Zombie Road (Book 1): Convoy of Carnage

by David A. Simpson

  “Fine, Fine.” Cobb barked “Get with Cookie and let him know what you can spare! Now ‘as-you-were’ and let me finish.” He continued “If your car got smashed up in the parking lot melee, we’ll figure something out.” He eyed the man who had been so vocal about his dented-up Ferrari. He wisely said nothing.

  “If it’s too damaged to drive, just come back inside when we open the doors. If you’re leaving, the sooner the better. Those things are steadily piling up out there. They seem to be pretty calm unless they see a person, then all hell breaks loose.”

  “How are we going to get to the parking lot then, if they are already outside?” a woman with a couple of children at her side asked

  “We’ll create a diversion,” Cobb replied. “Speaking of which. Gunny, I need you and Griz for a powwow with me and Tommy after this. You two got the most sandbox experience. We need to figure out the best way to get these folks to their cars in one piece if they’re leaving.”

  Gunny nodded and Griz gave a “Roger that.”

  “I don’t suppose anybody’s hauling ammo?” he asked without much hope.

  No one was.

  Cobb went on a few more minutes about some other things and Gunny scanned the room from the back where he was standing. He knew the drivers would be paying attention and that Cobb had their respect. He wondered how the tourists, the civilians as he thought of them, were taking his words now that they realized he had acted in their best interest when he was barking orders and guns started blasting a few hours ago.

  All of them were attentive. There were a few sour looks about some of the things Cobb had said. But as they listened and heard the interactions between this grizzled old codger and those younger and stronger than him, they were starting to realize he was much more than just a grumpy, scarred up old man.

  Gunny tried to get into their heads, to get a feel for what they were thinking, tried to read them through their facial expressions and body language. Tried to see if there were any potential problems. He was falling back into old military habits without even realizing it.

  Carl and his girlfriend Tina had stopped in to check this truck stop out after reading about it on one of the travel blogs they subscribed to. They liked it, very quaint and unique. Now he couldn’t decide if they were lucky they happened to be here when the Zombie Apocalypse happened or if they would have been better off to have skipped it and had breakfast at home. If they hadn’t stopped, they would still be in their car and then been able to drive back to their apartment. Their Prius was one of the cars that truck driver, the one everybody called Gunny, had smashed into. It bounced off the front bumper of that big rig and he didn’t know how much damage it had sustained, it all happened so fast he couldn’t tell. It looked okay from what he could see out of the window, just the plastic bumper cover was hanging askew.

  At first he and Tina had thought these uncouth drivers were a bunch of redneck jerks. They had heard them make fun of that poor boy with the missing arm. But as they watched them, they heard them joking with him and treating him the same as anyone else.

  Cobb hadn’t even batted an eye when he told him to grab a mop and clean up the mess in the dining room left by that crawling monstrosity. He had no consideration for his handicap. The young man did it. No excuses, no complaints. There was respect and deference when they talked to the old man, when they called him Top. It seemed to be a military rank or something.

  He must have been somebody important at one time. That guy was kind of a nutjob with all those loaded guns just lying around where the kids could have gotten to them. But he had been fast to realize what they were up against. He supposed he really had saved everyone’s lives. Him and that one they called Gunny.

  Now he was a scary one. Cold- blooded killer. He was the first one to react, the first one to run out in the parking lot and shoot that little kid in the face. And he had let that thing just crawl within a few feet of that poor frightened woman. Then he blew its head half off and drug it off like they were going for a Sunday stroll. Wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.

  The old man had said something about him and that huge guy called Griz having a bunch of time in the sandbox. He knew that meant Afghanistan. Or Iraq. Or anywhere over there, he supposed. He wasn’t even sure which countries they were fighting in anymore. It had been going on for nearly his whole life and no one on campus cared about such things.

  He looked around the room, at the men in the diner and then at the men over in the “Professional Driver’s Only” section. Wow. What a difference. He felt a little awkward about his and Tina’s matching Salvation Army outfits now. He had quietly untied the hand dyed scarf that he’d been wearing as an ascot.

  They had thought it so jaunty but now he thought it was ridiculous. The guys on this side all looked a little soft, he had to admit. Slacks and polo shirts. Loafers and Dockers. Those guys over there looked like hard cases. Blue jeans and flannel. Canvas jackets and T-shirts with 2nd Amendment phrases on them.

  It looked like the world was reverting to survival of the fittest and those guys had a pretty good head start on everyone else. No wonder most of them were packing pistols. He would have to get one. Learn how to shoot it. He was pretty good at Call of Duty, it shouldn’t be too hard.

  Well, at least he wasn’t wearing pink, like that fat guy who kept screaming about his stupid Ferrari. Or Li’l Wayne over there with all his ghetto gangsta clothes and tattoos and that big chrome grill in his mouth. That guy hadn’t said a word since he came in and sat down in the booth. Just kept staring out the window at the gap between the truck and its trailer. He had even been crying.

  He had helped bring in that poor guy that died and turned into a zombie that Gunny had shot to pieces. Wonder if he knew him? They had pulled up together. Even he had a gun. And probably a criminal record as long as your arm. But that was racist. Profiling. Shouldn’t think like that.

  He and Tina went to Berkeley and they prided themselves on not being judgmental. He was better than that and felt a little ashamed for even thinking such a thing. She was in electrical engineering and he was studying philosophy, still undecided on a “real” major, as his dad kept cajoling him to declare. It was almost laughable.

  Last week – hell, yesterday – he would have told anyone there was no reason to own a firearm. But today he was thinking he needed to get a gun, learn how to use it. He was looking at the differences in the people, their clothes, their hair, and their attitudes. What separated ‘them’ from ‘us.' It had to be more than the fact that they all looked uneducated, maybe barely graduating high school.

  The people on his side of the diner looked more refined, definitely. Better clothes that didn’t come from Wal-Mart, expensive watches, good haircuts. Maybe it was because most of them seemed to have military experience. Poor people joined the army. Maybe that was it, being raised in deprived conditions. He noticed the one called Gunny staring at him and rapidly turned back to pay attention to what Cobb was saying, feeling like he was back in school and had just been caught doing something wrong.

  Chapter 10

  After they had wolfed down their chow, Gunny and Griz headed to the shop with Tommy and Cobb. The rest of the drivers were making their plans to either leave or stay, still trying to call and text and find out any information they could from the internet.

  It was the only news source that still worked although more and more websites, especially those housed overseas or on the east coast, were failing to load. Many of the tourists pitched in to help with the kitchen and dining room cleanup, waiting until they could safely get to their cars.

  They had appreciated Cobb’s offer of a safe place to stay but most didn’t even consider it. They needed to get home. They had loved ones waiting for them. Once the families were back together, then they could make plans, then maybe come back here if things were really that bad out there.

  As they walked into the shop, Tommy grabbed a paper floor mat they put in all the customer's trucks when they worked on the
m to keep the mechanic's dirty boots off of the carpets. He laid it on the counter and flipped it over to the blank side then quickly sketched out the layout of the Three Flags.

  “All of the people in the diner are parked here,” he said, indicating the automobile parking area in front of the store. “So, how do we get seventy zombies away from there long enough for them to slip out and get to their cars?”

  “How much ammo do we have?” Griz asked. “I’m not thinkin’ handguns – not accurate enough. We have some for the M-1 and there’s some .223.”

  “Not enough for what you’re thinking,” Cobb said. “I’ve got about a hundred rounds total.”

  “I’m thinking we need a diversion, something to draw them away,” Gunny said, looking at the quickly drawn map. “Someone on the roof can see if it’s clear and radio down when it is. We open up the front doors, they slide out under the trailers and run for their cars.”

  “What diversion, though?” Tommy asked

  Cobb drew on his Lucky Strike and added a few more lines to the makeshift map. “If we take the tow truck out of the back gate,” he indicated the seldom used junkyard gate behind the shop, “we could bring it around to the front, hit the lights and air horns and then drive off. They should chase it.”

  “Right.” Gunny said “Once they are all away from the store, floor it, get turned around and then come back and run over ‘em. That big ass push bumper should do some serious zombie bowling damage.”

  Griz smiled. “I like the way you think,” he said.

  Chapter 11

  “Whaddayamean I’m riding shotgun?” Gunny asked when Cobb tried to hand him the AR-15. “I plan on heading out, too.”

  “We didn’t finish the service on your truck.” Tommy said “All we did was get the oil drained. It’ll be a while. I’ll get the boys on it right now, by the time you and Tiny get back, it should be done.”

  Gunny grimaced and took the AR. It was a perfect replica of the M-16 used during the Nam conflict. Aside from the full auto selector, of course. “Fine,” he grumbled.

  The shiny black Peterbilt heavy wrecker rumbled quietly at the back of the shop. It was an old 359 model from the 80s but well maintained and gleamed in the early afternoon sun. Tommy kept it waxed and all the chrome polished to mirror finishes.

  Griz and Hot Rod were standing by the back gate, ready to pull it open as soon as they got the signal from Scratch. He was on the roof with the M-1 with a clear line of sight along the road and fence.

  “You’re good.” Scratch said into the handheld CB. “The nearest one is at least a quarter-mile away.”

  Tiny heard him over the radio in the Pete and released the air brakes, grabbed 5th gear and nailed the throttle. The big Cat under the hood roared and like the torque monster it was, never even hiccupped at taking off in the higher gear. By the time they were around the little bend in the junkyard and headed for the gate, the two men had it open and were standing by to hurriedly shut it behind them as soon as they cleared it. Cobb was there with the M-4, waving them on. Tiny turned towards the front of the truck stop and as they had planned, flipped on the flashers and the emergency lights then got on the air horn.

  He circled into the parking lot and just as they expected, they had the full attention of every single walking cadaver. Gunny had seen their speed and ferocity, but even he was taken aback at the brutal single-mindedness as they came screaming across the lot straight at them.

  This was the first time Tiny got to see them up close and he started cursing a blue streak when the first of them slammed into the push bumper and bounded up and over the heavy iron grill guard. He spun the wheel and hit the throttle hard and the flailing man went flying off the hood as the main body of them plowed into the truck, screeching and leaping at the faces they saw in the windows.

  They didn’t seem to be coordinated enough or have enough foresight to actually hold on to a grab bar or chicken light cluster. They just kept reaching and running at them. Tiny hadn’t seen combat on the warship he was on during his stint in the Navy but he’d trained just as hard as anyone else and that training kicked in, overriding the natural instinct to panic.

  But he’d never seen anything like this. Those things had absolutely no sense of self- preservation. They were running headlong into twenty tons of accelerating steel and it was pulverizing them under its wheels as they bounced over and through the crowd of zombies. As they crushed their way through and got out in front of them, leading them away from the store front, they heard Scratch over the radio giving the people that wanted to leave the all clear signal.

  Tiny slowed down a little, glancing down at the speedometer. “I’m going twenty miles an hour and they’re gaining,” he said and gave a little more gas.

  “Well, the ones you didn’t bust up are,” Gunny said. “See how long they can keep it up.”

  Tiny held the truck at a little over twenty, staying just ahead of the lead runner. They were both watching the mirrors, enthralled as the zombies didn’t slow or seem to tire out. The path behind them was strewn with the running dead in various states of damage.

  Chapter 12

  Long Dawg was standing by with the rest of the people that wanted to leave, to get back to family and loved ones. He wanted his coke. He’d been in a daze these last few hours. He lost both his cousins and best friends here and he wanted to get away. He’d heard what those truckers said about how bad it was out there, but he didn’t really believe it.

  Those cowboys in their big bus said they were going to wait. The fat guy with no Ferrari was going to have to wait. A bunch of the truckers said they were just going to stay here and see what happens. All of the mechanics that worked here were going to get their families and bring them back. But most of the people that were lined up and ready to run out the doors were headed back down towards Reno, back to their homes.

  This shit wasn’t that bad. Couldn’t be. People were overreacting. He needed to get the van and get it away before some Government officials started poking around. They would be here soon when they came to do their investigations of The North Reno Truck Stop Mayhem. Or whatever the news reporters were going to call it.

  They all waited, tense and ready to go and once they heard the all clear over the radio, they pushed open the doors and everyone scrambled to be the first out. He was through like a shot and crawling on his hands and knees under the trailer as fast as he could. The trick with the lights and horn had worked, they had led all of those screaming dead things away. He ran past his 300 still sitting at the pumps, straight for the van and jumped in, went to turn the keys…No keys.

  NO! NO! NO! Had Mario put them in his pocket? Fool. This wasn’t the hood. Nobody was going to jack your car here in the middle of nowhere. If he had, they’d been buried with him. Maybe Jimmy had them. He jumped out of the van and nearly got run down as all the cars were screeching out of the parking lot, fishtailing and squealing tires.

  He dodged the remaining ones and joined the sprint to the big truck parking area, falling in behind the few truckers who opted to leave. He saw Jimmy’s body and ran up to it, nearly tripping over him as he slid in the gravel, dropping to his knees and frantically patting the pants pockets.

  Don’t look at him! Don’t look at him! he kept telling himself, trying to feel the keys.

  Bingo was his name-O! he thought insanely, digging his hand in deep and pulling them out. He looked up as one of the semis dodged around him, spitting gravel and dust plumes from its tires. There was an old school bus sitting there that had been tucked in between the trucks. It was painted black and had writing on the side, probably some crappy band on tour he thought.

  What tripped him out was that some ratty haired guy was sitting in the drivers’ seat eating a bowl of cereal and watching him rifle through a dead man’s pockets. He didn’t have time for this. He started to run back towards the fuel pumps, his head on a swivel, looking for more of the zoms. And the big rigs who weren’t obeying the “5 mph in Parking Lot” sign. He s
aw the couple that owned the Prius pulling on the plastic front bumper and tossing it aside then climbing in.

  The fat guy’s Ferrari was a total loss, he could see that from here. The whole front end was caved in and one of the wheels was sitting askew. He jumped back into the van, and started trying keys until he found the right one.

  The big wrecker had turned around and came flying by with a few of the zombies chasing after it before he could get the van out of the parking lot. He let them go, better to be behind that crowd than in front of it, he reasoned.

  Tiny and Gunny were looking out of the mirrors and saw a line of cars screeching out of the parking lot, all of them heading back towards Reno, a couple nearly colliding as no one yielded and everyone floored it towards the exits.

  “Idiots,” Gunny said. “Somebody’s going to have a wreck driving like that.”

  “Yep.” Tiny agreed.

  “I guess we ought to follow them a little ways, make sure they at least get down to Reno. I’d like the see the road conditions anyway. That’s the way I’m going as soon as they get some oil back in my truck.”

  “Roger that.” Tiny said “I’ll wait till you’re ready to go and roll with you. I need to get back to Birmingham.” Then he sped up towards a cross over so he could get turned around.

  “Sounds good,” Gunny said. “Safety in numbers. Have to see if anyone else is rolling that way. Get us a little convoy going.”

  Tiny spun it around and headed back towards town, pointing the nose of the truck at all the runners and stragglers still in pursuit. It wasn’t hard, they all aimed themselves right at them. They passed a few of the big rigs headed to California by the back roads and tooted their horns.

  Probably a smart move, Gunny thought. Less traffic, less people, less trouble. By the time they went past the truck stop again they had killed or seriously maimed most of the horde that had been chasing them. Gunny got on the radio, told them they were going to do a quick recon run down towards Reno, see how bad the freeway was.