Dead Run_A Zombie Apocalypse Novel

by R. J. Spears

  Russell looked into the inferno, the intensity so bright that he had to partially shut his eyes to be able to continue to look at it. He didn’t have a scope on his rifle, but he didn’t need one for a shot like this. The only challenge was to make out the outline of the tank in the flames.

  He closed his left eye, sighted with his right, and steadied himself for the shot. The flames were so intense it was challenging to make out any definition of the tank, but he was able to spot a general outline. His right index finger tensed on the trigger, waiting. He took in a breath of air then let it out. He waited another second and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet flew at over 1,700 miles per hour, making its trip a brief one. It pierced the hard metal shell of the propane tank, letting out a stream of gas as if the tank were breathing. The flames ignited the gas and followed the breath back into the tank.

  The explosion was everything they hoped for and so much more.

  Chapter 15

  Interlopers

  The rumble got louder. It was a vehicle of some sort, large due to the volume of its engine. It was coming from the south. Jason had been right, and Kilgore had found us, split up and vulnerable. Ripe for the picking.

  I had screwed up. Big time. And we were all going to get killed because of it.

  “Let’s get behind the building,” I said, whispering, even though that was probably premature because there was no way anyone who was approaching could hear us, but the state of my mind made me move to an ultra-cautious mode. The Big Guy wasn’t all that willing to be moved, but we tugged on the extension cord, and he went where we led him.

  The engine rumble got closer, seeming to move at a slow pace.

  After some maneuvering, we quickly moved our undead hostage out of view. It didn’t want to cooperate, which made the whole operation a real challenge. To keep him contained, I whipped the extension cord around a telephone pole and cinched it tightly around the Big Guy to keep him from getting away. He wasn’t the most cooperative person - living or dead, but I was able to do it fairly quickly.

  By the time I had finished, the rumble seemed almost in front of the gas station when it seemed to stop in place. I looked to Brother Ed and Jason. Brother Ed’s face still showed a lot of discomfort, but he reached down to grab his pistol with his uninjured hand. Jason did the same but looked more scared than when he had to hit the zombie. Again, I reflected on how little experience Jason had in this sort of field work. There was no upping his skill set then.

  I pulled my pistol and edged along the back of the building until I made it to the back corner. Listening intently, I heard the gentle rumble of an engine. It didn’t sound like a tank or anything, but for all I knew, it could have been a troop carrier with two dozen well-armed soldiers.

  I looked back to Brother Ed and Jason and made a gesture with my hands that I was going to look around the corner. I felt sort of silly doing my pantomime because it was the thing I always used to make fun of in movies but proceeded to slip the side of my head around the corner.

  There was one of those over-sized pickup trucks there, jacked up on some sort of raised suspension, sitting in the center of the street right next to the zombies we had just dispatched. My stomach sank, knowing there was no way that whoever was out there wouldn’t know that they weren’t fresh kills. I spied two men with rifles in the back of the truck and only the side of the passenger’s head, partially obscured by a glare on the window.

  One of the men in the back was leaning over inspecting the scene, taking his time. He looked from body-to-body then finally looked up in my direction. I whipped my head back around, hoping I wasn’t spotted.

  Brother Ed slid in next to me and whispered, “Who is it? Is it Kilgore?” He had his pistol up and looked ready to start shooting.

  I shook my head but held up a finger for him to wait. Then I started an internal count. One, two, three, and so on, waiting to hear if there was any movement of the truck or its occupants.

  If I had been spotted, then I wasn’t sure what would happened next. Our encounters with other survivors had been a mixed bag. Donovan’s people had proven to be a good experience, while our time with Marlow’s group turned into an utter nightmare. Caution was the watchword of the day and, well, every day.

  The steady rumble from the truck’s engine continued, and I thought I heard an exchange of short sentences, but I wasn’t sure. I decided to brave another look and eased my head around the corner.

  The man in the back of the truck, leaned outside of the bed, and the window was down on the passenger’s side. I could see the passenger was a woman. She had long, dirty blonde hair, tied up in a bun, but that was about all I could see of her from the distance. She was partially leaning out of the window and looking back to the man in the truck bed. The leaning man held a rifle but didn’t look ready to start a war or anything. They were just having a polite discussion over some dead zombies. Nothing extraordinary about that.

  I stood poised to duck for cover again, but nothing from their body language told me they were even aware of our presence behind the building. They spoke some more, but they were too far away for me to make out any of what they were saying. They concluded their exchange, and I pulled back some, allowing for me to only see the back of the truck.

  The truck’s engine revved a little and I saw a plume of black smoke come out of the tailpipe and the truck moved out of my view. I moved forward to match its movement and saw the truck slowly move up the street. Both of the men in the back scanned the area but must have missed me because they kept moving up the street and disappeared from view.

  A couple moments later, the sound of the engine roared, and then twenty seconds later, we were standing in silence.

  Brother Ed asked, “Who do you think it was?”

  I stepped fully around the corner and moved toward the front of the gas station. Brother Ed followed me. I kept at a safe position at the corner and then said, “Survivors just like us, probably.”

  “Good or bad?” Brother Ed said as Jason moved up beside him, a worried look on his face.

  “They didn’t wear black hats or white ones, so there’s no telling,” I replied.

  “Joel, you’re being an ass,” Brother Ed replied.

  I looked back to him, cradling his damaged hand to his chest, and felt sort of shitty for being flippant. Sure, being sarcastic or flip was my default, but there was a time and place. I just never knew the time or place. Someday, I just knew I would grow up.

  “How’s the hand?” I asked.

  He held it up, and it looked bad. His ring and pinkie finger were starting to swell, and his pinkie finger canted off at an unnatural angle. His hand trembled from the pain, and he seemed embarrassed to show that weakness.

  “We’ll get you back to Brent to take a look at that.”

  “We should be on the lookout for those folks just in case,” Brother Ed said.

  “Good idea.”

  Jason came up to Brother Ed and held out a handwritten note. It stated, “Sorry for hitting your fingers.” I don’t think Jason could have looked worse. He had tried to help but, instead, had only done damage.

  “It’s okay,” Brother Ed replied. “You did what you could, and that’s what counts.”

  To be safe, we stayed in place for several minutes, keeping an eye and ear out just in case our travelers decided to return. They didn’t, and I decided there wasn’t anything to gain by standing around and watching any longer. The sooner we got back, the sooner Brent could fix Brother Ed’s hand and start his medical voodoo on Kara.

  We unwrapped the cord around our new undead friend and guided him through the streets and to our temporary home in no time. I only hoped we had something Brent could work with.

  Chapter 16

  The Search

  The Harley-thing hung off the side of the truck, standing on the running board as it cruised up the road, holding onto the side-view mirror. The rushing wind blew back what was left of its hair, making it look even worse.
(Like a parboiled rooster, Private Soto thought.) It tilted its head back slightly, taking in all the scents in the air, much like a dog would. At times, it would duck down, barely holding to the mirror as it rotated its head seemingly to catch odors or some other trail of unknown nature. It was a disturbing mystery to Soto and everyone else in the truck, but Colonel Kilgore who acted like it was a normal occurrence.

  The whole routine creeped Private Soto out completely. He fought to keep that to himself, though. If this thing would help them find Jason Carter, he was all for it. The sooner this mission was over, the better, but some deep, ominous, but small voice told him that this mission would never be over. He tried not to listen to it, but it was there nonetheless.

  Kilgore didn’t know if the Harley-thing was actually breathing in real scents or taking in some sort of psychic impressions. The Harley-thing was the spawn of something evil, so it could be seeing into different dimensions for all he knew, or even cared, because they were finally making progress. He hoped and prayed that this new effort would keep the Night Visitor at bay. At least for a while.

  “Don’t go too fast. We don’t want to throw Harley off,” Kilgore said to Soto.

  Soto was at the wheel, and Kilgore had shotgun as they drove up a country road headed north. Private Miller and Beltran were in the back seat. Neither of them looked any more cheerful than Soto was to be there, but they knew they were just along for the ride.

  Soto replied, “Yes, sir.” He cut his speed some, resisting that inner urge to rush ahead because it might just get this nightmare mission over more quickly.

  But that voice was still chattering away in the back of his head. It didn’t help that the night before, Miller said he was ready to bolt. Beltran acted like he already had one foot out the door.

  They drove in silence for several miles before Soto worked up the courage to speak. “Sir, what is that thing out there -- really?” His voice had the slightest of quavers to it.

  Kilgore cleared his throat, stalling for time to come up with an answer. “That is Harley.”

  “But it’s not really Harley, anymore,” Soto stammered out. “Right?”

  The Harley-thing leaned down on the running board, getting dangerously close to the road. Soto’s stomach churned some, both with asking questions and also with the thought that the Harley-thing could pitch off into the road and break into pieces. He wasn’t sure how Kilgore would react to that, but he knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

  “Think of him as some sort of a bloodhound or tracker,” Kilgore replied.

  They drove on for nearly a mile as Soto worked up the courage to ask his next question. It was one he both wanted to know and was afraid to know the answer.

  “But is he still human?” Soto asked, his voice feeling tight.

  Kilgore took a moment to ponder his response. “I’m not sure that really matters. What matters is that he’s going to get us to Jason Carter.”

  Soto glanced into the back seat and saw Private Miller leaning forward to listen. Private Beltran tried to look nonchalant, but Soto could tell he was listening, too. Soto wasn’t sure to venture any more questions, but he wanted to know what kind of dark shit Colonel Kilgore had them involved in.

  He finally reached the tipping point and asked, “But what made him that way?”

  Again, Kilgore was quiet for a few seconds. He didn’t meet Soto’s gaze, but said, “There are forces at work here well above your pay grade, Soto. Shit, they are above mine. All I know is that we have to follow orders.”

  From whom? Soto thought. And what orders?

  Soto knew there was a lot bundled up in those questions. More than he probably wanted to know.

  He had seen the Colonel deteriorate over the past months. It was more than just the stress of leading men in the shit storm that was the zombie apocalypse. Rumors drifted through the ranks with stories of the Colonel screaming in the night and coming out of his room with strange burns on his head. On top of that was his overall behavior. He was erratic, intense, and totally obsessed with finding this Jason Carter. All Soto knew was that Carter was wanted for some sort of experiments possibly to create a vaccine against the zombie virus. The rumor floating around was that Carter was immune. Back at the base in Dayton, they had done experiments on people they had thought were immune. Few of those people lived. Beyond that, it was all just speculation.

  Being on Colonel Kilgore’s new crazy train was getting old, but the Colonel had led them through some very tough times. When the Outbreak hit, the world was chaos, and Soto thought the whole place was going down the drain. The Colonel was the one that held the men together, through thick and thin. When the men would start to freak out, the Colonel knew what to do, whether it was a slap in the face, a kick in the ass, or even a quiet word of encouragement. Soto wasn’t sure how they would have made it without the Colonel’s calm and steady leadership.

  But the Colonel was anything but calm and steady these days. Far from it.

  Miller, Beltran, and Soto had talked in the night about what they should do and whether they should jump ship. Between them, they were of three minds. Miller just wanted to run. Beltran could go either way, but his loyalty to the Colonel ran deep. For Beltran, if it came to running, he was willing to do whatever it took but wanted it to be a last resort. Soto was also on the fence, but it was mostly fear that kept him in line. Fear of what the Colonel would do and fear of what was behind Kilgore’s actions and what it would do.

  They all agreed that Kilgore was following orders, and none of them were coming from the military chain of command. If there still was one. These orders came from someplace none of them knew and from a force none of them understood. Even contemplating what was behind them sent an icy chill through Soto’s gut.

  Again, there was an uneasy silence in the truck as it ate up pavement, a cool breeze blowing over them. They passed fallow farm fields, some filled with sunflowers, but mostly with weeds. Sometimes, Soto would have to slow for abandoned cars. All the while, the Harley-thing held on, its head shifting this way and that, taking in some sort of trail. Every once in a while, the Harley-thing would make a gesture that only Kilgore seemed to understand. In turn, Kilgore would interpret the gesture and redirect their course accordingly.

  The whole process was disconcerting with most of the unease was coming from Soto. It was like something was simmering inside him and he was at an imaginary line in the direction he had to take. The simmer got close to the boiling point.

  Finally, he said, “Colonel, are we on the right side of all this?”

  Kilgore still refused to look Soto’s way, but Soto couldn’t help detect a subtle shift of Kilgore’s hand as it slid along his waist toward the holster and pistol there. A muscle twitched in Kilgore’s cheek involuntarily.

  The simmering inside Soto was replaced with a chill. He wondered if Kilgore would really shoot him. And while he was driving? That would be near suicide and would certainly kill the Harley-thing.

  Soto felt the need to backtrack a little. “Sir, I don’t want to question you, but I felt I had to ask.”

  Kilgore relaxed, and the twitch in cheek became less prominent. Still, there was a tension in the air in the truck cab. The passengers followed the exchange closely. Soto was afraid to look back at them but sensed their presence and anxiety.

  Kilgore spoke up, “I don’t know about sides right now. The world is a dark place. I think it comes down to winning because that means survival for us and maybe the human race.” He paused and looked to Soto. Soto felt Kilgore’s stare on him and slowly turned to face Kilgore.

  “You want to win, right?” Kilgore said. There was much of the old Kilgore in his face. The quiet confidence. The steely resolve.

  Soto just nodded his head while switching his attention between Kilgore and the road.

  “I promise you,” Kilgore said, “and you two men, too. Once this is over, I’ll give you all promotions. I know in this shit storm of a world, titles don’t mean much, but it will mean that y
ou are with me and you have survived. I think there will be a lot to that. Some kind of reward. You can count on it.”

  Soto nodded his head again, unsure that any reward coming from whoever was behind Kilgore was worth having.

  “Sounds good,” Beltran added in his deep voice.

  Miller was silent.

  Kilgore turned from Soto and relaxed in his seat. “You wait and see. We’re going to make it through this thing and come out on the other side fat and happy, because we will be alive.”

  Soto finally decided on a course of action. At least at that moment. “Yes, sir,” is what he said. And that was the end of the discussion.

  Chapter 17

  Grossness

  There’s nothing like watching someone scoop a spoonful of maggots out of a zombie carcass to liven up your day.

  That’s what Brent was doing as I watched and, let me tell you, it was not a pretty sight.

  We had brought the Big Guy, in all of his ugly, stinky glory, back to the house. Once we had him home, we had no need for him to continue to exist, so I stuck a long-bladed knife through his eye socket, which, let me tell you again, was another treat of the day. For both processes, I was able to keep my lunch down but just barely for the maggot transfer.

  Brent worked in a delicate fashion, moving the little wriggling creatures out of gooey folds of flesh on the zombie into a large glass cup he had sterilized earlier. It wasn’t easy, as he had to swat away the flies, along with dealing with the unholy stench coming off the Big Guy. I had taken on the aroma of many of an undead creature, but this bastard was totally fragrant and not in a good way.

  After Brent got the maggots into the cup, he used a pair a tweezers to pick them out of whatever detritus he may have taken with the spoon and then transferred them, one at a time, to another sterilized glass. It was painstaking work, and Brent did it without complaint.