seemed to be motivated by it, banging and clawing at the window, not even blinking his eyes. A chill ran up Cat’s spine as she saw his face in the light—and realized that the splotches were deep bloody bite marks; tattered strands of flesh framing naked bone. “Oh my God,” she gasped, and turned to her partner for an answer. “Those are bite marks.”
“I’d say we’re in the middle of an epidemic,” Bronski said coolly, as he backed the vehicle slowly away from the bodies staggering toward it. “And whatever the hell it is, we have to assume it’s contagious.”
“Is this why that Sheriff was so determined to get us out of here in such a hurry? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t know,” Bronski answered. He swerved around the nearest clump of zombies, cut across an unfenced lawn and snaked through the other wandering bodies on the street, taking pains not to hit them. “Maybe somebody paid him to keep it under wraps. If it’s an experiment gone wrong… maybe some kind of military thing... chemical… or biological warfare. Who knows? Let’s just get over to that hospital and see what they know. They have to be dealing with it by now.”
“Then what?”
“Then we shoot back to headquarters to sound the alarm. Before whatever this is gets too far out of control.”
37
Fat raindrops splattered on the Camry’s windshield, blurring it as quickly as the wipers slapped it clean. Kerri drove as fast as she felt safe to drive on the heavily flooded streets. Huge puddles gurgled from backed-up sewers, turning every intersection into a shiny black swamp.
Emma cowered in the passenger seat, struggling to remember the prayers she had embedded in her head during eight years of repetitive Catechism classes. But her panic-stricken mind stalled halfway through a simple Hail Mary.
The red and blue flashers of Hayes’ pursuing cruiser grew closer in their rearview and Kerri became more reckless, pushing the ten-year-old car to its limits. The Camry threw up a rooster-tail of water as it splashed through a puddle, dodging the wandering cadavers in the street.
Hayes wasn’t nearly as considerate, gunning right through the walking dead with his beefier patrol car. He felt a perverse satisfaction as their broken bodies rolled across his hood and slipped over the side, greasing his windshield with blood and chunks of slimy gore. They were the reason for this nightmare. If he ever got out of this situation he’d take off for California. Or better yet, Hawaii.
Kerri cut her wheel hard as they reached an intersection. Without slowing down she sailed into a sudden turn, hoping to shake off the deputy. The Camry slid out of control. Skidding across a patch of soggy lawn it bounced off a chain-link fence.
Emma screamed but Kerri kept her cool. Shifting into low she floored the gas. As they veered back onto the road the fence snagged the rear bumper and tore it half off its mounts. As they sped away dragging the bumper, it clattered off into the street.
Hayes’ cruiser swung into view a moment later. With its bigger tires and better tread it flew through the turn with no problem—but was moving too fast to avoid the fallen bumper. The front tires scooped it up and flung it up into the wheel well. The tires locked up—spinning the cruiser into a harrowing one-eighty.
Hayes stomped down hard on the brake pedal. “Lord Jesus help me!” The tires shrieked and smoked and the cruiser finally spun to a stop. He sucked in a calming breath, then eased the car forward until the wheels locked again. He shifted into reverse, then forward again, rocking the car back and forth until the chewed up bumper dropped free.
Seconds later he was back in pursuit, chasing the taillights of the Camry a mile away.
Kerri checked her rearview and saw him coming. She took the next turn more judiciously then quickly accelerated. She knew if they could make it to Route 147 they had a chance to make a clean getaway. There were sharply winding curves on the densely wooded road and plenty of hidden turn-offs. If she timed things just right she could make the Camry disappear in the middle of the chase.
Hayes’ lights grew steadily larger in her rearview. He was half a mile back but closing fast. Kerri knew she couldn’t outrace him much longer in the modest four-cylinder sedan, which was already taxed to its limits.
By the time she neared the next intersection, the cruiser was hot on her tail. Kerri’s heart was pounding like a kettledrum. I can’t shake him. His car is just too fast.
As she reached the intersection Hayes was right behind her. She waited until the very last second, then cut her wheel to make a surprise turn, hoping to buy precious seconds when he overshot the intersection.
Instantly she knew she’d made a mistake. The Camry went into a slide, more violent than the last one. She stomped on the brake pedal with everything she had but the car barely slowed before slamming sidelong into a pickup truck parked near the corner.
The airbags deployed, pinning the women in their seats.
Hayes stopped his cruiser in the intersection and calmly surveyed the streets in all directions, checking for zombies. He could see some slow-moving bodies in the distance turning toward the
sound of the crash, but no immediate threats.
He parked behind the pickup and unlocked his shotgun bracket. Feeling guilty, but determined to do his nefarious duty, he stepped from the vehicle, shotgun in hand. Make it quick. Don’t make them suffer any more than they have to.
Rain pummeled his raingear as he walked to the crashed car. Sneaking past his collar it tickled his neck like a death cold finger. Through the blurry windows of the Camry he could see the two women inside. Physically unhurt but mentally dazed, they were trapped in their seats by the slowly deflating airbags.
Sheriff Leeds’ gruff voice played in his head. Get it over with, boy. Before you pussy out.
Cocking the shotgun he stepped to the driver’s side window. Through the cloudy streams of rain slithering over the glass he could see the rippling image of Kerri’s face looking up at him. Despite the watery distortion he could tell she was a beauty and could sense the utter terror in her eyes. He was about to murder two women he would have fawned over under normal circumstances.
A moment of doubt clouded his conscience but he brushed it aside and raised the shotgun, taking aim through the driver’s window. As his finger touched the trigger the screeching of tires made him pause. He turned toward the sound and his eyes opened wide as the vintage Ford rocketed around the corner—heading straight toward him.
In a desperate reflex Hayes swung the shotgun toward its windshield.
A ton of Detroit steel punched through his groin, smashing his pelvis to a pulp. He flipped through the air like a ragdoll and his shotgun discharged, sending its deadly load skyward.
Every zombie for a mile turned toward the lusty boom.
The Ford slid to a halt and Ryan hopped out, his eyes locked in horror on the deputy’s twisted body, sprawled in a heap on the rain-drenched tarmac. He ran to the Camry and yanked Kerri’s door open. She tumbled out, unsteady on her feet.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Kerri. “Just a little shaken. But we need to get out of here before that Sheriff turns up.”
With her door jammed shut against the side of the pick-up, Emma had to climb across the center console to get out. But as she slid into the driver’s seat she collapsed there, feeling faint and hopeless and saturated with fear. She slumped against the steering wheel and started to sob uncontrollably. Not sure she wanted to go on.
“Emma, please. We have to go,” Ryan said sternly. He was losing his patience, afraid her weakness would be their bitter end, but was determined to stay compassionate come what may. Turning to Kerri he quietly confided, “We have to get her out of here. Before she loses it completely.”
A haunting moan drew their attention back to Hayes. Ryan stepped over to check on him, followed closely by Kerri.
Lightning surged across the sky. Hayes was an unnerving sight, lying in a puddle of swirling blood and rain. His legs were turned backwards, his torso nearly cut in half. He reached a pleading hand to them. It was clear what he wanted. Death.
Ryan and Kerri looked at each, not sure they wanted to grant his request. Kerri heard another soft moan behind them. She turned and saw a zombie heading their way, a hundred feet away, with another close behind it.
She ran to the Camry and grabbed Emma’s arm, trying to pry it off the steering wheel. “Emma, come on, we have to go now. Come on!”
Ryan spotted Hayes’ shotgun lying nearby on the road. He snatched it up and walked over to Hayes, who was suffering a hell of pain and regret as he watched his lifeblood trickle away beneath him.
Hayes coughed up a mouthful of blood. A vision of the thing he’d run over and left to suffer on the road slipped tauntingly into his brain as he realized he was lying in a puddle.
Ryan aimed the shotgun at him. Hayes smiled weakly, grateful for a merciful end to his rueful existence. “Thank you.”
“Sorry,” Ryan said coldly. “Can’t waste the round.” He turned and looked at the deputy’s cruiser idling behind the pickup. Its steamy exhaust beckoned with the promise of escape. But the nearest zombie was just a few yards away.
“Please…” Hayes croaked.
Ryan looked at him regretfully, knowing he wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t show some kind of mercy. He slammed the butt of the shotgun down on Hayes’ head, knocking him cold.
“Come on,” he called to Kerri, “We have to get moving.” He jogged to the cruiser and confronted the nearest zombie, slamming the butt of the shotgun into its face. It went down but tried to get up, clawing at Ryan’s legs, tugging the hem of his yellow slicker. Ryan bashed the gun down again and again, not stopping until the zombie lay dead. He was starting to feel like a robot, moving on auto-pilot. Survival was a powerful instinct.
“Let’s go!” he yelled fiercely, eyeing the parade of zombies getting too close for comfort. “I’m not waiting any longer!”
Emma finally let go of the steering wheel and climbed out of the car. Kerri helped her into the back seat of the cruiser, then hopped in the front next to Ryan.
They drove in silence for a long minute. Ryan was still hot from the violent encounter and both he and Kerri were worried about Emma’s sanity.
Ryan finally broke the tension. Checking the fuel gauge he managed a fatigued smile. “A full tank of gas. I think our luck is changing.”
Kerri smiled. “I’m okay to drive if you want,” she offered.
Ryan grinned wryly as he thought of the wrecked Camry. “No, that’s okay. I got it.”
He handed her Hayes’ twelve gauge. “You can ride shotgun.”
38
Sheriff Leeds parked his SUV sideways across the wood-lined road and spread spike strips on either side of it. A fast moving car might get past his little barricade, but not with its tires intact. He’d taken a stab at hunting the girl and her comrades, but after reaching Route 47 he realized it was hopelessly blocked by countless crashed vehicles and dangerous downed power lines. Not to mention the roaming dead.
Route 9 was also a series of disasters, including a raging fuel fire that defied the pouring rain. It was there that he found his missing deputy Jonesy, pinned in his crumpled cruiser on the street outside the hospital. It disturbed him to see his most faithful henchmen with his face and hands half eaten, hopelessly trying to drag himself out of the wreck. Leeds drove off, leaving him there, hissing in frustration, unquenchably hungry. He loved Jonesy like a son, but wouldn’t risk interfering with the Lord’s plan for his Resurrection.
The Parkway was an utter mess as well, with cars piled up on the on-ramps and off-ramps. Leeds could hear distant shouts and screams and crashes coming from the highway and realized it was probably as impassable as Route 47.
That left just one open road leading out of the lower peninsula. His prey would be trapped if he blocked it. There was a slim chance they’d already slipped out, but if so there was nothing he could do about it anyway. He could only bank on the possibility that they were still in the area, and he felt it was a good bet they were. And so he returned to set up his makeshift barricade.
He checked the action on his rifle and snapped a fresh magazine in. Snug in the SUV’s driver seat, he had a good view of the road through the riflescope. With the nearest intersection half a mile away, he’d have plenty of time to set his sights if a vehicle turned into view. He could rip off several shots with his long-range weapon before his target realized what was happening. Once he killed the driver, the passengers—including that bothersome teenage girl—would be sitting ducks. And if those pesky state troopers turned up, he’d treat them to a similar fate.
Several minutes passed. Leeds sat quietly, ruminating on his many years of feeding the dead at the cemetery. It all seemed like some crazy dream now. He remembered the moment he learned of their existence, when his predecessor took him there, with a scar-faced thug in tow. He remembered the shock of discovery, followed by the thrill of the sacrifice. There were no stun-guns in those days. He had to smack the unlucky captive on the head with his blackjack, stunning him into su
bmission.
The man regained consciousness as the feeders swarmed over him. He tried desperately to roll away from their hungry mouths, squealing like a stuck hog through the rag stuffed in his mouth. But his hands and legs were hogtied behind him, to keep him from kicking or fighting.
Afterwards, old Sheriff Morton sat up with Leeds half the night, making sure his young deputy understood the big picture over coffee and homemade muffins. It was hardly necessary. Leeds had plenty of questions of course, but he took to the practice like a duck to water. It all made practical sense to him, and the Biblical justifications proffered by Sheriff Morton and reinforced by Reverend Adams the next morning erased any doubts he had.
Now those doubts were back to haunt him. He did his best to fight them down, but wished he had time to confer with the good Reverend now.
An engine purred in the distance. Headlights turned onto the street. Leeds lowered the SUV window and peered through his riflescope.
A big old pickup truck was rolling his way, its blue and white fenders dented and rusty. He focused on the windshield. A scruffy bearded man was driving. Leeds had seen him around, but never met him. He assumed the man was a resident of Cape May County. Probably the Villas.
The Sheriff was familiar with some of the County folk, but he had no ties to them and felt no compassion for them. They were outsiders. Gentiles. He stepped out of the SUV with his rifle, waved the pickup closer and flagged the driver to stop.
The man rolled down his window as the Sheriff approached. “God bless you, Sheriff. Don’t tell me you’re out here all alone guarding the road?”
“Just doing my job.”
“Well then I guess you know what’s going on back there. People’re going apeshit. Tearing each other to pieces. It’s some kind of crazy riot or something. Everybody’s gone nuts.”
