by Scott, Zack
Behind Kale, Howard gasped, “Awesome.”
Kale wished he could say the same.
There was nothing awesome about Erica’s heart-wrenching cry.
EVANS
I crashed our transport back at the Vault. I won’t crash again.
Ordered to drive the four-door pickup truck after rescuing the civilians from the bar, Evans had not taken the task lightly. The roads were usually empty, a straight shot to the coast. He’d always pride himself on remembering directions, and had visited his uncle’s yacht before. Just be there.
To his side, Lt. Sampson gripped his Desert Eagle pistol, its silver shimmering under the moon. He had always liked Sampson. Intelligent, collected, and calm. And although Sampson had dark eyes that seemed to hate the world, he was a very caring man, and his squad meant everything to him.
He is unlike my commanding officer in the Marines. Ashamed after his transfer from his unit, Evans hadn’t told anyone the reason why. He did, however, find the VTF somewhat rewarding, and felt more competent than almost all the other members. Not saying much, I guess.
Behind Evans and Sampson was Pvt. Jennings and two of the survivors, both very attractive girls. Hell, most of the civilians they’d picked up were attractive, and Evans initially thought they’d rescued a modeling convention. One of the girls in the back, Erica, was still crying from losing her boyfriend.
Kill your tears. He never saw the point in crying, unless to help dry eyes.
“How much farther, Specialist?” Sampson asked him.
Evans gave an educated guess of 15 minutes.
“How do you know your uncle will even be there?” Jennings had to open his snarky mouth. Sampson silenced him.
Uncle Dylan lived on the yacht, and had also been expecting Evans over for dinner tonight, so Evans figured his uncle had no reason to leave. Unless raided by the undead and sailed for safety. But Evans was ready to take the chance. Either way, they had to get back to their base, Camp Numark, and traveling by sea made the most sense since Numark was north up the California coast.
Evans tightened his grip around the steering wheel of the truck. No fear now. Sampson will guide us home. All he had to do was not crash.
The roads were wet and quiet, and no one spoke in the truck, and Evans had to think about something in order to block out Erica’s crying. So he focused on what had happened hours earlier.
The attack at the Vault should bother him more than it had so far, he knew. The inhabitants had been trapped in there for almost half a year...and they came out as zombies? Did this happen at every Vault? Evans didn’t know the total number of Vaults off the top of his head, even though he should have, but it was a procedure initiated across the world. Someone knew something would happen, and they were right.
Keep driving. Stay focused.
The higher-ups in the VTF had wanted to keep their operation a secret, shrouding it from the media. But even the grunts in the VTF had been told how the Vaults would open. One of the Vault creators, Addison Layton, came forward with a code that opened all the doors. A code for all those underground caskets? Laughable.
He was done thinking about this. Survival was all that matters.
Erica’s quiet sobbing bothered him more than he wished. Guilt, he told himself. But her boyfriend had to go. He was bitten. No time for anything else.
All the bullets, screams, and cries back at the bar had made enough noise to attract another invasion, and escape had become the critical priority.
Evans tried to clear his fuzzy memory on the path to the yacht club. They would pass a high school soon, then take one road to a fork at the coast. He forgot how exactly to get down to the yacht club.
Not the best plan, but without communications, without power, they weren’t left with much else. Stick to this and it will work. Ignore other possibilities.
In the bed of the truck were the other survivors, guarded by Pvt. Cruz. Wonder if he’s getting sleepy?
Miller, the seemingly incompetent deputy, had exchanged words with Evans before they entered the truck. He’d wanted answers. The specialist was quick to ignore him, for he had his job to do. Drive. Don’t crash. He planned on doing just that.
The road became scattered with parked cars, some wrecked, some on fire, a few dead bodies; luckily, none of them were moving. Of course, all relief ends. A crashed sedan was surrounded by almost a dozen undead. Fast hands clawed at the vehicle. Evans felt himself slowing down.
“Don’t stop, Specialist. We’re full and can’t save everyone,” said Sampson.
Evans knew this true, but the sandy blond head of his friend spinning around in the sedan forced him to hit the brakes.
Sampson cursed. “I said drive!”
“Jeff is in there, sir,” Evans said and swung his door open.
Sampson growled again and turned to Jennings. “Well, get out there and help him.” He did the same, and together the three VTF members unleashed a spray of bullets around the sedan. Evans remained kneeling, taking careful shots at the heads. Sampson blasted a couple standing next to him. Jennings fired with no responsibility whatsoever. Just don’t hit Jeff. They were quick to clear the sedan. Sampson took lead, running with his massive pistol at his thigh.
Jeff, inside the car, was sliced from broken glass—but, for being blown off a cliff, he still looked pretty damn good. I love the lucky bastard. Together with Sampson, they pulled Jeff from the front of the car. His eyes were open but struggling to stay that way. Words slurred off his lips. No time to interpret them. He hung limp between Evans and Sampson as they carried him, passed out by the time they reached the bed of the truck.
Two of the survivors, a Korean and one of the girl’s boyfriends, stood upon seeing Jeff. They recognize him...
“Homer,” the Korean said.
“You know Jeff?” asked Evans.
“We went to high school together.”
I suppose we joined the reunion. Jeff had mentioned the pending party to Evans on several occasions. “Good,” he said, “then you’ll keep him safe for us.”
They heard moans in the distance. Growing louder. Evans left Jeff with his friends in the bed of the truck and hopped behind the steering wheel. As he accelerated, drops splashed across the windshield.
Wet roads or dry, I won’t crash again.
They sped past blacked-out homes, a deserted shopping center, stumbling corpses, crashed cars, wrecked trees, but nothing slowed them down until they reached a fork at the coast. He had to make a decision quick, for the undead were trailing them. North or south, North or south? Where is the fucking entrance to the yacht club? Either way, they had to head north in order to reach Camp Numark, so Evans made a right turn.
Rain pounded against glass. The truck swerved a couple of times from strong winds. Screw you, Mother Nature! He drove north a few minutes and there was still no opening for the yacht club. His heart sped a little, sweat dripped from under his short mohawk and down the shaved sides of his head. He buckled his seatbelt to ease his mind and he laughed at himself for ever thinking it would help him relax.
“Where are we going, Specialist?” Sampson questioned him.
“Almost there, sir.”
Green Hills Yacht Club! He spotted the entrance sign, cut for an opening. They had to drive down cliffs to the beach, and the road was steep and swerving. Just my luck. He had taken the initial turn too hard. Yanking the steering wheel, he kept the truck on the road. It tipped slightly to the side and someone in the back bashed against the sliding window. It sounded like a fuck-you-bash to the driver.
“No crashing again...right, Evans?” Jennings’ voice shook.
Vision was killed by night and rain, one of their headlights was busted and swerves seemed endless. But Evans couldn’t go too slowly; those creatures were everywhere, and after them. Not like he could go any faster either, unless they wanted to be off the road.
“I can’t see anything!” Evans finally caved, losing his cool. How the hell do all these rich people
get down here? Oh yeah, they aren’t usually chased by fucking zombies!
“Just keep it steady,” Sampson attempted a reassuring voice.
Evans wished there was time for reassurance. No time for anything.
A tire slipped off the road on one of the swerves. The truck tumbled, flipping over and over. Evans shut his eyes, couldn’t believe it. I crashed us again. The smash came quick. A short fall luckily. They rolled over twice more, landed on the passenger’s side. The truck tipped slightly before falling to a still. Rain splashed against Evans’ window as he hung in his seat. He stared down at Sampson, who growled and bashed against his own window.
Evans strained to search the backseats of the truck. Both girls lay on top of Jennings, muffling his voice as he said, “How did you crash again?”
Ignoring him, Evans forced his door open. Rain attacked his face as he used the steering wheel to help him unbuckle and climb out. He heaved himself on the back passenger door and scampered around to look back in the driver’s side. “I’ll get you out in a second, sir,” he told Sampson, and received a growl of acknowledgment.
Squinting through the rain and dark, Evans realized they were on the beach. A group of silhouettes were headed for the truck. Quickly, Evans detached a flashlight hanging from his belt, and was relieved to see Pvt. Cruz leading the other survivors. Must’ve fallen out of the bed.
“Nice driving, man!” one of them yelled.
Evans said, “We made it to the beach. Everyone okay?”
“I would be if my cuffs were off, Jimmy!”
The deputy stared up at Evans. “You okay in there?”
“Get all these people to my uncle’s yacht at the end of the dock. His name is Dylan. Tell him Jon sent you.”
The deputy nodded. The others followed. Two of them were carrying Jeff.
One said, “I’m not going till Nicole is out.”
Evans turned to Cruz. “You good on ammo?”
“Good enough for now.”
Before Evans replied, he heard them through the rain and the wind. Moans. He wanted to believe his mind was playing tricks, or the storm was creating false sounds, but fighting reality helped no one.
Here come the zombies.
The survivors had reached the beach and soon they’d reach the yacht. But no matter how close they were, Evans’ gut turned with the rotten truth: they were far from safe.
JENNINGS
I watched way too many action movies. I smoked way too much ganja. Where did it get me? Pinned below two steaming gorgeous honey bunnies. Okay, that’s not too bad. But I’m stuck and they’re coming. Also, who am I kidding? I haven’t had enough cannabis in a while. I don’t care what anyone says, it keeps my mind clear. Speaking of mind, what the hell am I saying right now? Man, she’s hot. I could lie here and appreciate the beauty that is her butt. I could do that forever. My God, is that a butt!
Jennings fought futilely to keep his eyes from staring at Nicole’s ass as Evans lifted her from the truck. Her dress was rolled up her legs. The butt is glowing at me.
As for himself, Jennings was pinned against glass. His arm was crushed by Lt. Sampson’s chair.
Sampson was no longer in the truck. He’d climbed out himself, growling the entire time, said he’d come around the back for Jennings.
So, the private remained pinned, helpless, smelling Erica’s hair as she lay on him. Quit being a creeper, Gregory! He could hear his mother’s voice yelling at him. He missed her so. He never wanted to join the military. But he wasn’t smart, he wasn’t talented, and he needed some sort of purpose. Gah, her hair smells delicious — no creeping, Gregory! He turned his face from her as she continued trembling on him.
Shouts outside from Evans then Cruz then Evans then Sampson.
Jennings couldn’t see much. The night was dark and filled with fear, and while he wasn’t scared, he felt like he should be. After all, he knew everyone expected him to be dead already. Defy the odds!
The back window slid open. Evans crouched, poking his square face in. “I’m getting you two out soon, don’t worry.”
Erica grabbed for him but he made her wait. Cruz yelled something outside but Jennings couldn’t translate over the pouring rain. What he did hear were the gunshots. Short spurts at first then a flowing blast. They’re here. Calamity, they’re here!
Erica squirmed on him. “Get me out! Get me out!”
Jennings wrapped his non-trapped arm around her. “Hang on, hang—” Her elbow struck him in the face. Intentional or not, it hurt like a fissuring asshole and he let her go. She kicked and wiggled and forced her head through the bed’s window. She nailed him in the stomach and he gagged. It didn’t feel as bad as the next kick to his groin. His shriek was poisoned by a choking throat.
The Jennings family had named their son after a pro-football star, and were surely disappointed with the result. Terrible at being a member of the VTF, he still lacked a purpose.
The guns kept firing. The rain kept pouring.
“We’re outnumbered!” Sampson yelled outside. “Get back to the truck!”
Jennings coughed several times as Erica climbed out, putting all her pressure on him. He didn’t blame her. When you gotta survive, you gotta survive. He would’ve been scrambling for that window too if he weren’t trapped. I’ll do anything to be free, to have a fighting chance, to prove to the others I will not die. Not now, not here, not for a long time.
His arm was pinned for so long it’d gone numb.
The others regrouped by the truck for cover, standing outside the bed’s window.
“Evans, get her to the boat,” Sampson ordered.
“I stay here with you,” he said back. Of course he did. Golden boy.
“We have to get Jennings out. You have to keep the civilian safe. Get her to the yacht. That’s an order!”
Not another word from Evans, and Jennings figured he left with Erica. Sampson poked his head in the truck. “How you doing, Private?”
“Oh, hanging tight.” He was surprised to hear his LT chuckle.
“I’ll get you out soon.”
Cruz opened fire again, starting with short spurts.
“How many are out there?” Jennings’ voice shook.
“Cruz has it under control.” Sampson heaved in, shining his flashlight at the private’s crushed arm. All he could see was blood pouring out his wrist. Beyond that, a mix of metal and flesh. Reality set in: he would not be leaving this truck. No surviving tonight.
Sampson’s eyes spoke the same truth. “I’m getting you out,” he repeated, and this time his voice was overly confident.
Jennings wanted to believe. His stomach filled with so much fear, he released it all over his lap. Sampson quickly dodged. “Sorr-sorry, sir.” It was the first time he took the rankings seriously. The first time he felt danger in the world. The first time he ever thought he could be killed. No wonder the Guard ditched me. No wonder the VTF took me in. We were all doomed to die from the start.
The firing outside slowed and Cruz yelled for Sampson. The LT, who was leaning over Jennings while fighting with the crushed chair, pulled out of the truck.
Jennings quaked in his prison, alone, listening to the drops, listening to several gun shots from Sampson’s Desert Eagle, listening to his pounding heart. “I miss you, Mom,” he whispered. I love you. He cursed the tears forming in his eyes.
Light shone through the window again, and Sampson shoved his head inside the truck. Looking down at Jennings, he said, “We are...” his voice drifted. “We are going to—”
Jennings knew there was nothing to say but defeat. “Leave me,” his soft voice spoke, unassured.
“No. We might not be much, Greg,” he said, the shimmering Desert Eagle by his forehead, “but we will not leave you.” He grabbed Jennings’ thigh, yanked his pistol from his holster, and shoved it in the private’s free hand. “Don’t miss and I’ll see you past the end.” He slammed a gloved fist against Jennings’ chest. “That’s an order.” And he vanished,
growling, roaring and firing.
Jennings fought to look out the window. His arm held him back. He tugged harder and the pain was masked by numbness until he stretched farther. A shredding agony ripped through his body and he knew his flesh was being ripped off as he stretched. He kept going and finally, he could see outside.
Muzzle flashes, rain, the undead.
Even if Sampson and Cruz had run a minute earlier, they would’ve suffered the same fate as Jennings.
Cruz ran out of ammo and dropped his light machine gun. He whipped out two pistols at the same time and opened fire. He was farthest from the truck and closest to the zombies. He looks like he’s in an action movie. Jennings smiled. But it didn’t end like an action movie. Cruz emptied one pistol and threw it at the closest zombie, knocking it over. Two sideswiped him, knocking him down. Covered by a half-dozen in seconds, Cruz screamed once before being silenced.
Lt. Sampson rushed back to the window. He knelt by it and fired; Jennings finally did the same. He swore he nailed two in their heads. Sampson, who had his flashlight under his Desert Eagle, dropped it and yanked something off his vest.
With the light in the sand, the stampeding feet revealed themselves to Jennings’ eyes. Hundreds! His eyes were growing dizzy from loss of blood; his massacred arm was draining. He fired again as the zombies grabbed his lieutenant.
Sampson snagged one of their faces, shoved his pistol in its mouth, and blew its head open. Three more latched to him. He fell to his knees, in front of the light by the truck’s bed, in front of Jennings. Arms clawed at his chest, ripping his black vest open, shredding the flesh off his bones, and prying his ribcage apart.
Jennings swore Sampson winked at him as they chewed him to death. The last thing the lieutenant did was toss his grenade through the window of the truck.
Frantically twisting, Jennings searched for the explosive. I can’t die like him, like this. I can’t be chewed to death. I can’t! His finger grazed the grenade and he held it dear to his chest. He peeked outside again. Sampson? Gone. Buried beneath them all.
