Chapter Fifteen
The truck keeps pushing through the masses. The whirling cloud of dust and ash make it impossible for me to see anything with any certainty. Without a windshield the dust and ash are burning my eyes. The creatures I’m running into have coated the entire exterior of the truck with blood, turning the ash and dust that’s coating it into an abattoir, muddy coating. Everything is dented, beat in, and I’m crushing anything that I can get under the bumper and grill. I take down as many as I can, but I can’t see a thing behind me. All I know is that I’m leaving a wake of wounded, dead, and being fed upon monsters. I think that whoever survives this massacre of the creatures will probably be well fed for the next hundred years. It will take them ages to get through all the death and carnage that I have left in my wake.
Churning and whirling, the cloud of ash and dust that consumes everything gets thicker and thicker, and I begin to realize that there are fewer and fewer of the creatures slamming into the hood and brush guard of the truck. There are still enormous numbers of the things, but they’re not as tightly packed and I’m not getting caught in slicks as often. I squint against the burning of my eyes, trying to keep the sanity that I still have before everything shatters and I’m left alone surrounded by monsters in a great cloudy fog of ash. The whole world here has burned and I try not to think about how much of this ash that we breathe is actually people that were incinerated in the great burning.
The sea of monsters slowly begins to thin, and I can hear more pounding on the back of the truck than I do on the front. I can see their silhouettes vanishing before the grill. No more jams or hands slamming on the hood, trying to claw up into the cab of the truck. We’re almost out of here. We have to be. I pray that we don’t find another wave of these things. We’re not going to make it if we have to do this again. I’m coated in blood, dripping with it and I’m miserable. The droplets of blood that were on my face have caused dust and ash to stick all over me. I can hear something smacking on the tailgate and looking back I swerve, sending the undead out over the side as it vanishes and I suddenly realize that we’re through it. We’ve entered the realm of hell, only to escape once more.
I blink, trying to get the flashing dots that are whirling around my eyes to vanish. Looking ahead, the dust has settled and there’s nothing that I can see for miles but empty road and abandoned cars. With my ears still ringing from the explosion of the shotgun going off next to my head, I try to regain my senses. My hands are numb from the chipped glass and the shards that tore into me. The only thing that I can smell is the smoke and blood that covers everything and the unending stench of dust. All of my senses are completely overwhelmed and I would give anything to have one of them back to normal. All I know is that we’ve survived and I just want everything to be alright. But I feel like any measure of mercy is just too much to ask for these days. I blink my eyes, trying to see the world, but the swirling cloud negates any improvement. Even with my vision returning, I am unable to see through the stinging dust hitting my eyes and making them water. I hope I’m heading in the right direction.
Behind me, I can tell that Greg and Lexi are talking, maybe even shouting at each other, but I can’t make out their words. It sounds like the whole world has been submerged in water, and listening or trying to hear beyond the ringing and the muffled, distant talk is beyond futile.
I focus on the road.
Driving is the only link to sanity that I still have. As I keep my foot on the gas pedal, I try to see what the fuel is reading or how fast I’m going, but I can’t see through the sheet of fractured glass hanging over the dash. It doesn’t matter. We just have to put distance between us and the mob of undead we’ve left behind. I can feel the tears running down my cheeks, collecting dust and ash into black trails as they race. Why am I still crying? Am I hurt? Afraid? I don’t even know myself, anymore. I do know, that behind me, something is amiss.
They’re arguing. I’m certain of it and I don’t have a clue what it is they’re talking about. I wish I knew. I try to look at the rearview mirror and realize that it’s gone. There’s nothing there to look at anymore. It came off with the windshield. I give up. I’ll just keep watching the road. I’m done with worrying about them.
With only the truck to keep me occupied, I can feel all the changes it has undergone. Everything about the truck feels strange now. It’s unnerving how I feel that the vibrations in the engine are completely different. I don’t like it. I can’t stand it. I can tell that there’s something wrong with the front wheel on my side of the truck. It’s loping or hobbled or something like that. It feels lumpy when I drive and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve trapped some flesh-eating horror in the wheel-well. I picture it stuck to the wheel, rolling over and over again, getting pulverized into nothing but a thick, mushy pulp.
We’re going to have to get out and check the truck soon. I need to do all I can to prolong its life. I’m worried that the one truck that we finally found is now beaten to a dying wreck. I look at the blood smeared all over the hood and side panels, mixed in with the dents and scratches. Everything is devastated and even though we survived, I feel defeated. I should have thrown the truck in reverse and gone back and found another way around the horde. Why didn’t I just do that? Why didn’t I do something smarter than drive straight into the middle of them? Hindsight is twenty-twenty. I can hear the haunting voice of my father saying it. I shudder, but find it oddly comforting for an instant before the feeling fades.
Driving, temporarily numb from the pain, I begin to realize that I can’t keep driving with the shifting, fractured glass of the windshield inhabiting my space. I don’t know how Noah is handling this with the glass resting on his lap. I don’t care about him right now though, all I care about is getting rid of this windshield. I give it a strong push, rolling the glass out onto the hood. As I hit the accelerator, the glass slides off the hood and vanishes into the swirling dust and is gone. Looking at the fuel gauge, I see that we haven’t even used an eighth of a tank yet. As for the speedometer, I’m not even going over forty miles an hour yet it feels like we are flying. My senses are totally out of whack.
As fascinating as this is to me, I realize that the speedometer is not going to give me any kind of comfort. I want more of my senses back. I want to get things under control. But I’m not in charge of any of that, so I have to just go along with it. I look at the road ahead of me and I feel like I can hear Lexi and Greg shouting at each other. They’re loud enough that I can almost understand them. The ringing must be beginning to subside.
Before I can turn and look at Lexi or Greg, whatever is stuck in the wheel-well finally breaks free and pulls the truck to the left, dragging us into the side of a car. I feel the collision a fraction of a second before I am flung forward, smacking into the steering wheel painfully. As if in slow motion, I watch Noah launch forward, almost hitting his head on the dash, but stopping himself barely. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him slump forward until his forehead is resting. We’ve stopped, but that isn’t the problem. Putting the truck in park, I turn to make sure that Noah is alright.
That’s when I hear it. The hysterical screaming returns and although I know it is me, I can’t stop myself. The ringing in my ears subsides and the first sound that I actually hear is my own voice. My own shrieking is both terrifying and horrifying but what I’m looking at is so disturbing and shocking that it’s worthy of the sounds that escape me.
Noah is no longer Noah. There is something unimaginable that has ruined him and all I can do is stare at what’s left of the Noah I used to remember. I can feel the shakes taking over my body, shivering down my spine and rattling my bones as I stare at him, feeling my hands trembling. I can’t comprehend what it is that I’m looking at. I could never in my wildest nightmares see this happening. Outside, the world continues to spiral away into its maddening and strange new incarnation. I stare at Noah, slumped onto the dash, and he remains where he is, not moving.
“God, Noah,” I
say to him, hearing my own voice in my head. It sounds poisonous and unnatural in my ears. It feels stuffy and broken. I reach out to touch him, trying to see if he’s still alive. Without having seen anything, I know exactly what happened. I can see it in the back of my mind as it conjures up the image of the event. It’s something twisted and disturbed.
The truck came down, smashing into the concrete and bouncing, finally getting traction when I pushed down on the accelerator. A blast sounded from beside my head and I was left dazed and blinded by the muzzle flash of the shotgun. Stunned and bewildered, I remember now the last flash and the warm splash of blood, but I was too dazed, too lost in my sudden blindness to know what exactly was hit. I remember the truck hitting the ground the moment the shotgun went off, making for a lucky strike on whatever it was that Greg was aiming at. But I understand now. It’s crystal clear to me in my mind’s eye. I can see it.
Greg never meant to fire the shotgun, and the truck slamming onto the road was enough to jar him forward, accidentally squeezing the trigger, and what’s left is the stuff of nightmares. I look at Noah, certain that I will never, ever be able to get that image out of my head. But right now, all I can think of is that Noah has to be dead. I touch his back, feeling the rise and fall of his ribs. He’s breathing, but what’s been done to him is going to be hard to deal with.
His face is missing, or at least the left side of it is all but gone. His cheek, part of his cheekbone, his ear, and part of his scalp is gone. Where the scalp is missing, I can see the bone and where his cheek is missing are the exposed teeth that weren’t taken out with the shotgun blast. I look at his face and suddenly feel so helpless. I’m the one who is supposed to fix this. I’m the one that they’re going to be looking to, to try and make this better. But there’s no making this better. The skin around his eye is blackened and scorched from the shotgun’s muzzle flash. I wonder if his eye is intact, but it’s too hard to tell.
“Noah,” I say again, hearing my nephew screaming over the now returned ringing. “Noah, I need to you to respond,” I tell him, but I know that he’s probably not going to. I see the flap of skin hanging from his exposed jaw and I think that there might be a way to reattach some of the skin, but right now, I’m hopeless. I turn around and see Lexi screaming at Greg. It’s strange that they sound like they’re underwater, but I can hear my nephew just fine, like he’s in another room and I’m stuck with the ringing right here and now. I feel light-headed. I feel like everything around me is whirling and spinning and I have no clue what I’m supposed to do. What’s expected of me? There’s nothing I can do for him. Not now. Not here.
Noah has been shot in the face and even if I had the tools with me, he needs major surgery right now. He needs someone who has been experienced with this sort of trauma surgery for a long time. I’m not the person for this job. Even so, I know that I’m his only hope. He has no one other than me right now and that terrifies me. I have never felt so alone, and as I look at him, I’m not sure that there’s anything I can actually do for him.
Chapter Sixteen
My brain feels like someone has dunked it in acid and my body is left feeling the drunken burn from all of it. I stare over at Noah, watching the blood run down his ruined face and spilling on his knees and onto the floorboards and it makes want to throw up. The very sight of it is impossible to comprehend. You don’t ever have any precedent to imagine what your friend or sister’s boyfriend would look like with half of his face missing. I can see everything and all I can do is wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do now. Am I supposed to help him or is he even worth the effort? I know that we have morphine in one of the medical duffle bags in the back, but if he’s going to die, should I bother with it? Who gets put in a place to make that kind of fucking call? I don’t want that decision on my conscience.
It’s too much for me. The world is spinning outside and I know that I’m the last person here who hasn’t suffered from anything major and traumatic, so it leaves me with the horrifying prospect that I may be the only one here who could survive. I could be the last one who doesn’t die from blood loss or an infection or internal bleeding. I don’t like this. I don’t like it one bit. I’m all alone and I have my own problems to worry about. I can’t feel anything in my bloody hands and I can’t hear a single word that Lexi and Greg are shouting at each other. As if trapped in a fish bowl, all I can do is see the world around me. I feel trapped, unable to interact.
I have just one of my senses and all it allows me to do is witness one of the most horrific and disturbing things that I could ever possibly imagine. No, I couldn’t imagine this. This is too much. It’s like the shotgun just ripped the skin right off of Noah’s face and I’m left with a half-skinned head to work with. I see that he’s twitching, quivering from the shock that his body is experiencing. I look at the exposed, bloody molars in his mouth and it’s too much for me. Everything about this is just way too much for me.
I turn and try to get the window open, but my fingers fumble and I just end up locking the doors and closing my eyes. My whole body convulses, twisting and retching as I feel everything that I’ve eaten in the past few days coming up from the depths of my stomach, burning and searing my throat and esophagus until I realize that my sense of smell is improving as well. I throw up all over the door, gagging and choking as I cough and spit out all of the putrid bile. Covering my lips, I try to wipe the grotesque liquid off of my mouth, but I can taste it burning and pooling beneath my tongue. Everything about today has gone to hell. Everything is so wrong. How could it all come to this? I slowly drag my sleeve across my lips for a second time and poke the window button, bringing down the window and spitting outside. It’s long and ropey, not wanting to be free of my lips as I hack and gather as much of the stuff up with a clearing of my throat. I hack once more and spit before rolling the window up and trying to calm my shaking hands. I’m trying to compose myself, to get a grip on everything. This is fine. I can handle this. Noah isn’t going to die like this. If he’s still alive, then I’ll do everything I can for him. I have to try.
Leaning over the center console, Greg grabs ahold of Noah’s shoulder. I watch him as he gently gets a grip on Noah and pulls him back into his seat and softly leans his head against the headrest. His whole body is slack as he sits in the seat like a corpse being posed. I’m certain that he’s still breathing, but I’m not sure how much longer he’s going to be alive. I consider the options of rushing outside and grabbing one of the medical kits. I could get some of the stuff we need before the barbaric cannibals show up. I could rummage through the back to try and find everything after all of the monsters have been tearing through the stuff tucked away in the bed of the truck.
Greg tears off his shirt, balling it up rapidly and pressing it to the side of Noah’s face. He is leaning over the middle console, blocking my view for a few moments. For some reason, I can’t help but feel like it should be Lexi taking care of her man, but Greg must feel like he has some sort of need, since he was the one who shot off the side of his friend’s face. I wonder what is going through his mind. It must be awful. He’s shouting something at me, the whole world around me is still this muffled, garbled place where words don’t exist. I’m not sure if they’re actually are talking to me, but I can see their mouths moving, and hear sounds. Greg looks over his shoulder, trying to say something to me, but beyond his panicked expression, I am at a loss.
I have to go out there and try to find something to help put Noah back together. We don’t have anything in here. Why don’t we have an emergency kit in here, just in case there’s something like this happening? I feel like such an idiot. I should have figured out this long ago. Why didn’t I put a medical kit in here when we were loading the supplies? It would have taken seconds to do it. Twenty-twenty. Yes, Dad, I get it.
I should run out there and grab something. It won’t take long for me to find it. I unlock the door and reach to open it. A bang sounds on the tailgate of the truck. I instinctively look to
the rearview mirror, but there’s nothing there. There’s no more rearview mirror to look in. Turning and looking over my shoulder and out the back glass, there, in the swirling ash and dust, I see the silhouettes of several of the creatures, clinging to the truck, investigating it and licking the blood off the sides of the truck.
They’re making their way around the truck, slowly trying to see if there’s more to this bountiful feast, and I’m not interested in letting them find out. I throw the truck in reverse and slam my foot on the gas pedal. I ram into the zombies behind me, crushing them under the Dodge as I crank the wheel and the truck spins out into the open. The whole time, I’m still hearing my nephew screaming. I can’t help but pray that he isn’t injured, that something horrible didn’t happen to him like it had to Noah. I try to shake it from my head, but his cries won’t allow thoughts of him to be ignored. His poor little lungs have to be burning. Even his voice seems weaker, or hoarse maybe. I should be hearing so much more. Maybe something is wrong with him, but I can’t focus on it. Not now. I feel like my head is going to explode. The compounding problems make me want to give up on everything.
Leaving Florida was a mistake. We shouldn’t have left. I wish that my father hadn’t shown up. His arrival has only been a negative thing for all of us. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know what I could have done differently between then and now. From the moment he showed up, everything has been strange, almost surreal. We had a good thing going back at the beach house. We used to have a system, a life, and we had food that would have lasted for a long time. Why would I ever jeopardize that? Why would I ever go with Lexi on this stupid adventure? This isn’t me.
I’m the rational one that doesn’t do hasty or ridiculous things like this. I’m the one who plans everything out. From the moment we decided that we were going to leave, everything has just gone wrong. It goes all the way back to Marko dying in the attempt to get a radiator for the five-ton. His death was the first major blow to our morale, but that wasn’t where this terrible journey began and sadly wasn’t a sure sign that it should have ended.
LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series Page 78
