Dead Run_A Zombie Apocalypse Novel

by R. J. Spears

  The driver answered the passenger’s question, “Once they’re down, they’re down. If it wasn’t, it’d be up and coming at us, ready to eat our ass.” He paused and said, “Get back in. If there’s any doubt, I’ll run it over anyway.”

  This was of little comfort for Del. He may have figuratively and literally dodged the bullet, but there was no dodging a jeep. He listened and heard the brushing of pants as the passenger walked through the weeds along the side of the road back towards the jeep. The soldier didn’t get too far before he heard the sound of Jones’ booming voice.

  “Hold it right there,” Jones yelled. The force of his voice made it sound amplified as it echoed off the trees.

  Del opened his eyes and rolled over, pushing off the ground, while pulling up his gun. Things went really fast after that.

  Both the soldiers whipped their heads around at the sound of Jones’ voice. The driver slid back into the safety of the jeep, while the passenger, feeling exposed and vulnerable, dropped to one knee. He saw Jones first, sticking his rifle out from the cover of the tree trunk. That’s all he needed, and he squeezed the trigger on his rifle. Bullets flew at Jones, who upon hearing the first shot, pulled back around the tree. Bark flew off the tree as if it was being hit by a wood chipper.

  Jo had position herself a few trees down from Jones and was closer to the kneeling soldier. She had hoped that this would have gone differently, but the soldiers had fired the first shot, and Jones was pinned down. There was little to do but fire back, and that’s what she did.

  Her first shot was a little high, but the next two hit home. The first one struck the soldier in the side of the head, and that was game over for him. The second shot was overkill, but it pierced his chest. He never felt that second impact as his lights were put out by the first shot.

  The driver, feeling outnumbered and outgunned, ducked down, shoved the jeep in gear, and jammed the accelerator to the floor. The jeep shot forward, forcing Del to duck and roll out of the way. He made two revolutions before he came to a stop, laying on his stomach and facing the road. His new position gave him a perfect angle onto the side of the jeep as it drove by.

  Driven by adrenaline and fear, he brought his .38 up and pulled the trigger as fast he could pull it. He didn’t really have a chance to aim, so most of his bullets flew wildly off target, but as it was with the laws of probability, the more you did something, the better the chance of success. That is, if you were any good at it at all, and Del was a halfway decent shot.

  His last bullet struck the soldier in the side, feeling like someone had hit him with an electrified javelin. In response to the shock and pain of the impact, the soldier yanked down on the steering wheel, jerking the jeep off the rutted road. The jeep bounced wildly along for fifteen feet before it struck a tree with its left front fender. The collision knocked the soldier out of the driver’s seat and into the tall grass next to the road. He rolled twice and disappeared in the grass.

  This was the last thing Jones wanted. He broke from cover and sprinted forward, his rifle at the ready. He had envisioned a surrender, not a gun battle. He slowed and brought his rifle up as he approached the now dead soldier in the road. The soldier was face down, blood flowing from an ugly wound in the side of his head, but the bleeding seemed to slow quickly since the soldier’s heart was no longer beating.

  Jones put a foot gently against the soldier’s side and hefted him over. What he saw made him want to throw up.

  It was Private Durdin, a fresh-faced kid from Philadelphia. Jones had drilled Durdin in the basics of soldiering before and after the Outbreak. “The kid” as Jones had called him was getting trained in being a field medic since those were short supply after the world went to hell. All that was done, finished for all time. Durdin days of learning were over. There was no more fresh face on Durdin. Half of it was missing.

  “Is he dead?” Jo asked from the cover of a tree.

  Jones tried to talk, but the words didn’t come. He doubted any part of his plan. He should have taken cover and just let the two soldiers drive on by. They had enough information; they didn’t need a shootout. After several more seconds, he nodded his head slowly and emphatically.

  “This one’s still alive,” Del shouted.

  With that, Jones was in motion, moving towards the jeep, slowing as he got closer. He passed by the back of it and by Del, who was just getting to his feet. Lying halfway out of the jeep with his back to Jones, the driver worked to right himself, but it was as if some force restrained him from doing it. It was like he was a marionette whose strings had been cut. His arms flailed weakly, but with each second, they moved with less animation.

  Jones moved in slowly, his rifle aimed at the soldier, but with each step he took, he knew he wouldn’t need the gun. The soldier was dying. It was obvious. The blood coming out of the wound on the soldier’s back told the whole story.

  Jones dropped his aim and sped forward. By the time he had made this decision, the soldier had lost the last of his strength, and he plopped onto his back to the ground.

  Jones saw the soldier’s face and immediately recognized him. “Suarez,” he said as he knelt by the soldier. Blood oozed from the wound on the soldier’s side.

  “Jones,” Suarez said, his voice raspy and weak. “Why?”

  For the second time in as many minutes, Jones was speechless. He wanted to say he didn’t mean for it to happen. He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted more than anything to reverse time and go back to when they left the Manor and just walk from these people. He had turned on his own because of them, and now, more soldiers were dead because of him.

  Del got to his feet and started toward Jones and the dying soldier, but Jones shot out a hand toward Del, freezing him in place. “Stay away.”

  “He was trying to run me over,” Del said.

  “I...I...I know that, but more of my men are dead,” Jones said.

  “Jones,” Suarez said again, but his eyes were starting to get glassy.

  “Suarez, I’m sorry,” Jones said. “Durdin fired on us…” He knew it was no argument. Two more were dead or close to it.

  “Why are you here, Suarez,” Jones asked. “You’re supposed to be at Wright-Pat.”

  “Things went bad,” Suarez said. He tried to say something else, but he started coughing. Jones could see fresh red blood on Suarez’ teeth and lips.

  “What is Braden’s mission here?” Jones asked.

  “No mission. Just trying to survive,” Suarez replied, but then he was racked with coughs. Blood painted his teeth and lips. “Hurts.” He reached out a hand and grabbed for Jones. Jones immediately took the soldier’s hand in his and gave it a squeeze.

  “Stay with us, soldier,” Jones commanded, but knew it wasn’t one the soldier could follow.

  “Can’t feel my legs, Sergeant,” Suarez said. “Can you call a medic?”

  Jones could tell that Suarez had no idea where he was anymore. Maybe he thought he was back in Afghanistan. Better that he think that, Jones thought. Better than dying in a half-assed ambush gone wrong.

  “Sure,” Jones said in a calm voice. “Help is on the way.”

  Suarez closed his eyes, but each breath came with a fight, then they didn’t come at all.

  Jo, who had slowly made her way to behind Jones, was hesitant to say or do anything, but she felt the need to do something. So, she made a couple tentative steps toward Jones.

  “Give me some room,” Jones said without looking her way. “Just give me a minute.”

  Jo stepped back and looked to Del, who put his hands up in a gesture that seemed to say he had no idea of what to do.

  Seconds ticked by, and the birds that had gone quiet with the sound of the gunfire returned to chirping away as if nothing had ever happened. Nature was good that way, mostly ignoring the comings and goings of man. Jo was certain, if man was on the way out, nature would just continue on like it had always done, unless mankind did something completely reckless and decided on taking nature d
own, too. Jo didn’t put it past mankind to do that. Mankind was stupid that way.

  Chapter 31

  Plan of Attack

  “Amateurs,” Kilgore said while kneeling quietly next to the side of a house. He spied the house across the street through his binoculars, watching through the predawn haze. Perimeter security was weak. The man on duty at that moment might just as well have been asleep. Instead of getting up and patrolling the area, the only sentry sat in a comfortable rocking chair on the porch of the house, wrapped in what looked like a comforter.

  Kilgore noted that some of the vinyl siding hung off the house in several places.

  The pride of homeownership died with the world, Kilgore thought. The thought made the corner of his lips turn up in a wry smile.

  Trees planted sporadically around the houses on the street showed some maturity on them but had a lot more growth left in them. All of the lawns were out of control with tall grass and weeds. A group of vehicles, ranging from SUVs to trucks, filled the driveways of two houses and street out front.

  Dim lights burned inside the house with the lone sentry, but Kilgore had seen a light on in the house next door, and that caused some concern. He also wondered why they had spread their group out into two houses. He didn’t think this traveling group was that large. But he put that concern aside because they were where they were, and he and his men had a job to do.

  The Harley-thing had led them to this location, sniffing the air of the mystic auras or some voodoo bullshit. Kilgore didn’t care. He was on the precipice of finally getting his hands on Jason Carter. Once Carter was in captivity or dead, then Kilgore would be free. Free from the Night Visitor. Free from the Harley-thing. Free from the terror and free from the guilt.

  He rarely thought about the guilt, but it was always there, lurking in the back of his consciousness.

  Fuck guilt, he thought. You have to survive. That was job one. Then you deal with whatever shit comes up. Bury it, most likely, and go on.

  His ruminations were interrupted when he heard soft footsteps behind him. When he turned to look, he saw Private Soto moving up, rifle held in the ready position.

  Soto moved to beside Kilgore and said, “The men are in position. Harley or whatever he is now has his part ready.” There was a sense of disgust in Soto’s tone, but Kilgore ignored it.

  “Good,” Kilgore said. “Harley moves first, then in the confusion, we make our move.”

  “You said it looks like there might be people in the house next door. Any idea how many people are here?”

  “No way to tell,” Kilgore replied. “Plan for a dozen.”

  “There’s only four of us. Four of us and Harley.”

  “Yes, it looks like Jason Carter and his people may have made more friends,” Kilgore replied. Then he added, “But Harley’s bringing friends to the party,” Kilgore said.

  Yes, Soto thought. But not any friends he wanted around. Not now. Not ever, but you don’t always get to choose your allies. He shook his head and wondered what what the hell he had gotten himself into.

  “How do we know Carter is in there?” Soto asked.

  “That was Harley’s job, and he sniffed his way here,” Kilgore said. “I’m putting money on the table that Harley is right.”

  Soto decided to change the subject since there was no changing what they had to do, no matter what they found. “Sir, you’re going to have to give Harley those commands. He doesn’t listen to me or any of the men.”

  Kilgore didn’t like dealing with the Harley-thing anymore than the men, but that was beside the point. Someone had to do it, and Soto was correct. For some unknown reason, the Harley-thing only listened to him.

  So, he took two duck-walk steps backwards and pushed himself fully to his feet, his knees cracking. “Stay here and wait for the cue,” Kilgore said then walked toward the back of the house. He used a weeping willow tree as cover as he jogged across the backyard then into the next house’s yard.

  The grass was damp with the morning dew, and the air was moist. A perfect morning for hunting, Kilgore thought. Back in the day, he’d been in his camouflage gear and waiting for an eight-point or, if he was lucky, a ten-point buck. He could wait all day in a tree blind and never get tired of it. Not anymore. He had a new quarry, though, and it shot back.

  It took him nearly ten minutes to take the big arc around the tight grouping of houses and to make it to the elementary school sitting alone with miles of empty fields behind it. Just to be safe, he went all the way around and came at the school from a divergent angle. It was a long run, out in the open, to make it from the last house to the school. He had only taken thirty seconds to scope out the land around the school. Shortcutting precautions could lead to disasters, but he was confident that things were okay. Nothing moved but a few raccoons and feral cats as far as he could tell.

  He took a moment to fill his lungs with the oxygen he would need for the run. Deep breaths, he told himself.

  Just as he prepared to make that run, a large male deer came around the side of the house. It was a sight to see, and it almost took his breath away. The creature stood almost seven feet at the head with its antlers giving it another two or three feet.

  At first, it didn’t notice Kilgore but stood there chuffing breaths out of its nostrils in long, deep puffs, misty steam rising around its head and antlers. After a couple of these breaths, it finally took saw Kilgore and stood stock still.

  It wasn’t a stare down contest, and Kilgore knew that. The beast would either run or attack. If it attacked, it could do some serious damage with its hooves or antlers. That would force him to shoot it, and that would give the quarry some advanced warning. He knew he didn’t want to be gored or trampled, so he slowly brought up his rifle and aimed at the deer.

  It was a majestic creature in his eyes. Certainly, a thing of beauty created by nature itself. Just looking at it brought a wave of melancholy, though. Why couldn’t he just be hunting, like in days gone by? Why was he forced to make an attack on people who had never done a thing to him?

  Because he had to, and it was that simple.

  As these questions and thoughts passed through Kilgore’s mind, the buck rose slightly up on its back legs, and Kilgore was sure it was preparing for an attack on him. Instead, the bucked twisted its upper body and bounded away from Kilgore, heading into the open field. In two bounds, it was at full speed, galloping away from him, moving in that graceful way that only wild animals do.

  He couldn’t help but watch it, tracking it until it disappeared behind a distant stand of trees. Kilgore let out a deep sigh, letting his eyes linger over the stand of trees, hoping for one more look at the deer, but it was gone.

  There was a job to do. One more mission and he’d be free from it all. Time to get it done.

  He sprinted across the open ground in front of the school, hoping that his quarry didn’t have any roaming sentries he and his men had failed to spot. A man running with an assault rifle would certainly arouse suspicions.

  Once he got to the school, he planted his back against its wall and sucked in deep breaths. No shouts or gunshots came, but to be safe, he peeked around the corner of the building but saw nothing.

  He maneuvered around the corner and braced himself for what he was about to see because it wasn’t something you saw every day, or any day for that matter. It wasn’t just him that would be surprised. It would have astounded the stoutest of heart.

  Three dozen zombies milled around a small asphalt playground in a tight group with the Harley-thing bent over at the waist looking more like some sort of beast himself, bouncing around the outside of the scrum of undead. Anytime one of the zombies would attempt to wander off, the Harley-thing would bound its way, making low growling sounds. The zombie would respond immediately and return to the herd.

  If he hadn’t seen it before, Kilgore might have shit his pants then and there, but the Harley-thing had parted the sea of zombies they had had to pass through earlier. It was no longer beyond
the imagination that the Harley-thing could corral zombies and guide them along, and that’s what he had done all night long, collecting these three dozen zombies. He seemed to do it tirelessly, too.

  How Kilgore had known to command the Harley-thing to do this was beyond him. Maybe it was just an intuitive jump from their past experience? It could be, but Kilgore suspected that there was some external and not divine inspiration involved. He didn’t let his mind dwell on that thought too long.

  At that moment, he didn’t know whether to whistle or call the Harley-thing’s name. He knew there was little or no Harley left inside the beast, but it had no name he could think of, so he went with that.

  “Harley,” he said in a low voice.

  The Harley-thing responded immediately and broke from the herd of undead to bolt towards Kilgore in that broken gait he had. Kilgore was usually unflappable, but he would have to admit that the Harley-thing gave him the total creeps.

  It slid to a stop just in front of Kilgore and looked up in that way that dogs do, waiting for their owner either to give the next command or to toss the ball. Even though its eyes were gray and milky, Kilgore could sense an expectancy in them.

  Kilgore leaned over just a little and said, “It’s time. You know what to do.”

  In truth, Kilgore had no idea if the Harley-thing had any idea of what its role was. There was no hint of comprehension in its eyes or expression. The Harley-thing was one of the unsettling enigmas, but what Kilgore did know was that the Harley-thing would do what it had to do. He knew this as much as he knew the sun would rise. The only problem was that this gave him little or no comfort.

  There was the slightest of nods in the Harley-thing’s head and then it was off, barreling toward the herd of zombies, moving in a herky-jerky gait. Unlike the flesh eating, ravenous creatures they were, the zombies shied away from the Harley-thing, much like sheep ran scared of the herding dogs. The zombies didn’t move like sheep, but they moved as fast as they could, shuffling along as the Harley-thing ushered them forward with low growls and barking-like sounds.