by Robert Kent
It might be the fire that burned all of Harrington, consuming it like a horde of dead.
On the right side of Meridian, a woman in a pink housedress wielded a snow shovel against four dead men. She stepped backward into the outstretched arms of a fifth zombie, who brought her down.
They fell on her like hyenas crowding a fresh kill.
We drove toward the town square where I could already see the dome of the Harrington courthouse above smaller buildings.
Ahead of us, two cars were idling in either lane so we couldn't get around. The drivers in each vehicle were looking straight ahead to the town square.
"Hang on," Dad said and drove onto the sidewalk. We went around the cars and saw what the drivers were staring at.
There was a fire engine crashed into the glass front of Le Entre, Harrington's most expensive restaurant. The fire department was catty-corner from that side of the square, so the engine had only traveled half a block before wrecking.
Its emergency lights were whirring and its siren was blaring. Its back end hung out into the street, blocking traffic.
On the opposite intersection, two empty police cruisers were parked, their emergency lights spinning.
"We're going to go slow," Dad said and drove forward.
When we entered the square, we saw the courthouse was enveloped in pandemonium. People, many of them in suits, ran in every direction across the lawn and in the streets.
It was easy to tell the zombies from the living by how slowly they ran.
"Watch out!" Michelle yelled.
Before Dad could turn to look, a silver minivan rammed into the back of our truck, throwing Michelle, Chuck, and me against the passenger door.
I heard a heavy crack I knew was my skull striking the window glass and the world blinked out.
45
A RINGING IN MY EARS that wasn't coming from any siren or alarm blocked out all sound.
There was a crack in the passenger side window. Below it a spot of red I knew was my blood.
I put a hand to my head. My fingers came away wet and sticky.
Beneath the crack in the window I saw a man on the courthouse lawn wearing a blue T-shirt and rubber pants held up by suspenders.
Firefighter gear.
He swung his arms back, his legs in a wide stance.
I didn't realize he had an axe until he lodged it in the chest of a woman in a black business suit.
The woman took two steps back, the axe wedged in her chest, then staggered forward, her arms reaching for him.
The firefighter was dumbstruck. He looked perplexed even as the woman bit into his neck and tore out his throat.
Hands clapped in front of my face.
I turned to see Dad leaning across the driver's seat. He was talking to me. I couldn't hear him over the ringing, but I saw his lips widen on the word "okay."
"I'm fine," I said and opened the truck door.
My mouth hung and I couldn't seem to close it. But I knew we had to get out of the truck.
I stepped onto the street and nearly fell over.
The world swam and waves of nausea washed over me. I grabbed the truck to keep myself standing and took deep breaths until the urge to vomit passed.
An invisible weight in my head shifted left and I leaned way over. I held the truck until the weight shifted back to center and I could stand up straight.
"Ricky!"
Dad again. He stood on the other side of the truck with Chuck and Michelle.
I waved to them. The weight in my head shifted. I slapped my hand back to the truck to stay upright.
"What happened to our truck?" I said. Its rear wheel was shredded and the left side was crunched and dented like an empty Kirkman's can.
"Oh yeah. The accident."
"Ricky!" Dad took off running around the side of the truck.
The driver's side door of the silver minivan that hit us flung open and a very fat man in a too-tight dress shirt and puce tie wobbled out. His forehead shone with a sheen of sweat and his breathing came in ragged gasps.
"Ricky!" Dad came running toward me, his gun stretched in front of him.
"Don't shoot," I said.
He fired and my head lulled backward. But it wasn't a bullet, it was that pesky weight in my head shifting again.
Someone grabbed my ankle and I fell all the way back, landing on my butt.
Beside me was the woman in the business suit, a lawyer most likely. The fireman's axe was still wedged in her chest.
She growled, deep and guttural, and grabbed my thigh, her cold fingers stabbing into the tender flesh.
Then blood spurted just above her right temple and she collapsed.
The ringing in my ears grew louder than ever.
Dad stood over us aiming the gun at her in case she started moving again.
She didn't.
"Hey!" I exclaimed. "She stayed dead!"
Dad reached a hand toward me and at first I didn't understand. "Come on, son. We've got to go."
"That's a good idea." I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet.
"Are you okay?"
I grabbed the truck. "Peachy."
Dad looked doubtful, but he let go of me and bent to the dead woman he'd re-killed. He had to wiggle the handle, but he managed to pull the axe out of her.
"My lucky bat," I said, and stumbled to the truck cab like a zombie.
The fat man in the puce tie came around the side of the wreck. "I am so sorry! Were you hurt?"
"I'm good," I said, reaching into the truck.
"Do you like pizza? I'm the manager of Tony Sty's Pizza Pies."
"Let's go," Dad said, taking my arm with one hand and carrying the bloody fire axe in the other.
"Let me give you my card." The fat man pulled his wallet from his back pocket. "And dinner is on me tonight."
Dad led me around the side of the truck to Chuck and Michelle.
"Should we exchange insurance information?" the fat man called after us. "Oh, there's a police officer."
The fat man waddled off like a cartoon pig in the direction of a man in a policeman's uniform.
"Excuse me, officer?"
When the cop turned, we saw his eyes were all white. He opened his mouth unnaturally wide and moaned.
46
I FINALLY THREW UP. DAD held my arms to keep me from falling face first into it.
"I think I hit my hea—" Meaty chunks of vomit cut me off.
"Get it together, son," Dad whispered in my ear, squeezing my arms. "I know you're hurt, but we've got no time for it. You hear me? Get your head straight or we are all going to die right here."
"Feel better, Ricky," Chuck pleaded.
I wiped my mouth and nodded, which hurt.
In front of us, the manager of Tony Sty's Pizza Pies was still talking:
"There's so many people on the square today, like an impromptu festival or something."
Blood stained his white dress shirt around the rim of his enormous gut, just beneath the tip of his puce tie. He was smiling too wide, his eyes were too big, and behind them I think his mind was broken.
That's the only way I can think to explain what happened next:
"Officer, I'm sorry to bother you. I can see you have your hands full. But I'm afraid I've hit this man." He waved a chubby hand at us.
The cop lumbered toward the manager, moaning.
"If you could file a report for us, I'm sure our insurance agencies can—what are you doing?"
The cop snarled the way the dead do when they get close.
"Stop that! Stop it. That's not right. You're a police officer! That's not riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigggggghhhhhtttttttttt!"
After that, the fat manager squealed at ear-piercing frequency, like a tea kettle whistling.
Dad kept one hand on my arm and the other holding Chuck's hand as he marched us around the pair to the end of the block where the police cruisers were parked.
"What are you doing?" Michelle asked as Dad let go of Chuck's hand
to open the driver's side door of the first cruiser.
"What's it look like?" Dad said. "Keys are in the ignition. Get in."
"We can't!" Michelle cried. I was already stumbling around the front of the cruiser to the passenger side. "It's against the law!"
Dad motioned behind us to where the police officer dove his head into the guts of the collapsed manager as though he were feeding at a trough. "The law's busy."
Dad opened the rear door and lifted Chuck onto the back bench. A metal grating divided the front seats from the back so it looked like my six-year-old brother had been arrested.
Three zombies on the courthouse lawn turned toward us as I slammed the passenger door shut. Dad climbed in as well.
Michelle stood looking at us uncertainly. When the zombies snarled and lurched toward the cruiser, she slid in beside Chuck. Dad drove off before she had a chance to close her door.
47
"GET YOUR SEATBELTS ON," DAD said.
I laid my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. Pain echoed through my skull and my sole focus was not puking in the police cruiser.
As we were nearly clear of the square, Dad slammed the brakes to avoid hitting an old man. When he looked up at us and snarled, we drove around him and onto Harrington Street.
At the intersection of Harrington and Kirkman Avenue (that's right, they named a street after him), the traffic light was blinking red. There were eight cars ahead, their drivers waiting patiently as though the rules of the road or the rules of anything still applied.
Ahead of the cars, a military convoy rounded the corner and headed down Kirkman Avenue.
"Are they going to Daddy's?" Michelle asked.
Something about the way she called Gerald Kirkman "Daddy" made my head hurt more.
"Yeah," Dad said. "Been coming in all morning. Is everybody good back there?"
"Good," Chuck called.
We waited another minute, but the convoy seemed endless. Trucks and jeeps, and even a tank.
Behind us, corpses from the square stumbled onto Harrington Street.
"Screw this," Dad said and fiddled with switches on the dash until the cruiser's siren sounded. He pulled into the left lane and we went around traffic and the convoy.
"We aren't going to Daddy's?" Michelle cried.
Dad shook his head, swerving around traffic and speeding up now that most cars were pulling to the side of the road for us. The end of the world or not, some responses are automatic.
"It's authorized personnel only until they get the cure out. Your father asked me to take you with us to Indy," Dad said. "There's a secure shelter on the north side and we're going to wait this out there."
"I don't want to go to Indy, I want to go to Daddy!" Michelle cried.
In the rearview mirror, I could see her makeup running in her tears. She was trembling and whimpering, but her eyes were every bit as wide as the pizza manager's had been as he approached the dead cop.
Beside her, Chuck was watching and I could tell by the way he was breathing he was getting worked up.
"You're not a little girl," I spat at Michelle. "Pull it together."
Dad sped up to 90 mph even though the speed limit on Harrington Street was 30. When you're in a cop car with sirens blazing and lights flashing, you can go pretty much as fast as you want.
"Are you listening to me?" Michelle screamed. "I want my daddy!"
I clamped both hands over my ears. "Please stop yelling."
I looked back and saw Chuck was crying as well.
"Everyone be quiet," Dad said.
I wanted to put my arm around my little brother, but, of course, I couldn't. I put my finger through a hole in the metal grating separating the seats. Chuck grabbed it with his whole hand.
As we approached the ramp to I-65 we slowed and passed Ernie's on our left. Through the glass front I could see Ernie and his wife, Sue, standing behind the counter watching the wall-mounted television.
"We can go south and get off at the next exit," Michelle said without hope. "Daddy's plant is right there."
Dad said nothing.
We turned left, heading onto I-65 north toward Indianapolis.
A blue truck roared up the ramp, going the wrong way, and headed straight for us.
48
THROUGH THE TRUCK'S WINDSHIELD, THE driver's eyes were wide and his face was contorted in a scream. He yanked the wheel to his right.
Dad yanked the wheel to our right.
The blue truck passed so close it clipped the driver's side mirror, knocking it off the cruiser with a loud metallic clink and sending it skittering.
Just off the exit, a semi-truck's trailer was flipped sideways while its cab remained upright. In front of the twisted semi was a smashed motor home, two zombies stumbling beside it.
Dad drove our stolen cruiser around the wreck and we passed under the familiar green sign reading:
Welcome to Harrington
Population: 15,792
"The birthplace of Kirkman Soda"
I guess that population count would be quite a lot lower now.
"We can still turn around!" Michelle cried.
"We're not turning around," Dad said.
A purple Volkswagen driving south on the northbound interstate flew past us.
I watched it pass and when I turned back I saw a red jeep also driving the wrong way, headed toward us.
Dad swerved. "It's all right. I got this."
I lay my head back against the seat, but I didn't dare close my eyes. The ringing in my ears had softened and the urge to puke was mostly gone, but I still felt dizzy.
Dad slowed the cruiser.
In the road ahead, five walking corpses were crowded around a blue church bus flipped on its side. I couldn't see who was inside. I only know it was a church bus because of the big green cross painted on its back.
We drove around, but didn't speed up again. On the other side of the bus was the start of the worst traffic jam I've ever seen.
It made me think of a video I'd seen once of a momma pig lying on her side so all her piglets could crowd in, pushing the others away to get to her milk.
There were six cars wedged across the highway so there was no longer any right or left lane, only one giant lane so clogged with vehicles that, like the piglets, none of them could move forward. Long honks and short stiletto beeps punctured the air above the sound of panicked drivers shouting.
Two cars passed on our left. They drove straight toward the jam, then veered left into the wide stretch of grass between the north and southbound lanes of I-65.
They left tracks in the grass and had to drive slowly, but the cars got around the jam.
Dad grinned. "We're in a police car. We can do whatever we want."
The cruiser's siren was still blaring and I could see the red and blue glow of our emergency lights reflected in the windows of the vehicles ahead of us.
Dad drove off the highway into the grass.
It was smooth going at first. We went slowly, passing stalled cars on both the right and left. There was a nasty traffic jam in the southbound lanes as well.
Other cars pulled onto the grass from both sides of the highway and soon we had a bunch of followers.
We made it maybe half a mile and then we came to an area where there were more cars stalled in the grass than on the highway.
Just ahead a stream ran beneath I-65. Both lanes of the highway had bridges, but between the lanes the ground sloped to the stream so severely it was like the edge of a cliff.
"This could be bad," Dad said, stopping the cruiser.
Behind us, the grassy median was fast becoming a parking lot.
Dad turned us around, but by the time we were ready to drive back the way we came, there were too many cars blocking our path.
Dad swore and shut off the cruiser's emergency lights. They weren't helping anyway.
In the absence of the siren's warble, I heard new sounds: screaming and snarling.
Moving across t
he bridge was a huge group of bodies, as though a charity fun run were passing through. They moaned and staggered and I knew every one of them was dead.
The crowd of corpses passed between the cars, smashing windows to get at squealing drivers and passengers.
"This is definitely bad." Dad opened his door.
49
THERE WERE ZOMBIES IN THE southbound lanes as well as the northbound; a flash mob of corpses from nowhere.
One moment we were stuck in traffic, the next we were surrounded by the dead.
It makes sense, though.
Suppose there were one or two cars on the highway ahead of us containing infected people, people with severe wounds, their loved ones driving them as fast as they could toward the emergency rooms in Brownsborough on the northbound side and Harrington on the southbound side.
Suppose those infected people bled out or otherwise died and came back as zombies in a moving car. Wives would attack their husbands and vice versa, children would attack their parents, and the cars would wreck, blocking traffic.
When their loved ones were just as dead as they were, these zombies would wander back toward traffic. Good Samaritans might hop out of their cars to help only to be killed and turned into walking corpses.
Just as a fist-sized snowball can become a car-sized boulder when rolling down a snowy hill, the crowd of wandering zombies would start as only a few, but grow as it worked its way along the highway killing and turning everyone they passed until the crowd became an army.
Dad came around the front of the cruiser and opened the passenger side door. "Can you stand?"
I didn't know, but I said "yes" and got out of the car.
Before a game, my teammates and I used to grab each other's arms, glare into one another's eyes and yell "Strap it on." None of us knew for sure what "it" was, but we all knew what the saying meant.
When I stood, I tottered and fell back against the side of the cruiser. Dad grabbed me before I went all the way over. I wanted to puke and almost did.
