This is the End 3: The Post-Apocalyptic Box Set (8 Book Collection)

by J. Thorn

  Rachel grabbed my arm in excitement and a small cry escaped her lips. The two female infected on the hood of the truck could tell something was happening and they became agitated, bouncing up and down while snarling and slapping the windshield with their hands.

  I firmly twisted the wires together and picked the blue and white/blue to try first for the starter. I touched them together and nothing happened. I fumbled as I grasped the green and white/green wires, caught my breath and touched them. There was a spark and I got a hell of a jolt of electricity that made me drop the wires, but I was rewarded with a momentary whine from the truck’s starter.

  To her credit, Rachel kept her mouth shut. She could have easily been one of those people who have to offer an opinion or suggestion or criticism about everything, and I was mildly surprised that she remained silent. Obviously at some point in her life she had learned the lesson of keeping your mouth shut if you didn’t have something constructive to offer.

  The women on the hood became agitated and it spread like wild fire to the crowd of infected that surrounded us. Dozens of pairs of fists started pounding on the glass and body of the truck. I looked out the windows and noticed for the first time that the crowd had grown sometime during the day to what I guessed was in excess of 150. Maybe all the noise the ones that originally cornered us made had attracted others and others and so on.

  The truck lurched side to side and I looked to my right to see the entire passenger side of the truck lined with large males. They were hitting and pushing on the truck, and there was enough flesh there that if by accident or design their efforts happened to coordinate they could flip us over. With a burst of fear, I returned my attention to the wiring. I tried not to let myself be distracted by the increasing range of motion of the truck as the infected rocked it side to side.

  Firmly grasping the starter wires I made sure I was only holding them on the plastic insulation and firmly touched them together. The starter whined for a couple of seconds then the big diesel engine in the truck rattled to life. The starter continued to whine so I quickly separated the wires that powered it and it went quiet, the diesel settling into a smooth but loud idle. I bent the wires away from each other and sat against the back of the seat as one of the female infected on the hood threw herself against the windshield with a screaming snarl. The blood dripping from her nose made a smear on the windshield that reminded me of a Rorschach ink blot test, but I didn’t have time to look at it and figure out what I saw in the shape.

  The horde of infected around us went into a fever pitch of snarling and slamming into the truck, and now both women on the hood were repeatedly slamming themselves into the windshield in an attempt to get to us. In front of us was a crashed VW and there was a small Toyota behind us with no room to steer around either one. I put my foot on the brake and shifted the Ford into reverse, the heavy duty transmission going into gear with a satisfyingly hard thunk.

  I said, “Hold on,” and hit the accelerator. The truck lurched backwards and crunched into the side of the Toyota. I kept feeding throttle and the oversized tires grabbed the pavement and we pushed the Toyota back ten feet.

  One of the female infected on the hood had lost her balance and fallen off when the truck suddenly moved, but the other held to the lip of the hood closest to the cab with one hand and pounded her fist on the windshield with the other. The one who had fallen off was on her feet and would have already leapt back on the hood, but the crowd that had been on either side of the truck had flowed into the empty space left when I had backed up, and she was temporarily blocked. In the rear view I could see several infected that had been between the back bumper and the Toyota that were now crushed. What would have been mortal wounds to a normal human, rendering them unable to move, seemed to have little effect on the infected other than to slow them down because of damaged hips and legs.

  I shifted into drive, turned the wheel to point us around the crashed VW, and fed throttle to the big truck. We moved and immediately started feeling thuds from the suspension as the push bar on the front of the truck knocked infected down moments before we rolled over them. Large males held onto the mirrors on each side of the truck and the females in the back of the truck began smashing their heads against the rear window. My adrenaline surged when I heard the rear window crack from one of their impacts and I started swerving back and forth across the road to throw them off balance.

  Our speed quickly built to 40 and I kept swerving. This kept the females in back distracted just trying to stay in the truck and the males on each side held on with a death grip. Their legs swung almost horizontally every time I cut the wheel. The female on the hood was now holding on with two hands and smashing her head into the windshield, but the thick glass was harder than the human skull, infected or not. She cocked her head back and launched a massive head butt into the glass. I felt as much as heard the impact, and watched the feral light in her eyes die just before she went limp and slipped off the front of the hood and under the big tires.

  “Holy shit,” Rachel said. “Did you see that? She just bashed her own brains out trying to get to us.”

  I was concentrating on driving and keeping our unwelcome passengers occupied and didn’t answer. The males on either side of the truck started smashing their heads into the side windows each time the momentum from a swerve brought them back against the truck. I risked a glance in the rear view mirror and did a double take. The two females in the bed of the truck had found a way to brace themselves and were preparing to start attacking the rear window again. I turned my attention back to the road and slammed on the brakes, the big truck skittering across the asphalt in protest. The females in back slammed forward into the back window, but not as an attack. One of the males lost his grip and tumbled forward, coming to rest 30 feet down the road and immediately lurching to his feet and starting towards us.

  I sat watching him and watching the two women in back in the mirror. The remaining male was on Rachel’s side of the truck and he started pounding on the window with his fists and smashing his head into the glass. Infected were hurrying towards us from surrounding parking lots and the horde that had previously surrounded us was in hot pursuit about 200 yards behind.

  “What are you doing? Go!” Rachel’s voice pitched up an octave on the last word and she grabbed my right arm hard enough to hurt.

  “Wait,” I said, and kept my concentration on the mirror.

  The infected in front of us had just reached the push bar when I floored the accelerator and stood on the brake pedal. Diesels aren’t known for neck snapping acceleration and I needed a sudden surge forward for what I wanted to do. The big engine quickly built to a roar and as the rear tires started to break lose I let off the brake and kept my right foot hard down on the throttle.

  The truck shot forward, battering the male in front out of the way, but the best reward was watching the females in the rear tumble backwards out of the bed of the truck. I had timed it perfectly and as they were standing up the sudden acceleration was like pulling a rug out from under their feet. In the mirror I could see them hit the pavement, tumble, then gather themselves and start pursuing us. Not only were they more agile than the males, they were faster too, moving at least as fast as a quick jogging pace. Nothing short of a flat out run was going to out distance them. Maybe.

  We were finally free of all of our riders except for one male that stubbornly clung to the passenger mirror. Rachel shied away from that side of the truck, pushing against me as he started trying to break the glass with his head again. Ahead of us an abandoned delivery truck for the Atlanta Journal Constitution sat half in the traffic lane. I headed directly for it at 50 miles an hour.

  The infected was still holding on when we reached the abandoned truck, and I steered us to neatly peel him off the side of the truck. There was a thud followed by a splash of blood onto the side window, then he was gone. I had managed to not lose the passenger side mirror in the maneuver, and looking in it I could see him lying in an unmoving
heap in the road behind us. His head must have hit the back of the parked truck at speed, and judging by the amount of blood on our window it had pretty much disintegrated like an overripe watermelon.

  I steered us back to the middle of the road and reduced speed, making sure I would have enough reaction time in case we needed to avoid an unseen obstacle. Rachel leaned over to the side window and peered out to make sure we didn’t have any other riders. My side was clear and when she sat back she looked at me and smiled.

  “That was pretty quick thinking.” She said.

  I smiled back, hands shaking and stomach fluttering from the adrenaline that was still pumping through my system.

  I said, “Climb into the back seat and make sure the bed is clear. I don’t see anything in the mirror, but all I can see of the bed is the last couple of feet and the inside of the tailgate.”

  “All clear,” she said a moment later, crawling back into the front seat and resuming her position, pressing against me. I didn’t complain and I didn’t read anything in to it. I had even stopped noticing she was basically naked. I was freaked out. She had to be at least as scared as I was. Physical contact with another human was still part of our animal instinct, and there was absolutely nothing erotic or sexual about it.

  8

  The big Ford’s air conditioning worked well. Within a few minutes we were both shivering from the cold air blasting out of the dash vents, but neither of us wanted to turn it off or down. We were dehydrated, hungry and exhausted. Adrenaline was keeping us going, but I knew we’d crash and burn as soon as it bled off.

  As I piloted the truck down the road, slowing frequently to avoid wrecked and abandoned vehicles, infected continually appeared and shuffled towards us. It quickly became apparent that the rattle of the heavy duty diesel engine announced our presence and provoked a Pavlovian response from them. More often than I liked, an infected appeared from behind an empty vehicle and stepped into our path. They were smashed down by the massive grill guard mounted to the front of the Ford then pulped under the oversized off-road tires.

  Finding the Ford was a blessing. Short of an armored car or a military vehicle it was about the best transportation for our situation. With the added benefit of a beefy four wheel drive system we weren’t restricted to pavement. I glanced at the dash and noted the fuel tank was over three quarters full. I also noticed a switch on the dash marked ‘fuel’ and realized the truck had dual tanks. I flipped the switch to change tanks and the gauge quickly swung all the way past the full indicator. God Bless rednecks!

  “Where are we going?” Rachel leaned forward and adjusted the AC vent that was blowing directly on her.

  Her question hit me like a slap across the face. Katie! My wife was in Arizona and I’d been so focused on the crisis at hand I’d forgotten about what she must be going through. Guilt washed over me, sapping most of my strength, my shoulders slumping.

  “What?” She asked, looking around in a panic, thinking my reaction was due to some new threat.

  “My wife. Katie. She’s in Arizona. Alone.” I squared my shoulders and started thinking.

  Katie was a farm girl, raised in Michigan by a Marine who survived Pearl Harbor and the fighting in the Pacific. She’d been the only girl, and the baby, in a family with three boys. She could fight and shoot with the best of them, but had she had the chance to arm herself and fight?

  “I’m going to Arizona.” I announced without giving it a second’s thought. “I’m going to find some food, water and weapons, and then I’m going to get my wife.”

  Rachel was quiet, staring ahead through the windshield for a time before she spoke, “I’ll help you. I’ve got no one, and from the looks of Atlanta I don’t even have a home anymore.”

  If I’d been thinking even half way clearly I would have been amazed at how quickly we had adjusted to a world that had just fallen apart around us.

  9

  We drove a couple of miles south before finding a major road that turned to the west and looked like it would provide us access to the expressway that ran through the area. The road I was looking for was GA 400, an eight lane toll road that serviced the northern suburbs of Atlanta. I really needed a map. I knew the geography of the US pretty well, but I didn’t know the routes to get out of the Atlanta area without getting lost in suburban and rural areas.

  We drove and pushed through more wrecks, regularly bouncing infected off the front of the truck as we made our way towards the expressway. The road we were on swept up a rise and as we gained elevation I could see the signs for the toll road entrances to go north and south. I slowed as we approached the northbound onramp, not knowing which way to go, but hesitant to go any closer to the inferno that Atlanta had become. Idling past the entrance we crested the overpass and I brought us to a gentle stop.

  The northbound lanes were partially clogged with crashed and abandoned cars, but were passable if one drove slowly enough. Southbound was completely empty for as far as I could see. Infected shambled on the pavement, turning to face us as they heard the sound of the idling diesel engine. More of them crawled on the pavement and in the grassy median, apparently too damaged to walk, but not damaged enough to be down for the count.

  I looked south, to my left, and the scene was repeated. Raising my eyes, I could see the thick, oily, black smoke boiling up from Atlanta. Even in the daylight it glowed within from the fires burning in the city. Rachel gasped and grabbed my arm, pointing ahead across the overpass.

  Not a mile ahead of us was a gas station with attached convenience mart. I didn’t see anything more unusual than abandoned cars and shambling infected.

  “What do you see?” I asked, eyes searching.

  “The power’s on at the gas station. Look at the sign.”

  She was right. A vintage Union 76, giant orange ball sign was rotating away as if everything was normal. I made a decision without consciously thinking about it and stepped on the accelerator. As we approached I noted the empty and abandoned vehicles at the pumps, several of them with gas nozzles still inserted in the vehicles’ fuel tanks. I also noted the half dozen or so infected that turned at our approach and started shambling towards us. They were all male, and moving slower than the females I’d seen, but that didn’t make them one bit less dangerous.

  They met me in the road, fifty yards shy of the gas station and I used the truck to dispatch the largest concentration in one crushing, grinding and bloody impact. Two remained on their feet and turned to follow us as I whipped into the station’s parking lot. A green handled fuel nozzle, green for diesel, was visible sticking out of the tank of an abandoned VW Jetta. No opportunity like the present.

  “I’m getting out to get that nozzle out of the car,” I said to Rachel, pointing at the VW. “When I have it clear, push the car out of the way so I can top off our fuel tanks. I don’t know when we’ll be able to find fuel again.”

  We screeched to a halt behind the VW and I eased us forward until our front bumper crunched into the car. Throwing the transmission in park, I took a quick look around and jumped out of the truck, pistol in hand. Rachel slid behind the wheel and dropped the big truck’s transmission into drive, ready to push. Grabbing the nozzle from the VW, I stepped back and she hit the gas. The Ford’s tires grabbed the concrete of the gas station driveway and with a protesting squeal of rubber and crumpling metal the VW moved forward.

  The pump was still activated from the VW owner’s presumably interrupted fueling, so as soon as I inserted the nozzle into the Ford’s fuel tank and squeezed the lever, fuel started flowing. Rachel rolled her window down.

  “Two coming up behind you,” she warned, sounding as calm as if she was talking to me about the weather.

  These two were the survivors from the group I’d bashed in the street and were now only about ten yards away. Both of them were making that wet, snarling, gurgling sound that set my hair on end. I stepped away from the pumps, raised the pistol and dropped both of them with two quick head shots. Glancing around I
counted at least twenty more infected converging on the noise of the truck and gun shots, the closest more than two hundred yards out. Fortunately, I still didn’t see any fast moving females.

  “Stay with the truck,” I shouted to Rachel, and ran across the concrete apron to the convenience mart doors.

  I stopped at the closed glass door and peered in. Everything looked so normal. The lights were on, the shelves were stocked and there wasn’t any sign of disturbance. Running out of time I yanked the door open and stepped in, pistol at the ready, whistling loudly to draw out any infected. I gave it five seconds and when there was no answering snarl I lunged for the counter and grabbed a fistful of plastic shopping bags.

  Shoving the pistol in my waistband I ran to the glass door fronted coolers and filled several bags with bottles of cold water. Next I filled bags with candy bars, protein bars, canned food; anything that looked like it was edible and would travel well. Arms loaded, I dashed for the door, praying I wouldn’t meet an infected in such a defenseless position. Just before I pushed out the door I glanced at the counter and stopped short when I saw the road atlas display. Reversing course, I was juggling heavy shopping bags to reach for an atlas when Rachel started honking the truck’s horn.

  I looked out the front door and saw a female infected staring back at me. She pushed on the door which fortunately only opened out. When it didn’t move, she started banging on it with her fists, face pushed to the glass and lips peeled back in a snarl.

  I looked over her and saw the converging crowd was now less than forty yards from the truck and closing ground fast. Grabbing the atlas, I juggled the bags back into a stable position and ran directly at the door. I’m a big guy and the female infected looked like she had been a high school or college aged girl and soaking wet couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds. I hit the door in full stride, blasting through it and sending her tumbling back and away from the point of impact, my new road atlas flying out of my hand and skidding across the parking lot.