by Chelsea Luna
Cage pulled himself up, his foot dangling inches from a zombie’s reach. He straddled the fence behind Rachel. “That was close.”
The deep pitch of a dog’s barking almost drowned out the zombies’ growling. A massive pit bull was on the opposite side of the fence. Rachel sighed. “Super.”
The zombies banged against the wood. The pounding of arms and bodies shook the fence. It reminded Rachel of the time she’d ridden a mechanical bull at the county fair. The swift motion had thrown her to the padded ground within seconds. Rachel squeezed her legs together to keep from falling.
“Death by being eaten alive by a dog,” Rachel said, “or death by being eaten alive by a pack of zombies? I think I’d prefer the mutt. What about you?”
Cage scooted behind her. “Neither. Look ahead.”
Red and blue lights flashed behind the trees. Police cars were parked on the street a few houses down. The sirens were off – maybe to keep from attracting more of those things – but the lights of at least three or four cars pulsated in the darkness.
“We’re going to inch over to the other side.” Cage’s hand rested on her back. He pointed in front of her with his other hand. “See that overgrown lawn over there? That’s the goal.”
The fences behind the homes formed a perfect quadrant. To Rachel’s right were the zombies and to the left was the pit bull. They were aiming for the quadrant in front and to the left. The overgrown lawn was thirty feet away.
The dog’s incessant barking was driving Rachel insane. The noise drew more zombies to the fence, too. The pack had increased from four to six. They banged relentlessly against the fence; moaning and growling at them. Rachel had to keep her feet tucked high, because one particular zombie – a man wearing a Piston’s basketball jersey – was much taller than the others. His fingertips grazed dangerously close to her right foot.
Rachel felt Cage behind her. She was slowing him down. She was thin, but not in shape. She’d taken a few self-defense classes, but the only time she ever ran was when Gene chased her – which, granted, was often, but not enough to be considered regular aerobic activity. Cage was a top-notch athlete and he would’ve already made it to the Wooden Barrel by now if it weren’t for her.
She inched forward.
The pit bull – taking lessons from the zombies on the other side – started taking runs at the fence, too. The dog’s muscled body smashed the pine boards with the viciousness of Cujo ramming that tiny yellow Ford Pinto.
The fence swayed.
“It’s all right, we’re almost there. We’re going to make it,” Cage said calmly.
“Are you always this optimistic?” She scooted forward. The abandoned backyard was fifteen feet away. “I think I’m getting splinters in my thighs.”
It happened too quickly. Too fast for her to do anything about it.
One minute the zombie with the basketball jersey pounded his fists against the fence, the next minute he shoved his entire body against the wood. The fence swayed dangerously to the side. Rachel tried to hold on, but she couldn’t. She lost her grip and tumbled to the ground below.
Chapter Seven
Rachel dropped the baseball bat during her plunge so she could attempt to break her fall with her hands and not her face. Cage screamed her name while she nose-dived to the ground, but his voice sounded far away. She fell long enough to flip in the air and she landed squarely on her back.
The pit bull charged.
Its bared teeth glistened in the faint light. A hundred pounds of pure doggy muscle slammed against her like a freight train. The dog was on her chest. She had to protect her face and throat. Searing pain ignited in her left forearm as the dog’s razor sharp teeth clamped down on her arm.
Rachel tried to push off the dog, but the pit bull clung to her arm like a leech. Warm sticky blood slid down her elbow. The dog’s claws dug into her legs. Hot dog breath blew in her face. She tried to pull her arm away, but the dog wouldn’t release its grip. Thankfully, she couldn’t see her skin being ripped to shreds in the darkness.
Rachel groped the grass with her free hand. Where was the baseball bat? The zombies growled from the other side of the fence. The smell of her blood propelled them into a bloodthirsty frenzy.
She was going to be taken out by a dog during the zombie apocalypse. How lame. She threw wild punches, but the dog didn’t flinch. The canine moved with her, its jaws clamped to her forearm ripping the skin from her body. She wedged her foot onto the dog’s chest and pushed.
Something moved in the shadows.
Rachel vaguely wondered if a zombie had come to finish her off, but the dog yelped and released its grip.
“Rachel!” Cage’s voice floated over the darkness. “Are you okay?”
She cradled her injured arm against her chest. Slick goo replaced the skin on her forearm.
“How bad is your arm?”
Rachel tried to get to her feet. “It’ll be okay.”
The dog growled. Cage raised the aluminum bat. “We need to get out of this yard – sooner rather than later. Do you want me to carry you?”
Was he kidding? “I can walk.”
Rachel let Cage pull her to her feet. The ground tilted as bright yellow spots flashed in front of her eyes. The coppery stench of blood drifted to her nose.
“Are you sure?” Cage sounded skeptical.
“I can walk,” she said weakly. Rachel took a step and toppled over face-first onto the grass.
~ ~ ~
Cage caught Rachel before she fell. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she leaned heavily against him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Said the girl who almost face-planted two seconds ago.”
They backpedalled toward the house with Cage supporting most of her weight. The jagged mop stick was tucked in his waistband, but he felt more confident with Rachel’s baseball bat. He didn’t want to hit the pit bull - the dog was only protecting its territory. But for an awful second, Cage thought he was going to bear witness to the dog mauling Rachel to death.
He didn’t know how badly she was hurt. It was too dark in the backyard, so he couldn’t see her arm. Cage suspected she wouldn’t admit the extent of her injuries. She was on her feet, which was a good sign, but she hadn’t said much. He could smell the blood from her wound and, if he could smell the blood, the zombies could, too. Cage had visions of fishermen tossing chum into shark-infested waters. They had to get the wound cleaned and wrapped, or they’d have every zombie in Flint following them.
Rachel tugged his shirt. “There’s a gate. Hold off the dog, I’ll unlatch it.”
“Be careful. There might be more of those things on the other side,” Cage said. The back fence was still standing despite the zombies pounding on the wood.
“It’s clear,” she whispered. The hinges groaned when Rachel opened the gate.
Cage backed up. The dog anticipated their escape and sprang. Cage sprinted and slammed the gate shut behind him. The pit bull threw its body against the wood, sending shock waves through Cage’s shoulder. He held the gate shut until the lock slipped into place.
Rachel leaned against the fence. She looked pale under the orange streetlamps. How much blood had she lost?
“Let me see your arm.”
She raised her arm as if it weighed a thousand pounds. A three-inch gash split lengthwise down her forearm. The bleeding was steady enough to worry about, especially because she probably wouldn’t be getting any immediate medical attention. Cage ripped the hem off his t-shirt.
She protested, but he ignored her. He wrapped the stretchy material around the wound and she grimaced. “Sorry,” Cage said. “It has to be tight enough to stop the bleeding.”
Rachel gently bit her lip. “No, it’s fine. Thanks. And thanks for saving me from Cujo. I was almost Puppy Chow.”
Cage held her bandaged arm in his hands. She was so small. When the pit bull took her down, he’d thought he was too late. He didn’t think twice about
hopping off the fence to rescue her. He would’ve hopped off on the zombie side, too, if she’d fallen there.
She whispered something, but he couldn’t concentrate. Her hair fell from the bun on top of her head. It hung in messy blonde strands around her face.
Rachel blinked.
“What?” Cage asked.
“I said, cops.” She pointed at the flashing sirens about ten houses down.
“That’s great,” Cage said. “They’ll have a first aid kit for your arm. Are you sure you can walk?”
Rachel peered at the wound. “I can walk. Excellent doctoring skills, Cage Vance.”
“I’m not going to point out that you’re still calling me by my first and last name.”
“Habits are hard to break.” She walked over the lawn and down the street, limping slightly.
Habits? How many times had she said his name before? The idea of Rachel saying his name thrilled him, which was surprising because he’d only known her for a few hours. He trotted into the street after her, resisting the urge to pick her up and carry her. He didn’t like seeing her limp, but he was pretty sure she would hit him if he tried to pick her up.
The pulsating red and blue sirens illuminated the street in an unworldly glow. Cage didn’t see anyone, but there was – at least earlier – a police presence in the neighborhood. Had the cops answered an early emergency call? If so, where were all of the officers now?
The immediate silence on the street was unsettling. Where was everybody? No zombies. No humans. No cops. Gunshots crackled in the distance and sirens wailed, but nothing remotely close by. Mini-battles were being waged all over the city. Would more police show up? Would military reinforcements arrive?
Rachel and Cage closed in on three police cars. Two of them were the older model Ford Crown Victoria’s; the third was the newer Dodge Charger. All three cars had their lights flashing, but the sirens were off. One of the patrol car’s doors was opened. Surely, that wasn’t protocol. The interior light lit the dashboard and radio, but the car was empty.
“Do you see anyone?” Cage whispered. The scene didn’t feel right.
Rachel walked around the car parked near the curb. She knelt down and disappeared behind the hood. He ran to catch up with her.
She was leaning over the body of a police officer. He was a middle aged black man with thick dark hair. It was so hot out that his body was already bloated and smelling of rot.
“Be careful, he might turn.”
“No,” Rachel pointed. “He has a gunshot wound to the head. I don’t think he’ll come back.”
“Do you think he did it himself?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t blame him if he did.” Rachel groped the officer’s belt.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m getting us better weapons.” She pulled out the sleek Smith and Wesson M&P .45. Cage knew the Flint Police Officers’ standard issue gun because his friend’s dad was a cop and guns were all he ever talked about. Rachel also grabbed the extra clip and Taser from the dead officer.
“Do you know how to use a gun?”
“No,” Rachel said. “But the end of the world seems like a good time to learn.”
Cage couldn’t argue with that logic.
She reached into the officer’s pocket and tossed a cell phone to Cage. “Didn’t you need one of these?”
The tiny blue phone was like a spring of water in the desert – exactly what he needed and what he thought he’d never get. Relief flooded over him. He dialed his house, but then he stopped. “Wait. Don’t you want to call your sister first?”
Rachel’s face paled in the flashing blue light. “I don’t have the number to Morgan’s dorm room.” She abruptly stood up and walked away.
Cage dialed his house. Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach as he counted the rings. Six. Ten. Thirteen rings. No answer.
His palms were sweaty. He clicked off the call and shoved the phone in his pocket. He couldn’t think about it or he’d lose his mind. He couldn’t think about how defenseless and old his parents were.
“Cage?” Rachel propped her injured arm on top of the police car. She was about to slide inside, but she saw his face. A slow hiss escaped her lips. “Maybe the phones aren’t working. Or they’re hiding somewhere and can’t get to the phone.”
He ran his hand over his face. “You’re right.” He exhaled. “Rachel?”
“Hmm?” She stared down the empty street. Lost in her own thoughts and problems.
“When we get that truck -”
“- I’ll drive you home.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Rachel said quietly. “We still have to get the truck.”
The flicker of police lights gave the illusion that shadows moved in the darkness. Still, he didn’t see anything dead or alive.
“Did you find another gun?” He asked.
Rachel searched the glove compartment. “No, only more ammunition. You don’t happen to know how to hot wire a car, do you?”
“That would be a no.”
She frowned. “Me neither. If only they taught useful skills in school. That cop doesn’t have the car keys on him. Maybe his partner was the driver – wherever he is.”
“What about the radio?”
“Only static. No one is picking up at dispatch. We should get moving. If we cut through those houses over there, we should come upon the Wooden Barrel from the baseball field in the back.”
“It’s too quiet. I don’t like it.”
She held up the gun by its handle. “Do you want this? I have the bat and all you have is that mop stick.”
“Don’t knock the stick.”
Rachel’s eyes flashed. She rotated her wrist and the gun’s handle swung into her palm with the barrel aimed over his shoulder. “Cage, get out of the way.”
Instead, he whirled around. A shadow, only a few feet away, ran directly at him. The blue and red police lights flashed, but it was hard to see a face. Cage thought he saw dark shaggy hair.
Rachel grabbed Cage’s shirt and dragged him back, sliding herself in front of him. She held the handgun in both hands and aimed the barrel at the oncoming figure.
“Don’t shoot!” A man’s voice cracked.
Rachel’s arms relaxed, but she didn’t lower the gun. “Stop where you are.”
“Don’t shoot! I’m not a dead guy or whatever those things are – zombies.”
“I know. Zombies don’t talk,” Rachel said. “But I’ll shoot you if you don’t stop running toward us.”
The man slowed; out of breath from running. He was in his early twenties – tall and wiry. Black shaggy hair fell over his dark eyes. He put his hands in the air in a show of surrender. His eyes skipped over Rachel and landed on Cage. “Dude, tell her to calm down.”
“Ah, ah, ah.” Rachel lowered the gun to the man’s shoes. “It’ll be hard to run away from zombies with only one foot.”
The man made a face. “Are you serious?”
“As serious as a heart attack.”
“Rachel,” Cage said. “I think he’s okay.”
“He’s a criminal,” Rachel said.
“How do you know that? Do you know him?” Cage regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.
“Of course I don’t know him. Do you think I hang out with criminals because I don’t live on your side of town? Look at the tattoo on his hand.”
The man’s hands were in the air. A star enclosed in a triangle was tattooed in the space between his thumb and finger. It was the symbol of a small-time gang in the area. How did Cage miss that?
The man swallowed. “Okay, calm down. That’s an old tattoo. I was in the slammer once for a breaking and entering, but I don’t do that anymore. Okay? I’m squeaky clean now and I hardly think my juvenile record matters. My house was overrun by zombies. Dude, zombies.”
“We were carjacked half an hour ago,” Rachel said. “Do you think I’m going to let you take our gun?”
“Honey, I don’t want your gun. I swear.”
“Don’t call me honey,” Rachel snapped.
The man lowered his hands. “Listen, we got off to a bad start. I shouldn’t have run out like that. I’m sorry. Obviously, you’ve had a pretty bad night, too. My name is Nicky Ayers.”
Rachel’s grip on the gun relaxed. Holding the gun outstretched had to be painful. Blood had already soaked through the makeshift bandage on her arm.
Nicky saw Rachel relax. “Good, good. Cool. I’m not a bad guy, I swear.”
“If you try to take the gun, I’ll shoot you,” Rachel said evenly. “If you try to hurt us, I’ll shoot you. Got it?”
“I get it.” Nicky smiled at Cage. “You have a tough woman -”
The growl cut Nicky off mid-sentence. Three zombies sprinted out from between two houses. Blue eyes locked on them. “Time to go.” Cage backed up.
“I’ll second that,” Nicky said.
“You’re not coming with us,” Rachel said.
Despite what Rachel said, the three of them took off down the street. They crossed a lawn, down a driveway, over a chain length fence and into a shallow set of woods. The three behind them were fast, but apparently zombies couldn’t climb fences. After a few minutes, their growls blended into the wind.
They weren’t exactly in a forest – only a patch of sparse trees full of summer leaves that divided the neighborhood from the sights of the city. Now that they were out of the residential area, Cage heard the sounds of the streets – gunshots, sirens, screams - sounds of life and people fighting for it.
Rachel placed the gun in Cage’s hand. She nodded at him out of breath and then walked through the trees, twirling the baseball bat in her good hand.
“She’s like a warrior princess.” Nicky had his hands on his knees, sucking in gulps of air. “Or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. One-hundred percent female badass.”
Cage ignored the comment, but agreed with Nicky. Rachel had nerves of steel. He suspected she had a hard life and had no other choice, but to be tough.
“It should be right over here,” Rachel called out from over her shoulder.
“What?” Nicky asked. “There’s nothing through those trees except the Wooden Barrel.”
