Praying it would still move he threw the bag on the passenger seat, crawled back in, put the car in drive and pushed the gas. The engine screamed but the car refused to move. By this time those things were at the passenger side window, filthy, bloody hands reaching in. John raised the gun once again and shot the two groping through the window once each in the face. Their heads snapped back with a sickening sound. The contents of their skulls splattering the ones behind them. He put the car into first gear and gunned the engine again. The car lurched forward. John pulled back onto the road and away from his attackers. Screaming in protest the car rolled down the road with three flat tires and a smoking engine.
“At least it’s running,” he said out loud.
The zombies stopped their pursuit after he had traveled only a couple hundred yards. Slowly they turned and went back to their previous activities of eating the unlucky bus riders.
He continued on for another twenty minutes. The car protested as the engine rpms revved too high for the gear he was in. Several times he put the car into second gear or drive but each time the car refused to go. Finally after five miles the car groaned, sputtered and coughed then died altogether. Overheated, smoking, and with rims glowing cherry red from the friction of rolling tireless on the pavement, the car sat motionless in the middle of the road. John sat listening to the hissing engine and tried to plot his next move.
With the smell of burning rubber, motor oil and antifreeze filling his nostrils, John crawled out of the car and sat down on the pavement. It was a full moon and he could see up and down the road in both directions. Retrieving his bag from the front seat he reloaded his weapon and placed it in the waistband of his pants. Sipping from a water bottle, he had to fight the urge to drain it of its entire contents. He had no idea when he would get fresh water again.
A cold beer sure would be good right about now, he thought.
Taking inventory of his bag, he had useful items such as a flashlight and batteries, a hunting knife, binoculars, and a military type rain poncho. He also had some bottled water, breakfast bars and cans of tuna. Also in the bag was his shaving kit.
The shave kit was all he had had time to grab when he made his escape and then only because the extra ammo for his handgun was inside. The items in the overnight bag had been there since a recent camping trip. The gun he had packed Monday morning for protection while on his business trip. A trip that was to take him to the capitol, then up Interstate 77 into North Carolina then back to the upstate before returning home to Charleston.
He wondered if he would ever be home again. If he would ever see his wife Susan again. He was at least two hundred miles away with no transportation, no way of communicating and no way of knowing if she was even still alive.
John decided to look through the car for anything else of use. In the trunk he found, a blanket, crowbar, first aid kit and a ball of twine. In the front of the car were a couple of maps, some pens, a box of tissue, his running shoes and a jacket. He added these items to his other meager possessions placing everything except the crow bar, the jacket and the blanket in the bag. He rolled the blanket up and tied it with string then tied it to his bag. Using more of the twine, doubling it up three times for strength, he fashioned a make shift sling for the crow bar which would allow him to carry it over his shoulder.
The running shoes he changed into and put his dress shoes in the bag. He knew that any moment he might have to run for his life again.
He needed to decide what to do next. Survival was his first priority. Getting home and finding Susan was second. He could do her no good if he was dead so he knew he had to be careful and not take any uncalculated risks in his anxiousness to get home.
It was now 11:30 p.m. and the autumn night was beginning to get colder. He pulled on his jacket and sat down to take a look at the map. By now he was exhausted and decided that tonight he would concentrate on finding a place to rest then decide his next move in the morning.
He passed no houses or buildings since the bus crash. The last intersection was a couple of miles before. He pulled a flash light from the bag and spread the map out before him. He hesitated to turn the flashlight on for fear of drawing attention to himself but the moonlight, while more bright than usual, wasn’t bright enough to read the map. He saw that he was a couple of miles from the next intersection.
“Surely there should be some type of building there,” he said to himself.
With the crow bar slung over his shoulder and flashlight in hand, he headed off south east again. He thanked God for the moonlight. It made travel at night much easier. He wanted to avoid turning on the flashlight unless absolutely necessary.
He had walked for less than thirty minutes when he came to a large clear pasture on the right side of the road. In the center of the pasture was a large barn. Careful not to get caught on the barbed wire he slipped through the fence and started off toward the structure. There were groups of cattle here and there taking little or no notice of his passage.
“I hope animals are immune to all of this,” he said.
Being careful not to make any noise, John approached the barn cautiously. He took the bag and the crow bar from his shoulder and laid the bag on the ground. With crow bar in his right hand and the flashlight in his left, he checked to make sure he could pull his gun out quickly and slowly approached the open barn doors. He stopped at the entrance to listen.
He turned on the flashlight and directed the beam inside. There was a scream as a black mass flew out of the darkness and came at him. He let out a scream of his own as he swung the crow bar and ducked just as it went over his head and out into the night. He could hear the sound of its wings as it receded into the distance. Hooting as it went.
Completely frightened out of his wits now he lay on the ground trying to catch his breath and calm down. Finally he got to his feet and scanned the barn with his flashlight looking for more surprises. There were none.
The interior of the barn was open in the front half with four stalls on each side in the back. Double doors like the doors he just entered were on the other side of the barn. The doors were closed and the locking bar was in place. A loft covered half of the barn and had a permanent wood ladder off to the left side. On the far end of the loft were double swinging wood doors. The door on the right had a broken hinge and rested on the loft floor. There was a rope and pulley system for raising bales of hay attached to a beam that jutted out three feet over the opening.
There were different kinds of farm equipment scattered around the barn. Scythes, rope, empty coffee cans, bridles and items he couldn’t identify.
Slowly he climbed the ladder. Once near the top he raised the flashlight and looked around. Nothing. Just bales of hay. He went back down, retrieved his bag from outside then closed the doors and put the locking bar in place.
John decided to spend the night in the loft. From his bag he took the hunting knife and twine. Gathering several of the empty coffee cans, he drilled holes in them with the knife and tied them together. He then tied them to the ladder leading to the loft. The ladder would be the only way anyone or anything could get to him, so if something attempted to climb up, the cans would rattle and wake him. He hoped.
Putting the knife and twine back into the bag he gathered his things and climbed the ladder. Once at the top he laid his blanket out near the open loft door. He decided to leave the door open. He wanted to hear if something approached. As a precaution he pulled up the rope and tied it off to the beam.
Exhausted, he settled in to try and sleep. As he lay there the events of the past couple of days played over and over in his mind.
-Finish reading “The Demon Dead” on kindle or in print at amazon.com
Arthur M Wyatt is An ex U.S. Navy Seabee, Writer, Musician and Painter. He lives in upstate South Carolina with his daughter, black lab, one miniature schnauzer, six guitars featuring an American Fender Stratocaster, 1000 book personal library, vast collection of Heavy Metal, Progressive Metal, Jazz, Blues and
Big Band music, two Fantasy Football Superbowl Trophies and a 1994 Ford F-150 with over 300,000 miles. He flies the American flag year round.
He Communicates Directly at:
[email protected] [email protected]
Soul Survivor Page 6
