Brayden floored the vehicle in pursuit, but the things never even turned to look at it. “They’re chasing someone,” Brayden said as his foot slammed down on the gas pedal and the truck pitched forward, slinging gravel and gaining on the walking corpses ahead of them. The engine roared as the truck plowed into them, crushing them under its weight. Then, to Brayden’s surprise, he saw what the things were occupied with as a skinny kid dove out of the way at the last second.
“Oh my God, he’s just a kid!” Wanda exclaimed, then turned her head to look out the rear window. The boy had stumbled out of the ditch, waving his arms and running after them. Her heart went out to him.
Brayden saw the kid, but he didn’t want to stop. “We don’t know that he hasn’t been infected, Wanda. It’s just too risky. I can’t chance him turning on us in the truck. It’ll be too late. We don’t know what the incubation period is with this…sickness.”
Wanda glared at him. “He’s just a scared little boy! He’s not sick! Can you live with that on your conscience? Well, can you?”
As much as he didn’t want to do it, he knew she was right. Brayden hit the brakes and the truck slid to a halt, a cloud of grayish dust engulfing it, illuminated by the headlights as it drifted over them. “He rides in the back until I can look him over,” he said as he looked over his shoulder and backed up the narrow road so they could pick the kid up. “But if he is infected, I have to put him down. You understand that, don’t you?”
November 8, 10:15 p.m.
Barry had been following a deer trail through the pitch-dark woods for hours when farther ahead he saw what looked to be an opening of sorts. Praying it was the road, he quickened his pace until he finally stumbled out of the dark woods, tripped over the drainage ditch and spilled headfirst out onto the gravel road.
It took him a moment to realize he had actually found it and he lay there in the gravel for quite some time. Dazed and weary, he didn’t want to move. He felt the full extent of hundreds of aches and pains, bumps and bruises, scratches and cuts, up and down the length of his body, as sleep beckoned him. Then he heard limbs snap across the road and he clumsily jumped to his feet.
Looking in the direction the noise had come from, he couldn’t make anything out. It all looked the same in the velvety black of night. Thousands of flecks of mica seemed to glitter in an eerie grayish hue on the moonlit gravel road, but the woods on either side were as dark as a cave, silent and looming. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried hard to listen over it. But nothing happened. He waited a while longer, knowing damn well he’d heard something in those dark woods, something big enough to break a limb underfoot.
He eventually let out a breath, unclenched his fists and had continued walking down the moonlit road when a deer leapt from the woods and crossed the road ahead of him. It bounded over the ditch, up the embankment and back into the forest on the opposite side.
The boy nearly jumped out of his shoes. Grabbing his chest, he almost laughed with relief that it was only a deer and not one of those…things. A cold chill swept his body as he remembered their glassy, milky dead eyes and those black veins webbing through their pale dead skin. Those things are dead, he thought. They’re dead.
He tried to make sense of what was happening, but as hard as he tried, he couldn’t comprehend it. The only thing he could think of was that old black and white zombie flick he had watched last Halloween with his dad: Night of the Living Dead.
The ruckus of rustling brush and snapping sticks broke his train of thought as the frightened deer bolted back from where it had gone, nearly bowling him over. Barry jumped out the way and watched the deer’s white tail catch the moonlight as it bounced back into the woods and disappeared into the darkness. Barry’s head snapped back in the opposite direction as hair-raising howls shattered the silence.
They came stumbling out of the woods like drunkards at closing time, in pursuit of the startled deer. The monsters fell over the drainage ditch and were clawing their way back to the road when Barry passed them at an all-out run.
When they spotted the boy, their frustrated howls grew louder, but as Barry had noticed before, these things weren’t very fast or particularly agile, and he continued to put distance between himself and the trailing, howling undead.
Barry slid to a halt and almost fell when he heard a familiar sound. An engine roared around the bend behind him, and then he saw headlights outline the abominations. He stopped and waved his arms as the big truck rounded the curve. He shouted and waved frantically, jumping in the middle of the road when he realized the truck wasn’t going to stop. The engine growled louder as the truck picked up speed and plowed over the three zombies, pitched wildly, then straightened out. Barry’s eyes widened as the big truck barreled straight at him.
He dove headlong into the drainage ditch to avoid being run over and immediately jumped back out and ran behind the truck, waving his arms and shouting with all he had for the truck to stop.
But the truck didn’t stop, and Barry screamed in frustration.
His heart sank in his chest as he watched the big Fish and Game truck drive away into the night. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he choked on the dust the truck had left behind. A thought crossed his young mind: Maybe I should have just let them run over me, so I could be done with all of this. I’ll never get off this mountain alive.
Then he saw the glare of red brake lights through the dust as the truck finally came to a halt. Hope returned to him and he thought, Thank God! as he ran toward the vehicle.
He saw a man stick his head out the driver’s side window, shouting for Barry to get in the back. Barry jumped, put a foot on the back bumper and tumbled over the tailgate. Hot pain shot the full length of his arm when he patted the top of the cab, but he ignored it and held on to the big chrome, diamond-plated toolbox as the truck took off again, climbing the steep grade, slinging gravel in its wake.
The truck pitched and bounced over the rough road for another mile, and Barry held on, flailing and bouncing with it. The truck eventually slowed and came to a stop at another paved overlook area and the driver’s side door opened as a tall, lean man in a game warden’s uniform stepped out with a flashlight. He shone it on Barry, looking him over in the dull, yellow light. “What’s your name, kid?” the man asked.
“My name’s Barry Ponder, sir. Thanks for stopping for me.”
“Have you been bitten or scratched by them, those things chasing you?”
Barry shook his head adamantly. “No, sir, I have not.”
The man eyed him suspiciously and Barry knew he didn’t believe him. He told the man everything that had happened to him, about his father, about falling down the ravine and into the river. As he explained what had happened, he showed the man each scratch and cut, even his raw hand and missing fingernail, explaining each injury as he told his story.
“Alright, I believe you,” the man told him, shaking his head at everything Barry had been through. “I’m Brayden James. I’m a game warden with the Fish and Game Department. I’ve got a woman and an infant with me. Get up front with them.”
Barry nodded and winced as he climbed over the tailgate, feeling the full extent of his many bruises and scratches. His shoulder was still throbbing.
The passenger side door opened and a woman wearing a blood-soaked dress and holding an infant bundled in a towel patted the seat beside her, smiled and told him to get in. “Climb in here next to me, Barry. I’m Wanda,” she said, smiling. “Come on, now.”
Chapter 7
November 8, 11:00 p.m.
As the truck pulled out, Brayden told the boy where they were heading. “I don’t know what to expect when we reach the Fish and Game office. Once I clear out the infected, we’ll have to move fast. You’ll come with me and help me get the guns and ammunition.”
Barry nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll help any way I can.”
Brayden looked at him. “That’s good to hear.” He eyed the boy curiously and asked, “Have you ever fired a gu
n?”
A determined grin grew across Barry’s dirty face. “I’ve been shooting guns and hunting with my dad since I was nine years old! I know how to shoot, and I know how to handle a gun.”
“Well, this isn’t like hunting, Barry. You’re going to have to shoot to kill. Headshots are all that will stop them. I don’t know why that is, but that’s the way of it. Can you handle that?”
Barry thought about it. He thought of his dad as rage welled within him and he knew the answer without a doubt. “Yes, sir, I can!”
Brayden chuckled at the boy’s enthusiasm. “Well, Rambo, you’ll get your chance soon enough.” Brayden reached over and unlatched the glove compartment, pulled out a bag of beef jerky, and tossed it to him. “You hungry, kid?”
Barry’s eyes lit up, and he tore into the bag with his teeth, his stomach growling in anticipation. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until his eyes fell upon the bag of jerky, and his stomach rumbled and growled at him like a hissing cat.
As the boy devoured the beef jerky, for the first time Brayden wondered if there was food at the mountaintop cabin. He didn’t know how long they would be there, but he didn’t want to go hungry, and Wanda would need to eat to keep up her strength and feed the baby. Looking at Wanda, he asked, “Is there any food at the cabin that you left behind?”
“Well, there’s a bag of snacks, chips and a case of Pepsi in a cooler. The cabin doesn’t have power. It’s really remote and rustic,” Wanda answered.
Brayden thought about it, then said, “There’s a vending machine in the break room at the Fish and Game office. I’ll bust it open and take what we can from there. It won’t be much, but it’ll have to do for now.”
He nodded ahead at the road. “The office is just ahead of us.” Looking back at her now, he said, “This might get ugly. I need you to keep your cool, Wanda. Can you do that for me? The less noise we make, the more likely we’ll survive.”
Wanda nodded, cuddling the sleeping infant.
“I’m going to get the medical supplies and bottles of rubbing alcohol for you to prevent infection and clean yourself up with, while Barry helps me fortify the cabin. We’ll make our stand there. It’s our best chance.”
As the Fish and Game office came into sight, Brayden flipped the toggle to ignite the big lights atop the truck. He spotted a group of the undead clambering around the building. Several were banging on the door to the office, howling in frustration, and he wondered if Frank was still alive in there, fighting off the infection. Upon hearing the truck approach, most of them turned toward the growling engine and screamed as they shuffled toward it, staggering and stumbling over each other in pursuit of flesh. Brayden counted seven of the abominations advancing towards the truck. Eager and hungry, they clambered away from the building and out onto the road.
Once they reached the road, he floored the gas, closed the distance while steadily gaining speed, and slammed into them, flattening several of them under the weight of the big truck and sending others flailing into the forest. The truck bounced over the curb and slid to a halt in the grass near the entrance of the small warden’s office. Brayden jumped out, jacked a round in his shotgun and let out a scream of his own.
Three more were now advancing towards the truck as Brayden stepped forward and raised the shotgun, then fired shot after shot at near point-blank range. He walked steadily toward the office, leaving a grisly trail of death in his wake. He stepped onto the porch and kicked open the damaged door, then stood puzzled in the doorway. His eyes darted from corner to corner, looking for Frank. He saw Frank’s service pistol lying in a large puddle of blood, but didn’t see his body. Brayden’s eyes then fell upon a set of bloody footprints leading away from the desk.
He caught movement and turned just as Frank slammed into him. The shotgun flew from his grip, and they toppled over and fell out onto the porch. Brayden had a hand on the chest of the thing that had once been Frank; that was all that kept it from biting his face.
He could hear Wanda screaming from the truck as Frank snapped with all he had, eager, hungry, and determined to tear into flesh. Brayden grabbed Frank’s other arm and tried to throw him off, but the awkward angle gave him little leverage, and it was all he could do to keep Frank at bay as his teeth snapped shut inches from Brayden’s face.
Turning his head, straining to keep Frank away, he could see the shotgun, but knew he couldn’t reach for it without letting go of Frank. His service pistol was strapped to the leather holster on his hip, but he could not let go of Frank to reach for it either. Brayden knew it would only be a matter of time before more of those things came to investigate the noise from the shotgun blasts and the truck engine. So this is how it all ends? he thought grimly, knowing he couldn’t hold off the inevitable for much longer as Frank’s snapping jaws came closer with each attempt. His cold, reeking breath stung in Brayden’s nostrils as his arms began to lose strength.
Frank’s head suddenly snapped backward as the barrel of a shotgun was thrust against his forehead. He screamed a raspy howl just before his head exploded with the boom of the shotgun and scattered across the porch.
Brayden tossed Frank’s limp, nearly headless body off of him and got to his feet, breathing heavy as adrenaline pumped through his veins. He saw Barry standing at the foot of the steps, wide-eyed and holding the shotgun. “Are you alright?” the boy asked.
Brayden nodded, trying to catch his breath. “Yeah, I am now.” He looked at Barry appraisingly, nodded his head and said, “You’ll do, kid.”
He scanned the road and saw it was clear. Wanda had finally quit screaming and was rocking her infant in her arms. “Stay here and keep guard. I’ll get the supplies and ammunition. We have to get out of here fast, before more of them come.”
Barry nodded and turned to scan the road and forest around them, standing sentinel as Brayden rummaged through the gun cabinet, taking all he could carry of the guns and ammunition with him in one trip.
With an armload of supplies and ammunition boxes, he glanced down at Frank’s body as he passed. A deep sorrow ate at him as he looked at Frank. He had thought the old man invincible, strong, intelligent and honest. Now he lay with a cavern blasted through his head, crumpled over on the porch, even more dead than before.
Brayden opened the big chrome storage compartment behind the cab and placed everything but the other shotgun in it, slammed it shut and locked it. He placed the other shotgun in the cab with Wanda and returned to get the medical supplies and raid the vending machine. He kicked in the Plexiglas frame and grabbed all he could get of the snacks and cakes inside before heading back to the truck, scanning the road and forest for the infected as he ran.
He returned to the building and looked around once more to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything they would need. When he was satisfied, he tried shutting the door behind him, but it was barely hanging by one hinge. When he pushed on it, it fell off the frame completely.
“Come on, Barry,” he told the boy. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
November 9, 12:00 a.m.
Continuing along the narrow graveled road, Brayden couldn’t get the image of the thing that had once been Frank Garman snapping at his face out of his worried mind, no matter how hard he tried. That image, like his dreams, haunted him. He gazed through the windshield at the moonlit pines and saw the smoke growing along the horizon to the east, blotting out the stars as they passed each of the overlook pullover areas. He thought he’d heard the thumping of rotary blades somewhere in the dark sky a few times, but could not be certain. The fire wasn’t spreading as fast as he’d thought it would, and he thanked the Lord for that. He hoped the river and the firebreaks along the power lines would contain the fire to the foot of the mountain, but he knew that probably wouldn’t last long.
He scanned ahead as the truck traversed the steep grade, which would come to another pullover area atop the hill, then he noticed headlights shining on the trees across the road and that old feeling crept throug
h him—the same feeling he’d gotten back in Afghanistan as his platoon convoyed into the desert hills. He knew he had no choice but to continue along, thinking of the horrors that lay behind him.
“Somebody’s up there,” Wanda said.
“Yeah, but this doesn’t look right. Hell, it doesn’t feel right,” Brayden responded as they slowly topped the hill. Moving slowly across the gravel, they soon discovered the source of the headlights. The lights came from a Suburban parked awkwardly in the paved parking area. Every door stood open, a cargo light shone and a never-ending beeping came from inside the vehicle, warning that the doors were ajar. The engine was still running, and exhaust plumed from the rear.
“Just keep going,” Wanda pleaded.
Then Brayden spotted someone’s feet protruding from the rear of the vehicle and flicked the toggle igniting the big lights atop his truck, illuminating the area in a bright halo of light. He turned the truck toward the Suburban and as they approached, he saw that the feet belonged to a man sprawled across the pavement in a puddle of blood. In the bright lights of the truck, Brayden saw a perfect hole in the man’s forehead; his eyes were stuck in an endless gaze.
“Jesus,” Brayden mumbled as he put the truck in park.
“We shouldn’t stop here, Brayden. I… I don’t like it!” Wanda pleaded again.
“I have to,” Brayden responded.
Wanda gasped, covering her mouth to keep from screaming as her gaze fell on a woman lying bent over the railing of the overlook. Her pants were around her ankles and her shirt had been torn off; grimy handprints circled around her sides and thighs. “Oh my God, they were…” Wanda’s voice trailed off in disgust and fear.
“Robbed, murdered and raped,” Brayden said for her. “We have more to worry about out here than the infected.”
“But…who would do something like this?”
Sneering, Brayden replied, “Trash, Wanda. We’ve got some Grade A trash out here taking advantage of the situation. They think this is a free pass to do whatever the hell they want, to whoever the hell they want to do it to.”
Dead Ascent (The Zombie Apocalypse Book 1) Page 6
