The Great Wreck

by Stewart, Jack

  Johnston and his men. Apparently they had figured out I was on a bike. Just then the radio came to life with Dunst’s voice, “Thomas, you need to hide as fast as you can. Johnston and his crew are coming in on motorcycles.”

  I looked around in panic. The dead were everywhere blocking all the roads and buildings,

  “There’s nowhere for me to go!”

  “Get under an overpass! Quickly!”

  “Johnston will see me!” I said spotting a nearby overpass. Even crouched under it, I’d be easily spotted by Johnston.

  “It’s not Johnston or his men you need to hide from. It’s the dead.”

  I looked around me and the dead were starting to react to the sound of the approaching motorcycles. They had shifted nearly as one away from the north and to the increasingly louder sound. I madly peddled off the highway and to the underpass, dropping my bike and gear on the road and scrambled up the concrete and hid myself as deep as I could where it met the underside of the highway.

  * * *

  Johnston saw Thomas as he scrambled up into the underpass, “What a jackass!” Johnston yelled over the howl of the wind and roar of the bikes. Little bastard hid in plain sight!

  Dan nodded but kept his eyes on the wall of dead to their left and right. If one of them even farted in their direction, he was turning his bike around and bagging ass. It was only a matter of time before they turned and headed towards the sound of their bikes. Dan would find out that would happen much sooner than later.

  * * *

  I watched as Johnston pointed towards me. I was dead. I took out my pistol and waited for them to arrive. Turns out they’d never reach me.

  The dead turned towards the sound of the approaching bikes. They spotted the five men as they raced east along the highway on their loud machines, then they ran.

  I watched as every single one of the dead in Tucson turned and ran as one huge mass, descending on Johnston and his men as one liquid wave. I’d never seen anything like that. They didn’t scream and didn’t moan. They just ran. They ran as fast as sprinters and converged on the five as a single mass from both sides of the riders, from the front, and from the back closing in, around, and over the five screaming men like a single wave of water. I could hear the thousands of pairs of feet above me, could see them on the frontage road to my left and right. They were everywhere except in this small little crack beneath the highway where I tried to make myself as small as I could.

  The first dead to reach them actually jumped taking the men off of their motor cycles. I heard them scream for only a few second as hundreds of dead piled on. And then it was over. The five men were completely gone. Only scraps of cloths and bones and splashes of blood remained around the five overturned motorcycles.

  I stayed under the overpass for nearly an hour waiting for the dead to turn on me and do to me what they had done to Johnston and to the others. But they never did. They simply returned to the streets of Tucson found their original positons and turned north to stare.

  The radio broke the strange silence and Dunst whispered quietly to me, “Thomas, get on your bike and get out of the city. If you are quiet, the dead will leave you alone. Johnston and his jackasses riding those fucking bikes!” he said with disgust, “Might as well have just walked right out into the middle of the crowds naked and been done with it. Good luck Thomas. I hope you make it to wherever you’re going.”

  And with that the radio went silent.

  I scooted down to the road and picked up my bike watching the standing dead. I mounted it and got back up on the highway and continued east peddling slowly, my legs already burnt out from pushing so hard earlier in the day, from the drain of the terror watching Johnston and the others devoured, and from the terror of thinking these strange dead might turn and swarm at me any second. So the going was very slow and I made it out of Tucson late in the afternoon, I stopped in a town called Benson. Their I found another airport, this one called Southwestern Aviation and made my camp for the night.

  Tucson and Phoenix were now behind me and the great Arizona and New Mexican Outback where ahead. I planned on staying here in Benson for a few days, resting and resupplying my food and water. Once I had recovered, I’d plan my stops as I hopped across the map, and be in Las Cruces within a week after leaving Benson.

  I stayed there for as long as I could. Each day I’d venture into the town and get the canned goods and water I needed. I’d spend the better part of the day sneaking around the few dead that were there. They weren’t like to the Tucson dead, they moved around and groaned and farted their days away but I was taking no chances. I kept clear of them in case they all turned at once and rushed me.

  At night I’d climb up the radio tower attached to the building roof I was camped on and listen to the radio. I never heard from Captain Dunst again, and certainly never heard from Johnston or any of the people he’d left behind. But on the third night in Benson, I heard the far off voice of Sandia. Just a snippet. Just a few words barely discernable above the hiss and crack of the static. It said simply, “Sandi Station, signing off for…” then silence as the atmospheric dynamics that let me hear them from so far away changed and I lost their signal. But it filled me with hope. It let me know that after the weeks and months of trekking across the Southwest Wreck, I might actually find people. Normal people who were trying to make a life in the New World. I might just find a small community safely hidden amongst the mountains of central New Mexico and not just another rotting, burning hulk. I had everything I needed to cross the desert to Las Cruces. I was rested and recovered would leave the next evening.

  * * *

  Dusk the next day came and found me ready. I pushed off and was back on the highway before the dead could get very active. I headed east and fell into the mindless rhythm of peddling, watching the road for wrecks, and weaving about the few dead that had drifted onto the highway. They’d look up just as I passed them and I’d be gone before they could alert the other dead nearby. I hadn’t seen a sprinter, other than those strange dead in Tucson, since Phoenix. I wondered if the heat of the desert killed them off or if they had just rotted too much and became walkers. In any event, I think if I came across one, I might be able to outrun it on my bike. It be three weeks before I found out if I could.

  The towns rolled by as I made my way across the desert. Benson became Wilcox. Wilcox became San Simon and San Simon became Lordsburg. Somewhere between San Simon and Lordsburg I passed a huge sign that said “Welcome to New Mexico! Land of Enchantment.” I came to a stop and looked up at the big yellow billboard with a green and red chili peppers painted on it. I was making progress and it felt good to be leaving Arizona behind and finally reaching New Mexico. I rode on.

  Each night I’d ride for four hours, then find my little commuter airport hangar top and make camp. I’d stay in each of the towns a few days scouting around during the daylight getting food and water. Then I’d rest up and switch back over to the night schedule getting ready for my next leg across the Sonora desert.

  Each night I’d climb the nearest radio tower and plug in. I’d been listening for Kailee almost every night since I’d left Phoenix and each night I’d pick up a few voices, the mechanical voice telling me the current weather conditions, or on the really good nights I’d hear Sandia. But not Kailee.

  Somewhere outside of Lordsburg, I had to stop after only two hours of riding. A mile ahead of me the road was completely blocked. Not by wrecked cars or trucks, but by a string of dead moving north. There were thousands of them that stretched far to the north and south and at least twenty deep so there was no riding through them and no going around. I began to panic. I was out in the middle of absolutely nowhere without a town, rest stop, or gas station nearby. I could turn back but that would mean two hours of wasted effort that I’d have to do all over again in a day or two.

  I looked at the huge power line towers that ran alongside of the road. I’d been climbing the smaller radio towers at the airports I had stayed at since
I had left Phoenix. I looked up at the nearest tower and could see a small maintenance platform. It’d have to do. I peddled my bike off the highway and along the frontage road until I hit the dirt maintenance access road that lead to the base of the tower.

  I grabbed a small pack with my most vital equipment and covered the bike and the rest of the gear with my tarp, then began climbing up the tower.

  The tower was about a hundred feet tall and the maintenance platform was nearly two thirds the way up. I reached it and began to set up my camp occasionally watching the streams of dead heading north. Where were they going? Where had they come from? Were there other towns to the south of here or did they just wander around in the dessert until something pulled them north?

  I finished tying down my camouflage netting and unrolled my sleeping bag. The platform was wide and had handrails so I didn’t have to worry about falling off while I slept. I put my goggles on and watched the moving lines of the dead looking for a break. The trail of bodies went all the way south as far as I could see until it disappeared behind some low hills. Same for those heading north. I pulled off my goggles and decided I might be staying up in my perch for a day or two until they dead cleared out.

  I climbed up a little higher and attached my radio cable to the tower and began to flip through the channel, “Kailee, are you there?” I said and waited never actually expecting to hear from here. For all I knew they were in Burbank by now. Or dead.

  At channel twenty I heard someone say, “Is that kid ever going to shut up? Good god, man.”

  I smiled a bit at that. I must be bugging the hell out of anyone listening to their radios. On channel twenty six, I heard Sandia’s broadcast. It was so strong and clear. It must have been the effect of the metal tower I was in.

  I listed to a women telling people the location of safe houses throughout the Rio Grande valley, places they could move to as they made their way to Sandia. My map only covered Arizona and parts of western New Mexico just to Las Cruces. When I made it there, I’d have to get a new one and mark the places the woman was talking about. I listened to her voice for nearly thirty minutes before moving on to another channel. I finally reached the end of the channels and climbed down to my perch and watched the dead drifting by.

  I spent nearly five days in that tower waiting for the migration to end. I had no idea where so many walkers could come from or why they were heading north but each day I’d wake up and see that they were still there stretching from north to south in an unbreakable line. I’d sleep, eat, drink water, and sweat out another day. I’d watch the highway for other living people during the day, always expecting to see James strutting down the road towards me. Even with my netting, even nearly a hundred feet in the air and far off the highway, I’m sure I would be easily spotted.

  At night, I’d watch the desert using the infrared and watch the animal move across the landscape or watching the dead trudging along their way.

  After the third day, I began to think of returning to Benson. I’d used up much of my water and I was slowly going out of my head with boredom. I guess I could always try to run the gamut of dead. I’d either make it through or I wouldn’t and it would all be over either way.

  There was a certain allure to that thought, just to end it. All the fear, all the terror, all the death. Maybe that’s why James ran into the hordes of dead, to stop the boredom or just get killed. I didn’t think so. I think James loved the burning world filled with the dead and he wanted to play in it as much as he could. Getting caught, the risk of an agonizing death that was all just part of the fun for James. I don’t think he was bored. Not at all.

  I’d think about ending it all and the relief it would bring. Then I’d think of the pain. How long would it take before the dead hit something vital, an artery or vein, and I bled out? How many dead could get their teeth into me at one? Six? Eight maybe? Each one taking a big giant, bite out of my nerve filled tissues. Eating my toes. Eating my fingers. My balls. Oh, god what would that feel like to have someone bite down on my testicles? Unbearable. Eat my face? Bite my lips off, my eyeballs? Eating into my stomach, tearing out my tongue? Eating my legs, my butt? Biting into my anus? Tearing off my penis? Finally cracking open my bones and sucking out the marrow. Oh god, no. It might only last a few minutes but I’m sure it would feel like an eternity.

  And then what? Would there be enough of me to come back? Would I still feel the pain after I reanimated? Would my soul be trapped inside a rotting carcass decaying for the next several decades? Or would I go straight to hell for committing suicide? A hell that would, theoretically be worse than this? I didn’t know and wasn’t going to find out. At least not that way. If the dead ever caught me, I’d go down fighting.

  So after the fourth day of searing heat and insane boredom, I decided I would head back to Benson to the airport. I’d set up camp there and replenish my supplies. That would at least break up the monotony of sitting in this tower and I would be better hidden on the hanger roof.

  So I packed up my gear getting ready for my trip back, happy to be doing something, anything, different than just sitting and settled in for the night.

  But the next morning, they were gone.

  I woke up, ate, and looked to where the lines of dead had straddled the road and…nothing. Not a single walker moved across the landscape. I pulled out my map and looked up the next city on my route: Deming. I could make it in about three or four hours. It’d be hot. It’d be a fucking nuclear furnace and I’d use up the last of my water but I had to chance it. I had to get through in case more dead were heading north.

  I finished packing up my stuff and climbed down the tower. I strapped my gear to my bike and was back on the highway before thirty minutes had passed. I pulled out my binoculars again checking to see if the dead were nearby and could see small group to the south standing completely still. Far behind them I spotted a group of twenty or more all just standing still, looking off to the northeast. They reminded me of the dead in Tucson and freaked me out. I started peddling.

  Nearly two hours later I was heading east at a good clip with sweat streaming down my back, my face, may arms, my legs. I was soaked through. The highway signs said Deming was only fifteen miles away. I would stop there for the night then hit Las Cruces tomorrow. If all went well, I could be at Sandia in under two weeks.

  All would not go well. The sun was moving up and the heat was kicking in but that, I would soon find out, was the least of my worries.

  I crested a small hill and spotted something moving out in the dessert to the southeast. A lot of somethings. So many somethings that it looked like one really large something. I jammed on my breaks as I pulled up alongside of a burned out truck and whipped out my binoculars: the dead. Of course it was the dead. Was I expecting anything else? A herd of elephants maybe? Flock of seagulls? Nope. Just the dead. More dead than I had seen the previous few days from the tower. Tens of thousands of dead all heading north out of the dessert just a few miles south of the highway. They hadn’t blocked the road yet but even peddling as fast as I could, it would be close. I’d pass right in front of them just before they reached I-10. They might not see me but they might and if they did, not only would I be too fucking tired to out race them, I might be too tired to care.

  I thought about turning back to my tower or even going all the way back to Benson but I found as I turned and looked back the way I had come, that was not going to be an option. The few dead I had spotted walking around to the south had started moving north again and the line of dead now crossed the road behind me and worse, the crowds were swelling. I could see them spreading out across the highway and before long they would be here. So Benson was out. Even the tower was out. If I was going to get past the walkers ahead of me I had to get moving.

  I looked at my bike loaded down with all of my gear. I figured I had a hundred pounds or more with all the food, water, guns, and ammunition. I could handle it at the pace I had been traveling but now I needed to pour it on or soon I’d
be cut off and surrounded by the dead with almost nothing to hide in but a few stray cars scattered around. I had to lighten my load.

  I peddled up to the nearest car, checked the inside, and opened the driver’s side door. I quickly started dumping everything I thought was non-essential: most of my ammunition, all the jugs of water keeping only the small plastic bottles and my water pack, most of my food, my night vision goggles (oh it hurt to leave those behind but maybe I could replace them later), my extra-large pack, and the bike trailer itself. I kept only my small pack and as much ammunition, food and water as I could cram into it. I strapped on my pistols while my shotgun and rifle I tied vertically on each side of the back rack of the mountain bike.

  I put all of the extra gear neatly on the front seat thinking maybe someone might be able to use it in the future. I took the bike trailer and leaned it on the trunk of the car. Someone walking the highway would surely notice it and find the small trove of supplies I was leaving behind. That helped me get over the agony of leaving all this stuff here. I straddled the bike feeling how light it was. After all the time I had ridden with a full load, it now felt as though it weighed nothing.

  The dead were closing in so rapidly it was like high tide coming in over the space of minutes instead of hours. Where the fuck were they all coming from? Why were they heading north? It didn’t really matter right then. What mattered was that I needed to get moving. In fact, I might have taken too much time unloading my bike. The dead were starting to cross the road far ahead of me. Just a few to be sure, but it would only take one to sound the alarm letting the great rotten masses heading north know where I was. I froze for a full sixty seconds. I couldn’t seem to take my foot off the ground and push the peddle of my bike forward. My muscles were locked solid as I stared ahead at the wave of dead. My heart pounded and the sweet poured down into my eyes. I was going to die here and I knew it so why try to race ahead to beat the odds that were so stacked against me it wasn’t even worth trying?