Dead Run_A Zombie Apocalypse Novel

by R. J. Spears

  Sergeant Jones didn’t like talking specifically about the choice he had to make to turn on his Colonel and his men with the refugees at the Manor. Making that decision had been one of the hardest things he had ever done. He had served under the Colonel for many years, and flipping sides was akin to committing treason. He only did it because the Colonel hadn’t given him any other choice. The Colonel was getting ready to torture and possibly slaughter the Manor folk. Jones knew he couldn’t stand by and let that happen, but he had lost a part of himself that day, and he knew he would probably never be able to get it back.

  “Well, that’s good about the lack of guards,” Jo said. “We have that working for us.”

  “But not so good with the shit ton of more soldiers,” Del replied.

  “There’s that,” Jones said.

  “It’s more than, ‘There’s that’,” Del said, his voice starting rise.

  “Shhhhhh,” Jo spat out.

  “Well, shit,” Del said. “There’s just three of us, a guy who has double vision after getting his brain scrambled, and a little girl. We sure as shit aren’t the A-Team.”

  “We are all we have,” Jo said and surveyed the complex another time. “Listen, we’re not here to take on an army. We just have to get those choppers out of commission. Permanently is preferable, but we need to put a hurt on them, so our people can move safely.”

  It was at that moment that what looked like a squad of soldiers came around the back of the complex and started in their direction at a slow, but purposeful double time jog.

  “Ruh-roh, Shaggy,” Del said softly.

  “Should we make a run for it?” Jo asked, her voice a bit edgy.

  Jones replied, “Not yet. Let’s see what they do.”

  “And what if that means they start sprinting towards and opening up on us?” Del asked.

  “Shhhhh,” Jones said, still scanning the landscape with the binoculars, stopping to focus on one item of interest then moving onto the next.

  The column of soldiers slowed and half-walked, half-marched into the field just in front of Jo, Del, and Jones and continued their forward progress. With each step, Del felt his blood pressure rising.

  “This is getting to be a sphincter tightening experience,” Del whispered.

  Jo shushed him this time, but she tightened her grip on her rifle. Her eyes locked in on the soldiers as they got even closer. None of the soldiers had looked up at where Jo and the others were but seemed to be focusing directly in front of where they were walking.

  Jones remained calm as the soldiers marched on. The group made it halfway across the field when a soldier broke from the front row and ran a few steps ahead of the men before turning around and shouting a command back at the group. The group came to an abrupt halt and stood in attention like statues, unmoving and barely blinking. The lead soldier walked to the soldiers closest to the front then walked along the row and seemingly inspected them. He stopped to adjust one of the men’s rifle angles and yelled in the face of another man then stepped back.

  “That’s Lieutenant Braden,” Jones said.

  “Who?” Jo asked.

  “Dallas Braden. He was Kilgore’s second in command at the base back in Dayton. He’s not a bad guy but a bit of a tight ass. What I don’t get is why he is here.”

  “What do you mean?” Jo asked, looking away from the men in the field and to Jones.

  “If it’s why he is a tight ass, he just is. He plays everything by the book and never questions an order. No imagination whatsoever. As for why he’s here, well, he shouldn’t be. If he’s here, who’s minding the store back at Wright-Pat?” He pulled the binoculars down and looked lost in thought for a moment. “With him and all these new men here, I’m guessing there was some order for him and the men to come here. Something important, and I sure as shit hope it’s not us.”

  “Should we run now?” Del asked.

  “No, if they saw us, they will be on us like white on rice,” Jones said. “We hold until they do something provocative.”

  “Like shooting our asses off?” Del asked.

  Jo slapped him in the arm, and he said ouch then rubbed the point of impact even though it really didn’t hurt.

  Lieutenant Braden shouted a command, and the men swiveled to their right and started their double-time routines towards the front of the complex. Braden followed them the whole way, yelling at the group and chiding individuals.

  “Shit, see what I mean,” Jones said shaking his head. “Here we are at the end of the world, and that asshole thinks military drills are going to save their asses.”

  Braden continued his barrage of commands and insults as he directed the squad across the front of the building and then commanded another turn, and the whole group of them disappeared around the side of the complex. Braden’s shouts continued to echo off the buildings and the trees across the field. When they finally diminished down to a lower level, Jones pushed off the ground and stood, brushing pine needles off the front of his pants and shirt.

  He said, “I think that’s our cue to leave.”

  Chapter 27

  The Road Northward

  “There’s no way we’re making it through there,” Soto said, as he eyed a group of eighty or more zombies moving up a parallel road, blocking the intersection they needed to pass through to go north. The uncoordinated group was spread out over two hundred yards, with small clumps of them spaced out at uneven intervals. For some unknown reason, one of the large contingents of zombies had stopped dead center in the intersection they had to pass through.

  Kilgore scanned the map in his lap and said, “Dammit, if we don’t get through this way, we’ll have to backtrack for miles.”

  “We could wait them out,” Miller said from the back seat.

  Up until then, the zombies hadn’t noticed their truck because Soto had positioned it strategically behind a broken down flatbed truck. The flatbed truck acted like the perfect blind, keeping them out of view. Of course, it helped that the combined I.Q. of the swarm of zombies measured barely in the double digits.

  The Harley-thing, as it had become accustomed to, hung off the side of the truck, standing on the running board, chuffing air in and out of his nose, as if he were trying to capture the scent of the undead. The wind was mercifully blowing out of the west, pushing the undead stench away from Kilgore and his band of soldiers.

  “We don’t have time for this shit,” Kilgore spat out and pounded his hand down on the dashboard of the truck, startling Soto.

  “A bit jumpy are we, Soto?” Kilgore asked, looking at Soto out of the corner of his eyes.

  “No, sir,” Soto replied, “it’s just the noise.”

  “Those things can’t hear that far away,” Kilgore said.

  Soto knew the Colonel was probably right, but these undead creatures were unpredictable when it came to sounds and noises. The pounding of a jackhammer might be completely unnoticed by a hundred of them, by the soft footfall of a boot on a wooden floor might bring a dozen on the run. Maybe not on the run, but you were on their radar and they were on the hunt.

  The Harley-thing started to whine, a high pitched sound that reminded Soto of a dog, either frustrated or nervous. It began to bob up and down while still holding onto the side of the truck. It was like he was on a spring, bouncing up and down nervously as if about to shoot into motion.

  “Sir, should we pull back?” Soto asked, his attention focused on the Harley-thing.

  Kilgore’s frustration seemed to diminish as he turned his focus onto the Harley-thing. His eyes went from the Harley-thing to the zombies and back and forth several times. He then said, “No, move forward.”

  Beltran leaned forward in the back seat and asked, “Is that going to bring us to the attention of the zombies?”

  “Sit back, soldier,” Kilgore said, using his command tone, and Beltran did ease back into his seat, but his hand moved to his rifle.

  “Are you sure about this?” Soto asked as they watched the clump of zom
bies collecting at the intersection ahead increase in numbers. Why weren’t the damned things just moving north, he thought. But he there was reason to question the undead. They were an unpredictable and capricious lot.

  “Don’t make me say it again,” Kilgore said still in command mode.

  Soto’s foot hesitated on the brake as the truck quietly idled, a polite mechanical hum settling through the truck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kilgore’s hand slowly sliding down towards his sidearm in his belt holster.

  This was yet another moment of truth for Soto. It seemed that nearly every day there was some point of no return test with Kilgore. Do this or else. Soto knew he couldn’t make a run for it when the Colonel was awake, and he couldn’t outright deny an order, either. The idea of even shooting the old man was deep in the recesses of Soto’s mind, but for some reason, he didn’t think it would be that easy.

  There was some force behind Kilgore. Something fearsome and possibly evil, but Soto knew it was a force to be reckoned with and one not to be taken lightly. There was this nagging doubt in the back of Soto’s mind that he might not be able to kill the Colonel. That this force would prevent him. Or if he ran, the Colonel would use the Harley-thing to track him down and kill him or worse. Soto didn’t know what was worse than death, but he knew whatever was behind Kilgore would be worse than death.

  Maybe that force would allow them to move up safely.

  Sitting there or backing up would most likely get him shot, so he decided to do as Kilgore said and lifted his foot off the brake and let the truck idle forward slowly. They couldn’t be moving any faster that five miles an hour. Soto glanced over and saw that the Harley-thing was no longer whining, but was bouncing more excitedly than ever.

  Soto felt icicles run up his spine and goosebumps break out all over his arms. An impulse formed deep in his gut, telling him to open the door of the truck and to roll out onto the pavement. Then to get up and start running and never stop. “Run, Run, Run,” a voice bellowed in his head.

  He glanced over to Kilgore, whose attention was locked in on Harley, and saw that Kilgore’s hand rested on his pistol and the safety strap was off the holster.

  Could the old man read his mind, he thought? Once, as a child, he was sure his mother could read his mind after he had shoplifted some candy at the local convenient mart, but he later attributed that to guilt. This was something entirely different. He licked away a thin line of sweat that popped up on his upper lip.

  If he could have looked into the back seat and received some sort of clue from his fellow soldiers that they felt the same way and would back his play, whatever it was, then maybe he could try something, but it seemed as if he even tried that, even in the slightest, Kilgore would yank that pistol free and shoot him through the head. As irrational as it sounded, he knew it would be true.

  In for an inch, in for a mile, a different voice said in his head. He took a deep cleansing breath and let it out and just went with the slow movement of the truck down the road, somehow knowing that this very well may be his last chance to do anything to get free and maybe survive.

  But he kept his hands on the steering wheel, sitting at ten and two o’clock like he had been taught in driver’s ed in high school. Keep it safe with two hands on the wheel at all times.

  He went with the most passive path and continued with the forward motion of the truck. Somehow, it felt like a final surrender.

  The truck rolled on, and the Harley-thing was nearly frantic in his bouncing motions. Kilgore ignored the Harley-thing’s antics and locked in on the zombies ahead, his lips mouthing words that Soto couldn’t make out in his brief glances over to his passenger.

  They cut the distance between their original position behind the flatbed truck and the zombies down to half, when all of a sudden, the Harley thing sprung from the truck in a convulsive jump that seemed to launch him nearly ten feet in the air, but he landed on two feet and his hands then started bounding down the road. There was nothing human about how he moved, but he did cover the ground quickly.

  Without saying a word, Kilgore pushed out a hand and placed it onto Soto’s arm, and Soto got the message and slowly applied the brakes. The truck slowly came to a stop in the road, but the brakes squeaked more loudly than any of the passengers liked or wanted. More than a half-dozen zombies took notice and made a course correction, shambling toward the truck.

  The Harley-thing barely took notice and continued on a collision course with the zombies heading their way. It loped along, unafraid, his head up and jerking back forth in a way that reminded Soto of a bird, taking in the approaching creatures. A vulture to be exact.

  The distance between the Harley-thing collapsed down to nothing, and Soto found himself holding his breath. He didn’t look at Miller or Beltran, but he thought they might be doing the same. Kilgore, on the other hand, leaned forward in his seat, and there was a look of eager anticipation in his eyes, much like a kid on Christmas morning. Soto wouldn’t call it glee, more like maniacal.

  The Harley-thing flew into the midst of the zombies, disappearing from view for a few brief seconds, and Soto gulped, thinking that would be the last time they would ever see the creature formerly known as Harley. Soto fully expected there to be a scream or cry of pain from the scrum of zombies. Then would come the blood.

  Then something happened that no one could explain.

  Beltran leaned over into the front seat and said, “That is fucked up.” His mouth stayed open after completing those words.

  None of them could believe their eyes.

  The Harley-thing bounced and pranced in the middle of the zombies, barking at the deaders. It wasn’t really a bark but as close to a bark as a human could do. What was even more amazing was that the zombies were responding, jumping and shuffling out of the Harley-thing’s way, acting afraid of him. He kept it up, and the zombies cleared away from him, scattering like frightened dogs, leaving the intersection open. Amazing as this was, none of the other zombies came near the intersection either. There were really no miracles in the zombie apocalypse, but this might be as close as they come.

  “I can say that I have never seen anything like this in my life,” Kilgore said, and even he seemed nonplussed. Who could have ever seen anything like it, because no one in the history of the world had ever seen anything like what just happened.

  The Harley-thing continued to herd the zombies, if that’s what you could call it, and they cleared out of the intersection. The rest of the zombies gave the Harley-thing a wide berth, leaving the path forward clear.

  “Drive up to Harley,” Kilgore said. “He has cleared the way.”

  Chapter 28

  We Aren’t Bad People

  I heard the truck before I saw it, an engine rumbling as it moved at maximum speed. That was followed by the screech of tires. Whoever was coming our way was hauling ass. Whether that was good or bad was still to be told. It definitely had my attention.

  It was pre-dawn, and the world was in that daily transition from night to day with a diffuse yellow light spreading across the land from the east. After my eyes adjusted to the dim light outside, I took a glance out the window and saw a gossamer mist drifting along at ground level. A couple moments after that, a set of headlights cut through the darkness a block away, screeching around the corner and splashing light on the houses across the street. Another set of headlights flashed behind the first vehicle as it slid around the corner.

  My night had been spent in a well-worn recliner that I had dragged into the bedroom, allowing me to get some restless sleep just a few feet away from Kara. Brent had come in a couple times to tend to Kara and his unconventional treatment plan. His report had been positive. The little beasties he had put to work were doing their job remarkably well and astonishingly fast. And there was no sign of infection. Between the critters and the antibiotics, Kara’s prognosis was looking very positive. She wasn’t going to be running a marathon anytime soon, but she was moving in a good direction, instead of a b
ad one.

  As the trucks got closer, I pushed myself out of the chair and nudged Kara awake. Her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked groggily for a few seconds before realizing what was going on.

  “What?” she said, her voice thick with sleep.

  I really didn’t have to say anything because, a moment later, tires screeched on pavement in front of the house, coming to a halt.

  “Who is it?” she asked before I could say anything.

  Footsteps pounded on the floor outside our room, and I finally spoke, “I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.” I reached into the corner and grabbed my rifle. By the time I made it outside the bedroom door, I heard car doors slamming shut in front of the house.

  Brother Ed and Jason were at the front windows, rifles at the ready. It was good to know that someone was faster on their feet than me.

  “What is it?” I whispered as I came into the room at a crouch.

  Brother Ed turned to me and said, “Two trucks. I’m not sure how many people. A couple of them are outside.”

  “Can you tell who it is?” I asked.

  “No, it’s too dark,” Brother Ed responded.

  Jason scribbled out a note and showed it to the two of us. It said, “Should I move to the back?” The rest of his intent was unspoken. Someone had to protect our flank.

  I nodded my head, and he headed off into the house, disappearing into the darkness. In hindsight, it might have been better to send Brother Ed because he could shout back a report, but I figured if the shooting started, we’d know that we were under attack.

  Brother Ed and I took up positions on each side of the large picture window in the front room, with both of us taking cautious peeks out the window. By the time I looked, two figures were moving away from the trucks and were making their way up the walkway toward the house. Both of them carried rifles, but they seemed to be carrying them in a relaxed fashion. Of course, that didn’t mean they weren’t trying to lull us into a sense of complacency, where they would whip them up when they got close enough to start shooting our asses off.