by Tony Urban
“I don’t believe he approves of you treating me like a genuine human being.”
Allebach wasted no energy looking toward his colleague. “Kids come into the system, thinking it’s their job to punish people. That isn’t what we’re here for. You’re already doing your time. We’re supposed to make that go as smooth as possible. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Bundy grinned. “Might want to tell him that.”
“Some of them wise up. Ones that don’t, well, they end up as bitter and angry as the men they spent their whole careers hating.”
The bus had been moving in slow motion for the last half hour but Bundy noticed that it picked up pace as it rolled into a tunnel. The warm light of day disappeared in an instant, plunging the bus into darkness.
“What’s going on?” One of the sick prisoners asked. “Where are we?” His voice was slow and delirious.
Bundy heard the sound of shackles clanging against metal. That was followed by coughing, then more movement.
“Back in your fucking seats!” Errickson yelled and Bundy could hear the fear he was trying to cover with rage.
The putrid green light of dim fluorescents chased away most of the darkness and revealed two of the sick prisoners up and moving. It also showed Errickson was holding a small pistol.
“Sit down now!”
Bundy watched the reckless, little asshole sweep the gun back and forth, his finger on the trigger, and one panicked moment away from pulling it and shooting God knows what or who.
“Put that away, Errickson!” Allebach ordered, but the kid kept waving it around like he was ready to waste the entire bus.
The bus driver also watched the chaos unfolding behind him, ignoring the road ahead. Bundy, much to his dismay, did catch what was happening through the windshield.
“Boss, you better tell that driver to stop.”
“What?” Allebach asked, but it was already too late.
Bundy never lost consciousness but his bell was ringing by the time the momentum of the crash had ceased. He ended up wedged between two vinyl seats. The bus itself had toppled onto the passenger side. Noxious smoke rolled in through the broken windows. Bundy gagged and coughed as it burned his nasal passages. Then he realized, for the first time since they left the prison, no one else was coughing.
Bundy grabbed the edges of the seats that had him pinned and pulled himself up. It took all his strength and the exertion, coupled with the effects of the crash, made his head spin. Fortunately, the copious amount of sweat that covered his body acted as a lubricant and he managed to squeeze free.
None of his fellow passengers were moving. Two of the prisoners laid limp over seats but everyone else was unseen. With the bus on its side, Bundy had to crawl over the windows to move. He felt the broken glass dig into his knees and shins but pushed aside the pain. He needed to find Allebach.
Bundy found him four rows up. The man was head down, ass up, and motionless. Bundy gave his legs a shove, and he somersaulted backwards. His head slumped sideways atop a swollen, purple neck. Bundy knew that was game over. He grabbed the chain around Allebach’s waist and retrieved the keys for his cuffs.
As Bundy freed himself from the manacles, he looked down at the man and felt his chest tighten. Allebach was indeed a good egg, one who reminded Bundy of his own dad, who’d died of heart failure a decade ago. They even had the same wispy, gray comb over.
“Shitty way to go out, Boss. You deserved better.”
Bundy didn’t realize he was crying until he felt a tear run down his nose and tickle his nostril. He rolled the old guard into a laying down position and folded his hands over his belly. Next, he wiped the glass off the man’s face. He then set to fixing Allebach’s hair but as he tried to get it right, the dead man opened his eyes.
Bundy fell backwards and cracked his already foggy head against the metal interior.
“Boss?”
Allebach sat up and when Bundy leaned toward him the guard swatted at him and caught the upper part of his ear.
Bundy felt the cartilage bend and flesh tear. How could the old guy be so damned strong? Bundy swung out with his meaty right arm and connected with Allebach’s face. He tumbled backwards again and Bundy got on his knees.
He saw the old guard get up again, unfazed by the blow, and then he noticed more movement out of the corner of his eye.
The two prisoners he’d seen strewn over the seats were now up and moving. Past them, another prisoner was chewing on a severed head that Bundy recognized as belonging to Cob. No more corn for you, Amigo.
Zombies. They’re zombies. He never believed in that kind of thing but unless he’d hit his head hard enough to scatter all his marbles, there was no other way around it.
As the realization settled in, he felt Allebach grab his leg. Bundy kicked back with his size 14 foot and smashed it into his mouth. He heard teeth snap like dry wood.
With most of the zombies ahead, fleeing via the front was a no go. Bundy turned back and crawled toward the emergency exit. Along the way he found Errickson’s pistol. It was a tiny .22 Magnum pocket revolver which was woefully inaccurate unless you wanted to shoot someone in the gut from 2 feet away.
It looked and felt like a cap gun in Bundy’s monstrous hand. Little prick probably thought it was an Al Capone gangster gun. Bet he paid twice what it was worth too. He must have kept it in an ankle holster so he could smuggle it into the prison even though doing so was a felony. Talk about the inmates running the asylum.
Still, it was better than nothing so Bundy took it as he crawled toward the door at the rear of the bus. When he got there, he half expected it to be jammed but when he pulled the latch release it flopped out and open where it hit the exterior of the bus with a bang that echoed through the confines of the tunnel.
Bundy threw one leg through the door, then the other as he managed his girth through the opening. He barely fit when it was right side up let alone sideways. He dropped down to the pavement and felt the impact of his 500 pounds in all his joints when he landed.
All he could see ahead of the bus was smoke, crashed vehicles and zombies. Behind it, the smoke was less dense, the totaled cars fewer. Only a few zombies, all of them preoccupied with eating the victims of the crash, were behind him. He went with that option.
A hundred yards away, a vintage Firebird sat pinned nose to nose with a Lincoln Navigator and together they blocked his escape route. As Bundy hauled himself onto the hood of the Pontiac, a hand grabbed the waistband of his standard-issue orange jumpsuit. He turned, looked over his shoulder, and saw Errickson. His glasses sat askew on his face. One lens had shattered and a large sliver punctured his eyeball. The remaining eye was lifeless and blank but somehow still seeing and when Bundy’s face fell into view, the short man gasped and screwed up his face like a fellow who’d just smelled a particularly sour fart.
“Still an asshole, even when you’re dead,” Bundy said.
Bundy reached back and tried to grab the man’s hair but it was slick with blood and too short for him to get a grip. Errickson’s head darted forward and Bundy pulled back his hand just in time to avoid losing a finger or two.
Beyond them, Bundy could see more of the undead drifting through the haze toward them. Errickson lunged at him again and this time Bundy struck back with his over-sized hand and punched him in his good eye.
The force of the blow sent the guard to his knees and Bundy used that opportunity to extract the gun from his pocket. As Errickson struggled back to his feet, Bundy aimed the small barrel of the Magnum at his face.
“Wish I could say I’m sorry about this but.”
He pulled the trigger and the .22 punched a hole in the space just below the dead guard’s nose. His teeth folded inward in a spray of blood and white shrapnel. The bullet didn’t have enough force to vacate his skull, but it got the job done just as well and Errickson tumbled to the pavement.
By this time the approaching zombies were close enough that Bundy could make out their phys
ical features. That was too close, and he climbed over the hood of a Pontiac. As he did, he spotted two bloody toddlers clawing at the windows of the crashed Lincoln. They fought to get out, or get to him. Either way, he ignored them. He wasn’t fond of children, especially undead ones.
Past that obstacle he had a somewhat clear path. He ran, or more accurately strolled briskly, away from the crashed vehicles, keeping a good distance between himself and the occasional zombies he passed along the way. They ignored him too, busy feasting on other casualties or the pileup.
As he came toward the tail end of the pileup, he found a VW Beetle with the driver’s door ajar and the engine still running. A few yards away a zombie in a pinstripe suit was eating the shapely thigh of a girl who looked about college age. Bundy imagined that the Bug was hers and that she’d had the bad luck of being a Good Samaritan at the wrong time.
Her loss was his gain though, and he pushed the seat back as far as it would go and squeezed himself into the car. He turned it around in the tunnel and weaved his way through the remaining vehicles until he reached daylight.
Dozens of cars inbound for the tunnel had stopped at the entrance. The smoke that drifted out of the tube must have given them second thoughts about entering. Bundy steered by them, aiming the Bug toward the outbound lanes. The metal underbelly of the car scraped as he crested the concrete median.
A middle-aged man in a Honda yelled out to him. “Hey, buddy! What happened in there?”
Bundy looked at the driver and his wife, then glanced back toward the tunnel. “Take my advice and head for the hills.”
“Should we call the cops?”
“The cops? You better call the damned Marines.”
The man gawked at him, confused.
“Is that man a convict?” the wife asked.
Bundy floored it, continued over the median and bounced down into the outbound lane. Why, yes, ma’am, I’m Inmate 2089349. Pleased to meet you. Yinz have a good day. Oh and watch out for the zombies.
25
Everything was going as well as possible under the circumstances until the slob in the Dykstra jersey fell. While running north, the group had put 50 yards between themselves and the zombie horde, thanks to zigzagging through alleyways and between buildings. It was almost 11 a.m. and they had no real destination aside from getting as far as possible from the city before the bombs rained down.
Peduto saw the Smart Car first. The tiny, black and white convertible looked like a toy but it sat undamaged in the middle of the road and the driver was nowhere to be seen. She jumped inside and found they key in the ignition. One turn and it fired right up.
“Get in!” she called. The ridiculousness of the order was obvious and she knew that. The car had no rear seat and room for only 2 up front.
“Peduto, drive. Bolivar, you get in the passenger seat. Me and him will hold on,” Sawyer said, jerking a thumb at Dykstra Jersey.
“No, I’ll ride on the outside,” Bolivar said but Sawyer’s shut up and do what I tell you to do look settled that matter and he climbed in beside Gwen.
The top was down and Sawyer grabbed hold of the roll bar in the back.
“Giddy up,” he said to Dykstra Jersey, and the man wrapped his forearms around the bar. “Now roll!”
Peduto did. The car was slow under normal circumstances and, with four people on board, it felt like the engine was powered by a hamster wheel. It was still quicker than zombies.
They made it a few miles before Dykstra Jersey’s grip became weak and he almost fell.
Sawyer saw his distress. “Don’t you let go.”
The man nodded but couldn’t mask the pain in his face.
When they rounded a corner, a group of more than 40 zombies blocked their path. Peduto hit the brakes, and that’s when the man lost his grip. Sawyer reached out with his right arm and caught him by the sleeve of his jersey but the man was beyond his tipping point and there was no pulling him back.
As he fell, Sawyer went down too and his M4 slammed to the pavement underneath him. Dykstra Jersey shrieked. It was the high-pitched sound of a wounded animal. Peduto had stopped the car and when Bolivar looked back he saw the Phillies fan’s leg was twisted outward at an angle human legs aren’t meant to bend.
Sawyer hopped up and ran to him. He lifted the man who screamed again and his broken leg swayed back and forth like a metronome.
The zombies marched toward them from the front and closed the gap to a few yards. Peduto threw open her door and got one step out before Sawyer screamed at her.
“Get back in that car!”
She paused and Sawyer’s face flamed red. “That’s an order, Corporal!”
Peduto pulled her leg back into the car and closed the door.
“God, Jesus! Put me down!” Dykstra Jersey wailed.
“What do I do!” Peduto shouted to Sawyer, Bolivar, and herself.
Through the windshield, Bolivar could see the closest zombie was less than 20 feet away. The others weren’t far behind.
Sawyer saw them too. “Oh, fuck it all to hell.”
He dropped Dykstra Fan who hit the ground with another anguished cry. Sawyer left him there and dashed to the Smart car, only pausing a moment to look at Peduto.
“I’ll clear the middle. You keep driving. Stay on Penrose until you find a ramp for 95 south.” Peduto reached for his hand and Sawyer jerked it away. “I don’t know if there’s going to be anyone left, but try for the Air Force base in Dover.”
He looked to the zombies which were now within what Bolivar’s grandfather would have called spitting distance. “Go there. Or don’t. I got a feeling it don’t matter anymore.”
With that he rushed ahead of the car and opened fire on the crowd of zombies. To Bolivar, they looked like the metal ducks at carnival shooting booths as they fell under the fire of Sawyer’s M4. All that was missing was the plinking sound.
As promised, Sawyer created a lane through the center of the horde large enough for the Smart car and Peduto floored it. As she steered the car through the mass of them, the zombies clawed and swiped at the vehicle. One caught Bolivar’s cap and whisked it clean off.
The convertible clipped a few of them, pushing them aside like bumper cars. They snarled and growled and tried to regroup but the car was almost through them. Just before they got to the end of the pack, a zombie in a suit jumped onto the hood.
It peered in through the glass and Bolivar thought the man looked to have been in his 30’s. Gel held his hair in a perfect pompadour. He looked almost normal, except for the dead, gray eyes and the bloody drool that seeped from his mouth.
The zombie grabbed hold of the top of the windshield and dragged himself up onto it. His face pressed against the glass and flattened all his features. He kept pulling himself upward. Another two feet and he’d be able to reach inside the convertible.
Before it could do that, Bolivar pulled out the pistol Peduto had given him a few hours earlier. He pressed it against the windshield. Only the quarter inch pane of glass separated the barrel from the zombie’s face.
“Do it,” Peduto said.
Bolivar didn’t wait. He squeezed the trigger and spider webs burst across the windshield. A small hole appeared in the center of them as the bullet penetrated the glass, then slammed into the zombie’s face. It tumbled off the car and rolled a few times when it hit the ground.
26
Wim stared at Old Man Bender’s undead family and pondered what to do. He felt like kicking himself for not bringing a second firearm and even more so for putting his life at risk over chocolate ice cream. He hoped there would be time for scolding himself later on. Right now, he needed to focus on surviving.
The tot that clung to his leg was also biting him and the only thing saving his flesh from the boy’s sharp, little teeth was the denim of his blue jeans. Wim took the empty pistol and grabbed it by the barrel. He brought it down on the zombie’s head as hard as he could. The boy dropped to his knees but wasn’t dead.
That bought Wim a few seconds of time and he scanned the freezer, looking for anything he could use for a weapon. In the near dark it was almost impossible to see. One of the fathers was only a few feet away and closing in fast. Wim grabbed the feet of the boy he’d knocked down and hoisted him into the air.
The boy weighed no more than 40 pounds, far less than a bag of feed, and Wim had no trouble swinging him by his feet and using him like a club. The tot’s head connected with the skull of the man which resulted in a sharp crack and hollow thud, like knocking together two pieces of dead wood. Wim supposed that, in a way, that’s all they were.
The adult zombie wobbled on his feet, took half a step forward then two back, then collapsed. The boy had also gone limp and Wim launched him at the others like he was throwing a shot put. The pint-sized zombie crashed into the others, knocking down two of the children and pushing back the remaining adults. Wim ran a detour around them and as he did, he almost ran into one of the meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. That gave him an idea.
Wim snatched a hook from the line and gripped it by the wooden handle. He turned back to the zombies and saw the younger brother was within arm’s reach. He swung the hook and the pointed end punched through the man’s temple. It fell so quick it pulled the hook loose from Wim’s grip.
Wim jerked it free and saw one of the children blocking his path to the freezer door. In two long strides he reached the girl and slammed the meat hook upward, catching her under the chin. It poked out through her eye socket and her cloudy, blue eye popped free and then dangled from the gaping hole like a spent parachute.
She kept moving so Wim gave the handle a hard yank and threw her across the room where she crashed into a pile of boxes. Wim now had a clear path and he took it. He shoved his shopping cart through the opening, grabbed the door and slammed it shut, knocking over one of the wife zombies in the process. He latched the door from the outside and leaned back against it as he caught his breath.
