by Joseph Xand
Beechum didn't say anything. He'd always felt uncomfortable talking to a man who was holding his dick.
Schuler's body twitched with small jerks as he shook himself off, and then he gestured towards the semi. "What're we gonna do about that?"
Beechum shrugged. "I figure backtrack a little. Find a way around it."
Schuler nodded as he looked down, buttoning his pants. Beechum visually probed the traffic jam. Between the semi and the convoy, there was a span of about twenty yards crammed with about eight or so cars, a pickup, and two vans. Other vehicles, with other big rigs mixed in, populated a half-mile of roadway leading to the unintended roadblock.
"You think somebody did this on purpose? Stretch the truck and trailer across the road to set up an ambush?" Schuler looked around as he spoke. He'd picked up his rifle and swung it around along with his eyes.
Beechum considered the vehicles before him. In at least two of them, the silhouettes of corpses could be seen rocking in their seats of their cars-turned-coffins.
"Doubtful. But let's stay sharp."
Beechum wanted to walk around the front of the Humvee to check out the other lane, but he didn't care for stepping in Schuler's piss. So he went around the back.
Behind them, the interstate could be seen for miles. About 200 yards off, a zombie slowly stumbled towards them. They were north of Kent State where some tree-huggin' college pricks got shot by cops in the 70's, and for some reason people were always bent out of shape about it. Beechum didn't care much for cops, but he thought they should have given those boys-in-blue medals.
The convoy was just passed the Cuyahoga River, which somehow they'd passed over twice. Eventually, I-80 would run into I-76 again and they'd stay on 80 through most of Pennsylvania.
Phillips, no longer smoking in the circle, was giving the interior of a car a visual inspection. Beechum knew a few of them were a little pissed off he'd taken I-80 rather than heading straight east on I-76, which the other guys thought might be faster. But Beechum didn't think so. He wanted to steer wide of the more populous Akron rather than drive through it.
The displeasure voiced by some of the other men at the change caught Beechum off guard. But then Phillips, who Beechum hadn't trusted at first but was proving indispensable, told him Murphy had mentioned something to them about it being better to head south to Florida, and at least a couple of them were in agreement.
The prick.
Beechum knew he'd have to address the issue soon. For now, he had to steer the crew back to the Philadelphia Turnpike where the travel would hopefully be easier. There would be no more large cities to maneuver around and it would be straight driving through most of the state.
"Could someone dump our bucket? It's really starting to stink in here."
Beechum looked towards the police van and Meyers's voice. Then he glanced around at the guys. Murphy, busy separating out the MREs the crew would have for lunch, met his gaze. Then Beechum saw Caldwell was doing nothing but holding down the front bumper of the deuce and a half while waiting for his food ration. He tapped the but of his M-16 on the ground, taking in the scenery.
"Caldwell! You apparently have nothing to do. Get off your ass and empty the piss bucket," Beechum commanded.
Caldwell blew out a frustrated breath.
"Hey, man, give them these while you're at it." Murphy tossed him several MREs for Meyers and Travers, which Caldwell was only able to catch by letting go of the rifle. It clapped to the ground. Beechum pounced towards them.
"Careful with the gun, goddammit! That ain't your paint gun back home!" Beechum yelled, pointing down at the derelict firearm.
"Sorry, Boss."
Beechum studied the armful of MREs Caldwell held, then snatched all but two away and tossed them back in the half-empty box. Caldwell beheld the two small packets that were left, still cradling them as if there were more to handle, then looked back to Beechum.
"Well, go on," Beechum said. "The sooner you're finished, the sooner you eat."
Caldwell walked off a few steps, remembered the fallen gun, then came back to grab it up before heading towards the police van.
Beechum turned to Murphy. "Go easy on these," he said, tapping the side of the MRE box. "I want the carton to last through the end of the week."
Murphy nodded and began shortening the piles already divied out.
Beechum watched him for a moment, then traversed the ten yards to the car Phillips was rummaging through—a junked-out and rust-eaten '66 Chevy Chevelle. It didn't look like much, but it was something Beechum's father would have enjoyed restoring to hot-rod caliber. Phillips's M-16 rested atop the old heap. Phillips himself was laid out in the front seat of the car, his feet sticking out the passenger-side door as he worked to locate a trunk release of some kind. The car's owner had apparently made off with the keys when he or she abandoned the car. God only knew why.
"Anything useful?" Beechum asked Phillips's bouncing legs.
"Nothing yet," Phillips returned, then added, "Lookin' like I'll have to force the trunk."
Beechum nodded, even if Phillips was in no position to see the gesture. He looked around at the others.
Behind them, Nunez carried two full gas containers from where Cadagon and Fuller were still working to siphon gas from a semi. Still, no one seemed concerned about the corpse walking towards them. They'd deal with it when the time came.
Up ahead, milling between the heap of cars in front of the convoy, Schuler and Tucker peered into vehicles.
"Schuler, Tucker, unless the cars have something in them we need, don't shoot the stiffs in 'em. Don't waste the bullets," Beechum called out to them. Schuler didn't turn around but held up a thumb in acknowledgment.
Beechum turned back to Phillips. "Don't spend too much time trying to pry open trunks." Beechum could hear Caldwell opening the back of the police van. The sliding of the lever. The grating of the hinge.
"Could be some tools or something in them," Phillips said on his stomach, looking over his shoulder.
"I don't care if there's a pepperoni pizza with extra cheese in the trunk. I don't want to be here too long, and I want—"
A rustling of weeds.
Beechum's hand shot to his sidearm and unsnapped the guard.
Phillips slid out from the front seat in one smooth motion, reaching above him for his M-16 before his head even emerged. Either he felt something was wrong when Beechum stopped talking, or he heard it, too.
Branches snapping. The Colt 45, now Beechum's, was out of its holster.
Schuler and Tucker ran back towards the convoy, guns raised towards the grass barrier.
Murphy slowly sat down the MRE in his left hand while his right swung his rifle around.
Nunez froze in place, the gas containers hanging at each side.
Cadagon and Fuller, realizing something was amiss, stopped siphoning gas and rose to their feet.
Then a series of clopping sounds, fast. Something or some things running on the westbound side of the highway.
Suddenly the grass was alive with motion as something plowed through it towards the fleet of vehicles.
Guns jerked to attention.
All at once, a shape bursts out of the bush.
Beechum got off two quick shots.
And missed.
* * * * *
The smell of the bucket really wasn't as bad as Meyers had implied by her request for having it dumped, but she'd hoped Murphy would empty it and his doing so would give her some time alone with him (well, alone, not counting Travers) to flirt and maybe even extract a little information. Not to mention the chance of a little breeze flowing in, even if only for a moment.
But shortly after she yelled through the grated window, she heard Beechum shouting at Caldwell about something, and then Caldwell walked past the window headed to the back of the van. Meyers sighed and shook her head. Caldwell would make her and Travers crawl to the back wall of the van and sit still while the door was open.
And he'd be
less than generous with information, for sure.
They heard Caldwell rap is fist twice on the door—the signal for them to head to the back; a bit of protocol Murphy usually ignored—and she and Travers complied.
Then the latch slid and released and next light poured into the van. It was surprisingly bright. Meyers and Travers shielded their eyes. The bucket was waiting next to the door where Meyers had left it for easy access. Caldwell saw it, peered into it quickly, then shook his head.
"You think I got nothing better to do than dump out your piss?"
They didn't answer. They knew better. He threw the MREs, harder than necessary, then snatched up the bucket by the handle, staring them down while he did so.
"I want to take a bath," Meyers told him before he could shut the door. She was trying to look past him now that her eyes were partially adjusted. Seeing if she could learn something from the terrain. But she needed more time.
"Oh yeah? You got a ball to go to, Princess? Should I ask Phillips to iron your dress?"
"It's been over a week."
Travers closed his eyes tight. He hated it when she pressed them.
Caldwell sighed loudly and shook his head. "I'll look into it. Until then, you two bitches—"
Something startled him enough to make him jump. He quickly lowered the bucket to the road and scrambled to pull his rifle, strapped across his back, around in front of him while he looked off to his left.
"What is it?" Meyers asked. She sat up straight, which prompted Travers to open his eyes.
"Shut up," Caldwell said, his mind elsewhere. He was clearly trying to listen for something.
Anxious seconds ticked by.
Then there was a clamor. A rapid movement of disturbed grass and shrubs.
Caldwell reacted, fumbling to raise his weapon.
Gunshots rattled the stillness of the afternoon.
* * * * *
The buck leaped from the tall grass and Beechum was forced backward when both of his shots went wide. The deer, with full antlers, was just as startled by the men. It rose onto two legs before turning west and bounding down the highway towards Nunez, who simply sidestepped to allow its passage. Phillips raised his rifle to fire, but there were too many people in the background. The deer shot past Cadagon and Fuller, but neither had a rifle within reach.
Beechum put his hand to his chest and leaned against the five-ton, his heart pounding. He bent over. "Holy shit," he said to the ground.
Caldwell stuck his head out from behind the police van. He was smiling, half laughing. "Man, what the fuck?"
The zombie on the highway moved to intercept the deer, but the deer easily avoided it. The buck continued down the highway at a fast pace. The zombie spun slowly in pursuit and bumbled back the way it had come.
"There goes dinner," Phillips said, almost disgusted. He spat on the pavement and joined the others in watching the deer fade in the distance.
And then a corpse darted out from the high weeds, straight at Beechum.
This time he didn't even have time to raise his sidearm, much less squeeze off a shot.
Luckily for him, Phillips did.
After a quick burst from Phillips's M-16, the zombie fell against Beechum's knees, nearly knocking him down. Its head was now almost completely gone, pieces of it strewn across the interstate.
"Awww, fuck, man!" It was Nunez. They looked at him to see him covered in gasoline, one of the gas cans he was holding bleeding fuel from several holes. He glared at Phillips disbelievingly. "You coulda killed me, man! Blew me up, or some shit!" He raised both gas cans in the air.
Phillips shrugged.
Beechum looked at Phillips. He didn't know what to say. Phillips stretched half a grin and nodded to him.
Suddenly there was more noise. Feet running on the asphalt beyond the grass. And then the grass was teeming with movement again.
"To the vehicles! Now!" Beechum yelled.
But no one had a chance to move before two dozen fast-moving corpses sprinted out of the weeds.
* * * * *
Cadagon and Fuller were too far from the convoy to try and make it back. A split-second after Beechum's order, zombies flooded between the cars. They were fast and focused, finding movement and giving pursuit.
Fuller snatched up his sidearm and tried the back door. It popped open easily.
Cadagon himself had his gun and was about to stand and fight. Fuller yanked him down in what would have been flagged as a horsecollar penalty in football and nearly threw the smaller man into the backseat. Then Fuller dove on top of him and shut the door.
He didn't think they'd been seen. And if they hadn't, lying low, quiet, and still was their best chance at survival.
* * * * *
Schuler fired two long bursts before scrambling onto the hood of the five-ton. The shots were random and hurried, and only one zombie fell and stayed down. Schuler nearly slipped off the hood and barely pulled back his leg in time to escape the rancid jaws of a zombie. One or two of the dead tried to follow him up onto the truck, but they lacked the dexterity to make the climb.
They swiped at Schuler's feet and he danced around to avoid being tripped and dragged down off the vehicle. He fired around, again without aiming, dropping one creature, only to see it replaced by two others.
He noticed the keys dangling in the cab of the truck and turned his weapon on the passenger side of the windshield. Bullets ripped through the glass, pounding the seat on the other side. Then with the heel of his boot, he partially caved in the windshield. It dropped down from an upper corner. Pounding it further with the butt of the M-16, he made a hole wide enough to shimmy through. He raised the rifle and popped one more corpse in the head as he slid down into the seat.
* * * * *
Nunez stood horrified as two zombies zipped towards him. He still gripped the gas containers tightly in his fists. He swung the gas can in his left hand at the first zombie when it was close enough. It was still half full—not all had leaked out—and the zombie was swatted away, off-balance, and hit the ground hard.
But Nunez was blinded when the impact splashed gas into his eyes.
The wind was knocked out of him when the next zombie slammed into him. His head whacked the pavement and through the daze, he could feel his stomach being bitten and opened up.
He screamed, more in shock than in genuine agony, and reached behind him, underneath himself and through the pain, to the 9MM tucked under his belt.
He pulled it around to the front of his body, his eyes burning and useless, as new pain exploded above his right knee, the first zombie having recovered and joining in on the feast. Nunez felt for the head of the creature tearing out his intestines, feeling for its temple, and then felt for the barrel of the gun to make sure he pressed it to the right spot and, hopefully, at the right angle.
He pulled the trigger and the muzzle flash ignited the gasoline. Fire erupted, cleansing Nunez with fresh torture.
Two more zombies fell onto his writhing body, unconscious of the lapping flames cooking their flesh and insensitive to his unceasing screams.
It was only seconds before the second gas can exploded, enveloping him in blessed death.
But it seemed much, much longer.
* * * * *
Murphy backed up from the bed of the five-ton, dropping MREs to the ground and readying his rifle. He shot two corpses in the head in quick succession and, realizing he'd never make it to the drivers-side door of either the five-ton or the deuce-and-a-half, ran towards the passenger's side of the deuce.
A zombie ran towards him from the back of it. Murphy tried the passenger-side door, but it was locked. He ran back the way he came, firing at and missing the encroaching zombie as he went. In the passenger-side mirror of the five-ton, Murphy saw Schuler climb through the front windshield. Murphy made for the door, but another zombie zipped around the corner, running full speed towards him.
Desperate, Murphy dropped onto his stomach and rolled beneath the five-ton.
Both corpses tried to pursue him. Having trouble pulling around the M-16, it being awkward to handle in the enclosed space under the vehicle, he beat at the zombies with the butt of his rifle and the heel of his boot.
Then he felt something punch him in the arm and turned to see a third corpse working his way under the five-ton from the other side.
Murphy army-crawled towards the bed of the truck, back towards where he'd been standing when the attack began, the MREs still on the ground where he'd dropped them. He crushed them under his weight as he crawled from under the five-ton, then stood.
A zombie barrelled towards him from the grass and he raised the M-16 to fire. Suddenly, an explosion attacked his senses and he lost his grip on the gun. Soon he recovered and aimed again, but the zombie was no longer in his sights.
Almost immediately a rain shower of plastic, burning gas, and body parts fell around him. Murphy had to put out two small fires that had ignited on his uniform. That done, Murphy tried to sort out the chaos around him.
Then his feet were being pulled beneath him and he looked down to see two sets of arms reaching at him from beneath the five-ton.
Murphy kicked the hands and arms away and shoved the half-empty box of MREs to the ground. It landed on the emerging head of a corpse below the bed.
Murphy lifted the heavy tailgate, usually a three-man job (one to lift it while two men secured the pins that held it up), then climbed over it into the back. The back was mostly full and he couldn't retreat very far. Above him, he could see the canvas cover burning in at least a couple of places, small fires that would spread.
He couldn't worry about that now. He hemmed himself into a cranny of boxes, preparing to fire at the first zombie he saw. He saw three at once, but with the tailgate up and only their heads showing above it, they couldn't figure out how to climb in. Murphy was able to take his time and pick them off.
Then the police van rumbled past the back of the five-ton. Murphy watched it disappear down the grassy incline.
