In Harm's Way

by Shawn Chesser

  The Traveler entered the first home he happened across; it was empty of people, living or dead. He gathered the absentee owners didn’t have much of a voyeuristic streak even though the house had a panoramic view of the valley that opened up below as there wasn’t a telescope to be found, so he relied on the next best thing, his trusty Bushnells. He glassed the land north to south. Only ten minutes into his recon he spotted two vehicles moving south on the freeway, weaving in between the stalls and pileups, and maintaining a steady controlled pace. Suddenly, with a burst of speed, the smaller blue wagon pulsed around the black SUV and exited the freeway. The Traveler momentarily lost sight of the rabbiting vehicle in the clutter and shadows before reacquiring it a few streets east of the freeway where it made a left turn. Midway down the block the speeding car slewed sideways, stopping abruptly. Then a large bearded man hopped out and hurriedly entered into one of the storefronts.

  From the Traveler’s vantage point, with the aid of the high powered binoculars, it seemed like he was witnessing a Los Angeles freeway chase on CNN. Although there weren’t any police cars in hot pursuit, it appeared to the Traveler that the person behind the wheel of the black SUV didn’t want to be left in the dust.

  The Traveler watched with detached amusement as the SUV collided with a diminutive walker, sending the pasty body cartwheeling through space. That had to hurt, he thought, as the creature wound up with multiple piercings courtesy of an inconveniently placed wrought iron fence.

  Continuing on the same trajectory, the black SUV struck a much larger male zombie head on. The result, however, was exactly the opposite; a viscous spray of fluids painted the hood and windshield as the giant walker disappeared under the front of the speeding SUV. Then, like a corpse in a wood chipper, shredded skin, flesh, and tattered scraps of clothing vomited out the other end. From the Traveler’s skybox seat, even without the benefit of sound to accompany the gory visual, the steam venting from the truck’s destroyed grill testified to the ferocity of the impact.

  “They’re effed,” the Traveler said aloud as he continued to watch the spectacle unfold.

  ***

  That was one big dude, Wilson thought as he turned on the wipers to clear the gore from the windshield. The flopping blades spread the greasy liquids over the entire glass, further obscuring his view.

  “What’s that sound?” Sasha asked.

  Wilson slowed the truck and performed a U-turn. “I think the thing is stuck underneath,” he said, stabbing a finger at the floorboard.

  Sasha shook her head side to side. “No, not that sound... I hear something hissing. Like maybe a tire leaking air?”

  “Shit.”

  “What is it?”

  Wilson noticed the flashing idiot light on the instrument cluster. “The engine is overheating.”

  He nosed the stricken vehicle in towards the curb next to the Subaru. When the truck stopped moving, an explosion of superheated water and steam erupted under the hood. Wilson shook his head, fearing that the truck was done for. Then he grabbed the Louisville Slugger and looked down the street in both directions searching for any new threats before he exited the Suburban. “Wait here while I check things out,” he said to Sasha, slamming the door shut without allowing her time to protest.

  Part of Sasha wanted to curl up and melt into the seat but the thought quickly dissipated. Wilson’s last foray from the safety of the truck was still etched in her memory: the unexpected thrashing he had given the zombie was brutal and totally out of character for him. The total feeling of helplessness that owned her as she lay paralyzed by fear on the verge of a nervous breakdown was something she never wanted to experience again. There was no way Wilson was leaving her and going in alone. “Dammit Wilson,” she muttered as she threw the door open in a fit of rage. The moment her bare foot touched the scorching pavement she realized that her shoes were still in the back seat, but before she could turn to retrieve them something ice cold clutched her ankle and yanked her out of the SUV. She twisted her body on the way down and landed on her right side, where she found herself staring directly into the hungry jaundiced eyes of her attacker. Sasha braced one foot on the running board and commenced the tug of war for her life.

  ***

  The Traveler popped another Ritz cracker into his mouth and crunched hungrily. “What are you going to do now, carrot top?” he said aloud, the cracker crumbs spraying from his mouth and dusting the dark walnut floor. He watched as the redhead exited the steaming SUV, bat over his shoulder, and stormed into the drugstore. “No guts no glory.” Oh to be young again, the Traveler thought.

  Seconds after the driver disappeared the Traveler watched the passenger door open, revealing a scarlet-haired young lady.

  “Nice... a lithe young redhead. Me like...” the Traveler said, continuing his running commentary. Then he noticed more walkers emerging from the darkened stores. “Better watch yer back lassie.” As he spoke, her upper body disappeared behind the rig she had just stepped out of. “Can’t hide from ‘em there...” he warned the soon-to-be-surrounded cutie. He inhaled the rest of the crackers, chucked the wax wrapper on the pristine floor, and buried his face in the binoculars.

  ***

  Wilson’s eyes were slow to adjust to the shadowy interior, but his other senses picked up the slack. The darkened drugstore smelled like death and cheap cologne. There are probably more than one of the creatures in here, he silently warned himself as he choked up on the gore-stained baseball bat. He finally regained some eyesight and noticed a gray haze swirling in the air; just then a rattling sound, like someone shaking Yahtzee dice, came from behind the pharmacist’s sliding window. By the time Wilson gathered up the resolve to see what or who was making the noise in the back of the store, Sasha’s unmistakable shrill screams sounded outside.

  ***

  Here I come to save the day, the Traveler thought, complete with the theme music playing in his head as he watched the guy carrying the bat burst from the drugstore. The Traveler loved Mighty Mouse cartoons as a kid and even idolized the tough little character. He was always the littlest guy in the room when he was growing up. To say he had a Napoleon complex would be an understatement. After high school, to prove a point, he tried to join the Marine Corps, but because of his size he was turned down. It proved to be a blessing in disguise, because if they had taken him he would have been sent to Vietnam in the waning years of the war. Instead he joined the Atlanta Police Department and rose through the ranks until retiring with a full pension in the year 2000 at the ripe old age of forty-four. He had every intention of working a cushy PI job and living the double dipper lifestyle until his life took a series of interesting turns. Now, more than ten years later, here he was trying to find a way to join up with the little group of survivors and get to Colorado Springs alive.

  ***

  Sasha’s screaming continued unabated. Wilson hit the door at full speed leading with his forearm, circled around the battered front end of the Suburban and tripped face first over Sasha’s outstretched body. He looked like Pete Rose stealing second as his head and chest absorbed the brunt of the fall. He momentarily lost consciousness yet somehow kept hold of the Louisville Slugger. After a second or two, Wilson resurfaced from the dark. Still the screaming continued. He vigorously shook his head to get rid of the cobwebs; the tactic didn’t work. He continued seeing double, although he desperately wanted his senses to return to normal... for Sasha’s sake.

  Sasha braced her foot against the running board and locked her knee. The searing pain from the monster’s crushing grip raced up her leg as the thing started reeling her foot towards its mouth full of jagged teeth.

  “Hold on, Sis,” Wilson said as he commando crawled under the truck and jammed the bat, handle first, down the zombie’s throat. Then he used both hands to pry the ghoul’s fingers open. “Good thing it only got ahold of your leg with its bare hand. The big bastard was carrying a meat cleaver in the other,” Wilson said, as he inspected the abraded skin and hand-shaped bru
ise already blooming purple and fuchsia around her reed thin ankle.

  “It still hurts like hell,” Sasha said, while scooting backwards on her butt to get away from the groping hand.

  From the other side of the Suburban, three shotgun blasts boomed in quick succession.

  Wilson popped his head over the hood of the SUV to see who was doing the shooting. His stomach clenched when he realized he was staring down the barrel of Ted’s shotgun, and from his vantage point the smoking muzzle looked as big as a manhole cover. It was the first and hopefully the last time he had ever had a gun pointed at him. Wilson had never felt so vulnerable. At that moment he wished he was a turtle and could pull everything inside of a shell, especially his head.

  “I almost shortened you by a foot,” Ted stated as he stalked around the SUV. “Where is your sister?”

  Wilson, still recovering from his near death experience, couldn’t find the words to reply.

  Ted looked at the wrecked front end of the Suburban. “Will it start?”

  “I think it’ll start... but it won’t take us very far with an empty radiator,” Wilson said glumly, pointing at the yellow-green fluid lapping at Ted’s shoes. Then he appraised the situation he had gotten him and his sister into. The creature under the truck was still rooting around, waiting for anyone to get within the grabbing zone. The sight reminded Wilson to light a fire under his sister to get her moving. “Sasha, get your stuff and this time don’t forget your shoes.”

  He looked across the street; Tube Top still writhed on the fence. On the far side of the SUV, three corpses with fresh head wounds were splayed out in awkward positions scattered at five foot intervals. In the other direction, there were more walkers than Wilson could count streaming from the side streets and open storefronts, slowly lurching towards his position.

  “Take this.” Ted thrust the shotgun to Wilson. “I think there are only three shots left,” he said as he emptied his pockets of shells and hurriedly dumped them in Wilson’s free hand.

  “I don’t know how to use this,” Wilson said, his brow wrinkling. He tried to hand the gun back.

  Ted brushed past him, ignoring the gesture. “I have to drive... get in,” he ordered rather convincingly.

  Sasha retrieved her shoes and bags while being very careful to stay out of the butcher’s reach. She inched around the Subaru and squeezed into the back seat behind William. The man didn’t have a “human” color about him, he was unmoving and appeared unconscious. Sasha thought that he wasn’t breathing until a dry rattle escaped from his thin bloodless lips. The way he looked just a foot in front of her face reminded Sasha of one of those wax figures in Madame whatever-her-name’s museum.

  Ted and Wilson jumped into the car at the same time, the stench of the dead entering with them, a choking eye watering odor that made breathing nearly impossible. For good measure, Wilson had repossessed his Louisville Slugger from the butcher’s throat. He had a feeling he would need it again before the day was over.

  The zombies were closing and now within twenty feet of the Subaru. A handful approached from the north but most of their numbers were trudging from the south, which Sasha was already well aware of.

  Ted started the car and rapidly backed away from the curb, running over two walkers in the process. Suddenly the back end of the Subaru rose up off of the street, pitching the backseat passengers forward. Without traction the rear wheels spun freely and the rpms instantly increased, making the engine sound like it was in danger of blowing.

  “Shift it into four wheel drive,” Wilson said as he fumbled to reload the shotgun.

  “How is that going to help? It’s all wheel drive anyways,” Ted said heatedly as he pounded a fist on the steering wheel. He was clearly not a fan of backseat drivers.

  The gearbox balked with a clunk as Ted gave in and shifted the car into four wheel drive low; next, he shifted the transmission out of reverse and into drive. Although Ted wasn’t about to admit it, the kid did have a point--the low gearing would transfer the engine power to the wheels that needed it most. “Betsy, don’t fail me now,” he thought as he mashed the accelerator. The engine emitted a low growl as the front tires gained purchase and began to pull the car forward off of the undead pair.

  Sasha pointed a trembling finger towards the rear window. “Wilson...” was the only word she could squeak out.

  A gnarled hand slapped the hatchback.

  Wilson recoiled, whipped his head around, and poked the shotgun through the partially cracked window looking to acquire a target. From his cramped spot in the rear seat there was no way for him to engage the creature without getting out of the car... that was not happening, he said silently to himself.

  Ted checked both side mirrors. The mangled zombies that had been stuck under the car were now slowly crawling along the passenger side and a third creature wavered nearby. Ted made it a point to check the rearview mirror before backing up. After determining that the coast was clear, he pulled away from the curb and consciously left haste behind; the last thing he wanted to do was get the car high centered again.

  The zombie that had been pawing at the rear window stabbed its pustule-riddled arm into the slow moving car and grabbed a substantial handful of Wilson’s hair.

  Wilson instinctively yanked his head back while bringing the shotgun to bear. He knew the gun was loaded but he had never shot one before. With the gun barrel resting on the zombie’s chest, and acting on faith alone, he pulled the trigger. The report wasn’t so bad, but the recoil nearly broke his wrist. The resulting blast peeled the pectoral and shoulder muscles away from the zombie’s breastbone nearly severing its left arm. The residual kinetic energy spun the monster to the ground, tearing the last strands of flesh and tendon free leaving the arm dangling against the passenger door with the fingers fully intertwined in Wilson’s red hair.

  The blast caught Ted by surprise. The proximity of the barrel to his head when it went off caused him to forget about the whole “take it slow” mantra that was running through his head. He stabbed the accelerator, peeling out in reverse, wrenched the wheel to the left and skidded to a halt facing the two dozen walkers standing between them and the road leading back to the freeway onramp.

  “I think I sharted,” Ted said quietly, sounding embarrassed.

  “I don’t care about your underwear. Someone help and get this thing off of me,” Wilson begged as he wrestled with the clammy arm.

  “I can’t stop now... look behind us.”

  “Easy for you to say, you don’t have an extra twenty pounds of dead meat hanging from your head,” Wilson shot back.

  Ted stole a furtive look in the rearview mirror as the large group of walking dead were about to overtake them. He put the car in drive and drove away, being careful to keep his speed under twenty miles per hour. He didn’t want to risk a collision and have the Subaru suffer the same fate as the much bigger Suburban. Outside, the pale arm swung back and forth, occasionally banging against the door.

  Wilson rolled his window all the way down and reeled the arm into the car--placing it between his knees while he worked to get the stiff fingers to relax.

  Sasha moved as far away from the rotten appendage as she could.

  Wilson was getting more pissed off by the second because the dead hand wouldn’t let go. “Ted, I need you to pull over pretty soon, this thing is bleeding all over my shoes.”

  “Eww,” Sasha exclaimed as she pulled her feet from the floorboard and closely inspected them for wayward bodily fluids.

  Wilson noticed her bare feet first and then the welt on her ankle--which was turning a shade of purple Prince would probably admire. “Sasha... put your damn shoes on,” he said gruffly, sounding too much like their mom. And then he asked in a more calm, caring voice. “How is your ankle?”

  “I’ll live...” Sasha’s face sprouted a big grin as she tried to suppress a laugh. “Forget about my ankle. You should see yourself with that arm growing out of your head. That would be a great picture to post on F
ace...”

  Wilson watched his sister’s face go slack and then the tears started. He was already fully aware of how much the world had changed in the week since the outbreaks, at least in Colorado, the place that he called home, and he had a feeling Sasha had just come to the same realization.

  Wilson wanted to console Sasha but he was in no position to give her a hug (dead man’s arm and all), so he renewed his efforts to free himself from its grasp. “Ted, do you have a Leatherman or some kind of multi-tool... maybe a pocket knife?

  “You’re just going to have to wait a sec,” Ted stated.

  Sasha wiped her tears and watched William’s head loll back and forth on the headrest. His seat was reclined nearly horizontally, so far back that Sasha was forced to stare at his sweaty face. She noted his eyeballs fluttering intermittently behind darkened eyelids. Her only option was to stay vigilant and hope that he didn’t turn into a zombie and bite her face off.

  Ted put his palm on his partner’s forehead. “Hang on Will... I’m getting us out of here,” he said, choking up a little. Then he wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his arm and focused on slaloming the little car in between the random clusters of walkers.

  ***

  The small tire shop was two blocks from Interstate 25. Ted pulled into the parking lot out of necessity--he was fed up with Wilson’s incessant whining and close to being sick from the decomposing flesh in the back seat.

  Ted removed the first aid kit from the glove box and tossed the red and white nylon pouch in Wilson’s general direction. “There’s got to be something sharp in there,” he said as he started rummaging around in the large plastic sack sitting on his lap.

  Wilson opened the kit hoping to find a pair of scissors or a pocket knife, anything with an edge. At this point he would resort to shaving his head to be rid of the severed arm. Tucked deep in the recesses of the tri-fold kit, Wilson found a pair of red-handled scissors.

  “Be brave Sasha... you’ve got to do this. You won’t even have to touch it. I’ll hold the arm up to give you some slack and then hack off as much hair as you need to.”