Dead Run_A Zombie Apocalypse Novel

by R. J. Spears

She looked around at the space between them and saw what she thought was enough ammunition. “This looks like enough to me.”

  “There’s never enough,” he said. “Just do this, okay?”

  Her face pinched up, an expression of reluctance that Russell had learned showed she was frustrated. “Get it and we’re on our way to help Del and Jo.”

  She gave in, grabbed the door handle, opened the door, and jumped out. As soon as she was out of the cab, he said, “Catch this,” and tossed her the walkie-talkie. The action surprised her, but she managed to catch it.

  As soon as it was in her hands, Russell hit the gas pedal, and the truck shot forward, rambling down the path. A tree limb hit the open door and slammed it shut. After a few seconds, Russell popped on the truck’s headlights. He figured if he was going to be that much-needed distraction, he might has well stand out in the darkness of the night.

  He touched the brakes just enough to get the brake lights to come on and looked in the rearview mirror. Madison stood on the side of the path, bathed in the dim red glow of the brake lights, a look of utter surprise on her face. This only lasted for two seconds, and then she was charging after the back of the truck.

  Russell took his foot off the brakes and looked forward while goosing the gas pedal. Twenty seconds later, he was out in the field behind the Manor and in plain view of the soldiers and damn near anyone.

  That cautious voice inside his head cursed his name.

  Del completed his abbreviated prayer session, which was really just an exercise in procrastination. Who in their right mind was eager to venture out of a safe space into a world where people were trying to kill them?

  “You ready?” Jo asked.

  “Hell no,” he whispered back. “Maybe we can just tunnel out of here.”

  “You’re stalling,” she said. He couldn’t see her face in the dark, but the tone of her voice told him that she was getting annoyed. He couldn’t figure why she was so gung-ho on getting going, but he figured she was just being the grown-up and knew it was better to get this over with.

  “Let me peek out for a second and see what’s out there,” he said, trying to delay the inevitable.

  She didn’t respond, so he took silence to mean assent. He stretched out his legs, and one of his knees popped so loudly in the quiet that it made Jo jerk.

  “What was that?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “Just my knees,” Del said. “I’ve been cramped in here for over a half hour.” He put out a hand against a thick root sticking out of the mud and used it like the wrung of a ladder to pull himself upright. He rose slowly, and his head crested the edge of his hole, and he saw them.

  Six soldiers in tactical gear and weapons were coming directly at them from the back of the woods. They were spaced out about ten feet from each other, the barrels of their rifles doing slow sweeps across the landscape. It was a minor miracle that none of them saw him. Del resisted the urge to jerk his body back down but slowly submerged, like a submarine descending into the depths.

  He eased in next to Jo and he placed a hand on her shoulder. It shouldn’t have been so easily communicated, but she could tell it was best not to talk. They had worked together too long. Maybe because all she could think of was that it was about to end, and that sent a pang of sorrow through her. She pushed that down because this was no place or time to get sentimental.

  Del stayed in a crouched position, his legs coiled and ready to spring. He clicked off his rifle’s safety with the gentlest of touches. The soft click carried to Jo because she was close to him.

  That was her cue to get ready, and she followed his lead and poised herself for whatever was coming. They both listened intently, nearly closing their eyes to do anything to extend their hearing outside their hidey hole.

  When you focused down so acutely, sounds eventually come, even the most subtle of noises. The barely audible sound of a boot settling down on a small clump of dried leaves. The brush of a shoulder against a low hanging branch. A deeply held breath being exhaled. All these told them that the soldiers were only feet away.

  The only question was whether to take the chance that they would pass by or to go on the offensive.

  After procrastinating so long, Del took the initiative and made the call. He didn’t say anything but put a hand on Jo’s forearm. He tapped on it with his index finger once then paused for two beats and tapped three times in a row.

  In most situations, this would be the most cryptic message ever communicated, but Jo knew in an instant what it meant. They would go on a three-tap count.

  Del held his left hand gently on her forearm as they waited for the precise time to act. The seconds seemed to stretch out, reaching for eternity. She could feel the sweat on his hand. She also felt her own pulse in her head, delicately, yet insistently pushing blood through her body.

  A boot slid into the soft soil in front of their hole, and Jo thought she saw the dark silhouette of a head appear just over the crest of the hole. There was a barely perceptible difference between it and the murky darkness of the trees above them.

  She felt a shift in the pressure of Del’s hand on her forearm. He released it just a little and she could tell that his index finger was poised just above her flesh, ready to fall.

  Another dark silhouette moved just behind the first one. This second soldier was obviously taller than the first. The two figures stopped and just stood outside the hole.

  Jo couldn’t tell if they were readying to go on the attack and start shooting into the hole or not. If they did, she knew that she and Del didn’t stand a chance.

  Del must have come to the same conclusion. His index finger tapped on her forearm once. It rose and fell again. Jo tightened her hand on her rifle and readied herself to jump and fire.

  Del’s finger went up for the third time, and that’s when the blaring of a car horn honking in the distance filtered their way on the moist night air. The horn blared in a sustained note, sounding like an out of tune trumpet. It ended when the shots started off in the distance.

  Del’s finger remained extended and did not fall that third time.

  Chapter 51

  Pawn Sacrifice

  Russell had the gas pedal to the floor, and the old truck bounced across the uneven ground of the field, making him feel like a Mexican jumping bean. This tossing about only made his vertigo worse as his vision split the world into doubles, then triples, and finally into a kaleidoscopic view of the world around him. Multiple halos came off the few lights on in the complex, looking like masses of floating angels.

  His plan was simple. Get the truck out into the field, get eyes on him to provide a distraction for Del and Jo, and then get the hell out of there. To aid in that endeavor, he blasted the horn and had the truck’s headlights on high beams. He figured those would draw a lot of attention.

  And they did.

  Someone in one of the guard towers fired off a volley of bullets. Most of them slammed harmlessly into the mushy soil around the truck, but a few hit it, sending up small showers of sparks with each impact. To Russell’s multi-vision, these looked like someone had set off several sparklers, and their brilliance dazzled in his eyes, further disorienting him.

  He moved out of range of that shooter and moved toward the front of the complex where he planned to take a large looping turn and then head back into the woods. He figured that would draw the soldiers out of the woods and after him. The final part of his scheme was to drive into the woods on the other side of the complex. That would keep the soldiers away from Madison.

  All this was theoretical, of course. He knew his chances of pulling off any of this would be remote. At least to do it and survive was remote.

  Once he was out in the open, he would be a prime target, and that’s what he wanted.

  If he made it back into the woods, he also knew that meant he would probably have to ditch the truck at some point. The soldiers had vehicles too and even some that flew. Of course, how a man suffering from double vision a
nd vertigo was going to elude a group of trained soldiers was a major league stretch. Really, almost impossible.

  He pushed any thoughts of getting away out of his mind. This was a plan of many steps, like climbing a mountain. First, get to the mountain, then climb up and set the ropes. One step at a time, you’d make your ascent. It seemed so simple until you considered that this mountain had well-armed men ready to kill him.

  His vision settled down to see only duplicates of things, so he took that as a good sign. But it also told him that he had strayed much further into the field than he had planned.

  A line of shots came at him, tearing up the loose soil in front of the truck. He cut the wheel hard, and the truck went into an uncontrolled skid in the moist grass and loose soil. Four or five shots slammed into the back right fender of the truck, but he barely felt the impacts. His attention was focused on getting the truck back under control and keeping it moving. If he stopped dead for a moment, he figured they would the tear truck and him to ribbons.

  He felt the back tires get some traction and whipped the steering wheel to the left, moving him away from the side building, its dark hulking shape just fifty feet away. While he righted the truck’s path, he spotted two attack helicopters ahead. In his current state of vision, he saw them, but they looked like mirrored twins of themselves. He had learned enough from his double vision that the real item was usually only the left, with the mirror on the right, but sometimes, they were reversed.

  The helicopters were the real reason any of them had tried this longshot of a mission -- to take those choppers out so that their friends could move unfettered to the east and, hopefully, out of range. But the challenge was getting to them.

  His headlights fell on a small group of men heading toward the helicopters. Any details of the men were lost in his hazing double vision, but he knew in his gut that these were pilots. Or at least, some of them were. They seemed solely focused on the helicopters and almost completely ignored the truck whipping about in the field.

  Russell goosed the gas pedal and headed toward the helicopters as his right hand groped on the seat for his rifle. He had to do something to keep those men out of the air.

  His hand brushed across the bag of hand grenades, and after some more searching, grasped onto his rifle. He knew this was a fool’s errand, but he felt he had to do something.

  He charged the helicopters, and one of the men near the helicopters brought up a rifle and started firing at the truck. There was no time for evasive maneuvers, so the truck took the full brunt of the attack as bullets punished the old metal, ripping big holes in it. Russell saw wisps of smoke come up from the grill, and he knew that the radiator had taken a hit.

  He calculated the truck’s life was now measured in minutes.

  The man kept firing, and Russell just kept driving right at them. A bullet struck the windshield, and a spiderweb of cracks spread out from the point of impact as he said a quick prayer of thanks that bullet didn’t hit a few inches to the left, which would have been his head. At the last possible moment, Russell jerked the steering wheel to his left and brought up his rifle, pointing it toward the open window on the passenger side of the truck. He didn’t waste any time and let loose.

  The concussive explosions of the shots inside the cab sounded like cannons going off, and Russell’s vision went completely haywire. Instead of doubles, his world became a multi-faceted view with dozens of images floating in front of him. Still, he didn’t let up as the truck slid sideways toward the helicopter, bullets flying out of the window at a dizzying pace.

  He had no idea if he hit anything, but when the truck came to a momentary stop, he thought he heard a man screaming in pain.

  “Get back to the complex right away,” a voice shouted into the woods in the distance. “We are under attack.”

  A voice sounded from one of the dark figures in front of Del and Jo. “What the hell? How many people are coming at us?”

  There was a mechanical click, and another voice said, “Hey, I thought we were supposed to keep our radios off.”

  The first voice responded, “Screw that.” There was a slight click, and the first figure said, “What’s going on?”

  “Everyone back to the complex!” A voice blared from a tiny speaker. “On the double. We are being attacked.”

  The first figure said, “What about the people in the woods?”

  “This is commander Braden,” the voice over the speaker said. “Follow my orders and do it now.”

  There was a few seconds of silence then the first figure said, “Whatever.”

  The second one chimed in and said, “You heard the man. Change of plans.”

  The two figures didn’t waste a moment and started moving toward the tree line and back to the complex. Still, to be safe, Del and Jo stayed completely still for another thirty seconds, all the while listening to gunfire in the distance and wondering what Russell was up to.

  When it was finally safe, Jo said in a soft whisper. “That has to be Russell.”

  “I told him to get the hell out of here,” Del replied.

  “I hope he doesn’t have Madison with him.”

  “Now what do we do?” he asked.

  “He’s out there risking his life for us, but…” she trailed off, and they both knew that he had just sacrificed himself so that they could get away. Sure, they could mount some half-assed counter attack to possibly draw attention away from him and let him get away, but the chances of pulling that off were as remote as the planet Pluto.

  “Let’s move laterally across the woods,” she said. “If we see a chance to help Russell, we do it.” She wanted to add that she didn’t see that happening but decided to keep it to herself.

  “Let’s move,” she said and pushed herself up and out of their hidey hole.

  Russell knew standing still was bad. Very bad. But his vision still gave him multiple hazy images of his surroundings. He wasn’t sure what direction to head because everything looked like something from a hall of broken mirrors. Duplicates of each soldier outside the truck moved in unnatural ways, sometimes bulging and shrinking in different instances as if were in a hall of mirrors.

  A rip of bullets slammed into the side of the truck, and he knew he had no choice but to get moving. So, he hit the gas pedal and jerked the truck forward. Not really knowing what direction to go, he cut the wheels to the left and started in an arc away from the helicopters.

  Another volley of bullets tore down of the side the truck, and Russell felt what seemed like a red hot hammer pound into his side. The pain blotted out everything else for a few seconds, and his foot slipped off the accelerator. The truck continued its path in a long looping arc, but slowed to a near crawl as pain rippled through Russell’s body.

  He dropped the rifle, and his hand went to his side. What he felt there sent out a sense of panic throughout his body. When his hand hit the hole in his abdomen, it immediately became slick with blood. He pulled it back and knew that this was it.

  There was no coming back from a wound like this. Not in this dreadful new world. There were no emergency rooms or operating suites to patch him back together. Not even Doc Wilson, who was miles away, could have helped. And certainly, the soldiers who shot at him would be no help. They wanted him dead, and they were going to get their wish in just a few minutes or even seconds.

  The question for Russell came down to what would he do with his last few minutes on earth? How could he help his friends?

  Another round of shots came his way, and the windshield of the truck shattered inward, sending pieces of safety glass into the cab like tiny pieces of shrapnel. Russell felt it pepper his cheeks, tearing tiny, jagged holes with each impact, but the pain barely registered as the wound in his side screamed like a banshee.

  Blood started trickling down his cheeks like silent tears, but he paid it no mind. Instead, he willed his foot to find the accelerator, and he pressed it down with all the fading strength he had left. The truck moved ahead but shakily. />
  A voice sounded in his head. He knew the voice. It was his long dead brother’s voice, Cody. A brother that had protected him and died doing it. The voice asked a simple question - why?

  Why? Russell thought as the truck shot forward, and he cut the wheel hard to the left.

  Because. Because he decided not to live in fear. Because he was just a dead weight to his friends, dragging them down. He didn’t see his condition getting any better, and it was no life to lead - a dazed, stumbling man, no better than a zombie. He had to make something come of it.

  That’s why, Cody, he thought, knowing his brother wasn’t in his head. It was just that cautious voice again.

  Bullets pounded the exterior of the truck, sounding like a hard rain on a tin roof, but Russell kept the truck moving. He felt the hot sting of another bullet slice along his shoulder, but he pushed back the pain and did the best he could to line the truck up on the soldiers that were firing on him. The same soldiers standing next to that big dark form that Russell knew had to be a helicopter.

  The blazing trail of their muzzle flashes looked like fireworks in the darkness, making it easy for Russell to aim the truck as he pressed the gas pedal to the floorboard. Still, he felt his vision start to dim at the edges, tunneling down to just the flashes.

  Something smashed into his left shoulder, feeling like volcanic lava, jerking him in his seat, but he just gritted his teeth and continued barreling the truck forward.

  He felt his consciousness ebbing away and didn’t even register the truck rumbling over the rough ground. The narrow circle of his vision closed down rapidly until he only saw the flashes of the gunfire, bright against the obsidian backdrop. Each muzzle flash bounced up and down wildly as the truck drove forward.

  He was so close to going under, but the crash shook him out of the murky depths. It was a jarring impact, slamming his body against the steering wheel because, who wore their seatbelt on a suicide run? What he thought was pain earlier seemed like a pinprick. It was as if a giant had taken him in its hands and squeezed. This compression was replaced by searing pain that exploded throughout his body, making him forget anything else.